Conceptual Tor

Tor Johnson. No reason, just...Tor Johnson.


Bush/Cheney Supporter Tor.


Warhol Tor.


Tor in Blue Wig.

Slits-tastic!

I'm pleased to report that I finally had enough time this week to sit down and figure out how to embed a video feed to this blog, thanks to source code, HTML, and nerd skills honed from many hours at the computer over the years. So ladies and gentlemen, here are the Slits from their 2006 San Fran. show, courtesy of Neo and Davis' Ear Candle Productions. Enjoy.

Cholas, Janitors and Pregnant Teens

The San Jose Mercury News story on a racially themed "South of the Border" party at Santa Clara University was picked up by the AP this week after the University's student paper printed their own story and some photos from the fiesta. (I added the faces here, since the school paper had blanked them out--good ol' Photoshop.)

The story says in part:
...A "South of the Border" theme party has stirred outrage at a Silicon Valley university after students showed up at the bash dressed as Hispanic janitors, gardeners, gangbangers and pregnant teens. Photographs from the private, off-campus party organized by Santa Clara University students in late January appeared on the Internet soon afterward, prompting an outcry on campus. One image shows a partygoer with a balloon stuffed under her shirt, making her appear pregnant. In another, a woman wears pink rubber cleaning gloves and carries a feather duster ... Paul Locatelli, president of the nearly 8,400-student Jesuit university, has condemned the party. No students have been disciplined, but a campus spokeswoman said the school is investigating the party and that the university's code of conduct extends to students who live off-campus. A protest march organized by students attracted 250 people Tuesday, and the campus has held meetings and plans a forum for this Thursday.
***

We didn't throw these kinds of parties when I was an undergrad. I think the closest we got to some kind of "theme" was "Strawberry Rum-Punch Night," which was created from fresh strawberries that I pulvarized with a beer bottle since I didn't own a blender at the time. And oh, how we danced to the English Beat!

I guess if I got invited to this kind of party I could have dressed in a suit, put lifts in my shoes and applied a distinguished goatee. When fellow students asked what I was supposed to be, I'd reply, "My Uncle--art historian, author, and professor of Pre-Columbian art!" Or I could dress as a conquistador, complete with weaponry and god on my side. I'd have worked on something creative. Even Salma Hayek would be a fun costume if you're feeling particularly glamorous.

But these images of what constitute a fun gathering bum me out. It's not like there aren't cholas and janitors and pregnant teens in the world. It's just that dressing like them for a party is...not right in the head. The party was co-thrown by a guy who's half-Mexican, which reminds me of the time my brother was telling a Mexican joke at the dinner table, involving the stealing of some hubcaps, when I interrupted the punchline with, "You know, you're Mexican." The look on his face was much funnier than the joke, and my brother is a good joke-teller.

Sometimes when you grow up in the suburbs, surrounded by people of similar look and background, you forget you're Mexican. But then this news story comes around and it's like a big reminder. So I figure mistakes get made (I know that from lots of experience) and maybe someone who went to this party will learn something about what it means to be Mexican, even if they're not.

Goings On

Yesterday was a Giant-Pillow-Fight Day (also known as Valentine's Day) in Justin Herman Plaza in San Fran. Look at those feathers fly! Since I'm recuperating from some minor surgery, I did not partake. But we did make a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting and orange sprinkles (we were out of red). Jackson said sprinkles are just like glitter for food. So true. And kind of gritty too. If you ever buy a can of Hershey's cocoa, try the "best" chocolate cake recipe on the back. It's really yummy.

In other fun news, I got an email announcement from my musical friend Lucio. He and another musical friend, Suki (from She Mob, among another projects), are playing at an opening at FLOAT Gallery in Oakland. They'll be collaborating on some mood music with guitar, vibes and percussion and it will surely be very nice to hear while looking at Martin Webb's mud and stick paintings, but here's what also grabbed me: FLOAT is not only an art gallery, but a floatation center, so you can spend an hour there floating in a deprivation tank full of salt water, just like William Hurt in "Altered States." Whether you devolve into some earlier humanoid version of mankind is debatable. But I'm sure you'll have a meditative visit either way. It's this Saturday, Feb. 17, 6-9 pm. 1091 Calcot Place, Unit #116, 510-535-1702. No-cost fun.

Maybe this is the future of art galleries. I'd like to see a modern art/massage museum and possibly a bowling/sculpture salon. I might buy a membership to that.

Cityrag recently posted the 20 Greatest Guitar Solos Ever, with videos, and I thought I'd include that here before YouTube swipes all the video-visuals away forever. There's a great purge over at YouTube and copyrighted materials are vanishing like grains of sand in an hourglass. Technically, sand doesn't "vanish" from an hourglass, but you get my meaning. So hurry, hurry, hurry, over to YouTube to get your rock on.

