Career Opportunities

It's no good being angry with an anonymous person. There's no satisfaction in it. You might as well fight with a lawn mower. And since I can't be pissy with an anonymous asshole, then I'll be pissy with Those Less Fortunate Than I. Transference. I learned that on Law and Order: Criminal Intent last night.

How to Build Your Resume, Part One*

1. Ask to bum a cigarette during your interview.

2. Bring your child (or better yet, children!) with you to the interview and answer definitively "yes!" when asked if you have reliable child care.

3. Answer your cellphone during the interview.

4. Apply for the job while a policeman writes you a citation for speeding (shows multi-tasking capabilities, after all).

5. Do not show up for your first day of work. Call a few days later with a morbid explanation (death in family, grandmother's foot had to be amputated, car wreck or cancer diagnosis) and get rehired. Do not show up again. Expect to be paid anyway.

6. List "took customer's money" as a Position of Trust.


*names withheld to protect the ignorant.

bored, bored, bored, totally ennuiated!

Bored enough to clean out my desk drawers. It's like an archeological dig. All the detritus - ok, not all - from 18 years of slaving the fuck away in corporate hell. Some interesting (well, I said I was bored didn't I?) findings:

1. I am a closet pyromaniac. I have three packs of matches and I haven't smoked in at least 9 years. Shows a repressed desire to surround myself with candles or perhaps I was a Girl Scout in another life.

2. I have an inordinate affection for Sharpies. I found 7. Red, blue, black. Fat tips, fine points, double-ended ones. And an equal number of highlighters! Please don't ask about the Flairs. I am seeking help.

3. Ketchup is good, but tartar sauce is better.

4. I am incapable of throwing away the plasticware packets from fast food places. You never know when you might need a spork.

5. I've got so much shit to do that I need not just one, but two, count 'em two, 20-year calendars? That is depressing.

6. If you really, really love your lip gloss, it will come back to you.

My Favorite Irishman

Paddy O'Brien. They're always after me Lucky Charms.









Ok, so that's not the right picture, but I did my best. Happy St. Patrick's Day! Green beer for all!

It's tough to be an MLS fan

Once upon a time, in America...







San Jose had a beloved soccer team(formerly known as The Clash - best name ever) whose owners decided to move the team.

To Houston.







A new location, a new name. The 'Quakes became Houston 1836 - a cool name, and the year that Houston was founded. Coincidentally, or not, this was the exact same year Texas decided not to be a part of Mexico. Which some people found offensive.








So the Clash/Quakes/Houston 1836 became the Houston Dynamo, which is an autogol in the Lamest Name Ever Playoffs. And the Metros, who used to be the NYNJ Metro Stars but evolved (sensibly) to the MetroStars, find themselves likewise rebranded as New York Red Bull.



And what should we do, America? That's right.

Blame Donovan.

Just kidding. Be nice to him. He's got to power Team USA out of our group come June. (Can I get you something, Landon? A sandwich? Your slippers? A comely wench?) The Houston name change is, well, I can't think of a better word than stupid. They gain nothing from it. The Metrostars name change I'm ok with - they gain a recognizable brand, money and that elusive soccer specific stadium. And money. Did I mention money? And money trumps political correctness every time.

I can die a happy, happy woman...

John Prine, March 3, Tennessee Theatre.

Ok, Ok, so it's an old photo. From the 2005 Asheville show, to be precise. But the ones I took with my telephone, uh, um....well, they suck. And I think this one is so bad, it's cool. He is some kind of demon fire god. In the most polite way possible.

