Tea throwers = terrorists

And it's funny because it's true: If Fox News had been around throughout history.

It's what's for lunch

I feel like I must be 5 years old again. For lunch today I had soup and jello. Well, either 5 or sick (six? heh) but I'm neither.

That said, no 5 year old would consider slurping on Karen's (local restaurant) squash-and-coconut soup concoction (which is amazingly yummy), so I think that excuses things.

In any case, it was a colorful lunch, in a clashing way: The soup was brownish-squashy, and the jello was ... well, lime. Electric radiation-spill lime.

Yum.

My name is Michael Caine

There are real perks to the gig. Last night's came after running through the remnants of Wilma storming through town, following a decent movie called "The Weather Man," just beyond a lovely dinner eaten while overlooking Columbus Circle as the rain streamed down the great glass wall and made New York look like a Matisse painting: I got to meet Michael Caine. (Sir Michael Caine, if you go in for that sort of thing.) And he was completely lovely. Not only did he get up from his table to stand and talk with me away from the others, not only did he have a nice warm firm handshake, but he actually made and held eye contact.

I told him "The Man Who Would Be King" was an all-time favorite. "It had a good director," he grinned.

Told me about why he had a beard: He's filming a role in London (for "The Prestige") that requires it.

We discussed his role in "The Weather Man," which is supporting. But he's a grandfather whose grandkids call him Pop-pop, which is a name I've never heard any grandparent called except my own, so I was touched. We talked about that.

He talked about doing smaller roles, and why that's just fine: Having to basically self-promote "The Quiet American" a few years back, when Miramax went full-guns for Oscars on "Gangs of New York" rather sapped him, so commanding a picture is a little more than he's up for these days.

And then I asked what he really thought of the remake of "Alfie" (since the director told me Caine had given him approval of it), and in essence he was most diplomatic, and I agreed: Caine said that his version of Alfie in the 1960s was a seducer who was really quite an innocent, and by the end of the picture, his last line is "what's it all about?" meaning that he's questioning the universe now. But -- and he qualified this by saying he quite likes Jude Law, which I also agree with -- he said "when Jude Law shows up on the screen in that first minute, you know he's someone who's seen everything, and who knows everything already." So there's no curve, no arc, and it's a static picture.

And then I shook that warm firm hand again and headed off to dessert, buzzing.

Walking on the moon

It's taken a week for the whole thing to go up online elsewhere, so I've been waiting, but this is what I was up to last Sunday afternoon: The MP3 experiment 2.0, brought to all of us by ImprovEverywhere.

Absolutely surreally incredible. Once alerted to the event, all you had to do was download an mp3, not listen to it, then bring it with you on an iPod or a CD you'd burned to Sheep's Meadow in Central Park. At or near 3pm, a man would walk to the center of the field with a bullhorn and announce "one minute," and then he counted down with a few seconds to go. At that time, you were to start the mp3 and do what it said. And what it said, among other things, was to stand and wave at all your new friends, wave up at the sky at "Steve," walk like a zombie, bust a move, and then everyone was divided into four groups who all followed a new "leader." Our leader was an astronaut, who had us walk on the moon and plant American flags. (That's me in the picture above, in the red jacket. We're moon walking. I look larger than expected, which I suppose is, conversely, expected.) Anyway, then all four groups faced off in a rock-paper-scissors competition (the bees won) and we were all "Graduated" by being given small blowup beach balls, which we triumphantly tossed in the air. In the middle of all of this, anyone in Sheeps Meadow who didn't have the mp3 was wonderfully, baffingly, amused at seeing 200 or so people zombie walk across the grass. I can only imagine what they thought. As we all dispersed to Bethesda Fountain to the tune of "Saturday in the Park" by Chicago, it was impossible to get rid of the totally silly grin on your face. A marvelous effort. And so very, very New York.

Since then I've been a little busy but have encountered: An assumed (but not verified) man on stilts, walking down Broadway around 6pm on Wednesday evening. No circus spotted nearby, no reason for him to be there, yet, voila. Later in the week, a woman all in white danced in a religious frenzy throughout a mostly-empty subway car on the way home. In one direction she didn't say anything; the second time around she was muttering words for Jesus.

This place does keep you hopping.

Addendum: There's another mp3 experiment on October 26. Info here.