Mortality Still Sucks - Sandy West was the heart of The Runaways

I admit I was saddened to hear of Anna Nicole Smith passing this week. Not sure why exactly. She was alway such a big glamorous mess. I guess I just answered my question. Being literally "big" at times, and so very blond, and rather gorgeous, she did attract some attention. There aren't a lot of people like that during a lifetime. Rest in peace--drugs sure are tough on a body.

The thing that really got me grief-stricken today was finding out (very belatedly) that Runaways co-founder and drummer Sandy West had died in December, '06 after battling lung cancer for some time. Sandy West had her own band in the early 80s but hadn't played much since then, that I know of. She always came across as a genuine, charismatic, rock & roll soul--the real deal. Besides her amazing hard-hitting talent, she just seemed like a really great person.

There's a nice tribute to Sandy on YouTube--a video edit of The Sandy West band playing my four-year-old's new favorite song, "Wild Thing" in 1983. We air-drummed to it about ten times today. The Runaways site also has a tribute. Do I feel stupid for not knowing about this important passing in female rock drumming history? Yes, but thanks to the Internet, I'm now better informed. I know once Sandy's settled, she'll be rocking the afterlife.

And here's the Runaways doing "Wild Thng." It's still so unusual to see an all-female rock band that I can't help staring like they're a freak show. Even though it's been 30 years people!


With their exuberant crack-whore personas, the Runaways still have the power to disturb. Check out the raw sexuality of "Cherry Bomb." Waa-aa-ay before their time.

Oopsy Daisy Gavin Newsom

Another political sex scandal for the media to ooze all over. Golden Gate-boy Gavin Newsom has questionable ethics when it comes to his personal life. The affair with his good friend and campaign aid's wife was politically suicidal, but then dating a 19-year-old (when he's 39) is just kind of gross. I mean, ewww. All us voters have always distrusted his helmet hair. Somehow this confirms our worst fears. Sanctioning gay marriage was very cool and rebellious but now heterosexual urges have created a possible glitch in Gavin's plan for world domination. We are all human and we all have failings. But luckily for most of us, they tend to take place out of the public domain.

I'D never kiss and tell, but I have had questionable relationships in my past. Since I can't reveal the gory details, I thought I'd just list a few movies that I saw with my past b-friends and let the movies speak for themselves about the relationships. This all occurred in my weird little brain when I started thinking about first dates, which tend to take place in a movie theater, and whether or not the first film you see with a potential love-mate will somehow end up defining that relationship forever on. I'm not sure if my theory is correct, but here's a list of films to ponder.

Fade to Black - Dennis Christopher's follow-up to the sleeper hit, "Breaking Away." I'm sure this was in the can and ready for drive-in distribution when "Breaking Away" started generating critical acclaim and enough cash to become a respectable hit. "Fade to Black" wasn't going to further Christopher's career and probably set him waaaay back to actor's square one: waiting tables. The tag line: Eric Bindford lives for the movies...Sometimes he kills for them too! The title character dressed up as classic Hollywood horror fiends to do his evil bidding. It should have been a schlock-fest but it was really dark (I mean, muddy-looking), stupid and boring. Oh, was I talking about my love life, or a movie? I'm getting confused.

Jaws 3-D, stars another "Breaking Away" alum, Dennis Quaid, as the guy who has to save Sea World from a great white shark attack. In 3-D. Again, this should have been great but instead it was just really disappointing, stupid and uncomfortable to sit through. I was embarassed to be involved, actually. Oh well, nice try--extra credit for making it 3-dimensional. Sometimes things that should work out, fail spectacularly.

Hey, what was it about "Breaking Away?" By 1993, one of its other stars, Jackie Earle Haley ended up in "Maniac Cop 3: Badge of Silence" before his career as a pizza delivery man was stopped cold by his role as the creep in "Little Children." Good for him. He was so good in "Bad News Bears" and yes, even in "Losin' It." A funny Sinatra fanatic--who knew he had it in him? And I see on the Internet Movie Database that Dennis Christopher eventually got some Deadwood episodes under his belt. Even Dennis Quaid redeemed himself by playing an excellent Doc Holiday to Kevin Costner's dullard, "Wyatt Earp." OK--there's no "Breaking Away" curse. Good to know. There's hope for us all.

Back to the first-date movies:

"Invasion of the Bee Girls" - Seen in an artist's "loft" party in San Francisco in the 80s. Cheap, tawdry, humorless, would-be camp. "They'll love the very life out of your body!" When the bee girls (women, actually) take off their huge designer sunglasses, their eyes are solid black! Not such a turn-on, ultimately.

"Rumble Fish" - It's in black & white, excpet for the fish, which are saturated color. Mickey Rourke mumbles incoherently while Matt Dillon mutters, inarticulate--almost mute. Diane Lane looks pretty and kind of lost. The guy sitting next to me during this movie had seen it at least seven times. An unfathomable mystery, not worth solving.