I got our tickets through an online presale via the John Prine Shrine, thanks to my Good But Anonymous Buddy who pays attention to these things. The deal with their presale is you are guaranteed seats in the first 6 rows, but you can't pick up your tickets until one hour before the show. Because I am never early (and really, isn't being early just as rude as being late?), the opening act was already onstage when we arrived. I showed the girl at Will Call my Sam's Club card because I could not find my license and read PT104. Oh, fuck. We're on row P, which is not in the prescribed first six rows. I regained my composure and looked again. It says Orchestra. Oh, fuck! We're in the Orchestra Pit!! I wait very impatiently for a beer and run to the nearest usher with my ticket, heart beating wildly, I'm beginning to sweat. She looks at the ticket and doesn't have a clue where. Oh, fuck. Maybe we're upstairs. Another usher grabs the ticket, peers at it intently and positively puffs up. He marches us with pomp and circumstance to the stage and points to the very front row. We are center. Dead center. John Prine will be standing 10 feet directly in front of me.

I wait to be escorted back to the plebian horde. There are four empty seats beside me and one by one they fill up (with brothers! hey to you all if you see this!). Each time a brother comes to take a seat, I expect to get thrown out. I have never been front row anywhere for anything and this is possibly the most amazing musical moment of my life. There is no massively huge or tall person in front of me. I will not have to play Bob & Duck all night. I will have an unobstructed view of John Prine. 10 feet away. Twelve o'clock.

I hope he's not a spitter.

The opening act was a lady named Minton Sparks, and I want to apologize to her for walking in on her second to last song. Only they're not songs exactly, being spoken but accompanied by guitar. It was kind of hillbilly poetry slam meets performance art. Interesting but peculiar. A long, long, eternal damnation kind of wait ensues as she exits stage right. The lights come up, the roadies come out and start placing bottles of water everywhere, bringing more and more guitars and mandolins and a stand up bass (which is also orchestrally known as a double bass according to #1 son, who was also present but sitting with the riff raff in row F). Should've done a drink/bathroom run, but I was afraid to leave. Really!

Finally, the lights go down and there it is. The moment I've been waiting for - face to face with JP, and he's throwing down a raucous version of Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore. If you thought maybe he'd become sedate and conservative in his golden(ish) years, you thought wrong. In April, it was a 'cowboy from Texas' who started his own war with I-raq. In a post-Katrina America, it was 'that asshole from Texas,' and that, I am happy to note, brought a wave of cheers across the beautiful Tennessee Theatre. Mr. Prine played all the 'hits' - not that he has any, but the Ones People Expect: Sam Stone, Grandpa Was A Carpenter, Paradise, Hello In There, Dear Abby. It was often a mammoth singalong. He played The Most Perfect Song EVER, dedicating it to his Ma. The beginning of it makes me think of rain drops running down a windowpane, all cold and lonely and warm and tender, all at once, the absolute sound of bittersweet, and I hear it and I swear I have tears in my eyes. John Prine is singing Souvenirs 10 feet in front of me. It. Was. Amazing. He has fat stubby hands like Elvis, so it gives me hope: one day, maybe, I can get my stupid fingers to make that sound. He played Crazy As A Loon, and dedicated it to One Bullet Barney, a/k/a Don Knotts. He did some Jed Clampett dancing during Bear Creek Blues. I didn't think he could spit after the cancer/radiation thing but he did drop a few wads here and there. Ain't Hurtin' Nobody hit a big fat groove and just went on and on and people should've got up and danced, but nobody did. I heard some concertgoers were taken aback by folks shouting out requests - I don't think it was a problem for Mr. Prine. And I don't think you go to a John Prine concert to sit in respectful silence. He's not that kind of demon fire god.

The band was incredible. Mostly playing mandolin but sometimes on guitar was Pat McLaughlin, who brought a Conehead sensibility (and by that I don't mean that he's strange looking, but that he seems like he's from another planet, a very FUN planet) and some Johnny Rotten punkish/impish fun to the proceedings. Mostly on electric guitar, but sometimes on mandolin and harmonica was Jason Wilbur, who should smile more - and I hate saying that because I was always told that as a child. On that stand up bass was Dave Jacques, who has no web presence, but lots and lots of soul. I know Jason and Pat added some vocals, as well, but I'm not sure about Dave. John Prine was blocking my view.

