What a deadly week it has been...
we learned that Suzanne Pleshette had died on January 17th - fourteen days before she was to receive her Walk of Fame star, the aforementioned Clyde Otis' death was announced, Heath Ledger's media extravaganza death still has idle minded tongues rattling, Wham-O co-founder, Peter Knerr, met his maker on the 18th, and Dennis Kucinich finally realized his bid for presidency was stillborn.

And this work week is almost dead, too! Let's send it off on a good note. Or at least one not so gloomy.

Idalia Boyd was the baby sister of Little Eva and the folks that brought us the Loco-Motion figured that lightning might strike twice and, with the help of Jack Keller, concocted the trifle "Hula Hoppin" for her. It's as dumb as a box of hair but much more fun. It went nowhere upon its release but obviously has had some impact on strange minded kids such as your's truly.

Everybody get out and do the Hula Hop!
And have a lively weekend.

special thanks to Peter Plerner for the scan.

January 24 2008 Earworm

I woke up with Sia's "Day Too Soon" spinning in my head today. It's easy to dismiss as a silly little love song but a closer look at the first verse shows a very realistic view of the expectations any one may have on a savior:

"Pick me up in your arms, carry me away from harm - you're never gonna put me down.
I know you're just one good man, you'll tire before we see land - you're never gonna put me down"

Such frank observations are usually reserved for the end of a song and delivered with malice but not here. Sia recognizes the fallibility of putting all your eggs in one basket and then asking someone else to carry it, but she does it anyway, trusting that the best that can be done will be done.

Being home alone, I played this repeatedly while getting my day started. And then I accidentally punched a dog in the nose. I hope that she was listening to those lyrics...

January 23, 2008 Earworm

I was hoping that somewhere amongst the tabloid din there would be an autopsy report that would end the speculation regarding the death of Heath Ledger. No such luck now that the results are inconclusive. I left the house today to the sound of morning show hosts and tabloid representatives grasping at straws, reaching for a dark, troubled underbelly to blame for the potential suicide of the Oscar nominated star of "the gay cowboy" movie, "Brokeback Mountain". I came home to find pretty much the same scenario except that everyone seems to have spent their workday scanning old interviews for the hint of downcast statements and digging up people who had any contact with the actor when he was not laughing. Do they give out Peabodys for this sort of journalism?

As someone who was amused by Heath in the teen romp, "10 Things I Hate About You", chuckled at "Casanova" and "The Brothers Grimm", was moved by his performances in "Candy" and "Monster's Ball", impressed by his Dylan in "I'm Not There", and forever changed by the cinematic Ennis DelMar in Brokeback, I'd say I was a Heath Ledger fan. I am shocked and sickened by the idea of a man so young will not have the chance to grow older and that his two year old daughter will not grow up with a father.

I knew that Heath was a music head but I had not known that he had started a record label in partnership with Ben Harper, and that he'd directed some music videos. He also wanted to create films to accompany the music of Nick Drake and, as a start to that project, had created a piece for "Black Eyed Dog" which debuted last October in a short subject festival in LA.

In all the type and hype that has appeared in the last twenty-four hours, the only interesting and unexploited information I could find was just summed up in the previous two sentences. The lyrical analysis of "Black Eyed Dog" is sure to come, the exploitation sure to follow. For now, I'll find his choice of song, and his appreciation of Drake, as merely coincidental and remember the look on Ennis Del Mar's face as breathed in the scent of his past, realizing just how deep devotion could be, and how fleeting life and all its chances are. That same look that moved me to the core and made me think, "This guy's got a great future ahead of him".

January 22, 2008 Earworm

Clyde Otis' career in music began while driving a taxi. He overheard his fare discussing their upcoming attendance at a music executive's party and suggested that they pass along a song that he wrote. The passengers followed through and Nat King Cole had a top twenty hit with Clyde's "That's All There Is To That" in 1956. Two years later, he made music history by becoming the first African-American A&R executive at a major label when he joined Mercury Records. He formed a close working relationship with Brook Benton beginning with his production of Brook's delicious "It's Just A Matter of Time", an Otis composition, and together they would rack up another 16 hits. Otis also worked with Sarah Vaughn, both solo and on her duets with Brook.
Leaving Mercury for a position with Liberty, he left his mark on recordings by two of my favorite ladies: Jackie DeShannon and Timi Yuro. The DeShannon records didn't fare well on the charts but Timi's debut, the shocking "Hurt", rose to the top five and confused listeners everywhere when they saw the tiny little girl who sounded like a very large man.

Clyde's final release with Timi, "What's The Matter Baby (Is It Hurting You)", was not quite finished when he left the label in '62 and Phil Spector was called in to doctor the tracks. The story is varied as to what, exactly, he did to it - a remixing is the closest you'll get to a general consensus - but there's no denying his, nor Clyde's presence. It practically throws the stylus off with it's "needles in the red" shot gun blast opening and then stabs at your wounds with a defiant string line. And then Timi really gets nasty. The backing lalalalala chants add insult to injury with mocking that suggests a stuck out tongue and moose-ears.

It's awesome!

Clyde Otis died on January 8th at the age of 84. Timi died of throat cancer in 2004. Spector is so far gone that he might as well be gone. "What's A Matter Baby" plays on and on and on.

