Jazz Fest Thursday: An Indecent Proposal

Before we get started, I saw a Hooter's commercial just now. All mothers get 10 free chicken wings on Mother's Day. So when you really want to make the point "I love you Mom," now you can. Cause, remember, class is catching.

I've seen a wedding at Jazz Festival. Today I saw a proposal. Not sure what's next. A couple signs the divorce papers? Gives birth? I don't want to see a conception, that's for sure. More later.

Morning dawned, and with it downright chilly temperatures. At least today I won't die from heat and dust. Just dust, because like most of Texas, New Orleans hasn't had much rain in awhile. It was breezy and sunny today, with temperatures in the upper 70s. Pretty much San Diego weather, which was freakish for New Orleans this time of year. This was the nicest day for Jazz Festival I can remember. That means more people should attend today than the usual Thursday. It was hard to tell. There were crowds, but they didn't seem out of line with prior Thursdays.

Despite staying up fairly late working on last night's post (that's the weird thing, these posts read like it took about 30 seconds to write them, but they actually take longer, sort of like sometimes the longer it takes to cook something the worse it tastes), I got up relatively early for my Jazz Fest visits. Curse that internal body clock!

I'm staying at a relatively new Quality Inn on St. Charles, just the other side of US 90 from CBD, across the street from Emeril's Delmonico. Hey, it was convenient, and they don't gouge ou on parking quite nearly as bad as CBD hotels. They renovated a complex of about four or five historic structures, rather than leveling them and building one of their oh-so-stylish mustard colored boxes. I'm sure they got some sort of tax break, or maybe the local zoning rules wouldn't allow them to do that. But the place has several nice courtyards with fountains, attractive landscaping, and renovated historic buildings that blend in with other St. Charles buildings. They deserve a little credit for that.

This means I wasn't hustling to get out the door because I left too late. I headed out on board the Ford Land Yacht (an "Edge" or some such focus group-tested name) and got there dork early. Why Avis would give me an aircraft carrier instead of the midsize car I reserved is beyond me. Makes lots of sense to give a single person a vehicle big enough to transport troops to Afghanistan, instead of the car I reserved. But I was running late for the Marcia Ball concert last night, so I didn't want to take time arguing with them to get a different car.

The extra time allowed me to mill about a little bit in the neighborhood. I visited the Jon Bon Jovi shrine. Some weird, twenty-something woman with a Chihuahua set it up outside her house. I'd seen some articles about it, where she was hoping that the man himself would visit last weekend (he played the first weekend of Jazz Festival). She was hanging around outside her house, talking to visitors. Apparently, JBJ's brother showed up in his place. That would be like me showing up somewhere instead of Ron. Talk about the air letting out of a balloon. I went by Liuzza's too. Ordinarily this is a long-time local bar and seafood place. There was already a crowd outside, drinking beer and daiquiris, at 10:30 in the morning. Welcome to New Orleans.

I whiled away about half an hour in the tents, waiting for the Gospel Tent's morning prayer. That segued into the first group of the day, Eleanor McMain's Singing Mustang Gospel Choir. This is a school based gospel choir, of which New Orleans has many. Its awesome to see how many kids are involved in gospel choir and singing. I could be way off base, but I think most inner city kids aren't thugs, and they�d like to make something of themselves. Participating in choirs, under adult leadership, gives them something to achieve and builds their self-esteem. Just like on Glee.

From there I went to the Gentilly Stage to check out Gal Holiday and the Honky Tonk Review. "Gal Holiday" is the nom de guerre of Vanessa Nieman, who recently moved here from Maryland. All tatted up and wearing western dance outfit, and with a booming voice reminiscent of K.D. Lang, her music touches on classic country influences. Webb Pearce, Patsy Cline, Bob Wills, George Jones...you had me at hello. Or at least from the opening notes of "Across the Alley from the Alamo." It was so compelling I stayed the entire set, a real rarity for me. If I thought the public had my tastes, I�d expect big things for the Review. But, they don't.

From there, I finally gave in to the crawfish bread cravings. Clock it, that lasted about an hour. Man, it really hit the spot. I have a funny feeling I'm going to consume my body weight in cheese and bread before the weekend is over.

I noticed a lot of school kids here. Most New Orleans schoolkids wear some sort of uniform, and today was no exception. I never figured out why they were there, but think its great. With schools cutting their art and music classes back to nothing, something like this might be their only way to experience music not blaring out of the back of someone's car.

I next visited a new Jazz Fest attraction, the Haitian Pavilion, near Congo Square. No, it didn't have typhus and military coups. Rather, it featured Haitian art, dancing, and music. It was somewhat sparsely attended, but I expect the crowds will grow through the weekend.

From there, I walked briefly to get some jama jama (spiced spinach) and poulet fricassee (grilled chicken). I eat this every day at the Festival, because it�s the only thing served there that won't cause a triple bypass. You need to eat at least one thing like this to avoid complete gastrointestinal collapse.

Then I went over to check out Kirk Joseph's Backyard Groove. Kirk Joseph was one of the founding members of the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. The Groove, which apparently includes his wife and some guest local rappers, features a mix of funk, rap and soul. Joseph plays a tuba routed through some sort of computer or squawk box to sound more like a bass guitar. It was good, though I could have done without the rappers, or his insufficiently well covered wife shimmying about the stage. In any case, Galactic does the same thing much better.

From there I went to the Jazz Tent to listen briefly to Brice Winston, a tenor sax player. He began with an unaccompanied solo, with his three side men later joining in. It made me wonder how the money works for solo acts with a band. Does the name leader pay the others like employees, or do they split the gig money like a band?

After a couple of songs, I headed over to the Charmaine Neville Band at the Blues Tent. Her father, Charles Neville, was sitting in on saxophone. As usual, she had more of a jazz feel than blues or the soul/funk of her dad and his brothers. She played standards like "Take the A Train" and "Caravan," detouring to play the Beatles' "Come Together" in memory of local musicians who'd passed away during the last year. She, and other acts, kept pushing her new CD, which raises the question, do people still buy CDs? I thought it was a download market now, where singles rule. Its like trying to get people to buy your new album.

Next up was Lucinda Williams. She�s one of those performers that was an overnight sensation, after spending years in the industry. She evokes Chrissy Hynde, though less frenetic. A bit more pensive perhaps. She�s still rocking, though these days she looks more like a PTA mom with bed head. Who really, really needs a nap. The show was really good though, with Jazz Fest CEQ Quent Davis giving an introduction.

Afterwards, I saw Charles Neville walking around with a woman. How to put it? He old. That guy looked like he should be on his way to Luby's for the 4:30 dinner special, not getting on stage. He's about my height too, which was really surprising. He looks a lot taller on stage.

I had planned to check out Charlie Musselwhite at the Blues Tent, but it was overflowing so I instead went to Christian Scott. The Times-Picayune recommended him, and I'm glad I saw the show. He plays a Dizzy Gillespie-looking trumpet, with excellent chops and very precise style. His songs ranged from ballads to bop, with some rap influences. Early in the set, he explained that the previous song was for a very special woman in his life, and he wanted to bring her on stage so he could ask her a question. Then he turned to the guitar player who handed him a ring. The woman came on stage as requested, Scott got down on one knee and proposed, and she said yes. She was really cute, getting flustered and embarrassed. They hugged, and then he resumed the set, playing for about a half hour longer. Several things here. First, pay attention men. Leaving aside the fact he did it in front of thousands of people, that's how you propose. On one knee to demonstrate humility and faithfulness. With a ring to demonstrate earnestness. As Cher said in Moonstruck, 'Where's the ring? If you propose marriage to a woman you should offer a ring of engagement." That's exactly right. None of this "going to look for rings" six weeks after the fact. On the other hand, what point is there to doing this in front of thousands of strangers? It must be either as ego thing, showing everyone what he was doing, or a tool to pressure her into saying yes. Either way, its just not right. Something else that isn't right is finishing his set after the proposal. Most normal people would open a bottle of champagne or call their parents. This guy goes back to work, jamming on trumpet. It reminded me of one of my favorite stories. This guy proposes to his girlfriend at the Astros game, and he obviously alerted the team because they put it on the big video screen. She said no, and got up and walked out. Rather than going after her, he stayed in his seat and watched the Astros next inning at bat. Then he went after her. Nothing says true love like catching the home 5th before finding out what�s wrong with the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with.

