I Happened To Really Like Chris Brown & His Wee Dance Companions

Aside from the fact that Larry Goldings and Trio Beyond didn't win for best jazz album, the Grammys were pretty good. (Corinne Bailey Rae, anyone?) But, it wouldn't be the Grammys without some puzzling items. First of all, how do you not give Prince a grammy? HOW? Look at the man. He's like 3 feet tall, wearing a freaking leisure suit and sunglasses INDOORS. Plus he's funky as hell.

That being said, I have a couple of other questions.

*Did anyone else find it odd that there was an Audience Mote at the ceremony? Were those people trapped? What would happen in a fire? Would they just burn there? Or is there some sort of trap door?

*Also, who was that unreasonably hairy fellow on stage with the Dixie Chicks? According to the Short Dixie Chick, he's one of the guys who "works the magic behind the console." Now, either Apey McFurry and his pal The Squatty Dude weren't supposed to be on stage, or The D. Chicks don't actually know what these fellows do. Either way, dude, get a haircut.




*Did anyone else notice Samuel L. Jackson's shirt? Is it one of those Magic Eye puzzles, where, if you stare at it long enough, you see a lion? Or a soccer player?

*Please: Could someone get Christina Aguilera a Xanax and some whiskey?

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* Alright. I know [jazz legend] Ornette Coleman isn't exactly well-known to the general public, but, please, sir, could you at least pretend you know who he is? You're on camera for pete's sake. "Ornette WHO??" Sir, you are a massive tool.

*Does Gnarls Barkley realize that his pianist (copilot?), DJ Danger Mouse, died an eighth of the way through their performance? Honestly, Cap'n Gnarls just kept on belting while poor Danger just slumped over the key board.

*Why Smokey? WHY?! That was my number one concern of the evening. As Smokey sang, "Take a look at my face," I could help but wonder why he felt he had to request that. I, for one, couldn't take my eyes off his face. His eyes! OH GOD, HIS EYES! Poor guy. After 18 chemical peels he looks like, in the words of Jonathan Feldman, "a scared cat."


(Thanks to Feldman for the HD screen captures!)

A Short Rant About A Long Show

Well, it's Grammy day, and the powers that be have shrewdly chosen to hold the ceremony at that Pillar of Sonic Perfection: The Staples Center.

Really? Really?

You're going to hold an event dedicated to the appreciation of music (however you choose to define it this year) in a sports arena!??! Excellent.

I have been to two musical events at Staples Center. Each one was different, each one was terrible. The first was for the First Annual Latin Grammys. I was in the "300" seats (read: The Nosebleed Section) where the sound ricocheted off of everything. Because the walls are made of concrete. The second was for a Dave Matthews Band concert. I was in the second row, where the sound still ricocheted off of the concrete walls, only was much worse because the echos had time to mix with other echos. In both situations, I couldn't make out a damn thing. And it didn't help matters that 50% of my experiences with music at the Staples Center were in Spanish.

Why would they decide to do that? I mean, I suppose these sports arenas can hold lots of people, but aren't these events meant to be exclusive anyway? It seems it would be more appropriate to have the Golden Globes at the Staples Center, since there aren't any musical numbers. But the Grammys? There's a performance every ten seconds. That's what it's about.

I could go on and on about what bothers me about the Grammys (why aren't all types of music included in the telecast? Who keeps letting those crazed rap artists up on stage?) but I won't, because they're going to be on pretty soon and I don't want to miss a minute.

Some Google Image Search FunFacts:

- As of 5:30 pm, January 25, 2007, there are over 21,000 pictures of fruit salad.

- When you search "Jorfe" you get this fellow: He wants to hold you. Be not afraid.

- Surprisingly, the term "Ghetto Walnut" only yields 8 photos. None of them are of actual walnuts.

- Something that also yields 8 photos? "Goat Lolly."

- Searching the term "Help Help" yields a still from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail

- I googled the name "Bart Scholtens" thinking I would find nothing. Turns out, Bart Scholtens plays the saxaphone and appears to be popular in Germany.

- Ladies, may I present to you, the very eligible Bill Kunkel:

- For a good time, google "Lamprey."

-"Yuyuyu" yields over 1,000 images.

- If you type in "Sooksin Mit" it yields nothing, and helpfully asks if you meant "Sooksan Mit."

- If you search for "Sooksan Mit," it once again yields nothing.

Thank you.

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HELP!

MY BROTHER DESERVES FAME.

