She Mob Plays Live at The Octopus Literary Salon

She Mob opens for The Rabbles and poet Julien Poirier at Oakland's Octopus Literary Salon on Saturday, October 20th. Show starts at 7 p.m. -- a very humane time for a live-music/poetry show. Rock out, poets!

Best of 2017 - a super-late list, part 1

"Best of" lists are unnecessary but they lend themselves to the Internet so well—platform of scroll-worthy material. Keeping track of creative output within a span of 365 days is an arbitrary measure of quality control but because my brain tends to work in intuitive—not analytical for the most part—ways and I can't remember dates or time-frames well at all, I tried keeping a year-long list starting last January, just to see what would happen. Any time something lodged in my consciousness for more than three weeks, I figured it was a keeper, so here's a little list of some favorite things of 2017. I'll be brief so your scrolling finger doesn't get a callous. May you face 2018 with open minds, hearts and good memories to come.

Books! I love books and I'm usually reading three three to five of them at once, trading them off throughout the day and night. I always seem to have 20 books checked out from the library at all times and when I enter a decent bookstore (which are disappearing from our cities in a terrible online-based epidemic), I usually buy a few books which end up stacked up around the house because all the shelves are full at this point. I'm a book pig, no doubt about it. Here are some I liked this year:

The Sun & the Moon & the Rolling Stones by Rich Cohen
Some notes I took upon reading Vanity Fair/Rolling Stone journalist Cohen's travels with the Stones: Personal, historical, great sentences and editing—an almost-haiku of rock journalism. Includes a lot of (sad) perspective from Marianne Faithfull and the dark and fascinating influence of Anita Pallenberg on the band. Jagger comes off as a narcissist business man, Richards a genius musician and selfish addict. Watts a sweet steady presence who fell apart in middle age, in reverse order to 99% of rock stars. A lot of credit is given to Gram Parsons for his country-rock influence.

History covered: importance and influence of American blues to post-WWII England youth. The blues, its beginnings and its influential recordings are given a lot of weight in this book. The British invasion and hippie mysticism and drug experimentation of the 60s is extensively covered, as is Altamont, of course—its ugliness and impact on celebrity/fan paranoia and separateness that heralded the 70s. The whole Altamont experience reads like a horror story, starting with Mick and Keith wandering through campfire gatherings the night before the concert, as the desolate pass fills to beyond capacity, and ends with their treacherous escape in an overloaded helicopter as the free concert erupts into murder and mayhem.

You also get the stories behind how the Stones' classic albums were recorded, and that's a book in itself. The aftermath, which asks why they still tour, reveals the surprising knowledge that Keith Richards lives in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Great book.


Never a Dull Moment: 1971 The Year that Rock Exploded by David Hepworth
In 1971 I was seven years old—the magic age. The age of reason. But I never considered how many seminal albums were released within that year because, c'mon, I was seven. I did like radio though and my friends and I were grooving to the music big time, listening to KFRC in Concord, California and to our older siblings' and cousins' record collections because they had disposable incomes and we had no choice.

With the breakup of the Beatles in '70, Hepworth dubs '71 the beginning of the rock era. Each chapter of this enjoyable, informative read outlines not only the albums that began the mega-rock industry industrial complex, but how society influenced the artists, how the record industry grew into a mammoth incubator of talent and wealth, and how each album influenced society and the music industry.

Surprisingly Carole King's Tapestry kicks things off into high gear, launching quietly and setting off a popular maelstrom of singer-songwriter folk-rock that today we still equate with sincerity and artistic expression on a grand scale. Hepworth covers the Carpenters, Led Zeppelin, the Stones, Marvin Gaye and Sly and the Family Stone with equal depth and fervor and Bowie coming to America, of course. It's a thrill ride of musical exploration until we hit the pay-dirt wall with The Eagles, a more calculated attempt to mine the infinite riches that would eventually morph into the bloated rock industry that begat the punk rebellion that begat...digital piracy and tumbleweeds blowing down the corridors where once record moguls shared their coke stashes.


What Are You Looking At? by Will Gompertz
This was published in 2013, but it was featured on an end-aisle at Powell's in the art section and I snagged it on a whim. It's a fast and fascinating history of contemporary art, which my knowledge of was spotty at best. If you studied art history in college and never got past the Renaissance era, this is going to fill in so many blanks for you and you'll enjoy it too. Gompertz answers all your contemporary-art questions and concerns, especially: why is this art? And: but my five-year-old could do this! You will finish this book a much more learned creature than when you started and when you visit modern-art museums, you will have all the background you need to appreciate what's been placed in front of you. The timeline of modern art and its iconoclasts are exhilarating and worthy fields of study for any creative person or appreciator.


TV! It lives in our houses. It's in our subconscious. TV is still a powerful entity and don't you forget it.

The Detectorists - No, it didn't start in 2017. 2017 is OVER. But this was the year I finally saw this two- (now three, but not available in the U.S. yet) season British gem. Mackenzie Crook's quietly deadpan take on metal detectorists who hunt the old farmsteads of England looking for historical, possibly pre-Roman finds. They don't just want treasure. They want transcendence. Also starring the great Toby Smith—this show is gentle in the best sense of the world, with shots of nature interspersed with the nuttiest group of small-town obsessives and their prized equipment. This show is soul food and often very funny but also extremely human. Crook is a treasure.

To be continued...

