How to annoy a reporter

So someone mailed me a copy of my Lord of the Dance article and took the time to point out all the few comma splices and what he/she felt were unnecessary words. Then suggested some reading for me.

As a reporter, I'm used to this. This happens all the time.

It's very annoying.

Sometimes I'm like "wow, I didn't see that, thanks." Other times I'm like, "Oh God, get a frickin' life! You're sitting around copy editing the paper, then wasting stamps on mailing it to me? How anal retentive is that?" Because you have to really, really care, I mean, really care to tell me that I had a comma splice. You have to cut out the article, put it in an envelope. Write a few smart-ass remarks and mail it. I mean, that takes effort. I want to say, dude, you churn out four to five stories a week on deadline. You be a copy editor for our paper and read all the local, wire and entertainment stories we put into this thing all day, everyday, then come to me about some comma splices.

To paraphrase Joe Pesci's Nicky Santoro in "Casino:" They want things to go smooth. I'm sorry. In my line of business things don't go smooth.

I care about accuracy in reporting, entertainment value, serving my readers and spelling. Criticizing my use of colloquialisms when that's my writing style, well, that's just silly. Has this person not read anything else I've written? I'm a total slang, colloquialism freak.

But long story short. Want to annoy a reporter? Tell them they had a comma splice after they spent days tracking down people, cross referencing names, dealing with all the hurry up and wait of reporting and trying to not miss your deadline.

Dude, our lives are a comma splice. I amazed that the sucker even gets printed everyday. That's like a miracle to me. I've been doing this for six years and I'm still surprised to see it sitting in its little newspaper box in the morning. I'm all like, "How did you get there, little newspaper! All that yelling and crying was really, really worth it after all! You're so beautiful!"

Word of the day, my pretties!

adage: n. A saying that sets forth a general truth and that has gained credit through long use.

"I am commonly known for making up words hoping that they will someday catch on as an adage."

Random bits of madness

Howdy folks. I'm freshly back from Visalia from visiting my chums Tim and Anne. (Great people) Where I got to go to an Italian restaurant called "La Dolce Vita" (After the Fellini film perhaps? Or you know, maybe he just wanted to call his restaurant "The Sweet Life.")

Anyway, the dude totally cooks whatever he feels like cooking for you while you relax in a gangsta-like setting with 70s beads and stuff hanging from the ceiling.

Nice.

Per a question someone asked about my recent theatre viewing, I saw "Animal Farm" at The Empty Space. Interesting. You should read the story first! But good stuff. Felt sorry for the actors who had to be hunched over the whole play while they played animals. It was very minimalist (but it's the Space. They gotta work in minimalism, knowhaimsayin'?)

I also saw "Kiss Me Kate" at Stars. Sweet, kinda corny, but sweet. And I've been trying to get to see Enrique's "True Tales" (that 11 p.m. time the Space has for late night shows is killing me) and "Play It Again, Sam" at the BCT before they close the show this weekend.

LEGENDS!

Glorious fun facts looking back on my life in Bakersfield! Now, once a week! (Or whenever I feel like writing it.)

As many of you may or may not know I have lived in Bakersfield for three years now (my Bakersfield anniversary was Jan. 2nd) and like many journalists / crazy people, I have amassed lots of random, ridiculous things that have happened to me in my life. Some of them which will go down as things of "LEGEND." These are the inside jokes that random people will tell for years about crap that was not funny at the time, but now, in retrospect, is funny, sort of as I am the sort of person who is known for being incredibly smart, but still prone to doing incredibly dumb things or even, marrying incredibly dumb people (we're divorced now.)

So here is the first edition of a "Legend" in the life of one neurotic journalist, Danielle Belton.

Sgt. Kabukiman

Once upon a time (about four years ago) I was married. No one wanted me to get married. Not even God. Literally. Jesus totally took a break from heaven, sat me down, looked me in the eye and was like, "Dude, what are you doing? This guy is going to totally, like, ruin your life and stuff."

In my head, Jesus talks like he's from the valley which is remarkable since he's this Jewish guy from the Middle East, but I digress ...

And I was all ... "Jesus! I totally love him. Plus, this will really piss off my parents."