Caged heat

One consequence of having an adorable ball of fur which requires regular attention and maintenance is that when you're not there to do it, someone has to take over.

I have a perfectly good kennel I stash Ciara in when I go out of town: Mossland Kennel, which has been around since 1946, is family-owned, and has owners who write things out on 3x5 cards rather than type away on computers. And they're only $16 a night. Of course, there's always a but -- they're in College Point, which is officially a Pain in the Ass to get to. It's either $20 bucks or more each way with a car service, or it's a subway ride to the end of the line and then a bus another 10 minutes or so. I called the Pet Delivery car people; they'll charge $35 each way to pick Ciara up and drop her off. So it's down to me. Since the place is so cheap, I just factor it into the overall cost -- the car service, I mean -- and it's still cheaper than kennelling her anywhere else. Not like there are a lot of options: Queens, for some reason, has tons of dogs and no walkers and almost no kennels. (Compare viz. Brooklyn, where the dogs can come into restaurants.) I digress.

So I'm looking around and I learn that the Queens Animal hospital is within reasonable walking distance (or one stop on the subway) and only charges $20 a night. Around there is where the but begins: I took a quick tour and they're cramped compared to Mossland, plus being noisy, plus you're leaving your dog in an area where sick dogs might be, plus they're just ... a wee ... bit ... flaky. I went to have my tour, which I'd called about ahead of time and really only required about 5 minutes -- and waited about 45. Ok, par for the course, they have patients. I was still willing to give it a shot for the end of this month, when I'll be going home for a couple of days.

So I call: Oh, she'll need to be examined. I hear "ca-ching" and say, "Are you sure, because I spoke with the doctor" -- while I was there the doctor came out from seeing patients and gave me her card -- "and someone else on the phone and nobody ever said she'd need a checkup. She's caught up on her shots and I can have all of that information sent from her regular vet." So, fine, I talk the receptionist down from her high platform and call my doctor and off go the vaccine records, etc. I call back to make sure they've received them, and schedule Ciara to be taken in.

I get a call later. You can't bring her in; she has to be examined officially. Again: "ca-ching." The dog doesn't need an examination; she's well and healthy and up to date and has her own doctor. I feel fleeced, and I feel as though someone should have told me this ahead of time. Like, say, when I first called, or when I visited and sat around for 45 minutes. When I was finally told, it seemed like a policy nobody was really sure of, and that's why the receptionist backed down. All I wanted was for someone to tell me, "Hey, we messed up. Thing is...." and take a little responsibility. Instead, the yahoo who called me got all snippy and started getting into this meta conversation: She insisted the doctor could never have seen me when I came to visit, and furthermore insisted that the doctor would never have said she didn't need a checkup. This was not my issue: I wasn't trying to prove a positive (that the doctor told me she wouldn't need a checkup), I was trying to assert a negative (that I wasn't told about a checkup by anyone who should be in a position to tell me these things). But she kept going on in this very hostile manner, as if I had slandered the doctor, which made me hostile, when all I wanted was to be told that they'd erred. "I have the doctor right here with me and she swears she never met you." (Like, she would remember me how, exactly? From my name alone? I didn't even bring the dog when I came last time.)

I get very worked up sometimes for stupid, stupid reasons, and then have a hard time backing off. Particularly when I feel like I'm dealing with morons. So I finally asked: How much is the stupid checkup? $35. Familiar number. But I was so annoyed I just told them to forget the booking and I hung up. Doing the math, it'll actually cost me $15 more if I do the car service both ways to take Ciara to Mossland but you know what? That's where she's going.

A Place Called Vertigo

Talk about a bookended weekend; Friday night was all about the Who supporting a cause they felt was worthy: Samsung. Tonight, U2 came out to support a different kind of cause -- a gallery opening in Chelsea of photographer Anton Corbijn's work. You'd have to be in a hole not to know Corbijn, at least by his style: High-def, deep-grained (mostly) black and white portraits (and plenty of videos) for, among others, rock's reigning royalty: U2, REM, Depeche Mode. So not only was Corbijn coming to the opening, at the Stellan Holm Gallery on West 24th -- but so were the Edge and Bono.



