Aqualung, my friend

Since my last post the bright, glittering lights of showbiz have dimmed a bit. And no doubt, since everyone everywhere has had their fill of ruminations, reminiscences and rememberings for our departed brethren I see no reason to continue the misery. Except to mention the passing of one of the greats of one of the smaller wings of the comedy stage: Fred Travalena.

True, he didn't have the sex appeal of Farah or the jazz hands/feet of Jacko. He wasn't anybody's Ed McMahon either. However, he was the only comedian, save Rich Little (still living believe it or not), who made a career off of celebrity impersonations. Certainly not the easiest path in the already treacherous world of stand-up comedy.

Most comedic "vocal" acts get sidelined for one reason or another. Vaughn Meader found a nation in mourning wasn't quite so eager for his "paakin tha caar in haavaad yaad" JFK routine after late November 1963. Michael Winslow never escaped being "that dude with the funny voices from the Police Academy movies." Once people grew tired of that series, somewhere between parts 2 and 3, he was doomed. Winslow did make a Sportscenter commercial a couple of years ago, however, as (you guessed it) "that dude with the funny voices from the Police Academy movies."

While I suppose ultimately it's better to be a has-been than to be a never-was, cases such as these sort of make me wonder. It must get old doing your act in some supermarket checkout line for the umpteenth time when all you wanted to do was buy some hot dogs. But Travalena made a career out of doing Bob Hope, Ronald Reagan, Johnny Carson and pretty much everyone that those three ever palled around with. I'm still not exactly sure how.

Certainly his skills helped tremendously, but I think he was more fortuitous in the era he performed in. Travalena made his name in the waning days of old Hollywood before we became saturated with the cult of celebrity. When the myth of infallible superstars with recognizable traits, characteristics and voices was still believed. Take Jack Nicholson for instance (please, yuk, yuk). He may be the go to impersonation for every hack under the sun but there's a reason for that. How many Brad Pitt impersonations have you seen during Pitt's 20 year career? Besides the one Pitt himself does, of course.

Though we're inundated by "celebrity" nowadays there's very few that rise beyond being a recognizable face for some fleeting moment. And even fewer that merit it. Does anyone honestly care what Megan Fox or whomever the babe o' the moment is thinks about much of anything. For that matter, would anyone recognize Ms. Fox if she didn't have a summer blockbuster (Transformers 7) bludgeoning theaters worldwide at this very minute?

The world Travalena made a career of no longer exists. Whether that's necessarily bad is for another time. The modern celebrity culture is so transparent, shallow and ultimately forgettable that celebs are already self-caricatures. There's scant need for anybody to make fun since Paris Hilton, et al do a good enough job of it themselves. How else would anybody remember them?

But as for Fred Travalena, his death is certainly worth more than the footnote mention it will most likely receive. He wasn't mean-spirited and one always got the impression (no pun intended) there was more than a little respect for the fellow at whom he was poking fun. That's a notion that's pretty antiquated these days, and it probably assures that edgy will never be used to describe Fred Travalena. Which is just as well because he wasn't. Nor can I claim to be a big fan. However, I can admit was an extremely mimic and helped people laugh for a little bit. Sometimes that's all the world wants. Or needs.

The affairs of state must take precedent over the affairs of state

I've lived here all my life. Accordingly, that I've thus far resisted the urge to put a bullet in my brain is perhaps no small victory but a tad beside the point right now. As with all small towns, one ends up knowing everyone else and sees the same faces day in/out. Maybe not every person everyday but close enough. Sort of like how the view for all but the lead dog in a pack never really changes. Sure it's a different rump from time to time. Some are larger, some smaller, but ultimately, it's still an ass. While that may be good enough for Six Mix-A-Lot, I suspect it gets a bit old out on the tundra.

(Note: I use this simile simply as an illustration and not as a broad characterization of my fellow denizens. They're all good peeps, of course. Or at least the ones who read this are. )

Surprising then to receive a friendly greeting, by name, on the way to the post office this morning from one I can't recall ever encountering. It's nice to be recognized, mind. But I always overanalyze these sort of situations.