Punk No Dead - from the Fanzine Collection in the Stairwell - Swellsville - Winter Edition 1989/90

Hey, I found a copy of Swellsville in my 'zine vault (a moving box full of zines, stored in the stairwell). This old blog Teenage Gluesniffer wrote up a fine piece on Jack Thompson's labor of musical love from Seattle. I think I got slightly involved with this through my friend Richie, who's been writing about music since around the dawn of time and now, besides publishing fine rock history books, lectures and teaches in the Bay Area.

Anyhoo, who's interested in musical thoughts of the 1980s? True, the bands mostly disintegrated but our thoughts and relationships with them never fully faded away. Partially because we were all "coming-of-age" and this was our youthful soundtrack and blah blah blah and so on and so forth, but most importantly because this was truly an underground scene for us and we didn't know that was not going to last. So it's like a dream from the subconscious that if you don't write it down, you'll forget about it in the morning. We were all compulsive writers.

"Punk No Dead" was my thoughts from a three-month stay in Mexico where I was based in Guadalajara, attending school to learn Spanish (which I still need to learn, thanks to my mom's family buying into 1950s' assimilation ideals that encouraged them not to speak the language around their kids, and also I'm a lazy language-learner), but traveled throughout the southern regions of the country as well. My friend Rosanna and I were underground-music chicas who had to forgo underground music for the most part during our stay in Mexico. Until that faithful night in San Cristóbal de las Casas...

And I included a coloring page, which Thompson was so nice to print full-page for this 1989/90 issue. Thanks, Jack. I hope you're still writing.

I wrote some stuff - other people worked on stuff too - links

Hi Internet—I've been writing a lot (and rewriting even more). Here's something about writing I never realized before: it gives you a fat ass. I have to go work on that, but first here's a few links of my work and the works of others as well. If you're so inclined:

Bad Movies - Issue 2 (the cult issue) - one of those labors of love. Cass Wall, editor in chief compiles the work that the world throws his way. This issue has my "Meditations for the Modern World" (pg. 44)—a helpful and very short guide to navigating your brain within the confines of our narcissistic reality-TV pop app landscape—newly photo-illustrated by moi. You can read the digital copy free, and/or purchase a very affordable paper publication here. A digital copy for viewing is also available here. Lots of cool essays, humor, comics, coloring pages and a Freudian Film Theory word search puzzle. That's a winning combination.

Here's the Bad Movies Tumblr.

Hey, I have a Tumblr dumping ground too - Dancing Bugs


And for Bright Wall/Dark Room I wrote an essay on Martin Scorsese's Casino, a dark film that I did a little work on, back in the day. I never got to work directly with Marty (maybe someday), but I helped out Matte World Digital while they made some amaze-o 70s-era Las Vegas strip casino shots. The thing is, you have to buy the issue for $1.99 (a steal!), or subscribe to the magazine for a year (twenty dollars—you won't be sorry!), but it's probably worth it, given the width and breadth of content you'll receive. Thoughtful essays, tons of themes, lots of movies. Teaser is here: "Watching Casino, Twenty Years Later." 

Here's the Bright Wall/Dark Room site.


I was just now wondering, whatever happened to Santigold, and I see she released a single yesterday, and record-release news. That's good timing. Wow, her site is A TRIP.


Did you ever get around to purchasing She Mob's latest, Right in the Head ? Still time. I have some footage around here somewhere from our recent Halloween show at a Berkeley preschool. That's one for the ages. They're all one for the ages.


Follow me on twitter. (I read this tech article that said the best way to encourage people to follow you on twitter is to use a directive, so follow me on twitter, dammit. Dammit, you better follow me. On twitter. Do it. The article said this would work.)

2016 Republican Presidential Candidates Haiku

That's right! In honor of National Poetry Month (three months late)—GOP candidate haiku for 2016. After working on these 5-7-5 syllable poem-ets, I have to tell you—these are some scary mofos who hope to head the United States of America.

According to their almost universal policies, they would easily excel within any Taliban government. And given their druthers, teen-aged girls and full-grown women (including victims of rape and incest) should have babies—lots and lots of babies. That leaves these guys free to count their dirty, ill-gotten gun-lobby money while incarcerating as many poor addicts as possible, possibly murdering them with the death penalty whether they're guilty or not. Forget about healthcare, teeming masses—if you can't afford healthcare, that's just God's mandate. And are they pals with God! God is their great big buddy and right-hand man. I think that covers it.

Oh, and they'd really rather many of us not vote, so they can continue to power up their Fox News-generated political sideshow to stay in office as long as possible and feed off us like a bacterial infection.

Let's haiku:

Jeb Bush
No on abortion
Yes to the death penalty
Voting rights? Hah! lol

Chris Christie
Look into his eyes
The bullies from seventh grade
had more empathy

Ted Cruz
shuts down government
thinks climate change is a joke
morally bankrupt

Dr. Ben Carson
Believes health care law
is as bad as slavery
This man is confused

Donald Trump
Mr. pouty face
would-be supreme dictator
of major suckage

Carly Fiorina
My old HP boss!
a glorified P.R. hack
—so she qualifies

Mike Huckabee
Outlaw abortion
All human life is precious
Have a gun instead





Bobby Jindal
Paranoid zealot
drowning in a no-go-zone
of his withered mind

Rand Paul
libertarian
fiscally conservative
tea party code words

Rick Perry
policy wanker
deep in the heart of Texas
a heart of darkness

Rick Santorum
Family values
don't include contraception
Google "Santorum"

 
Scott Walker
is lacking daughters
to undergo ultrasound
for their abortions

It's my birthday so I mopped the floor

The floor is now clean for my birthday celebration which consists of writing a second draft of an essay I worked on all last weekend. The life of a writer, ladies and gentlemen. That's what I wanted. At least the floor's clean.

