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Not-So-Fresh Feeling

		I was too full of veal to retain many reportable details, but I can assure you I witnessed full, lush arrangements, peppered with brass and lumbering warmth. A highly effective marriage of wit and thump, anti-commercialism and wonder, cynicism and doll-grade polymers. Joining the imposing character this night was his co-hyphen-dot-dot-dot, Heidi Rodewald, providing bass, vocals, and full-out sonic partnership, near as I can tell. Filling out the stage were Marty Beller, Leon Gruenbaum, Jon Spurney, Charlie Zayleskie on keys, and freshly plucked Wondermint, Probyn Gregory.
Prior to each in his quiver of dramatically exhibited songs, many of which have never before been performed outside of LA, he’d recite a lengthy introduction. Or at least you’d think it was an introduction. It would be, in fact, an elliptical manifesto exploring the consequences found in the most inconsequential of things, followed by the actual song introduction. A single, glibly delivered line like “this is a song about fucking.”

What are you doing this Saturday night? What’s that you say, o people who talk to computer screens? Holiday shopping? Watching tube? Something other than catching Amos Lee on the Lower East Side?

Don’t make me remind you that I told you about Norah Jones before she went Blue Note.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Philadelphia, and I’ve found it to be brimming with musical talent. (And exposed chest hair, but that’s for another column.) Among the soulfuliciousest I’ve found is Amos Lee, and we’re lucky enough to have him in NYC this weekend.

And get this: he too, will be going Blue Note next year.

Still not convinced? Allow me to pull the proverbial rabbit outta my hat. Go to the media page at AmosLee.com and check out the reassuringly hinky quality video of a live performance captured at BLVD’s Crash Mansion. You’ll find album track samples there, too, but the live rendition of Lee’s “Seen it All Before” is what’ll make you pick up the phone and rearrange your Saturday night.

The Saditude of Shatner
By Kimberly Massengill
October 21, 2004

In the immortal words of Ron Propeil, “How many times has this happened to you?” You wait patiently for a new CD’s release date, and hit your local record store on Day One to pick it up. I’m going to use Best Buy as an example because, well, that’s who I’m talking about. Sorry mom-n-pop shops, but the giant, Satanic, mega-lo-marts not only have the best prices on the blockbustery stuff, but they often offer premiums not available elsewhere. (And yes, I know. Man cannot live on the blockbustery stuff, alone.) So, you hit the Best Buy, only to find none of the new releases you’re looking for. You find someone lethargic in a blue shirt, and ask. They either a) don’t know,
b) don’t care, or c) come clean and admit it’s in the back and simply hasn’t been shelved yet. And they ain’t gonna shelve it. Or fetch it for you. You throw down your spindle of 50 blanks and stomp off, vowing never to return. But you know you will.

So do they.

Well, I’ve learned a way around Best Buy’s Hire-a-Hypnotard policy. Order your stuff online, and select “store pick-up.” I always wondered what the point of this feature was. Now I know. They e-mail you an “it’s ready” within two hours (really, they do), and when you arrive, you only have to deal with two dozing blue-shirted people. One, if you already know where the pick-up counter is. Your order, full of stuff that probably won’t be on the sales floor for days, is ready and waiting for you. No yelling. No pleading. No asking a clerk with a head made of summer sausage to explain the logic behind not putting Jay Z -free new releases in the racks in a timely fashion.

I couldn’t be pleaseder.

It was on just such a Day One shopping trip I picked up a stack of new releases, among ‘em William Shatner’s Has Been. Here’s my take, pretty much just compiled from the many calls and e-mails I’ve made to friends over the past two weeks, pleading with them to check this thing out:

On the phone with a music producer friend:

He: “And it’s not a joke?”
Me: “It’s not a joke.”
He: “He’s singing?”
Me: “Yes! Oh. Uh, well…”

Let’s call it rapping. Shat-style, in fits and starts.

Partnered again with Ben Folds (who can snap your heart in half using no more than two fingers, long as they’re touching piano keys), and joined this time by Joe Jackson, Aimee Mann, Henry Rollins, my downtempo fave Lemon Jelly, Sebastian Steinberg of Soul Coughing, Adrien Belew, Posie Jon Auer (who provides elegant guitar, throughout), and Brad Paisley, Shatner’s new one is indeed no joke. I don’t get Brad Paisley, and I wish someone could’ve talked Ben Folds into capitalizing his capitals, but otherwise, this is a perfect album.

