Channeling Howard Beale

Right. It's been a long week. Don't mind me, Sugar - I just feel a rant coming on:

No one's knocked Ann Coulter off yet. It's 2006 and this horse-faced poisoner still walks the Earth? Seriously. I'm ashamed for humanity. Her recent remarks during a speech about how someone should poison Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens have truly earned her that special place in hell and were a brand new low, even for her. I'll probably burn in hell myself for saying this, but if anyone truly deserved to drown in a puddle of her own puke, it's Ann Coulter. And if it were available on pay-per-view, I'd be the first one to sign up.

Oprah having James Frey back on her show. Now Oprah Winfrey is a sister who's truly done it for herself, someone who's worked her ass off to get where she is today, and ate a lot of shit along the way, no doubt. She – and her producers, thank you very much – also turned legions of TV wives into readers. But having James "William S. Burroughs Is Rolling Over in His Grave" Frey back on to publicly lambaste him reeks a little of self-serving smarmitude. Never mind the readers who were taken in by the claptrap – it was all about Oprah being bamboozled, and the way she sniped at editor Nan Talese was most unbecoming for a broadcast professional. I'll give her credit, though – the dude looked totally uncomfortable as he sat there sweating on that stage and you could almost see him thinking about ringing up his old dealers the minute he walked out of the Harpo Studios.

The brand new and improved U.S.-Mexican war. All this talk of a migrant worker program or a fence along the border is merely a load of bollocks and nothing more than bullshit platitudes being handed out like sugar skulls during Dia de los Muertos celebrations. Homeland Security, my lily-white ass. We should just bite the bullet and annex Mexico as the 51st state, so her migrants wouldn't have to pay some enterprising criminal their entire yearly salary of $1500 to maybe make it across the border safely. And seeing how $20 billion said adios to the U.S. economy as people sent money back to their families south of the border last year, this would be a boon to the U.S. economy - the money would stay in the country, everyone could bitch about high taxes in unison, and aspiring beach bums like me could travel south to earn our pittance and room and board at the resorts on the Mexican Riviera. Unfortunately, annexation would also serve as the perfect conduit for crappy Mexican headache weed and terrorists, unless a miracle occurred and suddenly we started paying the Border Patrol and the INS enough to be efficient. But at least we wouldn't have to hear creepy stories about strange men in military uniforms torching Humvees in weird border skirmishes. WTF is that about?

I'm really not trying to be a dick here. But this is a big, burning security issue - not an opportunity for a bunch of baiting and bullcrap. Something needs to be done. And before anyone starts railing away, the Minutemen I happen to like are a now-defunct band whose late singer and guitarist D. Boon should have a freeway in San Pedro named after him. Plus, my stomach can't take any of that politically-correct pedantry this afternoon. So please, just for this one day - feel free to take it somewhere else or even better, start your effin' own blog. You'll feel great.

Devo 2.0. According to Wikipedia, the brilliant Mark Mothersbaugh & Co. are involved with this project – which really isn't all that shocking considering how Mothersbaugh has made a name for himself composing and producing music for film and TV, video games and cartoons and how the Casale brothers are also still involved in the recording industry. But changing the "Big Mess" line from "It's a beautiful world for you, but not for me" to "It's a beautiful world for you and me" borders on Barney-esque heinousness. Then again, being a child of the 80's, I know we've truly arrived when the Weather Channel plays the first two minutes of "Gut Feeling" during local weather segments. And perhaps with the brand new Are We Not Kids? crowd, a whole new generation of chirruns will be turned on to the fabulousness that is Devo.

- A nameless, insufferably sanctimonious co-worker playing super-dirty, to the point where even vindictive little me is shocked. We're talking major hubris here. Where's The Ethicist when we truly need him?!

Bring back the sinnin' songs of yesteryear already

Hallelujah. From last week's Nashville Scene:

It's just in the past dozen years or so, as country tried to become the new middle-of-the-road pop, that the music's tolerance for sin has been replaced by the wishful thinking that human nature can be conquered by a positive attitude and a strict code. This is what Alan Jackson was making fun of when he sang about Music Row's insistence on a "Three Minute Positive Not Too Country Up-Tempo Love Song." There was no room in that formula for human weakness, but now an overdue backlash has set in.