I got there about a half hour into what was announced as a three hour event (no longer than 8pm, since the band (I think) are playing at Madison Square Garden). Since nothing ever starts on time, and certainly never starts on time when musicians are involved, I figured a half hour would make sense. In a way, I was right -- unlike the others who got there early, I only had to stand around about 15 minutes. (Some people had been there since 4:45. In another way, I was badly off, because the small area around the very small gallery was choked with people, and the bodyguards were getting testy. I asked where the press list was, and learned that the gallery was already too full to allow for more people. Since they were hardly the fire department, I located someone else in the press and asked if they had the PR woman's phone number. She didn't. I said, I did, if she had a cell phone. So we called PR woman and got ushered in. As Ferris might say, so choice.



Unfortunately, the gallery was quite small. There was a wide-ish open lobby area ringed with portraits; half of the room was clogged with the photo pit. Guards wouldn't let the group advance past the narrow hallway opening at the back, which led past offices and into the main gallery room, which was only marginally wider and pretty full. (I walked down the hall at one point looking for the can; I could have sworn I saw Dave Gahan, of DM, in one of the offices thumbing through a book.) I had it in my head (and had been told by the PR woman) that I could chat with the band for some quick quotes, and stayed up front in the photo pit. Hence, the photos I landed -- these are actually mine, mostly taken by holding the camera aloft over the heads of the real paparazzi.



I stood next to a redheaded woman with an MTV microphone, and a reporter from OK! magazine; someone from the competition also arrived (at least, I think she's with the competition, I've seen her before). There was grousing. And then everyone arrived in a flash of bulbs and a thrusting of the photographic pit. Lots of shouts of "Bono! To your right! Anton! Edge! Bono! To your left!" (Not me, by the way.)



In truth, I didn't think there was much point in pursuing the band for interviews; if it happened, great, amazing, fine. I mainly wanted to say hello to Corbijn, whose office I used to work in. When I was doing work-study in England in the early 1990s, my intership was with the music video firm State. That was where I met the Sundays, Ultra Vivid Scene, Inspiral Carpets and even Tina Turner -- worked on all their videos. That was where I also learned just how cliquish the whole thing was and how unlikely it was I would do it for a career. Still, it was fun. I only met Anton once -- he was always off doing scouting for a Depeche Mode video; this was just after his "Enjoy the Silence" clip was getting so much play. He came into the office one day, expansive and adorable, this Dutch whirlwind. He handed everyone a bottle of Champagne. Which I thought was The Coolest Thing Ever. So I wanted to re-introduce myself, thank him for the drink, and then get a few quotes.



That's Anton in the scarf, in case it's not completely obvious. He still has this open, friendly face, just less hair. But it was all not to be. After the band passed through the lobby and into the narrow hallway, word came back: They needed time to chill before interviews, so out to everyone other than interview press. (So I got to stay.) Then, about five minutes later: The band wants to see the exhibit, so everybody out. They'd invite us back in later.



After ten minutes of standing across the street with MTV Girl, nearly getting run down by traffic and Lizzie Grubman-ed out of existence, then watching some Famous Person with Curly Hair dash out of a black sedan to squeals and then into the gallery, I decided I had better things to do, and got cupcakes over at nearby Billy's. All in all, a decent evening.

Who?

Went to a little party held at the Samsung "We're not Apple!" Experience store this evening. Not a bad way to wrap up an evening: free drink, free air conditioning (because, somehow, it's tropical in NYC in October these past few days), free chance to ogle some nice techy equipment -- and a chance to equally ogle Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey, who were present to announce a DVD set featuring live performances of "Tommy" and "Quadrophenia," plus some interviews, live clips and so on. (And, on your way out, a free copy of said DVD.) So, an all around swell evening. (Spotted: Ian Buchanan, who played Duke Lavery on "General Hospital," and shut up; a guy who I've seen in a million character parts who reminds me of Wallace Shawn yet is not Wallace Shawn; and, somewhere hiding in the back apparently -- Mike Meyers. And dozens of regular schmoes like me. An interesting collection of humanity.)

There is a point: Townshend strolled right in through the crowd, with a few bodyguards not having to really do much bodyguarding, went right up to the podium and hung around with some of the more official looking people. This is the genius of the band: He's the writer, he's the windmill guitarist, and off he goes like nobody even realizes that. Which of course they do; at least half of the room are Who fans.

