Chief and me, "bonding" at Moonshadows in Malibu, scene of Mel Gibson's boozing, pre-"sugar tits" rant
Chief watches reality TV with me. At first it was just because he's a good sport, but now he really likes it, too. I can tell.
This week we finally got into the new season of American Idol. (The early rounds are just too, too stupid to bother watching.)
We lounge on our pale-yellow microfiber sectional and attempt to channel Simon Cowell while the "contestants" caterwaul.
As if Dollywood wasn't enticing enough with the rides and the acts and the livestock, not to mention the Smokey Mountains, do you realize there are also over 40 themed shops there?
Stores like Cas Walker's Shop, where you can get a poodle skirt and Coca Cola memorabilia. Eagle's Nest has a bunch of eagle and flag gear -- carved, scorched, wood sculpture gear. Of course there is A Touch of Ireland (self explanatory, insert shalaylee joke here.) Most exciting and best of all is Ashley's Photorium.
That's right. An old timey dress up photo shop. Where you can squeeze into an 1880s costume previously worn by Dolly fans from all over the world (oh, I'm sure they launder them daily) and immortalize the moment to share with friends and family back home.
My new piggy bank goal: Dollywood Road Trip '08!
Take heed! Amidst all this January gloom and melancholia, do you spy a bright, gleaming beacon in the future?
Yes you do, and that's no beacon! It's BARRY MANILOW and a snazzy blazer from his bedazzled collection. Which with any luck will nearly blind my BFF Stefania and me in our practically front row seats on February 15th.
Count down to smiles, '08. Only three short Fridays away. I just found a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Tonight is FANILOW '07!
Sorry to yell, I'm just very excited.
My BFF, Stefania, and I are going to the Brian Boitano Skating Spectacular, Starring BARRY MANILOW! We are HUGE Fanilows, from even before his gracious and riveting turn on American Idol. And this is our first in-person Manilow experience.
That's right. Tonight we pop our Fanilow Live cherries.
With ice skating. Sweet!
Side story: Years ago, in a grocery store in the Marina, Brian Boitano gave Chief the goo-goo eyes! Yes! My husband was cruised by Olympic Gold Medalist Brian Boitano. How cool is that? Unsurprisingly, Chief ignored him, blowing only his chance for an autograph.
I've seen some good shows with Stefania, including:
We are uniquely qualified to enjoy the shit out of this concerformance. It's the culmination of our pop culture expertise. Especially when you add the very special Pac Bell Park Irish Coffees that will play a large role in our enjoyment of the evening.
The only thing that could make it better? Let's just say we have pretty good seats and we'll be watching for Mayor McHottie...
I've seen quite a few live performances by musicians who were only cool before I was born or while I was wearing pink legwarmers and rocking out to Madonna's "Holiday."
Quite a while ago, I was burned by a cigarette during a Buzzcocks show in New York. Three years ago I saw David Bowie in a big, lovely ballroom in upstate New York. This weekend we're seeing the Cure; last week Cat and I saw Morrissey in San Francisco.
As they've gotten older, both Bowie's and Morrissey's faces look more like literature: Bowie a poem, spare, sharp at the edges, nothing wasted. Morrissey's wide-open face was more like a fulsome, sad novella written on sliced potato. (Note: we mock the Irish because we are the Irish. At least some of us.)
The men are contemporaries for much of their careers, but don't seem to overlap much. Morrissey was the opening act for a Bowie tour, but quit after two weeks because he was 'depressed' (read: hated David Bowie).
If you had to spend time with one of them, who would it be?
For me, no question: Bowie. Morrissey would bitch and moan about where the goat cheese in my sandwich came from before threatening to slit his wrists in the bathroom. And I'd ditch 'em both for five minutes with Joy Divison.
On Thursday night Colleen, Irish Mike, Chief and I saw Morrissey at the Fillmore. Fellow May-born-Gemini, patron saint of petulant vegetarians, retrosexuals and those who enjoy a drop of the Irish, Morrissey was in fine form. Except for Colleen taking ill and having to depart in a precipitous miasma of sick, it was a good show.
Between getting grounded in high school and his penchant for canceling gigs, this was the first time I had the privilege of seeing Morrissey. So I started out feeling lucky and excited just to be in the presence of greatness, and finished in the same neighborhood.
If I could change one thing, it would be for Morrissey to include a couple more hits on the set list. And by hits I mean songs that anyone knows the words to besides him.
Granted he's frenemies with Johnny Marr and I think there is another feud with the guy who co-wrote his early solo hits. Lord knows, if anyone can wax poetic for hours about why he doesn't sing particular songs, it's Morrissey. The man has his reasons.
Bottom line: Morrissey pleases himself. In the process, sometimes he also pleases us.
Thanks, Moz.
I am a Fanilow. Such a voice! A career that spans the generations! He is a showman who stands head and shoulders above today's performers. And he was so good to the kids on American Idol. Mr. Manilow owns my heart.
Then there is Barry Gibb, perhaps the most genius song writer of our generation. Uh, or maybe our parents' generation. Whichever, he spans generations, too. He has a ton of wicked good songs, and wears dashing gold chains. He makes chest hair almost acceptable. He even has his own SNL tribute skit. Clearly, Barry Gibb rocks.
Somehow, I got on the topic of which Barry is better with Chief and his brother, The Creative One, over breakfast.
Chief: Yeah, she thinks Barry Manilow is as good as Barry Gibb!
Me: Manilow writes the songs that make the whole world sing!
The Creative One: But he didn't write that one.
Me: What? He didn't?
Chief and The Creative One laugh hysterically.
Chief: No. But Barry Gibb songs have topped every chart.
The Creative One: He topped the country chart with Islands in the Stream.
Me: Oh, I love Dolly! But I thought she wrote that song.
Chief and The Creative One continue to laugh at my naiveté.
Me: (under my breath) Assholes.
Mercifully the subject then changed to soccer, much to my relief. I couldn't take anymore disillusionment!
For the record, I believe that the world is a better place for having both Barrys. But I might love Manilow just a little more. Even if he didn't write the song that made the whole world sing. In my mind he's just one Dolly duet away from a TKO.
I'm no legal expert, but if I know the contents of Amy Winehouse's drug OD regurgitation, then it stands to reason that the authorities know, too. So why isn't she under arrest?
I mean, it's still illegal to do ecstasy, coke or heroin, never mind all three, right? She admitted to this, and more, all over the interwebs. Not to get all technical, but that sounds like a confession to me.
What, doesn't Commissioner Gordon have DSL down at the Hall of Justice? Should we print out a copy of the Perez post and mail it to him?
And we should totally add a note telling them to rush that squad car over for her. If this before and after shot is any indication, Amy's five minutes from Keith Richards Heroin-Induced Living Death. Iggy Pop pulls it off, but on her it seems less "tribute" and more "lack of imagination."
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