Thanks, good friends, nostalgia, and reunions

THANKS

First, before my dull observations of life begin, I want to say thanks to those of you who read these humble pages. I am honored (and a little more than surprised) that anyone reads these pages. One person actually complained that there was too long of a time between postings. Well...thanks for your interest. I am stunned that anyone cares.

Most blogs are all about getting the word out about something: a person's music, art or a political agenda. No, I am not doing this selflessly for the betterment of humankind, but there is no agenda. Quite honestly, this is more about therapy for me. It helps me put this insane world in which we live into perspective. So thanks for reading. I hope to amuse.

GOOD FRIENDS
The fellow in the photo at the top with the strange expression is one of my best buds. I want to thank him for his friendship and for tolerating me for four days at his home. His wife and children are lovely as well. I had a great time-fantastic really.
He lives in a really rural area. I am used to city living and never being able to really see the sky, but boy where he lives there aren't any streetlights. The sky is incredible. To quote a movie, it's "real country dark." The first night, after we had a few "nightcaps," I got into my bed and could not see anything-not a thing in the room or outside. It was like floating in space (or was it something else?).

NOSTALGIA
After the rest of his family went to bed at a sensible hour, he and I would stay up way late and chat. Most of the time, we end up laughing until tears about something silly. Sometimes our sense of humor runs a bit bizarre. For some reason, we started talking about watching Don Kirshner's Rock Concert back in the '70's. Every week old Don's introduction of each act had this flat delivery: "Earth, Wind and Fire are one of today's most exciting soul acts. Here they are performing their hit...." If you are as old as me, you know what I'm talking about. It didn't matter who Don was introducing, it was the same thing: "Helen Reddy is one of today's most exciting soul singers with a hundred million gold records...."

After mocking dandy Don, we then jumped on poor Mac Davis-an all too frequent guest. Mr. Hairy Chest, tight blue jeans with Ovation guitar singing "Baby, Baby Don't Get Hooked On Me." I mean seriously, if there were a penalty for crimes against music, what would this guy get for that horrible song? Flogging? Hanging? Life without parole? His own theater in Branson, Missouri?

But what was really odd about this show was the eclectic programming. Perennial schmaltz favorites like Mac Davis and Helen Reddy were followed by the Mahavishnu Orchestra or The Police. Today, with all TV programming so carefully homogenized, this kind of show could never exist. Can you envision a meeting of the suits at CBS or NBC talking about the lineup for the show?

Clueless Executive No. 1: Helen Reddy, good. Mac Davis, hey I really like that guy.
Clueless no. 2: Whose dis Mah-ha-fish-soup fella?
Clueless no. 3: Never heard of 'em.
Clueless no.1: Can 'em. Next!

Another fabulous source of late night entertainment is one most of you already know about: www.youtube.com This one is a screamer:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4C8Aslwhu44 It is surreal and really clever.

Though we really tried, no footage of Don Kirshner or Mac Davis was found. Perhaps that might have injured us. My ribs were sore from laughing already.

REUNIONS
Went to my first high school reunion on Saturday. Avoidance of these types of events comes so naturally for me. Actually I wasn't really invited because I didn't graduate from there, but since I had many friends attending, some I hadn't seen in decades, I ended up going anyway. My avoidance of these affairs is obvious: if I didn't stay in contact with you after high school and had no contact with you during college, why bother now? I know that sounds a bit grouchy, but I'll give you a for instance.

Upon arrival, I wandered over to where a few friends were gathered and this guy introduces himself to me. The light of recognition goes off in my aged brain and we shake hands. Now, here's a guy that probably spoke three words to me in high school (no offense-we just ran in different circles), but suddenly here we are playing catch-up. He's a nice guy and I didn't mind talking to him at all, but seriously....you where I'm going with this.