"Um," said Jesus, "Like fourth commandment, dude? Fourth commandment."

"What? Is that the one about stealing and stuff? I don't get it."

And so Jesus squinted at me and got all serious and was like ...

"Hmm," Jesus said. "I still don't think this is a good idea. I mean, I seriously think the guy's nuts. His devotion to Japanese action figures is borderlining on idolatry and you know how I feel about that. Golden calf, man. Golden calf. That's all I'm saying."

"Nope, I love him," I said. "Besides, he said that you said that we should be together."

"Um, but we've never really got to talk ..."

"Nope!" I interrupted. "He said that you said that we BELONG together. He told me. He said, and I quote, 'God thinks you and me should get married,' end quote."

"I don't think he was talking too ..."

"Nope, I love him," I repeated.

"Well," Jesus said. "I'm getting you a job in Midland, TX. So HA! Try marrying him from there!"

But Jesus, much like my parents, failed at stopping this horrific trainwreck, (Free will, man!) so they sort of hung out waiting for me to be sensible and get a divorce.

But I tried to slug it out. Honestly I did. My husband, great guy, wouldn't get a job. Spent most of his days watching playing Playstation while naked and eating French friends talking about Japanese stuff. My ex-husband had a total, full on, Asian fetish. He was a Karate thug. He loved anime. He had this unnatural obsession with the X-Men comic where Wolverine fights the ninjas and "Dragonball Z." Which may quite possibly be the worst piece of garbage Japan has ever produced. Karaoke? Great. "Sukiyaki?" Wonderful song. Taste of Honey does a killer cover of it. Sushi? Fabulous. Obscure art house films? Gotta love 'em. Tiny cell phones? Genius.

Dragonball?

Please. Shoot. Me. Now.

Aside from that I had to deal with his insistence on me calling him "Honoo Sama" (pardon the spelling if spelling is wrong) which essentially means, Mr. Blaze, the incredibly stupid English nickname he gave himself in Japanese. I did not call him that. I'm not really a nickname person.

Sometimes he thought he was Japanese. I don't know how actual Japanese people felt about that one. (I'm sure they'd argue different since he was a dreadlocked, African American male.) Plus, he didn't care for "Americanized" Asians. You know? Or even actual Asian people for that matter. He wanted the Asian people you saw in old Jet Li movies. The kind where no matter how many times Jet Li saves the girl he can't still can't, like, get any. This used to drive me crazy. I mean, I understand that sex is often taboo in Hong Kong cinema. But C'MON! Cary Grant got to kiss people and the sex was "alluded to." There was an air of sexuality. But in Kung-Fu flicks only the bad guys ever seemed to be getting some action.

Even in the Jet Li movie I liked, the Bruce Lee remake "Fist of Legend" where he totally has a girlfriend and they never touch each other or appear to have any chemistry. You'd think they were cousins if it weren't for the fact that she's supposed to be Japanese.

But I digress. We were talking about the ex-husband. Not my annoyance at all that romance and no smooching. Or even hand holding. Or even a longing stare of devotion.

Anyway, we'd be in Blockbuster where that one really annoying kid would always say I looked like Macy Gray and I'd want to punch him and I'd want to rent the art house films that were being banned in Hong Kong because, gosh darn it! Those people had sex and had problems like, gasp! REAL PEOPLE! And he'd want to rent "Ninja Scroll" for the umpteenth time. Heaven forbid the Asian people act like people. Give me some stilted talking automatons that try to kill each other for two hours.

Then he'd want to have a little Playstation, preferably "Street Fighter 3" which he was also obsessed with and have enlightening conversations like, "Who would win in a fight? Goku or Superman?"

The whole time I'm thinking, "I went to college. COLLEGE!"

A lot of other horrible stuff happened (we don't have all day), but the love of the fortune cookie spouting wisdom of Asian stereotypes, the fetishization of Asian people as a whole, the insistence on eating everything with chopsticks, carrying around the Japanese to English dictionary and the whole Honoo Sama bit was bizarre to me. So bizarre that long after he'd threatened to stalk me after I divorced him and moved about ... hmmm, 2,000 miles away I was telling this story to my then co-worker, now good friend Tim Bragg and he commented that we should dub my ex, "Sgt. Kabukiman" after the Troma film.