Why has it happened now? Maybe it signals the end of the Bush Era and its triumphalism. The continuing tragedies in Iraq and Louisiana prove that it's not as easy to impose one's will on a foreign culture or on nature as many thought. It's not much of a stretch to conclude that it's none too easy to impose one's will on human nature either. You can preach about abstinence when it comes to drugs, sex and booze, but when our appetites get the best of us, who's going to sing our song?

Backlash!!! Yay! Bring it on, as the 'Resident' would say. We're in dire need of something, for chrissakes.

I dare not even fantasize that the Democrats will silently rise from their seats and walk out of next Tuesday's State of the Dis-Union address, though. That's being just a little too hopeful, as they've yet to grow any balls.


The Mascorrolandia Soundtrack for Sinnin':

Hank Williams - Your Cheatin' Heart

Barbara Mandrell - The Midnight Oil

Gary Stewart - Out of Hand, She's Actin' Single (I'm Drinkin' Doubles)

Porter Wagoner - I'll Go Down Swingin'

Patsy Cline - She's Got You

John Anderson - She Just Started Liking Cheating Songs

Ricky Nelson - Poor Little Fool

Waylon Jennings - The Taker

Kenny Rogers - Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town

Charly McClain - Who's Cheatin' Who?

Johnny Paycheck - She's All I've Got

Hate to see him go: RIP Chris Penn

"If you fucking beat this prick long enough, he'll tell you he started the goddamned Chicago fire. Now that don't necessarily make it fucking so!"

We'll sure miss ya, Nice Guy Eddie. Tonight's first round shall be for you.

A South Fort Worth surprise and lessons from Django, Janis and Wendy O.

My hometown is finally coming into its own. I'm so proud. Sniffle.

Seriously. Growing up in East Fort Worth, I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. Then when I joined the working world and moved to Dallas, I quickly learned how misguided I'd been this whole time. Sure, Dallas is an improvement over, say, Baghdad or Khartoum, but it far surpasses Fort Worth in the soullessness stakes. And crime. Oh boy. I've also discovered that Collin County creeps me out, but that's another story altogether.

Some people, like Joe, don't understand how a place can arouse feelings of unease - then again, he obviously forgot about the time he told me he felt the same way during the trip he took to Berlin, a couple of years after the Wall came down. Said the place felt haunted, full of ghosts. Sure, I can see it. South Carolina plucks a similar chord for me. And ever since I was a kid, Dallas has always spooked me just a little bit, way before I even learned about the Kennedy assassination, whose vibe still sticks to Dallas like gum on the bottom of a shoe. They'll never shake it, either.

Fort Worth doesn't seem to suffer from the same bad voodoo, but as a formerly disgruntled and still somewhat gun-shy Eastsider, I've come to have a better relationship with my hometown. All it took was living in and commuting to work in Dallas to make me appreciate it. Ever see Orange County? A similar lesson was learned in the end there, and I've come to terms with it slightly, but I'm still saving my money. There has to be some spot in this great nation of ours where proseletyzing about religion is just not cricket and where they don't play piped-in Jim Croce, John Denver and Anne Murray in local grocery stores.

However, I'm delighted to discover and report that they are dipping into the Django Reinhardt this weekend, in the Town of the Cow, at Arts Fifth Avenue, on Allen and 5th, just south of downtown. It's the third year in a row for their DjangoFest, and mucho amor goes to Gracey Tune, Eddie Dunlap, Deb and the others who've taken this former Fairmont District storefront and transformed it into a spacious performance and instructional facility, nurturing talent of all ages and keeping Fort Worth's grass-roots art scene alive and well and kicking major ass for the past five years. Arts Fifth Avenue offers classes in everything from sculpture to flamenco, not to mention a consistent calendar and a boffo selection of reasonably-priced artworks in the back, and an outdoor stage built by the former drama instructor and mentor of my fave-rave gal over at The Cork and Demon. And to quote Sam Elliott as The Stranger in The Big Lebowski: "I don't know 'bout you, but I take comfort in that."

Tonight as we were watching Trio Blanc and soaking up the ambience of the evening, filtered through the sounds inspired by and from the God of Gypsy Jazz himself, channeled through the gifted fret-work of guitarist Kim Platko, I took in my first lesson of this weekend: if Django Reinhardt can take a severe hand injury and turn it into a new chord technique, casting a a dizzying spell over music lovers years after his reign, well, that makes everything else seem fairly petty in comparison, doesn't it? So what the fuck am I moaning about? Grow up already, woman. Christ!