"Henry & June" features the erotic entanglements of a love rectangle amongst Anais Nin, Henry Miller, his free-spirited wife, June, and Anais' dud of a husband, Hugo. Thick slabs of erotica, art, writing, and some more erotica for good measure. Everyone was self-absorbed to the point of being an asshole, except for Hugo, who was merely an asshole. It needed a better editor, I thought. Too choppy, too sloppy. Guess I over-thought that one.

My husband and I can't agree on the first film we saw together, but the one that sticks in my mind is "All About Eve" at the Castro on my 29th birthday. A film about an aging actress and her devoted husband, riding out the bumpy ride of a life in the arts, and that back-stabbing little tramp, Eve. SPOILER ALERT: In the end, Bette Davis' Margo decides to quit the theater to become a "proper" wife and mother. Hmmmmmm. Not sure how this one will play out but what great dialogue! And Marilyn Monroe even shows up and she's damn funny too. I guess I got pickier about films over the years. I try to spend my time with the good ones now. Either that or we're gay. Or at the very least, very gay-appreciative. It's win-win.

Stupid, Stupid Me

I've kind of gone off the television deep end in order to watch Tatum O'Neal's new telenovela "Wicked, Wicked Games." It's on EVERY night at 9 pm on "My Network TV," which reminds me a lot of George Carlin's old routine about how ladies used to call their soap operas "My stories." As in, "Can't talk now, my Stories are on..."

I manage to catch 12 to 15 minutes of Wicked, Wicked Games (WWG) almost every night. I don't watch the Saturday wrap-ups so I'm not completely lost, but I do enjoy Tatum's portrayal of Blythe Hunter, a real estate magnate who plots ceaselessly to destroy her former lover because he betrayed her 25 years ago by marrying a wealthier woman. How she does this is not important, nor is it plausible or even that interesting. What's interesting is watching Tatum O'Neal grimace, sneer, laugh maniacally, seethe, brood, toss her hair and GRIN. She grins through most of her manipulations and it's downright scary. I'm not sure what dental work she's had over the years, but her teeth are extremely white, even, and LARGE. Carnivorous is the word. I wish I could find a photo of her "acting" in one of these scenes. I'm highly addicted to her insane interpretation.

She also gives the best dirty look of anyone born and raised in Hollywood and put on screen for our entertainment. Just look at that puss! It's what won her the Oscar at age 8 for "Paper Moon." I snuck into a theater with my cool friend Pam (who later became a volley ball champ and lesbian) and we saw "Paper Moon" while we were the same age as Tatum. "Paper Moon" is one of those films that is NOT made for children whatsoever. It's all-adult themed, all the time. And it's hilarious and bizarre. It probably made me what I am today (pretty much). Anyway, thank you Tatum. You deserved that Oscar.

So you see, I'll follow her career to the ends of the earth, apparently. Reading up on WWG, I found out that the show is produced just like a Spanish telenovela and will only run for 13 weeks then never will be seen again on television. That's good, because if she kept acting as Blythe, I'm sure Tatum would have an aneurysm by season 2. It also explains the completely over-the-top nature of the show and the ridiculous story-lines that barely make sense. But who notices all the other actors anyway when there's TATUM grinning and seething and beating Debbe Dunning (that "Tool Time" woman from "Home Improvement") to a pulp in the middle of an expensive bridal shop. According to her show bio, Debbe also starred in "Leprechaun 4: In Space." She's about as good an actress as you can imagine, so thank you Tatum. Your work is top-notch as always.

I do have to mention "Deadwood," which is my new favorite obsession and available on DVD. Season 1 should really be called "Deadpan" since all the best characters have such a high degree of talent in this area. Especially Keith Carradine as Wild Bill Hickok. Here was a man, indeed. HBO is really churning out the quality pay-TV. When I watch "Deadwood" I just start swearing for the rest of the week (in my head, mostly) and it gets me through the hard times. And the clothes are to die for. Even the ripped, dirty ones--still stylish. Like punk rock in the wild west. There are plotlines that definitely remind me of living in Oakland, which is often lawless and randomly violent as well (no gold rush though). But mostly it reminds me of Shakespeare because it's big and historical and human in scope--with plenty of good swearin'.

Hot Pants

Get thee over to Bedazzled for some vintage James Brown video (and other nice stuff; unfortunately no "Hot Pants" but you can't get everything for free on the Web--yet).

Cityrag has the round-up of important celebrity dirt of the year.

FourFour features the always-amusing John Waters.

And everything's still cute at Cute Overload.

A Toast to XMas

What Christmas means to me:

1.) Very tight shoulders: shopping, wrapping, writing Christmas cards 'til my hand cramps. Fretting over who to buy stuff for--what stuff to buy them. Paying for the stuff.

