I Saw God and/or The Reputation

Recently, some of my friends pointed out that I can't seem to write anything that doesn't prominently feature scatology; sodomy; violence toward &/or humiliation of celebrities; (often combined w/eulogies for has-been celebrities;) absurd transformations of people into objects like paper airplanes, hieroglyphics, etc.; cannibalism; &/or images of decay & death, including (but not limited to) frequent encounters w/ the walking dead. They pointed out how often—very often, these days—these themes not only interrupt my ostensible subjects, but frequently shanghai them, beat them senseless & then dance on their carcasses.

My friends seemed sorta concerned about their observation, but mostly just pleased w/ themselves for mapping out part of my psyche—smug bastards. The only thing they couldn't figure out was if I was unconsciously inserting (snicker) these themes, or if I knew I was doing it—and if I did, whether or not it was a matter of choice.

Well, I don't know about all that. You may think I try to fit these things in. The truth is, they just seem to come up in the writing. I guess that's where I am right now, & rather than try to rein in that part of what I write, I figure it's best to let it run its course. Whether it's tedious or boring, it appears that I (& whoever, if anyone, reads this) am (are) stuck in this territory for the time being.


OK so I don't try to fit that stuff in. But I will absolutely admit that I do try to fit in Elizabeth Elmore whenever possible. What's more, I wouldn't mind trying to fit into Elizabeth Elmore. She's that much of a fox. (And Liz, if you're reading this, I mean no disrespect. I am just overmastered by my passion. Nor am I a creepy stalker type. I'm too humble—too much of a scruffy hangdog type to do more than admire you from afar.) And recently, something that relates to Liz actually happened to me.

January 7th saw something like a dramatic yearly astronomical event: The Reputation's annual post-holiday show at Schuba's tavern. Sadly, the last time I'd seen them had been at the previous year's shindig. Since then, I've had to live on the records and my memories. ('Tho I'm still not reconciled to the second album, it hasn't left my iTunes library just yet. I mean, this is, after all, The Reputation.) I always try to make their shows, but lately the timing's been bad. It's been one fucking weird year. So I was amped, cleared my calendar & was ready for the party.

I got to Schuba's early. I waded through the obnoxious Sat. night singles crowd, heading for the back room, whereat I received a hand-stamp in red ink. (After I left the show, a beloved female acquaintance said, "Weeagh! What the fuck happened to yr. hand?" I looked down & saw a large brightly inflamed spot. I said, "Weeagh!" Then I realized it was my "stamp." Either I sweated a lot, or the guy minding the door was being a little lax w/ the hand-stamping.)

I think I've been to Schuba's since the last gig. If it did happen, I guess whatever I saw must not've been that memorable, right? Up until about a year ago, I went out to see live music around once or twice a week, work permitting. These days, it's not unusual for a month to pass w/o my going to any of my old haunts. (The Empty Bottle, Metro, the Riviera, etc.) I'm not sure what's changed. I am a year older, I'll admit. (Fucking calendars.) But more important, I think, is the fact that it was a weird year, as I said. It's sucked, because live music has always uplifted the quality of my life—esp. in the last decade or so.

I don't see anybody very high profile anymore. The last time I did, it was Neil Young, & the show was really, really weak. I've seen him 3 other times in both solo folksy & blisteringly loud rock arrangements, & he's usually pretty great. But this time the show felt perfunctory, and the ticket prices were downright usurious. Mostly I stick to lower profile, often local performers. And lately, 'tho I listen to additional other stuff at home, (Hank Williams, Miles Davis, Sly Stone, Robert Johnson, & C.,) these tend to be purveyors of a limited range of electronica, metal, "avant noise," singer-songwriter acoustic guitar stuff, & most frequently, free jazz & punk/garage rock.

I've found utterly transcendent & utterly disappointing moments at performances of all the above listed types of music. But it's the free jazz & punk/garage rock shows that provide the lion's share of intense experiences. Sadly, the charlatans outnumber the geniuses, so disappointment is more common. Especially at the free jazz & rock shows.

I know that I've recently maligned contemporary rock music, esp. as it travels under the moniker "garage." I dislike that term because it's so clearly a marketing label. Suddenly, a year or 2 ago, we were told through magazines, newspapers, TV & radio, that there was a "garage revival" at hand. ("Garage revival." Doesn't that sound like a rummage sale put on by fundamentalist Christians? Maybe to raise money for some new pews? "Pews!" HAW! HAW! HAW!) I'm pretty sure that there have been plenty of bands playing basic straightforward rock in & out of garages all along & all over the place. I don't think we need a revival, because in terms of rock n' roll, the garage has always been w/ us.

The Reputation are kinda anomalous as far as my taste in music goes. They could be located in the garage—or at least, that's where Elizabeth Elmore may've formed her first set of calluses, playing w/ the other very young members of her Champaign, IL. band Sarge. Today, Elizabeth proudly hawks her own T-shirts, CDs etc., like any other self-respecting indie rock figure. From what I understand, she's always followed a D.I.Y. esthetic, which I take to be Criterion #1 if you're going to be admitted to The Garage or The Pub or The Trailer Park or The Condemned Warehouse. Or any of the other archetypal places where kids w/ a genuine love of music get together & try to achieve a collective 4/4 rhythm & link a coupla bar chords together. That's the beauty of it, right? Anyone can do it. It's at least 50% attitude. And Elizabeth has plenty of that.

Now understand, I do not mean to say that The Reputation play "dangerous" rock music. There's too much of a pop sensibility there—too much of a focus on melody and not enough on danger. Danger in rock is mostly an absurd but enjoyable convention, unless you're at a GG Allin show, or Altamont or Woodstock 2000, or the type of late Stooges performance that's amoralized on Metallic K.O. (Lester Bangs famously called it the only live rock album he knew of "where you can actually hear hurled beer bottles breaking against guitar strings.") And while events of this nature sound good on vinyl, I'm not sure they'd really be fun to attend, unless you're fond of rape, murder, & other misc. violence. (Whether it's yr. own or someone else's rape or murder is basically a matter of luck & therefore beside the point.)

Anyway, I don’t see any reason why a love of melody or of unironic joy or heartache should be damning qualities for a rock band to have. If you like The Beatles, say, & you've been busy sneering at sentimental stuff, then you're obviously a hypocrite. Probably a pussy too: "Sentimental" is a cheap shot label, frequently used by "cynics" to cover the fact that they just made water in their pants because someone was expressing an authentic emotion. The horror! Maybe that qualifies as a kind of danger after all.

When an emotional expression is real, which, I'll grant ya, is rare, it's a great pleasure, which is probably the most important reason why I go to see The Reputation, in spite of the fact that there is not a single other performer of this sort whose shows I attend. It's power pop—another stupid label. To the extent that it has any applicability: Power because on the one hand, it's usually played w/ kinda loud electric guitars. Pop because it's hooky—and because no one would ever call it dangerous.

I am not dangerous. (Unless I'm on the job.) I do like some pop stuff from the 60s-80s. Buuuutttt... I don't like much of the contemporary pop stuff I've heard. (Which isn't much, 'cuz I never listen to the radio unless the Cubs are playing.) But I never regret it when I do get to see The Reputation.

Anyway on the night in question, the Schuba’s crowd was pretty dull. The atmosphere was something like what I imagine an office Xmas party to be. The opener, The 8th Grade, hit the stage promptly, no waiting around, like punctual schoolboys. They then embarked on a adequate, but bromidic set of amalgamated "alternative" toonz.