Which they prove when Roger Daltrey strolls through, on the same course, a few minutes later. He's smaller and a lot less head-hairy (though far from losing it) than I'm expecting; I suppose the smaller part should be a given by now, they're all smaller than you expect, but I keep thinking he's going to have "Tommy" hair or something. Er, no. Anyway, I'm standing behind a low glass partition, raised up about a foot on the far side of the store, so I get a good look down on the group. He almost makes it to the stage area, then backs off and starts talking to people. And people take pictures. And everyone is suddenly taking pictures, with cell phones, with digital cameras, officially by asking and unofficially by just snapping, and surreptitiously by sneaking one in, and one woman next to me leans over the glass partition and even gets an autograph. He's eating it up in a generous, kind way and even stays in the audience when the presentation begins, thoughtfully pressing a finger up under his nose while the Samsung chief does his meandering introduction.

But there I am, looking at this whole spectacle and thinking: Cheez, that's a practiced professional. I can't imagine how I'd stand it with dozens of people clustered around me, all asking for something at once, all grabbing at me (not necessarily all at once), asking, poking, pestering, lights flashing. You hear stories about how "Jesus, [fill in your actor/musician/whoever] was such an asshole, he wouldn't even let me [take his picture/kiss his cheek/sign a paper for my kid]" and you can completely see how Daltrey could do this for probably hours and then, when he finally had enough and told one guy "Look, we've got to cut it off" -- that'd be the guy who'd go home and say that shit. Okay, 30-odd years in the limelight means you get a few chances to practice with the crowd. (And we all know The Who have not always had good luck with crowds.) But I just sat back and watched it all happen, completely impressed that he stepped on not one toe or hurt not one person's feelings and just hung with the group.

Classy.

Bad phone! Bad phone!

I've been getting calls at home at almost the exact same time every morning: 9:20. Since admitting that means I'm running a little late, I let the phone go and figure if it's important, they'll leave a message. Since they don't, I have to figure I'm getting spammed, and I'm bitter yet triumphant. Loser telemarketers.

Anyway, at work this morning I get a call from a guy who jauntily says his name (not his affiliation) and says he'd like to set up a lunch with me. Since I do occasionally get calls from PR people and the like who want to do that, I go along with things, even though it already stinks. He says he's with "Northwestern Mutual" and wants to discuss my life insurance and such like.

This is almost worse than getting these calls at home. I ask him if he knows he's calling me at work. His reply: "Hey, it's New York!"

Thank you, Mr. Non-sequitur. I give him a tongue-lashing that reminds him this is completely inappropriate and that I will have nothing to do with his business or company. Unfortunately, in my rush to do that and then get off the phone, I forget to do relevant things, like get a full name and supervisor and contact info, so I can report this appropriately (this kind of stuff really cheeses me off, and his complete lack of embarrassment makes it worse). So, I'm kind of at a loss.

My phone machine at work has the number stored, and when I call it back, someone from "Merrill Lynch" answers. They swear they have no "Northwestern Mutual" connection. I am highly dubious. Anyway, fair warning: Have nothing to do with Northwestern Mutual, and if they call you, take names. Bastards.

Want a book?

The American Libray Association has published its list of the 10 Most Banned Books of 2004 here.

They are:

"The Chocolate War" by Robert Cormier
"Fallen Angels" by Walter Dean Myers
"Arming America: The Origins of a National Gun Culture" by Michael A. Bellesiles
The Captain Underpants series by Dav Pilkey
"The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky
"What My Mother Doesn't Know" by Sonya Sones
"In the Night Kitchen" by Maurice Sendak
"King & King" by Linda de Haan and Stern Nijland
"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou
"Of Mice and Men" by John Steinbeck

A full list of the 100 most banned books from 1990-2000 is here.


My offer, which may be complete bluster because I have about .3 readers, is this: Anyone who reads this blog and wants one of those books above, drop me an email. I'll send you one. It'll probably be a used one from Amazon, but a free book's a free book. If you'd rather it go to a library, let me know. And if it starts to become an actual costly donation process, I reserve the right to amend things.

My only requirement: That if you ask for a book, you post this list somewhere and offer to buy one other person one single book off of that list.

Let the unbanning begin!

Thanks to Bookslut for the links.

Song title of the day

I'd like to see someone write a song with this as a title:

"I'm Sure I've Seen Her, But I Don't Know What She Looks Like"

Credit to my co-worker Paul.

And they promised us the world in Pflugerville

This is my mom and Larry's new home.



It is in Texas.

In a town called Pflugerville.