As the evening wore on, I saw an old nemesis. In nineth grade, this guy sprayed a can of Coke on my hair and then, if that wasn't enough, he gave me one square to the face after school. A complete sucker punch, didn't see it coming. I was so shocked (and quite frankly scared-this guy wrestled and played football) that I didn't react. I just got on my bike and pedaled home. Humiliation never comes in small doses. I never spoke to my parents about it, but it hurt my pride and self-esteem more than my jaw. I hadn't thought about it until that night.

I have this sort of generic golden rule about the past called "The Ten Year Rule." Any wrong that has been done to you that is over ten years old must be forgiven. NOT exactly the Sermon on the Mount, I know, a decade being a bit on the slow side of divinity and forgiveness, but it is something that I genuinely try to follow and even (gasp) offer to friends when appropriate (And when they are least likely to tell me to descend to the lower regions of hell fire and brimstone). But upon seeing that mine enemy had gotten very overweight, was totally gray haired and generally looked awful (plus he lives in a part of the valley that I consider is punishment enough), I felt a smug satisfaction roll over me. No need for platitudes and forgiveness-good old, outrightly mean human nature was fine.

A voice behind me: "They let just about anyone in this place." A friend I haven't touched base with for over two decades. This was one of the reasons I came.

The guy hasn't aged. Granted, the hair had the sparse flecks of gray, but he looks like he did in college. I asked if it was the sleeping in the hyperbaric chamber that made him look so young. A few Michael Jackson jokes later, we were trying to play catch-up.

The ice now broken, we tried to talk over the loud and wretched hits of the '70's, made worse by the crazed female DJ doing karaoke in between. Beer cups in hand, we took a brief stroll down days past. I have learned that we have a collective memory: what I fail to recall remains vivid in the minds of others and vice versa. I threw "Percy Mean and the Liquidators" at him. He just shook his head and laughed. You could almost see those memory cells flash, reaching for files long erased. Later people were recalling high school pranks with each person adding their own details to the story.

After the evening concluded, I gave my (photo) friend a ride back to his hotel. It was a short trip, but we spent some time just talking just sitting out in the parking lot.

So, here's to friends. Friendships that outlast junior high, high school, college and all the grown up stuff of middle age.

Cheers to good friends!

If You're Gonna Screw Up, Well....

there's no sense in going halfway. Another Gazette story:http://www.wvgazette.com/section/News/2006072027/

The shortie:"Charleston Mayor Danny Jones publicly apologized Thursday afternoon for an incident earlier in the day in which city police mistakenly stopped and handcuffed a 69-year-old retired police officer."

It gets worse, dudes:Jones apologized to J.L. Johnson, a 33-year veteran of the Charleston Police Department who retired in 1995, during a news conference.

The mayor demonstrated how he understood Johnson was ordered from his car, muscled to his knees and handcuffed with his hands behind his back by two officers.

A real orginal quote:“I just want to nip this in the bud,” the mayor said.

Exercise Can Be Dangerous

I was wrong. I said Kanawha City was a dangerous place to exercise and that Kanawha Boulevard was the place to relax and get into the zone. Ok, maybe it's not so good.

Read this story from the Gazette: http://www.wvgazette.com/section/News/2006071940

Some highlights for we walkers/joggers:

William Williamson Jr. walked away from the truck, which came to rest with its front end submerged in the river, while one of two pedestrians walking on the Boulevard was slightly injured diving to avoid the truck.

Police said the truck almost hit a woman walking along the Boulevard. She suffered scraped knees and was visibly shaken.

Get Thee out there and Sweat, radio guy

get thee out there and work it, fat boy

Since November, I have been dieting. Since April, I have begun an exercise program.

Big deal? Who cares? Hey, you're partly right, but read on sisters and brothers.Why should you care? I am only here to inspire, not to brag. If you want/need to lose weight, read on. Otherwise, find another blog baby.

Well, readers of this occasional blog, I tell you that this old, fat-but-slimming guy is finally getting his rewards. It's taken some months, but dividend checks are arriving.

YOU can do it. I am just an old, out-of-shape guy doing his best. If I can motivate my lazy ass off the DVD couch brigade, then so can you.

