As I’ve said many times, I could write this column in my sleep -the trouble is, I’m an insomniac, and having to write it when I’m awake is really annoying.
Also annoying: there’s not enough bars around here, especially open ones. On Cape Cod, an alarmingly large percentage of bars -perhaps 25 or 30% -are only open about 25 or 30% of the time, because they close on Labor Day or Columbus Day and don’t re-open until Memorial Day or the fourth of July, which is just plain cowardly, if you ask me.
The good bars -the upright, stalwart, year-round bars -know that they offer a valuable service to the community, and that having us all drink in our houses can only make the homicide rate sky-rocket. The brave and selfless members of our local restaurant and nightclub business, though largely unsung, are truly the backbone of both our industry and our culture -yet they are constantly ignored in the local media (still so inexorably smitten by firemen.)
It’s perhaps ironic, then, to note that without bars, there might very well be no firemen; clearly, the first fireman was out of his mind on something. Not to mention the fact that without drunk people, there would probably be less fires to begin with. That bartender or waitress across from you is making a serious contribution to your spiritual well-being almost every day, and have you ever once really stopped and said “thank you?” Of course not, because you’re nothing but a bastard person!
Well, maybe you’re not a bastard person, at least not all the time. Maybe you’re not entirely evil, technically; maybe you at least mean well. If that’s the case, don’t you think it’s time you took that special bartender or waitress aside and told it what means to you, or gave it an especially large tip, or gratified it orally? Really, that whole fireman thing is so last week -this week, let’s all hug a bouncer!
Which reminds me, I forgot to wish you all a happy Sweetest Day last week! Sweetest Day is really one of my all-time favorite holidays, special because it’s really the one holiday that, year after year, we refuse to celebrate, the one occasion where we all just quietly draw the line, as if to say, no, no amount of marketing will force this one down our throats. We probably could’ve parlayed it into another day off, but we stuck to our guns on this one -hell, no, we wouldn’t go. And so, a belated happy Sweetest Day to one and all!
I ran into Zoe Lewis of Provincetown the other day; she had just returned from a gig in Las Vegas, and spoke highly of her visit to the Liberace museum. Zoe has also started work on her next CD with her band, recording with local rock impresario/new dad Chris Blood in Orleans at Trout On Wheels (TOW.) Zoe must be one of the hardest working women in show biz, always traveling hither and yon -it makes me shudder to even think about it.
You know, I’m really serious about this bouncer-hugging thing. I mean, bouncers especially. Heck, bartenders and waitresses at least get some gratitude, sometimes, but when was the last time anyone went out of their way to thank a bouncer? You know, “thanks for throwing me out onto the street, I was completely ossified and probably shouldn’t’ve been hanging on that ceiling fan to begin with. You’re a nice man -will you be my friend?” You just don’t hear that any more.
Or any less. You hear it the exact same amount you always did, which is never. So hug a bouncer -you’ll be surprised you did, and so will he. Let’s make every day like Sweetest Day!
I’ve got to go.
Friday, October 25, 2002
Thursday, October 17, 2002
Nothingness
Nothing happened last week. Nothing. I wish I could say otherwise, but that’s just the plain truth -nothing occurred. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I also have it on excellent authority that nothing will happen next week either.
Now, as you might imagine, this puts me in rather an awkward position. As a current events/news kind of guy, an on-the-spot reporter, if you will (or, at least right near the spot), a person who basically makes his living exclusively from observing other people’s lives and activities (rather than having them myself); a leech, a parasite (two! two! two scourges in one!) who reduces their fragile, complex realities to tawdry caricatures and sleazy innuendo, like a vulture hovering over carrion, I have always been that rare kind of guy that just loves his job. Heck, when I was a little kid I used to dream about having a life like this, and now that I do, it’s even better than I thought it would be.
A slow news week, though, is one thing; I mean, if necessary I’m completely capable of blabbing on for pages and pages about very little, you know, the slightest little item. I once did a three part series on a bongo player who almost put in his own kitchen cabinets; and I’m always happy to review albums that are two or three years old. I’ll print gigantic pictures I just found in someone else’s office of someone I don’t know, just to take up space sometimes (I do it pretty subtly, so hopefully you can’t really tell.)
What we’re hitting here lately, though, is not a slow news week, but actually a non-news week, and there’s not much even I can do with that. Give me the slightest table scrap, and I’ll gum it to death; but I’m not a magician, and I can’t (though would) lie to you: there’s absolutely nothing going on.