Damn, it was good to be there.

And don't call me Dempster!

He shoots! He scores! He growls in triumph!!

Twellman gets the assist.

It bounced off his face.

8 o'clock tonight, Tennessee Theatre.







Color me stoked.

I bought the Ron White tickets as kind of a consolation prize, after waiting months and months (or was it weeks and weeks?) for good shows. Kings of Leon was my last show, way way back in October and I kept patiently waiting - well, as patiently as I know how - for something wonderful to pop up.

Nothing.

Months and months (or weeks and weeks for you literalists) of nothing.

So, when I saw the advertisement for Ron White, I jumped on it. So did the rest of East Tennessee. It sold out before I could even figure out how to buy tickets. Fortunately, a 9:30 show was added. After checking my calendar - who wants to go to a 9:30 show and face work the next day? - I grabbed two primo tickets (only to discover at the show that they were dead center in Yuppieville). I figured it would be a late Valentine present. We could be Adults Without Children. So, that's $100 for tickets, $100 for a hotel, $100 for a couple of meals. Doesn't break the budget because there's nothing the fuck else to do the rest of the winter.

And there it was. One week to the day after I committed to Ron White. John Prine. In Knoxville. At the Tennessee Theatre. Six days after Ron.

Of course I had to have them. I'd sell blood and plasma if necessary. My children don't need to eat every day. Those aren't high-waders, honey, they're capris. And next year they'll be shorts! We're not homeless, we're moving. Everything's a matter of perspective, isn't it? And, in T minus 6 hours, John Prine's going to be in mine.

Driving with Katie

or,

Where’s the Clairol #117 and pass me my nerve pills!


At first, it went well. She listened. She did what she was told, braking here, putting her signal on now, staying on her side of the road. And as she learned and the praises were heaped upon her, her confidence grew. And grew. And grew. Until she was the self-styled Princess of Power (steering).

My first experience in Driver’s Ed, post-high school, was teaching my oldest son, who figured ‘hey, I’ve played enough NASCAR 2000 – I don’t NEED lessons.’ And I had to force him to drive. Our state requires a minimum number of hours behind the wheel, certified by a parent or legal guardian, in order to move from permit to license. It’s ridiculously low, like 50 or something, but I still felt perjurious when I signed the statement. Nevertheless, he passed his driving test. And I’ll give him points for that, because he had to drive in rush hour school traffic and they were gone at least 20 minutes. For my test, back before seat belt laws, I had to drive around the block. Literally. One square residential block. Four right turns. Had they been left, I’d be qualified for Bristol.

Lately, the Princess has lost some of her Will to Drive. It’s too cold in the mornings. She wants to watch a movie en route. She doesn’t feel like it. She did deign to drive home yesterday. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand alternately flipping her hair around and pointing at “bad” drivers, we careened through the evening traffic. Wherever she turned her head, there went the steering wheel. We did not maintain our lane. We ran up on other cars and came to a screeching halt. We rousted pedestrians. At last we got home and I dug my fingers out of the armrest. I followed the youngest two into the house and was dumbfounded to realize: I have to do this Two. More. Times.

copy cattin'

http://sosaidi.blogspot.com/


Found that on Recently Updated Blogs today – very nice, kind of reminds me of me (but in a younger, better dressed version) – and, since I can’t think of anything to blog about and there’s a long afternoon stretching out in front of me, I thought I’d steal her idea. I haven’t brought the A game in weeks, but my standards are high and my talent is low. Anyway, thanks to middlegirl!

My weekend – the quick version.