Django Reinhardt would've been 96 on Monday. And Janis Joplin would've turned 63 just yesterday. Right there we have lesson number two: Janis was a Texas girl, too. There's hope for us yet. Just don't shoot up. Easy enough, right? Have a couple of Southern Comforts in her honor, cast your eyes to the heavens and give her an "Oh, honey" and a kiss, and blast your worn-out copy of Cheap Thrills at ear-splitting decibels. By the time "Ball and Chain" has finished and the guy says "Happy Sunday," you'll be a puddle of quivering flesh in the corner and it'll be perfectly all right.

And now for the third and final lesson: it's also perfectly all right to tear up during old Plasmatics videos, remembering your 6th grade days - your first year in private school when suddenly there appeared these squealy-voiced, bitchy bleach jobs looking down their nose at you for lack of knowledge about Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Polo shirts. And how you'd wished you were Wendy O. with a jackhammer and that snippy Angela Reynolds was a TV set, primed for destruction...

Who's tripping down the streets of the city
Smiling at everybody she sees
Who's reaching out to capture a moment
Everyone knows it's Wendy

LBJ: Still greasing the wheels of social intercourse and conscience, beyond the grave

Praise be, intelligent life still exists among us. It's truly something to give thanks for on this dry, overcast Sunday - on this our day of rest, on this our day of doing absolutely sweet fuck-all. We have food on the table, clean water, overtime for working Martin Luther King, Jr. Day tomorrow, and sweet little 84-year-old Democrat women who haven't lost the faith just yet.

My eyes have seen the glory.

She came to me not in a dream, but to my father and step-mother's garage sale. All in all, a lovely day to be outdoors - sunny and mild, not too breezy, but one of those days when the sky's all blue with feathery clouds and everybody's generally in a good mood, despite a light hangover and the fact that Texas has now officially joined California on the list of states who share either one of two seasons: brown or green.

Who knew that some dinky old LBJ commemorative plaque would still resound so loudly today - for a precious little old Democrat lady from my Dad's neighborhood and me? Hell, I'm not sure if you would even call this a plaque - my mother used to have a couple of these same doohickies in our kitchen at the old place, only with cheesy illustrations of marjoram and sage, or Paris and Rome, or what have you. These days, you'd probably see tons of them in the kitchen section of your local Goodwill or Salvation Army, and if you had a 70's childhood, you'd recognize 'em instantly - the little tile paintings set in some kind of black, faux-wrought iron frame. Definitely a crap product of their time, only a few steps above macrame and sand paintings.

This LBJ plaque took me right back to my childhood, though - the small, circular tile with a painted illustration of ol' Lyndon Baines Johnson himself, husband of the inimitable Lady Bird, former Valley schoolteacher and Beagle lover. The big mystery was how my step-mom, a darling woman but a staunch you-know-what, came to have this in the first place.

Turns out that it actually used to belong to her mother, a proud Baptist woman from Mississippi who even up to her death at 95 would still give you the evil eye for desecrating the family table with glasses of demon table wine during holiday dinners. A sharp woman, but one I never had pegged as a Democrat, especially when her brother (and my step-mom's uncle) always seemed to have something shitty to say about Bill Clinton during my step-mother's lavish feasts, whenever the conversation drifted into politics - and several years after he'd been out of office, too.

It didn't take long to come up with a few of theories on the plaque's ownership, one being that ol' Nyna was once a god-fearin' Mississippi yellow-dog Democrat - up until the time of the Civil Rights movement, probably. Perhaps she'd secretly been pulling the lever for the Democrats the whole time. Or maybe the plaque had once been part of a set, and poor LBJ somehow got lost along the way.

Being cuckoo for kitsch, I wanted to set it aside for myself but decided to leave it out on the table, just to see if anyone would make any snarky comments. No one took any notice of ol' LBJ until this these two women pulled up in a Toyota Camry. They were remarkably spry, in their late 70's or early 80's, dressed in jeans and sneakers and enjoying the day out, combing the garage sales. We exchanged plesantries about the weather and other banalities as they perused the card tables crowded with Tom Collins glasses and other tacky trinkets, and my nose was buried in the Startle-Gram when I heard one of them exclaim, "LBJ! Oh, that's wonderful! Is this a Democrat house?"

