Nuns in the News

And yet another clip.  I seem to be turning into a lesser Redundant Variety Hour.  This one comes to us from the our dear Sister Mary Legs in the Air, who's running the reno in New Orleans for me.   Sister got his name initially because of his fondness for all things religious, but specifically Catholic.  Sort of a passion for the Passion.  Natch, his contribution turns out to be a rocktastic nun.  Irene Cara, Bride of Christ.

Bitch nails those power notes.  Dancing in Oxfords.  Religious ecstasy in the audience.  Safety Gay monks stripping down to pastel clam diggers.  Everything you want except for dumping a bucket of water over her.  She's a maniac.  Do you think this is a standard for Italian drag queens now?

Sister is much in the mrpeenee news this week because Secret Agent Fred and I  leave Thursday morning for New Orleans to check in on what shenanigans the crew has gotten up to lately while putting my house there back together.  With any luck I will return with photos of the lovely electrician, Marty.  Or maybe his name is Marti.  Could be.

Sell it, sister.

Oh, It's a Perfect Day

Secret Agent Fred and I stumbled in to a little place we know for dinner tonight and while we were tucking in, a wheezy three piece combo in the room next door struck up.  I was willing to ignore them until I realized they were covering (or attempting to do so) Pink Floyd's Money.

From there on, it was just down hill, of course.  A Beatle's medley; something Fred claimed was from The Smiths (for which I took his word, since I hate all things Morrisey;) and finally the smooth jazz sound of Perfect Day.

I like Perfect Day very much, the mismatch between the song's cheery bubble of lalalalala and Lou Reed's kind of atonal drone.  I have always assumed it was something of a sneer on his part against the very sunny type of music it parodies so spot on.  And yet, it also seems to be his sincere appreciation of what a perfect day is: simple, unstructured but full, happy.  With you.

So to then hear it ground out by the very kind of band the underlying mockery is aiming at was not just ironic, but thought provoking.  Three hacks plodding through their set, stuck in a barful of people who wouldn't pay them any attention if their combined hair (which wasn't much) was on fire.  Did the band get the joke?  Is that why they were playing it?  Or had some snarky hipster requested it and then gone off to snicker at his musical wit.

You know there's that old joke that not that many people bought the Velvet Underground's music, but they all went right out and started their own band.  Maybe that's the drummer's story and he insisted on including it.  Maybe it's one twelve songs the keyboardist knows.  There are many possibilities.

Then when I was looking for a video to illustrate this post, I ran across this promo one from the BBC in 1997.  Again, it largely seems to miss out on the sarcasm I've always heard in the song, so maybe I'm just imagining it, bitter old queen that I am.  Still, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.

The cast is certainly star-studded.  Of course, Bono makes an appearance.  Is there  ever one of these kind of things he misses out on?  But also, David Bowie, in an earring that, were he not a Big Star or if he had had a friend on hand, surely he would have been talked out of.

Also, (look quick or you'll miss them) Suzanne Vega, Doctor John (!), Emmylou Harris, sounding swell, and Tom Jones, who is not identified.  Did the BBC assume everyone would know who he is?  Maybe they were right.  Not to mention, Mrs. Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson, pixie-ish as ever.

I hope you enjoy it.  Try not to get stuck on Bowie's ear-bob.

Junkie

Safeway late on Sunday night: read it and weep, bitches.  I go there so you need not.  Actually I go there because I like to take vicodin with seltzer water which means I go through quite a lot of the stuff and I find Safeway's in-house brand, the charmingly ludicrously named "Refreshe", to be my favorite. I pronounce it with an exaggerated semi-French accent.

Speaking of Safeway brands and the fall of civilization, the company has invaded the home turf of stoner junkies everywhere by coming out with their own line of fine, fine snack products ripoffs.  It's called the Snack Artist and it reproduces well known and beloved junk foods.  I can personally attest to the quality of their version of Cheetos.  I don't know what chemical crap makes up the yellow-y orange dust that clings to your fingers like super glue after you've put away a pound or two of them, but man are they tasty.

Less fortunate is the crack they took at Lil Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.  I'm sure you remember how distraught we all were when the Hostess Baking Company went tits up and the source for those chocolate cake rolls with cream filling (and let's be honest; every word in that phrase should be enclosed in ironic quotation marks: "chocolate"  "cream") was cut off.  I was thrilled to run across Safeway's attempt to fill the void, but valiant as it might be, the result is simply lackluster.