Friday night: ate leftovers, washed a load of clothes, fell asleep in a chair watching some Sci-Fi program.
Saturday: Slept until 9!!!!! Made the grocery list and planned menus for the week. Went Walmarting. Drove to Knoxville with husband. Ate obscenely expensive seafood, saw Ron White. Wondered what a “rim job” was briefly, decided it was better not to know. Stayed up past midnight! Fell asleep with tv on and book in lap in a very cozy hotel.
Sunday: Slept til 10!!! Made tea, watched a stupid Sly Stallone movie (which is of course an oxymoron - what was I thinking?). Had a Coke and a shower. Saw friend in nursing home. Ate a few Krystals, drove home. Did more laundry, washed muddy dog.


My Weekend – the fantasy version

Friday night: Kids and husband went to the Grand Canyon (or somewhere far far away). Ordered pizza (with black AND green olives, mushrooms and pepperoni), which I ate in front of the tv with some Southpaw because Gone With The Wind was on, followed by Parenthood and A League of Their Own.

Saturday: Slept til noon and awoke to find my house meticulously cleaned by magic elves, laundry done right down to the ironing, shelves stocked and a lovely French onion soup for lunch. Kids and husband returned from Grand Canyon and without the ability to argue. Drove to Knoxville, ate seafood in a quiet restaurant with fantastically flattering lighting, saw Ron White. Had champagne on terrace of cozy hotel and watched the demolition of the Summitt Hill Bridge.

Sunday: Slept until eleven. Ate croissants and chocolate covered strawberries while sipping champagne in an enormous bubble bath. Watched back to back episodes of Biography, read an entire book, took a nap and turned back into Mom at the last possible second.



And really, is that too much to ask?

There Oughta Be a Law

Maybe you can’t legislate morality, or common courtesy, or even reasonable concern for the rest of the world, but if I could, these would be capital crimes…

1. Spitting in public. And it becomes especially heinous when it involves that godawful sinus-clearing schnurping noise and therefore subject to special punishment. Someone did this to me in Walmart. In the cereal aisle! Well, to be truthful, he didn’t spit, but he did schnurp right in my ear. Which is an egregious invasion of my personal space. His dog must die with him.
   
2. People who take up more than one parking space deliberately. You in the massive assault vehicle! If you can't park it, keep it at home. In fact, just owning a massive assault vehicle ought to be a felony. Criminal conspicuous consumption. Embezzlement of eco-resources. Driving Under the Influence of Middle Class Suburbanism.
   
3. People who toss their cigarettes out their vehicle windows. I'd like to go all Skink on them, but I don't have the cajones. Watch out. One day I will.
   
4. People who whisper in public. I’m not talking about those with itty bitty voices incapable of projection. I’m talking about the people who will, when in a group, lean in to whisper to a particular ear. Unless you are someone privy to state secrets and you are at the UN, this is rude. And rudeness will get you killed. At least, it would if I were Queen of the World.

You Got a Reason to Cry...

Last night, I wrote the best opening line for a poem. It came to me in a dream, and I woke up savoring the words, feeling the electric rightness of every syllable. It was the beginning of the poem that would succor the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick and just generally make the world a better place. I don’t think Jesus could’ve written it better. Like Bode Miller, I was about to Live Up to My Potential! I was inches away from publication, from having my Emily Dickinson moment in the sun.

And I rolled over and went back to sleep.


Poems are hard to write. Every word has to perform. And it has to sound good performing. Straight pipes, not fart mufflers. And I write them so badly that I haven’t tried any ‘serious’ poems since this abortion:


Incantation for Lost Souls

At night I sleep cocooned and healing.
Each morning I tear the wound open, conjuring memories.
Tasting the exquisite sweetness of it
Piercing dream flesh with invented emotion
Until fresh blood seeps beneath the bandage.
A self-inflicted injury—I created this, made this
For you.

Darkness brings the cure. A potent oblivion caresses the scab.
In the black warmth of nothingness, something grows that wants this hurt.


Which, I think, was about my craving for drama. There are some nice phrases in it, I think. ‘Potent oblivion’ is good. Too much sibilance overall. Too Poetry I. Actually, I think I did better in Poetry I. So, that’s sad. I’ve lived 23 more years, graduated, got married, had 4 kids and got a real job and I still have nothing to say!