I kept putting off a poetry post for April, which is always National Poetry Month, and now it's May and it's too late for poetry, dammit! I've always gone all out for National Poetry Month. I'll have to ruminate fixedly for a belated post. Life's a poem, people! Until that moment arrives, enjoy the poetry of Christopher Lindstrom—greatness.

This blog, like me, is aging--ten years young. In ten years, I've grown a lot, learned a lot, ignored mopping the floor a lot. That's all going to change, starting today, starting here and now. Because the floor is mopped and ready for bare feet without sticking. Because I also vacuumed half the house (last week) and only have the other half to do. Because that essay isn't going to rewrite itself, so I better get writing.

I'll write up a post of our April travels, which included a magical family reunion in stunningly livable San Diego, a revisit to Bodie, sledding in April during an unprecedented drought, and the incredible weirdness that is the Trona Pinnacles. Until then, thanks for ten years of blogtastic blogging on blogger.

San Diego - I'm on the right, wearing plaid, probably thinking about ice cream

Writing Prompts For The Modern Age

As a writer, I haven't used writing prompts because I can (so far) pull stories out of my ass , er, memory banks/imagination. I do read writing prompts once in a while just to check in—it's important to stay up on the latest writing-prompt trends. There will probably come a time in the near future where they'll help me out when I run out of story ideas.

Most writing prompts don't "speak" to me and my oddball brain, so I thought I'd try to come up with a few. Are you experiencing writer's block? I don't mean the daily "better get back to writing" kind where you vacuum the living room and start a wash load before finally sitting down (or standing, if you're Ernest Hemingway) to write. I mean that long-term, ten-years-or-more kind of blockage where you actually forgot you were a writer once and then, finding your old journals, realize they're full of half-finished stories that you gave up on to go work in a law-firm to hopefully pay the rent and eat and break even at the end of the month. Not that I know anything about that, mind you...

I hope this helps.

1.) Write a story based on this performance of Frankenstein by the Edgar Winter Group. Be sure to include all of Edgar's solos as story-arc points. Extra credit: create a character based on the saxophone solo and a character based on the drum solo—what is their conflict?





2.) Write a story based on all eight illustrations from a British language primer that I found in a thrift store years ago. Include the word, "dipsy-doodle." Bonus points if you write in a British accent.

3.) Write a political thriller based on Carlo Collodi's "Pinocchio." Will your protagonist ever become a real boy or girl? What happens when he or she lies? Who is the secret kingpin running Donkey Island? Is the giant fish merely a giant fish, or does it signify something even more massive—corporate interests in an unregulated capitalist system, perhaps? YOU DECIDE.

4.) Write a story based on "No. 43," the anonymous person who inspected your underwear in a garment factory overseas. Do your research. What is No. 43's motivation? Is your underwear part of the solution or part of the problem? Do you feel guilt or pride knowing No. 43's expert inspection has touched you in some way?



5.) Write a story that takes place entirely within the confines of the New York City subway system. You can use a different subway system if that's what you know. Mexico City Metro is sadly under-represented in the subway stories pantheon, so keep that in mind.



6.) Blindly reach into your medicine cabinet and grope around until you grab five items. Line them up on the nearest level surface. Write about them.



7.)  Write about a morning DJ who hates mornings, hates her sidekick laughing-man partner, hates the city she works in, and the station's music programmer who insists his staff play "Dust in the Wind" at least five times a week, as well as multiple Steve Miller Band hits. The name of the radio show: Suzy and Jimbo's Good Morning Radio Sunshine Power Hour.



8.) Call your mother or other significant guardian representative and tell her you love her. She'll tell you a story.

Random Image Post with Random Ramblings

I was tidying up today. Got rid of a ton of bulky clothes, file folders full of old property deeds and all sorts of this-and-that. One folder was labeled: Fancy Paper, and it was full of just that: handmade papers, containing pulp, flecks, leaves and string. It symbolized so much of what I choose to keep, give away, or toss. I kept the fancy paper, but the old tax records—they will go (in five years).

I cleaned up my digital files as well and here's some random images I came upon. I'm keeping all this, you betcha. Commentary is strictly off the top of my head. Anyone looking for images: this is what I call my "SEO stew."

Does anyone remember the 1970 Sid and Marty Krofft show The Bugaloos? It's pretty awful. These British fairy-folk and their ugly little pal, Sparky with a light-up butt, live in a Tranquility Forest, playing in their power-pop band while teaching lessons about sharing and not being afraid and tripping as hard as is humanly possible. 

A touching scene from The Bugaloos

And now the theme song will be stuck in your head for all of eternity:




Flower power to the MAX.




What else? Recently I read Lawrence Wright's dread-inducing expose, Going Clear - Scientology, Hollywood, & The Prison of Belief. Oh my God—madness, manipulation, mind control. Plus beat-downs, extortion, bullshit, and much about this entitled, unofficial spokesperson:

Gaaah!

This image, from a leaked Scientology-produced interview, is so terrifying to me—like someone possessed in a Stephen King book. Doesn't Tom Cruise look like he wants to eat you? And chew on your soul for a while, like it's a piece of soul jerky. And then afterward pick his teeth with a gold toothpick manufactured by hundreds of Scientologist children, who labored in the high desert mountains for years, panning and digging and trawling for minerals, only seeing their Sea Org-bound parents twice a year, and for only a few minutes at a time, while inexperienced minions barely watched over them, having signed billion-year contracts to...

