Who throws a gauntlet these days?

My sister, that's who.

After a lengthy conversation with my sister, on my birthday no less, we swerved from to topic to topic, and landed on my lack of writing output. After many observations and reasonable theories as to why I procrastinate and generally have to get off of my ass, we came to a deal. Or, a costly pact for sure.

After listening to her trusted and respected advice, I submitted wholly to the fact that I have something working against me that restricts my creative output. In an effort to get me to produce, my sister offered that I needed something in the way of accountability. She proposed a deal in which I have to email her an extemporaneous writing of five minute's worth effort daily. If I should fail to email her an example of my blathering on and on about whatever hits the gray matter that day, I forfeit 10 CDs from the collection of 2000+.

Suffice to say that she knew where to hit me. My CDs are precious to me and the idea of her coming over here, joyfully dancing and taking ten discs at her discretion might just be the kick in the ass I need to put my shit in motion.

So, when you all read my first book, the dedication will include the following:

.......And to Susan; I want my fucking Dio CDs back. Now.

Wish me luck.

Reality TV Sniper Pegs Another Victim

Damn it!

All this time, through Survivor and Amazing Race and Big Brother and Wife Swap and Nanny Whatever, I've maintained a stance that I was above the Reality Television craze. Reality.....ha. Packaged goods for the lowest common denominator, I'd say to people. The only reality series I watched all the way through was that fucking Joe Millionaire train wreck just because I bought into the premise of a show that actually was out to humiliate money grubbing, 15 minute getting, ready for my teary-eyed close up airtime whores. But after feeling like I needed a shower (okay, screw the shower--I need a baptism) after each episode, I swore that I would never buy into the reality sales pitch again.

Then I had a beer in a hotel bar in Rockville, Maryland.

My wife and I stayed in a decent hotel in Rockville while my mom recuperated in the hospital following the surgery mentioned in an earlier post on this site. A mere fifteen minutes away and much more affordable than even a dump in pricey Bethesda, we retired one night to the hotel's bar to get a sociable drink before bed instead of a can of beer in front of the telly. It was dead that night in the bar with just two people sitting at the bar and the bartender playing pool with another patron to pass the time between pouring rounds.

Mary and I took seats at the bar, nodded to our neighbors and flagged down the bartender. He walked behind the bar and asked us what we'd have. What we'd have, he did not. No Coors Light in a bottle for me and no Bushmill's or Jameson for Mary. Settling was in our immediate future; Lite Beer from Miller for me and a whiskey sour with Maker's Mark for Mary. Settle on a cheaper hotel and you get a bar stocked just slightly better than a picnic.

Our bartender had an accent I could not place and I'm normally close on that, so I was quietly frustrated as I listened for clues. As we all chatted, he charmed us with stories of his travels through our great country. He once stayed and worked in San Francisco for a few months, the guest of a crazy American woman that wanted him to do things to her that he could not do in good conscience. I told him that while I don't know what the woman looked like, being a male concubine in The City didn't sound all that awful. My wife raised her eyebrows at that statement, but after the bartender said that it wasn't all bad, she shrugged and ordered another Maker's Mark sour. I pointed to my two-thirds empty bottle and he raked the cap off of another Lite.

As he went to serve the two other customers, Mary and I absentmindedly turned our attention to the television that was suspended above us. The sound was down as is appropriate in a bar with a jukebox playing, but the signature strobing lights and quick cut editing of a live music performance caught my attention. Mary asked what was on and I told her I wasn't sure but that it didn't look horrible, but in fact looked like some rocking shit. Definitely not the Grammys or Country Music Awards, which can fool you for a moment before you realize that you're watching musical pablum. We watched for a minute and when the performance ended and the cameras turned to Tommy Lee, I realized what we were watching. Rockstar: Supernova.