Therefore, I gave the sort of half wave/acknowledgement/murmur one gives when one thinks, usually mistakenly, that one is being waved at from across the room. The kind of sign that can double as cover in case it was really the dashing debonair dude with the smoking jacket and pipe (Apparently, in my mind I hang out at the Playboy Mansion) and not the bespectacled wallflower dork that fab brunette was frantically waving too. "Hey...uh, that...uh, molding is indeed perfect for this room." Carpentry being a silent hobby of mine.

I don't consider myself famous nor am I particularly high profile. My position as head of the local "Hooray for our awesome hometown" do-gooder outfit necessitates the occasional appearance at supermarket ribbon cuttings and handshakes with bigwigs. Evidence of which usually turns up in our local organ which is read by hundreds of people.

Actually, that's a bit of a stretch. We've not had an actual supermarket open here for 30 years. Quite a few of the ribbon cuttings have been for places that sell food though. A couple of such establishments are actually still open; I like to tell myself the failures had nothing to do with me. Usually when I'm composing my annual letter to Santa Claus.

As for famous folks, in work-related situations I've met a few Atlanta Falcons and the occasional forgettable political candidate but no one all that noteworthy. Apparently, the bigwigs just don't have the time for us. Can't imagine why more candidates don't spend half a day getting here for the several thousand potential votes up for grabs. We just might swing the election in that candidates favor. I suspect we wouldn't, but there's always the possibility. I often include that wish in the aforementioned letters to Santa Claus.

I have been in the same room as our current governor. However, the closest I came to shaking his hand was breathing the same air. Had the gov's handlers realized whom he was in the presence of, I'm sure they would have arranged a photo op. And asked me to kindly step aside. I think the EPJ did get her picture snapped with him, however. It is currently in a place of some prestige, buried in her desk drawer next to some empty pens, stray staples and old packets of sweet n low. So much for all politics being local.

Randomness pt. 1

Some headlines courtesty of Yahoo.

Obama "appalled" over violence in Iran--Looks like somebody is in serious danger of getting a potentially strongly worded resolution at some point in the near/not so near future. Possibly. Consider yourself warned, boys.

Ed McMahon dead--Wanna make a bet some comic cracks about how Ed's death is unfortunate because he'd just received notification that he may have already won $1,000,000.

Baby sea lion found wandering on San Francisco highway--Avoids being run over by a hybrid. Irony's loss is adorableness' gain.

Jon & Kate split up--On the bright side, at least this will be kept private and there aren't any kids involved. (What's that? Oh.)

Sometimes I wonder if there's even a reason to carry on with life with the prevalence of such misery. But I guess we have to. I suppose perseverance is what makes us great.

That, and the bomb.

A word from our sponsor

As I was talking to Marisol last night she mentioned that she was watching "I Survived a Japanese Game Show" or some such. Not finding the title obvious enough to be of interest, I can only presume the show involved folks (probably Americans) putting their lives at risk by attempting all manner of daring do (flaming shark pits, crashing cars into walls, bullet catching, etc.). All to to the delight of a studio audience that was possibly Japanese and would surely be described as wacky. I guess Japan's still sore about that Fat Man/Little Boy incident. At least it's only in a passive aggressive way this time.

Moving on...

Not being one to let a cultural fad pass her by, the EPJ is now on Facebook. I could say there is some uber-important professional reason for . That she simply had to join the Judges Who Hate the Law But Adore Their Clerks group, for instance. But that would be an obvious lie...she hates me. (Rim shot) Or that as a public servant she likes to be as accessible to the people as possible without the tediosity/health risk of verbal/physical contact. Though regarding contact, I suppose that's why the state sends us that big ol' box of wipes, masks and alcohol (unfortunately, not the drinking kind) cleverly labeled "For use during flu pandemic." Apparently, if there's only an outbreak or even a mighty epidemic of something/anything, including the flu, we're screwed.

All kidding aside, as the issuer of birth/death records, i.e. , we are REQUIRED by state (maybe even federal) law to be open before, during and after any sort of cataclysmic crisis. In other words, the morning after our inevitable nuclear annihilation I'll have to get up and come to work while all you newly glowing mutants pick through the rubble for great deals. Figures.