2.) Health concerns: one of us is always very ill during the week leading up to Christmas. This would be OK if we could shift Christmas day around. Like celebrate it a day later or so, until the sick person feels up to it. But my mom won't do that. Somehow the day must always be the 25th, even if you have the next day off from work. I don't understand this mentality. It's not even Baby Jesus' real birthday, and Christmas historically, was actually a mostly-Northern European invention to celebrate winter solstice and get through the darkest days of the season with sanity intact (i.e., slaughter all the cattle you couldn't feed throughout the winter, eat the meat and drink all the fermented beverages that were ready for consumption). It's a swell pagan holiday that the Christians co-opted, like so many other celebrations, and now it's just a big muddle of iconic images plastered across the landscape amid endless carols that are piped in any available public place you happen to exist in (gas-station bathrooms: do I hear "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" overhead? Yes.).

3.) Iconic images: Last week I was in big Longs Drugstore. Everyone in Oakland calls it Big Longs because it's just gigantic. It's like a funky Wal-Mart but no one protests its existance--it's an accepted part of the urban landscape. There's five or six Christmas aisles at Big Longs. And I noticed that one of the boxed ornament gift sets there consisted entirely of gambling devices: dice, slot machine, poker chips; all done in shiny, colorful glass in multiple colors. "When I think of Christmas, I think of gambling," I said out loud to no one (I'm getting crotchety, obviously). Several people tittered. The following week, I was hanging out in Reno, for fun, and I saw no images of gambling and Christmas, other than the festive decorations in the hotel lobbies and casinos. I don't know what this means, except that Oakland has its priorities screwed up and Reno is really downplaying the gambling of late.

4.) Family: My immediate family is really a great one. I lucked out in that department. I enjoy seeing them, talking to them and just thinking about them. My extended family has become another matter over the years. We all grew up together, aunts, uncles, cousins and even cousins' friends and other cousins. We were about as close as an extended family could be, but I guess there's a bit of a sociopathic gene running through this particular extended family. Therefore, as everyone grew, their temperments came to the forefront and slowly, the family "unit" began to decay. All it takes is a few people waving some guns around, threatening their spouses and children to put a damper on family celebrations. Then there's back-biting, stealing, paranoia, lying and passive-agressive manipulation to contend with. To a lesser degree, hoarding and overall anxiety. What a psychic stew! It really makes holidays a drag, to say the least. One by one, I've dropped my extended family connections. There's still a few good ones out there, but they live far away and I only get to see them once a year if I'm lucky. So Christmas is a real mixed bag for me, like for most people. It enforces this ideal of "family" and "friends" which may not be much of an ideal from year to year. It's propaganda of the cheery sort.

Sometimes Christmas reminds me of these two roommates I had. One became increasingly agoraphobic and wouldn't leave her pig-sty of a room for days. The other was really happy all the time and didn't see any problems about anything at all. Once, when I was feeling down about something, she told me that if I just smiled more, I would feel better because studies have shown that it takes less muscles to smile than frown. Every time I smile I think of these studies. Trouble is, I was born with a birth defect that actually makes it really hard for me to smile. It probably takes more muscles for me to smile than frown, and if that makes me kind of grumpy about life, too bad! I was born that way! Merry Christmas.

Death by Stork Rises Once More

Yet another Death by Stork show this Thursday night, December 14th at the Stork Club (Telegraph at 23rd Street, Oakland). Show starts at 9 p.m. and it's $5--a holiday deal!

Here's the exciting line-up, sure to get you in a winter solstice mood:

She Mob - Suki, Sue, Alan and Lisa make a startling reformation in order to play three AND ONLY THREE rockin' pop songs and then record them a week later.

The Bleu Canadians - Live!!! from Canada!!!! explosive all new garage/psychadelic set. Free Canadian citizenship for everyone who attends. Also, free membership to the Edmonton Curling Club for the first 20 paid admissions. Also, come join us for our wild afterparty where we will race Zambonis. This is a benefit for The Canadian Temperature Fund.

Death By Stork - Searing songs of love, death, poop, and belly button lint. You just may have to get drunk and dance, folks. We will be joined by Lucio on bass--filling in for Tony, who's tromping around the Phillipinnes.

Fuzzy Cousins - Jenya Chernoff and Matt Lebowsky are a pair of primates that defy taxonomy. Highly evolved, their vast experience from mingling with other nomadic tribes (including Mumble & Peg, Three Piece Combo, Mark Growden's Electric Pinata, Species Being, and most recently with Faun Fables as characters and music makers in the touring production of The Transit Rider) is revealed in their music: even and odd, smooth and sharp, sweet and shattering.

Magnus Tick Aquarium - Super group jam band gone psycho. You may wonder where your head went.

Geez--that's a lot of music for $5.

2006 - Year of the Vag

It's almost the new year. I just got used to seeing "2006" in all my correspondence. Now I have to bump it up to '07. When you've spent all your life writing 19_ whatever, it's very weird to to write 2000+. It feels like a work of fiction every time you date a check. But it's true--it really is the 21st century. Do you think when it's 2525, anyone will remember that bummer of a song from 1969 by Zager and Evans? Maybe--if man is still alive, and woman can survive, they may find...