The singer/rhythm guitarist had short curly hair and was handsome in a clean-cut, sexually irrelevant way—the cheery sort of fellow who leads his church youth group but then goes out to "rock" on the weekends. He did have one song that featured the repeated use of the word "fuck," but, like, the band’s delivery was too arch & cutesy pie for you to feel real threatened. Or interested.

About the only unusual thing about this band were its two lead guitars! You don't see that shit much these days, do you? (Beloved female acquaintance: "Do they need 3 guitars?" She doesn't pay attention to that sort of thing when she listens to music. A buncha the rest of us: "No!") One guitarist had dreds & was clearly this band's idea of a sexy bad boy. He played a lotta squealy high register solos. They were OK, but not worthy of the glee he seemed to find in them. Don't get me wrong: genuine glee is cool. Just this guy's seemed a little self-conscious. My fave band member was the other guitar player, a skinny slob w/ a dorky Prince Valiant hair cut. He really did seem to feel the music—unselfconsciously. And for my money, his solos were better too.

Suffice it to say that they were McBarband in a post-"alternative" soft-core emo maybe sorta way. They were maybe playing in a style that's similar to The Reputation, but like, they couldn't carry The Reputations jock strap. As it were. Oh yeah, this wannabe-heroin-chic chick in a low-cut sleeveless black shirt trundled about clickin' off pix of the fellas plying their rawk. She was one of those aggressively thin women—sorta like the heroin-chic queen of yore, Kate Moss—who look like they'd snap in two if you pushed 'em. She’d squat down low—lookin’ for all the world like some humanoid woodland critter stoppin’ to deposit its spoor,) extending long legs everywhichway around her, so as not to block yr. view. Good thing it wasn't that crowded yet, or she mighta fatally sliced someone w/an errant kneecap.

Ah well. No accounting for opening acts, right? Which is probably a good thing, because the second act, Baby Teeth, actually gave The Reputation a run for their money. As in, Elizabeth had to fight (only a little) not to be upstaged. And she gracefully, if ruefully acknowledged this when she took the stage later. These guys were a last minute fill-in for some other act, but they hit the stage running.

Get this: only 3 guys this time. One plays bass & sings spot-on harmony parts. Another plays the drums, actually adding some personality to the thump-thump 4/4, and providing a second harmony part to the main vocal, delivered by a guy who's playing a bevel of old-school analog synths—a small Roland being the only 1 I remember specifically—sometimes one synth w/ each hand at the same time!!! Holy shit! And these weren't mere acrobatics. No ho. These guys had songs. And they sang 'em like they meant 'em.

Sure, it was all very theatrical—operatic even: All three band members wore white T-shirts & pants. The music hadda Ziggy-era Bowie glam feel to it which was fed by the frontman's warbling delivery. His features shifted in a histrionic, downright protean manner. These guys were performing, sure, but they were in the zone, and as they moved further into it, they grabbed you by yr. balls & dragged you along w/ 'em.

Speaking of balls, remember how I said I'd like to fit into Elizabeth? Well, failing or in addition to that, I really wouldn't mind being her guitar strap. To caress that lovely breast… No, all you soulless Cro-Magnon types, it's not huge. But it—they—both of them are beautifully shaped, and I can only dream of being that strap allowed to caress, gently slide over the cup of Liz's breast, slick w/ the sweat of passion she must find in her music. (Not to mention the heat of the stage lights.) I could sculpt her unseen nipple—exquisite, I'm sure. Most of all, 'tho, I could simply embrace Elizabeth—as an object, sure, but one that she trusts. (I know I can't hope for love.) Oh but wait, we're getting off the subject again...

Except we're not! Not really. I mention the guitar strap because, well, pretty soon Elizabeth was climbing up those steps to the stage. (Schuba's does not seem to provide its performers w/ a backstage area.) Her blond hair shone w/ what might've been a streak of copper. Hard to say if it was an added highlight or just an effect of the light, but I thought I'd spotted such a tint earlier. (More about that later.) On stage, she was resplendent in a brand spankin' new pair of blue jeans & a black sleeveless shirt. (She loves those things, & they do show off her shapely arms—toned, but not too creepily muscled.) There she did break out her ax. It looks like a custom job—the wood being, uh, red—and it does bear a strap. Annnnnddd... said strap does tend to fall across the velveteen (as I imagine it) surface of Elizabeth's left breast. (Sigghhhh...) So see w/ the strap thing? I do have some sense of logic, however roundabout!

OK, you're saying, I get it. But what you really want to know is what Elizabeth did w/ her ax, once she'd plugged in & ordered her guys to attack. Well, it took a minute or 2 to get to that because Thax Douglas appeared. Thax is this large, soft-spoken bearded fellow who sometimes appears at Chicago rock shows to pay tribute to a band w/ some specially tailored pseudo-Beat poetry. It’s always kinda cool when you get to see him. Anyway, he came up & gave The Reputation its beautifully nonsensical tribute. (He'd already provided one for Baby Teeth, which means they must be gettin' big round these parts.)

And thennnnn Elizabeth showed you she was a regular human being by exchanging some Johnny-n-Ed or Dave-n-Paul type chitter chatter w/lead guitarist Sean Hulet. (Who, by the way, looks suspiciously like recently departed & greatly missed NYC guitar impresario Bob Quine—which is to say he's fat, balding & always wears glasses. Hmmmm.... Maybe Bob just wanted to cut all the high profile horseshit & get back to the real music he'd always loved. Yeah. Maybe. But I doubt it.)

The subject for yukkin' here was how drunk they'd gotten at last year's show—they even did shots on stage!!! To all you distinguishing drinkers out there who want to immediately hop on the next big thing—potato vodka & single malt scotch having lost their hipness sometime back—I sadly do not know what The Rep were sluggin'. Of course, Elizabeth does speak of how "whiskey had fucked w/ my head" in "She Turned Your Head." But we have to assume that's a dramatic convention, since while I do think Elizabeth's pain is genuine, I cannot imagine her having so little self-respect as to creep around in the dark like some drooling gutterpup, surveilling her on-again-off-again paramour's (it's unclear if they're on- or off- at this point) place to see if little Miss Sally Loosepants was showing up to service him.

A friendly chortle or 2 was had at the expense of the humble, quiet bass player, Greg Mytych, a bearded, kinda handsome guy, who appeared to be unselfconsciously into the music himself. He had declined the previous evening's invitation to go out drinkin' w/ his fellow male band members. (Elizabeth made it clear that she was hurt by her own exclusion. What's wrong w/ these heartless, sexist bastards?) Seems this fellow tee-totals or at least samples spirits in considerable moderation. Sean Hulet made the following, disturbing revelation: "Dude, I'm 61!" and went on to say that if he could still get shit-faced, this snot-nosed punk better grow a pair! Nothing wrong w/ rockin' whilst agin', but I mean, fuck man, couldn’t you have kept that shit to yerself? I was already feeling old!

Ever wily Elizabeth suggested that they turn the tables on the usual band rowdiness by forcing shots only on this hapless guy. That did not happen, but he did toss one back w/ the band at the appropriate moment.

But so then they cut loose w/ "Either Coast," starting the show w/ the same up-tempo rocker that begins the first record. Man, did it kick! It was louder and more aggressive than you hear it on plastic—downright rock, baby. Light on the pop. That's the way I like it, 'tho I also dig some of those heartfelt ballads. Elizabeth went light on these for some reason. No "Uselessness of Friends" w/, among other things, that brilliant couplet, "won't waste my mind on things that can't remain/same latent flaw keeps coursing through my brain”—a brilliant interpolation, I’m sure you’ll agree, of the ol’ United Negro College Fund slogan.

