"Million Dollar Baby" ruling the Oscars

Wow, y'all...

Best Picture
Best Director (our man Clint!!!)
Best Lead Actress (Hilary Swank - should've gotten Best Annoying Speech for mentioning her lawyers, but there ya go...)
Best Supporting Actor (Morgan Freeman)

Pardon me while I do a little Snoopy dance.

And Jamie Foxx - I'm still drying my tears from that speech. His grandmother's from Terrell, man...

Whoo-hoo!!!!!!!

Since You're Gone: A Former New Wave Nymphet's Musings on The Cars

There’s been talk swirling around on the Velvet Rope forum about a possible Cars reunion, and at first I got all excited, and then I remembered: now wait just a fucking minute, Ben Orr’s left our earthly plane. This'll take some careful thought. Who would they get to step in for him? And jeeezus please tell me they’d take the time to set aside some time to do a tribute to this man if they did. Not only was he a member of one of the most influential bands to ever come out of Boston, possessing a voice that could charm the panties down your legs – but Ben Orr, for me, in my jailbait rock and roll fantasy world back then, was a picture to behold. The way he fingered that bass in TV appearances (“Fridays,” anyone?) and photos, and the image of his tongue and the way it practically makes love to that lollipop on the back cover of “Candy-O.” My heart is twittering away, just at the mere thought. God bless Benjamin Orr and his rock and roll heart. But a Cars reunion without him? Part of me says, “Well, only if they honor him, one of the true golden boys of the American synth-pop pantheon,” and another chimes in with, “Are you kidding? Just leave that one alone already.”

The older I get, though, the more I meet girls who were totally tapped into that Benjamin Orr vibe, and I’m sure there are millions of other former new wave nymphets just like us all over America having done the very same thing – if not with the Cars, then having some other mutual favorite band with each member staked out to a different girl in your clique. C’mon – you know who you are. Now, I can’t remember the specifics of our group, if it was Tifanie or Yvonne who wound up with Ben Orr – but I wound up with David Robinson, which trust me, was no major hardship – after all, he was stunning in his own way, not to mention the one who came up with the idea hiring Alberto Vargas to paint the cover of “Candy-O.” The man had – and probably still has – exquisite taste. I think I saw him as judge in a beauty contest a few years after “Drive” came out – so here’s hoping he gave the talent a whirl and continues to wow the ladies. Looking back, to my horror I remember writing him a couple of letters, delivered to their Synchro Sound studio address in Boston. I am not proud of this. I was taking chemotherapy for Hodgkin’s disease at the time and probably not thinking very clearly. But hey, at least I never sent any bodily fluids or threats – just embarrassingly maudlin teenaged jibberish in plaintive purple or pink ink, fueled by prednisone, sleeplessness, and an ultra-vivid imagination. I needed some kind of outlet, right?

So as an alcoholic or an addict would apologize to people for their past behavior, can I just ask, David, if you’re reading this, please forgive me. Thanks, babe.

Anyway, I wonder whatever happened to Greg Hawkes, the keyboardist? I know Ric Ocasek’s still producing, and Elliott Easton, the guitar player, is still going strong. Back when the “Jackie Brown” soundtrack came out, I was delighted to see that Quentin Tarantino’s music supervisor chose that fabulous instrumental from his band, the Tiki Gods. Someone back on the Velvet Rope forum mentioned him, and soon the praise started pouring in, especially for his solo on “Touch and Go,” from “Panorama.” I just downloaded it from iTunes and must say, this man rolls. Someone on the forum described it as pure poetry and that’s fairly accurate. Christ on a skateboard! Didn’t this album come out the summer before I started sixth grade at the White Lake School, though? What a creepy time that was, going from public to private school and the murder of Dorothy Stratten. Anyway, I think I might need to pop down to Forever Young and buy it, or find it used on Amazon’s Marketplace just to get over that eek-a-licious association, if for no other reason. Unfortunately, iTunes doesn’t have “All Mixed Up” from the first Cars album, so add that one to the list, too. Twist my arm.


Songs swirling through my head lately, making life bearable:

Graham Coxon – Bittersweet Bundle of Misery. Speaking of pure poetry. Purely pithy pop poetry, that is. I’d been listening to a lot of Julian Cope’s original “World Shut Your Mouth” and “Fried” CDs lately, along with my favorite Syd Barrett stuff, and this fell nicely into step with all that. Then “Freakin’ Out” comes in and gets all Buzzcocks on my ass. Looks like this may be another purchase in the near future.

Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes – Don’t Leave Me This Way. This one leaves the Thelma Houston version trailing beads and feathers in the dust. It’s fuller bodied, full-tilt boogie time, making you want to “freaky-deaky,” as Buck Swope would say.

Calexico – Praskovia. I get a perverse thrill partially blaming my grandmother’s German side of the family for this sort of thing. Her grandfather, I believe it was, shot a guy at a bar in Bremerhaven and had to flee to Mexico with his family, settling up north, near Monterey. They’re probably - in their own way - indirectly responsible for bringing this din over with them.