After years of years of laughing at Kirk's arrogant swagger, followed by years of laughing at Shatner's arrogant waddle, peppered with the occasional musical redemption dug up by Golden Throats or set free by Ben Folds, this “musical orator” has dropped a treasure that has both intensity and whimsy. Both heart and funk. I’ve now got a chubby for the guy.

Much of it written by Shatner, himself, and only a smidge reminiscent of Fear of Pop, it includes intimate – sometimes uncomfortably so – odes to wives, both current and late. Laments of stress-induced gas and erectile dysfunction, set to Ray Coniff style backing vocals. Cross-genre devices to convey melancholy. Has Been is packed with pathos and brimming with palatable self-deprecation. Who’d’ve thought William Shatner possessed such a laid-bare honesty and delicate wisdom?

Plus, Ben Folds rips the shit out of a Wurlitzer organ on track 8. The shit, I say!

Even a platter of perfections will have standouts, and that track 8 is one of ‘em. The smokin’est, in fact. “Ideal Woman” takes a disarmingly human look at pairings where one has “hand.” It treads the temptation to manipulate your partner, molding them into your ideal, and explores what might happen if you took self-editing out of the equation. Which I can certainly imagine Shatner doing. Can’t you?

Guaranteed to put salt on your cheek, and the most heartbreaking thing since the Condoleeza Rice testimony, is “That’s Me Trying,” co-written with Nick Hornby (“High Fidelity”). The song glimpses a decades long estrangement between daughter and father, who’s clumsily dog-paddling to keep the conversation bobbing comfortably within his domain – at the surface. And like a masterfully made horror film can ease you into the POV of the killer, it’s not the victim you pity here, but the perpetrator. It's no "Butterfly Kisses," or whatever that godawful tearjerker was, but neither is it flip. It's sadness with attitude.

Slipping in at the final chorus to turn the knife is Aimee Mann, whose voice dovetails that of Folds so comfortably, the harmonies are almost familial. The way a mandolin concurs with a fiddle.

No matter your history, if this song doesn’t move you, please see your doctor or clergyman.

Lucky for us, and for Shout! Factory (new label of ex-Rhinos whose vision is responsible for what may be my favorite release of 2004), the sessions produced a couple more albums’ worth of material.

If I needed a visual reminder of how much I love this album, behind me sits three other new releases purchased two weeks ago with Has Been. All good. All still shrink-wrapped.

Thing is, this is your father’s William Shatner. But he’s changed into his Armani and come back to guilt you for laughing at him. And he accomplishes much worse. He spanks you for not realizing his depth.

Consider me spanked.

Sample The Shat at: http://www.shatnerhasbeen.com/

Listen to the whole dern shebang at: http://www.shoutfactory.com/williamshatner/#

Or better yet, order the flippin’ thing and go pick it up with reduced human-to-imbecile contact: www.BestBuy.com

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In Gervais

Monday night your Kimberly was at the Museum of Television and Radio for the premiere of The Office Special, which will air on BBC America Thursday night. Creator, star, and plump hottie Ricky Gervais was live and in the soft, white flesh, just a few feet from me. Your Kimberly mustered her nerve and asked something like:

“Hi, Ricky.” (That part I’m sure about. I had to keep repeating to myself that his name wasn’t David.) “I’ve gotten some interesting response when playing “Paris Night” and “Free Love Highway” on the air, and I’m wondering how many more you have like that, and whether you’ve considered releasing an album of David Brent’s music.” Throw in some “uh”s and “uhm”s, and that’s pretty much it, I think.

I was, of course, too nervous to catch his answer. Mainly ‘cause I was TALKING TO RICKY FREAKING GERVAIS. I think it was something like “no,” followed by some elaboration that sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher talking. And he said I was “sweet for doing that.” Sweet. For doing that. I then told him I want to make his babies and hold hands with him whilst shopping at Costco and stuff. But it turns out my lips weren’t actually moving during that part. Probably just as well.