Next it was on to the Acura Stage for Galactic. This is a fairly new band that�s taken the New Orleans scene by storm. Its high energy funk with a does of urban grit, no doubt due to the fact that the Rebirth Brass Band�s trombone player is a member. They're better live than on their CD.

I stayed for about half their set, then got some excellent catfish meunieure before heading to Amanda Shaw. Just to check it out. Just to see if something may have changed. It hasn't. You all know how I responded to Ms. Shaw. Pretty much no changes. To avoid the flood of her followers threatening to sue her for extremely minor fact errors in my last "review" of her, I�m just going to refer you to that review, which after all, comes from an attorney, not a music critic. She bounces around the stage and has a lot of energy, but I still just don't see it. "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" should not have the lyric, "I done told you once you son of a BLEEP, I'm the best there's ever been." Really, literally, she said the word "bleep." Charlie Daniels throws up a little bit in his mouth when he thinks of that one. But the large crowd loved it, and she sure has lots of admirers, so maybe I'm the one who's wrong. Then again, lots of people liked Cats, so what does that prove?'

I next went to the Fais-Do-Do tent for Michelle Shocked. I've heard about her for a long time but never heard her. She's a Texan so I wanted to like her. How to describe her? The lesbian John Prine. Something I never knew was needed. And which is weird because several articles I read say she's not gay. That's fine, either way, of course. But the crowd, predominantly women who just drove their small pickup trucks from Home Depot, would beg to differ. In any case, I recognize she's got a strong following, but its just not my bag, man, so I instead went to the end of the Delfeayo Marsalis show. This was infinitely better. Marsalis plays a mean trombone. For the last number, Marsalis brought maybe 15 guest musicians on stage, although they left the stage for a second line through the crowd. The audience ate it up, and it was a real high moment in Jazz Fest history.

Next, after some really good red beans and sausage, I decided to check out Wilco. Now, here's where I reveal my age. I've heard of this band for a long time, but have never heard their music. It first struck me as kind of ponderous, like those songs where Pearl Jam gets into a dark place and stays there. Much more "rock" than "roll." But as they played on, the songs did move in a direction, though in a very herky-jerky way. Most disconcerting? Their leader looks a lot like an old high school friend of mine. John, did you become a rock star?

Finally, it was on to the Cyndi Lauper show. She�s largely eschewed her '80s persona, and has remade herself as a blues singer. This ostensibly follows from her view that the blues are truth" and they "speak to her." She still commands the stage, and is full of energy. Though after all these years, she still sounds like she just got off the subway on Flatbush Avenue. She danced the whole time. Charlie Musselwhite sat in on harmonica. She's really a good blues singer. Her voice absolutely is intact. As a blues singer, she reminds me (no laughs please) of Christina Aguilera. Just a really great blues voice. Towards the end, she did sing her 80s hits. When "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" started, every woman in the place just erupted. I always thought Cyndi Lauper was just as good as Madonna. Madonna had more material, though Lauper's best songs were quite strong. Lauper was odd and cute, while Madonna was overtly sexual and provocative. Guess which one had the stronger career. Nice going America. Madonna's a pretend English country lady of leisure, spouting Kabbalah sayings she probably doesn't understand, while Cyndi Lauper is trying to reinvent herself and is schlepping on the road. "True Colors," which she wrote, was the encore. Performed quietly and emotionally, she kept the audience from heading to the exits.

Tomorrow-Willie!

UPDATE: This morning, the Times-Picayune quoted Scott as saying he proposed on the Jazz Fest stage because all of the 50 closest people in his life were there, either in his band or in the audience. OK, but so were a couple of thousand strangers. Isn't this supposed to be a private moment? I guess if you're with a showman, every minute of every day is the show. This just struck me as another ballpark proposal. Then again, I'm not sure what qualifies me as an expert on the subject. The closest I've come to proposing is I thought about it. Once. 15 years ago. But if lack of experience stops you from being an expert, there'd be no one left in the media.

2011 Jazz Festival Preview

I primarily started this blog to let people know how I spent my vacations, while actually on vacation. It’s a way to bring you along with me, but without us having to talk, disagree on how to spend the day, or make me wait on you in the morning while you take twice as long as I do to get ready. After it evolved a bit (if writing about Star Trek episodes, Dirty Dancing and Top Gun constitutes “evolution”), the nearly equally secondary purpose became to report on my now annual trips to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. This has become one of my main annual events, and each year provides a renewal and another chapter in the story.

Affirmers (see previous post…you people are now “affirmers” and you’d just better get used to it), its that time again. Jazz Fest is underway, and The Captain is on his way.

“Preview” is a misnomer. Jazz Fest has already started. Last weekend, the Fest got underway. I missed some outstanding acts, including Jeff Beck, Tom Jones, Irma Thomas (Soul Queen of New Orleans), the Zion Harmonizers Tribute to Bro. Sherman Washington, the Avitt Brothers, and a lot more. But that’s only three days. Hell, Woodstock was three days. I like to attend the second weekend, which includes “Slacker Thursday.” Adding Thursday turns it into a four-day weekend, which gives you more bang for your tourism buck if you can only make one of the weekends.

I arrived yesterday and as per my established routine, attended the YLC “Wednesday in the Square” performance. As discussed in last year’s preview post, this is a new tradition, in which the Young Leadership Council hosts free concerts each Wednesday in Lafayette Square Park, downtown across from the federal courthouse. This week its perennial Jazz Fest favorite Marcia Ball, along with Gal Holiday and her Honky Tonk Review. The crowd is a mix of local CBD workers just leaving the office, and Festers like me, eager to get into the swing of things. Its co-sponsored by the New Orleans Saints, which means the Saint-Sations are in attendance. How can you go wrong?

If you don’t know about Jazz Fest, stay tuned. Or check previous posts from around this time of year. Jazz Festival is part music festival, part street fair, part food festival, and part Louisiana celebration. Its held at the New Orleans Fair Grounds, which basically is their horse track. That means its all contained in one spot. There’s roughly seven or eight stages, with music being played on staggered schedules between roughly 11 a.m. and 7 p.m. The Fest features all different kinds of music, but for the most part its Louisiana-themed, or has some arguable connection with Louisiana’s musical heritage. That takes in a wide swath-blues, jazz, gospel, country, rock, rockabilly, reggae, even rap. About the only styles I can’t imagine would play at Jazz Fest would be electronica, new age (although idiot Kenny G played the first weekend this year), or metal. Roaming around the grounds, one can fill up on really excellent Louisiana foods, sold by local vendors. Favorites include crawfish monica, crawfish bread, po boys of all varieties, gumbos, etouffees, boiled shrimp and crawfish, and other Cajun and creole delicacies. The infield also features “heritage” including various art and craft displays, blacksmithing, glassblowing, woodworking, and other demonstrations, native dances, second line parades, and various other mirth and merry. The grandstands host cooking lessons, musician interviews, and Festival history displays. You could spend an entire day at Jazz Fest without listening to a single band and still get your money’s worth just from the food, the demonstrations, and the people-watching. Of course, you’d be foolish to do that.