And worst of all, there was no sign of "For the Win." I did notice that no keys were in sight. Elizabeth sticks to the ax, mostly, but when it's time to really tug at yr. heartstrings, she slides her dainty posterior behind some keys & machine guns you w/ one of her sad songs. I remember wondering, somewhere in the mist of my disorientation, whether she'd been keeping up on her piano exercises. It's easy to let that shit go, I know, esp. when you have another instrument you play.

The absence of keys didn't hurt in at least one respect: we were spared the crappy "jazzy" vamping that ruins so many of the songs on the second disc, To Force a Fate. As a composer & arranger, I like how Elizabeth does interesting things w/ rock/pop idioms. Subtle interesting things, of course: the melodies & the hooks are always there.

The ding-dong moodiness of "The Stars of Amateur Hour," for instance, is cleverly linked to a discordant arpeggio, thus creating a pretty wicked sense of dynamics. This song, one of my personal favorites, was kicked out & revved up by the band, thankfully. The delivery was spot-on, and aside from that the song provided one of the high points of the evening for me, as my party all toasted the lines "...a certain inept licentiousness/ an artless gluttony for squalidness & heated promises." By far, it's one of my favorite Elizabethisms, and I was touched that my friends made this gesture to me. (While they like 'em, my friends mostly think I'm a little overenthusiastic about The Reputation.)

Aside from the downright bizarre "Bottle Rocket Battles," inspired arrangements are mostly missing-in-action on To Force a Fate. The MOR jazziness ain't very creative, and in fact drags the material dangerously close to adult contemporary gruel. Now "Bottle Rocket Battles" features a chanting pair of voices, one male & one female, on its verses, which is set against beautifully sung choruses. This song captures the same sort of emotional and creative tension that marks "Amateur Hour." That it follows an entirely different path to pop glory is admirable. That it rocks is cool: It's a barn-burning thrash-out on the verses. (Sort of.) And then it settles in for some tense chug-chuggin’ guitars on the choruses. It was another welcome piece of the set list.

Aside from the pumped up volume, there’s one other difference I noticed between the way the band sounds live & on plastic. I don't want to criticize Elizabeth, but her singing is not quite as assured when you hear her in person. The very clear and emotive vocals heard on both albums become kinda sorta squeaky on stage. I think that may be a consequence of having to make yourself heard above The Rep's Wall of Sound. (Such as it is.) No matter how much vocal they put in the mix. Still, Elizabeth isn't the only distinguished musical artist to rely on an overdub or two (maybe even a little processing) when recording. Look at late-period Beatles fer chrissake!

But OK, it wasn’t all flowers. Every experience has to have a low point… During some of that amusing banter between Elizabeth & Sean, he starts talking about the White Sox. Man, can this guy kill a party or what? I'm out trying to enjoy myself. I don't need to hear this shit. Sorry, Sox. You can have yr. Series—and I earnestly congratulate you for that. Really. But you will never have my love. That lives in Wrigley Field.

Anyway, this is Chicago, & there are matters of tact re: this whole baseball thing. 'Tho I deferred to silence out of respect for Elizabeth, I was glad to hear that the rest of the crowd did not. More of them than I would've expected booed, & Mr. Hulet looked a little taken aback. Could this be The Reputation's Metallic K.O.??? Would we soon hear the breaking of beer bottles against Sean’s guitar strings, or worse yet his cackleberry skull???

"I got 2 words for ya," he sez: "Dusty Baker." That's all he's got? Sure, Dusty sucks ass, but we already know that. And Ozzie Guillen is approximately 10,317 times cooler, but hell, in spite of Dusty's sucking, we still came to within an angel's downy pubic hair of the 2003 World Series & despite his incomprehensible handling of the pitching staff at the end, he didn't single-handedly blow 2003 for us either. Appropriately, this bit of raillery drew nothing but half-hearted grunts.

Still, indirectly, his words drew blood from me: There are but few things I truly love in this sadly misshapen world. I'd shrugged off the basic dilemma this fellow put before me: How should I react to a minion of beloved Elizabeth slandering the beauty of north-side baseball? But it broke my heart to see Elizabeth nodding at the foolish, bandwagon-jumping (I suspect) sentiments of her underling. "I kinda like baseball now," she said

Damn it Elizabeth! If only we could watch baseball together... You'd see that yr. love for the game is a good thing, but currently misdirected. Ah well... When the Cubs take the World Series this year, things will be different.

Anyway, all in all, I can't complain. And I haven’t even told ya everything! I saved the best part for last: During a break between bands, I went over to the bar to get a beer. The waitress was steering clear of me, I think because when she'd come around once before, I'd told her I didn't want another beer yet although my glass was like 80% empty. I was trying to pace myself. It doesn't hurt to be sorta drunk for these things, but I didn't want my senses to be too blunted, nor to make an ass of myself before the good shit went down on stage.

(For a moment during the show, I was worried. A guy's voice calling out from the crowd, and Elizabeth squinted angrily out into the crowd & said my name! "Steve, is that you?" She was not amused. Was it my voice??? Had it gotten away from me? Was I that drunk? Fortunately, it wasn't me. It was some other Steve.)

Anyhoo, I headed to the bar, waited in a short line, & then the bartender gave me one of those double handed points—kinda like he had 2 six-shooters. Y'know... like those guys in discotheques did in the 70s. It looked like he’d practiced it pretty rigorously, so after I got my beer, I gave him a healthy tip, and headed back into the crowd. I nearly bumped into a short woman who was right the fuck next to me. She had sensible shoulder-length hair that appeared to hold a red tint. I was too disoriented to notice much else, and so I did an actual spit-take when one of my friends asked me how come I hadn't asked Elizabeth for her autograph after nearly colliding w/ her. And that's how I saw that hint of copper up close.

Damn it! That close & I didn't get to talk to her. Probably just as well. I don't think I could've come up w/ much more than monosyllables anyway. I'll just have to continue to love her from afar...

Elizabeth, Elizabeth! (The tip of the tongue taking four steps.) What can I say? How could I ever show you the depth of the love I feel for you as a woman & as an artist?

My female friends tell me you are self-involved. I would say they are wrong, but for an abiding respect that leads me to, uh, extend only the truth to you. Still, why shouldn't you be self-involved? You are magnificent.

My female friends tell me you would've been one of "the popular girls" in school. Of course you could've, if you'd wanted to! W/ yr. beauty?! W/ yr. intelligence!?! They point out that you may have exaggerated yr. apparent intelligence by delivering indecipherable lyrics like "...I'll stay far away from you ground the things we set aloft & burned them through a wasted premise: 'we'..." So I asked them how they could call these words pretentious if they couldn't even figure out what said words meant! Ha! That shut 'em up! (‘Tho truth be told, I think I was restating their criticism when you get down to it.)

My female friends say that you only tell yr. side of the story in yr. songs. Well, OK, I said as much back there in my celebration of the first Reputation record. What they miss—and I told 'em this—is yr. sensitive side. Vindictive as those songs may seem, they come from a deep personal pain, & as such, here are some promises I want to make to you, Liz. I will probably never meet you, but if the opportunity springs up, I will...