I'd heard about this show, but never watched the "replace the guy from the '80s Aussie band who hung himself while jerking off" season. I remember hearing things from respected sources that stated as far as reality television was concerned, it was compelling. Feh, I thought. What's next, Rock Star: Bananarama? INXS was not, is not, and will not be relevant to me or most people except in the most nostalgic way. I like what I remember from INXS and I could see myself enjoying some sort of post-game concert at my local Triple A baseball affiliate stadium or perhaps a county fair show, but as far as trying to sell me on the fact that a new album and/or tour with a game show winner at the helm would appeal to me or the general public was a bit sad. A few months after the "show" ended, I saw that most of their tour dates included just such venues, including a local Indian Casino stop. Indian Casino concerts, for the most part, fill haggard bands' schedules in between county fairs and Tower Records acoustic performances. That's not to say that Indian Casinos don't book viable bands. My wife and I saw Heart play at a local casino last year and they were as hot or hotter than when we saw them way back in '85, and their most recent album Jupiter's Darling is as strong as most in their catalog. But the sad fact is that the majority of folks in the crowd were there to hear nothing more than the hits from their mid '80s MTV resurrection and maybe Barracuda.

When we caught the bartender gazing up at the TV as well, we asked him if he could turn it up. With nobody really listening to the jukebox, he turned it off and found the remote to the TV. A contestant was singing a Stone Temple Pilots song and doing it pretty well. We watched a few more and then my wife recognized one of the singers. "That's Storm", she said excitedly. I leaned forward and squinted a bit and told her that it looked like Storm, but I was pretty sure that these contestants were all unsigned amateurs, much like on American Idol.

********************

We had been turned on to Storm after I read a review of her album, The Calm Years (2001 Taylor Made Records) and picked it up one day. I loved it and listened to it a lot. Even with its heavy sound and aggressive vocals, Mary dug it too. She tends not to enjoy the heavy stuff, but forgives the crunch if the vocals are clear and not shrieked. We have many albums that we both enjoy, but not many heavy ones. Tool, Masters of Reality, Living Colour, and Storm being among the few exceptions. We played the album for friends and relatives and they all liked it but hadn't heard of Storm before. The interest usually died there. Many of these folks are radio listening drones and not interested in an act unless it's been force fed to them by a monopolized mass media outlet. But we kept up with her activities via the Internet and hoped that she would hit it big someday.

We even saw Storm perform live once. After lamenting the fact that she had come through Fresno and played a small club only a few months before we discovered her music, we found out that she was to play at a big annual outdoor music festival in Sacramento called The Sacramento Heritage Festival. This great event takes place over two days and features a huge line up of mostly unsigned or up and coming Northern California acts on several stages in a park setting. We had seen and enjoyed many bands at past festivals including Ozomatli and Mother Hips, so we were very excited to see Storm in that setting. As it turned out, she was to play the "unplugged tent" with just her guitarist on acoustic guitar as accompaniment. Initially, we were disappointed that we wouldn't hear the blunt force trauma attack of her tunes in all their electric glory, but she wowed us all with her dynamic range, stage presence, and overflowing sex appeal. With a bit of raunchiness running through her tunes, she even censored herself due to the little kids dancing and playing in front of the stage. She even played to the kids, encouraging them to sing along and raise their hands. Later, while she was signing autographs, I remember thinking she was very sweet to make sure that kids got stickers and autographs before any of us leering adults.

********************

Anyway, we watched the end of her performance on Rockstar: Supernova and I wasn't quite convinced it was Storm we'd just seen. After all, we were watching a '80s model 19 inch color TV perched at a height of 8 feet that was at least 15 feet away from us. The (mono, natch) speaker was as tinny as a Victrola and didn't carry well past the smack of billiard balls on the table behind us. But then the singer stepped up next to the host, another cookie cutter, generic hot chick holding a microphone who tries oh so hard to feign a glimmer of intelligence and not sound like her banter isn't phonetically spelled on a teleprompter. The host spat out some information that we couldn't make out except for something about a vote. Then a phone number and the word Storm appeared below them on the screen. Mary and I were both excited to see that it was her after all. It was decided then and there that we had to watch the rest of this series.