"No, ma'am, I wish," I answered.

"Well, I'm 84 and I've always voted Democrat," she confided, proceeding to tell me about her prized print of some famous FDR portrait and how she'd had copies made at Kinko's for her friends. I told her I wanted to find out more about being a delegate - without getting into my bitter side-rant about how the current crop of Fraidy-Crats need to get their John Murtha on and grow some balls already so I can stop being pissed off at them - and she said, "Please do that, honey. People your age really should be looking out for themselves at this point, and they're not. It's frightening to watch."

And there you have it. Words from the wise, my people. A touch of Cassandra, maybe, only devoid of any drama or doom. Just a friendly warning, one that left me a little dumbfounded.

I opened my mouth to reply, but she had another warning for me. "By the time you're my age, with the way things are now, Social Security won't exist, and you can kiss Medicaid good-bye, too."

While all this has certainly crossed my mind before, hearing it from someone who's seen nearly a century of American history unfold before her very own eyes made my stomach do a flip-flop right there, as thoughts of my own piddling 401K earnings and horror stories of friends' grandparents living on $300 a month danced through my head.

As I bagged up her purchases and cashed her out, she continued. "You just be sure to watch out for your friends, you hear? Promise me you'll keep on voting, because the future's not looking good for you and your friends right now."

"Count on it," I told her.

And in the driveway, over her shoulder, she turned to me again, fingers crossed.

Promise me, honey!"

No worries here, ma'am.

The Literary Hoax Week in review - revisited and still bitter

Looks like one of my other favorite writers got JT'd, too.

Fuckers.

The Literary Hoax Week in review

It's only Tuesday, but what a week it's been!

Yesterday's New York Times article exposing the whole JT Leroy lah-di-dah only served to kick-start the week, because today, along came a brand new item about James Frey's torrid rehab tale (and Oprah Book Club Favorite) A Million Little Pieces being more of a fiction piece than an actual memoir.

Jayson Blair, eat your heart out. We have two new winners. Or four, actually, if you count all the people allegedly involved with the JT Leroy debacle.

Some would question whether or not this is actually a debacle. Some might say it was a brilliantly-executed coup, almost Warhol-esque. But for me, Denzel Washington's speech in Spike Lee's Malcolm X springs to mind - the part where he's telling the crowd, "You've been hoodwinked! Bamboozled!"

Now, I've not read James Frey's books, so we'll politely steer clear of any musings about him or his literary credibility. But my friend Luke, whom I've known since the 8th grade and who's always been an astute observer and skeptic, mentioned earlier today that he was suspicious from the start about the "reclusive" author, JT Leroy. Hell, I wish he'd warned me. I never saw this one coming. Sure, the wig, hat and sunglasses always struck me as unnecessary and silly, in those rare photographs I'd seen - images of a mysterious blonde androgyne who evoked eerie memories of Boy George in his "Fuck Me Stupid" heroin phase (the first go-round) - and Michael Caine's character in "Dressed To Kill." Seeing these pictures, I remember thinking, "Surely with that bit of money rolling in, you can come up with a better wardrobe than that?"

But no, I've been totally buffaloed by the whole thing - and am also late getting in on the big, not-so-secret joke, apparently. Back in October, New York Magazine printed an article claiming that a musician by the name of Laura Albert was actually the one writing under the pen name of JT Leroy, even going so far as to fake a West Virginia accent during interviews. The New York Times article from yesterday also reported that the person making the rounds as the public JT Leroy was the half-sister of Geoffrey Knoop, partner of Laura Albert.

Despite being unsure of what to make of all this, "Sarah" is still one of the most well-written and disturbingly fabulous books I've ever read - what with the the deified, electrified jackalope and the raccoon penis-bone necklaces, and the colorfully horrific existence of a lot lizard, seen through the eyes of a child who only craves the love of his absent prostitute mother and whose customers drive in from miles away to worship at the altar of his pre-Lolita charm. "Sarah" certainly isn't for everyone, but if you were crazy for those lurid 70's and 80's teen paperbacks like "Go Ask Alice," "Making It," "Run, Shelley, Run!" and "Kathleen, Please Come Home," it picks right up where those left off, only knocking a few years off the protagonists' ages and trebling it, maybe even giving it a big dose of windowpane.