November-that's where it began. Something in November changed me. I think seeing my uncle in the last stages of his life gave a hard reminder of life's fragility and unromantic end. I literally watched him die. T.S. Eliot said something about when the dead go, we go with them. So much of that is true.As I am now 48, I see that life has entered a new stage. "It's a new game" I tell myself.

I have never been one to embrace exercise with any amount of enthusiasm for any consistent period of time. I have never really been one to embrace exercise at all truth be told. Ditto the discipline for a diet. But something new has entered here. A new energy and motivation.

First, I had to control what foods and how much. Sounds perfectly obvious, yes? No, not with Mr. Sugar Addict himself. Cookies were like heroin to me. I couldn't eat one. Nope, half the package would be gone as would "peck" around the kitchen looking for a snack. You know, get three cookies, watch some tube. Check the laundry; stop by the kitchen for more cookies, etc. etc. Soon the damn thing is empty.

Next doctor's visit, with cholesterol setting new records literally, same lies to Doc:"Been dieting?"
"Yes, but it's hard."
"We'll get you one of those charts that show the caloric blah-blah-blah..."

In one ear and out the other. I knew better, I just wasn't motivated.

When I was around 230, I was always hungry; always looking for the next snack or the next meal. I could eat and meal and then snack. Dangerous indeed.When you have a lot of weight, your stomach wants more, it's expanded. When you finally get some weight off and some control to your diet, it's so much easier to resist.

Then the exercise thing: go slow. I mean, twenty-somethings whiz by this old man, but he pays no mind. Slow and steady he goes like a turtle. Go slow and build. Everything will build.My exercise regimen began with a single walk. I now include jogging and a bit of free weights. Not much weight, but enough weight to get some blood flowing.

At first, jogging even two minutes was like carrying a granite slab on my legs. My breathing was heavy. I was hurting, man, hurting.Last week, experienced "the zone". I was jogging along Kanawha Boulevard-the best place in the valley, and suddenly I got this surge of power and energy. I had this odd sense that something was “watching over me”, giving me confidence.

I run/walk Cap to Cap:the Capitol Grounds to Capitol Street and then back. To you healthy types, that’s probably not anything, but to me it has been a source of inspiration.

Something else has come with this attempt to lose weight-a spiritual discipline. When I get first there and start stretching, I call it the Holy Hour. It is my hour of peace when my troubles are put aside and my mind is learning to let go and become clear. I love it now.

So, get out there and sweat. You’ll be amazed.

P.S. Joseph Campbell often talked about the "heavenly moment". The moment of bliss, if you will.

Last night, after a good workout, I sat alone, sipping from a cold water bottle with the sweat just pouring off of me. I realized, in that quietude, that this was indeed the heavenly moment.

Neil, Jack and Somebody

Which Crim do YOU like?

All musicheads know the band King Crimson, but in case you are in the dark go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Crimson

Like any artist, the brothers Crim have gone through many personnel changes with one exception: Robert Fripp, the band's founder and unofficial leader. He is still a sour puss who would rather drive nails into his foot than sign autographs, but we'll get to that.

Watching the DVD Neil and Jack and Me has made me begin to think about all things Crimson. What is this Crim thing all about?

On the whole, Crimson fans are incredibly loyal, vocal, sincere and some even have an unhealthy, obsessive admiration for Fripp. I believe they see (or use) Fripp as a symbol of their own uniqueness. Crimson as the thinking person's music, blah, blah. Yes, it sounds like teenage hero worship, but there it is.

Crimsonites can also be so loyal to one period and one period only. The Crim periods can be divided into three: 1969-74, 1981-84, and 1994 to present.