Please visit these links. Enjoy the videos. Then, click on the heart in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. You'll have to register your email address, but it's so worth it! If Louie, David and Chris win- they get a ton of money, AND their commercial is shown at the Super Bowl! INSTANT FAME. Please help my multi-talented brother get famous!!!


http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=A6F8B542776E11DB8B9DA6B200DB926D&type==

http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=8895BE54776B11DB8D18A6B200DB926D&type==

Webster's Dictionary of Hollywood B.S.

Until recently, I had been working in the entertainment industry, a setting that seems to breed egocentric blow-hards. I thought I'd be avoiding those kinds of people by leaving show biz, but, alas!, I live in Los Angeles, so there's no avoiding those obnoxious writer types, those wannabe actors, or those self-appointed auteurs. Here are some phrases these folks often spout that annoy me:

"Oh! I heard the script was good." (Variations: "The script was supposed to be good."; "My friend read the script, said it was good.")-- This is often used by Production Assistants who have no real pull in the world of Hollywood, but would like to think they do. They're longing to be "insiders," and they're not, and likely will never be. Being a PA is not a surefire way to success and fortune. I know a guy who used to be a PA, got promoted to coordinator, and now sells cars.

"It's really high concept."-- This is primarily used by douchebags. It is used to describe a screenplay, often when they do not want to elaborate. (They say it's because they don't want their idea stolen. I say it's because either a) there is no screenplay at all or b) there is a screenplay, but it's pathetic and/or they don't know how to verbalize what it is about.) For instance, a couple of years ago I was standing around with my little goofy headset being a Television Slave, and I decided to make conversation with the fellow next to me. "So you're a writer? What're you working on right now?" "Just finished a screenplay, actually." "Ooh! Cool! What's it about?" "Well, it's very high concept, actually, soooo..." It was awkward.

"Big Picture"-- This phrase seems to peppered into disappointed conversations (i.e. "He's not seeing the big picture" or "Let's think big picture here for a sec, mkay?") as a Space Filler. Similar to "like" or "ummmmm," "Big Picture" is devoid of any real meaning. It's a way for the speaker to maintain control of the floor while they collect their thoughts (if they have any).

"Surreal"--This word can be perfectly acceptable, provided it is used in the right context. However, people often use it when they name drop. "Yeah, I was this party over the weekend. Do you even know how surreal it is to see Chuck Woolery play charades?" First of all, settle the hell down. When you're playing charades with Woody Allen, then you've got something to be excited about. Second, I don't think it's surreal so much as it is entertaining and bizarre. When I think "surreal" I think Salvador Dali, not George Hamilton trying to act out "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

And we all know how much I love hot cats

Recently, my friend Devin and I went to a jazz club (which will remain nameless) where we saw a certain host/singer (who will also remain nameless). This fellow is the kind of guy who would sing to his bride at their wedding. Before the food is served to guests. And it wouldn't be one song. It would be ten.

This particular act is a Tuesday night fixture at this establishment. How this man is the permanent host is beyond me. The only thing I could figure was that at some drunken point, a friend told him he sounded like Tony Bennett, which sparked his need to become a jazz singer. I hope whoever told him that realized that he's ruined Tuesdays for everyone.

And his intonation wasn't the only trouble. It was the way he was imitating every lounge singer he'd ever seen. In fact, he seemed to be imitating parodies of lounge singers. Large sweeping hand motions, one leg bouncing, body tilted back a little. The seediness was nearly overpowering. At one point, I asked Devin if he thought, given the way this fellow was behaving, that the audience could file a class action suit against him for sexual harassment. He said yes.

Singers like this aren't the only type of male that make me uncomfortable. Radio DJs who talk in that übersuave manner, too. You know what I mean: Their voices are low, their vowels are extended to comical lengths ("Smoooooooooth jaaaaaazz" or "Heeeeeeeeeey ladies.") and their preferred subject matter is, well, yucky. For example, I had my car radio automatically scanning through channels in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to listen to. The radio landed on 92.3 ("hot 92 jamz") only to hear the DJ saying, "And ladies, if you're sexy enough, you can park wherever you want to."

Eew. What does that mean, even? Before I had time to truly grasp what this fellow meant, my car radio had scanned away from the station. When I returned to the station moments later, he was saying, "36-24-36? More like 36-24-40! Ladies, bring those sexy hips on down and I'll--" I turned the radio off.

Who are these people? Who do they think their target audience is? It certainly isn't "the ladies" because I don't think I know a single woman who would respond positively to this kind of smarminess. The jazz singer, at one point, motioned to the band behind him and said, "You gotta love my tasty band, because, these cats are hot!" And then he chuckled to himself.

Yuck.

ATTENTION TELEVISION PRODUCERS

HOOKERS ARE NOT ATTRACTIVE.

Heidi's Girls, alright. Call girls, sometimes.