January 21, 2008 Earworm

John Stewart, the former member of The Cumberland Three and The Kingston Trio, suffered a stroke and died on Saturday at the age of 68. Although he was a respected musician within the folk scene and now regarded as a vital player in the roots-rock movement, I know very little of his work outside of The Kingston Trio of which he became a member in 1961, replacing founder Dave Guard. He did, however, release a single in 1979 that captivated me and fueled my dreams of escape as my transition to high school brought me a few steps closer to freedom.

"Gold" was all over the radio in Baltimore during that summer, aided by the witchy-wailing of Stevie Nicks and the guitar work of Lindsey Buckingham which managed to conjure both the feeling of a warm LA breeze blowing through my hair as I cruised Santa Monica Boulevard care free in a convertible and the sense that the floorboard was alive with snakes. I couldn't wait to get there and began searching for a Saint Patrick medal.

Oddly enough, when I did get around to cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, it was exactly as I had imagined except for the convertible. And the snakes. Probably because I had two Irishmen in the car.

WTF?

I'm not one to fly the rainbow flag. In fact, I've flown no flag but the stars and stripes since folding away my freak one at the end of the eighties. I'm not on the down-low, I've no shame or hatred of self, and I'm certainly not trying "to pass". I just don't feel a need to identify with any group; least of all, the gay one. After being in a relationship for fifteen years, I'm not having enough sex to trumpet it as my definition. Plus, I live in East Cobb, for chrissake - how less gay can my life be without moving out of the metro Atlanta area and in to a nunnery?

No, I gave up on flags and labels at an early age when I saw a chick with the legend "classy lady" tattooed on her right breast. I realized then that if you have to inform people of what you are, you probably are not what you are proclaiming. You know, like "!Christians!".

With that said, I was surprised when I found myself getting angry yesterday while trying to find a book at the nearby Borders. I had recently read, and fell in love with, John Weir's "What I Did Wrong" and was looking for a copy of his first novel, "The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket". Sorting through the W's in the fiction area I found nothing and then remembered that I had found my copy of "What I Did Wrong" in the remainder bin which in turn reminded me that it was part of the haul I'd purchased when the store reduced the shelf space in its Gay and Lesbian section which then reminded me that John Weir was gay. That, of course, reminded me that I was, too.

Finding the two short shelves that make up the Gay and Lesbian section, I finally fully noticed that it always seems to be tacked on the back end of the African-American section. The African-American section spans two full book cases minus the two Gay and Lesbian shelves which began to seem a bit disproportionate for the area as I tried to remember the last time I saw an African-American in East Cobb - a pointless task since I seldom notice these things. Then I wondered if the African-Americans living in East Cobb have a version of "Oh, thank God we're not the only ones" look that we encounter during those very rare moments when my partner and I turn into an aisle at the grocery and are spotted by two men "of a certain age" who are sharing a cart. Then I began to wonder where the Jewish-American section was since, it has been noted by several notable friends of mine who notice such things and who happen to be Jewish that, our little corner of East Cobb is heavily populated by Jews. Again, I seldom notice these things since I was raised in a idealistically diverse area of Baltimore and therefore thought that everybody drove past a pack of bearded, black hatted men leading their families to temple on Saturday.

Scanning the two allotted shelves, I noticed that the books weren't even in alphabetical order and that, my friends, is when I lost my mind. Isn't it bad enough that books have to be segregated by color or sexual preference or religion? Do they really have to be subjected to the further indignity of being slapped on the shelf in whatever order they were grabbed, regardless of whether they were non-fiction, fiction, memoir, or collected essays?

As the lingering anal retentive side effect of having worked retail took hold and I began sorting the books alphabetically by author or editor, a Trevor* came up to me with a hint of nervousness as he glanced down to the section that held my attention, and asked if I needed any help . "Yes", I replied. "I'm looking for a book by John Weir. He's a black gay guy and I think he might be a Jew. Where is that section?"

Seeing the confusion that my little joke had created, I guy-slugged him on the arm and said, "Never mind, Dude. I'll order it from Amazon". When I got to the check out counter, I made sure that my copy of the Out Magazine swimsuit issue landed on top of the Eels cd and, in noticing that I did so, flew my gay flag proud and high.

Unless your reading habits tend not to stray far from Patricia Cornwell or Danielle Steele, I highly recommend "What I Did Wrong" by John Weir . Yes, the narrator is a gay man but I promise that, if you are boy, you will not have an immediate desire to take it in the face and, if you're a girl, you won't see Ellen on the tv and immediately start masturbating. Actually, I can't promise any of that but should it happen, I doubt that it's because of the book.

I also suggest that you buy it from Amazon if you are not fortunate enough to have an independent bookseller nearby. By trying to provide one stop shopping for all of your books and music needs, stores like Borders and Barnes and Noble are neither book nor music stores. At least with Amazon you don't have to talk to eighteen year olds that not only know nothing about either one, but don't even care.



*A Trevor is any boy born in or after the late eighties who is wearing a name tag and has just been told to "go help that customer", meaning you. No conclusive data has been issued but it's my suspicion that 90% of all Trevors are also a Gus** or will grow up to be one.

**For the definition of a Gus,
blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-krCXu4QhaaNpFHID1Vvw?p=157

SOUNDTRACK TO NOTHING

If you're in the metro Atlanta area on February 5th, please come
see Christy Bush's beautiful exhibit. As the debut show of Atlanta's
The Opal Gallery, it is a perfect pairing of the triumphant return of
a hometown hero and the universal collision of youth and music.

find out more:
The Opal Gallery