The '69-74 period shows a band at times groping for a direction, but when they really all come together, the results are amazing. They were creating a new rock language- a language which influences bands today (Tool would be a good example). Here the convergence of jazz, blues-rock and even concepts stolen from 20th century "classical" music make up the Crim compost of influences. As any VHS Behind the Music ominous voiceover will tell you, there came a time when "things began to turn horribly wrong." and the Crim disbanded. Some older folks can't get past this period and love to snuggle their gatefold remasters of "In the Court of the Crimson King." Nothing wrong with this period, some of my favorite Crim is from this era, but these constant reissues are so irrelevant to me.

The 80's Crim is my favorite incarnation. This DVD shows the Belew-Levin-Bruford-Fripp lineup in fine form. Bruford looks like he's having the time of his life, running around playing both acoustic and electronic drums. Belew makes it all look so easy as he releases those monsterously strange sounds from his guitar. Sour puss Fripp looks like an accountant or a classical musician who's wandered onto the wrong stage. But, the guy who puts it all together is Tony Levin who is simply one of the finest musicians of our time. Watching his hands playing the stick is worth the price of admission.

The music played on these concerts hasn't aged and all the band members have their moments of brilliance.

The 1994 to present group, I have to admit I have limited appreciation for. While there are some good tracks that I have heard from this time period, I feel like the band sounds like they are so desperate to do something new and consequently, it comes off as dry and academic. It's the Arnold Schoenberg period of the band. People who find chaotic dissonance played to impossible time signatures good listening have my blessing, but having gone through that in music school, I'll pass.

Give me a good groove any day.

This One Has a Happy Ending (for once)

I have had a failed relationship that just now I am ready to talk about: the piano. Arggh. It aches me just to talk about it.

I am talking about my incompetence at the keys, my plumber's hands at the ivories, my bull-in-a-china-shop piano playing. Strictly speaking, I am a failure at the piano. There. Weeks of support group have allowed me to say that.

So complete is my failure, that I have joined Piano Players Anonymous- a group that meets every Thursday evening. There, in the basement of a church, we first congregate around really bad coffee and second-rate donuts before we get down to the painful business of recovery. We settle in, sitting in a circle and then some brave soul gets up and begins to spin a very familiar tale.

"My parents insisted that I take lessons."

A collective groan from the group always follows. I've seen grown men have to hide their tears. They usually bend over in their seat and try to shield their faces or pretend that they suddenly need to clean the lens of their glasses. The group draws no attention to this very familiar tactic.

"And no matter how horridly I played, they kept bringing me back each week."

A woman says outloud without realizing: "Me too!" Someone places a comforting hand on her shoulder. We are here for each other, no doubt.

"And every week I mauled Beethoven..."

"Fur Elise!" Yes! We all gasp. Most of us suffered through the first part, but then hit the Ivory Wall at the B section. Our collective pain is like a wave, flowing in sync from one to the other.

"Or Mozart. Schumann. Even the most basic four-part hymns. I just couldn't..."

"Mrs. [fill in your teacher's name here] was so nice, but I know she must have loathed to see the one student she had failed to teach come in that door every week! Years later, I saw her and I swear to you all that she crossed the street to avoid me!"

Silence. Then quietly, the clincher always comes:

"I just didn't get it."

That one never loses it punch. Usually there follows a pregnant silence as we all go suddenly into self-reflection mode replaying the same weary questions: Why didn't I get it? How can your hands do two different things at the same time? How can the man-ape navigate eighty-eight uneven keys?? Shouldn't he be hunting/gathering rather than trying this intricate task? The man-ape can only pound upon it hoping to kill and eat it. This is my plight.

I always think of that scence from 2001: A Space Odyssey when the apes gather around the strange black monolith sensing its power, but can not grasp the meaning.

My own story is hardly unique.

My parents had good intentions. They said the piano was a basic instrument that all musicians had to learn how to play and since I was going to be a music major, the die was cast. The lessons were set for Friday after school at Herbert's Music in downtown Charleston.

Mrs. Lusk was not your regular piano teacher. "Eccentric" doesn't quite cover it. Her laugh was sincere and full, but a high cackle is the best way to describe it. I remember she wore garrish orange-colored pant suits that had with ice cream cone designs all over them. Yes, I am serious. Her claim to fame, according to her, was that she once worked with the Laurence Welk Show and every year they sent a Christmas card. "They're still want me back" she'd say.