But honest-to-goodness streetwalkers? They are NOT PRETTY. Just ask anyone who knows about the PCH Prostitute in Malibu.

Thank you.

(And I know hookers!)

A Word of Advice For Sales Persons

Soundtrack of the Day: "Everything Happens to Me" by Bill Evans, from his record The Solo Sessions. (Incidentally, I advise everyone to hip themselves to Bill. The PIANIST. NOT the SAX player. That's key.)

I should probably never go shopping alone. It allows my mind to wander, and I come up with elaborate and unrealistic situations in my head, usually in response to something someone says. For example, when the fellow at Macy's returned with the pair of Rockport boots I had requested, he said, "These are a very nice boot. You'll look great in them. My name's Victor. Just shout if you need anything!" I thought to myself, What if I actually did shout for Victor? Imagine this if you will:

I would be attempting to squeeze into too-small boots, an impossible battle that would cause my face to redden and my forehead to perspire ever so slightly. Eventually I'd just stop trying and get up. Scanning the room, and not seeing Victor in my immediate vision, my eyes would start to get a little wild. I would then remember that Victor, the only salesman that truly understood my footwear needs, had told me to shout if I needed anything.

"Victor!? ... VICTOR!?! ... VIIICTOOORRRR!!!??!!" I'd screech, one boot in hand, as I gesticulated wildly. The other would be halfway on my left foot, bent so it looked like I had one creepy ankle. And my hair would be falling out of my ponytail, and I would start to cry. A nice young woman would say, "May I help you with something ma'am?" and I'd strike her with a nearby suede Steven Madden mule, and scream, "I! want! VICTOR!! I nee-eee-eeed him!"

As I stood there, chest heaving, Victor would return from the back room and say, "Did you need a different size?"

"Yes Victor. Please. These are far too small," I'd reply wiping drool from my face.

These sales persons should not instruct their customers to "shout" for them.

A Tale of Woe

Today, a man who had just climbed out of a septic tank used my pen.


That is all.

Tunes, Boobs, and Faulty Kugel

Soundtrack of the day: Elis and Tom, by Elis Regina and Tom Jobim

Saturday night, I, along with my brother Louis, several of his USC friends, my father, my friend Jared, and Mr. Bixler (formerly my high school music teacher), played at the Dolphin Ball in Malibu, an annual benefit for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. We were the entertainment from 6 until 730 on the tennis courts at a mansion, which I like to refer to as The House That Crack Built. This house is neither "huge," "large," nor "enormous." It is disgusting. It took me like 29 minutes to get from the tennis courts (One of two!) to the "green room" (actually the lobby of their home-theater). Granted, I was wearing heels, but still. Anyway, this house could not have been designed by anyone with pure intentions. Drugs, violence, human trafficking, something, funded this compound. Allowing a charitable organization to use the property is surely just one notch in what promises to be a very tall tree of karmic redemption.

But I digress.

What is really important here is the band. Louie's friends are unbelievable players. Distractingly so. On "Man From Tanganyika," I was so thoroughly enjoying Sam's solo that I completely forgot to come back in with background figures. And getting to sing with these guys? It's a rush. First of all, my dad's arrangements are tremendous, and really fun to sing. Add to that the quintet of USC virtuosos, Bixler, and Jared, and, frankly, I could do this every night for the rest of my life. Really! I am so lucky to have experienced this, even once, I can hardly describe it.

Okay, I admit it. If the band were the only important thing to discuss, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I've already mentioned the insane size of the house. Now I'd like to move on to the insane size of the guests' various body parts. Namely: pecs, breasts, lips, and egos. Malibu is not known for it's modest, down-home vibe. The evening was a parade of trophy wives (Girlfriends? Secretaries?) and men with troubling hair-dos. Alright. Boob jobs- fine. Overly inflated pectoral muscles- okay. But the face-lifts have got to stop. STOP, I SAY. As Mr. Bixler so eloquently put it, "Lotta faces here look like they're goin' 90 miles an hour."* I don't think I've ever heard it stated so well. These women (and, sadly, some men) have been so inflated and sculpted and pulled, that they are hardly recognizable as human beings.

Sure, 90 mph describes the speed of their faces, but it certainly doesn't describe the speed of their minds. They all walked around with big, round eyes, starting blankly at auction items, and occasionally tossing a glance in the band's direction. I'm quite sure a number of them don't actually know what Cystic Fibrosis is. If anything, they saw the invitation and said, "An excuse to wear my life-threateningly high pumps?! Thanks, Cystic Fibrosis!" At least they were there, spending their money, and ignoring the band. Of course, a few people nodded appreciatively, but I'm pretty sure they were all catering staff**.