This year’s second weekend lineup looks ok. Maybe not quite as exciting as some past years. Here’s the bands I’m currently focused on, by day:

Thursday: Cyndi Lauper (that’s right, THAT Cyndi Lauper), Gregg Allman, Willie Nelson, Lucinda Williams, Delfeayo Marsalis, and Wilco.

Friday: Ingrid Lucia, Edie Brickell (i.e. Mrs. Paul Simon), Bonerama, Buckwheat Zydeco, and Better than Ezra.

Saturday: Marcia Ball, DL Menard, Trombone Shorty, Allen Toussaint, Beasoleil, The Strokes, Aaron Neville (solo gospel performance), and Bobby Blue Bland.

Sunday: Anders Osborne, Feufollet, Cowboy Mouth, Ellis Marsalis, Rebirth Brass Band (“ain’t no party like a Rebirth party…”), Kid Rock (yes, I’m going to go, just for the spectacle of it all…hopefully hepatitis isn’t airborne transmitted), Sonny Landreth, the Radiators’ farewell show, the Neville Brothers, and Sonny Rollins.

Of course, Jazz Fest is most fun when you discover a new (or previously unknown) artist, as I have through the years. Before Jazz Fest, I had no idea about performers such as the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars, DL Menard, Feufollet, Bonsoir Catain, Charmaine Neville Dash Rip Rock, Anders Osborne, Theresa Andersson, or many other local acts of whom I’m now an avid fan. One example, last year I blew off about 2/3 of the Pearl Jam show to listen to long-time guitar virtuoso Jeff Beck, whom I’d never heard live. That risk proved well worth it, as Beck gave a stunning performance, earning him a repeat performance this year (which unfortunately was the first Festival weekend).

And Jazz Fest serves as one of two real New Orleans “gathering of the tribes”…a shared local experience, like a huge block party. Having lived here for about a year, I still feel like an outsider but can appreciate it more than those who have only traveled here.

One can hardly think of an upcoming Festival without recalling past Fest experiences. Like the first time I had crawfish monica, or the Prejean’s oyster, pheasant and andouille gumbo. At the risk of conflicting with prior posts, here’s my current Top 5 ranking of past Jazz Festival shows (at least, of the ones I’ve seen):

1. Al Green, 1993. Rev. Al was not performing much those days, and when he did, it was nearly always gospel music. He didn’t perform his old 1970s hits very much. So this performance was something of a coming out party. Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes introduced him, reminding us that this was a man who lived his faith, and his attendance here should in no way be taken to mean he had forsaken it. He came out wearing a white suit, and handed out red roses to women in the crowd. He performed a good number of religious tunes, but included all the hits, starting with “L-O-V-E,” and including Love and Happiness, How Can You Mend a Broken Heart, Still In Love With You, For the Good Times, and Let’s Stay Together. I saw not one, not a few, but several black ladies “of a certain age” swoon. Literally swoon. That was one soul party.

2. Isaac Hayes, 2005. This was about a year before he passed away. Hayes had been part of the Stax Records team, with a hand in writing many of the old 1960s favorites of Sam and Dave, Otis Redding, and the Staples Singers before he started his solo career. He came out late, the last act of the last day in Congo Square on a beautiful, San Diego-like Sunday evening, wearing some sort of Sun Ra sparkling orange caftan, and proceeded to play all his 1970s hits. He even played Chocolate Salty Balls, a song he sang as Chef on South Park. Someone had a flag in the audience with the likeness of Chef, which Hayes acknowledged. As the sun set, and the show moved on well past the required 7 p.m. ending time, the cymbals struck the opening rhythm for one of the coolest songs ever written, Shaft. He extended it and played it a little more slowly than the recorded version. As the song picked up and the lyrics began, the crowd energy started to build. All through the lyric section, that energy grew and grew and grew, until the song reached the break near the end. Hayes extended that break, prolonging the ecstatic feeling that he’d brought about. At the conclusion, the bubble burst, and rapturous cheering began. No encores were necessary as the sun set over 2005 Jazz Festival. “Who’s the black private dick that’s the sex machine to all the chicks? Shaft.”

3. Solomon Burke, 1992. This was at my first Jazz Festival. Burke was a master of New Orleans soul and rhythm and blues. He had huge hits with Everybody Needs Somebody to Love (covered by the Blues Brothers in the movie), Cry to Me (featured in Dirty Dancing) and Got to Get You Off My Mind. I saw him very late in his career, when he was so obese he had to spend much of the show sitting down. But he still wore a velvet suit, and had a personal attendant (a la James Brown) covering him with a cape as he feigned fainting from being overcome with emotion. Burke could absolutely belt out a song, just standing or sitting on a chair, with a microphone. He absolutely held the crowd with his voice, energy, magnetism, and style. One of the greatest showmen I’ve ever seen.

4. Randy Newman 1992, and then 2008. Most of you know him as either this generation’s premier American soundtrack composer, or as the guy who writes odd but witty pop songs (like Short People, I Love LA, or You Can Leave Your Hat On). But he has a serious side, and as a native New Orleanian, has written one of the great Louisiana songs, Louisiana 1927. Its about the Great Mississippi River Flood of 1927, which literally washed away thousands of south Louisianians, causing widespread migration and displacement. Newman’s song laments their plight: “Louisiana, Louisiana, they’re trying to wash us away….” When he played the song at the 1992 Festival, the skies literally opened up during the song, as if by some sort of divine intervention. Festival goers listened to lyrics like “six feet of water in the streets of Plaquemines” as the torrents broke from the skies. After Hurricane Katrina, “Louisiana 1927” became something of an unofficial Louisiana anthem, symbolizing their resilience and pride, and determination to triumph over the floods that overwhelmed the city. When Randy Newman performed the song in his 2008 return to the Festival, it was an emotional, cathartic moment for the city, and for those who had finally returned from their temporary exile.

5. The Neville Brothers return to New Orleans. I wrote about this in 2008. Without rehashing all that, the Nevilles didn’t come back after Katrina for what seemed to some an excessive amount of time. Long-time resentments surfaced, and some of the Nevilles made negative statements about the city. The Nevilles had long played the last show at Jazz Festival, but skipped 2006 and 2007, the first two years after the storm. But they finally returned in 2008. The Times-Picayune writers wondered how the crowds would greet them. Festival President Quint Davis, who had many run-ins with them through the years, personally introduced them, calling them New Orleans’ first family of music, and saying everyone returned to New Orleans in their own time, and the Neville Brothers were no different. They then played a stellar set, replete with the Wild Magnolias and Carlos Santana guesting, going at least half an hour after the scheduled 7 p.m. finish time.

Honorable Mention: Tony Bennett, Neil Young, Earth, Wind and Fire, Stevie Wonder, and Carole King (with special guest Slash, yeah, that’s right, “Slash”).