Can I be the first to proclaim 2006 as the year of the vagina? The year the vagina made itself known in all its once-hidden glory? Don't be squeamish. Vaginas have been around a long, long time. If they're finally getting a day in the sun, I say, "Welcome--welcome internal genitalia and birth canal."

Back in 2004, Richard Avedon clicked a shot of Chan Marhsall's (a.k.a. Cat Power) pubic area peeking out of her jeans. The snowball trend started barreling down our consciousness hill and we're now in full-on vagina mode.

From Madonna's disco-enriched camel toe, to the Hollywood "It" girl crotch-shot trio (Paris, Lindsay, Britney), the vagina is making itself known, loud and clear. And if you're a bit modest and you don't want to acknowledge the new out-and-about photo op--too bad! The vagina is here to stay!

Remember how shocking Sharon Stone's "accidental" up-the-dress scene was in Basic Instinct? As the cigarrette ad once proclaimed, "You've come a long way baby!"

What will 2007 bring? I say, bring on the penis.

"...like in real life, people were not to be trusted."

Robert Altman died. The film historian David Thomson has some good words about his career here (that's his quote in the title above). I've always been a big Altman fan, although I realize he's not for everyone. I love "The Long Goodbye." So dark, yet so brightly, strangely Los Angeles at the same time. I think that was Altman--dark guy, dealing with L.A. all the time. Did such a good job. Hail, hail American artist--you will be missed.

Here Altman directs Warren Beatty in "McCabe & Mrs. Miller," perhaps the all-time most cynical western ever. If you haven't seen this one, go on, it's good for you. And here is a photo of the town Altman had built outside of Vancouver just for the film (torn down 7 months later). Julie Christie as an opium addict: see it twice!

Behold Willem Dafoe's Hair

There's a lot of celebrity and movie-fandom blogging in cyber-landia, but who among us has paid homage to Willem Dafoe's hair? His luxuriant locks, such a contrast to his odd, rough-hewn Midwestern features (he was originally christened "William" just so you know), are such a gigantic part of his screen persona--weird character actor/weird leading man--that any time they are shorn, or covered, the film cannot hold up. That's my theory anyway. The mesmerizing quality of Willem Dafoe's hair is follicle star power that will not be denied. So directors, do yourself and your films a favor: heavily feature this man's hair. Women are jealous of it; men want some of it for their own. It catches the film lights so expertly. Where will Willem Dafoe's hair be in the coming digital age? We cannot know, but I'll be there, watching.

Platoon - Cast against type, Willem is the hero as his innocent, golden mane attests. See how it frames his cranium like a halo. A stunning debut by hair.










The Last Temptation of Christ - This Jesus is of the "shiny, wavy-haired" variety--the kind we baby-boomer Catholics grew up with. See how it flows from his forehead like a fountain of truth, beauty and moral fortitude. The shine reflects all the good that Jesus will provide for mankind. And if he happens to resemble a young man who attended junior high in Appleton, Wisconsin, just suspend your disbelief and check out those bouncy waves!









American Psycho - Slicked back and sleazy. Nobody's hair does it better.






Shadow of the Vampire - I don't care if he was nominated for an Academy Award, there's no hair and that's bad! Really bad. I guess when you're playing Max Schrek you have to be authentic. He was one of film's all-time weirdoes (imagine), creating the memorable Nosferatu out of his own bizarre psyche, but it just hurts so much to see a bald Willem. Like Julia Roberts without the smile; Tom Cruise without the arrogance; George Clooney without the knowing smirk; Willem Dafoe IS his hair. Let's move on.


The Reckoning - I've never seen this medieval thriller. In fact, I haven't seen a lot of these films. I'm just reviewing hair. I'm going to guess that this hair represents an authoritative, slightly manic character with some dark secrets of its own. Secrets that will be revealed before the film's allotted feature-length scenario plays out. I do like the chestnut hue, but the lack of highlights is disappointing. Don't quash the highlights--I don't care if you're from the middle ages! I'm supposing this film failed at the box-office, but it's only a guess based on this layered look, which is more Mick Jagger than 14th-century England, unless Jagger stole his look from some ancient wood-cut or something.

Auto Focus - Yeah, that's the ticket--more slicked back sleaziness. Director Paul Schrader frames the look with 70s lattice-work and a TV antenna--telling! Dafoe's character brings down Colonel Hogan with video porn. His subtle creepiness cannot be contained and his hairstyle unravels along with his lifestyle. Now everyone seems to be partaking in Internet porn, but back then--it was not considered a wise career move.




Affliction - Please, do not emotionally torture me with your dysfunctional addictions! Excellent wayward-son look. Kind of back to Jesus too. This tormented hair sure is pretty, and rather femme.





