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.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
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.
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