Still, I plan on working my way through the entire line of potato chips of many lands, tortilla chips in every conceivable flavor and ersatz Twinkies.  The only drawback (aside from possible death by junk food) is that moment at the checkout stand when you sheepishly empty your cart and you feel that everybody, the cashier chica, the bag boy, the lesbian in line behind you, is judging you based on what you're buying.  In my case, this consists of 12 two liter bottles of seltzer and enough garbage snack to feed a small dormitory of stoner boys.  And a bunch of bananas like some pathetic attempt at healthful living.

Also, expanding on my much updated post below about Spotify, I have given up and switched back to Pandora which, I think to punish me for cheating on her, insists on playing long swatches of The Smiths.  ENOUGH, already!  It's like living with a morose teenage girl.  Let me know when Roxy Music comes on.

Tunes

Secret Agent Fred convinced me to join Spotify, a music streaming site which all the hip kids have been into for years now.  It's just one of the elements of modern society I try to avoid, like anything labeled social media.  I'd also like to point out here that I have now boycotted Facebook long enough that the NY Times assures us it is now considered passe.  Take that, bitches.

So, Spotify and I have been struggling with each other all evening, me trying to figure out how to force it to play music I actually like and it, having snuck into my iTunes library, has decided I like country music and cheesy 80s pop.  Fair enough, but why it should then produce an All Justin Timberlake, All the Time playlist for me seems baffling.  I think I might like Pandora as a source much better, it operates in a much more intuitive and straight forward manner, plus I like its playlists.  Spotify seems to be mostly concerned that you are listening to exactly the same tunes as all your bffs.  Since I have no bffs, that is a problem.

Between avoiding Timberlake and Journey (!) I am pretty much fed up.  Just now, though, we have suddenly broken through to Prince and Little Red Corvette.  Well all rite, crank that bitch up.  Just don't follow this with Toto, that's all I ask.

11:44 PM UPDATE:  This just in: Pat Benatar.  Heartbreaker.  Bitchin'.

11:46 PM UPDATED UPDATE:  Kenny Fucking Loggins.  Dear god.

11:55 PM DATEUP:  Human League.  "Don't You Want Me"  I haven't thought of that in a million years.

12:52 AM APDUTE: A-Ha.  Take On Me.  I surrender.  I'm going to bed.

1:01 AM THE LAST UPDATE, I SWEAR.  Psychedelic Furs! Love My Way!  I'm so glad I stuck it out.

Seen on the Street

I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but my fast paced life as a celebutant is just so darn distracting.  Anyway, last week I spotted this shaggy looking drag queen in the Castro, hanging out on a milk crate with a giant keyboard on her lap, serenading passersby with this warble as aimless as it was tuneless, commenting on Life.

Oh, people walking down the sidewalk
Coming home
from the train

 I saw her again this afternoon and was struck by three distinct things at the same time, cause my super duper brain is just that awesome.

1) Her repertoire is very reminiscent of that rendered by Eddy Monsoon in Absolutely Fabulous.  Perhaps you remember it?  Eddy had only one song, which consisted of only one line which she had written decades before in an attempt to jump on the singer/songwriter bandwagon and had clung to ever since.   It goes like this

I'm walking down the road,
People sayin' hello....

Believe me, the similarity is striking, although my friend in the Castro was selling hers with considerably more verve.

2) Secret Agent Fred lives in a sketchy-ish part of town across the street from a place that identifies itself as "The Medical Arts Building."  Details about which medical arts, exactly, are going on in there have been elusive, but since we always saw a bunch of drag queens on the sidewalk out front, we decided gender reassignment was probably on the menu.

Because these girls were uniformly unconvincing, we decided it was some kind of training center and dubbed it Tranny College.  Our theory was that they had a box of wigs and a box of handbags in the back; on the first day of classes, students are herded back there and instructed to take one from each box.  The next day they get their diplomas.  Congratulations!

My point is that the street musician looked very much like a graduate of Tranny College, but poor thing must have been at the back of the wig line.  It looked a lot like she had a dark possum on her head.

3) I was reminded each time of one of my favorite music videos ever.

Al Green, Love and Happiness on Soul Train: is there a more inspiring sentence in English?  But what makes this particluar video so noteworthy?  It is a wonderful version of one of the greatest songs ever.  EVER.  Also, there is the big lump o' love and happiness on exhibit in Mr. Green's polyester pants.  But particular to this post let us turn our attention to the church lady on keyboards.  I love the fact that she has brought her purse out on stage with her and put it where she can keep an eye on it at all times.