"We'll be moving there by the end of the year," said Mom on the phone today.

I'm too jetlagged to know whether to laugh or cry. I didn't congratulate them on being able to visit a state for the first time and purchase a new home in approximately 48 hours. I'm sure she wanted me to say something nice. But every time I think about my whole immediate family picking up and moving to Texas before the year's out, and I think I might be getting used to it, the curve balls keep coming.

Pflugerville. OMFG.

For reference, this is my brother's home-to-be, still in progress:



Not much to look at at the moment. Presumably, the ugly factor will decrease with more of a face on it. Right now it looks like a box with holes cut out.

Live at Liberty Island

A continuation of the jubilation from Wednesday ... as I have now converted the show into MP3s. Hey, when else am I gonna be able to tape a show without security interference -- from what is essentially the front row?

Girls on Film
Hungry Like the Wolf
Notorious
Reach Up for the Sunrise
Save a Prayer
What Happens Tomorrow
Wild Boys

And, of course, Simon's immortal words of advice.

Vodka wishes and caviar dreams

So. There is an event. It is to be held on a Wednesday night, on Liberty Island. It is in celebration of a vodka launch. There will be:

- a string orchestra playing Russian tunes
- free vodka
- free caviar
- free dinner
- fireworks
- Russian dancers (traditional and belly)
- fortune tellers
- perfect weather
- a tour of the base of the Statue of Liberty
- oh, and a 6-song set by Duran Duran

And it was free, you'd go, right?

Damn Skippy you would. Which is why I was there.

Of the event, it was a pretty run-of-the-mill $3 million-plus party, and we've all been to those, so I can be brief: Great food, amazing atmosphere, nice people. I couldn't bring a guest, which was the only sucky part, but you pick your battles. I got to be right up front for the concert, where the band played slightly off the island on a barge (I know for security reasons I'm sure, but it must be hard not to take that personally. No. 1, you're Duran freaking Duran, No. 2, you're hired for the evening, and No. 3, you're gonna be on a bloody barge. Ha.). They ran through about six songs, with Simon's voice not quite reaching for the sunrise on "Wild Boys" but mercifully a nearly-full version of "Girls on Film" sans endless band introduction. Sadly, they seem to have dropped the verse, "Wider smile baby you've just made a million," possibly because they got sick of hearing us yell back, "That means money, honey" but, yanno, Simon started that on "Arena." So live with it, boys. Alas, no, that phrase is gone. So I was right up front with mostly gawkers but a few fans also dancing, and trying not to bang into the annoying camera/cameraman who decided to set up within inches of my arm. Sweet time.

Band exeunt, begin walking along dock. Someone says, "They're not coming back, see, they're walking on the dock." And they were. Right off the dock, on to the island, up a pathway right near us and ... zip, into a white tent.

I'd been completely neutral about this all evening: If it happened, great. If not, I got to see an extra set I hadn't planned on, and without any obstruction (though truthfully I was closer at Jones Beach). So with this more or less in mind, I headed towards the tent, waiting to be stopped. A few yards from it, a gaggle of similarly-black-dressed people with headsets and passes were gathered. I asked if I could get a quote from the band for my piece. (Party page, thanks much, so awesome, so little effort, so much result.) One woman told me, "Well, last I heard they weren't granting interviews. A photo op and that was it." I pushed a bit (wish I'd pushed more on the guest front; these people were pushovers) and asked if they'd reconsider for my paper. She pulled up her walkie-talkie and I fully expected her to say, "Nah, they're done."

Instead, she said, "A woman with the band will come right out." And we walked to the tent.

It was actually two women, one with dark hair and one with a reddish bronze tint (this has relevance later). The latter woman introduced herself -- Karen, I think -- and said, "We've met before, haven't we?" To which the only answer in this situation is, "Why, yes, I believe we have." They said they'd "get Nick to come out," which wasn't my ideal situation but, okay. Then since I'd hit it off with Karen in a nice superficial way I asked, although it was terribly cheesy, did she think I could get a picture with the band? She didn't say no. The women went into the tent while everyone was changing.

Out came Roger, all done up in darks, and right behind him John, not nearly as tall as I expected, in the raggedy jeans he'd had on onstage; no changing for him. John immediately started talking to a couple, but Roger actually stood around looking alone for at least 30 seconds, which bowled me over. I resisted; I didn't want to talk to them and then have someone say, "So, you're all set, right?" And then he started talking to someone else, so that option vanished.