Eurythmics – I Need You. Jesus. This sounds as great as it did the first time I heard it. Danny sent this to me and I’d forgotten how Annie Lennox tears her way through it with the greatest of ease, this song of unbridled, unhealthy obsession – the one that sounds like it should be sung by someone taking that last Seconal with a swig of Stoli. Danny says it should be used in a commercial for a campaign against domestic violence. No shit. I can totally see it.

Rest in peace, HST...

"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me."

"Groveling is wrong for the soul, like grappling with whores in a drugstore."

"Have an objective to give your bender a theme. For instance, stalking and killing a wild pig with a bowie knife."


God bless Hunter S. Thompson.

"Million Dollar Baby" throwing some fierce punches and jabs my way

Oh man, Joe and I had been hemming and hawing about this ever since it came out, but after reading Frank Rich's Wednesday piece about the media's "usual gang of ayatollahs" trying to ruin it for everybody by spoiling the ending and turning it into a big snark-fest over euthanasia, that cinched everything - I decided this would be the weekend we'd go see it. Whew! And yes, this is definitely something you’ll need a few Kleenex for, because it's totally visceral and ultimately draining, but in the best possible way - and definitely not for the faint-hearted or for those hoping to take in a candy-coated, “Rocky”-type, feel-good flick. Because yeah, with the turn the film takes, you bet your ass it’s not all tied up nicely in the end, kind of like life itself, so beyond my speechlessness, I don’t understand what people like Michael Medved and Rush Limbaugh and their listeners have such a big fucking problem with, especially if they’re as compassionate as they always brag they are or have any sense of human decency whatsoever.

Anyway, before I go off on a long harangue about those people, who aren't even worth the breath it takes to say or write their names - I’d be totally remiss not to give a big "right fucking on" to Clint Eastwood, too, so here we go: Clint Eastwood, you are the man. Thank you for putting your vision out there, for all the world to see. And baby, everything about this one screams Oscar - the way it's written, the way the story unfolds, and how everyone in it – right down to the kid who played the “Danger” character – was fan-bloody-tastic. Speaking of which, was that the same actor who played the Led Zeppelin freak in “Almost Famous?”

I wouldn't be totally shocked if Hilary Swank walks away with the Best Actress trophy again, just like she did with “Boys Don’t Cry.” Clint Eastwood is up for Best Actor and I’d love to see him get that, but I have a feeling that this year, all the love will be going to Jamie Foxx for “Ray,” which we'll be watching tonight. And maybe Morgan Freeman has that shot at Best Supporting Actor, too. That man always brings so much to whatever he’s in; I swear, it could be the silliest, shittiest, most inane movie in the world, but if Morgan Freeman’s in it, the equation changes completely.

“Million Dollar Baby’s” chances for Best Picture or Best Director I think are pretty good, too, but it’s difficult to tell. Martin Scorsese’s in the hat, and that’s a hard one – Eastwood or Scorsese? “The Aviator” was just bombastic, totally out there. I’m hoping it’ll get Best Art Direction, if nothing else. I must admit, though, I’d be tickled pink if Mike Leigh upset the apple cart and took Best Director for “Vera Drake.” That’s another one I really, really want to see, along with "Sideways," which will probably be the one that ends up taking the Best Picture title, leaving the rest of 'em in the dust.

I just gots me a feelin'...

Also, having Johnny Depp and Leonardo Di Caprio both in the running for Best Actor has put a bee in my bonnet about renting “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” – I was never huge on Di Caprio, but that was the very first thing I ever saw him in and since then, I’ve not been able to dismiss him as easily as some people I’ve talked with who are like, “Oh, he’s just a little teen idol” or whatever. Maybe so, but he’s fucking great in “This Boy’s Life,” that Tobias Wolff bio-pic with Robert De Niro, for one thing. And Tobias Wolff was Mary Karr’s writing instructor up at Syracuse, I believe. So it all works out nicely – for me, anyway. There might be some purpose to this, after all.

Speaking of flicks, I’ve been on a tear to track down a DVD copy of “The Misfits” since hearing about Arthur Miller’s death yesterday. You’ve seen “The Misfits,” right? If not, get your ass to the video store or order it from Netflix tout suite – because it’s written by Miller, directed by John “Let’s Go Film Something in Africa So I Can Shoot an Elephant” Huston, and stars Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, Montgomery Clift, and Eli Wallach. Miller wrote it for Monroe when she was in a super-bad way and they were at the end of their rope marriage-wise. Christ on a bicycle, it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen her in. Supposedly, her behavior was so erratic on set that when Clark Gable died almost as soon as the filming wrapped, his wife blamed Marilyn Monroe, who’d dreamed as a child that Clark Gable was her real father when she didn’t know her own. Freaky. Anyway, it turned out to be her last completed film, too.

One funny thing did happen as we were looking for “The Misfits” at a couple of places in the mall. The manager guy at Suncoast Pictures thought we were talking about a DVD of the band The Misfits, not the film, which cracked my ass up. I wanted to scream, “Do I look like some Goth hillbilly to you, sir?” Christ! If anything, I’m actually trying for something a little more specialized, like “Lucinda Williams Dresses Up as Anita Pallenberg Going to Joshua Tree and Taking Psilocybin With Gram Parsons” look, but don’t think I’m quite there yet.

