Omigod. well everyone's all a twitter here at Kelp Manor this week as Mother's Day is almost upon us, careening around the bend in only two and a half weeks, so of course we're all decorating and writing songs for the jubilee and rehearsing them and then some guy gets sick so you've got to find someone at the last minute and then that's always chancey, but then sometimes it works out just fine for no reason whatsoever, and I think that this is one of the miracles of Mother's Day: that you can do that, and not get hurt!
And I'd like to dedicate my column this week to my original mother, the graciously (some would say almost alarmingly) buxom and austere original Mrs. Kelp - while still acknowledging and even simultaneously celebrating the present Mrs. Kelp as well, of course (although they are, in fact, both extremely still present, but the new one, this one here, the apple of my eye, the phenomenally gifted and prodigiously talented and still appealingly down to earthingly youthful Mrs. K, of whom I am presently married, this isn't her. It's the other one.)
The one I was talking about before is the one to which I refer to, i.e., me mum. The one I sprang from, initially. And I had planned plenty more biting humor for this spot right here, but now that I'm here I'm more than tempted to say something sappy about how much I love her and how much she's a pip on every level and charming and beyond in a way higher percentage of the time than anyone else I know, and that I treasure her, and thank you, and Happy Mother's Day.
But where would that get me?
I know to her I'll always be the toxic little dwarf who set her car on fire that stifling August evening, after the basketball game.
Still, there's nothing like Mother's Day to set your pulse a roiling, is there?
And, wait! But there's so much more set up for us in the frenetic prelude to Mother's Day, what with Nurse's Day (which is like Mother's Day squared, really- especially if they ARE mothers. That's coming up next week! Right after Cinco Da Mayo, whatever the hell that is! (I certainly don't want to be insulting to anyone here, but that one just doesn't sound local.)
And all this so soon after Administrative Professionals Day last Wednesday! I mean, it's Friday, and I'm still completely hungover from that one. Man! Can those people drink! And then they do this wild kind of administering that's definitely not for the faint of heart. I'm glad you weren't there. It was horrible.
I do love holidays, love to get dressed up (though, uncharacteristically, I still haven't decided what my costume will be for Nurse's Day); love the parades, the excitement, the intense odors, the happy dancing. Actually, what I'd really like is to have Kelp Day, where I stay home and people bring me presents and talk about how I've helped them (mostly with my mind.) (I've always tended to shy away from physical labor -that's just always been my favorite labor to shy away from. As a result, all these years later, my physique is still hard as a couch.)
Before we conclude, I'd just like to add that though this column may not seem to address any local music topics directly, without mothers the whole local music scene would be quite different indeed.
Think about it! And remember: don't forget!
Friday, April 28, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Nothing Happening
Well, folks, we're rolling into that time of year where I just want to kill myself, where it's easier to report on what isn't happening than on what is happening, because THERE IS NOTHING HAPPENING!
I remember early in my lengthy, dignified, and storied career as a respected local music journalist I would find this to be one of the most challenging times of the year because of the entire absence of anything to write about, and though a great deal of time has elapsed since then, in which man has made great strides in so many different regards, still, it must be noted that nothing is going on now at all. Nothing. At all.
Or, you could look at it this way: all those things that go on the rest of the year, aren't going on now either. Not here, anyway. And all the things that are going on everywhere else (and there are many of them, too, fascinating things that we can barely even dream about) are likewise completely missing. I would be happy to tell you about something, but I can't because there isn't any. And, speaking as a journalist, that makes this a particularly harrowing time of year for the writing and everything, because there's a complete lack of subjects.
This is where my years of expertise in the field go right down the drain. No one could possibly write about anything now. A lot of people would start making up things, and in the past, when I was just a cub reporter and the vast confines of the Community Newspaper Company were way smaller, I, too, went this route more than once, inventing fake bands and giant, lavish non-existant nightclubs for them to play at. However, over the years, my prose has ripened to the point that the integrity of my unflinching gaze spares the reader nothing, leaving me crusty, bitter, and frozen, like an out-of-date bagel.
The club report reads like this: stay home! Give up. No one is playing anywhere, and I'm not sure when or even if they ever will again. This could be it. All that fun we had already? -just be glad you had that. Sit down and shut up.
I thought the Sopranos starting up again would help, but jeese, Tony's in a coma- great! When I grew up, that never would've happened. Can you imagine tuning into “I Love Lucy” and she's on life-support and Ricky and Fred and Ethel are all standing around the bed, waiting for her to come to, and that's the whole show? And it took them two years to think of that?!?
Somebody, book a show, get divorced, have a heart attack, make a sandwich, anything! I will be happy to write about it. In fact, if anyone, anywhere, knows about anything that happens, I will pay you five hundred dollars and publish your picture on the front cover, practically (except for those last two things.)
For not until people do things can we write about them. To write about things that don't happen, honestly, and with the kind of detail and focus which should've won me many national and international journalism-type awards, that is the challenge, and it is a challenge from which I shall never shrink.
[For a taped transcript of tonight's commentary, please deposit $18.50 and kick the machine once, sharply, on its snout.]
I remember early in my lengthy, dignified, and storied career as a respected local music journalist I would find this to be one of the most challenging times of the year because of the entire absence of anything to write about, and though a great deal of time has elapsed since then, in which man has made great strides in so many different regards, still, it must be noted that nothing is going on now at all. Nothing. At all.
Or, you could look at it this way: all those things that go on the rest of the year, aren't going on now either. Not here, anyway. And all the things that are going on everywhere else (and there are many of them, too, fascinating things that we can barely even dream about) are likewise completely missing. I would be happy to tell you about something, but I can't because there isn't any. And, speaking as a journalist, that makes this a particularly harrowing time of year for the writing and everything, because there's a complete lack of subjects.
This is where my years of expertise in the field go right down the drain. No one could possibly write about anything now. A lot of people would start making up things, and in the past, when I was just a cub reporter and the vast confines of the Community Newspaper Company were way smaller, I, too, went this route more than once, inventing fake bands and giant, lavish non-existant nightclubs for them to play at. However, over the years, my prose has ripened to the point that the integrity of my unflinching gaze spares the reader nothing, leaving me crusty, bitter, and frozen, like an out-of-date bagel.
The club report reads like this: stay home! Give up. No one is playing anywhere, and I'm not sure when or even if they ever will again. This could be it. All that fun we had already? -just be glad you had that. Sit down and shut up.
I thought the Sopranos starting up again would help, but jeese, Tony's in a coma- great! When I grew up, that never would've happened. Can you imagine tuning into “I Love Lucy” and she's on life-support and Ricky and Fred and Ethel are all standing around the bed, waiting for her to come to, and that's the whole show? And it took them two years to think of that?!?
Somebody, book a show, get divorced, have a heart attack, make a sandwich, anything! I will be happy to write about it. In fact, if anyone, anywhere, knows about anything that happens, I will pay you five hundred dollars and publish your picture on the front cover, practically (except for those last two things.)
For not until people do things can we write about them. To write about things that don't happen, honestly, and with the kind of detail and focus which should've won me many national and international journalism-type awards, that is the challenge, and it is a challenge from which I shall never shrink.
[For a taped transcript of tonight's commentary, please deposit $18.50 and kick the machine once, sharply, on its snout.]
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