Finally, if you decide to follow these posts, know that the point is just to have some fun. I am not a music expert or a music critic. I’m just a fan. I’m telling you what I thought. I don’t spend all my time researching or checking facts, or listening to every recording of every performer. I don’t go to 500 shows a year. These posts just share what I liked and didn’t like, and explain why. I try to make them fun. The idea is to write what I would tell you in person if you asked me what I thought about the Festival. Your mileage may vary. The last two years, rabid Sugarland and Amanda Shaw fans flooded me with insulting, threatening, and misspelled comments in response to some fairly mild negative posts about their heroes. I didn’t post any of them. Now, I welcome comments. I want you to send comments. If you disagree with my opinions, please, by all means, comment and I’ll post it. Readers can decide who’s right. But I will not have my name associated with vulgar, threatening, or insulting posting. If you wouldn’t say it to my face, don’t expect to see your comment posted. You are more than welcome to start your own blog and post all the insipid, sycophantic, lunatic ravings in support of your favorite acts that you want, and can say anything you like. Just don’t expect that you can bring that cheese over to Daily Affirmations. After all, this blog is all about dignity…always dignity….

Signed, post on the 25 ways girls are like fish.

Next-Thursday at the Festival

To Thine Own Self Be True. Unless, Of Course, You're an Enormous Douche

Yale: I'm not a saint, OK?

Isaac: You're too easy on yourself. Don't you see? You're... You rationalise everything. You're not honest with yourself. You talk about you wanna write a book, but in the end you'd rather buy a Porsche. You cheat a little bit on Emily and you play around the truth with me. The next thing you know you're in front of a Senate committee naming names.

Yale: You are so self-righteous. I mean, we're just people. We're just human beings. You think you're God!

Isaac: I gotta model myself after someone.

--Manhattan (1979)

Growing up, I greatly enjoyed looking through my parents' high school yearbooks. Mainly because it confirmed that those 1950s kids looked like a bunch of illiterate hicks, with their greased up hair, plaid shirts, and rolled up jeans. I smugly felt victorious, knowing that we 1970s kids were superior in every way, what with our polyester fake silk shirts, long hair, male necklaces and fake suede, rubber soled shoes. But more than that I enjoyed getting a glimpse of Mom and Dad as teenagers, before they became the dictatorial menaces who forced me to eat broccoli and wouldn't let me order cokes at Monterrey House. I remember delighting at their friends' extensive signature/salutations (seemingly everyone in school signed Mom's, while only girls and teammates signed Dad's. One extremely questionable-looking young lady who was not my beloved Mother, but who at least thought herself my Dad's girlfriend, tossed off an extensive signature filled with references to their future married life, their future kids, and their future home. Basically, a total whore.). Anyway, all the seniors included a favorite quote, which appeared under their photos. My Dad selected "to thine own self be true." I knew that phrase well. This was his stock explanation why he never grew his hair longer during the 1970s. Short hair during the 70s condemned him, at least in my eyes, to remain hopelessly out of style, therefore making it even more imperative that I quarantine him from my friends. So I've always associated this quote with his making me get my hair cut short when all my own friends got to have long hair (over their collars). I wondered why I had to be true to HIS self instead of mine. Or thine.

Little did I know at the time he'd inadvertently stumbled onto the most important rule of living a happy life. Or at least, living a life that doesn't suck as bad as it might otherwise. "To thine own self be true" is the Cardinal Rule. Despite the fact that it sounds like something written on an Ed Hardy shirt or tattooed on Angelina Jolie's foot.

It comes from Hamlet. Polonius, a weaselly adviser to King Claudius (think of a cross between Frank Burns from MASH and Bob Haldeman), advises his son Laertes before Laertes travels to Paris. Polonius reels off a string of Ben Franklin-esque maxims he wants his son to follow. He continues after the main phrase, "and it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man." You can envision Laertes rolling his eyes and checking his watch during this speech, thinking "ok, let's wind it up old man, I don't want to miss the boat." In context, the phrase essentially means "don't lie to yourself." But "true" has another connotation in this context--putting your own interests first. If you can't be honest to or protect yourself, you can't deal with or care for others.

But it goes well beyond that. What's the worst thing you can say about someone? They're a loser, a thief, a beggar, abusive, dull, stupid? No. Its that they're a phony. I mean, other than that they're a concentration camp guard. Or a politician. Or a terrorist. Or that you gave yourself your own nickname.

Without being honest with yourself, you live a fundamentally unreal existence. You miss opportunities to truly improve your life. You ignore chronic problems that eventually will grow to the point where, when too great to ignore, they're too late to resolve. Though hysterically funny, Michael Scott is essentially pathetic, convinced of his brilliance, of his leadership abilities, and of the love his employees have for him. He has many strengths, which otherwise might propel him to great success and happiness. But his inability to recognize and acknowledge his flaws consigns him to his lofty status as the Regional Manager-Scranton Branch. All because he utterly lacks any self-analytical capability. That's what she said.

Likewise, by not looking first to yourself and doing what's right for you, you can't truly take care of others and you sacrifice your own happiness. Living a life someone else charts for you imprisons you in your own Phantom Zone with General Zod, incapable of realizing your own goals and eventually resentful of having to satisfy only others. Without at least a little bit of "selfishness," people can grow to resent the ones on whom they ostensibly spend their lives serving. Your so-called life of service becomes not a choice that fulfills and satisfies your soul, but instead turns into a drudgery performed as some sort of duty, and one that weighs more and more heavily as it wears on. Equally intolerable, living a life not your own or that suppresses your true self deceives others in how they relate to you. Think of the disappointment and anger you've felt in life upon discovering that someone you thought you knew really well turned out to be totally different than their appearance. Its a form of deception, like Satan in the Garden of Eden, coming to Eve not as Beelzebub, replete with horns and a trident, but as a serpent. A friendly nice serpent that could walk, wear an ascot, and tell hilarious stories about weekends spent with Bill Murray playing golf and going to Cubs games. It combines some of the worst sins--lying, stealing, fraud.

My worst decisions have generally resulted from not making the right choice for me but to satisfy what I think others want or in deluding myself about what's right. These were never comfortable decisions, and they quickly proved wrong. My best decisions have come from doing what strikes me as right and natural. Even if difficult.

You've seen this all the time. The bull-necked, ruddy complexion construction worker-looking guy wearing an ill-fitting Armani suit his wife obviously picked out for him. The Glee fan club member trying to become an undercover DEA agent. The CPA at the Victoria Secret after-party. Tom Cruise anywhere. None of these people are making choices based on what suits them. Instead, they're fulfilling others' expectations, or trying to be someone they're not (please don't sue me Tom).

None of this is to say you should roll over or alienate people or fail to help someone when they're down. Other people aren't speed bumps to roll over in life on your way to the sports bar on Sundays. Nor does it mean you can't love someone else and be devoted and true to them as well. To the contrary, only by living a life true to your ideals and desires can you become a fully realized person capable of dealing with others as equals, helping them as a choice, or loving them as a partner rather than as some abstract obligatory burden or as a subservient dependent.

This "rule" has too many applications to list. But here's just a few. Don't listen to or read or watch crap just because others do. Don't let your spouse dress you. Don't vote for someone just because everyone else is. Don't follow crowds. Follow true friends instead. The party crowd will be the first ones to jump ship. Don't follow every little trend. Don't praise the Emperor's new clothes. If you're a square peg, don't spend your life looking for round holes. Don't rationalize. See yourself like others do, not like you hope you are.

There's no shortage of people who will use you for their purposes. They'll drain you of everything you have. Maybe unintentionally, maybe not. But that will wear you down and poison you. Treat yourself at least as well as you do your best friend. Protect yourself. Do what's best for you. In reality, you're your own best friend. You're the one who best knows what's best for you. Or, in the immortal words of the Fifth Dimension, "you gotta go where you want to go, do what you want to do." (Feel free to congratulate me for timely cultural references in the comments section).

