Sanjaya at Seventeen

...Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
Their small town eyes will gape at you in
Dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen...
- "At Seventeen" by Janis Ian, 1975

Mandala, Mandala

Some submissions from The Mandala Project gallery. Create some of your own--mandalas are fun and meditative.

Give Tribute Where Tribute's Due

I wanted to post a farewell to my father-in-law, Ron, who passed away this week after living with Parkinson's disease for 25 years. He was a kind man with a little twinkle in his eye. He liked to make people laugh and he was good at it. Originally from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Ron settled in the U.S. many years ago and became a journalist. He was a huge sports fan who liked to root for the underdog. He was active until he just couldn't be any more. He and his wife Joan raised their three kids and she took care of him until the end. They were a good team. In the past five years, Ron got to watch his four grandchildren grow from infanthood to childhood (well, one is still an infant--but he's a good-sized infant). I know that made him happy. We will all miss you, Ron.

If you happen to be looking for a charity to donate to this year and you happen to pick the Michael J. Fox Foundation, then I commend you.

We like atheists, yes we do...

House Representive Pete Stark (Fremont, Calif.) admits he doesn't believe in a supreme being. Stark voluntarily "outed" himself after answering a call from the Secular Coalition for America to find the "highest level atheist, agnostic, humanist, or any other kind of nontheist currently elected public office in the United States." The Secular Coalition is made up of eight atheist and humanist groups and they offered a $1,000 prize to whoever could identify the most powerful, god-less person.

According to the Coalition, Stark is the first open nontheist in the history of Congress. Way to go Representive Stark! America needs more weirdos like you to rep. the "rest of us." If you want to thank him for his individualistic streak and bravery, go to this Action Alert and send him a letter saying, "Gee, thanks." I'm going to because Rep. Stark makes me feel a little less lonely in the world.

source

(sub)Urban Ruins

I love urban ruins and the photography they inspire. I guess it stems from where I grew up, in a somewhat rural suburb (Concord, Calif.--heavy-metal capitol of the world) with hills, cows and sheep nearby. We kids used to explore the junkyard that was on the side of a hill that loomed above our dead-end street (since flattened and housed). A really old guy lived in a pink trailer house there and his "yard" was an entire field full of rusty giant-sized farm equipment, a water tower, piles of junk, rusty box-springs, stacks of soft, gray wood, and the remnants of a truck with wooden running boards and spokes.

Of course we went over there as much as possible and the added bonus was that there was a barn, leaning to the left, full of sheep further back. The problem was the old guy, who always eventually ran out of his trailer home, yelling, "Get away from there! Those sheep bite! Get out of here, you kids! I mean it--now, get!" like a villain from an Our Gang comedy.

And just like the little rascals, we hightailed it, slightly freaked out. Once I managed to sneak into a little crooked woodshed, all gappy between its boards. There was a sloping pile of treasure on the dirt floor: piles of old pre-war Christmas cards; postcards with messages fading away; assorted junk, and one baby boot, lined with buttons all the way up its ankle, like they wore in Little House in the Prairie. I looked around for a button-hook, just to see if that existed there too, but the old guy came out, yelling.

I thought about going back many times to swipe some of that great old stuff. But I never did. It didn't seem right. It all belonged to that guy, I figured, and I didn't want to steal from him. We were making his life miserable enough just by trespassing. And I also knew that if I started hoarding his stuff, I might get to be like him, just obtaining all the time and never letting it go. From what I could see, that wasn't healthy living. I did take a foot-long bolt once to show my school librarian, as proof of the historical significance of the junkyard of our humble town, but he just indulged me with a condescending smile. I guess the bolt couldn't possibly represent all the magic of climbing into a water tower with a home-made rope ladder, and discovering a wasp's nest, which sends you screaming out of the tower and across the field back to your house again, knowing that your brilliant plan of basing your secret clubhouse within the tower is dashed.

It pained me though, to think of all those postcards and Christmas and baby announcement cards, moldering away in a pile of damp and dirt. If I could get those, I thought, I might piece together a history of that guy in the trailer home.

One day, all the stuff was gone. We went back there and it was an empty field with tire ruts along the ground. I guess some developer bought the land and carted everything away from the other side of the hill, out of sight from our view. The barn was flattened (the sheep had long since disappeared), the junk was hauled away, even the water tower and the truck. The trailer home was gone. And soon after, a housing development sprung up.

That's the story of Contra Costa County, in a bitty nutshell. One day, years later, I was driving my friend, Joseph, who grew up in San Francisco, around the old haunts. I took him up the hill beside my high school. "And here's the awesome abandoned graveyard that we used to party in when I was a teenage hellion," I tour-guided. I was about to expound on the fact that the graveyard hadn't been used since the 30s, when I realized that I couldn't find the graveyard. And the reason I couldn't find the graveyard was because it was gone and covered with a new housing development. "They dug up the graves!" I yelled. What'd they do with the stones? Where's all the little rusty gates and crypts and stunted, scary trees?

Not to be an old coot, but it was disappointing to lose entire chunks of my past geography. My dad had the same feeling when he visited Detroit with my brother and found that his once-vibrant melting-pot neighborhood consisted of many vacant lots and boarded-up houses. What's my point? Everything changes. The photo is of Mt. Diablo and the surrounding foothills of Contra Costa County, taken around 1860 or 1870. This could easily be where our housing development was built, 100 years later.

