love songs i love

First published November 15, 2007

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A friend sent me a video clip of The Beatles singing "‘Til There Was You" (quick--what Broadway musical is that song from?) and it got me thinking about a live performance of "This Boy" we have on a Beatles documentary. The first time I watched it, I melted right off the couch. A young friend was visiting at the time and laughed at me and at my very special lovable moptops—she found them “goofy.” But the Beatles were, absolutely, my first true love and I will never see them as anything but transcendent.

That John, Paul and George could step up to a microphone and produce harmonies so exquisite is a miracle. Plus, this is one of those songs I liked to imagine they were singing just to me. I have watched that performance many times and it makes me swoon every time.

So this got me thinking about other love songs that touch a soft spot for me and "You're Gonna Lose That Girl" comes to mind immediately. (Does that count as a love song? No matter.)



I could probably list a dozen Beatles songs that should have been written for me but let’s give others a chance.

Steve Earle’s "Fearless Heart," if only for this line in the chorus: I got me a fearless heart, strong enough to get you through the scary part.

Goofy as it is, "Make Believe," from Show Boat.

Also goofy, Billy Joel’s "She’s Got A Way About Her."

James Taylor’s "Something in the Way She Moves." (James Taylor was great before he became Raffi for adults.)

Simon and Garfunkle’s "Why Don’t You Write Me." (Obscure, I know, but I grew to love it back when I was in summer camp pining for a boy back home.)

"Planet of Love," which was written by a Nashville songwriter guy named Jim Lauderdale but which Mandy Barnett sings the crap out of. You can listen to it on her website—look under Listening Room and the 1996 album Asylum.

Hm, and while we’re in the country vein, "My Secret Flame" by The Mavericks.

I also like a sassy little version of "Slow Boat to China" that Bette Midler and Barry Manilow do. Maybe that’s more lust than love, but it makes me tingle even with those two cartoon characters (and I say that with affection) singing it.

I could probably go on and on but I’ll stop here. Tell me your swooners. (And next time, we’ll do heartbreak songs.)

road trip songs

Want to buy any of the road-trip songs from my Flyover America road-trip music post? Here they all are, to preview and download from Amazon.com.

this and that re: relationships

The cover story of the latest issue of Psychology Today (I’ll link to it as soon as it’s online) is about dealing with all those annoying little things our mates do--things like leaving dirty socks on the floor. Evidently (Do I use that word too much? I think so), over time, those little things can stress the fabric of a marriage until they cause big trouble.

Hm, really? That’s sad, isn’t it? Is that why our divorce rate is so high? Gosh, if Tom let all my annoying little habits get to him, we would never have lasted this long. But instead, he just turns the oven off when I leave it on; he gets the mail when I forget to; he cooks dinner most nights since I consistently conveniently forget that a guy’s gotta eat; he mostly ignores my nagging. And, for my part, I let him go to sleep way too early every night. Too early by my standards, that is. He’s always been an early-to-bed/rise guy and as annoying as I sometimes find it, that’s who I married.

On the other hand (another of my overused phrases), I often enjoy the hours after he’s gone to bed--now that I’ve finally figured out that I’m not compelled to go to bed at the same time. That epiphany was decades coming. Somehow I got it into my head that my wifely duties included climbing into bed with him every night, even though he just wanted to sleep. I would fall asleep early but never could stay asleep. Now that I go to bed on my schedule—two or three hours after Tom—I sleep all night.

My friend Peter posted another spin on relationships on his blog, advocating the “good enough philosophy” of marriage. Put that way, it sounds a little depressing, but I can’t argue with him. To an extent, deciding to forsake all others is settling, I suppose. Settling for what you have rather than what you can imagine. Settling for an authentic human rather than an idealized vision. Settling for the comfort of security over the thrills of possibilities. “Settling” is a terrible word, isn’t it? How can we spin it to sound better?

Another aspect of settling are those “how did I end up with…?” moments, when your mate says or does something, or reveals a gap in knowledge, that is so shocking, you can't even imagine how your life took the strange turn that linked you with this person.

I had one of these just last night, as we watched A Night at the Opera. I grew up watching and loving the Marx Brothers—it’s partly a Jewish New Yorker thing, I think—but they simply were not part of Tom’s experience. I remember once, not long after Tom and I moved in together, one of his brothers came to stay a weekend. As part of the weekend’s planned entertainment, I rented a Marx Brothers movie. The two of them looked at me like I’d suggested we spend an evening at Chuck E. Cheese. They could not have been more puzzled as to why I imagined this would be entertaining for them. (We didn’t watch it.)