Also, one has to admire the consistency of her sour expression, which says to me that her thoughts never stray far from her conviction "These chillrun have done turn their backs on da Lawd." even as Al is rocking it.

Have mercy.

TCB

Christmas is upon us once again.  Perhaps you had heard?  Just in case you hadn't here is some Xmas  smut.  You know somewhere, someone has a freak on for this stuff cause, you know, a lid for every pot and all that.

At lunch today, I realized it's not even a week into December and I am already sick of holiday music, washed up singers (looking at you, Rod Stewart) puking up sickly retreads of tunes trying very hard to be ecumenical by not mentioning Jeebus Whatshisname during a holiday inspired by his birthfday.  It's not that I've grown sick of them, it's more that I reached my saturation point years ago and now the instant they roll back around, I am ready to do violence at the first tinkling strain I hear of Silent Night.

Who wants this crap?  Who thought it would be a good idea to see what Ella Fitzgerald could do with Little Drummer Boy?  I am fully prepared to give my business to any bar, restaurant or store that puts up a sign saying "Carol Free Zone."

As an anodyne to the Bangles covering Blue Christmas and all the other seasonal pap out there, let me offer the Verve remix of Nina Simone's Take Care of Business.  A few years ago, the venerable jazz label Verve shared their fabulous catalogue with modern producers and DJs who wanted to update these classics with some very mixed results.  This is, I think, one of the most successful.

I don't think you can refer to the lyrics as double entendres, they are so thinly veiled.  "O lawd, don't keep me waiting / Be as firm as can be" is more like a single entendre, or 1.5 at best.

The whole is very loose-limbed and crazy (with trombones!  And castanets!) especially for a Simone song, but then, Our Lady of Did I Ask You, Motherfucker? shows up to very firmly kick the project's butt into gear and the contrast makes things fascinating.

Take it away, Miss Simone:

Bitch Stole My Look

Checklist for a video that is guaranteed to be a super duper smash hit:

• Break into Tina Turner's trailer, boost her wig, shoulder pads, heels and even her good brooch.
• Lure a Sade wannabe out of turning tricks for the evening.
• Snag the choreographer from some Michael Jackson video that never made it to MTV before he sobers up.
• Convince the cinematographer from the last Flash Dance sequel that "What the hell" is a good enough reason to shoot your video.
• "Borrow" the karoke machine from the 80's Jammin' Night at the airport bar.
• Convince the guy who has the aeorbic studio next to the Yogurt Hut to let you use it as a set.
• See if the pleather jackets are still on sale at the mall
• Get a fan.

I actually remember people trying to dance like this, but then, I am terribly old.

Call Me, Keeks. We'll Talk

My memories of my hair and fashion choices, circa 1974, make me remember myself as a frumpy dork.



I see now that I was simply prepared to step into the Kiki Dee Band, should the need arise.

"Feel funky, feel good, gonna tell ya I'm in the neighborhood."  Bitches.

In Which Standards are Lowered and then Come Back

I realize I'm treading on dear Thombeau's Redundant Variety Hour territory here, but bear with me.

Here, in 1965, the Supremes wow 'em at the Hollywood Palace with an actual live, rather than lip synch version of Stop in the Name of Love, one of mrpeenee's longtime faves. It's rather leisurely paced, but I suppose that's to be expected with an intro by Tony Randall.

Note that even though the girls have obviously been run through the Motown charm school machine (such ladylike dresses and modest little heels. And such hair!) they still seem to actually be enjoying themselves. Note also, Miss Ross's eyebrows have not yet been fully tamed and lend themselves to her goo goo googly mugging.

Then a short year later and the girls are back, tweezers having been rolled out and some of the lamest lip synching ever. Keep Me Hangin On is notable because in the third chorus (at about 1:47 here) Diana amazingly hands off the lead to Flo. It's just for one line, but still.... You'd never know it from this video because the camera stays on Diana even as she pretends to sing Ooh ooh Ooh ooh Ooh.

But do you love the tangerine and hotpink sequins? What else can there be? I'll tell you what: SHOWTUNES! Cause white people love show tunes.

In 1967, the girls are back, live again, Flo having been kicked to the curb (Bye! Let's have a big hand for Cindy!) with their pschodelica Reflections. Having conquered her eyebrows, make up now launches a full out attack on Diana's eyeliner, possibly with a can of radiator paint.

And then, more showtunes!