I know. This is coming off like Yoda. "Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." This may have been a big mistake.

Next--either "Act Your Age" or "Jazz Festival Preview." Depends on whether this reads any better in the light of day.

How To Live Your Life and Answers to Other Trivial Questions

Jerry: OUR LIVES!! What kind of lives are these? We're like children. We're not men.
George: No, we're not. We're not men.
Jerry: We come up with all these stupid reasons to break up with these women.
George: I know. I know. That's what I do. That's what I do.
Jerry: Are we going to be sitting here when we're sixty like two idiots?
George: We should be having dinner with our sons when we're sixty.
Jerry: We're pathetic… you know that?
George: Yeah, Like I don't know that I'm pathetic.
Jerry: Why can't I be normal?
George: Yes. Me, too. I wanna be normal. Normal.
Seinfeld, "The Engagement"

Warning! Although most of this doesn’t apply to this blog’s three regular readers, it’s kind of dark. Dark indeed. Dark like a Doors song or a Robert Mitchum movie. Or one of those dreadful “America isn’t powerful or prosperous anymore so you rednecks better get used to it and ride in the back of the bus (and pay higher taxes)” Obama speeches. I never get tired of those. Like a Ronald Reagan speech, only exactly the opposite. Apologies in advance.

Its such a shame too, because it’s a beautiful day today in the People’s Republic of Austin. We’re enjoying San Diego weather which seems to have come from out of nowhere. The Austin Reggae Festival (official symbol—a magic mushroom. Any hidden meanings there?) seems to have caught 78704 in a deadly gridlock, thus causing me to flee for greener and less baked pastures. Soon, six months of Hell will descend upon us. Global warming, or climate change, or the greenhouse effect (whatever msnbc.com is calling it these days) will have to step back though. I’m staying inside and turning the AC down. Way on down. I’m sorry if the asphalt turns into liquid tar and orange groves start sprouting in Boston, I’m not going to spend the summer roasting like a Cornish game hen. You self-righteous climate fanatacists will just have to deal with it. Go pick on some SUV drivers. After all, I do recycle.

If you’re still reading, it means you’re probably a devoted Affirmer. Yeah, that’s right, you’ve got a name. The Big Lebowski fans are “achievers.” Glee followers are called “Gleeks.” You are “Affirmers.” Congratulations. Enjoy your new positive class-identifying moniker. I’m having some t-shirts made with a cool fist symbol, or a tiger…something cool. Isn’t it awesome being part of a group? Even a pathetic group like this one. Its like being in the Jets or the Sharks, but without any singing or dancing or Natalie Wood.

OK, we’ve gotten on a tangent here people. Let’s get back to the point.

So as a devoted Affirmer, I worry about you. I worry about you succumbing to the moral and cultural funk that has engulfed the American Public. An Affirmer needs to live a life that stands for something. Its part of our official Affirmer Pledge (summarized in a future posting). A life that at least stands for something other than eating pudding or obsessing over which anorexic blonde schoolteacher or cheerleader wins The Bachelor, that is. Not only is an unexamined life not worth living, a life spent eating Cinnabons and playing Wii is pretty undeserving as well. It doesn’t mean you’re fun, it just means you’re a stoner, probably sponging off someone who actually works.

Last fall I attended a continuing legal education course in Lafayette. Louisiana requires that these courses include a professionalism component. Not ethics exactly, but more like obeying the unwritten rules of lawyering. This particular course described numerous instances of downright appalling behavior that lawyers throughout the country had committed. Really bad stuff. Lying, stealing, cheating stuff. Keep in mind, this is from people who have advanced university degrees, have to maintain a (largely) clean criminal record, devoted their lives to upholding laws, and had to pass a relatively difficult test to enter their profession. If they can’t act like members of a decent society, what about all the rest of the unwashed, grimy, Dancing With the Stars-watching slugs out there? It opened my eyes.

If you watch the news, read the newspaper (I guess that’s archaic, right? Ok, if you read the news on line), or if you, I don’t know, live your life around other people, you should have at least begun to suspect that a very unpleasant reality has been unfolding in our midst. Americans are pretty much going down the tubes. Its just shocking how many of us have become so…well…tacky. And annoying. I don’t exclude myself from that category. You’re going to have to face some harsh truth. As my old high school friend Betsy Clark once said liltingly during Shadow Box rehearsals, “You All Suck!” No, really, I’m sorry, but except for the three documented Affirmers whom I’m trying to help here, its true. In so many ways, you, typical American, suck.

You look like slobs. You men wear Tommy Bahama to work (Don Draper is the look you want, people), like you’re some character out of a Hemingway novel (only a lot less interesting). You women wear belly shirts, despite that extra-wide whitewall tire you call your gut. Men and women alike, you wear cheap, cheap jewelry. You go everywhere looking like you just got out of bed. You wear white after Labor Day. Your hair looks like a sparrow nest or a grease trap. Your gut looks big enough to have its own gravitational field, and you probably haven’t seen your toes since 1985. You have no idea how to tie a tie. You wear jeans to church. On Easter Sunday. Not long ago, I saw a teenage girl wearing Daisy Dukes to church and it was awesome. I mean, it was appalling.

You act like children. 50 year old men are getting tattoos, going to tanning salons, wearing baseball caps backwards, getting facials, riding motorcycles (without helmets), going to fantasy baseball camps and playing fantasy football, hanging out at Hooter’s, and amassing enough electronic equipment to launch the Space Shuttle or spy on the Jordanian Defense Ministry Headquarters. You can’t bother to help your kids with their homework, or, you do their homework for them. You eat Cocoa Puffs for dinner and cold pizza for breakfast. You credit rating is worse than Central America’s.

You run off and play instead of shopping for insurance or fixing the hot water heater. You divorce your wife of 20 years because she isn’t hot anymore or she hassles you about being a complete loser. You put springs on both your legs and wear a helmet with bunny ears and bounce down South Lamar to get around. No, really, I just saw that not ten minutes ago. Austin is still the weirdest town.

You stand for absolutely nothing. You vote for the candidate you’d most rather play golf or have a beer with. You constantly lie, cheat, spread rumors, and plot at work, despite being at the top of major corporations, governments or professional firms. You cheat on your spouse. You have no opinions about anything, except that whatever most benefits you personally is the “right” thing to do.

You are criminally ignorant. You can’t name the Vice President. You have no idea who’s running for any office, much less the differences between them. You don’t know that we’re at war, or the difference between Iraq or Afghanistan or Vietnam. You think Shakespeare is a pub or a martini. You haven’t read a book without pictures in 20 years, but you know the name of every character on Jersey Shore and Three’s Company. Basically, if it doesn’t happen within a 50 foot radius of your sluggard body, you don’t know or care about it.

You behave repulsively. You treat the movie theatre as your living room or the ball park, carrying on high-volume conversations and smacking on your Milk Duds like they were your last meal. You dart in and out of traffic at your own personal speed, like you’re the only car on the road or you’re qualifying for the Daytona 500. You stick your filthy hands in the buffet, oblivious to the vile and loathsome diseases your fingernails are spreading to everyone. You have the manners of a farmhand. A prison farmhand.

You raise your kids as savages. After naming them something completely bizarre to suit your own sense of creativity, of course. I can hardly imagine the burden these kids will carry through their lives, having to answer to names like “Grandma Apple,” “Aunt Suri,” or “Uncle Kal-El.” You take them places they clearly don’t belong, like Tiffany’s, and chuckle as they rampage through the place like rutting wildebeests stalking their prey. You let them turn their brains into mush watching TV and playing video games. You let them engorge on pop tarts and pizza rolls to the point where they make Augustus Gloop look like Lance Armstrong. I look for kids to be putting pig heads on sticks soon.