She once told my parents that she believed that the Soviet Union was aiming some kind of invisible ray at the United States as a form of mind control. Her excentricities were written off by my parents because of her living conditions. Mrs. L definately had a hard existence and lived hand-to-mouth, residing in the old Holley Hotel. The kind of place that Tom Waits could write a fistful of songs about.

Mrs. Lusk taught me to practice each hand separately and then put them together.Well, it was the together part that always slowed my music reading down to a glacial pace. Shortly into the together part, I'd look over and Mrs. L was snoozing; probably dreaming of some far away place where prodigies dazzled her with Rachmaninoff and Liszt. Mrs. L never failed to fall asleep during my lessons, but I wasn't offended. I enjoyed the momentary freedom away from the Herculean effort at the ivories. Besides, I felt kind of sorry for her having a lamebrain like me for a student. We were both bearing through the unpleasant process, so if she wanted a little nap, well by God she deserved one. One time I watched the clock and she slept solidly for ten minutes complete with vocal fireworks. I'm surprised the people having lessons next door weren't completely disturbed by this.

The best part of the piano lessons was the trip afterwards to Arthur Treacher's-a fried fish place that was on Virginia Street. Fried fish swimming in malt vinegar with greasy "chips" for piano boy- a great reward for a mediocore piano student whose teacher fell asleep. Life is good. Mission accomplished.

My doomed relationship with the piano continued in college. It followed me like a shadow.

In college, I had a nice teacher who tried to get me to play some Chopin. Every week, she would tell me the same story about how Chopin and his love George Sand (a woman) spent this romantic period on an island together and thus was the inspiration for the piece I was practicing. I found that getting her to tell this story over and over again was an excellent way to waste most of the weekly half-hour lesson. She always obliged and never caught on. At the final playing exam, I could see her obvious disappointment when nerves got the best of me and I all but butchered the old Pole's beautiful music. Once again, that together thing threw me.

But there was hope. A hope not founded on competance or the lack thereof, but on reduction. A reduction of the complexities. Counterpoint? Nay, pounding-point. There was one course in college called Functional Piano that made me realize that not being pianistically gifted was not an impediment to enjoying playing. No finger exercises, no sonatas or four-part hymns, but take all the shortcuts. It was piano reduced down to its most basics: left hand plays chords while right hand plays melody. The man-ape gets that. Left hand and right together! Not separate- that hurts man-ape's brain.

This class was taught by Mr. Fitzgerald, who was, shall we say a bit colorful and flamboyant. "Fitzy", as we dubbed him, taught this class Friday at 8 AM. Friday at 8AM is a most brutal time for a college student who was unlikely to go to bed Thursday night. One such sleepless occasion involved a playing exam. I don't know how, but I passed with flying colors. I attribute this momentary success to Foster's Lager.

This one has a happy ending. Hurrah!

I get it from readers who ask, "Why are you always writing about bad things? Think happy thoughts, man." Well, this one has a happy ending.

Truthfully, I have resolved the struggle with the piano not based on competence, but through acceptance of my incompetence. I quit trying to play the piano properly and bring it down to my level: left hand chords-right hand melody. Sort of a guitarist's approach to it. Or simply: man-ape no longer fears fire, he has learned to cook with it.

If you took "pain-ano" (or other) lessons and my story has some ring of truth to it, all I can say is this: if you still regret not continuing playing, you are not alone.

We meet every Thursday night. Donuts are bad and the coffee worse, but the company is good.

Philip Glass: Some Kind of Monster

To some, Philip Glass is a monster. But we'll get to that. Let me share some things first.

For any serious listener, even if you do not like Glass' music, there are two essentials: First, download the Philip Glass interview conducted by Ira Glass (host of This American Life) from Fresh Air's website. This interview is funny, insightful and if you write music, Glass will open your mind and his observations on music will change your creative life.