Yes. Yes, That's Right, Yes.

mrpeenee is of an odd age. At 57 years, I am exactly in the middle, the very median, of the Baby Boomers. We invented the world, you know.

Still, my odd age means I am (just barely) young enough to have missed out on really being a hippie since the high water mark of that golden era was 1969 when I was being tortured as a big sissy in junior high. By the time I escaped to college, all things hippie-ish were sort of stale and fading in the rear view mirror. Disco and cocaine and Saturday Night Live had all entered with a bullet and were moving up fast, but my contemporaries and I were sort of musically stranded as teenagers. What were Billboard's Top Ten songs the year I graduated high school?

1. Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round The Ole Oak Tree » Tony Orlando & Dawn

2. Bad Bad Leroy Brown » Jim Croce

3. Killing Me Softly With His Song » Roberta Flack

4. Let's Get It On » Marvin Gaye

5. My Love » Paul McCartney & Wings

6. Why Me » Kris Kristofferson

7. Crocodile Rock » Elton John

8. Will It Go Round In Circles » Billy Preston

9. You're So Vain » Carly Simon

10. Touch Me In The Morning » Diana Ross

Dear god. No wonder I was so glad when punk rock and then New Wave finally showed up.

Nevertheless, there were some saving graces, wildly divergent though they may have been. I loved the bass heavy funk that eventually morphed into disco even if I was way too white, David Bowie (god love her,) and the Who.

Also, the bizarre musical noodling of Yes. Heeheehee, so self-important and ridiculous. I've been listening to them again this afternoon, wondering who I was forty years ago and struck once again by the wonderful illustrations involved in their cover art. The world may or may not have improved, but trading twelve inch album covers for bits of memory on a hardrive still seems harsh to me.

To Da Moon

Perhaps you've heard of this crazy French silent movie from 1902 Le Voyage Dans La Lune (A Trip To the Moon) that is considered the first science fiction movie made. The hand colored versions by its creator were thought to be lost until a version was found in Spain in the 1990s. There is an excellent story about the film and the new soundtrack over at NPR. You can see it here

The film looks to be both completely antique (much closer to vaudeville than what a modern audience would think of as a movie) and totally psychodelica, trippin' like a thousand screaming monkeys. Apropriately, the soundtrack was produced by a groovy French band called Air, who I like but have never paid much attention to. Now, I've decided I need this soundtrack. Groove on.

I, I Who Have Dementia

I was at a very gay shop in the Castro buying birthday presents (we have a cloud of friends who were all born right around the middle of January so I snag presents by the bunch this time of year) and the soundtrack was playing a dynamite version of Shirley Bassey singing I, Who Have Nothing.

Our dear friend Kebbin has long claimed this as his signature song should he ever be forced into doing drag in public, which I think is a brilliant choice. I was thinking about that and smiling to myself when the shopboy, who I assume was in his 20s, but looked like he should have been in junior high, asked if I liked Dame Bassey. Of course, I said yes, and then asked if he knew the Tom Jones cover of this. "Tom Jones?" he responded blankly. I was going to explain, but I figured I didn't have time.

For those of you who remember a galaxy long ago and far away.

Isn't Christmas Over Yet?

I have not been happy the last couple of days. Yes, it's true. Turns out Christmas is a dreary time for the recently bereaved. I miss R Man, I miss him a lot. Just earlier this month I was struck by how much better I had been feeling and then Xmas, everywhere. Even porn sites are getting in the spirit.

Rats.

But you know, I am not by nature a droopy, morose Goth-y sixteen year old and so I resist. Avoiding sad songs is crucial; anything written in a minor key is deadly. You know what helps? Punk and Rockabilly, my old faves.

The 60's were Stranger than You Can Imagine

Darlings, there are some things that can only be experienced, never described. Just skip to the 3:30 mark and you'll see.

Rock. On. Girl.

Ever? What not Ever?

You know I have a long-standing passion for this song, but I had forgotten what an amusing video this is and how sexy Roland Gift's dancing is. Sexy little beast.

mrpeenee Rocks Out

Oh, my sweet little potatoes, life's just been a whirl, a mad gay whirl around here. Diane von Ausitnberg was here last weekend, fomenting like mad, putting up with my sullen attitude and mostly just glad to get away from the fires of Central Texas. She seemed terribly impressed with my dedication to watching hours of crappy TV.

Plus, this weekend is Folsom Street Fair, a festival celebrating fat men's unwise decisions to appear in public wearing their ill-fitting fetish wear. The city is wild for this, for example, the naked guys who hang out in the little park on Castro street decided to have a Nude In to warm things up.

