R.I.P. Harvey Korman

(edit: Here's a bit from Carol Burnett that's actually a classic Tim Conway bit, but it shows possibly THEE ULTIMATE Harvey Korman onscreen break-up.)

Farewell to one of the legends of comedy, Mr. Harvey Korman, who just died today at a very young 81 years old. If you grew up in the 70s, you absolutely watched him on "The Carol Burnett Show," and you absolutely, without a question, adored him. He was the original on-camera breaker-upper, before Jimmy Fallon was even a cluster of chromosomes in his father's wiener. He was the ultimate uptight, stressed-out straight-man, too, frequently funnier than his supposed-to-be-funny costars. Check him out in virtually every Mel Brooks movie -- his Count DeMonay from "History of the World Part One" is mind-bogglingly hysterical, so wound-up he was in danger of disappearing up his own anus.

I just ran into Tim Conway in Venice the other day, and he looked fabulous. I bet he misses the shit out of his best comedy partner right now, and my heart goes out to him.

Let's Get Mercurial Rage On The Radio

So my friend and compatriot Chris Hill is in this amazing band called Mercurial Rage in Minneapolis. And for some reason the local indie station, which is connected to Minnesota Public Radio, won't play 'em. Believe me, I know how that goes -- back when Lunar 9 and Medication were in full swing, some snobby music director on Radio K decided we weren't "cool" anymore and just full-stop ignored us. And that was after one of our songs actually went to #1 on the station -- so I call sour grapes. In this case, who knows why they ain't playing 'em, but they sure should be.

So please, if you have a minute, go here and request them. I requested the song "Moonlight," its my favorite song off their new record. Get your friends and family members to do it too.

A Rasher Of Crap

As you may have seen on Trixi's blog we've been dealing with a whole spate of nasty nonsense recently. Its been literally one thing after another after another, and just when we think that karma's taken a day off, maybe to go surfing or something, it turns out its just a little breather between rounds and in s/he goes, pummeling us like Carl Weathers on crystal meth. I keep thinking about that book from the 70s, "When Bad Things Happen To Good People." Then I think "Shit, I never read that book, I was, like, seven years old when it came out, I was probably reading 'Are You My Mother?' or something." Then I think "That title reminds me a lot of those product names from the 70s, like 'Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific' or 'I Can't Believe Its Not Butter' and I wonder why long titles were so friggin' sellable for a while there. Then I wonder if in fact I am good people at all, really, and start enumerating my many faults. Then I ponder the concept of karma, and start wondering if there's something really appallingly awful that maybe I did at some point that I still haven't paid off (see: earlier blog posts, I think I have that covered!). Then I wonder if there's some cosmic bank teller somewhere, some anal-retentive, pinched-faced supernatural curmudgeon in another dimension or something, tallying up karma and keeping track of who's been naughty and who's been nice like a vindictive Santa Claus in Mr. Yuck green. Then I think about how Santa from those Rankin/Bass specials seemed like kind of a jerk -- I thought he was supposed to be all kind and stuff, why is he giving poor Rudolph and that fucking dentist elf such a hard time? Then I wonder what kind of a name Thurl Ravenscroft is, anyway -- who the hell names their kid "Thurl"? Unless they're some kind of twisted H.P. Lovecraft cultists and expect their child to be the Bringer of Darkness or something. Then I wonder if in fact maybe I *am* fucking Damien from the Omen, and that's why all this bad crap keeps happening, and maybe I just haven't tapped into my supernatural powers. And then I think "holy crap, I think I'm maybe losing my mind." And then I think "what the hell IS my mind, anyway? Is it just some kind of chemical construct? Is there a soul? Is there an afterlife? And if there is, how's the real estate market?" And then I'm at "how do I know the color brown YOU see is the color brown *I* see," and at this point, I usually pour myself a drink, turn on something by the Carpenters, and drift off in a drunken reverie. Sigh.

Omnibus Memorial Day Weekend Photoblog!