I have tried, in vain, to get my set-in-their-ways twenty-something students to listen to this interview, but like the rest of the music world, they are already well on their way to being close-minded. It's a shame because they are so young, yet they have shut down an essential process in a creative life: reinventing yourself, questioning tried and true methods of operation, staying open to your creative instincts and a willingness to abandon everything you have learned in order to discover something new.

The second essential is this documentary Philip Glass: Looking Glass, directed by Eric Darmon. From the minute this documentary on composer Philip Glass begins, it's apparent that we are in for a treat. We hear Glass talking on the phone as the camera focuses on various photographs, art works, music scores, scattered around his New York apartment. This is look into the private life of this incredibly busy composer. The film follows Glass around NY, Paris and London. Mixed in are interviews which contain recollections about his early years, his formal studies and we even watch Glass working on a score. A great DVD for sure, but a bit short coming in at 103 minutes. Bonus features include a Glass interview and performance.

Then there's that whole Glass as "water torture" (lovingly described by someone) reaction from traditional classical audiences.Glass tells us that "the world is far more conservative than you can ever imagine" as he recalls the days when he had to play in lofts and art galleries because the traditional concert hall crowd was "terrified of amplified music." Taking refuge so to speak in galleries, he reveals that "in the world of art, innovation is accepted and welcomed" but in music, that is not the case.

Mention Philip Glass to your average classical listener and you'd think that you were talking about the Devil himself. Like he's some kind of beastly monster hell bent on the destruction of Western civilization, beginning with music. Glass (and his contemporary Steve Reich) have to be at the top of the list of contemporary composers most reviled. At one concert, Glass has recalled that tomatoes have been thrown in protest and even struck a few of those on stage. As he slyly states, "You don't bring tomatoes to a concert unless you plan to throw them." Why then pay money for a ticket? Because, to some people, their taste in music is more important than behaving in a civilized manner. Which, ironically, an appreciation of classical music is supposed to be a reflection of being civilized. An irony evidently lost on the classical set.

Glass recalls a time when he and other contemporaries were regarded by the more traditional composers as “primitives”. One time he showed some of his scores to another composer at a radio station in Germany. Although Glass was 31 at the time and had graduated from Julliard and his studies with Nadia Boulanger, the other composer puzzled over the music for a while and then let out this remark: “Have you ever considered going to music school?” Always gracious and with good humor, Glass says that he let this remark go and thanked the man for looking at his music. Glass’ confidence in his chosen path is unshakeable. I admire that.

Even terrible reviews don’t bother Glass and his ensemble. He has stated that “most are hilarious and the ones that review favorably don’t go far enough.” How has he not only survived, but thrived in an environment that is clearly narrow-minded, conservative to the extreme and clearly quite hostile to Glass’ music? In some ways, he has done an “end-run” around the usual classical channels by first engaging the art, dance and writer’s communities. He made his own gigs, in other words. It was only after touring and promoting his music through nontraditional venues that eventually he got commissions to write symphonies, concertos and the usual formats of the symphony orchestra. He is a man who deserves our admiration, even if only for never giving up and keeping to his dreams.

While I would count myself among Glass' audience, and he has truly brought something new to classical music, I sometimes wonder now if he isn't just repeating himself. The Glass style is the most easily recognizable in the world of music right now. But that’s the problem, he always sounds like Philip Glass. Symphonies, string quartets, you name it-always the same way of organizing music. He once said that young composers copy everybody else until he/she finds their own voice, but once you find it, Glass says “It’s hard to get rid of the damn thing.” He has fallen into his own formula without intending to. I like it when he breaks free, like the marvelous Aguas de Amazonia with the Brazilian ensemble Uakti.