When we returned to California later that week, I programmed the series into our DVR, another one of those "how did I get by without this before?" contraptions. Since that night in the bar in Rockville (and how appropriate that we were in a town called Rockville?), we have been glued to the idiot box watching and debating the worth of the performances. I suppose the show is not that different from other reality genre programs, but at least this one is right up my alley; live rock and roll. I usually call the voting correctly and the band members, Tommy Lee, Jason Newsted, and Gilby Clarke, along with uh, helper/co-host (?) Dave Navarro normally echo my comments seconds after I make them following each contestant's performance--albeit much less articulately of course (I'm polishing my fingernails on my chest as I type that).

So, now I'm watching and enjoying a reality television show. Or a game show. Or a new version of Star Search. Or complete shit. At this point, I'm able to enjoy it on face value. I don't see Supernova as the next Led Zeppelin. Trust me as a fan of "supergroups". I've loved and lost many; The Firm's first album (out of an abundance of two) fought very hard in the pecking order of the soundtrack to my senior year in high school. Jimmy Page's post Zep project beat out Dio's Last In Line, Deep Purple's Perfect Strangers, and narrowly overtook Iron Maiden's Powerslave, but lost in a photo finish to Whitesnake's Slide It In. And yes, I wore a mullet.

Supernova will get a very talented lead singer and much press. I believe they'll play high profile theater sized venues promoting the subsequent album. After that? It's hard to say right now, but I can't see anything long term coming from this sort of format. With the hand picked and pumped up audience, careful and clever editing, and the diminishing effect of people actually being real on reality television, this has all the makings of an utterly forgettable experiment. How long do you think the new INXS will last? If this were a more realistic, documentary style of program that showed true auditions in some sort of practice studio not in front of an audience, I would put more credence into it.

But credence or not, I'll be there next week rooting for Storm and trying to put a hex on that damn Zayra.

Back On California Time

I'm back in California after a grueling two weeks in Bethesda, Maryland. The loved one I eluded to in earlier posts is my mother. She had a very complicated surgery on one of her kidneys at the National Cancer Institute at the National Institute of Health. As it turns out, she is afflicted by a rare syndrome that manifests slow growing tumors on her kidneys. After some time thinking they were benign, she was told that they were indeed a form of cancer and had to be removed, with the possibility of losing a kidney looming as well.

The NCI made her part of a study of the syndrome, so all of her expenses were paid, including travel, hospital stay, all medical care, and anything related to her visit to the Institute. The staff at the NIH is top shelf and she was to be handled by experts in the field. So going in, we felt confident and positive. As it turns out, the surgery was a complete success, the kidney was saved, and my mom is now home along with the rest of us. But the surgery was delayed by a week due to an infection that would have wreaked havoc had they gone in on schedule, so we had some time to kill until the infection was taken care of. I may write more about our experience at the NIH in the future, but I thought I'd relate some details of our unintentional vacation.

My wife Mary and I, along with my sister Susan, flew into Dulles Airport in D.C. on Saturday, July 8th and drove to my Aunt Carol's house in northern Virginia. We would stay with her Saturday and Sunday night, then head into a hotel nearer the hospital in Bethesda on Monday. My mom's surgery was scheduled for Tuesday morning.

We spent a leisurely first evening at my aunt's with dinner and conversation. My parents would be arriving in Maryland on Sunday evening, so Susan, Mary and I spent that day in Washington D.C. and would meet everyone for dinner that night.

We did a whirlwind tour of the major monuments and buildings. One of the first we stopped at was the Supreme Court Building. I had Mary take a cell phone photo of me sitting on the steps looking dejected and then send it along to her sister Jean. Last year while we were in San Francisco with Jean and her husband (both now appearing in the epic Black Crowes saga on Tony Hazy Concert Memories), I did the same while singing a few bars of the Schoolhouse Rock tune I'm Just A Bill as I sat on the steps of some government building. Jean thought it was funny at the time, so we sent her the cell photo. She replied right away, texting "Is Tony just a bill?". We replied, "No, I'm a law! Oh yeah!". I had to use the Supreme Court as my set piece because you can't get close to the steps of the Capitol Building post 9/11, but as a prop the court building did just fine.