Oh, Jesus. Just read the book. It's truly horrible what this "religion" does to its followers.



And while you're at it, see The Master, which won't admit it's about that schizophrenic-spectrum sociopath, L. Ron Hubbard, but it is.




Ahh, look at Dinosaur Jr., before they were Dinosaur Jr. They started out in 1985 as Dinosaur, but this band of old musical farts from San Francisco, called The Dinosaurs, threatened to sue these three young fellows from Massachusetts over name infringement.

So they changed their name and were thoroughly great and a big influence on grunge, a few years down the road. J Mascis played guitar like he was channeling every radio hit from the '70s into one lunatic sonic boom featuring the ultimate in blistering guitar solos. He called it psychedelic country. Good deal.

Look, the Jackson 5. I loved the Jackson 5 so much when I was a kid. They brought great musical joy into my life. Michael was so phenomenal. His dad told everyone he was eight years old when he was really eleven, just to make him seem that much more amazing, but that was unnecessary (and unethical). We could all see and hear how amazing he was. The amount of hours and yes, misery, it must have taken to get the Jackson kids to this level of professionalism cannot be underestimated. I mean, I can't get my kid to watch The Iron Giant with me, though I know he'd love it. Perhaps growing up in a tiny house in Gary, Indiana is its own motivation.

Do you know how many hours my friends and I spent doing The Robot to this song? Untold hours.



Have we reached maximum SPIROMANIA yet?

Hell yeah, Spirograph

OK, one more. Now that I've cleaned up a little around here, it's time for some light dusting and vacuuming. I like to look my best while I clean house, because then I feel at my best. And that's what counts.

An Abundance of Led Zeppelin Cover Songs

Did you know that every four-and-a-half minutes, a band covers a Led Zeppelin song? I don't have hard scientific facts to back this up, but as soon as I apply for a grant for funding, I'll be conducting a study and I'll get back to you on that. At this point, it's just my theory. And if you doubt me, just check in with Wikipedia every few minutes and time the updates.

So I can't put down Led Zeppelin: The Oral History of the World's Greatest Rock Band, by Barney Hoskyns, even though it weighs about three pounds. I never saw Zeppelin in their heyday because I was too young, but then along came adolescence and I was ready for them—and how. Zeppelin in the early 70s was like testosterone turned to a million, and all the kids knew it. Especially the kids across America, living in the suburbs and hanging out at the mall because there was nothing else to do. And they took to the full-frontal assault of Zeppelin like hormone-driven ducks to psychedelic, blues-based, whiskey-laced water. Eventually, I moved away from my suburb, landing in San Francisco in 1982, where the only bands that admitted to liking Zeppelin were extremely ironic about it. It was like liking Elvis. You had to do it on the down-low, until a second revival came along.

Unfortunately, the oral history of Led Zeppelin, has me really disturbed. It's such a dark tale of excess and debauchery, skidding down a twisted mountain road, like a good dream gone bad. Literally mountains of cocaine in hotel rooms full of underage girls getting assaulted with mud sharks. It's just super-over-the-top (that's why I can't put it down). You can definitely see why The Ramones and their ilk came along in the late 70s. Everyone had had just about enough of nine-minute guitar solos and musicians assaulting their drums-techs at that point. It was like rock 'n roll class warfare and the guys living in the castles surrounded by moats full of black swans were on the outs.

But look at all their songs—there's so many of them! When you have four musical geniuses in a band, that will happen. The obvious guitar god and satanic master, Jimmy Page. The jazz-rock-funk stylings of impossible-to-fathom how-he-did-it-night-after-night, John Bonham, And secret-weapon John Paul Jones, arranging compositions behind the scenes, never losing his cool, even among the mud sharks (he was probably out at a movie that night). And of course, the lightness and brightness that is wailing, Tolkien-loving Robert Plant. The refrain heard over and over in the oral history is that everyone in Led Zeppelin, as individuals, were "nice" and "decent" guys. It was when the band, their management, the intrepid groupies, and drug cronies got together that hell was unleashed.

Just a potent, stinking brew of too much of everything bad from that time: sexual exploitation and extreme sexism, nasty and damaging drugs, sycophants as far as the eye could see, managers threatening physical violence, a drummer who actually resorted to physical violence on more than one occasion, car accidents, broken homes, and tragically, lives cut short. All the initial good vibes dissipated. At least there's still the music.

Sandie Shaw - "Your Time is Gonna Come." This came out in 1969, making it probably the first and oldest Led Zeppelin cover. The British didn't immediately take to Zeppelin the way Americans did. But among musicians, there was eventually (grudging) respect. This cover shows nothing but respect. Sandie Shaw has got it going on.




Sly & Robbie - "D'Yer Mak'er," from their sadly out-of-print album, "The Rhythm Remains the Same: A Tribute to Led Zeppelin."




Michael Winslow , the man of 10,000 sound effects, covers "Whole Lotta Love" with only acoustic guitar for accompaniment. The rest of the song in its entirety is from HIS VOICE. I don't know what he's doing. I only know he is a magician. The real kind.




Ween reveals their sensitive side while covering "All of my Love."




Lydia Lunch - "In My Time of Dying." Zeppelin brings out the Gothic blues vibe in the usually very urban-underground Lunch.




Here's a treat. Lady Gaga covering "D'yer Mak'er" in a nondescript cafe from down the street,  Man, she looks...really different. Generally this is the Zeppelin cover for wimps, but she rocks it.