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Rendezvous Means Breaking Apart

Following their upcoming CD, Rendezvous, and its supporting tour, the Dean Wareham led band Luna will be splitting up. Yeah, I know. Wareham gives the following reasons:

1. Rock and Roll is killing my life.
2. The Universe is Expanding.
3. There are too many bands out there, traveling around, singing their songs etc.
4. Too much time spent in 15-passenger vans. According to 20/20, these things flip over.
5. Too many hands to shake, that means germs.
6. Too many dinners at Wendy's.
7. People are dying in Iraq.
8. This is what bands do (with a few exceptions, like R.E.M. and Metallica, and the Rolling Stones). Those bands, however, are multibillion dollar corporations. You don’t break that up unless the government forces you to.
9. Hotel Electravision.
10. Time to Quit.

Look for another Phillips-Wareham collaboration, but still. This sucks, right? Thanks for hipping me, Dan. Got any more bad news?

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Questions, anyone?

It’s been way too long since I’ve done a Dear Miss Not-So-Fresh, or whatever I called those columns where I answered reader mail. I’d say it’s overdue. Besides, I’ve gotten some doozies lately. So if you’re entertaining the idea of writing me, or if you’re just entertaining, write me. Promise I won’t use your name.

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West Side Galore-y
By Kimberly Massengill
October 11, 2004

Last week an 86-year-old woman beat the bejesus out of a 62-year-old woman because she was hoisting a pro-Bush sign in the lobby of her apartment building. Mmmkay, all bejesus was left intact, but the grannier of the two apparently swatted the Bush lady in the backside with her walking cane. And there was ripping and shoving and stomping involved. Now, I know crazy old ladies. You can’t live in a Manhattan apartment without bordering at least one. But when I saw the cane-wielding woman interviewed later on the TV news, she didn’t seem crazy at all. Not in the least. She seemed as baffled by the exchange as anyone. She’d seen the Bush sign in her Republi-proof Upper West Side lobby, and “something made her flip.” She went all Billy Jack on the woman.

(I wish every time Cindy Adams says “only in New York,” she’d be reminded of the indigenous-ities like this one, that really take place only in New York.)

One day later and thirty blocks south, on the spot where the film West Side Story had a group of immigrants dancing, singing, and rumbling about America, Paul Simon launched the ACLU Freedom Concert with his timeless song about finding same. The next up epitomized timelessness. Joining Simon was the gospel group Dixie Hummingbirds, who’d accompanied him on “Loves Me Like a Rock” three decades ago. With two original members, one of whom wailed with exquisitely seasoned thunder, having been Hummingbirding for sixty-six years, the show was off to a rousing start.

What followed was a surprise. Bunch of surprises, actually. The artists I thought I’d suffer through (“I’ll pee during Philip Glass.”) were pretty damn good, and the ones I came to hear were not as.

When I first read the impressive line-up, it sounded like “blah blah blah Lou Reed blah blah blah…” But the 15-years-younger-looking Mr. Reed came up against contenders like funky Latina soundtrack darling Lila Downs (my buy-some-tomorrow artist of the evening), and a Jazzier than ever Mos Def, whose “Umi Says” has long been among my favorites, wrapping his amazing (amazing, I said!) band around the Gil Scott-Heron song “New York, New York.” I wish I could tell ya who was in this band, because they were the absolute highlight of the evening. But I haven’t a clue. If you know, could ya hip me please?

A mystery I am a little closer to solving is that of who Umi is.

Points in between included American Civil Liberties Union Executive Director Anthony Romero professing his homoerotic affection for the show’s Producer, Philip Glass, who lent his spare piano to Patti Smith’s reading of Allen Ginsberg’s “Wichita Vortex Sutra,” and to Lou Reed’s “Disappearing Act,” with full strings, which preceded “Walk on the Wild Side.” Richard Gere held all of Avery Fisher Hall captive (or, more like hostage), when he presented the first of the evening’s readings and sketches on landmark U.S. Supreme Court cases that’ve influenced civil liberties. Audience members (the one next to me, anyway) shouted at his repeated mispronunciation of Thurgood Marshall’s name. It was considerably more annoying than the mispronunciations.

Others cases were more ably handled by Bridge and Tunnel’s brilliant Sarah Jones, Angels in America playwright, the inspired Tony Kushner, both the Gyllenhaals, and Robin Williams, whose sodomy rant cracked me up, despite the fact that I haven’t liked Robin Williams in years. Richard Belzer narrated a moving Lenny Bruce tribute with a film presentation that included a surprising lot of non-stone-wall footage. The Black Keys tore it up, Nanci Griffith gave an adorable and apropos performance, and Edie Brickell was… very sweet.