But as for the EPJ's Facebook excursion, the reality is somewhat less creative: friends bugged her until she finally gave in. If my research is correct (and I made it up so why wouldn't it be) that's the number three reason for joining Facebook. Obviously, the number one reason is the ability to spy on everyone you know all at once. While number two is the insatiable hankering for well-intentioned, but ultimately worthless, Facebook "gifts". Thank you Jeebus for the interwebs.

So I put her off as long as I could until my excuse well ran dry and hesitantly created the EPJ's account not really sure how deep of an abyss I was pushing her into. Fortunately for her Facebook requires profiles have actual names. That's just as well because I don't know that I could have resisted the temptation to give her the handle of Judge SeXXXy Funtime.

In the end, I used her real name, which is, of course, EPJ. And away she went. So for the past week, every time she checks her email she's got a new "friend." Some of whom she actually knows. Plus, now she feels like she's back in high school hanging out with the cool kids again. This, as you probably know, is society's number one requirement of the modern-day professional woman. So she's got that going for her.

It's easy to get buried in the past

Didn't really intend to take the better part of a week off, but things just worked out that way. Life has a way of sneaking up and determining what's actually important instead of what we think is important. As a result, priorities get shifted. Forever.

Until they get shifted back.

Sort of like how everyone vowed how 9/11 was going to change us for the better. Never would we let pettiness and trivialities sidetrack us again. And this time we really mean it. That lasted about a week. Much like this little break. Regardless, I've spent far too much of the past week listening to Neil Young, which seemed somehow fitting.

Pretty much anything he did in the 70s is essential for any serious music library. But for my purposes of late, I've been focusing on his "ditch trilogy". So named because after having the biggest hit of his career (Heart of Gold) he found himself which in the middle of the road. In order to survive, he "headed for the ditch" and made a series of albums coping with unwanted fame, too many drugs, too much death, the failure of the hippie dream and pretty much everything else that critics wet themselves over.

The three albums within this trilogy (Time Fades Away, On The Beach, Tonight's The Night) contain some of the most honest, raw moments of his entire career and are anything but middle of the road. The songs themselves are, for the most part, fairly conventional. There are no 10-minute feedback excursions and the arrangements are usually simple. The instruments used are the rock and roll basics of guitar, bass, piano and drums.

The performances are what separates these releases from anything else in Young's catalog and probably helped ensure they remain forgotten by the public at large. Here, the pleasant harmonies and professionalism of "Heart of Gold" were replaced by sloppy playing, off-key vocals (sometimes painfully so) and a general atmosphere that suggests sober moments were at a premium. Little wonder fans stayed away. But somehow, Young transformed what should have been career suicide into perhaps his defining moments. Ragged glory, indeed.

One of the most annoying and ridiculous critical cliches is the lavishing of praise on the tortured genius or drug-addled musician. The notion that somehow these problems are worthwhile, even desirous, since they produce great "art." is beyond absurd. Of course, the critics weren't the ones actually suffering through these moments of despair. And I strongly suspect most, though not all, of the so-called "tortured genius" set would gladly trade their moments of greatness for sanity and contentment. I've known several families affected by such despair and have yet to find one that found some nobility in their predicament. Perhaps I just travel in the wrong circles.

Yet occasionally some good does come out of these moments. I suppose it is the truly great that are able to take such moments and make them universal. Young's "ditch trilogy" is as effective as any in rock history in doing just that. There's nary a moment of sweetness and light to be found there. If anything these albums are the musical equivalent of the old adage: the light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming train. Moments to which everyone can relate, not just strung out musicians. For whatever reason, often times they are more capable of expressing these feelings than others. That's probably why when my ebbs are lowering these are the records to which I return. More so than albums that I actually probably enjoy more. (On The Beach excepted--it is among my all-time faves.)

Which is not to say I do not enjoy these albums of their own accord. Taken as individual songs, these are among the best of Young's career. But they resonate with me on a more emotional level than some of his other work. For whatever reason, these albums always seem to creep back in when I need them.

Bleak though this trilogy is, there is the hopefulness of not going through despair alone. Even if that message is buried somewhere deep beneath all the tequilla, pot and pain that informed these sessions, it is there. Sometimes solidarity is the best for which we can hope.