For those who don't know Sgt. Kabukiman is a film about a police officer who through some fake Asian magic mumbo jumbo gets the samurai power of the Kabuki mask, turning him into Sgt. Kabukiman, some sort of fake Asian hero.

Yeah. Naturally it seemed fitting.

Afterwards Jesus and I had a discussion about Sgt. Kabukiman over coffee.

"Well, you can't say I didn't warn you," Jesus said. "But I'm not going to beat you over the head about this. I mean, it's all good. I totally forgive you and stuff."

"Thanks, JC," I said offering him some cinnamon biscotti. "That means a lot. Can you like forgive him too, because, you know how I'm trying to forgive him and stuff. You know? To keep from tracking him down and killing him?"

"Yeah," said Jesus as he sipped his ambrosia latte. "That would be bad. I don't really like the idea of you killing people. Besides, he's bigger than you and I wouldn't want you to, like, get hurt and stuff. I'm really more of a lover than a fighter."

"Yeah, I know."

"I mean, c'mon. What good would it do?" Jesus said. "You gave him a mean nickname. You get to write about it. Folks get a good chuckle. I mean, that's enough already. Let it go. He'll have to deal with his stuff later, you know? I mean, I'll take care of it."

"Yeah, you're right. So I'm curious what's going to happen next to me after I move to Bakersfield?" I asked as I sat in my sparse apartment with my cat Shaggy.

"Well," Jesus said. "You're going to date some guys that you'll never want to see again, one that you'll wish you could see again but won't. And then you're going to declare that you're going on strike against all men and not date for a really, really, really long time."

"Man," I said. "That sounds kind of tedious. Can't you fix that?"

And Jesus sort of shrugged and was all like, "Dude. What do you want from me? I got like this thing in Iraq that's riding my ass."

So I gave Jesus some dap. And it was good.

Paula Abdul for me; Proud Mary for St. Louis

Last year I was forced to endure Fox's American Idol because two local hopefuls were on the show. The local actress/singer/make-up artist Amy Adams and former Taft resident Jon Peter Lewis did their thing and I wrote about it. I didn't mind. Jon and Amy are great people. But let's face it, I kind of hate the show. I mean, really. I hate it. Every minute I was paid to watch it was painful as I watched people try to do whatever stupid thing people wanted them to do. Change your hair, change your attitude, change your voice, you sound "pitchy." What the HELL does that mean anyway? And not to knock the folks who have won, but I've never bought any of their frickin' albums (although I did like Kelly Clarkson's single "Miss Independent" because I like a cheesy pop song from time to time. Heck, I bought the N*Sync "Celebrity" album. So what!)

But, yeah. I'm not buying any albums.

Still, I watched the opening night and last night because one: schadenfruede and two: last night took place in St. Louis.

I like looking at pictures of my hometown. It's so pretty on TV. The old courthouse with the Gateway Arch behind it. Just lovely. Still wanted to beat Ryan Seacrest unconscious, but hey, he's just doing his thing. Still, I wanted to strangle all the judges except Paula Abdul because, dare I say it, I actually enjoyed the woman's music.

"Forever Your Girl" was the first cassette tape I ever purchased. (The second was MC Hammer's "Please Hammer, Don't Hurt 'Em." Yeah, I was 12.) I liked Paula Abdul so much I used to draw pictures of her and wished I could tap dance like she did on the "Straight Up" video, which I STILL think is the jam to this day. C'mon. Admit it. It's a GOOD SONG!

Sure, her singing ability is "questionable," but so is the ability of half the pop wenches running around today. And she didn't try to do real singing like Britney. Paula knew her limits. She was more like J. Lo. Get some good back up and dance your ass off. A matter of fact, Jenny from the Block should write Abdul a check just for following her play book to a "T."

Latina? Check. Former cheesy background dancer? Check. Choreographed for Janet Jackson? Check. Dated/married a celebrity? Check. Put on R&B tinged album using latest hot producer? Check.

All Paula didn't do was act. (Thank GOD. The world is a better place.) But she did make the "Rush, Rush" video with Keanu Reeves, which was, God help me, a GOOD SONG! Sure, she couldn't really sing. But c'mon? You secretly liked it!