It was nice, though, to be able to play, and to have a band that sounded so incredible. I didn't need money, or applause. We were having a great time. And we were contributing to an important cause.

And what did we get for our contribution?

Well, we'd been informed that we'd be getting dinner. Which was great news. Because, catered affairs for wealthy people offer choices of vegetarian, meat, or fish plates! And there's salad, and dessert! I figured we'd be getting one of these plates back in the "green room." (God forbid we should eat with the Real People.) After the trek to the "green room," however, we were welcomed by a gaming table covered in old deli platters. The cold cuts were gone, the only thing remaining being the decorative lettuce leaves. One loaf of rye bread sat underneath plastic lids, old napkins and a couple pieces of broccoli. There was a bakery box, which looked promising, but, sadly, only contained one piece of kugel. Why hasn't this kugel been eaten yet? I asked myself. Everything else on this table has been devoured. Clearly this is a faulty kugel. So the kugel remained in its box.

Further along, we came upon three covered foil platters of warm food. We eagerly pulled back their covers to find...

1) Unpleasantly scented rice (also dry)
2) Pulled chicken (too spicy)
3) Pulled beef (marbled and mangled)

Oh. And the beers in the fridge were non-alcoholic.

The only true point of culinary magic was when Doug "Baaaaaaaartz!!!" Mosher put some of the spicy, pulled chicken between two pieces of the Loneliest Rye Bread. Fantastic. So, what do hungry musicians do after such a wholly unsatisfying meal?

We went to Ralph's to get pie. Obviously.



*I wrestled for quite some time with whether or not I should take credit for that brilliant observation. In the end, morals won.
** This does NOT include my mom, Bixler's wife, Avaryl, and her father, Scott. They were actually listening, and enjoying themselves.

Saved!

Soundtrack of the Day: Whatever's on my iPod. (It's on shuffle!)

Today's "Soundtrack of the Day" brought to you by Mr. David Christopher Endicott, who let me borrow his computer speakers and A/C adapter so that I could listen to music in the car even though my stupid radio busted. What would I do without you, Slappy?

Dave probably has no idea what he has prevented.

You see, I wake up at 630 AM each day, which may not sound awful to you, but to me it's nearly impossible. I don't have to be at work until 9, but in order to get there, I have to leave the house at 7. It used to be 715, but it's fall now, and school is back in session so there are 9,000 additional yahoos on the road in the mornings. Anyway, as you can guess, I'm groggy as 5 hells on that morning commute.

When I finally get in the car, I turn on NPR until I get to the 110 freeway. That's a good 25 minutes, so I feel sufficiently educated. THEN it's on to whatever my current musical obsession is. (Before my radio broke, I was about to listen to some serious Charlie Hunter.) I roll the windows down, turn the bass nob all the way to the right and sing like a jerk for the rest of the commute.

This is the only way I can operate in the morning. Otherwise, I might start to zone out and take the wrong exit. For instance, I might start thinking about how much I love Chinese food, and suddenly- oops!- I'm exiting at Hill Street! Or I might decide I miss my parents, and go right on past my exit, all the way to PCH. And those are just the scenarios where nobody gets in an accident.

Once, my old radio blew a fuse on the ride in. I was so desperate that I actually put ONE ear bud in and listened to one channel of my iPod the whole way. I'm pretty sure that's illegal. Immediately after work, I went to the auto supply place across the street and bought fuses. I sat in the parking lot, checking every fuse in my car until found the one that had blown. When I had replaced it, I went on my way, listening happily to The Beatles.

I happened to mention this to the kind people at the Volkswagen dealership. They're very attentive, and so decided to order me a new radio- heck, it's still under warranty! I didn't realize they were doing this until they were halfway through replacing it. I thought, Alright, cool. Free New Radio! If I'd known the thing would crap out on me, I would've refused the replacement. Oh well. It's not their fault.

So now, I'm driving through Los Angeles with Dave's computer speakers in the passenger seat. Thank you Dave, thank you.

Just a Brief Message

Folks, I present to you-

UGLY BEAR

This is probably the worst thing I have ever seen.

What is it?

It came up when I Googled "ugly bear." It appears to be a Sailor Moon doll whose hand has been chewed to a pulp- probably by a dog or a hamster. The head clearly is not the original, as it is humungous and awful. The eyes must have either come from two different dolls, or directly from Hell. Her(?) hair is made up of what looks like Teddy Bear pelts. Perhaps most interesting of all is the way in which her arms are thrown up in exasperation. It's almost as though she's realized that there is nothing she can do about the fact that her nose came from a stuffed bear.