In short, you stand for nothing, your life contributes nothing, and your “belief system” is the moral equivalent of wearing whatever’s at the top of your dirty clothes pile. You can’t hold a job, even though you’ve had 16 years of school. You watch Dancing With the Stars. You eat McDonald’s French fries and double-stuffed oreos every day, substitute Fruit Loops for your Cocoa Pebbles when you want to diet, exercise by playing video games, and walk around with an untucked shirt everywhere. You ignore your kids and wonder why they won’t mind you. You ignore your wife and wonder why she’s divorcing you. Everyone hates you, but won’t say it. You’re convinced all your problems are because your boss/teacher/government clerk/minister are jealous and screwed you over.

You are Charmin soft. If squeezed, you will bruise and break. You are an irritating, entitled, whining, pretentious douche. In other words, you, my friend, are an American.

Still, by reading this far you show signs of hope and redemption. Or you’re a true Affirmer, and want to know how to avoid falling into this trap. Like a frat boy working on his resume, you’re still capable of making wise choices. But you need guidance. You need a value system.

What you need, quite frankly, are some rules. Without rules, we are bereft, left solely to our horrifically misguided sense of right and wrong. Welcome to the “Daily Affirmations How to Live Your Life” series. Think of this as the nosy, meddling Italian mother you never had. Like Joe Pesci’s mother in Goodfellas (who was in reality Martin Scorsese’s mother). Through the next few posts, I’ll lay out the simple rules you should follow to live a better, more productive, satisfying, and meaningful life. You won’t get rich or qualify for the Olympics or get a street named for you. But you might just wake up one morning without that queasy feeling gnawing at the pit of your stomach that your life amounts to nothing.

So look out for the next in our series. First up-the cardinal rule!

The Daily Affirmations Dance Party

There may be trouble ahead
But while there's moonlight and music and love and romance
Let's face the music and dance
Irving Berlin, “Let’s Face the Music and Dance”

You know the Woodstock generation of the 1960s that were
so full of themselves and conceited? None of those people could dance.
Charlotte Pingress, “The Last Days of Disco”

Seems like lately its just been one sort of tumult after another. Christchurch, NZ earthquake, Japanese tsunami and resulting nuclear crisis, Liz Taylor’s passing, Libyan civil war, drastic public service cuts, ongoing recession, Wisconsin labor union agitation, NFL lockout, Charlie Sheen world tour…. Just a real bummer.

What can we do about that? Well, excitement awaits! As I’ll explain in future posts, I have a multi-part series lined up on how you should live your life. It’s going to be lots of fun. By “fun,” of course, I mean something to replace your Ambien. Ok, so maybe excitement doesn't really await. That’s not going to add sorely needed mirth and merriment to anyone’s life. Well, not to anyone who’s not an intolerant, life-hating, buzzkill. You know. Sean Penn.

So, let’s shake it off before we plunge in to the abyss. In the “Animal House” spirit (“you know what we’re gonna do? Toga party!"), let’s have a dance party.

At least, let’s pretend like we’re having a dance party.

Now, what makes for a good dance party? Well, lots of people looking to have a good time, a big dance floor, and a wide variety of great songs, with a good mix of fast and slow dances. Good refreshments, though no finger food. You don’t want to eat out of a bowl where everyone’s been sticking their dirty hands. Think about your high school dances, except without the awkwardness, or with guys trying to sneak cheap liquor at every turn. I missed most of my school dances because, frankly, they were soooo common. I preferred staying at home to watch Love Boat and eat cheeseburgers. Actually, that still sounds like a sweet night.

The format here is basically a playlist. Take the list, play the tunes, then get down with your bad self. I realize making a list isn’t really the same as writing. Santa makes a list every year, but that doesn’t make it “The Sound and the Fury.” But hopefully seeing some of these titles will jog an old memory or inspire a new one. Or, hopefully, get you out of that seat and up on to your feet. “Get up off a that thing!” As it were.

The songs span the 1960s to the 1980s. There’s about three times as many songs as could actually play at a real dance, so feel free to program your own dance.

There’s no music from the 1990s. Mainly because the 90s had no dance songs. Unless you were into wearing flannel, cheap buzzes on cough syrup, and hating your parents, the 90s weren’t a dance decade. You may say, “what about rap?” Yeah, rap is barely music. At the risk of sounding like 1955 Southern Baptist preacher warning about Elvis, rap essentially consists of a mind-numbing electronic bass beat, a snippet of an actual, real song, and “kill my landlord” style criminal poetry about smacking bitches upside the head or backing that thing up over here to hit that. Rap lyrics are a lot like “and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make,” only, exactly the opposite. Nor is anything included from the 21st Century. Here’s a thought: if no one is playing an actual musical instrument, its probably not music. Or if you’re only “singing” through a computer, you're not actually singing. Turn on your Guitar Hero if that’s what you want.

So get your date a corsage, get a haircut, wash your car, put on a tie, and head on over to the Daily Affirmations Dance Party. Let’s all get down and get funky.

The 1960s Dance Party

We start off early, right after the old folks have finished their 4 p.m. dinners, so they can stand and sway, complain that the music is too loud, try to outdo each others' knee replacement and acid reflux stories, and get home soon enough to go to bed by 8. Without breaking their hips. Oh, and there’s more of these songs because they’re shorter.

Twist and Shout- The Beatles
Louie, Louie- The Kingsmen
Locomotion- Little Eva
Be My Baby- The Ronettes
Where Did Our Love Go- The Supremes
Shout- The Isley Brothers
I Only Have Eyes For You- The Flamingos
Baby I Love You- The Ronettes
Beechwood 4-5789- The Marvelettes
My Girl- The Temptations
Our Day Will Come- Ruby and the Romantics
My Guy- Mary Wells
RESPECT- Aretha Franklin
Natural Woman- Aretha Franklin
Hold On, I’m Coming- Sam and Dave
Chapel of Love- The Dixie Cups
Twistin’ the Night Away- Sam Cooke
Wonderful World- Sam Cooke
When A Man Loves A Woman- Percy Sledge
Nowhere to Run- Martha and the Vandellas
Keep on Dancing- The Gentrys
He’s A Rebel- Darlene Love
Cool Jerk- The Capitols
Think- Aretha Franklin
Chain of Fools- Aretha Franklin
Wedding Bell Blues- The Fifth Dimension
Ooh Baby Baby- Smokey Robinson and the Miracles
My Cherie Amour- Stevie Wonder
Tighten Up- Archie Bell and the Drells
Tequila- The Champs
Do You Love Me?- The Contours
Rescue Me- Fontella Bass
People Get Ready- The Impressions
You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin- The Righteous Brothers
Son of a Preacher Man- Dusty Springfield
The Twist- Chubby Checker
Shotgun- Junior Walker and the All Stars
Green Onions- Booker T. and the MGs
Soul Finger- The Bar Kays
Tell It Like It Is- Aaron Neville
Baby I Need Your Loving- Johnny Rivers
Ain’t That Peculiar- Marvin Gaye
Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing- Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell
Dance to the Music- Sly and the Family Stone
Uptight, Everything Is Alright- Stevie Wonder
Keep Your Hands Off My Baby- Little Eva
Its Gonna Work Out Fine- Ike and Tina Turner
Stay- Maurice Williams
This Boy- The Beatles
Drive My Car- The Beatles
When I Get Home- The Beatles
Can’t Do That- The Beatles
All Summer Long- The Beach Boys
Fun, Fun, Fun- The Beach Boys
Don’t Worry Baby- The Beach Boys
Yes, I’m Ready- Barbara Mason
Everybody Needs Somebody to Love- Solomon Burke
Its Not Unusual- Tom Jones
Shake- Otis Redding
Try A Little Tenderness- Otis Redding

The 1970s Dance Party

OK, now that the 1960s dance marathon has finished, lets move on to the 1970s. Pull out your corduroy suit, grow out your sideburns, lay down carpeting and install quadrophonic speakers and an 8-track tape player in your van, and walk around spouting a bunch of nonsense about things like EST or the equal rights amendment to get in the spirit of the thing.