OK, I already knew that Tom is not a Marx Brothers aficionado, but I was still unprepared when I turned to him last night during the movie and said, “You’ve heard of the famous stateroom scene, right?” and he had not.

Really?

Well.

This was one of those “…how did I end up with” moments. How did I end up with a man who has never even heard of the stateroom scene? Incomprehensible. I’m pretty sure I was introduced to the stateroom scene the moment I left my mother’s womb.

I am relieved to report that Tom and I will be able to stay married because he laughed through the scene. His favorite line: “Come on in girls and leave all hope behind.” If he hadn’t laughed at least once, I might have contemplated divorce.



Remember the movie Diner, when Steve Guttenberg wouldn’t marry his fiancée until she passed a football trivia test? The idea doesn’t sound entirely outlandish when you have those “how did I end up with…?” moments. In fact, I enjoy playing “Name That Broadway Show” with Tom, since he claims to hate Broadway musicals but a lot of the crooners he does like (Frank and Tony and such) often sing show music. I am proud to report (and he is ashamed to admit) that he’s getting pretty good at the game.

And so, in conclusion, relationship-related cartoon du jour.

wallowing in the 1970s

Did anyone catch Saturday Night Live this week—the rebroadcast of the first episode, starring George Carlin?

He was great, of course. He didn’t participate in skits but instead his stand-up was interspersed among the skits and musical performances by Billy Preston and his band of nattily dressed ‘70s hipsters, and poor, unhappy Janis Ian. Such a sad sack.

The ‘70s ... so long ago.

Carlin’s schtick about the irony of going through airport security and then being handed eating utensils was prescient. His joke about threatening a stewardess by cutting her throat with a piece of paper was disturbing.

And did you catch the TV commercial satire about a razor with three blades? Three blades! Can you imagine? Outlandish!

I think we’re up to five blades now. How high can we go?

My, how things have changed.

I’ve also been watching Maude on DVD again. Most disturbing: Maude is supposed to be 47 years old in the show. The disk I have includes an episode of Walter celebrating his 50th birthday.

I'm still waiting to feel older than Archie Andrews and now I learn I'm older than Maude.

Aside from that, this disk includes the episodes in which Maude gets pregnant. (Oy, she’s so upset, she needs a double something. Looks like Scotch.) She decides, after two episodes of discussion, to get an abortion. It was weird, just weird, to hear a discussion that frank and unburdened by politics or hysteria. Her daughter Carol (Adrienne Barbeau) was all over ditching that fetus. It’s hard to imagine any television show today touching this topic.

My how things have changed.

In another episode, Maude and her “housewife” friends decide to protest a young supermarket checker getting busted for pot by buying pot and all getting arrested.

The whole episode is like entering a parallel universe.

For example: Carol comes downstairs in the morning feeling groggy. Maude and Walter had kept her up fighting about the planned protest and so Adrienne finally had to give in and take a Valium, she explains. Oh, Maude can help--here's a Ritalin to wake her up. (“That’s what mommies are for.”)

Then, their doctor buddy Arthur stops by (with a hangover) and Walter hits him up for refills on their drugs--Secenol, Miltown, Librium.

Holy crap, Maude. You’re all hopped up on dolls! Who knew?

Yes, that’s the point—the hypocrisy of marijuana laws when people are taking all kinds of other drugs, but still… Can you imagine Ray Romano downing a Miltown after a bad day?

Maude was responsible for getting weed to get herself and her friends busted but Walter confiscates her $20 bag and she ends up going to the police station with a bag of oregano. The sergeant at the desk figures that out and won’t arrest anyone for that. He also complains of exhaustion and so Maude rummages in her purse and helpfully hands him a Dexamil.

I was sure the punch line would be that she would get arrested for distributing another kind of controlled substance. Nope. Blablabla, Maude and the women end up going home, free, and after she’s gone, the cop shrugs and pops the Dexamil.

Cue the music.

MY how things have changed!