This was up for auction on ebay, apparently, and is no longer available. Which means that SOME ONE ACTUALLY BOUGHT THIS. Maybe there was even a bidding war. Either way, I hope that it is displayed proudly on someone's mantle, right underneath the moose head.

...Help...

Soundtrack of the Day: "So Tinha de Ser Com Voce" by Antonio Carlos Jobim, on the album Fotografia

As my days of housesitting come to a close I find myself feeling itchier and itchier. Not because of the fabric softener used on the sheets, or a new kind of soap.

No, I feel itchy because of the dogs.

And I'm not even allergic.

These dogs are the sweetest, happiest, friendliest beasts you can imagine. But the trouble is, they defecate all over the house. All over the house. At first, I thought it was limited to the sitting room, but then I found piles of feces in the bathroom next to the sitting room. And then the living room. And then, finally, the master bathroom, upstairs. If you've never had the pleasure of rounding a corner only to be confronted with 5 piles of shit, I do not recommend this experience. (Incidentally, if it's something you think you may enjoy, please do call me and I'll give the housesitting gig to you.)

The routine is this: I wake up at 6:30 am, walk downstairs, past the sitting room. I notice several piles of crap. I pick them up. I let the dogs outside, to hopefully evacuate their bladders. While they're outside, lying down, I fix their food. Then I leave for work. When I come home, I let them out again. This time, they stand in the doorway looking at me as if to say, What are you doing? We poop inside, thank you. I then spend the rest of the evening discovering hidden piles of doodie.

I have asked if the pups can spend their days outdoors, but the answer is no. They are "inside dogs." Listen: A dog needs it's freedom! It needs to be able to run, dig, pee and crap where it pleases. Oh, and it needs a patch of grass on which to perform the necessary butt-scoot procedure. Especially if it has long hair, because long hair, as everyone knows, attracts what scientists call "dingleberries." And the only cure for dingleberries is the butt-scoot procedure.

Guess what?! These dogs have long hair. And no grass. And- joy of joys!- they like to climb onto the bed and hang out. You can probably imagine what this means. Yes, that's right. It means I really ought to have set up one of those toddler-proof gates at the entrance to the bedroom. Because, while I have never actually found any evidence of fecal matter on my bed, the thought of it really freaks me out. At night, I go to sleep cringing and wake up in the same position, for fear of rolling over onto a patch of contaminated bedding.

After several days of living in that kind of a situation, your whole body begins to feel as though microbes are crawling on it, and it makes you itchy. So, I'm glad to be going home to my apartment. Where, if I feel itchy, I know it's time to purchase a delousing agent of some kind.

Once there was a bunny...

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this lovely website, containing the work of a class full of children. Apparently, their assignment was to make animals out of leaves and then write stories about them. The stories were intended to teach the children about adjectives and also proper story construction (beginning, middle, end).
Although the stories are short and sweet, they could still use a little work. I am prepared to offer certain members of the class (those individuals who I feel would be most responsive) my suggestions.


One day there was a beautiful frog and the frog hopped away to a pond. The frog was hopping on a lily pad and the frog hopped in the pond and ate some flies. It hopped and hopped and never stopped.
By James

Now, I feel you have done an excellent job of utilizing the repetition device. However, rhymes are a little tired, James, and I think you're better than that.

One day there was a turkey who lived in the forest and she ate some berries. Then she saw a friend and they played together and they ate berries. Now they had to go home, but tomorrow they would still be friends, and they both lived happily ever after.
By Tiana

You're a smart girl, Tiana, but sometimes, you do just enough to get by. If you would push yourself, you could be an outstanding writer. For instance, could this she-turkey find something to do besides eating berries? Let's also be aware of our tenses from now on.

99 years ago an ugly fish swam in a dark, deep ocean. Then he saw a ugly mean octopus and the mean ugly octopus ate the ugly fish. The octopus felt bad, because he threw up.
By Corey

Truly a masterpiece. What a dark, twisted yarn you have spun. Rage, disgust, disease-it's all here. My colleagues feel that your ending could use work, but I say screw 'em! This is a mood piece. Bravo, Corey!

Once upon a time my peacock ate some grass in the wild. A kid tried to pull a feather off the peacock, but he didn't. The peacock lived happily ever after.
By Jophiel

Jophiel, I feel sorry for you. You're obviously foreign, and don't understand how English literature works. What I'm looking for is some more about the battle between Kid and Peacock. How did the peacock thwart the child's attempt? Were you the child? Give it some thought.