I have to say, I think I've adjusted to the minor inconveniences of heightened security that we Americans now endure. But it is a little sad to not be able to walk up the steps of the Capitol Building and also spot a soldier armed with an automatic rifle at the top of them.

The first museum we spent any amount of measurable time in was the fairly new American Indian Museum. The exterior is modeled to look like the walls of a canyon and it is a beautiful tribute to our land's native inhabitants. But to be perfectly honest, we really only ducked in there because we all needed a restroom and it was the first museum we came upon on the Mall. All of our off color comments about having to pee-pee in a tee-pee or poo-poo in a papoose became running jokes that seemed hilarious when you're jet lagging. For the record; we ran up and down the many floors of that place and not a tee-pee could be found.

Another museum we spent some time in was the Air and Space Museum. Very cool exhibits of rockets, space capsules, historic aircraft, and the technology behind these machines abound here. You can even touch a piece of moon rock, which at first seems hokey, but when you stop to think about how far away the hunk of rock floats from which this sliver was cut, it can be a little humbling. One of the best parts of the day was spent in the flight simulators. Much like the arcade rides where the riders tumble and spin in an enclosed capsule while viewing a video screen, these were much more sophisticated with touchy joystick controls and awesome graphics.

We paid the fee and got into what looked like a massive laundromat washing machine. We had to take everything out of our pockets and put them in a lock box so as not to lose anything while turning upside down. The attendant was all smiles as she explained the controls and buckled us in. I was the pilot and Mary would be the gunner. The lady shut the clam shell-like door and our video screen came to life. I took the controls and instantly plunged us into the ground. Then straight up into the air, losing all sense of where the ground now was. Mary was telling me to look out, pull up, and anything else she could think of to coach me. It took me a moment to get my bearings and then we were cruising. I tested the joystick a little and was able to maneuver fairly well now and we spotted enemy tanks on the ground and jets in the air with us. Mary blasted away and destroyed many targets. It seemed a little too easy and I became bored, so I looked at my wife and said, "Hey Mary".

"What?", she said, never taking her eyes off of the poor bastards she was annihilating on the screen.

"Barrelroll!", I yelled. I yanked the joystick hard to the left and sent us reeling ass over tea kettle over and over. Mary screamed and laughed and cussed me out at high volume. I stabilized the jet and caught my breath from laughing. "You bastard", she yelled. I yelled barrelroll again and sent us over the other way, this time doubling the number of rolls. Neither of us could stop laughing, but whenever Mary caught her breath, she exhaled many insults and curses that would give any movie an NC-17 rating. The screen said that our time was up and the machine took over, levelling us out and lowering the capsule. We were crying from laughing, but when the lady opened the lid, she was not smiling at all. We looked around and saw the people waiting in line for the next ride. All of the adults either looked pissed or shocked or both. Most of the kids were smiling big. I guess they could hear every word.

We popped into the Museum Of American History for a short time. We saw the flag that inspired the Star Spangled Banner and also the flag that is in the moving photo of New York firefighters draping it over the side of a building on 9/11. Even with these patriotic items at our disposal, most Americans linger more at the exhibits of Fonzie's jacket and Archie Bunker's chair. I guess we're all products of a pop culture society, but I would hope that does not cause us to confuse the significance of Thomas Jefferson with that of Kermit the Frog.