Finally, last night Tom and I wallowed in VH1 Classic’s History of Rock episodes about 1970s rock and then punk. No particular insights about that here, except to note how deep the roots of the rock of our formative years run. It just sounds, looks and feels so right to me, so personal, in a way no music from before or after does. I still belong to the Blank Generation. That doesn’t seem to change.

vote for tom!

Black and Blue is nominated for best cover/tribute band in the Dallas Observer Music Awards. Click here for a ballot.

I missed their gig at the Cavern last night but evidently, they rocked the jernt. Their ya-yas are definitely out.

puh-lease

Megan Daum’s essay in yesterday’s Dallas Morning News spurred much discussion between me and Tom. The gist of the essay is that she’s sick to death of hearing about baby boomers and why don’t we shut up because nobody cares. It sounded a lot like a petulant teenager complaining about grandpa’s war stories. Bo-ring grandpa.

What struck me as moronic about the whine is that she’s not actually complaining about boomers. She’s complaining about marketing. I was born on the tail-end of the boom but I take no responsibility for such things as art house revivals of the Rosemary's Baby, innocuous if tiresome public radio features about Valerie Solanas' shooting of Andy Warhol, and, if there's a slow week, maybe even an E! special commemorating the marriage of Jackie Kennedy to Aristotle Onassis.

Daum needs to get out of the office sometimes and stop reading so many press releases—she’s starting to confuse media hype with reality. Of course media companies are going to try to make money out of whatever they can. That’s what they do. Not my fault, chickie.

If you want to wallow in your own pop culture, watch music awards shows. I have no idea who any of those young women in trashy clothes are. Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t blame you for that.

It’s all money and marketing, Megan. As soon as Gen X's anniversaries start rolling around, you’re welcome to throw yourself parades if you want. What big important moments would you suggest we celebrate? I’m sure there is someone ready to make money off it. Actually, I can't begin to articulate how little I care about Raiders of the Lost Ark but I heard an awful lot about it recently. I believe that's your fault?

Tom and I agreed that if she’d wanted a truly compelling angle, Daum would have wondered why classic rock has become such a music juggernaut. She touched on this then veered off into dopey, unfocused griping. No radio stations, no television commercials are safe from wheezin’ geezer rock—and I say this as a wheezin’ geezer. Every time we hear a boomer hit on TV, Tom wonders why they dig so far back. To whom are they selling? We keep hearing about that precious 18-35 demographic--so what's with the Bob Dylan and Beatles?

It could be that old rockers have finally decided that they’ve made their point about integrity but you can’t eat integrity for dinner so might as well sell out and cash in. Maybe the dinosaurs are cheaper than today’s music hitmakers so the advertisers are getting while the getting's good?

It could be that these songs became entrenched at a time when we were not overwhelmed by too much music—when songs had a chance to reach large audiences instead of being quick blips in an ever-increasing barrage of blips. It’s hard for anything to be heard among the racket these days and it’s also hard for artists to mature in our increasingly hit-obsessed media industry.

It could be that radio is full of oldies because younger peeps don’t listen to the radio—they’re too busy pirating music online.

Me, I still like listening to the radio, although I find less and less new music to buy that way, so layered is it under the oldies. (And if I have to listen to Heard It Through the Grapevine one more time, there’ll be hell to pay.)

Daum’s essay had my eyes rolling so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Who’s acting self-important? You want to be center of attention? Go ahead. We’re all waiting.

music video

Brilliant. Sound necessary. (It's short.)

in very brief

Sexually active male students in pink panties

And now, birthday weekend festivities begin. Next time you see me, I will have entered a new decade. Unless you see me tonight at the AllGood Cafe, for Black and Blue. Right, JWoiten?

this n that

I know it's not Friday but I'm feeling random this morning so please bear with me.

I didn’t even know the guy who created Davey and Goliath lived in Dallas until I read today’s obituary.

Rest in peace, guy who created what may be the creepiest most depressing kiddie show ever. (Hm, my spell check says kiddie should be spelled kiddy, but that that doesn’t look right.)

Something about that show…the melancholy music, Goliath’s mopey voice, the dreary little lessons, just bummed me out. If I stumbled upon it during my search for Sunday morning cartoons, I couldn’t turn the knob (yeah, it was that long ago) fast enough. Gimme Captain Kangaroo any day, with it’s cheery little theme song and Dancing Bear, the big stud. (I know, Captain Kangaroo was weekdays only.)