Despite the irony of its title, I'd also love to read "The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things." Asia Argento, the Italian sex bomb and daughter of horror director Dario, even directed a film adaptation of it, which includes Lydia Lunch in a small role. The title has always had a touch of Flannery O'Connor or Tennessee Williams about it, too, which makes these new claims seem even more hideous and painful.

Normally I'd be thinking that this was pretty punk rawk - fabricating a whole literary persona and publishing a few acclaimed books while attracting hordes of fawning celebrities wanting to take me shopping or on monthly trips to Amsterdam - but my opinion of the people who pulled this off is pretty low, mainly because of how they played the HIV and transgender cards, milking those for all they were worth. I mean, really. That's just morally repugnant. Especially when there are already plenty of artists and writers out there who deal with these issues on a daily basis - only without money, medicine, food, a publisher, a solid support system, and famous friends fighting to be the first ones to help out when their writer friend runs into a spot of trouble.

Then again, humorless little me, who the fuck am I? They got their novel published, and they're probably richer than I'll ever be, so screw it.

I can't help but wonder what Mary Karr and Sharon Olds think of their little 'protege' now, though. Inquiring minds want to know.

If Christ was a Capricorn, we're all in deep shit: birthday shout-outs and other reasons to celebrate

What kind of rock and roll hootchie mama would let the day go by without saying happy birthday to Elvis, David Bowie, and former Buzzcocks bassist Steve "No, Not The Baseball Player" Garvey? Are you mad? So here we go: many happy returns for Elvis, the King of Rock and Roll - who some say never left the building; David Bowie - the King of Chameleons; and Steve Garvey - the King of Cute. I once met a girl named Wendy whose older sister used to prank call Steve Garvey's parents' house, back in the day when chicks would reportedly try to rip his shirt off at Buzzcocks gigs.

Today's definitely a day to celebrate, though. Tom DeLay has announced he's stepping down as majority leader, but hell, who didn't see that one coming? Did he honestly think he'd be able to keep that post, after all this in? Bitch, please. So hateful. Now he's trying to get the money laundering charges thrown out or sent back to a lower court, but I have faith that my hero, Travis County D.A. Ronnie Earle, will skewer the former exterminator from Houston, roasting him over the coals until he he's crisp enough to flip over on his back and his little cockroach legs writhe furiously to no avail. Sorry, but some of us will just never forgive him for that redistricting fiasco.

Other reasons to celebrate:

Bought my Saint Etienne tickets today, for the Friday, February 17th show at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Row G, seats 201, 202, 203. Saint Etienne is pure pop pleasure. Your ears will love you forever if you haven't indulged already. My introduction to them came by way of Top of the Pops in 1995, three days before I was due to leave England, and there was the lovely blonde and lithe Sarah Cracknell - on stage with her boa singing "He's On The Phone." Christ! Talk about feeling sucker-punched. I fell in love on the spot, took the bus into town the next day and bought the single. Guess I should get off my ass and buy "Tales From The Turnpike House," but now there's the trip to SFO to save for, so it looks like that'll have to wait. There's also a new Saint Etienne compilation on the way, called "Nice Price," which - according to the December 15th newsletter penned by St. Et's very own Bob Stanley - will be out in mid-January. It would've been out before Xmas had it not been for some cock-up with Who Do You Think You Are? (the Debsey vocal version) on the test pressing. Bummer. Looking forward to hearing that demo version of Lose That Girl and the original Burnt Out Car, as well. There's also an alternative vocal version of Nothing Can Stop Us and Sarah's 7 Ways 2 Love - and I'm hope, hope, hoping there might be copies for sale at the show, too. Fingers crossed.

I used to think one had to be from the U.K. or gay to appreciate Saint Etienne, but if you've ever found yourself humming along to the Cardigans or the Beach Boys, drop everything you're doing right now and go out and buy "Good Humor." If Brian Wilson could have produced the 60's girl group of his dreams, "Good Humor" would have been the love child of that blessed union.

Also, on March 14th, We Got Power Films is releasing David Markey's 2004 directors cut of Lovedolls Superstar Fully Realized!!! The 20th Year Anniversary Edition!