And at least the former Laker Girl brought her A-game and I haven't seen anyone try to touch "Cold-hearted" which is still a really badass song. I mean, she did the whole Bob Fosse thing in the video. The heifer was cutting edge. And everyone is totally ripping her off now. That's why it was so funny to actually watch her stop being Miss Nicety-nice for once and get catty last night as some nimrod told her he loved her because she did that one video with the cartoon, but then couldn't remember who the cartoon animal was, hence guaranteeing that she would not vote for him (that and he couldn't sing, but you know calling MC Skat Kat a rat had to piss her off. Then to say he was six when he saw the video. That's like screaming at her -- "Bitch! You're OLD!" I would have slapped him.)

Anyway, I was watching the St. Louis audition in hopes of seeing someone I knew performing. (I did not. Drat!) Instead I got a trip back down memory lane of watching countless black and white people perform "Proud Mary" to the confusion of the judges. I kept screaming, "It's ST. LOUIS! Tina Turner is our QUEEN! Everyone in St. Louis loves doing the 'Rollin' On the River' part." When I joined my sorority (Zeta Phi Beta Inc.) we used to do the whole dance with the karate kicks and everything. Dude, when she was still with ol' crazy Ike they were the biggest thing to come out of East St. Louis (our broke down neighbor in Illinois.) I don't know. Maybe they kept thinking we liked Creedance Clearwater Revival. I'm telling you, folks in St. Louis don't even know that they recorded that song. Heck, I didn't know until I was an adult. A bunch of St. Louisians aren't studying CCR. That was Ike and Tina's song and eventually, just Tina's song. And Tina is well loved in the STL.

We wish she'd move back, but hey, if she likes Europe we understand. But we're gonna sing it. I mean, the song has a river in it. We have a river running through our city. It's pretty logical. Doesn't take a rocket scientist. But it was hilarious to watch all those people try to do the kicks. I mean, no one in St. Louis can sing the song without doing the kicks. You start doing it before you even realize you're doing it.

John Fogerty wrote it, but Tina. Tina perfected it. Ike fixed it. From nice and easy to nice and rough. PERFECTION! It won the Grammy in 1971 for best R&B vocal performance by a group. C'mon!

I like it so much, heck, here's the lyrics! They don't have the "toot-toot-toot" part (so I added it), but c'mon, true believers know when to kick in that first verse for the second time and go all nuts doing the swim like a mad woman! Tossing that wig around! Z-Phi!

"PROUD MARY," AS PERFORMED BY IKE AND TINA TURNER

(Spoken like a true diva)

Y' know, every now and then
I think you might like to hear something from us
Nice and easy
But there's just one thing
You see we never ever do nothing
Nice and easy
We always do it nice and rough
So we're gonna take the beginning of this song
And do it easy
Then we're gonna do the finish rough
This is the way we do "Proud Mary"

And we're rolling, rolling, rolling on the river

Listen to the story

(Start singing nice and easy!)

I left a good job in the city
Working for the man every night and day
And I never lost one minute of sleeping
Worrying 'bout the way things might have been

Big wheel keep on turning
Proud mary keep on burning
And we're rolling, rolling
Rolling on the river

Cleaned a lot of plates in Memphis
Pumped a lot of tane down in New Orleans
But I never saw the good side of the city
Till I hitched a ride on a riverboat queen

Big wheel keep on turning
Proud mary keep on burning
And we're rolling, rolling
Rolling on the river

If you come down to the river
I bet you gonna find some people who live
You don't have to worry if you got no money
People on the river are happy to give

Big wheel keep on turning
Proud mary keep on burning
And we're rolling, rolling
Rolling on the river

(OK, everybody, go nuts here as the band jacks it up!)

Left a good job in the city!
Working for the man every night and day!
And I never lost one minute of sleep
Worrying 'bout the way things might have been!

(Belt it out!)

Big wheel keep on turning!
Turning!
Proud mary keep on burning
Burning!
Rolling!
Rolling!
Rolling!
Rolling!
Rolling on the river

(Oh, yeah! Now just rock it out! Rock it out, St. Louis style!)