**I should state for all concerned, current listening aside, I'm in good spirits. If I wasn't, I can assure you I wouldn't write about it here. Just been on a Neil Young kick of late and thinking about these albums quite a bit. I could write volumes on them so anytime insomnia strikes, get in touch.

Laziness pt. 15

including the rules of grammar, apparently.

Buying presents for hurricane season

Saturday was June 6, which is somewhat commonly known to the free world as D-Day. This was the 65th anniversary and probably the last time that a substantial group of actual D-Day veterans would be able to gather on those shores. Since this was one of the biggies all the really, really important leaders of the ultra-fab western world were there including The Messiah, the thoroughly impotent British PM, Gordon "don't call me Gordo" Brown and my favorite world leader with a smoking wife, Nicolas Sarkozy, President of France. The coverage was unavoidable and rightfully so.

Unless you are the EPJ, that is. A brief convo from this morning:

EPJ: "Germs, isn't D-Day coming up?"

Me: "Yep, in about 362 days. This was the 65th anniversary but they didn't make too much of it."

EPJ: "Oh, so I've already missed it. Darn."

Me: "Depends. Us optomist like to think of you as being really, really early for 66. That's the one everyone's really hankering for."

EPJ: "Don't be a smart ass, Germs."

And scene.

The above conversation coming on the heels of yesterday's lid blower: the hows and whys of auto-erotic asphyxiation (feel free to google, but don't say I didn't warn you) as it related to the death of everyone's favorite I'm-not-an-Asian-I-just-play-one-on-TV, David Carradine. Clearly, we're solving the world's problems up here. Though I was relieved to know that the EPJ and Marisol were heretofore unaware of such things, I was less sure as to whether my status as go-to-guy on matters of "deviant sexual behavior" was a compliment or an insult.

The world can breathe a sigh of relief (so to speak) that the EPJ and Marisol no longer wonder about such things. As an added bonus, the carpeted floor kept their pretty little heads from splitting open when each fainted from the shock of knowing.

But it's not all forgotten history and deviant sexual behavior these days for the EPJ. All the hard work put into making Rancho Relaxo the most sublime location this side of heaven has not gone unnoticed in our fair burg. Her home and all who dwell in it have been deemed "Spot of the Month".

Quite the honor. Such much so that the powers that be usually forget to take the sign down in the chosen yard. Which results in the spot of the month being the spot for two or three months or until they randomly select another yard. It's all very scientific.

The tariff act of '78 outlawed parades around here and giving the most beautiful yard more flowers seems a bit redundant. Other than getting a snazzy placard placed right smack dab front and center thereby blighting the spot it is supposed to be highlighting, I can't say there's really any other honor that goes along. Aside from becoming the envy of your neighbors and earning their hated for rubbing their noses in your green thumb, of course. We're all about brotherhood around here.

Why would I eat a peach for peace

Some people spend far too much time wondering on their place in some metaphorical pond. All that big fish, small pond bother. I've never really spent much time ruminating on such matters. Not that it would really matter much around here anyway; I'm not sure we rise to even the most liberal definitions of "small pond." Perhaps, backyard puddle is more apt. Understand, the anonymity our size brings doesn't seem to bother me or any of my fellow citizens all that much. The suicide rate around here is rather low.

But if I was given to such ruminations I suspect I'd find my place even lower on that particular totem pole than previously thought. Throughout my life the mail has been a pretty good barometer of my importance. I realize everyone gets the occasional bit of junk mail addressed to "resident" or "occupant." Unless you're Navin R. Johnson, this is hardly a feat worth celebrating. I must admit, however, that sometimes I do give a triumphant fist pump as I deposit such letters in the nearest waste receptacle. Today, I even received a letter addressed to Andy, et al. I suppose this means I'm moving up in the world. Alas, Andy hasn't lived anywhere near me for nigh on 20 years so I suspect that progress in being outpaced by some common slug. I love you, junk mail.