A Rock and Roll Girl’s Valentine to Pattie Boyd

Rock and roll musedom, for me, deserves a category of its own. If you grew up a true-blue bad girl of rock and roll, your passion spilled over into the stacks of vinyl and CD’s everywhere, articles clipped from Creem and Circus, and colorful buttons declaring your loyalty to the certain funny-named bands. And if you were truly deep, there were the authorized and not-so-authorized musical biographies that kept you enraptured with their descriptions of the bohemian, fabulously debauched, but never boring lives of your favorite rock and roll troubadours.

But for some of us, listening closely to certain snatches of the words, music, and books from time to time only left wanting to know more about the kittenish vixens torturing our songster heroes, doing such numbers on them and inspiring tunes so raw, so heartfelt, that you wanted to rip your own heart out? Who were these women and what were their stories? And why should we care?

I’ll tell you why. Just pretend there’s a big Valentine’s Day Whitman sampler sitting in front of you, and hear me out on this.

They're a universal theme running rampant throughout history, art and literature, and our twentieth century musical heritage is full of them, too – perfumed pretties and sultry sweeties who’d be heart-stoppingly hot one minute, then as distant and frozen as an ice chip the next.

The Delta Bluesmen tapped into this vein rather nicely, with tales of heartless, wicked women driving their helpless menfolk to the brink of insanity, murder or suicide, or all of the above. Hank Williams Senior may have been the king of Nashville but it was the fiery Audrey who helped bring on his cry-in-your-beer, slit-your-wrists ballads like “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” Then came the harmonic convergence in Swinging 60’s London, with Anita Pallenberg introducing Brian Jones to the art and fashion world, and Chrissie Shrimpton inspiring Mick Jagger to write all those bitchy-tongued, early Stones anthems like “19th Nervous Breakdown,” and later Marianne Faithfull – an artist in her own right – giving him the novel “The Master and the Margarita,” thus inspiring the theme and flavor for the samba-laced “Sympathy For The Devil.”

So with that in mind, I bring you my valentine to my personal favorite rock and roll muse, someone familiar with the scene I’ve just described. You’ve heard the songs about her, countless times. I’ll give you a few hints: there was something in the way she moved. She had him on his knees, begging, “Darling, please.” And she looked wonderful tonight.

Her name is Pattie Boyd, and chances are, you might not have heard of her. But if you’re a Beatles or Eric Clapton fan, then, yeah, you know all about her. She’s the blonde, blue-eyed, gap-toothed dolly bird who drove rock and roll royalty to distraction and inspired a multitude of songs.

Ah, Pattie Boyd. It was 1964 when George Harrison first spotted her on the set of “A Hard Day’s Night.” According to rock and roll folklore, he asked her out and she turned him down. She ended up marrying him two years later, giving up a successful modeling career, inspiring songs, and hiding out from the scores of angry, young female Beatles fans who couldn’t forgive her for taking their George away from them. But she was also responsible for turning George and the other Beatles onto Eastern mysticism, when she set out on her own quest for enlightenment.

Later, she’d be the object of public interest again when George’s best friend and fellow guitarist Eric Clapton’s pain over his unrequited love for her pushed him even further into a cocoon of heroin addiction. It was also during this time that he took Nizami’s 12th century Persian poem of obsessive, unattainable love – “Layla and Majnun” – and turned it into one of the most enduring, hauntingly beautiful rock and roll classics of the twentieth century.

And while Pattie did go on to become Pattie Boyd Harrison Clapton, sadly to divorce him later, believe me - I’ll take all this over Brad and Jen any day of the fucking week.

In today’s vapid pop cultural landscape – full of tell-alls and exposes you never wanted to read – Pattie’s the one you wish would write her memoirs, but she’s always been known for being extremely private, never one to kiss and tell. But just as she did in her Swinging London days – Pattie Boyd is proving to be ahead of her time once again. You see, all this time, Pattie was capturing it all – on film. And just like her two ex husbands, Pattie never missed a beat, either – but it was with her camera, not a guitar.

The San Francisco Art Exchange – in association with Raj Prem Fine Art Photography – is hosting Pattie’s first-ever exhibition of photography, “My Life in Pictures: Photographs by Pattie Boyd.” It’s no great hardship for those of us who wish she’d give in to her baser urges and write a dishy tell-all – I suppose we’ll just have to be content with the Pattie’s candid and formal shots of her legendary life, loves, and friends over the years: George Harrison enjoying contemplation on the Isle of Skye, Eric Clapton drinking champagne with B.B. King, and my personal bad girl of rock and roll favorite, the “Girl’s Night Out” portrait with Marianne Faithfull and Anita Pallenberg.

The exhibit features over 60 photographs, and is set to open at the San Francisco Art Exchange on Valentine’s Day, February 14th. And this bad girl of rock and roll can’t think of a more appropriate or better reason to compose a valentine to the woman who inspired so many of my favorite musical moments.


For more information on “My Life in Pictures: Photographs by Pattie Boyd,” be sure to visit: http://www.sfae.com/