Part 1 is pre-disco, early 1970s stuff.

Brown Sugar- The Rolling Stones
Tumbling Dice-The Rolling Stones
Give It To Me -J. Geils Band
Theme From Shaft- Isaac Hayes
I’ll Take You There- Staples Singers
Move On Up- Curtis Mayfield
Summer Breeze- Seals and Crofts
Nights In White Satin- The Moody Blues
Higher Ground- Stevie Wonder
ABC- Jackson 5
Never Can Say Goodbye- Jackson 5
I’ll Be There- Jackson 5
Funky Chicken- Rufus Thomas
Mr. Big Stuff- Jean Knight
Cissy Strut- The Meters
Got to Give It Up (Part 1)- Marvin Gaye
Rock Steady- Aretha Franklin
I Say A Little Prayer for You- Aretha Franklin
Me and Mrs. Jones- Billy Paul
Hey There Lonely Girl- The Delphonics
Respect Yourself- Staples Singers
Superfly- Curtis Mayfield
The Tears of a Clown- Smokey Robinson
Let’s Get It On- Marvin Gaye
Just My Imagination- The Temptations
What’s Going On- Marvin Gaye
Let’s Stay Together- Al Green
L-O-V-E- Al Green
Pick Up the Pieces- Average White Band
Knock on Wood- Eddie Floyd
Ooh Boy- Rose Royce
Flash Light- Parliament

Part 2, after intermission, is straight up Saturday Night Fever. Go back out to your van, do whatever you degenerates did in the 1970s out in the parking lot, put on your mood ring and gold chains, don your leisure suit and platform shoes, and dance the night away.

Rock With You- Michael Jackson
Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough- Michael Jackson
Love Machine- The Miracles
Brick House- The Commodores
Car Wash- Rose Royce
Get Down Tonight- K.C. and the Sunshine Band
That’s the Way- K.C. and the Sunshine Band
Stayin’ Alive- The Bee Gees
More Than A Woman- The Bee Gees
K-JEE- TSOP
Pina Colada Song- Rupert Holmes
Love’s Theme- Love Unlimited Orchestra
Lady Marmalade- Labelle
Dancing Queen- ABBA
Dazz- Brick
Play That Funky Music White Boy- Wild Cherry
Boogie Wonderland- Earth Wind & Fire
Sing a Song- Earth Wind & Fire
After the Love Has Gone- Earth Wind & Fire
Hollywood Swinging- Kool and the Gang
Right Back to Where We Started From- Maxine Nightingale
Love Rollercoaster- Ohio Players
You Sexy Thing- Hot Chocolate
Boogie Fever- The Sylvers
Boogie, Oogie, Oogie- A Taste of Honey
Disco Inferno- The Trammps
YMCA- The Village People
You’ll Never Find- Lou Rawls
We Are Family- Sister Sledge
Turn The Beat Around- Vicki Sue Robinson
Love Train- The O’Jays
Good Times- Chic
More, More, More- Andrea True Connection
Oh What A Night- The Four Seasons
I Will Survive- Gloria Gaynor
Last Dance- Donna Summer


1980s Dance Party

After Donna fades out, after a career-killing diatribe against gays (Rule number one of show business-know and do not attack your audience), swap your van for a Fiero (or a DeLorean with the flux capacitor option, stocked with enough plutonium to generate the 1.21 gigawatts necessary for time travel), trade that leisure suit for a ripped t-shirt or popped color pastel Izod shirt, cut your hair in a blender and color it in neon, strap on a dog collar and green eye shadow, and head back on to the dance floor.

Walkin’ On Sunshine- Katrina and the Waves
Vacation- The Go Go’s
Love Shack- The B-52’s
Rio- Duran Duran
True- Spandau Ballet
Crazy for You- Madonna
Relax- Frankie Goes to Hollywood
876-5309- Tommy Tutone
Jungle Love- Morris Day and the Time
Our Lips Are Sealed- The Go Go’s
Super Freak- Rick James
Don’t You Want Me- Gary Numan
Allison- Elvis Costello
Sweet Love- Anita Baker
1999- Prince
Let’s Go Crazy- Prince
Purple Rain- Prince
Man in the Mirror- Michael Jackson
Beat It- Michael Jackson
Billie Jean- Michael Jackson
Footloose- Kenny Loggins
Girls Just Want to Have Fun- Cyndi Lauper
Time After Time- Cyndi Lauper
Rebel Yell- Billy Idol
Its Raining Men- Weather Girls
Celebrate Good Times- Earth Wind & Fire
Jump- Pointer Sisters
I Want to Dance with Somebody- Whitney Houston
Sledgehammer- Peter Gabriel
Wicked Game- Chris Isaak
Come On Eileen- Dexy’s Midnight Runners
Rock the Casbah- The Clash
Tainted Love- Soft Cell
Hold Me Now- The Thompson Twins
What I Like About You- The Romantics
I’m Coming Out- Diana Ross
Let’s Groove- Earth Wind & Fire
She Works Hard for the Money- Donna Summer
Hungry Eyes- Eric Carmen
What Have You Done for Me Lately- Janet Jackson
I Want Candy- Bow Wow Wow
Hey Micky- Toni Basil
Carribean Queen- Billy Ocean
99 Luftballoons- Nena
Looking For A New Love- Jody Whatley
One Thing Leads to Another- The Fixx
Black Velvet- Allanah Myles
Tempted By the Fruit of Another- Squeeze
Party All the Time- Eddie Murphy
Let’s Dance- David Bowie
China Girl- David Bowie
Every Breath You Take- The Police

Now head out back into the night. Katz’s finally did close after all those years, so we can’t go there. Maybe Magnolia Café, then back home.

Next-12 easy rules on how to live your life, which is 10 more than God gave Moses. Call the extra two “lagniappe.”

The Last Movie Star

This was the headline on the Drudge Report today, and its pretty much true. Today's MTV-made "movie stars" would be ball boys at best in a league with players like Elizabeth Taylor.

Millions of words have already been written about her, and many more will be written today and in coming weeks. I have nothing to add.

Except, Liz showed us its possible to wear the hell out of a slip. THAT is talent, friends.

We Do Have Charlie Sheen to Kick Around Still

Good ol’ Charlie Sheen. What is there left to say about this guy? Except maybe, thanks a lot Charlie. I sure enjoy looking like the reigning celebrity drug crazy. Even though I, like Jon Cryer, am a troll. By the way, I strongly encourage you to click on that last link.

By the way, part 2, I'm sorry for posting about something so ridiculous in the face of nuclear meltdown and mass death in Japan. Thoughts and prayers for all, particularly for my old friend Chris Wood and his family, who reside there.

Back to Charlie. Real name Carlos Irwin Estevez, by the way. So much for complaining about Haim Levine not being honest about himself.