The artists were limited to two songs each, which, if memory serves, was one less than we heard from Mos Def, which may have contributed to his being such a stand-out. Two songs do not a groove make.

The audience: Sadly, this was not a sold-out show. The coffee achiever next to me spent much of the evening fidgeting a bouquet of bruises along my entire left side, loudly shooshing others, and thanklessly “who’s that?”-ing me until I wished I knew no thats. Curse my Southern manners and somewhat useless pop culture awareness! [Shakes fist Godward.] Lots of personalized amenning, but compared to what’s normally found at more secular concerts, there were many fewer drunk folk. With the possible exception of the yay-hoo behind us who went stark raving MILF-mad when the Jessica Lange took the stage in a low-cut cocktail dress.

Gotta admit, though. She was hot. And so surprisingly Jessica Lange.

The concert’s end seemed abrupt, like it’s 10:30 at The Beacon, or something. Wyclef Jean did a Hendrixesque “Star Spangled Banner,” then brought out all the evening’s performers for The Big Finale. Missing were Patti Smith, and everybody whose babysitter had school tomorrow. After hours of rousing free speech and civil rights preachin’ and politickin’, I figured there were dozens of appropriate anthems with which to end the ACLU Freedom Concert. Hmmm… which hands-in-the-air, swing-state-swingin’, fight-the-power song will they choose? Wait for it… wait for it…

“Hot Hot Hot.”

Yes, the Caribbean classic made mainstream by Buster Poindexter. I’m quite sure Johansen, himself, would’ve asked them to reconsider. And instead of having the performers clump together around microphones and wail adorably off-key, they were asked to dance. I won’t mention any names, but two of these people alternated between standing still and moving like old white men listening to a different song. Maybe wearing sunglasses at night disrupts your rhythm. (!) Or maybe they were dumbfounded that a celebration of words and their power would close with lyrics like:

People at a party – hot hot hot
People at a party – hot hot hot…

I'm hot – You're hot – He's hot – She's hot
I'm hot – You're hot – He's hot – She's hot
(Real hot) – (Real hot) – (Real hot) – (Real hot)

Ha-ha-ha… Oh Lord

I dunno. But all’s well that ends richer. And because I don’t want to end this column the way they ended the show, I’ll share some of the evening’s more inspirational quotes.

“Dissent is the highest form of patriotism.” – Thomas Jefferson

“If you ain’t got it in you, you can’t blow it out.” – Louie Armstrong

“I smoke bush, but I’m voting for Kerry.” – Hmmm… I’d better not say.

But I found no higher inspiration than on the ride home. I saw a demure, smooth-haired woman dressed in a conservative business suit, with a “Lick Bush” button tastefully attached to the strap of her navy handbag. Served only to remind me that it’s not always the bushy, messenger-bagged, multiply pierced among us who’re fighting for what they believe in. It’s the mousy woman on the subway. The ass-kickety geriatric in the lobby. The guy behind you at Lincoln Center who wants to do things to Jessica Lange she’s probably no longer limber enough to do.
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Big and Rich and Bruce (and Austin City Limits)
October 4, 2004
It took thirty years for this city to get with that city’s program. For years prior, it’s been carried on other PBS affiliates on New York’s cable systems, but WNET’s adding Austin City Limits to its line-up is more than just a 30^th anniversary gesture. It’s long overdue.

I became a fan around '78/'79, when visiting the husband of my then-boyfriend's band's manager. He was a sweet older man (lovely - I just realized he was about the age I am now), with a fresh heart surgery scar running the length of his chest, and a temporary reliance on television. We stopped by to sit with him a while, one Saturday night before a gig. He appreciated our visit, but kept looking at the clock, and finally said he hoped we didn't mind, but something that got him through his week was about to come on, and he just couldn't miss it. We were narrow-minded head-bangers, and I think the featured artist that night was Charlie Daniels, someone we were already quite good at making fun of. But sitting in that basement den with that wheezing old man, we witnessed what we'd come to learn was Austin City Limits' ability to defend the indefensible, validate those occupying the edge, and show artists in a different light. A genre-bumping light even dyed-in-the-leather Rockers could appreciate.