As you know, my usual strategy at a time like this is to check in on the rather willowy and beguiling Mrs. Kelp for her take on the situation, which is usually witty and unpredictable and full of fun. Unfortunately, though, right now there really is no situation, and at any rate Mrs. K is napping, a state no one who knows her would dare interrupt.
Many years ago, we had an old golden retriever named Ben, whose hips eventually gave out completely, to the point that he couldn’t walk at all. Mrs. Kelp (radiant in her diaphanous kimono with matching beret and cigarette holder) were forced to load him onto an old rug and clumsily drag him outdoors for his constitutionals. You’d think a beautiful, athletic fellow like Ben would be shattered by such a handicap, but, to the contrary, he seemed to love this whole process.
Getting so old and out of it apparently sort of cracked him up, and in general he was happy as a clam in his declining years. Though he had been a bit of a Casanova in his youth, always seen with the finest looking bitches in the neighborhood, he had no trouble relaxing his standards when it came to dating in his dotage. The fact that he couldn’t go anywhere really gave his field a clearer delineation than it had ever had before, and being a practical type, he cheerfully consented to hump absolutely anyone that got close enough -the male/female issue had completely passed by the wayside.
Strangely, at point that his bark became both higher pitched and more consistent, but he was so obviously pleased with himself that we really couldn’t kill him, so we just changed his name to Queenie and installed one of those wheelchairs that go down the banister carrying Barbara Stanwyck, and they eventually both died and that was that.
Now, as you might imagine, this puts me in rather an awkward position. As a current events/news kind of guy, an on-the-spot reporter, if you will (or, at least right near the spot), a person who basically makes his living exclusively from observing other people’s lives and activities (rather than having them myself); a leech, a parasite (two! two! two scourges in one!) who reduces their fragile, complex realities to tawdry caricatures and sleazy innuendo, like a vulture hovering over carrion, I have always been that rare kind of guy that just loves his job. Heck, when I was a little kid I used to dream about having a life like this, and now that I do, it’s even better than I thought it would be.
A slow news week, though, is one thing; I mean, if necessary I’m completely capable of blabbing on for pages and pages about very little, you know, the slightest little item. I once did a three part series on a bongo player who almost put in his own kitchen cabinets; and I’m always happy to review albums that are two or three years old. I’ll print gigantic pictures I just found in someone else’s office of someone I don’t know, just to take up space sometimes (I do it pretty subtly, so hopefully you can’t really tell.)
What we’re hitting here lately, though, is not a slow news week, but actually a non-news week, and there’s not much even I can do with that. Give me the slightest table scrap, and I’ll gum it to death; but I’m not a magician, and I can’t (though would) lie to you: there’s absolutely nothing going on.
As you know, my usual strategy at a time like this is to check in on the rather willowy and beguiling Mrs. Kelp for her take on the situation, which is usually witty and unpredictable and full of fun. Unfortunately, though, right now there really is no situation, and at any rate Mrs. K is napping, a state no one who knows her would dare interrupt.
Many years ago, we had an old golden retriever named Ben, whose hips eventually gave out completely, to the point that he couldn’t walk at all. Mrs. Kelp (radiant in her diaphanous kimono with matching beret and cigarette holder) were forced to load him onto an old rug and clumsily drag him outdoors for his constitutionals. You’d think a beautiful, athletic fellow like Ben would be shattered by such a handicap, but, to the contrary, he seemed to love this whole process.
Getting so old and out of it apparently sort of cracked him up, and in general he was happy as a clam in his declining years. Though he had been a bit of a Casanova in his youth, always seen with the finest looking bitches in the neighborhood, he had no trouble relaxing his standards when it came to dating in his dotage. The fact that he couldn’t go anywhere really gave his field a clearer delineation than it had ever had before, and being a practical type, he cheerfully consented to hump absolutely anyone that got close enough -the male/female issue had completely passed by the wayside.
Strangely, at point that his bark became both higher pitched and more consistent, but he was so obviously pleased with himself that we really couldn’t kill him, so we just changed his name to Queenie and installed one of those wheelchairs that go down the banister carrying Barbara Stanwyck, and they eventually both died and that was that.
Friday, October 11, 2002
East Side Story
Great news! Turns out my rectum is fine after all -the doctor says I can go back to eating as many mixed nuts as I want!
I’m trying to think if anything else happened this week...; nope.