The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou - No, no, no! Do not make Willem Dafoe wear a twee little beanie. Director Wes Anderson's arrogance is out of control if he thought the American public would be denied another fine performance featuring Dafoe's hair. This is like asking Nicole Kidman to wrinkle her forehead, or Scarlett Johansson to play a demure nun. It's just unfortunate. No wonder this film was a critical flop.


Spiderman - Bow down before my incredible body and shine, Peter Parker! Your sticky little webs are no match for my scientific know-how and big-hair bravado! My hairdresser comes straight to my mansion three weeks on the dot, and you can't even afford Supercuts super sale week! Plus I own stock in Clairol and L'Oreal. And your girlfriend Kirsten Dunst is not only not believable as a great stage actress, she has terrible hair! My afghan hound has more personal style... (Action sequence drowns out rest of dialogue).


Hmmmm, what have we here? This buzz-cut can mean only one thing: eminent retirement. Say it isn't so Willem! Despite all my nitpicking, you really are a fine actor--an American treasure. Please don't give up. You've made over 10,000 films. You're the Joyce Carol Oates of filmmaking--don't leave us wanting more. I can't wait to see your hair fade into the sunset. Please Willem, I beg you, I need to see you go gray, gain forehead inches, maybe a tiny bald spot in the back--or, not. You might be one of those distinguished old guys with the snowy white hair. I just saw one on the 40th Street median strip yesterday, crossing over to Broadway. I nearly crashed my car, his hair was so blinding and it was held at the nape of his neck in a tiny, rebellious ponytail. Just consider it for some future role--I leave you with this:

Get that awful hair away from me!

Post-Halloween Cuteness

Well, Halloween is more than over, but here's a photo of Jackson as a garbage truck. He was SOOOOOOO HAPPY to be a garbage truck for Halloween that the joy has carried over for the past three or four weeks. Now that's a successful costume.

Let Us Ponder Dorothy Malone

The year: 1956. The film: "Written on the Wind," directed by melodramatist extraordinaire, Douglas Sirk. The premise: Mitch Wayne and Kyle Hadley have been best friends since childhood--Mitch (the ever-manly Rock Hudson) is the steady, dirt-poor salt-of-the-earth guy. Kyle (grand scenery-chewer Robert Stack) is the alcoholic playboy, set to inherit millions from his oil tycoon father. When Kyle steals classy Lucy (stiff-as-an-emory-board Lauren Bacall) from Mitch, their friendship is put to the...oh, screw it, let's just get to Dorothy Malone. She's the best part of the film.

Dorothy played Kyle's sister Marylee, and although no one comes right and says the actual word (unless you count, "Your daughter's a TRAMP, mister."), she's Hollywood's ultimate nymphomaniac. The reasons to like Dorothy's portrayal of Marylee are many-fold:
1.) She drives a terrific little red convertible--some kind of European sportscar in the middle of Sirk's idea of a butthole Texas town. There appears to be an oil derrick every ten feet, some dirt, and a local dive to pick up low-lifes in her spare time. At one point Lucy emerges from her doctor's office and there's an oil derrick in the back alley where Mitch has parked his car to wait for her. I'm surprised there isn't a big pumping oil derrick in the foyer of the Hadley mansion, but perhaps Sirk didn't want to take the idea too far. That said...

2.) ...Marylee is after Mitch--she's wanted him since their idyllic childhood romps in the ol' town swimmin' hole and she's not about to give up now, even if he loves another. "I'll have you Mitch Wayne," she commands while driving him around in her car, "Marriage. Or NO Marriage." You gotta give a low whistle of appreciation for her delivery of that line.

3.) Dorothy Malone's bizarro performance won her a supporting Oscar and she deserved it! You can't take her eyes off her and that's because she never stops moving her face around on the big wide-screen. It's like Sirk told her to act every scene like she had just snorted a big line of crystal meth. Or maybe she did snort a bunch of crystal meth, or popped some of those 50s-era joy pills that were such a staple in the studio-system acting style. But she is wiggle-ley. At one point she dances a rumba that apparently gives her father a heart attack in the next room. She's just too much. In this era of botox'd mannequin starlets, Dorothy Malone is a welcome bit of nervous tickery.

4.) She makes Lauren Bacall look even MORE wooden than she actually is. It hardly seems possible to do so, but there's more expression in your soup spoon than in Bacall's entire performance. Except for the crying scenes where she buries her head against Rock Hudson's formidable chest. She does appear to be crying in these scenes, but she's no match for Dorothy's sly, cunning, conniving, treacherous, lecherous, plotting, teasing, cackling face. And that's just during one dinner scene.
5.) SPOILER ALERT: Marylee ends the movie by fondling a scale-model of an oil derrick sitting atop her dead father's desk as Mitch and Lucy drive off into the dirt-filled sunset together. And she really fondles it. Not even subtle--Sirk was such a crazy madman. How it got past the censors... Anyway, it's one of the funniest film endings I've ever seen. Plus she's crying and wearing a conservative gray suit while doing it.To conclude: I love Dorothy Malone and if you rent "Written on the Wind," you will too.