One time after about a nine minute piece from Glass’s Naqoyqatsi (A piece used in a national PBS promo. Ok for them but not us, yes? ), a lady called me. She asked me why I was playing Philip Glass. I said that I liked the music. She suggested that I might have hit my head too hard against a wall or something to come to that conclusion. I was in a good mood that day and humor was my best friend because I actually laughed at her rather insulting remark. I then asked her:
“M’am, do you like rock music?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m too old for that.”
“Do you like Indian music like Ravi Shankar?”
“No, can’t say I do.”
“Then that’s why you don’t like Philip Glass.”
There’s no way I convinced her of anything and soon the call ended. But it won’t end there. Never. Nope. No way. I’m always going to hear about it when I cross the line into contemporary territory and it is in my nature to explore the world of music. Can’t help it. I’m just made that way.

Sometimes, after a particularly insulting email or phone call, I laugh and think about what poor old Phil Glass went through. No one has ever thrown a tomato at me.

At least, not yet.

Notable New Discs

A listener asked about some recent discs I've been playing. Here's the rundown and the scooby on them, kids. Enjoy.

1. Bitter:Sweet-The Mating Game. Super cool retro sounds that sound like a lost soundtrack to a James Bond film.
2. Thievery Corporation-Versions. Do these guys ever put a out a bad record? Nope. The 18th Street Lounge boys "dub out" tunes by the Doors, Bebel Gilberto and others. It's pretty dern eclectic.
3. Tosca-Souvenirs. Tosca and Thievery Corp should do an album together because they work the same way, despite the slight difference in their sounds. This is an album of remixes of their release J.A.C. done by their DJ friends. The remixes of cool tracks like Superrob are worth the admission fee alone. There is one joke among the lot. The one original track submitted by Tosca is about 4 seconds long. This should really make the collectors who are often called "completetists" a bit hot around the collar.
4. Gotan Project-Lunatico. This release revolves around the evolution of the tango rhythm and all the variations that technology and musicianship can bring. Great fun, but not many tracks were outstanding.
5. Ursula 1000-here comes tomorrow. Hilarious, fun, cocktail shaking music. Try to resist the fab cheesy tongue in cheek vocals mixed with the smartly played and arranged music. Quit now while you are ahead. If I had a swinging social life, this album would remain in permanent rotation all night. Prince meets Austin Powers in a Manhatten cocktail bar.

Well, that's the short list for now. If you missed the playlists, go here.

Thanks!

Stranger Than Fiction

WELLINGTON, New Zealand (AP) —Rolling Stones Keith Richards was hospitalized for a mild concussion he suffered while vacationing in Fiji, reportedly after falling out of a palm tree.

Reports on CNN stated he and Ron Wood were climbing a palm tree when Richards fell.

I want to know the conversation leading up to this.

Why did two senior citizens decide to shimmy up a palm tree? To see the ocean better? They weren't high enough already?


Officials say that Richards declined pain medication, but requested a Marlboro and a shot of Jack Daniels.

The Five Films

A trend has been started. Film Geek posted the five films that changed his life. My buddy Primal Scream guy did one. I think it's a really cool idea. So, for your amusement, I post such.

To really think of films that changed you. Not films that amuse you, but actually had a real impact. Narrowing it down to five is hard, but here goes: The five films that changed my life.

5. Being There. Peter Sellers as the oddball Chance Gardiner is pure genius. The film is flawless in sustaining gentle, understated humor. On some level, I related to Chance being so out of step with the world because so often I feel that way. The world hums along at a rate and manner that I feel totally at odds with at times.

It is a film that makes me feel good. After all, as Chance says:

...And if you give your garden a lot of love, and if you work very hard and have a lot of patience, in the proper season you will see it grow to be very beautiful...


4. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Aren't we all, in some way, fighting a system that threatens to dehumanize us? Nicholson gives his best ever performance as Randle P. McMurphy who is ultimately destroyed by a system that values order and protocol over humanity. Sounds like where you work? You betcha.






3. The Elephant Man. I can not fathom someone watching this and not being moved.

I think of Dickens: "It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. "












2. Amadeus. How do the merely talented contend with genius? Does it eat them up inside with jealousy? Is there rage against God because of it? How does a creative life continue with the knowledge of limitations? Every artist must resolve this issue or be eaten up by jealousy. This film knocked me out.