-protect you from drunken singles bar louts, like the ones who are no doubt ogling you in "The Stars of Amateur Hour;"
-not simper about how you've caused me so much pain, (even if you ever do,) nor, esp., call you a "slut," like that asshole milquetoast from "Misery by Design;"
-if we are courting, (even in an on again/ off again way,) allow the "tail end of [any other woman's] ass slip up [my] stairs," & not just because I'm not sure how there can be anything other than a tail end to someone's ass, (I might've gone w/ "ass end of her tail" if it were me, but you're the gifted one around here,) but also because I would be zealously loyal till you told me to get lost; not like that jerkoff in "She Turned Your Head," I mean;
-not "underestimate" you when I am unable to explain something to you like that "Alaskan" chump;
-not perpetrate whatever misc. wrongs yr. former paramours commit vs. you on the second record, To Force a Fate; (sorry, I don't know what these may be as I rarely listen to the thing;)
-and most of all, I will watch out for "late night spills" & never ever ever ever use you sexually to make myself feel better like that shithead from "For the Win." Not once.



I think we can see what the problem really is here, Eliza- beth: My female friends are really fucking jealous of you! Which is understandable. I mean, as the Song of Songs sez, "...thou art fair, my love; thou hast doves' eyes w/in thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are ever shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate w/in thy locks..." (4:1-4:3)



Ah, Elizabeth! What more is there to say? I'm exhausted. As always, I got nothin'.

Except that I had a great time at the show, as usual. And that I really love yr. record. The first one. And that I have a genuine & abiding love for the band & esp. for Elizabeth.







No matter how dorky she is.

Force Manure

I know. This is not about Hawaii. This is not about Thing-Fish. I haven't even finished describing my flights to Hawaii, & I didn't even listen to Thing-Fish till my first full day on the island. (I am coming to that. It's all written out even. It just takes a while to get this shit up here, y'know?) But sometimes important things come up... Immediate important things even.

Gimmme an E! Gimme another E! Whatta they spell??? Right! Elizabeth Elmore!

I saw her recently. In the flesh. Any regular reader of this chronicle must understand at least part of what that means!

But before I can even present my account of that heated moment, I feel obliged to provide a foundation of sorts. Catch Elizabeth live in my next entry! It's all written & everything, but I wanna give you time to digest. So w/o further ado, I present....



Force Manure


Being a Brief Consideration of The Reputation's Second Recording, To Force a Fate.

by Harley Bumslurper



A general thesis: To Force a Fate is esthetically inferior to its predecessor, The Reputation. It is also less enjoyable to experience.

There are a number of obvious reasons for this difference. First is a general lack of distinction—and presumably of assurance--in the second album's use of the basic building blocks of popular music—including, but not limited to catchy, pretty melodies; the eloquent expression of universal emotions; and invigorating rhythms. Second is a the not unrelated absence of esthetic chances taken, as even within the arena of popular music, the author takes moderate formal experimentation as a useful resource that may be used by the artist to distinguish her music from the rest of the pop glop available on CD. Third—and I will not say finally, as I have doubtlessly overlooked other areas—is a lack of emotional force, expressed either vocally or musically within this recording.

That being said, I feel that I've often maligned the record w/o specifically indicating what is wrong w/ it. So I would like to work through the album song by song, providing brief reflections on each one. (I will omit a careful consideration of the lyrics, as I have no transcriptions available to me at this time):




-"Let This Rest" - A promising opener—energetic, catchy and sentimental. It ain't "Either Coast," but it's a pretty good, if undistinguished example of the Rep's M.O.

-"Bottle Rocket Battles" - The most challenging track, 'tho not necessarily the best. (Not sure what that would be, so I guess this could be a candidate. The dual male/female vocal undercuts the typical myopic bias of Elizabeth's lyrics. The chorus is moody, but pretty, & there's a downright hilarious hair-band lead-in to its 2nd run. It's nice to see the band trying something different & good to find them tryin' to rock. Too bad they don't make much of an effort elsewhere.

-"Follow-Through Time" - Unleash the lousy "jazzy" piano! Good points: nice melody, some pretty singing, 'tho Elizabeth doesn't sound very confident, but rather a little restrained. At least it's a little louder. A pretty good track that's just not very engaging or memorable. (And as such, it seems to go on for, like, ever.)

-"Face It" - Again, undistinguished, and to my ear it's drifting into adult contemporary/soft rock radio territory. I do like the forceful, pissy way Elizabeth belts out that chorus. Again, it's damn unfortunate that she doesn't show this kinda fire through very often elsewhere.

-"The Lasting Effects" - OK, here's a candidate for the disc's worst track. This one's just riddled w/ bad choices, from the wimpy, morose trumpet to that male guest vocal--in its own ridiculous way, as memorable as the guy/chick singing dynamics of "Bottle Rocket Battles." Its indistinct warbly quality makes you wonder just who the fuck that poor slob is and why the fuck did he let 'em stuff his mouth fulla cotton. (I'm assuming that's partly a mixing issue.) A crappy lead guitar, sparkly rhythm section, and there's that goddamn trumpet again! This one not only approaches a soft rock style, it stumbles into it like an American platoon at the Cambodian border.

-"March" - Dontcha hate it when a singer starts directly addressing the sun, a feeling or a time of day or year. I mean, who the fuck is Elizabeth supposed to be here, Lord Byron? What's more, she sounds less than assured as a vocalist, songwriter or arranger. The melody is amorphous. The song is boring. And again, it sounds like some adult contemporary monstrosity, which given its immediate predecessor, makes you feel like yr. growing worries about this record are pretty nearly certainties at this point.

-"Cartography" - A notably stupid name. (I restrained myself from commenting on this silliness elsewhere.) It almost makes you think that she's playing Thelonious Monk here. And hey! She is playing a keyboard! She's shooting for jazzy once again, w/ similarly deflating results. For some reason, the dull guitar playing leaps out at me as the most obvious sign of general torpor. This song's not quite as bad as "Follow-Through Time," but it's also not quite as bad as a Rick Astley tune. Unfortunately, it is a cousin of Mr. Astley's work.

-"Some Senseless Day" - Finally! A little musical aggression! And coupled w/ one of those beautiful melodies that Elizabeth used to knock out w/o breaking a sweat, (or so it seemed,) it becomes something like the sound that drew me to The Reputation. The trumpet is as superfluous as ever, but its weird Bitches Brew feel actually made me notice it at least. Aside from "Bottle Rocket Battles," this is the only other contender for the record's best song, 'tho I'm surprised I listened long enough to hear it.

"Anarchy in the U.K." - Fooled ya! Really 'tho, this is the point in the album where I start wishing I was listening to the Sex Pistols

-"The Ugliness Kicking Around" - (Another dumb title.) The keys here are the best ones you'll find on this CD. And the track's the only decent ballad around as well. The trumpet shows up again, but it's settled back into dull mopery. The song's OK. It kinda feels like it's shooting at "For the Win" in its moodiness & extended arrangement, but it lacks that song's fire. Also: strings? Why the fuck does this song need strings??? Elizabeth, please, calm down! At least it's a little too bold and forceful to come across as a straightforward stab at soft rock soft core.

-"Bone-Tired" - Minus the guest bleating, this one sounds just like "The Lasting Effects." That means it sucks. It is a nice change to hear Elizabeth being warm, rather than hot-headed or weepy. But overall, this track feels half-hearted, & being the last track on such a short--by contemporary standards—album, it comes across as filler.