And it was given to me in a dream.

And I went back to sleep.


Damn. Damn. Damn.

The Hangover This Morning Had A Personality*

Last night, CBS brought us the 48th (??) Annual Grammy Awards, my yearly exercise in drinking games (think of God and Mama), almost witty yet strangely irrelevant commentary, and prognostication. With my Rolling Stone Guide to the Grammys in one hand and a nice cold Southpaw in the other, I observed the ant farm. This year was a little bit of a disappointment – even Mariah dressed decently! But I have a few leftover observations:


Madonna! Honey, you’re at an age where support hose will soon be more than some kind of freaky fashion statement. Don’t try to make capris out of them. And give Farrah Fawcett back her hairstyle.

Coldplay. Chris Martin didn’t drool this year, but he skipped through the audience, around the stage, and did some interpretative dancing while wearing assorted bandaids and Gwyneth’s maternity jeans. Study those Stones tapes harder Chris! Mick combs his hair and his pants fit.

Kelly Clarkson, thank you! Until you came on to sing that annoying song, everyone was dressed reasonably. But you, you punk rebel you! You took a page from the Scarlett O’Hara Book of Dress Design. Getting your grandma’s housecoat and shredding it to ribbons! Inspired! And when you won, not one mention of that blight on the American entertainment landscape. Edgy!


Paul McCartney. Yawn. I think we use the same hair color. His performance was frustrating for me. I can’t think of anything bad to say about it, but I think he’s an abysmal human being. Don’t buy his record.

And speaking of hair color, should Gwen still be hitting the peroxide? She looks fabulous anyway. And way more pregnant than I thought she was. I’m glad she wasn’t wearing the Harajuku shoes.

Note to Keef: not only is Johnny Depp stealing your look, Steven Tyler is too. Get your beads and baubles down to the Patent Office, stat!

U2. Why don’t Larry and Adam ever speak? Will this album EVER go away?

Michael Buble. Michael Buble. Michael Buble. That’s just fun to say, isn’t it?




John Legend is, to borrow my nemesis’ favorite adjective, HOT. .

*thanks, Elvis.

I Got A Phone Call. A Phone Call From Hell.

I think I’m a disappointment to obscene callers.

Not that I want to be an appointment for them and not that I have tons of experience receiving or sending them, but my spidey sense tells me that somehow I’ve not cooperated properly with a disturbed mentality when I hang up the phone and go back to drooling in to my pillow. Cooperated probably isn’t the right word. It’s a failure to cooperate, but less emotional – like a business forfeiture. I don’t play along. I don’t get scared. I really don’t get that angry, because as obscene callers go, mine have been on the polite side of the Great Scales of Craziness. One, maybe two hang-ups and they give up. I had a regular caller my first year of college. Once or twice a week in the wee hours (why do they never call in the daytime anyway?), he’d call up and say the things he wanted to do with my dainties. After the third week or so, I said something along the lines of ‘dude, you need help that I can’t give, but try this number – they’re specialists in diseased minds.’ And that ended that. A recent one called me by name and said he’d found my name on the bathroom wall at Walmart. Yes, I have officially been hit on by the Markdown Smiley Face! I can’t wait to add that to my list of accomplishments. Age 22, graduated with honors from the University of Tennessee. Age 42, became Lower Priced Sex Goddess to bargain hunters everywhere!

I just have one thing to say to my discount admirer: caller id.

Why I Love My Dog

1. She has never called me ‘the meanest mother ever’ because I would not drive her to Bath & Body Works.


2. She has yet to ask me for money. Belly rubs, yes. Bucks, no.


3. She’s always glad to see me, even if I don’t have presents or candy. Even if I’ve only been gone 15 minutes. When I walk in the front door, she treats me like Jesus resurrected.