There’s at least one thing ready to happen soon, though -tonight, in fact, for many of you, Friday, the 11th of October, to wit Tommy Carns and Aaron Spade, ex-Hitchhikers and prodigal sons, two good old friends having a bit of a reunion at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis.
They’ve both spent the last few years primarily in California, but Aaron came back to stay in July, while Tommy’s just in for a visit. Some of you may remember my raving about Tommy’s solo album “Get Up and Fall Down” (Indo) a year or two ago; he’s an interesting, idiosyncratic musician as well as an engaging performer and a compelling songwriter -as is Spade, whose “work” locals may know from the dreaded Incredible Casuals; they should perhaps consider going anyway.
I’ve known them both for years, having seen them as teenagers at a Nauset High talent show where Aaron did a ridiculously good Mick Jagger imitation on the Stones’ “Off the Hook” (great choice.) Aaron was also in The Greatest High School Musical of All Time, the Nauset High production of “West Side Story”; in fact, it was his friend Ed Andrews who was pressed into the pivotal role of Tony at the last possible second when the original actor became unavailable, giving the performance of a lifetime, a performance that high school theater people still talk about in hushed, reverent tones. It was a milestone.
I believe Aaron himself was a gang member, though I don’t recall whether he was a Shark or a Jet; certainly, the Puerto Rican-via-Hyannisport accents on the Sharks were another high point. I would pay big money for a video tape of this legendary production. I’d mow lawns... I’d even pick up my room.
Please, let there be someone, somewhere, who has the video tape. Call me any hour of the day or night -this is my private number: 508 240 2733. Call collect. I’ll do anything. You can come over to the manor for dinner; I’ll have the glittering, unbelievably sparkly, and relentlessly phosphorescent Mrs. K whip up a soufflé. (By the way, that’s pronounced “soo-flay”, not “soo-ful”; it’s practically French, y’ know.)
Some of you may remember my having a bit of an identity crisis here a couple of weeks ago over my unexpected approval of the new James Taylor album (I thought I was hipper than that.) As you may recall, I was pretty depressed over it, and I ended up trudging down to the record store to buy other records by washed up has-beens I’d given up on to see how deep the problem ran. I even bought a Bruce Springsteen album (well, used -I’m not entirely insane!), and was relieved to see that I still find him kind of grunty.
I mean, you know his heart’s in the right place, but on most of “The Rising” (Columbia), he kind of sounds like he has a touch of Bono’s Disease, which causes taking yourself too seriously. He sounds like an honest man, straining under the weight of a great burden -could it be the Mantle of the Future of Rock?
Fortunately, there’s an exception to the rule, which is a tune called “Let’s Be Friends (Skin to Skin)”, the latest in a long line of rip-offs of the song “Groovin’” by the Young Rascals. “Groovin’” is a wonderful song, and a lot of the songs that have trod in its footsteps have come out pretty well -apparently, you can scarcely go wrong with that whole summer-y, good vibes kind of thing, and the Boss doesn’t; in fact, he sounds positively relieved to be singing something that isn’t Important.
The song is an oasis, but it’s also a mirage, as the rest of the album seems duty-bound; even on “Mary’s Place”, the chorus of which goes “Meet me at Mary’s place -we’re gonna have a party”, he still sounds kind of grim, as if this party is going to be a lot of work, but if we all pull together, somehow we’ll pull through. Jeese. So I still don’t love Bruce Springsteen -I’m going to be well again! And did I tell you the good news about my rectum?
By the way, my next-door neighbor Anne McKenna pointed out that I spoke in error last week in my praise of HBO’s “Curb Your Enthusiasm” when I identified the show’s creator as Larry Gilbert -that’s not his name, that’s some other guy. The real “Curb Your Enthusiasm” guy is Larry David, and he is indeed funny as hell. So, sorry. Go ahead, sue me.
I’m trying to think if anything else happened this week...; nope.
There’s at least one thing ready to happen soon, though -tonight, in fact, for many of you, Friday, the 11th of October, to wit Tommy Carns and Aaron Spade, ex-Hitchhikers and prodigal sons, two good old friends having a bit of a reunion at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis.
They’ve both spent the last few years primarily in California, but Aaron came back to stay in July, while Tommy’s just in for a visit. Some of you may remember my raving about Tommy’s solo album “Get Up and Fall Down” (Indo) a year or two ago; he’s an interesting, idiosyncratic musician as well as an engaging performer and a compelling songwriter -as is Spade, whose “work” locals may know from the dreaded Incredible Casuals; they should perhaps consider going anyway.