We were heathens in that church, but it worked on us, and pretty soon it was getting us through our week, too. Since then, the show's been responsible for introducing me to Eric Johnson and The Fabulous Thunderbirds, fueling my unholy love for Stevie Ray Vaughan and Leonard Cohen, showing me Wynonna ain't really all that bad long as the mom’s not in the picture, and teaching me th'ain't nothin' purdy's a fiddle.

And I’m fairly certain Lyle Lovett would be selling discount mattresses, if not for Austin City Limits.

Channel 13’s ACL broadcasts will launch with John Fogerty on October 8 at 12am, followed by Robert Randolph and the Family Band on the 15th, with Damien Rice and Patty Griffin on the 22^nd, and Michael McDonald and Joss Stone on the 29th.

Austin City Limits site: http://www.pbs.org/klru/austin/

Channel 13’s ACL schedule: http://www.thirteen.org/

Springsteen Scoop

Living in a non-swing state (pish… whomever decides such things clearly hasn’t been to one of my Tupperware parties), not only means our votes don’t have as dramatic an impact. It means we don’t get to see any of the Vote for Change concerts simultaneously touring 11 battleground states. But we can eavesdrop on the grand finale.

WBAI will be the exclusive live radio outlet for Bruce Springsteen’s Vote for Change concert taking place in Washington, DC on Monday, October 11^th. Joining Bruce will be the E-Street Band, REM, Bright Eyes, and John Fogerty. The show will air live 7pm to 11 on 99.5FM in New York City, and will be webcast at www.WBAI.org.

The same evening, The Sundance Channel will air the documentary, National Anthem: Inside the Vote for Change Concert Tour, which will include tour footage from the previous two weeks, as well as live shots from the DC show.

Repeat Button Streak of the Week:

Big & Rich – “Rollin’ (Ballad of Big and Rich)”

I wish the album wasn't as produced as it is, but that's my complaint about most recorded Country music. It's mad uneven, but that's my complaint about many second albums. But there's some BIG tasty stuff on Horse of a Different Color. If Brian May, Fermin Cabellero, Lou Rawls, and Meatwad joined up to form a Country bar band, they'd be Big & Rich. And these boys (Big Kenny Alphin and John Rich) have mastered the radio edit, too.

Hate to see ‘em gobbled up by Corporate Country, though. They’ll be wearing hair spray by December. Mark my words.

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What’s more indigenously American than watching Cash turned into cash?

The usual suspects were there. Awards and citations. Banjoes and badges. Guitars and gold records. Handwritten thisses and leather bound thats. Letters and lyrics and spittled harmonicas. Photos with Presidents and Sesame Street characters. Medals and belt buckles and a Santa in black. Dusters and pool cues and a chunk o’ Berlin Wall. Holsters and watches and a crystal etched boot. A bronze bust of John Wayne. In fact, there seemed to be a bronze bust for everyone who’d ever been bronze busted. And a couple of Remingtons, to boot. Portraits and lobby cards and an unplayed Sun 45 of “I Walk the Line.” (Lots of unplayed Sun 45s.) An Elvis headshot inscribed “June I love you – Elvis.” Gun belts and cuff links and Western duds from Nudie’s.

And let me tell ya. Singin’ dem ditties buys ya lots o’ duds. And not only fringy frocks made of sequins on suede, and more than just bib shirts in black. No, Johnny and June be big stylin.’

Among their strollwear was a herd of furs, including a long, sleeveless number so curious in style the catalogue can describe it no more specifically than to simply call it a “garment.” Pimped out harlequin mink and skin-on-skin mink and ranch mink and kohinoor mink. And Squirrel.

Also in this fuzz mountain was a sable-trimmed tiger coat that appears to have necessitated the untimely deaths of one and a half tigers and a half-dozen or so sables, whatever they are.

In fact, when I returned the following Monday for day one of the auction, this particular item got sucked into that vortex of monetary anonymity so frustrating for looky-loos like me. The bidding culminated in a heads-up battle between the representative for a faceless phone bidder and the representative for a faceless online bidder. I can only hope one of ‘em was Cruella DeVille in curlers, who’d otherwise be eating her heart out. Or perhaps the heart of any small furry animal within reach.