500,000 years ago there was an octopus that lived in a place called Cakeland. An octopus joined him at the delicious, icing ocean. They went out with a cup and scooped up a cup of frosting.
By Morgan

Now, when I first read this story I thought it was a blatent case of trying to one-up Corey. I soon realized how wrong I was. You have your own brand of genius, Morgan. You challenge Darwin's theory of evolution by suggesting that Octopi could exist a half a million years ago! And Cakeland? Truly inspired. Professors Ciniglio and Devine and I would very much like to hear more about this Cakeland.

Once on a dark night a bear went in a castle. He finds a treasure box. He took it to his house. He was so happy. They lived happy every after.
By Jesus

I... I can't... how?... *sigh* I guess I just expected more out of JESUS, for Pete's sake. Clearly our Savior has a little trouble with tenses, and with keeping track of HOW MANY BEARS ARE IN THE STORY.

Once upon a time there was a stinky mouse. My mouse ate the garbage in the can. Finally the mouse threw up.
By Fadumo

Really? Really? You're going to plagerize Corey? Vomit was his finale. If this were a university, you'd be out on your ass, Fadumo.

A long, long time ago Jesus was born and a jaguar was so bad. It scratched meat. It was a rabbit that it killed. He gave the rabbit to Jesus.
By Landon

Excellent use of Biblical symbolism. Too bad the jaguar didn't give Jesus some writing talent!

85 years ago a king cobra lived in a dangerous, tropical jungle. After a while the king cobra hunted for lots and lots of meat. The king cobra ate meat for the rest of his life.
By Ryan D.

What a sad, sad tale. Oh, Ryan! The lonely king cobra and his meat pile! It kept me up all last night- what a haunting image. You have a gift, my friend.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful butterfly that lived in a backyard. When my butterfly was in the backyard she saw ten beautiful flowers and then she flew and drinked nectar. When the butterfly was drinking nectar a person came out. When Betty saw the butterfly she took a net to catch the butterfly for a pet.
By Kim

Holy crap, Kim, what is going on here? Do you want to talk about it?

A long time ago a disgusting fox lived in the forest. The fox tried to eat Corey'’s fish, but the fish swam away. The fox was sad.
By Jason

What I am seeing here is a little boy with self esteem issues. Perhaps you should contact Corey and talk to him about why you feel so inferior to him, and why you feel his writing is so much better than yours.

Those are only some of the works from this class. You may subject yourself to further stories, or view the LeafArt here: http://www.moreland.k12.ca.us/Baker/class/pavlos/leaf/leaf.html

Who Asked You?

Last week, the annual Stanford Jazz Workshop was held. I went last year, and it was one of the best experiences I have ever had. Unfortunately, Real Life began a few months ago, and I have been rendered permanently busy (there are an awful lot of Sudoku puzzles to be done, dammit, and only so many hours in the workday). Therefore, I am unable to attend any such workshops.
But, Jake called me from Stanford last Tuesday night. "Hey! Larry Goldings was here today."

"Oh, I know! You're so lucky!"

"He's every bit as cool as you said."

"Yeah? Did you get to meet him?"

"Well... he taught a master class. ... He's playing tonight!"

"Aww, man. Really? With who?"

"Peter Bernstein and Bill Stewart."

Well. That's when I let out a deafening scream, cursed myself for having a job that doesn't involved several weeks off whenever I feel like it, and spewed forth more swear words then even George Carlin would know what to do with.

Jake just laughed.


This exchange jogged my memory, and the rest of the week was flooded with thoughts of last year's Jazz Adventure, and more specifically, the people I met there. There was Madeline Eastman, Randy Porter, John Wiitalla, Vince Ladeano, Peter Bernstein, Dena DeRose ... and that's only scratching at the surface of the incredible faculty. But, it is my fellow attendees that I wish to focus on.

I was studying vocal jazz there last year, which means I was thrown into a room full of egotistical cry babies who clapped on 1 and 3. Don't get me wrong, most of them were really nice, and even more of them were very talented. But, since I was one of the youngest, there were a few (mainly women) who wanted to give me advice- and tons of it. Certainly! I thought to myself. By all means! Do you have an album out? No? How about a recording contract? Not that either, huh? Well, then quit acting like it. For God's sake, you've got timing like Lawrence Welk.

"You really need to work the mic. You know, like, work it?" offered a tall, thinskinned woman. She then turned to Fred, our theory instructor. "Why can't we just buy a computer program to do all this stupid transposing for us?"