I say, rolling!
Rolling!
Rolling!
Rolling!
Rolling on the river!

Say-ah-toot-toot-toot
Toot-toot-toot

(Do the swim! You bend over and shake ya' tail feather!)

Da-da-daaa!
Da-da-daaa!

(Do the kicks now!)

Da-da-dat-dat-dat-ta-da-da!

(Oh yeah! I'm feeling it! That's nice!)

Word of the Day!

Pass the dossier!

dossier: n. A collection of papers giving detailed information about a particular person or subject.

"The writer demanded the government dossier on slain US president John F. Kennedy assisnation looking for more clues to hint at vast conspiracy in the president's death."

Cher!

My opinon of Cher's Farewell Tour per an e-mail I sent to my friend and former Californian staffer Tim Bragg:

Cher was Cher. Self-aggravandizing, over-blown and the best drag show outside of Las Vegas. I mean, it was like "Showgirls" with about the same level of almost nekkid-ness. And Cher, well, that woman doesn't know what clothes are. She called J. Lo and Jessica Simpson "bitches" and then announced that “To all the girls coming up ... FOLLOW THIS, YOU BITCHES!" Then began the rest of her disco frenzied, Cirque du Soleil style show. Complete with about 50 billion costume changes and her putting on that outfit from "If I Could Turn Back Time" and having all the "boys" throw their little sailor hats on the stage to re-inact the music video.

Yeah, it was nice. Kind of like how at rap concerts where people will sometimes fire actual guns if there are gun shots in the chorus. You know? But more gay and less deadly ...

Wooooo!

Sorry about the lateness in updates, folks! I've been under the weather. I didn't go on TV last week. It's been crazy. But I did perk up just long enough to drag my sorry self to two plays and Cher this weekend. But more on that later.

Here's the word of the week!

ombudsman: n. 1. A man who investigates complaints and mediates fair settlements, especially between aggrieved parties such as consumers or students and an institution or organization. 2. A government official, especially in Scandinavian countries, who investigates citizens' complaints against the government or its functionaries. OTHER FORMS: ombudsmanship

"The lawyer would often work as an ombudsman, settling the greivances between divorcing parties."

To Cher and Cher alike

If you don't know Cher is coming to Bako and I am going. (Cross your fingers that I don't fall into a friggin' pothole and injure my ankle like I did last time, which kept me from Green Day, grrrr.)

But I am going not because I'm a fan of the woman's work. (I don't even own one of her albums.) Other than a VH1-Behind the Music special and copy of Nancy Sinatra's cover of Cher's "Bang, Bang" err ... I don't know much about her.

I do remember that "If I Could Turn Back Time" video where she was wearing the fishnets and straddled a big ol' gun from a Navy carrier.

Yeah, that's forever burned in my head.

But no, I'm not going to see Cher for the music or because I'm a fan. I'm going for the sheer "pageantry."

Pageantry, as some of you may know, is the art of showmanship honed while participating in beauty pagents. One would know this if they watched the first season of America's Next Top Model where Robin, a former Miss Peach Something 0r Other, talked quite a bit about "pageantry."

Pageantry involves style, grace, wit and the ability to strut down a runway in nothing but a swimsuit and heels and still make it seem virginal and All-American. In other words, it's a great big drag show, sans the queens. I mean, someone is "queen" at the end, but that's not the sort of queen I'm talking about.

I am not a woman of pageantry. I cannot walk in heels without looking like I'm having a hernia. Will not wear a bathing suit with heels and make it seem virginal and All-American and I most certainly will not win any beauty pagents. A lot of women aren't. Due to our mothers, children of the 60s who wanted us to go to college and be all Miss Independent. Not Miss America.

So the only people left to truly uphold the sheer ridiculousness of ultra feminity and mutated sexuality are drag queens, southern ladies in big hats, Robin Manning and Cher.

Ah Cher, with all the costume changes, harkening back to the day when a southern lady of class would change outfits at least three times a day with the assistence of her slave ... I mean, maid ... no, no, slave.