When the world was ready for a cover of "Dazed and Confused" in Chinese, Bongwater was there to answer the call. This was in 1988, when we were all still coming to terms with our Led Zeppelin fixation, and our fading youth.




A Perfect Circle - "When the Levee Breaks." Perhaps the ultimate in wimpy Zeppelin covers, but very lovely and atmospheric. Obviously, the whole deal is to take one of the hardest rocking songs ever, about the possibility of a horrific natural and man-made disaster about to hit the entire Mississippi delta region, and make it sound like something to listen to while sipping fine cognac on your yacht along the French Riviera. Bravo.




Rasputina - "Rock and Roll." Rasputina is a genuinely weird situation. They're not trying to weird you out. They just will weird you out. I admire and respect that in a band.




You didn't think I'd leave out "Stairway to Heaven," did you? Due to overplay and the constant threat of ear-worming, I would have. But then Heart came along in 2012 with Jason Bonham on drums, and covered it so beautifully at the Kennedy Center Honors show. Everyone was there! The Obamas were there! The Foo Fighters were there! Lenny Kravitz was there! Kid Rock—you better believe he was there! And most importantly, the remaining members of Led Zeppelin showed up.

Robert Plant got teary during this cover, and every time I watch this, I can't help but tear up as well. It builds so beautifully, like great opera, but with rock drumming. There's a full choral group, all wearing derby hats. And as far as I'm concerned, Heart is the ultimate Led Zeppelin tribute band. They seemingly cover Zeppelin ALL THE TIME. They have the technical prowess, along with the true love and gut feeling for the music. So, let us not avoid Stairway to Heaven, if it can indeed still move us to some sort of hormone-induced, mysterious rapture.

Elegy for the San Francisco Giants

New low for the Giants — a 16-inning loss to the Mets

Now it’s October and where did it go?

Spring’s expectations so high;  autumn’s reality so low

It was a Summer of failure, of a team’s dysfunctional plight

A summer that turned into “A Long Day’s Journey into Night”

Not even Eugene O’neill could have authored this Giant distortion

Nay, this baseball tragedy is bigger, one of Shakespearean proportion

Now it’s October and we wonder where it went

The season known as “The Summer of our discontent” 

                                                                     -Richard McElroy


***

My Dad, a true Giants fan since he moved to San Francisco from Detroit, 50 years ago, is really suffering this season. He tends toward optimism when it comes to baseball, but the Giants have fallen so very far since their World Series championship, when was it—a year ago?  

Oh, Giants, do not go gently into the night! Especially when playing a 16-inning heartbreaker with the Mets. And certainly not during a Dodgers series. And definitely not when you fail to score in more than seven innings. Look what you've driven my Dad to do—write an elegy, based in the month of October, and it's only July! Now is the time, Giants. SEIZE YOUR MOMENT on the field of play. Now that people aren't wearing those stupid panda hats so often, NOW IS THE TIME.

At least I have the A's. My Dad, locked into his San Francisco fandom, can't say the same.

Roger Ebert, Les Blank - Two of Cinema's Good Ones

We just lost two good souls of filmmaking, Roger Ebert and Les Blank. One, famous, one, not as much. Both were influential to film fans and filmmakers alike. Roger Ebert accomplished much in his 70 years. Critic, journalist, author, screenwriter, TV personality, and recently, after he lost his voice to the cancer that ravaged him, twitter-user extraordinaire.

Throughout the 70s, I watched him banter with and discuss movies with the late Gene Siskel on their popular TV show, Sneak Previews. Their passion for films, along with my Mom's old-movie-watching habit, most likely steered me toward filmmaking. Siskel and Ebert made it look easy—talking about film merits and flaws. But anyone who's discussed movies with friends knows it can get boring fast. They always kept it lively, engaging, and thoughtful. It was a show dedicated to their viewers. They wanted you to see good films. They wanted you to avoid the bad ones. That was thoughtful of them.

I didn't know much about Ebert personally from his TV career. His movie reviews were syndicated in our local newspaper on occasion, but his wacky past (he infamously wrote the screenplay for Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, a seriously bad but cultish exploitation film) should have clued me in. Not until I read Charles Bukowski's novel, Hollywood—about the making of the movie, Barfly—did I get a window into the kind of person Ebert was.

Here's Bukowski, not known for his effusive praise when it came to characterizing humanity, describing his stand-in for Ebert, Rick Talbot, in Hollywood (Ebert's account of this meeting is well worth the read):

"I don't think I've ever had such a good time on a set," said Rick Talbot. ..."It's a feel in the air. Sometimes with low budget films you get that feel, that carnival feel. It's here. But I feel it more here than I ever have..." 

He meant it. His eyes sparkled, he smiled with real joy. 

...I loved Rick's lack of sophistication. That took guts, when you were on top, to say that you enjoyed what you did, that you were having fun while you did it. ...He was a wonderful and innocent man.

These simple, straightforward words stayed with me over the years. That a film critic could be a wonderful and innocent man—I didn't know such a thing was possible. When I started following Ebert on Twitter, I was so impressed with his passion for information, for human rights, for art and for writing, of course. Above all, for his kindness, which is impossible to fake over time. It bubbles out of a person again and again when it's real. He loved life, appreciated what he had, even through his terrible illness, which he faced with grace and spirit. I knew him through his generous writing and I'll miss him.

Les Blank is someone you should know about, if you don't already. He lived in Berkeley, so I got to see a lot of his documentaries over the years. He visited my film department at SFSU on a regular basis, especially to screen new work, and he always stayed afterwards for discussions. He was another generous, big-hearted person who was shy around strangers and dedicated to the joy of creation.