Do Not Fail to See Death by Stork

At the Stork Club, of course. Telegraph Avenue at 23rd Street in fabulous skid-row Oakland, Friday, September 22. Starts at 9 p.m.

First up will be Winner's Bitch, (featuring former She Mobbers, Sue Hutchinson and Suki O'Kane). Then DBS, also featuring Sue, plus me and Andrew and Tony. Then Remora, which is a Deftones cover band(!). Sounds like fun. Sure to be cheap. Always good times. And Jerry Brown lives right down the street. I always think he'll stop in, but he never does.

Have I ever blogged about the time Jerry Brown did a bunch of mescaline with my aunt and uncle in Mexico, back in the hippie days...? No? Maybe next time.

Decent Linkage

Gallery of Demonic Tots and Deeply Disturbing Cuisine.
The Zen of Costco.

Vacation Haiku

Have you heard? Haiku is HOT! Well, maybe not HOT, but definitely long-term in usage. And easy to get through. Since we visited so many areas on our 9-day vacation, I thought I'd review in Haiku.

Eugene, OR
Playgrounds are bitchin'
and the bad part of town is
only six blocks long


Eugene Friend
Standard black poodle
lives in fabulous 50s
house; brings us shoes. Gus


Recumbent Bikes
Sit down, like a chair
Lean back and relax cowboy
You are one fast geek.

 
Corvallis, OR
Picturesque and quaint
White people work at HP
and study Buddha


Salem, OR
The state capitol
Awesome children's museum
Strip malls and porn shops

 
Portland
Whoa! This city rocks
Where has it been all my life?
Please sign me up now


Portland Japanese Garden
Gravel, plants, water
Falls, streams, bridges, quiet paths
Favorite by far


Powell's Books
Gazillions of books
like some kind of book heaven
Whole Foods is nearby


Seattle
Jimi Hendrix and
Streetwise and heroin chic
Oh, and Space Needle

 
Pike's Market
Throw the fish upward
Balloon man makes a kitty
Ferries trawl the waves


My Uncle's Restaurant
Machiavelli's
It's at 1215 Pine Street
garlic sautéed greens


Vancouver
Relatives greet us
with affection and cheese cake
Canada is best

Northerly Haul

We went on this crazy-ass vacation where we hit six towns of the Northwest in 9 days. We were just talking about it in the kitchen today, marveling about how fun and outdoorsy and pretty it was and how depressing it is to come back to Oakland and find out that a woman was found the other night, beaten and on fire, in the parking lot of the arts center that we used to live down the street from. The fire department put her out and helicoptered her to Davis for burns over 70% of her body. She had been hog-tied to a structure in the lot. The arts center has been renovated for well over a year now so it's already housed some teen robbers and other criminal-types.

I know other cities are experiencing crime waves but Oakland is really in its own class at this point. It's like living in an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Only we have no slayer and don't intend to get one any time soon. Our old neighborhood is full of families and working people and older people and now is home to thugs and creeps. They're preying on all these good neighbors. I worry about my older neighbors. We lived on this tiny one-block street and we knew everyone on it pretty well. We had some really excellent people on our block. Then these psycho drug dealers moved in across the street and our lives really took a nose-dive, quality-wise. We just sold our house and rent now in a nicer neighborhood. The drug dealers just pass through here and don't live by us any more. There's still crime, but no one's getting beaten over the head in the middle of the day for their cell phone. That's moving on up, Oakland style.

I'll write more about our trip. I'm just pissed right now. The trip was good. Most people are good. The bad ones just need to be better contained or intimidated or run out of town.

My Cartoon Posse

I’ve been thinking that it’s time I gathered a cartoon posse to either take over the world, or at least defend it from evil. Let superior draftsmen (and women) have their classic superhero fantasies; I just want what’s mine--a tribe of misfits to pool our talents and accomplish what current world leaders cannot--perfect universal harmony throughout the known galaxy. And to throw great parties (don’t underestimate the power of the great party).

First up, Maggie Chascarillo, Jaime Hernandez’ complex creation who first appeared in Love & Rockets #1 in 1982. Love & Rockets was a bitchin’ publication of Fantagraphics Books and was written and drawn by Jaime and his brother Gilbert, or “Los Bros” as they called themselves.

The first issues effortlessly blended sci-fi, romance comics, and the southern California punk rock scene. As the series progressed, the Bros broke out of the staid genres they had warped and started really focusing on their characters. Maggie is probably the most endearing of Jaime’s universe. She started out as a cute Mexican American punk rocker/auto (and rocket!) mechanic, exploring her relationship with her mercurial pal/lover Hopey, while battling horrible crushes on boys she knew she could not have.

Over the years, she gained quite a bit of weight, drank too much, and floated from one menial job to another. She had some relationships but never as intense as the long-term Hopey friendship/affair. She even dabbled in prostitution for a short time but pulled herself out of that rut to hang out with a bunch of lady wrestlers. She can currently be seen in the NY Times Sunday magazine in a serialized story featuring one of those wrestlers, who is now elderly and may be battling dementia.