I know. It made me cry, also. I know that somewhere in their little chick singer brains these women meant well. But, that was only part of it. Mainly, they were using my youth and inexperience as a way to broadcast their own knowledge to each other. "You never call 'Summertime' at a jam session" one of them snorted. She was turned towards me, but delivered this tidbit as she glanced around at the rest of the singers, looking for a reaction. She happened to be right, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

"Honey, you're in charge of the musicians," a helpful and well-dressed black woman told me one night at a vocal jam session. "You own them! When you're in front of a band, ain't nobody more important than you. If you don't want more people to solo, you just come right back in. You're the singer. Nobody will mind. They're here for you."

I can only guess that this was in response to the piece I'd just sung. About 7 people wanted to solo on my tune. Let 'em, I say. Hell, the fact that any horn players are willing to show up and spend time at EgoJam ought to get them at least 12 bars on a tune, if not a gift certificate to Red Lobster. But, apparently, in my infinite naivete, I had neglected the first rule of Divaism: He who playeth of the instruments that are valved, slided, keyed, stringed, yea even skinned, are no more than one level above the lint you find betweenth the cushions of thine couch.

So that's fun.

And later on in the week, it got even more fun. Eventually the singers got bored with trying to top each other using the "Marginally Helpful Advice That Proves I Know More Than You" category, and began attempting to one-up each other with anything else they could think of. Once, a woman with an unfortunate chin-to-neck ratio even blurted out in the middle of Denny's, "Black guys love me!"

What?

Apparently she has big boobs and a butt or something. I don't know. That's when the musicians and I tuned out. "Just keep lookin' at your food and maybe it will stop," John Wiitalla said.

And that was the most useful advice I got all week.

From The Mind of Jonathan Feldman

Here is a dream that Feldman had last night:

So apparently I was meeting up with Jennifer Coolidge at a bar for a date of some sort. She was drunk off her ass. I ordered a coke and something that looked like maybe chicken strips. She had some eggs and ham. Then she had to leave early since she was so drunk. Mind you we never once spoke a word to one another.
Then I come back hours later to find that she has left a check paying for the food. The check is for 50 bucks and the owner of the bar says that will definitely not be enough. He said if we had ordered a coke with vodka that even that alone would have been $90. So I'm kicking myself for not looking at the menu, and in the meantime I have to cancel my new order for some breakfast crepes. Then I remember this is the place I heard about on the news that had fries that were 4 bucks per fry. Per little fry.
And from there it became fuzzy, but I was very glad to wake up.
Oh. But I also saw that they had extremely large crispy tacos. HUGE. I showed my sister and she said, "Oh you mean the Daft Punk statues promoting their new concert?" I looked closer and for some reason it was their heads. Don't know how I confused it with tacos.

I feel that Feldman and my cousin Sarah ought to team up and write a book together.

Paul Reiser: Thief or Genius?

I love Paul Reiser. I love him. He is delightfully Jewish and shockingly underrated. If you've ever watched Diner you know what I mean. I think his work on Mad About You was the perfect antidote to Helen Hunt's. Once, he was a co-host at a charity ball I played at, and he poked fun at Kenny G (major points gained there). He was a presenter, I believe, at the Emmys some years back. (1999, maybe?) Anyway, he introduced Heather Locklear (or maybe it was Sharon Stone?... It's ultimately unimportant). I only remember this because of something he said when he was introducing her. I believe it was: "There is more to her than a pair of legs that make you wanna jump up and sing Sweet Sue." He said it in his slightly sarcastic, boyish manner of speech that, incidentally, makes me want to jump up and sing Sweet Sue. I wasn't sure why that stood out in my mind as the only thing I remember from the 51st annual Prime Time Emmy Awards- until this morning.

I was lucky to be raised by a Near-Jew. My father, whose friends were all Jewish (he has collected, in his Library of Friends, such surnames as Kipper, Birnbaum, Horowitz, Kijner, and Ellenzweig. Not bad for a shaygitz!)surrounded me with books by Woody Allen, routines by comics such as Robert Klein, and the genius of Mel Brooks. This last thing in particular is important here. Young Frankenstein and History of the World, part I were entertainment staples when I was in middle school. On road trips, we listened, without fail, to The 2000 Year Old Man tapes. There were so many memorable lines from those tapes ("Let 'em all go to hell, except cave seventy-six!") that I was never without Brooks shtick in any social situation. But, as with any great comedic recording, there are always lines that you don't remember, and each time you listen to the record, you notice something for the first time.
This morning, I was listening to the "2000 and Six Months" track in the car on the way to work for the first time in maybe 7 or 8 years. Brooks got on the subject of early medical remedies. He was discussing the abilities of different trees and, to my surprise, offered this example: "There are certain trees that, you chew their bark, make you wanna jump up and sing 'Sweet Sue.'"

What?!

Paul Reiser had to have been listening to Brooks sometime before he made that speech, right? I mean, sure the actual subjects of each of those sentences are different, but the descriptions are identical!