In summation: To Force a Fate seems compromised by a desire to come across w/ a hit. Maybe the move to Lookout! Records put pressure on Elizabeth. Or maybe the fact that she was running short on ideas did. She seems to be flailing about here, in search of songs. (It is reminiscent of a late-period Corey Patterson at-bat.) Whatever the case, the album's over-busy and lacks bite or attitude. It's only 40 minutes long, but it feels much longer. As a sincere fan, I hope it doesn't indicate the direction in which the band is headed.

My Super-Speed 16

Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah! At the drive-in, where I was 16 and out of my mind on these pills. (And there was something else back there somewhere about traveling and a Zappa record or something. I’m sure we’ll get back to it somehow, but you gotta let these things work themselves out.)

Well, there I was, pacing furiously around the entire drive-in theater, over & over again. I was w/ a friend who was not speeding and apparently felt that I needed watching. I don’t know how he kept moving that fast. I was telling him about my idea for an opera, based on the decline of William Katt’s career after The Greatest American Hero was cancelled. (Presumable decline—I didn’t know this at the time, but the guy was still getting the occasional TV guest role.)

I was explaining how there were gonna be all these parts where a buncha valkyries on horses soared around William Katt while he pretended to fly clumsily (and in a really obviously fake way) in front of a rear projection screen, just like he did in every episode of The Greatest American Hero.

And the final tear-jerking number, would be sung by a castrato. And yes I do know (& also did at the time) that they don't castrate opera singers anymore, but that'd be part of what would be so daring about this opera. See, you'd get a different guy to play William Katt every night—starting w/ the man himself, of course. You’d get a different baritone each night & then let him do the whole opera normal-like except for the last scene, before which you’d castrate him w/ a rusty hacksaw! (Back stage, of course. Opera's haute culture and therefore requires the highest standards of good taste.) How's that for daring???

(Though I'm not sure castrating an adult would give him a really high voice. I think that's why they cut 'em off when these guys were kids, I hear, but in the name of great art, anything's worth trying, right?)

And in case you’re wondering about the first night—like, if William Katt couldn’t pull off a baritone, what we’d do. Well, we’d have him lip-synch to some other guy’s voice, but we’d still castrate him & make him sing the high notes at the end, even if he sounded like shit. I mean, every show’s a little clunky on its first night, right?

And so like in the last number, he'd be wearing that stupid red outfit and wandering, alone, around his decaying Hollywood manor, weeping in front of the many mirrors he used to stand in front of whilst wearing the same costume and jerking off to the sight of himself as a famous actor playing a comedic super-hero. And guys dressed in dark cloaks who were supposed to be creditors would be prowling about outside, and his former agent would be singing on a break away set, and supposedly what he'd be singing would be the text of emails he’s sent, saying they shouldn't work together anymore due to (and get this) "creative differences."

William Katt'd weep and wander and bleed at the crotch, all the while belting out these lovely, really high notes that would shatter the lenses of every pair of opera glasses in the house, thus destroying the eyeballs of countless snobs, which, along w/ the pure artistic glory of the thing, would be at least a little beneficial.

(I don't think all opera goers are assholes, and I have nothing against the form or those who genuinely love it. Like Robert DeNiro in The Untouchables. I just hate the clump of pompous rich assholes who are always goin' to the opera. Well, in the movies anyway. I don't know who goes to the opera in real life because I can’t afford the tickets.)

Anyway, in words that were occasionally supplemented by complex sketches I made in the dirt of the drive-in lots, I finished telling my friend about The Passion of William Katt, including lengthy descriptions of sets, lighting, casting, compositional approach, binding of the libretto, orchestral setup and why fat chicks like the ones who sing at the end of opera can be really hot. (My friend was very patient if you haven't picked up on that, by the way,)

Then I started drooling like a basset hound and was feeling kinda shitty, like my chest was about to implode, so I went and sprawled on the hood of my other friend’s car, (the birthday girl's,) and twitched epileptically till she made me get in the passenger seat. I leaned out the window & puked for pretty much the entire ride home. Mostly on the side of her car, for which she did not kick my ass. Wow I had patient friends back then. I wonder why I never hear from them anymore?

And then I got home and woke my mom up with my puking and apologized and told her I ate a bad hot dog at the drive-in. I don’t know if she believed me, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t appear drunk. My speech was way too clear, if fast, and I was way too alert. Fortunately, I don’t think she knew how someone on speed would act. I suspect she hardly even knew it existed. Anyway, she never said anything about it.

But so while I have this bad attraction to stimulants, I also have this bad habit of listening to people on stimulants. And other people. Any people. Somehow, I just find people interesting—even though, generally speaking, they usually piss me off, bum me out or both. Stupidly, I’ll even ask them questions, (which is partly, but not entirely, an occupational reflex,) thereby ensuring that they’ll continue to talk about themselves. With the right kinda person, this can work out OK. You might even meet somebody sorta cool. But usually, the people you talk to just drone on about themselves, revealing general petulance, narcissism, apathy, violence, bigotry, etc., etc. (Not, I’m sure, that I’m any better, when you get down to it.)

So in this case, during the flight from Chicago to Phoenix, I went on listening to my neighbor, the ice expert from the previous entry, well past the point of reason. Part of why she had to get back to Phoenix was because she was only a semester away from completing a degree from the Phoenix Cosmodemonic College. (Don’t remember the actual name of the place.) I asked her what she was studying, and she told me she was gonna be a sex therapist. Caught me off guard. I never met anyone in that line of work.

Then without blinking she said, “I figure people have all kinds of problems with sex. Why not make some money off of it?” Vague smile. Again I was surprised by how blunt she was about her less than romantic and/or altruistic motivations. Don’t know why. In my experience, pretty much anyone who’s in a sex related industry—e.g. porn or strip clubs or flat out prostitution—is not really motivated by sentiment or pleasure. It’s just another job.

Sure enough, the longer I listened to her, the more I grew to dislike her. Not violently—more like with general boredom and irritation. Fortunately, the person sitting to her right chimed in, and she wasn’t a pathological narcissist. She was maybe my age, maybe a little younger and worked as a schoolteacher. Middle school, even.

She had dark hair pulled back by w/ a kerchief type thing. She wasn’t particularly striking—maybe vaguely pretty in a way that good-natured people can be. She was very generous w/ her smile. Here and there she'd turn it my way as though I was likable & interesting, even though I'd just met her. I saw her smile the same way at a stewardess and even... at the sex therapist.

By this time, I’d ceased to make any encouraging noises toward the sex therapist. Or any noises. I think that made me a less desirable audience, because she turned both barrels on the schoolteacher. I probably would've escaped the conversation altogether, if the teacher hadn't drawn me back in with the occasional question. But hey, she was just trying to be nice.

Anyway… Somewhere during the second half of the flight, clouds broke on red mountains. Beneath them were broad expanses of yellow-brown sand, shot through with unexpected swirls of color—mineral deposits?—red and blue and gold. Here and there, sharp light reflected off a distant lake or pool.

I found it easy to lose myself in all of this. I checked out of the conversation, and just watched the landscape mutate, the clouds shift, and the light change. The time passed quickly. Before I knew it, we were making our descent.

While we were on our way down, the sex therapist produced a cell phone and started talking, loudly, into it. It was impossible to zone her out. And as she never seemed to pause to take a breath, I couldn't imagine where the other party was fitting in her/his part of the conversation—if, in fact, he/she/whatever was able to contribute at all.

On the ground, we exchanged the awkward sort of goodbyes shared by air travelers who’ve just met and will probably never speak to one another again. You say goodbye on the plane, and you’re almost always stuck self-consciously ignoring each other while you wait to get off the plane & get gone.