The 300+ seats were only about one-third filled for the afternoon session, and I was told there were empties aplenty that morning, as well. I saw more baseball caps than cowboy hats, but chapeaus of any sort were far outnumbered by the bald spot/dangly earring combo. Also spied a surprising number of DIDs (Dads in Dockers). Couple DILFs, even.

One by one, the items slowly revolved into view, floating in a field of neutral beige display turntable, and coming to rest beneath a validating spotlight. Seeing a particular pair of well worn but shined up patent leather ankle boots (the left with a lift) perform this uneasy pirouette for us made me smile and wonder what the man who bruised ‘em up might’ve thought of such precious handling.

A gentleman behind me happily snagged a Gibson guitar for $14,000, before another Gibson went for 18, and a Grammer custom acoustic gaveled for an impressive $110,000. Ten times what was expected, and that’s not counting Sotheby’s 20%. This earned the session’s first round of applause, and a few Carter-Cash clan noses pressed against the glass of the private family box.

When a tin cafeteria cup – a gift from the warden of Folsom Prison – climbed into the thousands, a bidder on the back row (whose volume suggested he may have enjoyed a couple pumpkin ales with his lunch) said, “These people need therapy.” I turned and told him, “That’s what this is.”

I wasn’t talking about retail therapy, but rather witnessing the humanization of our heroes. Johnny Cash came to us conveniently pre-humanized, but in this case, it was accomplished not by the standard auction offerings, but by the curiosities that revealed the some of the layers of this once hard luck pair. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of silver serving pieces. A collection of hideous figurines. A pair of Folsom Prison cufflinks, engraved with the image of the prison’s gate. A military style jacket sweetly adorned with a seemingly afterthought Simpsons patch depicting Maude and Ned Flanders.

The 2002 Ford 150 Pickup you’d expect was there, but so was the ’87 Rolls Silver Spur you wouldn’t. And those furs shall haunt me forever.

I’d always thought the most peculiar character in the brilliantly conceived Mark Romanek video for Cash’s cover of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” was the busily bawdy set, dripping with misguided acquisition and runaway opulence. Turns out that was no set. That was the dining room of June and Johnny’s Hendersonville home.

It was also lots 679 through 693 at auction’s day three.

Watching these two go from oak to Baroque is a trip punctuated by the odd intimate item.

Johnny’s last Tennessee driver’s license. His SAG card, Amoco, MasterCharge, and Bank Americards. “Love you lots” letters from Liz. And among the guitars shiny with polite neglect were the few so played you could see the wear where this big man supported them by wrapping his strumming arm around the butt. Such a signature move, that one.

These were the items during which you didn’t want to glance up at the family. They represented more than an accumulation. They represented a life. THAT life.

For abbreviated item listings (and details of the nearly $4 million haul), go to Sothebys.com. Or better, plunk down 30 for the catalogue that’ll hip up your coffee table and make it look austere by comparison.

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Truer words were never spat.

It was completely worth the trouble. The Village Idiot was just what my gang of idiots needed, and I'm sorry to see it rent-increased out of existence.

Where else do you enter through a vestibule of angry neighbors shooting you the daggers meant for management, and at the bar find a (seemingly) drunk (seemingly) minor wearing a hospital bracelet and being propped up by two (seemingly) sailors? A tank full of phallic looking turtles, later "rescued" by animal control. That boarding-house-next-to-the-VA-hospital smell. A floor pleasantly cushioned by spent peanut shells. Menu offerings spanning an inventive and daring variety of cuisines - peanuts and popcorn. A bathroom message scrawled by an apparent Baroque enthusiast, instructing you to "jiggle the handel." Fake Wall Streeters rubbing up against real rednecks, and vice-versa. Flickering VCR images of blood packets bursting in the bleached scalp of circa '70s Rick Flair. Cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon at under two crispies, for those with neither shame nor beer money. An anti-socially loud jukebox ricocheting Country music from one greasy surface to another, rendering party conversation even more futile than normal (the $2 PBRs helped here). Convenient restaurant window recesses around the corner for imbibing in the Ganj, long as you don't mind a room full of meat-packing patrons watching (mmmkay, some of those neighbors' dirty looks might've been for us). And all just a nipple clamp's throw from the S&M clubs and the city's most multifarious stroll, boasting curiously tall streetwalkers of both genders - pre-surgical and post-.