He's most famous for his collaborations with film maverick Werner Herzog, but you should check out his prolific documentary career covering his numerous obsessions, including American roots music, food, and gap-teethed women—the stuff that makes life great.

The Maestro: King of the Cowboy Artists, 1995 - Blank's tribute to Gerald Gaxiola, who lives to create art.



Innocents Abroad, 1991 - Travel to ten European countries with 40 American tourists in ten days. Blank is the ultimate tour guide.



Gap-Toothed Women, 1987 - Apparently Blank once had a crush on a gap-toothed neighbor. Then he made this delightful film.



Burden of Dreams, 1982 - The documentary on the making of Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo. Here are some Herzog quotes to put in your memory hopper.



God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance - Hippies, dancing at the Love-in in 1967!



Dizzie Gillespie, 1965 - enjoy.

I'm on vacation, writing poetry, and riding a monorail for good measure

Whilst traveling through the Northwest, I'm on a wee computer vacation as well. But I'm attempting to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month and something called NaPoWriMo, which is basically writing a poem a day, the Internet way.

If you're partial to poetry, and who isn't, link on over to my other blog, Your Daily Tree, and celebrate the beauty of words, images and whatever else comes along through my brain. Currently, I'm focusing on my Northwest trip, so Crater Lake, waterfalls, and Dorris, California have gotten mentions. AS IT SHOULD BE.

Happy Spring Break, all.

A funny thing happened while reading a Mary Gaitskill story

Mary Gaitskill at the time I met her

I was reading "Mirrorball" by Mary Gaitskill the other night, from her short-story collection Don't Cry, when something peculiar happened. First of all, Mary Gaitskill—she's interesting. I'm not a very dark person by nature, although I've certainly had my moments, but she seems to be, judging by her work. Dark and lonesome, very intelligent and strangely fanciful. This collection of hers is pushing the idea of what short stories can do. She's not just focusing on inner states of being. She's getting into metaphysical states as well. If people were walking around with their shadow sides and souls loping alongside them, like characters out of Pullman's His Dark Materials series as imagined by a self-conscious William Burroughs, that would only begin to describe this work.

So there I was, reading away in bed, trying to decide if I liked this story or not, when I recognized the location of the mirror ball that she's referring to in the title. I was feeling a little triumphant that I knew the exact block of real estate in San Francisco, from her brief description, when LO AND BEHOLD, I came upon a piece of my life in the story. That stopped me for a moment as I read something familiar that had once happened to me years ago, in the middle of this almost-fairytale anti-romance. I had to do some mental calculating to figure out what had just happened.

It was like the time I was taking the garbage out in my parents' garage, and it was pretty dark and there was a hairy, fanged head, floating four inches from the ground by the trash cans, exclaiming, 'Ruh ruh ruh!" I stared at it for nearly a minute while my mind thought: there is no such thing as this thing I'm gazing upon. Then my eyes adjusted to the dark and I realized it was a Scottish Terrier, escaped from the new neighbors' house across the street. It was my all-time Muppet Show meets Zardoz moment.

So what's the moment from my life that Mary Gaitskill used? Take this quiz and find out! Actually, I'll just relate my personal story and you can guess what she referenced for her story. Then read "Mirrorball" and see if you won!

This was many years ago, not even 1990, I would say. My friend Monique had planned a trip to San Felipe, Baja, and she invited me along. I love Mexico, so I was excited to go. Unfortunately, I caught one of my frequent colds and instead of canceling, like I know enough to do now, I flew to San Diego with my congested ears and sinuses nearly imploding on three sides of my brain. While holding my head in both hands, making little "eeep" noises of pain as we landed, I re-read the page on San Felipe in my AAA guide book. It was described as a quiet beach town populated by clam fishermen, due to the amazing receding tide-line, which flows out for more than a mile at low tide. Except, noted my guidebook, during Spring Break, when thousands of America's youth converge upon the tiny town, racing their ATVs and dirt bikes across the nearby sand dunes and partying all night upon its usually quiet beaches.

Peaceful and serene San Felipe...

"AAA advices travelers to avoid San Felipe during this time," was the sentence that stuck in my mind the most. When I called Monique the week before and read her this out loud, she waved it away with a, "I'm sure it will be fine."

It wasn't fine. It was a town completely overrun by sweaty bellowing alcoholics on ATVs and dirt bikes, roaring around a two-block radius day and night. I know this because I filmed it with my 60s-era super-8 camera I had brought to capture the authentic Mexican fishing village. Instead I now have silent footage (stored around here somewhere) of neon-bikini-clad girls, parading their tanned bodies astride revving vehicles as half-naked neanderthals cheer them on. I'm not deriding them from my high horse. They really were like this and proud to be so and I have the footage to prove it.

After I procured self-prescribed, over-the-counter penicillin, which did not alleviate my cold in the least, Monique and I mournfully trudged the beach of San Felipe, lugging our midsized backpacks under the hot sun. We stepped over and around  countless bodies camping out for the night, cracking open their beers and rolling their weed-packed doobies. We dodged hurled footballs, Frisbees and beach balls, as we roamed to and fro, looking for a hotel room that normally could be had for next to nothing by spontaneous travelers, but had now all been booked up for weeks.

"I think we're going to have to sleep on the beach," said Monique. "With them?!" I countered, pointing to the teeming humanity.

...except during Spring Break!