***

An entertaining local story:

A supervisor who instructed Dallas officers to make up occupations on citations will only receive counseling…

Nowhere in the article does it say why this supervisor told officers to do this, but since the people receiving the citations were all homeless, I wonder if compassion played a part.

But the best part of the story is the occupations he suggested.

Minutia technician—picks streets
Repose Specialist—does nothing but sleeps and lays around in doorways and alleys
Human Relations Clerk—Prostitute
Pharmacology Specialist—Drug Addict
Appropriations Loan Assistant—Burglar
Property Disposal Technician—Thief
Ethanol Analyst—Alcoholic

Counseling? This guy should receive a job writing for The Daily Show.

See why I read the newspaper, kids? It’s chock full of fun.

***

The Belo fitness blog includes this item about a CD that’s supposed to calm dogs down in the car. I listened to the samples. Of course this stuff is calming. It’s a CD of dirges. Maybe they’d calm Jack but they also might put me to sleep. Or drive me to despair. No pun intended.

***

I’ve never been a fan of the Police, but this interview with Stewart Copeland makes me like them even less. Self-important ass. I don’t like Sting, either. Yeah, I said it. Wanna make somethin' of it?

***

Sharon Stone on turning 50: I fired the people out of my life who weren’t working with me successfully professionally. I got rid of the people who weren’t really my friends. I stopped trying to date the men who didn’t really like me.

***

Confirmation that she is not twins. Unless she's quintuplets. (I cropped the giant photo of her, even though it was the ugliest bathing suit of the bunch.)



***

And finally, I'm not the only Dembling reaching a milestone this week. Happy 90th Birthday, Dad. Check you out, rockin' the facial hair (1971).



P.S. Today is Cher's birthday, too. She's 62.

elections

Dallas is accepting nominations for a new name for Industrial Boulevard. The DMN says:

There are Postal Service restrictions. Names can't be more than 14 characters, so "Down By The River I Shot My Baby Boulevard" is out. Apostrophes aren't permitted, so "What's That Smell Street" won't work. And it can't closely resemble an existing street name. "Turtle Creek Boulevard" is taken.

Want to nominate a name? Click here.

That’s the good writing du jour, IMO. Another fine line comes from Joyce Saenz Harris’ Taste section story about a book/cooking club whose motto, she says, “…might well be a chicken in every plot.” Cute. Too bad the paragraph started with the dreaded “Welcome to…”

In other election news, Oklahoma is accepting nominations for an official rock song. It already has an official state song (“”Oklahoma"), C&W song (“Faded Love”--not my guilty pleasure "You're The Reason God Made Oklahoma"), folk song (“Oklahoma Hills”) and waltz (“Oklahoma Wind.”)

Goodness gracious, who knew Oklahoma was so melodic?

Want to nominate an Oklahoma rocker? Click here.

So, Hillary pulled it out again. You want my theory about why Obama isn’t campaigning negative? He doesn’t have to because his supporters (I call them IOS---Insufferable Obama Supporters) do it for him. I hear many more Obama supporters going on about Hillary’s (and Bill’s) horns and tail than about Obama’s accomplishments. It's perfect--Obama can keep his halo and Hillary still gets smeared.

I would vote for Obama over McCain. No question. I like the guy--what I know of him. It’s his fan base for which I’ve developed a healthy loathing.

lowbrow talk

I’ve spared the highbrow among you long enough. It’s time for a little American Idol chatter. Not a lot, just a little.

First of all, were we all SHOCKED and APPALLED when handsome Michael Johns was booted last week? Not that I voted, but I can’t imagine why he was sent home when Carly stayed on—I liked her tons in the beginning but she’s choking. Not to mention the bland little blonde, Kristy (who reminds me of Carrie Underwood, who I also think is a yawn) and the singing Smurf, Archuleta. Yeah, yeah, he’s got a great voice but he needs a few years of seasoning before he’s interesting. Or even Brooke, who was my first favorite but who appears to lack the stamina for stardom. At the moment I’m backing David Cook, who I call “the little Tom guy” because he reminds me of my favorite rock and roller. I like dredlockboy OK, too.

The guys outdid the girls last night but that doesn’t surprise me—they had to be creative with Mariah Carey songs while the girls would naturally suffer in comparison.

Which brings me to Mariah Carey. First of all, are those things real? They are a force of nature. I think Archuleta lost his virginity when he hugged her.