Have you had enough of this guy yet? Is it possible for him to get more coverage? Obama didn’t get this much attention during the election. I think there’s still some shows he hasn’t done yet. Sesame Street (Charlie could sing “One of These Things Is Not Like the Others,” comparing three types of drugs that you smoke vs. one that you snort). Meet the Press (as a “Vatican Assassin,” Charlie could speak to church-state relations, birth control, and priestly celibacy). Iron Chef (Charlie could use his machete to cook a three course meal for his next “dinner party”). The NBA on TNT (Charles Barkley could say “I love you man, but you’re just turrible”). The Kardashians think Charlie Sheen is overexposed.

There’s no reason to pile on. Everyone knows Charlie’s exploits of the last few months. Luckily, Warner Brothers has pretty much said it all. I highly recommend reading its response to Charlie’s demand letter. Leave it to the lawyers to make even Charlie Sheen’s life seem boring. Suffice to say, this guy’s bat-shit crazy. He’s #2 on the crazy charts, with a bullet, with only a matter of time before he passes Lindsay Lohan.

The Hollywood $1.8 million per episode payday he was snorting up his nose and using as hooker payroll must seem pretty far gone right about now. Charlie’s about as castable right now as OJ Simpson. Its been quite a long road from Platoon and Wall Street. Hell, even a reprisal of Rick “Wild Thing” Vaughan would seem like a gig as Hamlet at the Old Vic right about now.

I give Charlie credit for two things though. One is his exquisite descent. If you’re going to go down, go down hard. Its like Neil Young said, its better to burn out than to fade away. In Charlie’s case, its more like flaming out. The other is for inventing so many hit catch phrases. “Winning, duh!” “Fists of fire.” “Adonis DNA.” “Tiger blood.” By the way, Auburn, LSU, and Detroit are suing to get that one back. (And while we’re at it, just how many mascots does Auburn have anyway?). These have become the “where’s the beef” and the “talk to the hand” of 2011. Anyone can come up with one popular catch phrase. In a three week span no less. Only an evil genius could come up with several. Only a Warlock.

The good news for all of us, and Charlie, is that for the most part, stars in America who crash and burn so spectacularly can and often do rally and come back for a Phase II of their careers. Its the American Way. Someone becomes a huge star, tanks magnificently and thereby earns near universal derision, hits rock bottom and disappears from view for awhile, has a breakthrough comeback role, then reemerges with fame and stardom. Think Aerosmith. Or Bill Clinton.

Yes, Americans love a redemption story. But only for someone we liked in the first place. That is, someone who was likable and relatively normal in the first place. Gwyneth Paltrow, for example, would be well advised never to bottom out. People liked Charlie Sheen. Even though we all knew he had an affinity for extremely controlled substances and was borderline manic. His show became popular in the first place because we basically thought he was playing himself, a relatively likable character. A charismatic party boy who never grew up, with a rough exterior but a heart of gold. No one thought he was this whacked out though.

Because I care about people, by which I mean, I’m tired of being identified with the leading Hollywood crazy, I’d like to give Charlie some free career advice. He could use some, what with his publicist bailing, no doubt to be followed by everyone else on his payroll that doesn’t carry around a coke spoon.

You my friend need a strategy. A coherent game plan for letting the furor die down, then coming back from the ashes (of your crack pipe). Here’s my four-stage master plan for you to matriculate the ball down field. Call it Operation Charlie Rescue 2014.

Stage I: Dry out. Check out of Sober Valley Lodge and go to a real rehab place. Not something where you’re going to run into Paris Hilton or some chick from the Hills trying to beat jail time. After first going to detox, of course. Immerse yourself in said rehab facility for as long as it takes to, you know, rehab. During this time, there can’t be any women, save the mother of your demon spawn, escorting them during your supervised visits. Ideally it would be run by Mormons. Or Jesuits. Or Trappist monks. No nuns…he’d hit on them too. This should take a long time, long enough for popular attention to move on to the next Really Important Thing. Like the next Disney tween girl turned total skank.

Stage II: Go on Oprah. Eh, actually, she’s retiring. Go on Jay Leno or someone equally vapid. Confess your sins in a very Catholic way. Admit everything, but blame it on the booze and drugs. Don’t blame your dad, or Kelly Preston. After all, your other women knowingly signed up for the Sheen treatment. Poor Kelly had no idea you were going to shoot her. While on the show, leave out any mention of being a warlock, or such. Actually, say as little as possible beyond apologizing and agreeing you were one crazy mofo.

Stage III: We find you a vehicle show. He’s done movies, of course, but TV is more immediate and he’s got more TV experience. And frankly, he’s a horrific actor so TV would be best for him. I’ve already got some projects I’m looking to pitch. Cause I know people.

"Survivor: Strait Jacket Edition.” Take the top 10 list of Hollywood crazies, like Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan, Gary Busey, Britney Spears, and set them loose in Las Vegas. See who can survive the longest without getting busted. The idea here would be to actually win.

Because he's a “Warlock," remake “Bewitched.” Only this time, Charlie would be the witch, and his wife would be the mortal and work for Larry Tate. Charlie of course would be forbidden to use his powers, only he’d use them all the time to protect his wife from his crazy family. This would let Martin Sheen show up, maybe to play Uncle Arthur (the Paul Lynde role), along with Emilio Estevez. Hell, he could bring in his ex-wives and girlfriends while he’s at it.

“Goddesses.” This would be a porn Olympics (soft-core, of course). This would let the live-in girlfriends earn their keep a little. Charlie and various weekly guests could compete in various sex games, to be judged by a celebrity panel on creativity, technique, and execution. Beware the Bulgarian judge. And the “dismount.”

“Fists of Fire.” Charlie would star as a ninja, using his fists and wits to outsmart various villains around the globe. Stephen Segall would co-star as an older, wiser, Racer-X/Mister Miyagi style mentor, counseling Charlie to beat back his inner demons and stay on the right side of the law. Joanna Garcia would star as his wholesome yet Librarian Hot assistant, not-so-secretly pining for him to give up his jet set crime fighting and settle down with her to raise three kids and start a Mary Kay dealership.

“Winning, Duh!” This could pretty much be any kind of game show. I envision it as a knock off of “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader,” in which Charlie and various contestants try to interpret what a panel of 12 year olds are saying. A Bond villain-style trap door suspended over a nest of crocodiles would open under losers. Unless Charlie lost.

“Adonis DNA on the Road” This would essentially be the same concept as Rock of Love Bus, except this would be the “Sober Valley Bus.” Twelve women would go on the bus, accompanying Charlie on another “Torpedo of Truth” tour. Except in this version, no one gets eliminated until the end.

“Bitchin’ Rock Star from Mars.” Co-starring David Lee Roth and Tommy Lee, (note to self, do not name child "Lee") this would be a fun-filled romp across the country, in which the fellas compete to see who can rack up the most diseases in 60 days. The Center for Disease Control in Atlanta would certify the winner. And then promptly sterilize everything within a three-quarter mile radius of the contestants.

Stage IV: Present an award. Presenters at awards show have that odd combination of smugness and dullness, an “above the fray” aloofness that makes them seem better than you and me. Well, you at any rate. Take Alex Trebek, for example, who has the answers to Jeopardy (well, the questions really) written in front of him, yet he always seems smarter than those geek contestants as he smugly reads them out when no one gets the right answer. He's pretty full of himself for someone from Canada. Maple Syrupville. Charlie should present a Golden Globe, like, for something no one cares about. Best cinematography.

This simple four stage program would probably take three to four years. All to wipe out the four week self-immolation Charlie’s done to his career. Oh, well. Everyone has to pay the piper.

I’m pulling for you, Warlock!