A few minutes later, one woman leaned from the tent and beckoned them back in. Then I was allowed in. I bent through the small opening (it was largely velcroed shut) and -- et voila, I was in the sanctum sanctorum. It was a small space with a table of food items (I seem to remember a fruit tray with blackberries, but once I was in there things got narrow real fast) and on the right, a long line of white folding chairs, in which Andy lounged and Nick, further down, was engrossed in speaking to a man.

John was in front of me. "Oh, hi." Quite neutral tone, a bit sizing up: Oh, hi, are you supposed to be here and are you important to know? "Hi," I said. I reserved an introduction. He wasn't striking me the right way. Anyway, next to him was Roger (at the fruit tray) and Simon, playing with some kind of rolled up white bandana. I don't know what it is: The two times (including this) that I've met him or been in his direct presence I can't help but think, "Wow, he's kind of goofy." Adorable, but, well, not like bowling me over with his pheremones. He held up the bandana and tried tying it around his forehead.

"Uh, you look like that -- what's the name -- Latoya Jackson," I said, because, well:



You know. And he looked a bit despondent and shoved the thing off his forehead into his hair and said, "Not -- not like Tupac?"



I couldn't think why he would think that at the time, although now I suppose maybe, but uh, "No. Latoya."

That's right, 4.5 seconds into meeting Simon LeBon (second time admittedly, though for them it may as well have been the first), I was being a prick.

Anyway, he got diverted in a new bandana quest and started talking to Karen about when they would meet back up in the tent to get their ride back to the mainland, and I turned around and there was Roger. Nobody was pushing me to talk to anyone yet, so I just launched into talking to him and said it was a great show, etc. I actually don't recall how I started talking to him, but I remember being totally aware that his hair was precisely the same color as his eyes (brownish gold) and his skin tone almost matched that precisely too. That plus the black outfit and it was like he was trying to completely disappear into an amorphous blur before my eyes. That said, he was a real darling. I had a blathering moment in which I outlined my new heartfelt respect for his skills, because when I've seen them the last four times this year (including that night) I keep on doing the drumming along with him in the showy bits. He seemed pleased. Also noted: He had no real discernable English accent. I mean, I guess it was there, but I remember feeling his voice was almost accentless American. Or maybe he just speaks softly.

"Which shows did you go to?" he asked, or something along those lines.

"Madison Square Garden, Baltimore and Jones Beach," I enumerated proudly.

"Oh, Baltimore!" he gasped. "So hot."

"Hottest night of my life," I agreed. (Somewhere my friend Lynda would be mouthing John's pronouncement from that night: "It's good to sweat together.")

"Just try playing drums for two hours in that," he nodded.

I began babbling again with lighthearted nonsense about how I was hoping the tour wasn't completely turning him off of going on the road again. I noted that the word had it that he kind of lost the taste for touring last time, which is why we lost him. "Oh, no," he said. "I got over that. Anyway, I always liked the touring part. Just not all the other stuff."

"Oh, like this stuff."

We laughed. I got zinged. Politely, of course.

Then at some point, an announcement was made to call all together for the good of the picture. I dumped my bag and jacket on the floor; John had me around the waist (and yeah, who wouldn't want to be had around the waist by John)and was guiding me into the shot, entirely professional, very done-this-a-million-times-missy and actually said, "Okay, look into the camera," but the others weren't quite assembled and then Simon was on the other side of me and I wanted a photo more than anything in which they were all looking at the lens and I was turned adoringly at his face, but that was not to be because the photographer insisted I look at the camera. She was nice, I couldn't explain, and that was that. Big smile. My Kodak disposable went off.

Et voila.


(Click on the lovely sweetheart photo for the large version.)

Afterwards, everyone dispersed, Nick returned to his white chair and conversation and was interrupted in order that I might take my rightful place: Right next to him. I beckoned Roger, still lingering at the table, over to join us, which he did and then I had one on either side of me (again) but he more or less disappeared at some point. Since I had the tape recorder on, the chat with Nick went precisely like this:

Q: How did you all get involved with doing this show -- you don’t normally do these kind (i.e., for hire) of gigs?
Nick: No, we don’t, really. Occasionally if you think an event is going to be spectacular and somebody comes and says Hey, you interested in doing this; we’re in town, we’re here to do Fashion Rocks which we’re thrilled is going to raise some money for New Orleans relief, and it was a night off – we’ll do this. So, it was a pretty easy choice!