Pardon me as I compose myself here. I've never actually seen Lovedolls Superstar. Until this point, I don't think it's ever been released on video, much less DVD. Being ga-ga over Redd Kross, though, I have seen Desperate Teenage Lovedolls, and later on, The Spirit of '76, which also featured the fabulously talented McDonald brothers Steven and Jeff, along with Leif Garrett and David Cassidy, and costume design by the young Sofia Coppola. To be honest, I had my doubts that Lovedolls Superstar would ever see the light of day in my neck of the woods, but thanks to the wonders of the Internet and digitizing, we have arrived!

Lovedolls Superstar just sounds like a comfortable fit for any dedicated fan of the trashy and proud rock and roll flick: girl band rises from the gutter, stomping a few hearts along the way, with a few OD's, an acid-zonked cult, crazed fans, a suicide and a rock and roll assassination thrown in for good measure. And cameos by Jello Biafra, Sky Saxon and former Bangle Vicki Peterson. I can't wait to hear the audio commentaries, either - with Dave Markey, the McDonald Brothers, and Jennifer Schwartz - who plays Patch Christ, leader of the cult and Lovedoll supreme.

If you can ever find a used copy of the "Lovedolls Superstar" soundtrack - originally released on SST in 1986 - snatch it up. While I can't vouch for the film's brilliance, I can vouch for the soundtrack's endorphin-and-ass-kicking factor. Jeezus K. Rist. The first time I heard it was at Danny's shotgun house on Bryan Street, that little den of iniquity where I spent many happy nights passed out and drooling on the sofa. I think I arrived that Friday evening, and the first words out of Danny's mouth were "Sit down. You're going to fucking love this."

As usual, he was right. If my memory serves me correctly, I think we played "Beer N' Ludes" at least five times in a row. To this day, we can recite certain stanzas verbatim:

Fast stardom made me that you were much too lame for me
So I dumped you on the spot
Left you homeless, stole your pot
So I guess that fame can lead to evil
Just like Dio, so medieval...

And how 'bout that bit toward the end, which sounds like it should be a contestant's speech in the demented beauty pageant of my dreams:

My old man hit me yesterday for the last time
Selling mommy's Valium at school
Now I'm crashing on Hollywood Boulevard
Yeah, I'm crashing down real hard
Hanging out on the Strip - waiting for my next fix, man
This is the life for me:
stoned and loose and sweet 16

I grew up fast in Juvie Hall
By the time I was 14, I had seen it all
Bedknobs and broomsticks and that's not all
My boyfriend OD'd on beer and 'Ludes
They found him face down in the bathroom at school

This followed by a hail of blistering guitar, which will make you go gooey and out of your ever-lovin' mind.

Aside from Redd Kross and The Lovedolls, naturally, the soundtrack includes other offerings from Sonic Youth, Meat Puppets, Dead Kennedys, Lawndale, Gone, Black Flag, and a host of others. So get cracking.

Friday follies: my man's letter to Slate, the art of Mark Bryan, and a farewell to Lou Rawls

Watching with amusement as the world of Jack Abramoff blows up in his face, I can't help but wonder who the hell told him to show up for court in that Inspector Gadget get-up the other day? Did his wife help him get dressed that morning? If so, she should be ashamed, so very ashamed.

All roads lead to Tom DeLay, though. And this is getting good, good, good.

Meanwhile, check out my man's letter to Slate:

Can't someone dig up a hooker or congressional intern that provided sexual favors for Abramoff and Co.'s clients so we can elevate this to a potentially impeachable offense for somebody? We all know that legislative favors for money or trips or golf is just "politics." But add a little sex, and we can get Pat Robertson to give us a nice judgment from your favorite Deity as to why this is really a serious and death penalty case.

Dead and maimed soldiers and Iraqis, billions of dollars wasted on domestic security that provides none, grand scale domestic spying, no weapons of mass destruction, hundreds of millions of dollars in bribes and on and on and on and no sex? We need a real scandal here, so please, find some female or male lapsitter that gave it up for the Dubya's cause so we can find some justice and watch 'em swing.

Bless.

Maybe artist Mark Bryan will be inspired by all this and produce even more brilliance. If his work doesn't put the smile on your face and a joyful song in your heart, then I don't know what will.

On a sadder note, the silky-piped crooner Lou Rawls passed away from his lengthy battle with cancer today in Los Angeles, at the age of 72. God bless ya, Lou. We'll definitely never find another voice like yours...

The Sports Skeptic gets sucked into the 4th quarter

Texas 41, USC 38

Nice one, Longhorns!