Back when a woman looked like a woman and not like a man who looks like a woman, who looks like Cher including the g-string, fishnets and gun boat. Cher is pageantry off the chart and launched into the stratosphere. It's glam. It's camp. It's the skanky version of Miss America. Perverted into a miasma of glitz and kitsch. Here she is Miss Camp America and loving it with a full piece orchestra and back up dancers. Because you can't get this kind of pageantry anymore outside of Vegas.

There's no more "Solid Gold." No more variety shows. The closest thing we've got to pagentry is Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey and I guess they're trying. I mean, she looks like one of the Muppets and he's your generic "just add water" instamatic pretty boy Floyd (Now with camp singing ability!) created from that boy band factory that was pumping out doe-eyed white boys left and right from 1996 to 2001 -- but hey, that's sort of, kind of, not really what I'm talking about.

Pageantry is Diana Ross, you know? When she's not drinking and renting videos at Blockbuster or Whitney Houston when she was sober. Mariah Carey. So over the top it's both ironic and highly entertaining. And it helps to have some actual talent, otherwise all that pageantry, all that vamping it up is for naught. I mean, I don't expect everyone to go on the far end of the pagentry spectrum and go Grace Jones on it, maybe a little Jenny from the block or Janet Jackson. Or Britney, although her singing ability is questionable, but the girl can dance her ass off.

Or American Idol. That's all pagentry all the time.

But I'll settle for Cher. Cher descending from a golden staircase looking all like Elizabeth Berkley in "Showgirls" in that stupid, ficticious "Goddess" show that she pushed Gina Gershon down a flight of stairs to star in.

So basically what I'm saying is, if you actually liked "Showgirls" because it was the funniest, most over the top glorious thing you ever saw, then you'll like Cher. You'll like Cher a lot.

Get out ya' pencils ...

It's the word of the day!

melisma: n. A passage of several notes sung to one syllable of text, as in Gregorian chant.

"Celin Dion's affinity for melismas make me want to bash my head against a wall."

Late, late update!

Goodness! I haven't blogged since Thursday. I apologize for the lack of blogging.

And I never posted my TV apperance from last Thursday, which probably annoyed the crap out of my sister Denise, who posts as Big Sis and lavishes me in big, big sisterly praise.

She's just good people.

But here's me, Rusty and Lisa along with the boys from the MTKJ Quartet.

Speaking of Big Sis (known as DOTS in the WOTS column, my our baby sister Deidre is NOTS), Denise and I share many things. An big one is our uncanny resemblance to one another despite the fact we were born four years apart. Denise and I are both the same height (5'3") and wear glasses. Back in the day we owned several of the same sweaters which we would often pick to wear on the same day in complete ignorance of each other. (Denise was in high school and I was in junior high at the time. We went to school at different times so I didn't see her in the mornings.)

So we'd come home from school and find that we were dressed exactly alike wearing the same yellow and white polka dot sweater and stonewashed jeans that were tight at the ankle. Our shoes were usually different (as Denise liked to go sockless, all "Miami Vice" style) but other than that, the same.

Anyway, I remember this partular day of us both wearing the yellow and white sweater and joking how we thought it was strange that we often dressed alike without meaning to. We both had piano lessons at the same place our baby sister took dance and so that same evening we were sitting together at the studio and someone asked us if we were twins.

It would be the first of many times people would ask this. But we are two seperate and very different people. She's the logical one. I'm the artist. She loves math. I love English. Potatoes, Pah-tatoes. Blah, blah, blah.

But besides the trademark "Belton" nose, big eyes and similar hair, Denise and I also share a love of movies, Prince, Johnny Depp and food. Things we don't have in common include her Foriegner's Greatest Hits CD, love of Metallica and her affinity for wearing crappy T-shirts and Dr. Martin style boots everyday!

But she's still like the coolest person in the world.

Tomorrow I shall rant about my other sister who I look nothing like and is often mistaken, in pictures, to be my oldest sister, even though I am three years older than her.

Side note: this same day for the millionth time in my mother's life someone questioned whether she was black or not. Mama Belton, despite both her parents being black and pretty much everyone in her family being black, strangely enough looks Asian. I used to not believe people when they would say she looked Asian as I thought those people were nuts. Then I moved to California wich was filled with Asian people and realized that every time I saw a 5 foot tall Asian woman in her late 50s I thought I was looking at a mirror image of my mother.