At the end, while being wheeled down the hallway of the asylum, the elderly Salieri cries out: I am the patron saint of mediocrity! I absolve you! I absolve you!

Incredible.









1. Apocalypse Now. No kidding, I debated whether to put Hamlet. (1948, Sir Laurence Olivier) at number one, but Apocalypse Now clearly outranks it. People at first thought that this was just another indictment of the Vietnam War, but time has shown that the film has a much broader meaning. This is just a metaphorical journey of the soul with the warning that when we look into the darkness, it also looks into us (to paraphrase Nietzsche). Brando is so awesome as the insane Kurtz and the narration by Martin Sheen is unparalleled. Simply a flawless film, but one to be viewed sparingly.

As a friend said as he returned a tape soon after I loaned it to him: "It began to hypnotize me. I began watching it in the morning as soon as I got up."

Bad way to start the day, dude. Start with coffee.




Well, that's my five. A very tough assignment. Enjoy. Do a list yourself.

Guilty Pleasures

Have you discovered iTunes yet?

[Note to younger people: buy the music, support the artists, especially those who are independents! They need your support. End of sermon.]

One thing about iTunes they don't tell you: nostalgia is reasonable.

(Peter Gabriel. front man of Genesis, circa 1970)

These Apple people keep adding more and more music to the iTunes store-even stuff that's ancient history. Lately, I've been downloading some relics of the past- real guilty pleasures. The Rolling Stones back catalog are right at the top of this list for me. Evidently I am not alone in guilty pleasures.

A friend of mine recently confessed to purchasing, on the cheap through a European iTunes-like service, old rock songs from Genesis. There was a tinge of guilt when he asked if it was normal to be revisiting the music of the past. Of course it's normal, I replied. Nothing wrong with walking down the old nostalgic path, as long as you don't try to live there.

Important note to music snobs: all of us have guilty pleasures when it comes to music. All of us have found pleasure in pop music from time to time. Admit it now and feel better.

Genesis was an art rock band (much like Pink Floyd) before they became corporate FM hitmakers producing painful hits like Invisible Touch and I Can't Dance. This artful era Genesis was the music of our youth.
Just like any teenagers, we idolized Genesis and especially their strange front man, Peter Gabriel. No wonder! Gabriel took to wearing outrageous costumes on stage and at one point sported a haircut that had a small section of his head shaved. Rumors in the press suggested that he was mentally ill. This added to the Gabriel mythos.

(LEFT. Ok, the guy was a little wacky.)

One of our friends got us started on this environmental kick where we revered nature and hated all developments, especially cities. Somehow, we saw all these man-made structures as being destructive to the ultimate beauty and harmony of nature. Long, arduous hikes in Kanawha State Forest were seen as a part of this ideology that sometimes seemed to border on a theology. This wasn't a forest, but a refuge, a sanctuary, and a place to commune with something higher than oneself. Yes, now it sounds ridiculous, but back then we placed all this radical environmental ideology into the music, interpreting lyrics as a sign that Genesis felt the same way we did.

My friend and I have long past these foolish youthful ideas. Eno talks about gracefully giving up "the baggage of youth."Still, I find myself looking at the Stones' back catalog every time I wander into Best Buy. There I look again and again at Some Girls, Goat's Head Soup and Steel Wheels. I finally came to the conclusion that purchasing an entire $13.99 CD is stupid. iTunes will let me download the songs I want at 99 cents a pop. Fine with me.

My friend's conclusion after all this: some of this old music is just unlistenable. Good thing it was cheap.

If you're going to get nostalgic:


don't spend a lot of money.

Ernie's Joke

The following is an original joke by Ernie, AKA, Ernesto Magnito:

This guy went to an appliance store and bought a electric cooking stove. He went home and used it, but then had to take it back. WHY?



Because he got burnt!