4. She doesn’t care what we listen to or what we watch. She might be more opinionated if she could talk, but she’s happy to sit on the couch and watch 101 Greatest Fashion Mistakes Ever with me.


5. She has never asked ‘do I have to eat this?’ Whatever I cook, it’s gourmet grub to her.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly - My First Anniversary

Well, it's close now and as usual I can't think of a thing to write about, but also as per usual I refuse to let that stop me. One year of blogging and I've used way more than my fair share cyberspace, abused the English language, and refused to be confined by a strict and structured syntax. I'm a grammatical outlaw! The posts have run the gamut from Really Really Horrible (most of the early stuff, Sundown, my distinctly strange idea re: calendar keeping - my apologies) to the Not Too Shabby (The Gospel, the boob drama, My Musical Epiphany). I got a few comments, only one of which was spam! (note to workfromhome dude - thanks! I open the junk mail when nothing else shows up in my mailbox). Each one was a thrill - it's a big ole cyber world and it's an honor just to be nominated. Noticed! I mean, noticed!

Anyway, it makes me happy.

And it's ALL About Me.

Merry Christmas

From me and my dog.

Bestest! Christmas! Songs! Ever!

In no particular order and subject to change without notice.

1. Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town – Bruce and the E Street Band. The intro makes me smile every single time.

2. Please Come Home for Christmas – The Eagles. I know they’re the Group Everyone Loves to Hate, but I love their version of this song. Schmaltzy growls, tinkling piano, a man who can sing ‘send salutations’ with a straight face – well, that’s not quite fair – he sings everything with a straight face.

3. Frosty the Snowman – Jimmy Durante and Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer - Burl Ives. Television staples of my formative years. I have a birthmark around my nose that gets, um, inflamed, shall we say, in cold weather. Mean kids used to tease me. I took great solace in Jimmy and Burl's tender songs.

4. I’ll Be Home for Christmas – Leon Redbone. I wanted to put him up for Frosty as well, but that seemed like overkill. A credible, understated cover of a classic. He also used to sing an All detergent commercial.

5. White Christmas – Bing or the Drifters. I love Bing’s voice and the way he uses it, more of an instrument than ‘A Voice’ – this is the definitive by-the-fire-with-the-one-you-love version. The fun, traveling to Grandma’s version with four hopped-up-on-sugar kids belongs to the Drifters. Da dooby do!

6. Joy To the World – Blind Boys of Alabama and Aaron Neville. Normally, I like men to sound like men when they sing. Aaron Neville is the exception, and this song is particularly striking to me because he’s singing way on up there and the Blind Boys are filling in all the steps on the ladder, with that gravelly growly bass just suggested, like a whisper from God.

7. Baby It’s Cold Outside – Brian Setzer with Ann-Margret. So, Setzer’s voice ain’t really up to this song, but Ann-Margret! Wow! She gets to play me in the movie.

8. Oi! To the World – No Doubt. Two minutes of ska-punk and also fantastic for over-sugared children. Nice little morality tale, to boot. Better than the Vandals' original (heresy, I know).

9. Up on the Housetop – Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefer Band. The surf guitar version. Christmas is for sharin’. Share that wave with me, dude.

10. Fairytale of New York – the Pogues with Kirsty Maccoll. Happy Christmas, your arse! The seedy yet sublime side of Christmas and my Favorite. Pogues. Song. Ever.

Honorable Mentions:

Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy – David Bowie and Bing Crosby. I remember watching this on tv back in the day. Set new levels for weird: Space Oddity meets Crooning Relic.

Gettin’ In The Mood (for Christmas) – Really, almost anything Brian Setzer does with his Orchestra works for me. Horns! Guitar! Jump! Jive! Wail! This is a cool reinvention of In the Mood that always has me reaching for my Christmas Creepers and a couple of tats. I just wish I could dance!