More on the way…

Ice Capades

So back to that Hawaii/Thing-Fish biz…

Online ticketing services can provide you with very cheap travel arrangements, if you’re willing to follow a less than straightforward route to yr. destination. Here’s what my itinerary looked like: Chicago O’Hare to Phoenix, AZ. Here’s the really bassackwards part of my itinerary: Phoenix to Vegas (???) Then it was off to Honolulu, where I had a short layover before boarding the old inter-island puddle-jumper that carried me to glorious, rainy Hilo on the Big Isle of Hawaii.

I’d scored a window seat all the way through to Honolulu. (The inter-island planes are seat-yourself affairs, so I got to sit by the window on the flight to Hilo as well.) That’s the way I like it, but the obvious downside of a window seat is that it’s more difficult to get to the aisle. It’s not the accessibility of the restroom that bothers me. Aside from the 6-hour flight from Vegas to Honolulu, I never had to use the can while in transit.

Nope. What can suck about a window seat is how difficult it makes it to escape from yr. neighbors.

From Chicago to Phoenix, I sat next to a woman in her mid-twenties. She was wide-hipped, short, brunette, attractive. She wore sandals, with carefully painted toenails on display, along with a ring around the second toe of her right foot. Her movements were unselfconsciously sensuous in a—you’ll forgive an overused, but apt metaphor here—feline sorta way.

She slept curled up in her seat for part of the flight, exhibiting a generous flash of silken blue panties between her low ridin' jeans and a thin, short, white zipup type sweater. Her posture was reminiscent of a sleeping cat. I half-expected her to start licking herself, rubbing one spit-dampened hand over an ear, etc. (Sorta like Prince when he’s playin' “I Would Die 4 U” in Purple Rain except minus the weird little jiggle-walk across the stage thing he does.)

Instead she asked me for the time. And after this humble salvo, she unleashed a continuous barrage of anecdotes, observations and encomia—all concerning herself. And almost immediately, she got real unattractive.

She had a grating, gravelly voice and a level of self-involvement that was not only unpleasant, but damn near pathological. (Shades of Liz Elmore, but this chick was not nearly as alluring.) I don’t think she asked me a single question about who I was, where I was going or why—though she was more than happy to provide me with this information re: herself. Whenever I made an offhand comment about my life, my identity, or the weather, she was already in the process of interrupting me, immediately directing the conversation back to something to do with her.

She said she’d been visiting a friend in Chicago. She liked the city and was now thinking about moving there. If she does, the city’s doomed. The levels of green house gases are dangerous enough in the summer already. The amount of carbon dioxide her endless soliloquizing would produce might just spell the extinction of life in the greater Chicagoland area.

She’d grown up in Phoenix, so I asked her how she’d feel about leaving. She said she was getting tired of it. Too many people she knew were heavily into ice. (This is probably obvious, but she was talking about neither the crystallized water stuff nor diamonds nor the long since discredited hip-hop artist Vanilla Ice, but the cheap ass form of speed, for sale on a street near you.)

And I said, “Ah hah,” but she didn’t hear me, because she was already spinning some lengthy yarn about her recent split w/ an ex whose use of said substance, as well as a variety of other recreational substances, had moved a bit beyond the recreational.

In my line of work, I’ve tended to find that the tree doesn’t fall that far from the gander as far as these substance/relationship scenarios go. I recognized the probability that she might be into pharmaceutical recreations herself. Which, even if it was true, didn’t really bother me in & of itself. And either way, it wasn’t really my business.

Besides, I believe anti-drug paranoia runs a little high in our culture. There’s a lotta shit being spread around out there that leads many non-users to some very exaggerated nightmarish imaginings. On the other hand, I do recognize that regular drug use can & frequently does get out of control.

I don’t know where one might draw the whole good/bad line in this area, if in fact one could or should draw one. I do know that I’m inclined to steer away from some chemical entertainments myself. I never tried ice. I don’t generally speed anymore. (Aside from drinking too much coffee here and there, I mean.) Never really had any good experiences with that sorta thing, but I have found that I’m pretty susceptible to wanting to do it.

The one time I really cruised the airwaves, I was at a drive-in theater, celebrating a friend’s 16th. (How’s that for a way to ring in your own personal New Year?) And like, her older sister happened to traffic in some various minor league type recreational substances. And to honor the occasion, she was handing out generous free samples. If we liked the stuff and wanted to pick up more in the future, it was always available for a nominal fee.

So being young &, apparently, terminally stupid, I thought, why not? Life’s about soaking up Experiences or something, right? Party hearty rock n roll drink a fifth and smoke a bowl, as Shelley or Byron or Rilke or Kevin Costner or some other such Romantic spirit intoned somewhere or other. Smoke if you got em. Life’s short play w/ yr. hard-on. Who’s having a potty? Yo having a potty!!!!

So like, I ingested a handful of these interesting little pills, only to find out later that I’d overshot the recommended dosage by a hair or 2. Next thing I knew, I felt great. Freakin' great, even. I was pacing around the whole drive-in, circling all 4 screens, and telling this other friend of mine, who was in town from Maryland and who wisely stuck to organic hallucinogens, about how I was gonna write an opera (and I meant this neither ironically nor in a comedic sorta way) about The Passion of William Katt, because he was so rad in that hilarious Greatest American Hero show that had that really catchy, but asssucking theme song, but now you like never see him and that was pretty sad, because for a while there, this guy must've been riding high on the hog, and he probably shat on his friends and got all these handlers and new sexier, chicer friends w/ better drugs, and partied like it was 1979.

But then, you know, how these show biz rise n’ fall things go. Pretty quickly, the roles he could get must’ve declined in quality. (E.g. and it probably got even worse than this before he really fell of the radar, the first House movie. Anybody remember that one? Sadly, Steve Forceman, P.I. does. It had George Wendt in it if that does anything to jog yr. memory. I think it was just pre-Cheers for him, but he acts just like Norm anyway, which seems to be the only way the guy can act.

It'd probably get real boring hanging out w/ him, because it'd be just like watching re-runs of Cheers, and if you're like me, you probably think it was a sorta good show, but has been re-run a few too many thousand times. Having him go "Good evening everybody!" and then you go "Norm!" or going "What'll it be, Norm?" and having him say some dumb one-liner would probably get old pretty fucking fast, I'll bet.

I'll grant ya, it could be even worse. You could be stuck hanging out w/ John Ratzenberger or Ted Danson, who both try desperately to not act like Cliff or Sam, respectively, whenever I've seen 'em since the show ended. (I try to avoid them whenever possible, and thankfully it’s easier to do these days.) No, they come on all like yeah we’re serious actors and smart and other such snoozeworthy bibble babble.

But then, of course, it could be really bad. You could be stuck hanging out w/ Shelley Long. I'd rather have my face fed into a wood-chipper whilst African army ants munch on my nuts and my legs are slashed repeatedly by big shards of glass and my fingers are repeatedly slammed in car doors while Tim O'Brien reads to me from his novel The Nuclear Age—a literary hunk of dog shit I had the misfortune to step in recently—than spend a single moment w/ that warbling, pompous harpy.