It was at this point that I lost my voice. Don't ever travel while sick, especially to see an old friend who you like to have conversations with. You're just going to lose your voice and then the conversations will be one-sided. While roaming a pottery garden, after buying hand-woven blankets from a vendor to use as sleeping gear, we had an argument. Some highly emotional venting about grief and loss. My beloved Aunt Maris, who was like a second mother to me, had recently and suddenly died. She was a huge part of my life and I mourn her to this day, and will do so until my end. This fight brought this out of me, my fresh, jagged feelings, all raw and inarticulate. It was a stupid fight that came out of nowhere and probably was a manifestation of our lack of accommodations alongside low-grade resentments over our situation. But I was fighting with my whisper-voice, and that was frustrating.

We eventually figured out how to deal with each other again and made our way back to the beach to settle in for the night. There was not a lot of space left, even at massively exaggerated low tide, but we squeezed in near some Mexican-American boys and a line of restaurants and bars.that looked respectable. The boys were there on their annual trip from Los Angeles. One very young cute guy took a shine to Monique. I got the small, odd-looking guy with the mouth. I'll call him Calvin.

He proceeded to "fall in love" with me within moments of our introduction and I could only listen as he talked his game. It was not bad, but I had already dated a wisecracking half-insane little man and didn't want to relive that moment."What's wrong, Lisa?" he demanded at one point, "Who has broken your heart?"

I laughed because I wasn't about to get into that, especially with laryngitis. At one point, Calvin gave up or needed a beer or something and he took off. Monique and the very cute young boy took off together. I was alone on a beach, among thousands, in a hand-woven blanket that I still have today as a keep-sake. I was quietly meditating on my fate when a massive guy showed up—well over six feet tall and quite rotund, in a muscle-bound way. He plunked down inches away from me, demanding to know who I was and what I was doing there. I whispered something about having a cold and needing some sleep but he kept on grilling me in an aggressive, menacing way. "Hey, hey. You. Talk to me. Hey. What's your story, huh? Why won't you talk to me?"

"I lost my voice," I whispered. "Go away."

"Huh," he said, unimpressed. "I'm not going to be ignored—got it? You got that? Answer me!"

Dread was seeping throughout my being. I turned over and pretended to sleep among the shrieks and whoops coming from bars and alleyways. Finally the hulking presence gave up and left to find more responsive diversions. I peeked from my blanket and saw a big empty space where he had been. When Monique and the others returned, I begged her not to leave me again. I didn't want to be found in a ditch weeks later by a local fisherman.

"Was he a great big guy, like this?" motioned Calvin. "Oh, that was just Diamond Dave!'

"Yeah!," they all chimed in. "Diamond Dave!"

Oh, how silly of me to be terrified of Diamond Dave. Still, Monique was instructed never to leave my side again until departure the next day.

"You girls aren't from civilization," enthused Calvin. "You're like running with the wolves or something. Like women who came out of the wilderness! With your backpacks!"

Monique and I looked at each other. That was us all right.

"I'm going to give you new names," he continued. "You," he pointed to Monique, "are Prestige. And you," he said, pointing to me, "are Infinity. Those are your new names. They suit you."

Now we were impressed. New names don't come along every day, especially ones like Prestige and Infinity. At this point we were all buddies. I even told the cute guy about my grief and how I would think of my Aunt when I looked at the stars, which were bright and beautiful that night. He said that was a good plan. He worked for Van's Shoes so we knew he was cool. Everyone settled down to sleep. Even the hoots and hollers trickled down to an occasional, "whoop!" in the middle of the night.

The next day, we changed into bathing suits in a public bathroom and splashed about in the warm fish-filled water, careful not to be beheaded by speeding recreational watercraft vehicles. We gave our new friends hugs good-bye when it was time to take the bus back to the border. Diamond Dave didn't get a hug because he never returned. Everything was better that day. We had survived accidental Spring Break in San Felipe and had stories to tell.

Refraction, anyone?

Which explains how Mary Gaitskill heard about our trip. Monique is a friend of hers and must have told her a version of this story. I've only met Mary once. She came to a party at our flat in San Francisco when Monique and I were roommates. She was very quiet and stayed in one area of the kitchen most of the night. Her eyes focused upon multiple scenes at the party and she was listening to conversations around her very intently, like a court reporter. I liked her, within the brief time we talked. There's something shining brightly in her. I especially liked her shoes—demure Mary Janes. I tend to judge people by their choice of footwear.

What part of the story did Mary Gaitskill use for "Mirrorball?" Was it:

A.) Two friends fight about grief and loss while on a supposedly fun vacation.

B.) A girl feels victimized by a stranger in a strange town, narrowly missing a terrible fate. Or was it all in her fevered mind?

C.)  Two girls are nick-named Prestige and Infinity by Mexican-American boys on a beach.

Postscript: When I returned to San Francisco and told this story to my friend Richard, he snapped, "Prestige and Infiniti are the names of cars!"

Housework Haiku

That's right: housework haiku. Everybody's doing it (eventually)—nobody's writing haiku about it. I'm here to fill the housework haiku void.* Just me, sitting at my dusty, cluttered desk on a non-ergonomic chair with wall-to-wall carpeting full of spilled Cheerios and sundry items.


shoving a vacuum
across the carpeted floor
modern punishment

dishwasher loaded
pioneers scrubbed endlessly
I push a button

dusting is touching
every surface you live with
so much to fathom


hail, washer/dryer
you never disappoint me
machines of valor

cobwebs overhead
drifting on the air currents
feel my dust-mop's wrath

bathroom mania
soaker tubs, designer sinks
more toilets to scrub

I don't iron much
Around this house, that's men's work
my soul is wrinkled

crumbs are everywhere
we are surrounded by crumbs
let's face it, they win


besieged within filth
because I promised to write
this housework haiku


*Lovely images from Jessica Cangiano's Pinterest—check it out.