Also, they're protesting a local ordinance that has been proposed that would require people to spread a towel on seats before they plop down on them, should those people be less than covered in their butt-chop regions. I support the naked guys who point out wandering around nude is not against the law here, but I also think simple courtesy leans towards "the towel on the bench" argument. Do I know you well enough to come in contact with your cooties? No, I do no think I do. Therefore keep them and your buttsweat to yourself.

Even though I avoided the Castro today in order not to bump into the naked guys and I will also be missing from the rounds of leather, flagellation, and fajita stands at Folsom tomorrow, don't think that I haven't been celebrating. Tonight I went to a concert with friends where the orchestra played a charming version of the opera Carmen. Some crazy ass Russian composer put this together in the mid-60s as a ballet for his wife. He took the pieces of the opera and reassembled them and then amped it all up with a wacky percussion section. This is the answer for people (like me) who have always thought all Carmen needed to be better was bongos and marimbas mixed in. It was brilliant.

Plus, during the earlier, staler part of the show (Mendelssohn. Like eating a stale cookie.) I was able to distract myself by staring at the very cute bass player and imagining his nipples.

One felt sure they were medium large and firm, possibly perky. I'm sure I don't have to explain chamber orchestras are not normally equipped with men who lend themselves to this line of thinking, so I was plenty glad to see him there.

Speaking of nipples, here's a couple, prime example of the Gum Drop metier.

mrpeenee, Queer

What could be more appropriate for Gay Pride week than Cyndi Lauper's birthday? I love this remake of her old Money Changes Everything. I think her voice is better than ever and she's toned down the idiosyncratic yips and yaps and barking she used to decorate her singing with. Plus she's rocking a zither, or as much of it as she can reach around her enormous knockeroonies, and some guy is playing a squeezebox.

Are you sufficiently gaye? Find out. Get your Gay card on.

Tip: raise your score by answering “yes” to everything just like the real mos. “Wanna drink?” “Suck my dick?” “D&D free, right?” I would have had a perfect score, but I hit the last question, which implies black and brown do not go together, and I had to refuse to lower my standards by saying yes. I know they’re shooting for sartorial solecisms, but I also have my eye on an antique chair upholstered in black leather with brown velvet stripes I’m mad for. Plus, if you really think black and brown don’t go together, you have obviously not been paying enough attention to Kristen Bjorn’s smut.

Tragically, in light of mrpeene’s devotion to celebrating queer sensibilities, he has sprained some stupid tendon in his right hand. Since I am right handed, this is getting in the way of a number of things I need to do, things like grab a bottle of Mineragua (my new fave bebeda,) or clutch pearls when shocked, or snatch up a baseball bat, or lots of things. Lots of things.

OK, so baseball bats don’t really come my way that often.

All Night Long

I try not to post too much music here; is there anything less likely and more annoying than a friend tugging on your sleeve and hectoring you to listen to some song he's struck by? And yet, here's another one in less than a week. Suck it up, wieners.

And this particular outing is more than just one song, it's kind of a mashup salute by a grooveoisie band (complete with attractive lead singer) and one of my all time favorite soul songs from back in the day "He Called Me Baby" by Candi Staton. Even at its most popular, it was fairly obscure, so I never ran across it without stopping to pay attention. This new version just popped up and I'm wild for it.

Self Pity and Cyndi Lauper

I know R Man has just sort of disappeared from my exciting blog reporting. I haven't gotten used to his absence, I don't think that will never happen. But I've sort of gotten resigned to it. Sort of. There are tedious forms about his death demanding my attention, and a very big house that is very, very quiet, and things like this song.

We were both so fond of it, I remember I was surprised how much he liked it. Naturally, its melancholy, minor key bad self will pop up on my I Tunes shuffle and take me unawares and suddenly, I am a little less resigned.

I'm writing this at 3:00 AM. I will probably regret it tomorrow, but a lot of this blog has turned out to be a note to myself, so I'm asking not to delete this post.

Here:

File Under "What?"

Sometimes I get Joan Jett

and Pat Benatar confused,

I know, it's very odd. I'm not ashamed of this; there are plenty of things in my life much worse and which I am not sharing today, thanks. I blame the drugs. Whether they were mine or Pat and Joan's, I can't tell.

Also, why do I have such a hard time getting YouTube videos on here? Huh? So, go here

to see a video that is both amusing and has a terribly cute humpy guy.