Now, I'm not really what you'd call a big sports fan. I spent a couple of years doing traffic on a sports talk station here in DFW - didn't learn much about them then, and haven't learned much since, either. If you were to ask me how's so-and-so-team doing this year, or did I see the blah-blah-blah game last night, all you'd get would be a blank stare.

Last week while shopping, though, I bought a Michigan hoodie - just because it was $7.98 and there's the added bonus of Iggy Pop, the MC5 and Michael Moore being from there. Only thing is, onlookers now assume I know every intimate detail of the goings-on of the Michigan team. Enough with the madness already. But tonight's UT/Southern California game kicked ass. There's just something about my home state winning the goddamned Rose Bowl championship - and the band striking up "The Eyes of Texas" that makes me think, "You know, there really are worse places to be from," despite the rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth Jeezo factor and a governor who should shoot his hairdresser point-blank.

Aside from the HBO documentary Playing The Field: Sports & Sex in America, there have also been a few other moments in my life when the aesthetics and adrenaline of athleticism just made me all higgledy-piggledy and agog at the wonders of human agility.

I've spent a couple of tipsy afternoons watching the Wimbledon matches in the pub with friends - in the tiny northern English town I lived in for three months, the one named after a sheep's bum. I so wanted Mary Pierce to win, but she was still having off-court problems with her father that year and I don't think she even placed.

And the Olympics are boss - especially the gymnastics, swimming, and figure skating, just as long as they're not skating to Air Supply or Celine Dion. And whatever happened to that luscious little French skater Surya Bonaly? What a dish...

Speaking of intrigue on the ice, my first hockey game was a Dallas Stars Stanley Cup playoff game, and by the time that was over and done with, I was thoroughly spent, completely caught up in the moment. I'd gone in hoping for fisticuffs and blood droplets on the ice, but the camraderie of the fans is what struck me that day - everyone drunk and in a festive mood, decked out in their jerseys and face-paint and not giving a damn about making complete asses of themselves. My game date - an amazingly sensitive and brilliant pianist from a family of geniuses, whose late father was Fort Worth's medical examiner - also had these little customs, like wearing a certain pair of socks for home games, another for out-of-town games, and and he didn't shave on game days, either. He also had several talismans, including a toy Zamboni that went with him onstage every time he played, and if you touched it, woe be unto you, Baby. I'd never met anyone like him, and because of him, I think I could handle it if someone were to hook me up with a couple of free Stars tickets.

In her book Working, Dolores French mentions that it's rude not to root for the home team. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean to go ahead and cheer for 'em if they can't seem to deal with their domestic violence and cocaine issues, so I won't be able to tell you the first thing about the goings-on of The Team Whose New Stadium I Didn't Vote For. I'm still pissed off about that.

Goodnight, Sweet B-Girl: RIP Candy Barr

Juanita Dale Slusher, a.k.a. Candy Barr
July 6, 1935 - December 30, 2005

God loves His B-Girls. You know He does. And so do I.

Check out what my friend Rawlins had to say about meeting Candy Barr, as a little boy growing up in 1950's Dallas:

I felt like I was meeting Marilyn Monroe. She was like vanilla ice cream and cotton candy combined, which to a 50's lil' boy was awesome! Strippers in Dallas were all hired by what was known as the Dixie Mafia, the New Orleans/Dallas Carlos Marcello gang wing here in Dallas, to which the Campesi's Egyptian Lounge on Mockingbird were stellar members. The days belonged to the Baptists. The nights were an invitation only to the dark side.

According to David Renfrow's obituary of Ms. Barr in today's Dallas Morning Snooze, there are no plans for a funeral or memorial service in the works, either. Talk about disheartening. We can't allow her passing to go unnoticed. Candy Barr helped put the 'naughty' in Naughty Dallas, and can you imagine the stories this woman had to tell?! Jack Ruby gave her one of the puppies from his prized litter of Dachshunds, for chrissakes! I'm sure that's just one of many.

Sadly, we'll never hear Candy's stories now. And if it's a slow night, I do hope the girls working the stages of The Gentleman's Club, Texas Showgirls, The Lodge, The Penthouse Club and all the other ecdysiast joints up and down I-35, Walnut Hill and Northwest Highway remember to share a moment of silence in their dressing rooms tonight for the woman who went before them, in clouds of sparkles, cigarette smoke and undulating dreams.