I’ve known them both for years, having seen them as teenagers at a Nauset High talent show where Aaron did a ridiculously good Mick Jagger imitation on the Stones’ “Off the Hook” (great choice.) Aaron was also in The Greatest High School Musical of All Time, the Nauset High production of “West Side Story”; in fact, it was his friend Ed Andrews who was pressed into the pivotal role of Tony at the last possible second when the original actor became unavailable, giving the performance of a lifetime, a performance that high school theater people still talk about in hushed, reverent tones. It was a milestone.
I believe Aaron himself was a gang member, though I don’t recall whether he was a Shark or a Jet; certainly, the Puerto Rican-via-Hyannisport accents on the Sharks were another high point. I would pay big money for a video tape of this legendary production. I’d mow lawns... I’d even pick up my room.
Please, let there be someone, somewhere, who has the video tape. Call me any hour of the day or night -this is my private number: 508 240 2733. Call collect. I’ll do anything. You can come over to the manor for dinner; I’ll have the glittering, unbelievably sparkly, and relentlessly phosphorescent Mrs. K whip up a soufflé. (By the way, that’s pronounced “soo-flay”, not “soo-ful”; it’s practically French, y’ know.)
Some of you may remember my having a bit of an identity crisis here a couple of weeks ago over my unexpected approval of the new James Taylor album (I thought I was hipper than that.) As you may recall, I was pretty depressed over it, and I ended up trudging down to the record store to buy other records by washed up has-beens I’d given up on to see how deep the problem ran. I even bought a Bruce Springsteen album (well, used -I’m not entirely insane!), and was relieved to see that I still find him kind of grunty.
I mean, you know his heart’s in the right place, but on most of “The Rising” (Columbia), he kind of sounds like he has a touch of Bono’s Disease, which causes taking yourself too seriously. He sounds like an honest man, straining under the weight of a great burden -could it be the Mantle of the Future of Rock?
Fortunately, there’s an exception to the rule, which is a tune called “Let’s Be Friends (Skin to Skin)”, the latest in a long line of rip-offs of the song “Groovin’” by the Young Rascals. “Groovin’” is a wonderful song, and a lot of the songs that have trod in its footsteps have come out pretty well -apparently, you can scarcely go wrong with that whole summer-y, good vibes kind of thing, and the Boss doesn’t; in fact, he sounds positively relieved to be singing something that isn’t Important.
The song is an oasis, but it’s also a mirage, as the rest of the album seems duty-bound; even on “Mary’s Place”, the chorus of which goes “Meet me at Mary’s place -we’re gonna have a party”, he still sounds kind of grim, as if this party is going to be a lot of work, but if we all pull together, somehow we’ll pull through. Jeese. So I still don’t love Bruce Springsteen -I’m going to be well again! And did I tell you the good news about my rectum?
By the way, my next-door neighbor Anne McKenna pointed out that I spoke in error last week in my praise of HBO’s “Curb Your Enthusiasm” when I identified the show’s creator as Larry Gilbert -that’s not his name, that’s some other guy. The real “Curb Your Enthusiasm” guy is Larry David, and he is indeed funny as hell. So, sorry. Go ahead, sue me.
Friday, October 4, 2002
Dear Thurston
I used to write my column every Sunday night, but now that both football and the Sopranos are back on TV, I'm finding that not only has the going gotten tough, but I have not gotten going.
At this point, on Sunday I frequently watch two football games, the Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm (which is a great new find, a half hour comedy starring Larry Gilbert, who wrote Seinfeld; he's very annoying, and it's very hilarious, and it comes on HBO right after the Sopranos, before I can get up), then, the rest of another football game; at this point, I find myself ready for one thing and one thing only: Sportscenter on ESPN. Sunday has become the day that I watch television until my eyes implode.
After all that, I'm supposed to write a column that's all erudite and stuff? Fat chance!
I'm starting to think I might be better off making it into an advice column where you all write in about your deepest, most personal embarrassing sexual problems and I reply with glib answers and ridicule. Or, if you prefer, I'll be sensitive and caring -what the hell! It'll be a sort of "Dear Thurston" thing... yeah! This is a great idea!
Write me some damn questions about something you shouldn't have done to your girlfriend and I'll agree you probably shouldn't have done it -but gently, without completely crucifying you, usually, unless you seem to need a good kick in the pants, in which case my answer will really cut to the chase, and I'll be quite disarming in my candor and directness. C'mon, write me some questions! It'll be fun!