Second, Mariah has reached towering heights of fame without entering my consciousness at all. I knew she was out there but couldn’t tell you a single hit before last night, even though she’s out-hit Elvis (but it’s kind of apples and oranges when you consider the changed media landscape).

I did recognize Always Be My Baby which I actually don’t mind. And I know Without You, but the Nilsson version ‘cause I’m old.

Mostly, though, I struggle to find the song in Mariah Carey songs. I feel that way about a lot of modern R&B—it just seems to noodle and meander with a lot of layers and beats and heavenly choirs but with nothing for my brain to latch on to. Which might be a good thing, since it saves me from earworms.

Now, did you know Bulgaria has an Idol competition? Here (thanks to Vagabondish) is a notable audition:

rolling stones reflections

On Saturday night, Tom and I went to see Shine A Light, the Scorsese Rolling Stones documentary.

It was a lot of fun and by the end, I felt a little like I’d been to a real concert--kind of worn out and invigorated. We saw it in IMAX and it was a bit hard to watch at times because there were so many cuts and short scenes, but it was still fun to see Mick’s every pore, even if seeing Keith that close up was a little bit terrifying.

Tom was bummed that Mick seems to be a caricature of his former self, so full of jumping and twitching and dancing and mugging that it’s hard to take him seriously. And what happened to Keith? He is no longer the mystery man he once was and now seems like someone’s dotty old uncle. Kind of a rock 'n' roll Smurf, and a little sloppy on guitar. (According to Tom. I was not that discerning during this spectacle.)

Does every old rock band have to go Borscht Belt on us? We saw the Dictators a few years ago and they were full of shtick. Ditto Sylvain Sylvain.

Anyway, as always happens during concerts, my mind wandered during the movie, and this time I started paying attention to its twists and turns. I wondered…

Do Mick and Keith dye their hair? Ron Wood clearly does, it’s too black for reality at any age. Charlie Watts has gone gray and one camera angle exposed a balding spot on the top of his head. He still looks great. (Overheard after the movie, one plump middle-aged woman to another: “Who do you think is better looking? The drummer or Mick Jagger?")

Are all those excited young babes in the front few rows ringers? No way would these hot young things be all worked up over a bunch of grandpas.

What is that nasty schmatta Keith wears on his head? How would I describe it in a blog? It looks like it grew there naturally, like some sort of fungus. Does he sleep in it? Does it keep his wig on?

How does Keith find his eyes to apply eyeliner amidst all those leathery wrinkles? He looks like a dried apple head.

Are they really having as much fun as they seem to be?

Does Mick bother with groupies anymore?

Do the other guys ever get tired of Keith getting up in their faces? He sure does like to get close.

Did Jack White dream he forgot the lyrics or otherwise fucked up the night before the show? He looked pretty thrilled to be on stage with the Rolling Stones.

Does the band use stylists?

Is that girl in the front row anorexic?

Does Mick feel as silly as he looks using a guitar strap with the Rolling Stones logo on it?

Did Mick have liposuction on his bingo arms? They don’t look nearly as wobbly as they did when they played the Super Bowl halftime show.

And so on…

wandering wednesday

Here comes high-maintenance season, and I don’t just mean yard work. (Though we did finally clear the leaves from the yard and the Garden Bed of Death is showing encouraging signs of life.

But more than that, the months of shaggy legs and toes au naturel are waning. Body parts must be toned and exfoliated, pits must be pristine. It was warm enough for shorts or a summer skirt this weekend but my legs were in no shape to expose and so I sweated it out in jeans.

A young woman in one of my yoga classes is toned and fit and hairy-legged as a little boy. I envy her insouciance. I can’t do that and never could—the stereotype of the hairy feminist is just bigotry. Most feminists I know are as vigilant about body hair as any beauty queen.

So, it’s time to get out the wax and start ripping hair out by its roots. It’s a dreary, not to mention painful, and unending chore. Shaving is no better because it must be done more often.

And time to start booking pedicures, which are pleasant but ultimately pricey, by the end of our long spring and summer.

But a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.

I read in the paper this morning that the London Tech Music School named Smoke on the Water the greatest guitar riff of all time. So naturally, that’s been on a maddening tape loop in my head all morning. Maybe I can exorcise it by passing it on to you.

This recipe for garlicky garbanzo burgers sounds yummy to me. The DMN Taste section consistently has great recipes, I plan to try this one soon.