Herman Melville "Moby-Dick" glass art

"I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I'll go to it laughing" - Herman Melville, Moby-Dick.

Cool glass art hanging in the window of the Mystic Arts Center in Connecticut. Artist unknown, but worthy of attention. Words to live by in the new year.

Secret Hearts Comics - Reach for Happiness! No. 121, July, 1967

It's vintage romance comics time once more. Today's entry is unusual (at least to me) because it's part of a serial soap opera entitled "Reach for Happiness!" I don't own other copies of DC's Secret Hearts, so unfortunately I don't know how this cliffhanger is resolved. But like most soaps, the pace is so slow you won't miss much anyway. I love how everything takes place in a nondescript town called Danville Corners, complete with nightclub, discotheque, a wealthy part of town, the ever-present "wrong side of the tracks" (apparently near the hardware store), and a seemingly constant swirl of emotional turmoil. Danville Corners has it all!

And now: Reach for Happiness! Episode 12.

Our cover art. Check out the mod geometric style of Rita Phillips, girl from the "wrong side of the tracks." What's she doing with a straight-edge like Dr. Greg Marsh? Let's find out!

Whoa. This is an entirely different mise en scene! Rita is not such a modern Miss after all. The cover was just a ploy! And I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Hmf! Will Greg believe Rita's slightly cross-eyed exclamation of love? Pay special attention to Rita's above-the-elbow-length gloves here. There will be a quiz.

One thing is certain: Greg is pissed

Let's take a look at our cast of characters, shall we? My favorite part of "Reach for Happiness!" is that one guy is named Richy Smathers, son of Roger and Lila Smathers, the richest family in town. That's swanky! Also, Richy has a go-go girlfriend named Joanie, who looks a little high. It is 1967 after all.

So Bob Martin is on a date with old flame Peggy Wilder, when in stomps his soon-to-be ex-wife, Brenda. And boy is she PISSED. Look at that body language in the red dress. She dominates the romantic meal-for-two entirely.

If we were to sum up this scene in one panel, it would definitely be this one:

We've all been there, Peggy. Is Bob a complete cad? Is Brenda a dangerous lunatic? Just what the heck is going on here?

Brenda just wants to make Bob's life miserable, that's all. Is she going to bust up every dinner-date he has from now on? That could be a full-time job in this town. Peggy reacts as if physically assaulted. She needs to learn some assertiveness training, stat! Let's sum up this page thusly:

Heh

Don't worry. Peggy learns to trust and believe in Bob, all in the space of one car ride home. They smooch in front of Peggy's house, her lonely sister Karen, watching them furtively. Weird. This results in Karen's only storyline but it's pretty tragic: INSOMNIA.

Meanwhile, at the discotheque on the other side of town... Richy and Joanie are cutting a rug. Wow!, says one of the youngsters on the dance floor, What's the name of that dance, kids? Hee. No comment. Oh, all right, it's called the ASS GRINDER, doofus.

Richy and Joanie are super happy together. They're young, speak in baby talk, and always refer to themselves in the third person. What could possibly be the matter with this relationship? Well, Richy's wealthy family does not approve of go-go Joanie and keeps cock-blocking his efforts to marry her. The 1%—always causing trouble for regular folks!

No matter! Richy's got a plan. This time, they'll elope immediately with no snoops as wedding witnesses. Instead they'll invite the whole gang down to the...wherever they go to get married, I guess. It's nighttime in Danville Corners. Are they located by Las Vegas or something? Nobody says. Anyway, the whole gang agrees to witness the nuptial arrangement and it's on!

Wouldn't you totally want this guy to witness your marriage? I would.

Solid

BUT there's trouble afoot because on the OTHER side of the room sits Dr. Greg Marsh, on a date with Rita Phillips. And he's a friend of Richy's family and he's, well, he's a SNITCH, that's what he is. Yeah. A snitch. The gears are in motion for a wedding take-down.

Look at that lantern jaw—trouble

The flash of lights. The sound of sirens. There'll be no honeymoon tonight! Plus we're shown Rita's ex, dicey nightclub-owner Ray, who is only too happy to suck up to his financial backer and Richy's millionaire grandfather—Wallace Hendrickson. Oooh, the 1%! They control EVERYTHING.

Nice wheels, trust-fund brat

The law steps in (being in cahoots with Danville Corners' wealthy elite) and the wedding is off. Again. Look at ol' man Hendrickson, smoking a cigar in court. Show some respect, you manipulative codger! MEANWHILE, Rita invites Greg home for "coffee," which he eagerly accepts because, although it's late, he's "Not one bit sleepy!" Idiot.

Ray now calls in the middle of romance, setting the tone for suspicion, jealousy and furrowed eyebrows! Look at Rita's gloves—what happened to the fingers on the gloves from page 1?! I tell you mystery is afoot in Danville Corners.

The gloves—what happened?

And check out Rita's full-length shot on the lower left. What's up with her posture? Usually the anatomy of romance comics is pretty technically great (one of the reasons I love looking at them), but this is really "off."

Remind you of anyone?

That's right, the Geico Gecko

 Let's wrap up with a whimper. I do like Dr. Greg's "anger face" in the last panel. Would you date this guy, or even see him as a patient? He looks like a murder suspect. And so ends our thrilling episode of "Reach for Happiness!"

I may have to buy this issue of Maniaks on eBay. Looks good.