(as always, photos from the Sidekick of the lovely Ms. Trixi B!!)

The weekend started on Friday, when we had drinks with our good friend The Anonymous Poster (who needs to come up with a nickname so I don't have to call them "the anonymous poster") at the amazing Little Cave, an 80s-goth-themed bar in Highland Park. Anonymous Poster sang the praises of Palm Springs -- "if you love mid-century-modern architecture, you'll love it!" they said.

And hey -- we love mid-century-modern architecture. So on Saturday, after breakfast, we headed to Palm Springs -- once the playground of celebrities like Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope (though probably not together) -- to have some dinner and take a few pictures.



This was the sky that day -- ominous and overhung, with huge, black, nasty-looking clouds. It never full-on rained, but it constantly threatened. It was, honestly, kinda pretty.



Holy shit, look at that house, will ya? That's located in one of Palm Springs' housing developments. Built in the late 60s by the Alexander Company, these things were atomic-age marvels. I would just about kill for one of these. Every one has a pool in the backyard, too. And these aren't even the nice houses!



In days of yore, this was a department store in downtown Palm Springs. The sad thing is that the city doesn't seem aware how much architectural wonder they've got -- some of this stuff, at least downtown, is in pretty dessicated condition. Dear Palm Springs: LOVINGLY RESTORE, okay?



Case in point: this tower was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. What you CANNOT see in this lovely picture is that it is shoddily painted PINK. A thick coating of bright-pink and rather crumbling paint coats the thing. And I think the building -- once a hotel -- is abandoned, or nearly so. Gorgeous, though -- look at the molding on the corners.

Then on Sunday, Silver Phial played at a party hosted by the Quarter After's Rob Campanello. We're all huge Quarter After fans, so it was a huge honor.



Here's the "scene" -- it was like friggin' Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls only nobody's head got cut off at the end of the night. That I know of.



The Phial in action -- check out the amazing backyard stage setup.



Silver Phial's amazing guitarist/songwriter, Mr. Patrick Cleary, surrounded by Rob's wall o' amazing guitars. TO CHRIS HILL: please note Patrick's awesome Chet Arthur 'stache!



This photo didn't really turn out, but that's Nelson Bragg, from Brian Wilson's band and the amazing Now People, through the haze of sunlight, backing up a friend on percussion and vocals.



And last, but not least: true love! Patrick and our drummer/songwriter/singer Cheryl Caddick enjoying a romantic moment. AWWWW.

Today, I think, will bring naught but cleaning and slacking, and possibly drinking. Stay tuned.

GEEKGASM! Or, Cynical People Are Wrong.

Despite what your buddy at work said to you at the water cooler today, the new Indiana Jones movies is awesome.

I mean, it just is. Indiana (he's mostly "Henry" in this one) is still cool even though he's old. There's a hot Russian chick with a totally implausible accent. There's wicked chases and killer fights. There's weird old temples. Shia The Beef is actually really great and proves again that Transformers was, like, a fluke. There's a couple stupid moments you know Lucas added ("I really think we need the groundhog from "Caddyshack," can we get that in there?" "Uh -- okay, George, whatever, just let us film and release this shit now, okay?") but mostly its really credible. And the ending -- I LOVED THE ENDING.

The thing is this. The first 3 were their loving tributes to the serial films of the 1930s, because they were set in the 30s. This new one is set in the 50s -- so it makes total sense that its their loving tribute to the sci-fi films of that era. So I wasn't shocked at all by the ending. In fact, I expected it, and I got it, and I loved it.

And I'll take two Marian Ravenwoods to go, please. ROWWWRRR!

Retro Roller Rink

Dammit, I miss roller rinks.

It's hard to even describe the feeling of white-as-snow excitement I got whenever my class went to Skateland, the roller rink in my hometown. They seemed like such a grown-up place at the time -- you'd see glimpses of disco culture on TV (cop shows, Buck Rogers, Dance Fever with Denny Tereo), with the mirror ball and the crazy clothes and the pumping, throbbing music and suave, cultured people talking slick to each other. The roller rink seemed like that in miniature, a Studio 57 that let kids past the velvet rope. With popcorn and video games, no less! It was a mixture of sexiness and pure innocence and it ruled.