(Simon comes over.)

Simon: ...Quarter past midnight we’ll be back here.
Nick: Yeah, okay fine. We’re all back here at ten past.
Simon: We don’t -- don’t want to be here after that.
Nick: No, ten past. Okay.

(Did I mention Simon is a bit goofy?)

Q: It’s a long swim home.
Roger: I don’t think New York has had a party this spectacular in many years.

Q: I heard they spent $3 million dollars.
Roger: Yeah, yeah.
Nick (mouths): More, more.

Q: See, I’m dying to know how much you guys charge.
Nick: I don’t know, but they’ve been here a couple of weeks setting this up, and they closed the whole thing. (Nice diversion from how much of that $3 million was to hire the band.)

Q: Did you wander around at all to see any of it?
Nick: Yeah. Hm-hm.

Q: Eat any caviar?
Nick: I’m vegetarian.

Q: So caviar qualifies?
Nick: Anything that had a mother or a face is my general rule.

Q: I eat fish but nothing else. I’m kind of a veggie.
Nick: But fish isn’t a vegetable, really, officially, is it.

Q: No. I’m a cheater vegetarian.
Nick: Right. No, I mean it was fun, too. We always love playing live, too. So it’s easy to twist our arm.

Q: Now, I seem to remember you all were always fans of Stoli.
Nick: Oh! We used to drink vodka, a lot. But the Russians have always known how to make vodka. I haven’t tried this yet. But I think I should perhaps have a little shot to be sure, make sure.

Q: And it is from vegetables. So how has the tour been? I’ve seen you guys three times and I’m exhausted.
Nick: It has been incredibly exhausting but also very rewarding. And we couldn’t have hoped for more -- our audiences are the best you can get. I can’t – I can’t even imagine a band being lucky enough to have a better audience, and I really mean that. It isn’t just some sort of horrible sentimental thing. I think our audiences are amazing because they come wanting to have a great time, the full event, and they feed us and it goes backwards and forwards, that electricity. And I go to a lot of concerts and I don’t see that kind of relationship at many peoples’ gigs. I really don’t.

Q: And people are bringing their kids now. I’d heard -- I don’t know about you -- but that Simon brought his kids on the tour?
Nick: Oh, we’ve all had kids in and out of the tour at different times. It’s fantastic, having them around, because none of the kids had seen this lineup before, they were all too young. So being a part of this has been exciting for them.

Q: Did you ever think when you first started out that you’d be playing to these size crowds this long on, and have your kids come?
Nick: It always goes up and down, you never know what’s going to happen. You can’t really pick an artist whose career doesn’t go in waves, and we’ve been really lucky. But this has been a particularly exciting time. I think we’ve managed to give each other that chance to raise the energy levels again. (Begins scouting around for his black bag, finds it.) Sorry.

Q: Are you ever going to do another Devils record (I've just been listening to this; it's a record he put out in 2002 with the original DD singer, Stephen "Tin Tin" Duffy)?
Nick: I’d love to do one, but at the moment, this is taking up every waking hour. So not for a while, that’s for sure. I did really love working with Steve (Duffy) and I think he’s a real artist and he’s very funny. We had a great time together. And I’m very proud of the record, I think it’s got a beautiful atmostphere to it. So maybe one day.

After which I noted a woman lingering nearby. She didn't say "wrap it up" but I was already pretty near my excitement limit for the evening, so I did anyway. To note: I was thisclose to Mr. Rhodes and yes, he still wears a lot of makeup; eyeliner on the bottom edges of the eyes only, thank you; nice lipstick. He speaks very deliberately -- not slowly, but words like "sentimental" have him putting an emphasis on each syllable. It's a slight affect, but genuinely charming, and something I've listened to on and off since I first heard him speak when I was 14, so that quirk more than anything else (almost) transported me back in time. Back then he and Simon did an interview for "Friday Night Videos" where he said, "contrived" a half-dozen times and each time it was like this beautiful jewel of a word, coming out of a bubble. It almost took on a new meaning from him; I recall going to look it up in case I'd missed some nuance.