There is an exhibit on the development of American musical instruments that was closed. I was disappointed because it sounded interesting, but there was a nice gift shop with t-shirts, books, CDs (many were tempting Smithsonian Folkways recordings--the most I've ever seen in one place, naturally), and many trinkets. I bought a Fender guitar hat featuring a cool logo and upon checking out at the register, I spied a little display of small instruments for sale. Harmonicas, kazoos, whistles, and even the musical spoons were all for sale, but what caught my eye was the jaw harp. The jaw harp is that twangy metal device used in many movie soundtracks to signify when characters have gotten themselves into the backwoods or a hick town. Snoopy played one in one of those old Peanuts features and I'm sure there's one on a Who song that I can't quite recall. I've always wanted one, just in the way I want to get a didgeridoo someday.

I slapped down an extra eight bucks for the harp against my wife's wishes. Her question was to when I would ever play it. I tried to tell her to rest assured that I would play it all the time. Then she rolled her eyes and groaned at the prospect of me twanging away at this thing incessantly to her utter dismay. I was loving the idea and even if I'd had second thoughts, I was now buying it for the promise of a fun summer annoying the hell out of Mary. We exited the museum and I sat down on a bench to put my new toys in my sister's bag. Mary challenged me to make some noise with the harp.

I opened the little box and took out the metal object. Both Susan and Mary started to make fun of me when I quickly read over the tiny directions sheet. I protested that I had no idea how to work the damn thing and just needed to glance at the illustrations to get started. I placed the harp in position as directed and put my thumb on the "twanger" or "tongue" and plucked. Nothing. I figured that I didn't pluck hard enough and tugged a little further. The "twanger" snapped me right in the front teeth with a thwack and I yelped a little as my head rocked back from the surprise shot to the chops. Susan and Mary almost fell over from cackling at my misfortune, but I was determined to get some sound out of this thing so I gave it another pluck. This time, the infernal instrument clipped me right on the bottom lip. "Nnngggh", I groaned as I cupped my hand over my mouth. Susan and Mary were inconsolable and barely able to stand. I decided that these lessons should be continued later in private and if I thought that it would be so damn funny to watch me play, I would have put out a hat for tips.

We later made our way to the Lincoln Memorial, which is bigger and much more impressive than I ever thought it would be. Then we visited the Korean War Memorial. This is a very haunting exhibit featuring larger than life sculptures of a platoon of soldiers walking through a rice paddy. I think we may have spent the most time of all looking into the faces of these soldiers. Of course, we visited the Vietnam Memorial which was as moving as I'd ever seen on television. People were there leaving items in memory, making rubbings of the names of loved ones on the wall, and simply reflecting as they walked slowly along the memorial reading names aloud. Very moving indeed.

We took many photos of course and none were so fun as the ones we took of the Washington Monument from a distance with my wife and/or sister in various poses. Hey, it's not our fault that our elders built it with such a phallic presence.

We wrapped up the day watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. As we walked quietly and with dignity along the paths in Arlington National Cemetery, Susan mentioned that we'd have to pick up the pace if we were to see the Tomb Of The Undead Soldier. Just as she realized what she'd said, I replied, "Shit, there's zombies in this graveyard?" We all snickered and stifled giggles, but regained our composure as we approached the viewing area of the Tomb. It is indeed a solemn ceremony taken very seriously by the few honored by having the detail. I was glad to witness it and I will forever look differently at any sitting president as he places a wreath upon it on Memorial Day.

We got the call that my parents had landed and checked in with the hospital staff. It was a bit late on a Sunday night, so when we finally drove into Bethesda from D.C., many places were closed or closing soon. We ended up in a diner of the greasy spoon variety. I love places like that, but it wasn't quite what the others had in mind. A very gruff, but funny (and ultimately very friendly) waitress kept us entertained with her manner and we ate the comfort food that she slung at us with glee. A real thick chocolate shake split between Mary and I put a nice cap on the day.

After a long, hot, sticky day in the nation's capitol, we were all glad to get back to the air conditioning and comfortable beds of my aunt's house. The jet lag and humidity had really taken it out of us and we all slept in the next day. Monday was to be a prep day for my mom at the hospital with final tests and blood work, so we didn't have to be there too early. As it would turn out, we really didn't need to be there for another week due to the infection, but who knew then?