All of this is probably why one of my biggest delights during the Christmas season is getting Christmas cards at work. Being as she's quite popular and powerful, the EPJ gets them in bunches. Big bunches. Sometimes 2 or 3 a week and requires help with the arduous task of opening them. As her somewhat devoted assistant, I sometimes lend a hand. And I'm always glad when I do because nothing warms this Christmas heart hotter than opening a card addressed to EPJ and "staff." That's when I know it's from someone who, in fact, did care enough to send the very best and to only the closest of the close, at that.

Much like the army's slogan, I am a staff of one. But I do appreciate being remember, however nameless. I suppose there's something fitting about getting a generic card with a generic scene of yuletideness with a stamped gold foil "Seasons Greetings" from some outfit that I didn't know existed either. Were I not well-versed in being overlooked, I might develop a complex.

Or at least a bigger one.

Growing up my family used to get those state-of-the-family letters every so often from various relatives. Being as we never bothered to give our phone number to most of those folks this was really the only way we could keep up. One would think by our withholding of phone numbers and precise location, they would get the message that we perhaps didn't care all that much. I suppose that is beside the point.

These wonderful letters were quite popular with us during our luddite phase, however. The type of letter that was little more than an advertisement for how incredibly amazing and good life was for the particular writer's particular branch of the family tree. Five pages of how Little Bill now has his PhD in Nuclear Physics, Jim John is rapidly developing that cure for cancer and the prince of some small Arabian country has come a courtin' our dear, sweet sister Sue (fingers crossed she's already knocked up), epilogued with "but how are you all doing?"

Sometimes the epilogue would be more than a P.S. though. These were the times we really lived for. Especially for me. Confirmation that even though we'd not put forth any effort, we still mattered to someone somewhere in our family.

Oftentimes, I was disappointed. On one such occasion, after pages of detailed questions on the minutiae of Andy's life and how awesomely awesome he was, the author inquired as to how "that other one" was doing. Were I the wooing sort, I would have had a new favorite relative from then on. In fairness, the author did remember that I was a "one" and not a "ones" so that was awfully kind. I can't remember if the author apologized for not remembering my name. Perhaps she honestly thought my kind parents had neglected to name me way back when at the hospital. That was a hectic day, after all.

I always hoped my mother would write back that things were looking up for us as well. Something like how the flood gave our house a much needed cleaning, all that detention really helped Andy get to know the school staff better and we think he's finally kicked for good this time. And, oh yeah, "that other one" is finally eating something other than glue. Our life wouldn't be any sweeter if our asses pooped sugar.

She never did though. A shame.

Adorableness pt. 1

What better way to debut a new feature. I suspect most of the adorableness post will contain Baby Zeigler in some form or fashion. Here's he's doing his best Mussolini. If Il Duce had been this cute, we'd all be fascists.

The only things I'll read are faces

Last night, my A-#1 pal, MB, sent me a story from The Age (Melbourne, Australia) regarding hipsters and the glasses which they are required to wear. In addition to being confirmation that they have newspapers down there, I suppose the more depressing development is that hipsters have invaded Australia's fair shores. I'm not sure of the solution or even if there is one since this problem is apparently so widespread. Thanks for nothing, Obama.

After North Korea starts Global Thermonuclear War for real, I suspect the only survivors will be Kafka-reading hipsters arguring whether Vivian Girls really are worthwhile. After all, what's the point in surviving if the music sucks?

I suppose now would be as good a time as any to mention that I've got some new glasses. Predictably, they are of the super-fab, uber-stylish black variety that probably give off precisely the too-cool-for-school-vibe to which the author of the above column is referring. That is, if I were living in a place where there was a reason for giving off such a vibe. Or for using such a word as hideous as "vibe".

But I'm not.

When people talk about Deerhunters around here, they're referring to the real honest-to- God Bambi killers, not the band of which only readers of Pitchfork have heard.

And that's just as well.

Though I have the glasses and have long found the underground and its myriad sub-cultures the place to be, I'd just as soon avoid most hipsters. I've never been too keen on making any scene and having such longings at the advanced age of 35 would just be embarrasing. Which is why the bulk of my wardrobe consist of t-shirts for obscure bands, record labels and record stores.

Of course, if there's one thing hipsters love more than horn-rimmed glasses, it's irony.

I guess that means I hate myself. At least I've already got all those Cure records.