There were the people who came for the cheap beer, and the people who came for the people who came for the cheap beer. I always liked the mix.

Once they scrape the vomit scented memories outta there, you'll be able to return to the unit to stand on business-height heels and buy overpriced something-or-other, while both seeing and being seen. Enjoy. But don't expect the new proprietors to satisfy your vintage wrestling video needs. Probably have to go to the boroughs for that now.

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Radio Note - I'll be doing freeform music shows on three stations over the next couple weeks (licks right index finger and touches it to amplest part of her ampleness, whilst making the sound of sizzle), beginning with this Saturday 9am to 10 on WFMU 91.1 FM in the greater NYC area. Also webcast and archived at www.wfmu.org.

You heard me. WFMfreakinU. (She does that finger licking sizzle thing again, this time with the left.)

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When I was a little girl, my mother took me to the movies a lot. She loved movies, and she loved the grown up kind of movies, so I remember seeing everything from the grand musicals my father made fun of, to the dark, sophisticated fare which usually resulted in a guilty lecture on the ride home, covering how Mom liked everything about the lead characters except that they engaged in pre-marital sex. She was like a broken record. They could betray the King, fight for the Nazis, leave their dead sister at the beach, or stab each other to death during a dance number in a vacant lot on the West Side, but if they had so much as over-the-sweater action out of wedlock, that's what she'd focus on. She sometimes even reinforced the lectures by audibly tsk-tsk-ing in the theater during the naughty scenes. I never quite knew if this was her brand of Pavlovian conditioning, or just letting me know to mark that spot, 'cause we'll be referring back to it later in the car.

I understood that enduring this post-cinema deprogramming was the price I paid for being allowed to see movies I shouldn't be seeing.

This all ended when I was 12 and she took me to see Butterflies Are Free with Edward Albert, Goldie Hawn, and Eileen Heckart. I was so enamored of the bohemian lifestyle led by the lead characters, I went straight home and began dressing like Goldie Hawn and dreaming about finding a dingy apartment in Haight-Ashbury with a gorgeous blind neighbor who shared my lack of visible means of support. I even tried to be bowlegged like Goldie. I'm not kidding.

I got a refresher version of the original lecture, but it didn't quite take, and thus ended my tour of duty as Mom's movie companion.

But what remained was not only a love of film, but an inordinate affection for many of the actors of the '60s and '70s. Richard Harris, Vanessa Redgrave, Patricia Neal, Peter O'Toole, Natalie Wood, Richard Burton. And perhaps most of all, Mizz Barbra Streisand. I adored every Brooklyn born molecule of that woman. The voice, the eyeliner, the alien-length fingers, the segmented lips (which my mom pointed out were cleverly used to distract from the nose). That nose. I loved it, too. I wanted to be Jewish, and she's the Jew I wanted to be. I even allowed Streisand albums amongst my collection of Jackson 5, Bill Withers, Clapton, Focus, Sugarloaf, and Norman Greenbaum. That's love.

Today, however, I happen to be of the opinion that Barbra Streisand is about 80% loon. The sort of loon who believes a turtleneck hides extra chins and flowers will change color instantly, if you want them to bad enough. Still an amazing artist, but any time she speaks her own words, it just makes me sad.

Well, at a Kerry fundraiser over the weekend, she did something that's close to winning me back. Whilst raising 5 million for the Dems with one hand, she wowed 'em with an altered version of "People" with the other. New lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman:

PEOPLE
I MEAN G - O - P - EOPLE -
WHO'D BELIEVE THERE'S SUCH PEOPLE IN THIS WORLD?
BUSH SEEZA
LOTTA CONDOLEEZA,
THEY'RE DIVIDING THE PLANET'S OIL
ACCORDING TO RICHARD "POIL"
AND THEY'RE ALL JUST TRAINEES
OF CHENEY'S.

RUMSFELD,
WE MUST GET RID OF RUMSFELD -
HE'S THE SPOOKIEST PERSON IN THE WORLD.
AS FOR POWELL -
HE'S NEITHER FISH NOR FOWL.
HE'S IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM,
WHILE THEY'RE ALL FIDDLING WITH DOOM.
NO ONE'S MINDING THE STORE.
WHAT'S MORE,
LET'S DISCUSS THIS WAR WE'RE LOST IN,
DON'T ASK WHAT IT'S COSTIN' -
WHAT'S A TRILLION OR TWO TO RULE THE WORLD?