Yeah. So, my mom is black but she looks Asian. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on this durn thing I'll put up one of my mother so you too can scratch your head in utter confusion. If we had to guess my mother's Asian nationality it would be Filipino.

Say What?

It's the word of the day ...

lugubrious: adj. Mournful, dismal, or gloomy, especially to an exaggerated or ludicrous degree

"The old man had a lugubrious nature about him; no matter what anyone did his gloom could never be lifted."

Thursday!

Ah, it's 9:45 a.m. and already I've been on the news with the Shoopster and L-Boogie, the section's out. (It's on the street. Go crazy! Get like 50 copies. Share with friends!) Some folks are complaing about me in Sound Off.

Life is good.

Chris Truitt, the Lord of Dagny's, has his remastered CD of The Had and Been's "We are the Ones" out. (It's snazzy.) You can get copies of it on-line at the Angry Vegan Records site, at Dagny's where he holds court on a regular basis, World Records and Downtown Records on 19th Street. (Tell Jake I said, "Hi." And while you're there stop by Gigantic Vintage next door and say, "Hi" to AJ for me.)

Chatted with mi hombre Tony O'Brien over the weekend. He's going to be hitting up PJ's Jazz and Blues club on the regular with his outfit Blacktie. I've known Tony pretty much ever since I moved to Bakersfield as he was one of the first fellow black persons I became acquainted with (Dee Slade, Cynthia Pollard and Rev. Ralph Anthony followed), but Tony and I quickly became homies, mostly because I love jazz, like to sing jazz and he is a jazz man. He plays it. He writes it. He'll even write you a poem about it. He's that sort of guy.

Tony and I were even in a band together for about two years that got to perform live, like .... hmmm ... maybe four times. (Maybe you caught our one show at The Marketplace where we were almost rained out but performed anyway because, dagnabit, we'd been practicing for weeks and Tony and I'd been working on these songs for well over a year -- someone was going to listen to this, damn it!)

Like many bands, we were besiged with problems. Our drummer went nuts on us (that mo fo still owes me $100). Folks got all out of sorts. Big-head, diva behavioral problems, (like taking 30 minutes to tune drums when Tony was footing a $100 an hour of studio time to record the album) which was crazy since besides myself and Tony's son Tyson, everyone was 40 plus and male.

But drama, all day everyday, drama. Like the one dude who couldn't get over the fact that I was black and wrote for The Californian because he was black and had tried to get a job here and would constantly ask me if I was being held down by "The Man," because he was a brilliant writer and the paper was obviously racist because they wouldn't hire him. Then he'd proceed to look at me funny. Which I did not like. So he'd ask me if I had to deal with racists all the live long day and I'd look at him like he had a hole in his forehead. Er ... I don't think so. Considering every time I see the publisher she hugs me and brings us frothy milkshakes from Dewars on days when the AC cuts out in the summer time, I'm gonna say, no.

Besides that I constantly had to deal with people in the band who wanted me to write exposes on how they felt they were getting the shaft by some car dealership or how the CHP gave them a speeding ticket and I'd be all, "Dude, no one cares." Oh, and the occassional creepy old man would hit on me. Ew.

But I still look fondly on my time in a jazz band that never got to perform. Fortunatly for Tony, Blacktie does get to perform so, that's a good thing.

As for our album, maybe we'll finish our stuff, like, someday. Until then, enjoy listening to Tony and his crew at this place.

Indier Than Thou

Whenever I claim to be more indie than others I must credit that bit of braggadacio to none other than MC Frontalot and this clever ditty.

One Act Festival!

Writers and wannabe writers of Bakersifeld, Bakersfield Community Theatre is getting ready for their 18th Annual One Act Festival. Learn more here.

The One-Acts are fun. I really wish more people would write stuff and enter it. I think we have a lot of great writing talent in this town and some folks should fire up the ol' PC's and get to typing.

Heck, maybe I'll finish my One-Act play ("Beast") based on my housecat, Shaggy (To learn more about Shaggy click here.) But I'm always talking about finishing something. See? That's what happens when you write for a living, you're always writing so you don't around to finishing the other stuff you want to write.

It's like "who would write like a writer writes if a writer could write right?"