Which leads me to my question. Is Paul Reiser a thief? I don't know. Maybe he stole it by accident- I do recall his delivery of the line being somewhat on the "stumbly" side of things. It could have just come out of his mouth in the heat of the moment. He hadn't planned to use Brooks' line, it just happened that way. Or, maybe he thought he could get away with it because America only remembers lines like "I have over forty-two thousand children. And not one of them ... comes to visit me." (Which is a brilliant line, by the way. I'm not actually sure if America has such good taste.) Heck, maybe he was just attempting to bring the line into colloquial English.

In any case, I can't blame him. It's a really good line. It's the kind of line that makes you wanna jump up and sing "Sweet Sue."

Spike the Robot

Strangely, after reading the email by my 6 year-old cousin Sarah, my dear friend Chris Bulock found a story that he wrote when he was 6. Here it is, complete with original misspellings, for you, the reader:

SPIKE THE ROBOT

Once there was a robot named Spike. he looked like a human. If there was a battle he would join in. He had the biggest ship in the universe.

There was onliy one more person to help him run it. Spike was the gunnerand the main fighter.

The ship was called the star criuser. Spike liked to fight. They had very poerful weapons. The battles they fought in they always won. One day there was a big battle. Spik started it. One of the old ship mates was visiting. Spike said that he could take one weapon. While he was getting it he pulled the trigger. He accidentally hit Spike's friend. Spike got very mad. he punched the old ship mate. The ship mate flew away. he told his crew what happend.

In about an hour he and his crew came back. While they were coming Spike contacted his friends. He told them what happend. When the shkips got there the war started.

They fout for a long time. There wasn't anyone there icsept for Spike and the old ship mte. Spike finally blasted the old ship mate.

Dedicated to my dog Tonka.

Snow White and the Little White Lumps

My cousin, Sarah, is 6 years old. She wrote my mom this email the other night (it is presented as written, no editing):

rode my bike at night, all the way to a park far away. We call it littlefoot park. We rode around it and we went in a neighborhood right next to it. and it was just being built so there were lots of tracks. I couldn't tell how many or what kind they were. Yesterday we went to dads work and we went shopping at the mall and I got new crocks. Orange. and I don't know when we went to Glenwood Springs but we went down the alpine coaster. The alpine coaster was made by the germans. and we went in a cave. MORE than one cave. Two caves. One was called the king cave and the other I forget and how the person found King cave was through 'dam crack', It was just a crack in the wall. And it had so many fairy tales in it. There was only one that I remember, Snow White.............. andthesevendwarves. There were 7 little lumps made from white minerals ( stalagmites). and there was Snow White and the dwarves . or the little white lumps, were surrounding her. It's nice to write to you and it's fun. Love Sarah (and family)

Radio Days

Soundtrack of the Day: Always There by Joe Magnarelli

I watched Woody Allen's 1987 film "Radio Days" last night for the first time. It was such a sweet movie. Whereas all of Woody Allen's films are semi-autobiographical, or stem from some long-time fantasy of his, this one seemed to be the most rooted in his youth. The film does not have a strong central story. Rather, it is a number of anecdotes, situations and ideas centered around radio broadcasts in the 1940s.
For me the most touching part of the entire thing was the series of anecdotes wherein the main character (voiced over by Woody) described what each popular song at the time reminded him of. Songs, for me, have a particular associative power. A song latches itself onto a memory and acts as one of the more efficient triggers (along with smell). This segment, although only a few minutes long, really unlocked the true meaning of the film for me. It was a sort of sonic memoir, lamenting the decline of radio, and celebrating impoverished Brooklyn family life.
Also, it was really funny. The very opening bit was great! And Julie Cavner was really great casting-- it's odd to see Marge Simpson in person.
Woody Allen films always make me feel peaceful- either I'm glad whatever's happening is not happening to me, or I'm glad to be let in on a world where it's happening at all. "Radio Days" was the latter situation.

So now what? Well, naturally, I go nuts and add every Woody Allen film that Netflix has to my queue. (Which looks like it should be pronounced "quay-wee.")
If anyone wants to come over and watch "Zelig" I think it's on the way.

And now I leave you with another nugget of Bulockian wisdom:

Willy Shoe,

How many playground balls are there?

Imagine a calculus professor with no eyes. This would be a horrible way to learn. Additionally, how would he be able to teach the proper notation to students? Why did you hire him? He has tenure now, and there's nothing we can do. I suppose it's because you have no eyes, and you felt some sort of bond. Well, Shoe, this is an awful mess we're in.

From the Office of
Dean Kiki