I like today’s Dilbert. (April 9, if you’re coming to this blog another day.) Hostility is fun!


I got blogrolled by Poopouri and it’s getting a lot of clicks. I’m sure people are disappointed when they get there to find me just mocking rather than reviewing. But evidently, a lot of people are worried about bathroom odors. Maybe I could ask for a review sample …

I always mean to link to my articles when they run but don’t always remember. So, here’s one about ADD that ran in December.

And another about Earthwatch that ran in October, I think.

Black and Blue has two more gigs booked at the AllGood—May 3 and May 23. Mark your calendars and come have fun!

today's assignment

Everyone must read this story, which just won a Pulitzer Prize for feature writing. The gist? World-famous violinist Joshua Bell does a stint as a busker in a DC metro station.

rocks on

Black and Blue rocked the AllGood Café. Rocked it right.

Mike Snyder, who owns the AllGood, was tired and grumpy when Black and Blue arrived and told them to go on by 9 and get it over with so he could get the hell outta there. Nobody expected much of the evening.

We were all surprised by the full house. Black and Blue started cautiously but over the course of a two-hour set hit its groove. By Satisfaction, DJ Mr. Rid was dancing, cute girls were dancing, L7 couples from Addison were dancing (yes! that’s the target market!), white-man overbites were occurring, a stray drunken (or something) queen in mirror shades and stylish denim and black was dancing and annoying people. Black and Blue planned to cut their set down in deference to Mike’s exhaustion but ended up playing everything they had with one repeat (Rocks Off) before leaving the stage.

It's the Rolling Stones. What's not to like? No costumes, just the rock.

Mike was a lot less grumpy by the end—one might even say giddy. The band made a few hundred dollars off the door alone, with a $5 cover. (And Mike made his money in drinks, of course.)

Much smiling occurred at the end of the evening.

We all were, dare I say it?, satisfied. (Yikes. That’s really beneath me.)

and anudder thing...

Tom's Rolling Stones tribute band, Black and Blue, makes its debut this Saturday night at the AllGood Cafe in Deep Ellum, during the Deep Ellum Arts Festival. I'll be there, will you?

weekend update

Tom and I bent over for our first visit to the House of Blues Friday night.

We took the light rail (Dallas version of public transport) and started with a dreary, greasy dinner at Friday’s in the West End. If we’d had a clue, we would have gone to Victory Plaza instead, where we could have overpaid for a meal but at least had more attractive people to look at while we did.

(Note to Dallasites—what went wrong with the West End? Tom and I went to the opening festivities in the 1980s, when all was excitement and promise. Now it’s a bleak wasteland. The West End Marketplace is closed and empty. Dallas Alley is dark and creepy and deserted. I did like the Archway of Random Neon Geometric Shapes, leading from Dallas Alley to the Plaza of Empty Promises before you reach the razzle-dazzle of Victory Park. But my gosh, if it weren’t for the aggressive roses-selling guys and a few misguided tourists, the West End at night would be deserted.)

Anyway, we went to the Cambridge Room, which is the smaller HoB venue, to see The Donnas. The tickets were listed on the website for $15.50 but somehow cost $37.50 for two at the box office. That pissed me off from the gitgo.

Then, as we passed through exterior gates, a couple dumpy security guys with wands approached us and muttered at us officiously and unintelligibly.

“Wha?” both Tom and I said.

“Take everything metal out of your pockets, put your purse on your wrist and hold your arms out,” they clarified, only slightly more intelligibly.

Oh, OK. The guy preparing to wand me—-he looked like an enormous five-year-old and sucked on a lollipop—-started waving his wand like I was a plane taxiing to the gate.

“What?” I said. “Purse too high up? Open it? What?”

He kept waving the wand.

“Use words,” I finally said.

Evidently, he wanted me to take a step to my left so, I guess, he could be spared the monumental effort of taking one step to his left to reach me.

“OK, I guess I’ll move over,” he said, through his lollipop.

Yeah, good idea. He gave me a perfunctory wanding, peeked in my purse and waved me on.

“You know what, Tom?” I said as we walked the ramp to the doors.

“You hate the House of Blues already?” he guessed correctly.

Happily, the Donnas were already on stage. (It was an all-ages show; I expect that’s why it was deliciously early.) The crowd was mostly men. We did note a few couples in roughly our age range. Former punks like us or tourist game for anything? Hard to tell. Tom bent over for a $5 can of Shiner, I saved for my retirement by not drinking anything.