Maggie is not fearless. In fact, she is often quite fearful, especially when dealing with her emotional entanglements and attractions, but she’s a very good person, naturally sweet-tempered and has excellent taste in music. She’s had a lot of tragedy in her life, broken home, childhood neglect, the loss of her best friend in a car accident. But somehow she just keeps plowing forth. And if breaking into a spontaneous drunken dance keeps her going, we can only wish her the best.

OK, the next one is not a cartoon per se. She's actually 60s B-movie actress Yvonne Craig playing Batgirl--but it's my posse and I get to pick 'em. Yvonne Craig was the first person who made me sit up in front of the TV and think, va va va voom! When she took off her oversized librarian eyeglasses and donned that red wig and skin-tight purple jumpsuit, then whipped out of her secret bat-lair upon her bat cycle to go join fatherly Batman (Adam West) and brotherly Robin (ol' what's his name), well, the results were breathtaking on my childhood psyche.

Back then, there weren't a lot of female cartoon characters who were as action-packed as Batgirl. Lynda Carter's Wonderwoman was a few years away and she was kind of bulky for a superhero--what was with those gold bracelets that deflected bullets--c'mon! Batgirl was of this world. No invisible airplane for her. She shelved books for a living, and presumably read them as well. She was the commissioner's daughter but she was always in trouble. But she sometimes got Batman out of trouble too and she looked hot while doing it. And that red wig--gaaah! I love you Batgirl! Mwa! Mwa! (kissing noises). Head on over to Yvonne's Web site to hear the Batgirl theme song (Yeeeeeeah--whose baby are you? Batgirl!) and order an autographed photo of Batgirl for only $25.

I know you're dying to know who's next. And I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. It's Queer Duck! Queer Duck started out as an Internet cartoon on icebox.com and now he's graduated to his own straight-to-dvd film: Queer Duck, The Movie.

Queer Duck lives in a colorful universe that looks and seems strangely like the 80s, surrounded by his animal friends and lovers, Openly Gator (who sounds a lot like Harvey Fierstein), Oscar Wildcat and Bi-Polar Bear. The film revolves around Queer Duck wondering if his life would be any easier if he were straight. He meets an old stage diva and considers marrying her. What are the consequences of Queer Duck's actions? And what of his 18-month relationship with Openly Gator? These are the questions we must ask ourselves as Queer Duck's drama unfolds.

Queer Duck is hilarious. Written by Simpson's alum, Mike Reiss, the Queer Duck universe is perverse, brightly satirical, and well, queer. Shockingly Reiss admits on the dvd's extras that He's. Not. Gay. In fact, apparently the only gay person who works on Queer Duck is the voice of Queer Duck, Jim J. Bullock. I'm still kind of confused by this confession. Oh well, it's funny.

OK, now I'm going to zip through the rest of this because I've been trying to complete this blog entry for something like a week-and-a-half. The whole idea is starting to get stale in my head by this time. We'll wrap up with Buttercup from The Power Puff Girls, whose time seems to have come and gone. I'm not sure I would have liked the Power Puff Girls when I was a girl. They're kind of violent in a not-so-fun way, although the show is generally very funny. My kid watched it once and kept asking me why they were always fighting so much. I had to explain the concept of super-heroes and bad guys to him. He's still not sure why bad guys are bad. Bad guys don't make sense to him yet. I guess they don't make sense to me either, if I think about it. Anyway, here's Buttercup, the badass of the Power Puff Girls. I like her innate anger and I like how she channels that anger into violently opposing bad guys. She really kicks them in the head. She's not dainty in any way, shape or form. She's a little disturbing.

This is Neon, a belly dance instructor and videographer, originally from Moscow. She kind of looks like a transexual who happens to teach belly dance. She's not a cartoon, but she's certainly a persona of sorts. It's really important to stay in shape when you're fighting crime and Neon will help us keep our womanly figures (sorry Queer Duck) and get us in touch with our shimmy muscles. Plus her costumes are just fab.

Finally, I present Jaquee, my Land's End Virtual Model. I typed up some of my specs on the Land's End Web site and picked out some hair color and a face shape, and wah-la! Jaquee. Jaquee is really only good for trying on clothes but since I hate doing that myself, she can have the job full-time. And she can shop for them too, because in my world, that's almost as bad as trying them on. By acting as a personal shopper Jaquee will be saving my cartoon posse hours of time that can be better spent doing almost anything but shopping. And you'll be glad to know that Jacquee has been hitting the virtual gym a little more often lately so maybe her clothes size can go down by summer's end. Go go Jaquee!

That's my cartoon posse. I think we'll throw ourselves a little booze-soaked belly-dance fightin' party and maybe get some clothes out of the deal. Then we'll work hard to impeach Bush.