I still have vivid and very fond memories of standing amidst the flashing colored lights, eating a hot dog, listening to "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty (this was Minnesota, okay? It wasn't all disco, we're genetically a rock culture) and watching Michelle Hagen, the cutest girl in 4th grade, make her way around the rink. Her honey-blonde hair was styled in a nascent Farah flip. She was smart and cute, and I loved her for years. She, on the other hand, was enamored with one Alan Smith, who was one of those impossible specimens that's smart and good looking and a hero on the hockey rink. No way I'd compete.

But that didn't stop me -- at the roller rink I felt powerful. English Leather powerful, even. I had on my best disco shirt, a polyester number that, if I remember correctly, had the Taj Mahal on it. Every time we went I'd ask Michelle to slow-skate, and every time she'd say yes (sweet girl, lots of sympathy), but every time I was completely humiliated by the fact that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fucking skate backwards. It vexed me. Whenever I tried, I fell flat on my ass. And if you're a boy, you have to skate backwards if you slow-skate, or else you're a wuss, right?

Naturally, Alan Smith could skate backwards. He was in hockey. So, apparently, was just about everybody else in my class, since they were all dab hands. So after I skated with her, she'd make her way to Alan Smith, and he'd just gli-i-i-i-ide around the rink backwards with her in his arms, and it would piss me off.

But luckily, I was in fourth grade, so the depths of my jealousy and anger weren't very deep at all. I'd just make my way up to the concession stand, order some popcorn, and play a video game, and it would all be forgotten.

So much of my love of music comes from the roller rink, since this was the only chance I got to listen to rock and roll. We were pretty heavily involved in the local Evangelical Church, and attended "Why Knock Rock" seminars and such (Google it and prepare to laugh), so the thought of having too much of the Devil's Own Music (or even just the stuff that was "worldly-wise") in our house was kind of out of the question. This is where my adoration of the Bee Gees comes from. This is why Yacht Rock doesn't make me cringe. This is where I first heard Michael Jackson, whom I'll still defend to this day. And hell, I even loved "Guilty" by Barry Gibb and Barbara Streisand.

But just to prove what a fucking geek I am, my favorite song to skate to -- and I had to ask for it specifically -- was the theme from Superman. Usually I was the only guy on the rink, and I'd skate with my arm outstretched in front of me just like Chris Reeves did (only he, of course, was flying) and for three minutes, while that John Williams theme swelled around me, I actually felt super-powered, like I could take on the world.

Until, of course, I noticed my classmates standing off to the side and pointing at me.

Why'd they get rid of roller rinks? Did cable TV and video game culture just subsume the innocent activity of going out and rolling around? Did they become gang-ridden? Too kid friendly and thus not sexy enough? Did the death of disco culture kill 'em? I'm not sure. Skateland is now a furniture warehouse store, and most of the other 70s relics in the Twin Cities are torn down. I understand there's a couple still standing in Los Angeles, but I bet ten bucks they've renovated.

No, roller rinks are part and parcel of the 70s experience, and like drive in movies to the fifties or hula-hoops and monster models and whatever you lot had in the 60s, its something consigned to the glory of nostalgia and memory. God bless 'em -- I miss 'em.

Short repost

I took down a blog entry but there are two points I wanted to re-make from it.

- Two more wonderful people than the folks that got married this weekend (one of whom likes to remain rather anonymous online, godbless'im, so I shan't mention their names! THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE! I hope) I do not know. They deserve all the love and happiness and amazingness that's out there in the universe, and I have loads of best wishes for them.

- The other point is that people should listen to Trixi more often. She is possibly the most insightful person I know and I always take her advice as law because it is almost always right. The few times I've gone against her advice I've ended up eating crow and/or picking my ass up off the ground.