Here's some urban ruins sites.

Opacity - Mr. Motts has a really good eye and uses great cameras. I love this site.
Action Squad - Minneapolis Urban Adventurers. Go Minneapolis Action Squad, go!
Boing Boing has a good link to an abandoned housing development in Taiwan that looks like background animation from "The Jetsons."
A gallery of Japanese ruins and an abandoned Japanese bowling alley.

Sex Over the Phone

This video came to my attention from Tuckers, longtime friend and Internet boss. Thank him.

Born in a Trunk at the Princess Theatre

PBS recently broadcast the restored version of Judy Garland's 1954 vanity project, "A Star Is Born" (George Cukor directed it, but it's Judy's world and her movie). I had seen this at the Castro Theater years ago and it was such a treat to see it again. If you can get past the odd little segments of restored photo stills that move the storyline along (Warner Bros. had cut out nearly 50 minutes of the original film, which made it a box-office bomb; it was restored with the stills in 1983), sit back and enjoy the drama.

It's rare for a musical to strive for tragedy, but Judy's rising-star, Esther Blodgett, and her great love for James Mason's hopeless alcoholic film star, Norman Maine, certainly qualifies as great Hollywood soap opera. And not because he raises her to stratospheric heights of fame while his career nose-dives into obscurity, but because his endless self-destruction mirrored Garland's own. In fact, she was playing opposite of herself and that's what I like most about the film: It's hyper-reality, with Gershwin tunes. Also, she was too old for this role and her weight kept fluctuating throughout the long (over-budget) shoot. And she was never beautiful to begin with. That's what makes it hyper-real, because it just kept mirroring life and career all the way through. And she got to stick it to MGM, the "class-act" studio that dumped her. She has several scenes that parody their star-making machine and musical extravaganza aesthetic. Plus she acted her heart out--it was supposed to be her big movie come-back but the end result pretty much convinced her to leave Hollywood and focus mostly on live-performing instead.

I couldn't help thinking how unrealistic the plot would be today. Barbra Streisand attempted a remake in the 70s but the results are god-awful. Not even enjoyably bad. AVOID. Norman Maine discovering Esther Blodget and nurturing her career to become super-star, Vicki Lawrence, would be the equivelant of some drunken star on the downfall--say, Keanu Reeves--discovering me drumming in Death by Stork one night and taking me under his wing until I became the reigning drummer of Hollywood rock legends...uh...Counting Crows Revival? How about a newly formed band featuring the boyfriend of Drew Barrymore, the boyfriend of Winona Ryder and a friend of Kate Hudson's boyfriend, Owen Wilson. And me. We would be called some typical garage-band redux name--let's see, The Killers, The Strokes, The Vines--these are all taken. How about The Drastics--that's about stupid enough.

During insomnia attack #4,023, I even imagined our initial "meet cute." I know--that is socially retarded of me--but insomnia leads to brain damage; everyone knows that.

Scene: Dark, smoke-choked bar on Telegraph Street.

Keanu: Oh my God! You are an awesome drummer! Just, totally! Can I buy you a drink?

Me: (Sputter!) Uh, Mr. Reeves? What brings you to the Stork Club in Oakland?

Keanu: I don't know how I got here, but it might have involved a bus and a drug deal gone bad.

Me: That's certainly interesting. Well, thank you, you're very kind.

Keanu (to bartender): I'll have a Southern Comfort straight up and a Heineken.

Bartender: We only have Milwaukee's Finest.

Keanu: I'll have four of those. (to me) Come away with me to Hollywood. You don't belong here! I want to introduce you to some boyfriends of friends of mine...

Me: And LEAVE the band? It's taken me all my life to get to this point.

Keanu: But this bar is completely decorated with special edition Barbies! And (looking around) Christmas trees?!

Me: Yes, but Jerry Brown lives right down the street. Don't you know this neighborhood will one day be completely gentrified by the year 2045? And Death by Stork will finally headline a Saturday night.

Keanu: You need to dream bigger. I'll help you. Everyone knows I'm a nice guy...

Me: And attractive, once you've showered.

Keanu: ...but don't get too involved! I'm crazy, sister, and I'm not kidding.

Me: Oh God, you think of me as your sister. Wait, did you just order a boilermaker?

Keanu: (getting distracted) Is that Star Trek Barbie? Cool!

And so I go on to great heights in those Hollywood Hills. But Keanu ends up on "Dancing With the Stars," Season 12. If he could just hold it together enough to make it to the semi-finals! We might re-write the end so that he finds Jesus: "A Star is Born Again." Or not.

Come to think of it, I did meet Keanu Reeves in this manner. Only I wasn't drumming; I was sitting on a stoop and he almost tripped over me. But it was at a bar and he was drinking boilermakers. See--anything is possible--if you have a stage mother and you can sing like Judy Garland. And, incidentally, her 18-minute show-stopper in "A Star is Born" (literally--many people think this musical number goes on waaaay too long) goes something like this, "I was born in a trunk at the Princess Theatre--in Pocatella, Ida-hoooooooooooooo!" Oh, and James Mason was awesome too.

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!