I could never understand why Sam was supposed to be attracted to her. Given his weirdly shaped head—like w/ a pithecanthropoid brow ridge and but w/ a skull that’s like way too longer than that of any pithecanthropoid I ever met. Come to think of it, aside from that brow ridge, he kinda looks like a skull. All sunken and w/ his teeth always in view. Does he even have lips? And man, his little piggy eyes glaring outta those gaping sockets (all the more shadowed by that extended brow)…

Well, given all that, maybe what attracted Sam to Diane—and vise versa—was a principle of ugly drawing ugly. ‘Cuz I mean like otherwise what did draw him to Diane? Dramatic necessity, sure, but did James Burroughs and his shills actually expect me to believe that Shelley Long is attractive? She, like, is all pasty and appears to have a perfectly rectangular torso from which nothing extrudes—no T, no A, no hips.

Come ta think of it, the only things on Shelley Long that seemed to protrude were her bulbous eyes and frumpy hair. (Did she even have limbs? If not, I’m sorry for saying bad shit about her, ‘cuz you should always be respectful to amputees.) OK help me out here, anyone who might read this... Have you ever met Shelley Long in person? If so, please lemme know by posting a comment or clicking on the e-mail link in my profile. Because it just occurred to me that I’ve only ever seen her on TV, which I hear only creates the illusion of depth. So like for all we know, Shelley Long could actually be two-dimensional!!!!

Think of it: All this time you thought Flatland was just speculative fiction! Noooo…. Now that I think of it, I’m almost 100% sure that Shelley Long is flat. I mean she’s a flippin’ flapjack. As in pancakes. Which so might make her interesting to hang out w/ in a mind altering way. (Would she even be able to stand up un-assisted, and if so how? I mean, it seems like she’d just keep fallin’ on the floor. Like a rug. Or a piece of paper.

And wo, shit, think of the vistas that would open before you. And I’m not talking about scientific exploration. Fuck that. What I’m talking about is scrawling notes on Shelley Long. Or watching yr. butcher throw her onto a scale and then plop a big hunk of pork loin on her. (Or whatever animal flesh you like, if you swing that way.)

I’m talking about sweeping dust onto her when you’ve misplaced yr. dustpan. I’m talking about making folded paper type entertainments out of Shelley Long like little hats or boats. Except they wouldn’t be that little, if they were Shelley Long. Unless you cut strips off of her, and I’d feel pretty bad doing that ‘cuz it might hurt and all.

And oh wait! Best of all! You could make a Shelley Long paper airplane! It’d be really fucking big and ergo difficult to launch—and I’m sure she’d bitch at you in her annoying pretentious manner. I mean, how much can she weigh if she’s perfectly flat? (Is it even possible to be perfectly flat? I mean, even paper has some thickness.) Unless she’s like just flat and really dense, she couldn’t weigh that much, right?

Ooh wait! But even better! What if you got a big hunka Silly Putty and flattened it out on Shelley Long, pressing gently but firmly—you know, like you used to do w/ the Sunday funnies—and then peeling it back and seeing a flattened mirror image of Shelley Long. Probably a mirror image death mask of a stunningly blue-faced Shelley Long at that. (‘Tho Silly Putty never quite absorbed the full vividness of the colors.) Wow! You just like smothered Shelley Long as tho’ that Putty were a pillow!

See, now—all this fun we’re having… This is pretty cool! Maybe hanging out w/ Shelley Long isn’t such a bad thing after all…


But wait… Just what the fuck were we talking about in the first place? Something about a drive-in and a plane ride and an opera or something. Ah screw it… We’ll deal w/ that next time around. More is on the way…

Out with the Old, in with the Old! And Older... And Older...

Ah so it's New Year's Eve. What to say? Hmmm... Hmmm??? Uh... Sorry, I got nothin'...

I could tell you what my resolutions are gonna be, but the only 1 I've been able to come up w/ so far is to avoid making resolutions. Oh yeah... and to refrain from end-of-the-year list making. It's just as well. They're already starting to pile up out there, on the airwaves in print and all over the internet. There'll be about a million of 'em bombarding you from every direction by tomorrow morning. So why should I add to your boredom and suspicions that you are just one more unit of surplus humanity, headed for the big landfill some time pretty soon? Ah waste! It's just pilin' up everywhere...

But that's not what we're here to talk about. We're here to talk about New Year's Eve. Speaking of depressing, the truly grim & truly depressing realities of the World Out There kinda make yr. typical “Best Of” lists seem a bit superfluous, don't they? But I hope you'll forgive a moment's weakness, as I step aside from our usual program of Celebrity Death, Sodomy & Humiliation fantasies to be momentarily earnest. (Seriously, I apologize & promise it will never happen again, if I can control it.)

I mean, what are we gonna list here, Best Geopolitical Failure of the Year? Too many choices. I guess if you put a gun to my head, (please, please, please! someone! do it!) I'd hafta go w/ the he continuing elephant in the room, (which, by the way, I'm ready to shoot w/ my, uh, elephant gun, thereby making my contribution to the extinction of these noble, but politically suspect beasts. Fuckin' Republicans!) That little matter that nooonnne of us wants to look at... The winner is... Africa!!!! That's right: continuing its unbroken streak, the entire continent of Africa wins again! Armed militias rapin' and killin', rampant HIV infections!!! Ha ha! It's pretty kooky over there!

Screw all that social responsibility shit 'tho. It's pointless—nothing’s gonna change no matter how much effort you put into it. At least, that's what I hear—and from wiser beings than myself. So I'm pretty comfortable spending my time looking for the Best Entertainments.

But wait, and this is another reason why I'm giving up on the list-making thing. Even in terms of popular culture, it's difficult to make a "Best Of" list for 2005, because nothing was the best! Nothing can be the best, when nothing is worth mentioning. Unfortunately, thanks to the goddamn dictionary, we're stuck w/ the depressing premise that things have to be good in order to be "The Best." (Gimme clemency & a wood-chipper, and there'd be a lotta pulped dictionaries gettin' heaped on that landfill I spoke of earlier—not to mention the exhumed n' diced remains of one Noah Webster.)

When I tried to come up w/ a Best New Movie of 2005, I realized there were no good movies released in 2005. Well, no new ones anyway. Best Restoration of the Year goes to... Vertigo!!! It was pretty great, but it's kinda disheartening when the only movie that makes you wanna crawl into a theater or glance at the "New Releases" section of yr. local video parlor, is 50 years old & you've seen it around 2005 times already.

What else? Oh, I know! Best Baseball Team of the Year... Hmmm... The Chicago White Sox? HAHAHAHA!!! Stop! My stomach hurts!!! I'm gonna piss my pants!!! Ahuh...hooo...

But seriously, what was the Best Baseball Team of the Year?

Speaking of baseball, I can definitely tell you who gave the Best Impersonation of Judas by a Major Athlete in 2005... Johnny Damon!!! It's a distinction that would seem more appropriate to the Easter season—but Xmas, Easter—whassa difference?

Best Musical Album of the Year? I'm sure all my guitar-n-drum loving fellow garage/punk travelers will be really disappointed in me for choosing the chilly synth-pop of Ladytron's new one Witching Hour, but I'd maintain that you're missing out if you write off everything w/ a synthesizer in it. Most of the time, they get saddled w/ the uber-hip Euro-trash label, which is not entirely inaccurate. But as much as any band out there right now, they nail how emotionally impacted a lot of us have become in the good ol' post-millennial West. And what else is goin' on in these parts these days anyway? Paranoia? That's so 5 years ago!

P.S. Don't worry, my rawk friends! I still love the garage n' the fritzed out amp, but I ask you: Was there one decent new rock release this year? Huh? And no fair countin' remastered Iggy albums. (Last time I checked, The Stooges records were good because they sounded like shit, not in spite of it!) And if you say something about the White Stripes being "garage rock," I'm either gonna kill you or me. (I'm not sure which. Maybe we could do one of those double suicide things?)