So I was ready to head out. I said thanks to Karen, who was standing with Simon and talking; he had the headband again. I told her thanks, I told him thanks, and then noted their hair color was almost identical. And then I really was out of there.

Holy crap, but that was the most amazing 15 minutes I've had in years.

The moon is dull

Werner Herzog, again; I'd heard about his "Minnesota Declaration" of 1999, which he read for the first time at an April conference. Not sure if I get eveything he's talking about -- but once again I'm intrigued by what he has to say. Is there anything quite as unique as the German voice?

Werner Herzog's "Minnesota Declaration"

1. By dint of declaration the so-called Cinema Verité is devoid of verité. It reaches a merely superficial truth, the truth of accountants.

2. One well-known representative of Cinema Verité declared publicly that truth can be easily found by taking a camera and trying to be honest. He resembles the night watchman at the Supreme Court who resents the amount of written law and legal procedures. "For me," he says, "there should be only one single law: the bad guys should go to jail." Unfortunately, he is part right, for most of the many, much of the time.

3. Cinema Verité confounds fact and truth, and thus plows only stones. And yet, facts sometimes have a strange and bizarre power that makes their inherent truth seem unbelievable.

4. Fact creates norms, and truth illumination.

5. There are deeper strata of truth in cinema, and there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.

6. Filmmakers of Cinema Verité resemble tourists who take pictures amid ancient ruins of facts.

7. Tourism is sin, and travel on foot is virtue.

8. Each year at springtime scores of people on snowmobiles crash through the melting ice on the lakes of Minnesota and drown. Pressure is mounting on the new governor to pass a protective law. He, the former wrestler and bodyguard, has the only sage answer to this: "You can't legislate stupidity."

9. The gauntlet is hereby thrown down.

10. The moon is dull. Mother Nature doesn't call, doesn't speak to you, although a glacier eventually farts. And don't you listen to the Song of Life.

11. We ought to be grateful that the Universe out there knows no smile.

12. Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of hell that during evolution some species--including man--crawled, fled onto some small continent of solid land, where the Lessons of Darkness continue.

Ka-ching

Time to cough up for the Nawlins folks.

The Red Cross.

Operation Blessing.

Salvation Army.

Not like I have a readership, but anybody who comes across this page: Donate, then put a link of your own up on your blog, if you have one.

Protesters 'N the Hood

Great. Apparently my 'hood has become -- as my friend who emailed me about this piece on today's "Morning Edition" -- a "hotbed of Muslim extremism."

Clearly, I've missed this: Either I'm not getting out enough on Sunday afternoons, or these guys haven't been nearly as visible as the piece indicates they were.

I love this neighborhood; it's such a wide mix of cultures, and the Indian food is spectacular. I'd hate for it to be considered some kind of ghetto for extremist ideas. Or worse.

Open up your arms and breathe

The fedora is cocked thusly, the white capezios must be on because .... I missed just one (the last one) on this quiz. Scary, yes, my pet.

And today, while making my mp3s, I came across some relatively obscure stuff. So for at least now, here's one song not everybody has (though if you're gonna pass the quiz, you better give it a listen): "To the Shore".

Elsewhere, I'm being amused by fans considerably more obsessed than myself (that used to be a small number, now it's probably most of them):

"What I hate about the band: Simon can't figure out his hair."

And what would a link list be without an Evil John Page?

Yes, I am a geek

But I'm also Jean-Luc Picard, apparently.

The only downside to this is it means I'm not Q.

Rats.

Ciara Hearts NY

Don't dress your cat in an apron
Just 'cause he's learning to bake.
Don't put your horse in a nightgown,
Just 'cause he can't stay awake.



Don't dress your snake in a mu-mu,
Just 'cause he's off on a cruise.
Don't dress your whale in galoshes,
If she really prefers over-shoes.



A person should wear what he wants to
And not just what other folks say.
A person should do what she likes to,
A person's a person that way.*



Woof!

* Billy DeWolfe

Nice timing

Oh, yeah!

I'm out in El Lay the week of September 12, and what should I learn? Namely that my favorite living artist, Luke Chueh, will be having a solo show on the 15th. I am so there. I already have three prints, and three is really enough, but this might be a chance to buy some original artwork and meet the man. Maybe. His pictures can be sick and twisted, but there's a humanity in them, even when they're sad-eyed bears. And I like that his "self-portrait" (above) finds him in the bear suit.