Say it three times fast!

KBAK n' Me

I'll be on Daybreak tomorrow around 6 a.m. with MTKJ Quartet, Kris Tiner's new outfit. Should be interesting talking about jazz around 6:30 in the morning.

Interesting indeed.

WORD OF THE DAY!!!

farrago: n. An assortment or a medley; a conglomeration: “their special farrago of resentments” (William Safire).

Local Band Aid

Tim Gardea is putting together a benefit concert for tsunami victims in southeast Asia. It's going down at Montogmery World Plaza this Friday

The doors open at 4 p.m. and will feature Active Ingrediants, American Standard, Arrival of Fawn, Grammercy Riff, Karmahitlist, Melodrose, Mindsick, Sick Trigger, Swag 667, Throat Shot and Vaccine.

It's only $5 and that money will go to Indonesia and other surrounding areas affected by this horrific tragedy.

Did you see my column?

It ran Sunday. My humor column runs the first Sunday of every month. Read it HERE!

Of, and if you missed it, you can read the column that ran before that one ... here!

Word of the Day!

hoi polloi: n. The common people; the masses.

"Hollywood executives hoped that their fare of sequels and popcorn flicks would please the hoi polloi during the summer season."

See Me on the Tee Vee!

Here's the link to my last TV apperance. (Now fixed! Thanks, Big Sis!) I apologize for the lateness ...

This Thursday!

* Theater Season Preview!

* The Dalloways!

* CD Reviews!

* Word on the Street slam dances with Billy Joel and lives to tell about it!

Chiggity-check out Thursday's Eye 0n Entertainment, especially if you want to know what plays to check out this upcoming theatrical season (looks like we've got some good stuff. I'm intriqued by a few of the offerings -- especially finally seeing the conclusion to "Angels In America" before Hal Friedman makes like a bird in Forest Gump and "flies, flies away."

I also have a great band profile on the Bako-Fresno band The Dalloways featuring Gary and Cortnie Enns. (They're sooo CUTE!) And I review their album "Penalty Crusade" (available at CDBaby.com, the site where I buy all my "indier than thou" CDs. Like, you might own the Fiona Apple albums, but I own the album buy the guy who produced them, so like, HA!)

And there will be a CD review of The Dalloway's "Penalty Crusade" and MTKJ Quartet's conceptual jazz album "Making Room for Spaces."

And speaking of MTKJ (local jazz guy Kris Tiner's latest adventure) they'll be on TV with me on THURSDAY at the crack of dawn on KBAK-TV 29.

As for the whole WOTS slam dancing with Billy Joel, er, you'll have to read it to believe it.

Public Apology

I'd like issue a public apology to The Empty Space for not attending them Empties on Sunday.

No, I twas not snubbing you. I was ill.

I am better now. Send me the bill and let's have pancakes some morning.

And to all those offended by my New Years Eve article. I do apologize. Jokes, they were jokes. Sometimes acerbic humor's not for everyone. Perhaps if you met me in person you would realize quickly that I'm like that happy bunny that says depressing things on those T-shirts in Hot Topic that I never buy.

Of course the bunny's probably meaner than me, but all the depressing stuff. That's pretty accurate.

Sidenote: If you consider yourself a lover of the punk rock, click on the Hot Topic and either A) double over in laughter or B) start beating your computer with a baseball bat. You know? Whatever you punk lovin' kids do?

Whew!

Everyone survive The Wordies unscathed? No skinned knees and such? I'm just glad no one got randy with the language otherwise I would have had to go "naughty, naughty, theater people! Delete! Delete!"

But it looks like everyone had a good time, got to give their folks a shout out. I'd answer you all, you know, those who had some disagreements, but, dag nabit, I'm ... too ... tired. I just drove all the way to LAX (the long way, mind you) and back again (partially) to pick up my best friend and co-worker from the airport. Between the snow, rain, fog and the traffic at LAX I just KNEW I was going to murder somebody but the city sleeps safe tonight.

So if any of you wish to continue the rumble, just like call me or email me, we'll go to lunch of something, knowhatimsayin'?

And for now, as they say in one my favorite movie musials "The Wiz" -- "We can all go back to runnin' our business!"