Hate to be shallow, but about the only thing The White Stripes got goin' for 'em is Meg's rack. (Jack's gonna burn out the good will of his celebrity friends annnny minute now. Just you wait & see.)

And here's a thought: if the White Stripes are so "garage," why don't they prove it by going into the garage and sitting in a running car, letting the exhaust fumes accumulate till they expire in a mass of SPF 2005 sunscreen and black hair dye? Works for me! I might have to reassess them then, thus putting them in the running for Best Musical Artists of 2006!

Best book of the year? Can I count my own, recently finished novel The Dildo Force Does The Chick with Braided Pubic Hair? It's an adult erotic adventure, (not pornographic,) shot through w/ romance & suspense, that touches on important contemporary issues like domestic spying (well, voyeurism anyway) & the search for George Clooney's ass. In bookstores now!!! (Remember, it's only a month & a half till Valentines Day, This year, give that Special Someone a really classy gift!)

But hey, Happy New Year! Statistically you are 95% likely to have completed your own Best Of 2005 List already, so now you're free to party!!! But one more thought before I release you to yr. own festivities... Don't worry, it's not from me. Like I said, (& I stole it from Iggy,) I got nothin'. Nope, I'll leave it to good ol’ Lester Bangs:

"Have you ever had a New Year's Eve you enjoyed? Of course not! Why? Because you've persisted in this insane delusion that somehow things are supposed to keep getting better, or that the cyclical nature of the ying-yang means that the earth is supposed to replenish itself or some such horseshit! Horseshit doesn't even replenish itself."

See you in '06...

Thing-Fish Update

Thing-Fish Update:

Betcha thought I'd forgotten all about the presumable raison d'eteat of our recent excursions.

I would still maintain that a record of my trip to Hawaii will be useful, if not essential, to these questions about Thing-Fish and my relationship to it. Thing-Fish aside, I'd like to get my memories of the trip down anyway, before they fade. But I don't mean to give up on my consideration of Thing-Fish. I still can't reconcile my enjoyment of the thing to my misgivings about some of its content.

The happy scenario would have me dispelling these misgivings by showing that they're based on a misunderstanding of them. I mean, as I said before, if I could be sure that Zappa's apparently gratuitous ridicule of African Americans, gay men, feminists and HIV/AIDS wasn't really gratuitous-- well, that'd topple all my feelings of complicity in something that's, for want of a better word, "irresponsible."

Maybe you're laughing at my remorse. I've quoted this before, but Lester Bangs: "If there's nothing more poisonous than bigotry, there's nothing more pathetic than white liberal guilt." And maybe my need to justify my reaction to Thing-Fish is just that. Maybe as I've said before, I'm just taking things too seriously.

Maybe. Still, I can't help wondering how funny Thing-Fish would be to someone who's, say, been personally threatened or ridiculed by a buncha white assholes. Wonder how it'd play to somebody who lost someone they cared about to AIDS.


But I've already gone over all this shit about how far can you go w/ a joke or satire or whatever till you've crossed The Line. I'm also aware of the childlike absurdity of the idea that anyone could locate The Line, and of the arbitrariness of myself as the guy who can lead you to it.

See, I'm embarrassed to even put this shit out there. But I guess that's what blogs are for, right? Personal hand-wringing-- not to mention whining & jerking off.

I am having this problem lately w/ authorial intent and responsibility, not to mention the responsibility, if any, of the audience. I finished Infinite Jest earlier this year and have ever since been reading all kindsa shit about the book-- most of it laughably inept-- to try and figure out if David Foster Wallace is challenging his audience, as everyone sez, or if he's just cynical, sloppy and filled with contempt for a readership that, if it criticizes him, he can claim is too stupid to understand his work.

I've fumbled around w/ my recent discovery that reggae is, in fact, cool, and that all of it's American fans aren't laughable hippies... (Unless I've become 1 myself, which given the way this is going, may be the case...) I've tried to reconcile my new enthusiasm to the virulent strain of homophobia that runs through a lot of the music.

And then I've had this problem w/ Thing-Fish.

So have I somehow become a pathetic wuss? Ida know.


I still see the evolution of my feelings about Thing-Fish to be linked to my experience of Hawaii, which is why I wanted to work through the 2 things together, chronologically. Problem is, it was a day or two into the trip when I really began dealing w/ Thing-Fish, and it's taking me forever to get to that point. Hawaii's necessary tho.

(And grotesque phantasmagoria is a personal addiction. Maybe it's just a phase, because it hasn't always been this way, but try as I might, I just can't seem to write anything these days w/o, uh, inserting that sorta stuff.)

So, I'm sorry to say that I still think this chronological cross-referencing is the way to go. For those of you who read this-- mostly a handful of lameass friends, as far as I know—I’ll get to all of it in time. But mostly I'm gonna proceed the way I have been. And as I may not get to Thing-Fish's role in the Hawaii trip soon, I thought I'd at least offer an update on where I'm at w/ the "musical" at the moment.

I've been reading Zappa's quasi-auto-bio The Real Frank Zappa Book, which unfortunately plays toward a lot of the annoying hypotheses you mighta about Zappa, e.g. that he was self-involved and a little too concerned w/ making you think he was sooooo much weirder and therefore more interesting than you could possibly hope to be.

But so OK, that's only so important. "Artists" (or whatever you want to call 'em) being human, tend to have human flaws. In fact, their flaws are often more profound than average. You can extrapolate some shit about their flaws being part of what makes 'em so creative, if you wanna, but again, I'm not sure that matters here.

What matters here is that when you have questions like I do about Thing-Fish, it's usually a good idea to go to the source, if you can. So I did. And it sucks, and not just because Zappa doesn't mention Thing-Fish at all, which given the size of his body of work, is not surprising. It sucks because the book doesn't do much of anything to reveal Zappa's attitudes re: race, sex, sexuality, etc.

I did get something about that artistic responsibility claptrap outta it. Here's a quote:

"Project/Object is a term I have used to describe the overall concept of my work in various mediums... In the case of the Project/Object, you may find a little poodle over here, a little blow job over there, etc., etc. I am not obsessed by poodles or blow jobs, however; these words (and others of equal insignificance, along with pictorial images and melodic themes, recur throughout the albums, interviews, films, videos, (and this book) for no other reason than to unify the 'collection.'"

Doesn't make a good case for the idea that Thing-Fish is saying anything, does he? But then the book is obnoxiously sketchy about anything that Zappa doesn't wanna talk about. What he tends to want to talk about is how cool he is—and occasionally, to offer some insights into musical composition, politics, etc.

(One of Thing-Fish's conceits does come up in the book: the possibility that the HIV virus was introduced into an unsuspecting populace either intentionally or through incompetence. In this case, the culprits are missionaries working in Africa and Haiti. It appears that he's serious. Seems a little sci-fi to me, but maybe I'm just not paranoid enough.)

This is always the problem w/ going to the source: the source is usually committed to mythologizing him or herself. Try pairing up Miles Davis' auto-bio w/ any other bio on the man, and you tend to find that he's exaggerating a lotta shit and leaving other very significant shit out.

So I guess my next stop will be one of the dozens of Zappa bio's out there. (Not sure which one.) If I find anything in 'em, I'll post it, but in the meantime, it's business as usual: more stuff about Hawaii, which eventually will lead to Thing-Fish anyway, as I said. Forceman out...