OK, don't, then.
DATELINE: WEST HARWICH! Noted musician Bruce Maclean (aka Link Montana) has moved there, and his band the Maplewoods (who will play at the Claddagh on Rt. 28 every Saturday starting October 12) have apparently changed from a trio of forty-ish males to a trio of teenage girls, on the evidence of the cover photo on a live CD they have in limited release. Actually, they still sound like guys, though -perhaps there was some mistake at the printer's...
Bruce was also involved in the recording of the new Greg Johnson CD, "Songs for Space", which you may start seeing some signs of (inquiries may be addressed to Greg at 266 Tonset Rd., Orleans, MA. 02653.)
Bruce said he'd also been spending some time at the Olde Inn at West Dennis, which he's always spoken highly of; he said both Dave Hickey (who plays there on Friday and Saturday) and Patsy Whelan (who plays Tuesdays) were well worth hearing, even though they play Irish music. (I've always been frightened of Irish music.)
DATELINE: ORLEANS! Noted soundman/entrepenuer/big time record executive Chris Blood reports that he just had a baby, eventually adding that wife Susan was also involved; the happy result is Lucy Amelia Blood, who is very, very small but already sports a winning smile; suitors may apply at the Trout Towers Casino.
DATELINE: EASTHAM! In desperate attempt to recover from suddenly liking James Taylor again, noted journalist Me listened to a Flaming Lips compilation of older material on Rykodisc called "The Symbolic Birth and Early Life of the Flaming Lips" (itself a compilation of material from two other Flaming Lips compilations covering the years 1983 to 1991.) They're strange, they're hip, they're young, -I always like them. It was boring as hell.
The identity problem continues...
At this point, on Sunday I frequently watch two football games, the Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm (which is a great new find, a half hour comedy starring Larry Gilbert, who wrote Seinfeld; he's very annoying, and it's very hilarious, and it comes on HBO right after the Sopranos, before I can get up), then, the rest of another football game; at this point, I find myself ready for one thing and one thing only: Sportscenter on ESPN. Sunday has become the day that I watch television until my eyes implode.
After all that, I'm supposed to write a column that's all erudite and stuff? Fat chance!
I'm starting to think I might be better off making it into an advice column where you all write in about your deepest, most personal embarrassing sexual problems and I reply with glib answers and ridicule. Or, if you prefer, I'll be sensitive and caring -what the hell! It'll be a sort of "Dear Thurston" thing... yeah! This is a great idea!
Write me some damn questions about something you shouldn't have done to your girlfriend and I'll agree you probably shouldn't have done it -but gently, without completely crucifying you, usually, unless you seem to need a good kick in the pants, in which case my answer will really cut to the chase, and I'll be quite disarming in my candor and directness. C'mon, write me some questions! It'll be fun!
OK, don't, then.
DATELINE: WEST HARWICH! Noted musician Bruce Maclean (aka Link Montana) has moved there, and his band the Maplewoods (who will play at the Claddagh on Rt. 28 every Saturday starting October 12) have apparently changed from a trio of forty-ish males to a trio of teenage girls, on the evidence of the cover photo on a live CD they have in limited release. Actually, they still sound like guys, though -perhaps there was some mistake at the printer's...
Bruce was also involved in the recording of the new Greg Johnson CD, "Songs for Space", which you may start seeing some signs of (inquiries may be addressed to Greg at 266 Tonset Rd., Orleans, MA. 02653.)
Bruce said he'd also been spending some time at the Olde Inn at West Dennis, which he's always spoken highly of; he said both Dave Hickey (who plays there on Friday and Saturday) and Patsy Whelan (who plays Tuesdays) were well worth hearing, even though they play Irish music. (I've always been frightened of Irish music.)
DATELINE: ORLEANS! Noted soundman/entrepenuer/big time record executive Chris Blood reports that he just had a baby, eventually adding that wife Susan was also involved; the happy result is Lucy Amelia Blood, who is very, very small but already sports a winning smile; suitors may apply at the Trout Towers Casino.
DATELINE: EASTHAM! In desperate attempt to recover from suddenly liking James Taylor again, noted journalist Me listened to a Flaming Lips compilation of older material on Rykodisc called "The Symbolic Birth and Early Life of the Flaming Lips" (itself a compilation of material from two other Flaming Lips compilations covering the years 1983 to 1991.) They're strange, they're hip, they're young, -I always like them. It was boring as hell.
The identity problem continues...
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