The Donnas were Miley Cyrus punk. Very Disney slick ‘n ‘shiny. Lead singer Brett Anderson was altogether too talkative between songs and her patter was needy, focusing entirely on whether or not the crowd was sending enough love her way. She was having a good time—the crowd was loud and loving her—but that was pretty much all she could talk about. Ho hum. I did like her arms, though. I would like long, lean arms like that. Tom declared her not as hot as she was when she was younger. So what else is new?

While the band did their thang, dawg, we entertained ourselves speculating about a young-ish blonde in a short black sequin dress circa 1992 who was allowing herself to be dance-humped from behind by the parade of exceedingly dorky young men she was partying with. Tragic, really.

We were in bed by midnight, sated by calories, music and mocking. It was a good night. It would have been a great night, in its own ridiculous way, if it hadn’t been so damn expensive. The Cambridge Room pleasant enough but honestly, it will take a helluva band to get me back there.

It may have been rock and roll but it wasn't really rock and roll.

i'm soaking in it

If you happen to share my affection for show music, this CD is an all-time great. Annie Ross singing Gypsy in the studio with a very hot band.

today's blog post

Late last night, after suffering through a day of insults on my MySpace blog, I got bad news about a scholarship I’d had high hopes for. Bye-bye dreams of grad school, unless something surprising turns up. We’re just not in a position to take on big loans. Both our cars are falling apart and those will have to come first.

This is just a few weeks after a deeeeeelish book project I thought was in the pocket was given to another writer. I’d planned to hit the ground running on it when I got back from India, but no. Someone else is writing my book. Bastard.

My friends, I am flattened today. See that person-shaped rug on the floor? That’s me. If you poke me with your toe, I will grumble, but I won’t have the energy to pick myself up.

So, what do you do when you need to soothe yourself?

My yoga class this morning was useful. It was with the teacher with magic hands. She likes to walk around making adjustments. Sometimes she just lays her hands on the spot on your body that needs relaxing (usually my upper back) and the muscles just let go. Magical.

I know Mary self-soothes with British costume dramas. She has a huge library of them and I have to say, they can be effective. Especially accompanied by wine and chocolate. Chocolate always helps, of course. Also baked goods. Things involving cinnamon.

But last night, while a protoplasm of beaten-down-ness on the couch, I stumbled upon the last 30 minutes of My Fair Lady, starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn (and whoever played Audrey Hepburn’s voice). Boyhowdy, there was some good distraction. I started enjoying The Reluctant Debutante afterwards (it was Rex Harrison night on AMC) but the hour was late and I needed to go to bed.

I’m still feeling pretty blecchy today, though. So what shall I do for myself?

I say, more Broadway musicals!

My office is a sty. Nobody can work in a mess like this. So off to iTunes I go, to buy My Fair Lady and maybe The King and I and Guys ‘n’ Dolls who knows what else. I will crank up the show tunes, sing along lustily like a great big goober, and clean my office. I might even have cinnamon toast.

Fuck ‘em all! Onward ho!

times square, 1979

My brother Nick just sent me this video of one of our NYC favorite bands back in the day, The Laughing Dogs.

The Laughing Dogs played all the usual places—CBGB, Max’s Kansas City, Hurrah, Bottom Line. I hadn't heard them in a long time and was relieved that they sound every bit as good to me as I remember. They were power pop tunesters with chops. I went to every gig I could get to, and that was most of them. I saw them open for Patti Smith in New Jersey and back up the Monkees in a club on the ground floor of the Empire State Building, if I remember correctly.

I may have been in the crowd somewhere wearing a Joehead mask (you'll know what I mean when you see it). I can’t recall, but these guys were friends with Nick and I was a peripheral friend so it's possible/likely. (If you were a girl back then you had to be dating someone in order to be anything more than peripheral to the scene.) I'm still in touch with Carter Cathcart--the piano player--now and then. I had a big crush on the bass player, Ronny Carle (nee Altaville), the one doing most of the singing. He looks like Trouble, right? Yeah. I had great taste in men. My first big romance was a hard-drinkin’ gun lover. Yikes.

But enough about me. Ladies and gentlemen, The Laughing Dogs:

P.S. serious earworm potential here