(Second chorus)
THE SENATE
HOW I WANT THE SENATE!
ALL WE NEED IS TWO PEOPLE IN THE WORLD!
I SEEA
ANTONIN SCALIA.
HOW I DREAD EV'RY TIME HE SITS -
SCARED OUT OF MY WOLFOWITZ.
TIME THOSE NEO-CON GUYS
WERE GONE GUYS.

THEY'RE LYING -
WHILE THE GLOBE IS FRYING -
AND THE FISHES ARE DYING IN THE WORLD.
THEIR SOLUTION
FOR ALL OF THE POLLUTION:
IS JUST TO BEAR IT AND GRIN,
AND PRACTICE NOT BREATHING IN.
BUT THINGS ARE GONNA BE GREAT.
JUST WAIT -
WHEN THE WHITE HOUSE STATIONERY,
READS PRESIDENT JOHN KERRY -
WE'LL BE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD!

Fookin' hilarious, I say. And lifted directly from BarbraStreisand.com, if you don't believe me. I'd sell my front door for an mp3.

To you, Ms. Streisand, I extend a probationary welcome back into my heart. But let's give the "I can control the colors of nature" thing a rest, eh? Oy, already.

Mr. Charles and the New Kid
By Kimberly Massengill
June 19, 2004

I was 21, and had just moved to a new city where I knew almost no one, when a very cool couple invited me over for dinner. This couple was several years older, and had a fun, smart, interesting circle of friends, all of whom were also invited. The girls were chic and beautiful and the guys, every one, a sexy beast. They were hip and cool, when hip and cool meant a lot to me.

I wanted desperately to be a part of this group. Desperately. To a 21-year-old from suburban biscuitville, 'desperately' translates into knotted muscles, trembling hands, and a hyperconsciousness of breath and bra straps.

And a fumbling inability to relax and be yourself.
Throughout the evening, they tormented me. "Hey, Kimberly, Bill here's gonna ask you out. I wouldn't, if I were you. He's got the herpes." "Hey Kimberly, we're playing strip poker after dinner. You might wanna start drinking faster." "Hey, Kimberly, we're about to break out the stash. You do heroin, right?"

"Oh, umm, no thank you. But y'all go ahead."

Laugh after laugh at my expense. I was out of my depth, socially. But never had I wanted acceptance so much. I was a bumpkin in the big city having dinner with the "it" crowd. And I needed "it."

No amount of Ganj could make me lighten up. In fact, my overzealous consumption of it that night had resulted in a big, thick dose of The Paranoia. Just what a self-conscious girl who's not entirely sure they're joking about the heroin needs.

After dinner, we went into the living room and a heated discussion of what music we should listen to ensued. Again, I couldn't keep up. I hadn't half the knowledge, experience, or Oscar Wildeness of this bunch. I was a tight bundle of self-doubt, and unsure whom I hated more, them or me. I was waiting for a break in the conversation into which I could timidly interject my apologies, and excuse myself to leave, when the ringleader, on whose couch I was quivering, smiled at me and said, "I know what we need."

Great. Here comes the baby powder they're gonna tell me is PCP.

A platter was pulled and put on. Ray Charles. Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, Volume 2. I smiled back at the hostess. My first earnest one of the evening.

"Yeah."

The competition for attention slowed, then stopped, as did all conversation. Gazes drifted toward windows and feet. Pets were scooped up into laps. Heads leaned back. Face muscles went limp. Mine, included. There was a surrender, of sorts. Not of me to them, or them to me, but of all of us, to the spinning vinyl. I suddenly knew who these people were. I now saw all their razzing as the initiation it was meant to be. Our respective worths leveled. I became cooler, and they became less so. We were bound by Ray Charles, who was bathing us all in the womb temperature jello of The Music You Mustn't Resist.

Fuck cool, I thought. We got Ray Charles.

The pivotal moment that kept me from walking out, kept those people in my life for the year I lived in that city. A year of screaming-at-each-other video games and tequila shots, happy hour hunts and designated drivers. One of 'em's still my designated driver, when I'm in town.

And I did end up going out with Bill. Turns out they weren't kidding about the herpes.

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