Polishing My Hump

I’ll be the first to admit it: I hate snobs. I don’t necessarily mean members of the aristocracy or Daughters of the Revolution, although they can certainly meet the requirements. I mean anybody who thinks they’re better than me, more qualified, more entitled, more something that I’m not. Yes, I’ve got a 2 ton chip on my shoulder and I’ve earned it, baby. I also detest bullies and when the two combine, well, could there be two less attractive personality traits? I think not. Let’s call the snobbish side “Paris” and the bullying side “Ashlee”. When they merge into the creature we’ll call Parishlee, the synergistic effect might be scientifically fascinating to behold but few of us can appreciate that fact. We’re too busy being Pissed Off To The Power Of Infinity. I wouldn’t call myself a violent person, but many’s the time I’ve longed to bust my knuckles on smug smile.

Years of frustration later, I realize this is my own little (or maybe not so little) snobbishness. I’m so anti-snob, I’m a snob. At least I’m not a bully about it.


Yet.

Jingle Bell Boogie

Or, How I Learned to love Christmas Music


First admission: I’ve always loved Christmas music, so I didn't have to learn to love. One of my fondest memories is of going caroling with my neighborhood gang when I was approximately a kindergartner, looking up into the starry skies, bellowing Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. I saw Santa flying his sleigh across the horizon, and I believed. Ok, now as an adult, I realize that was probably a satellite or an airplane or perhaps the figment of a sugar-frenzied imagination. But why let reality spoil the magic?

Second admission: my favorite way to fill up the gaps and holes in my tattered spirits is to practice judicious retail therapy. Me and my soul-soothing MasterCard have ridden out so many emotional storms together. New babies. First days of school. Graduations. Birthdays from Hell. Bosses from Hell. I can shop happy, I can shop sad. I shop, therefore, I am.

Third admission: I am a music freak. Not a music geek—I’m not that smart (or that anal), but to me, music is necessary. Like air. And Advil. I didn’t realize how necessary until the Great Musical Drought that began—well, before eBay. Literally. When it ended, I was like a sponge in the Gulf of Mexico. And I’m still playing catch up.

To recap: Christmas. Shopping. Music. Let’s head over to Amazon and see what’s in my shopping cart!

Brain Setzer Orchestra – Boogie Woogie Christmas.

Big band. Big hair. Big ups! Sleigh bells ring—are ya listenin’?

Jimmy Buffett – Christmas Island.

Yes, it’s Christmas in Margaritaville. Kick off your flip-flops and find that large shaker of salt. Everybody’s favorite pirate was looking at fifty when he put this album together, and Merry Christmas, Alabama is a loving Christmas card to all the ports he’s known before. A surfer dude Up on the Housetop and an island version of Jingle Bells take the holiday into some uncharted (but fun!) waters. You have my permission to skip his cover of Happy Christmas (War is Over) – why, Jimmy, why? In penance, he gives us Ho! Ho! Ho! And a Bottle of Rhum, a bouncy ode to holiday stress and quite possibly the first Christmas carol to ponder the physical toll a brick chimney takes on Santa’s buns. It ain’t rocket science, but it’s fun.



Leon Redbone – Christmas Island

Same song, different singer and what a difference! Champagne Charlie brings that growling baritone to Christmas Island, looks for Frosty, goes to Toyland, gets lost in a Winter Wonderland—in short, he makes some vintage Christmas fun. (There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays and I’ll Be Home for Christmas bring some Capra-esque nostalgia home—close your eyes and you’ll think you’re in a 40’s train station watching the snow come down—will you be home for Christmas? That Old Christmas Moon and Christmas Ball Blues will give the grownups something to dance to after the kids are in bed.

The Blind Boys of Alabama – Go Tell It On The Mountain

If I could only give you one reason to buy this album, it would be Joy to the World. With Aaron Neville’s help, this song transcends the ordinary, soars above the fantastic right up into the sublime. My. Favorite. Version. Ever. The Blind Boys of Alabama (yes, that’s their real name) throw down some of the leanest, meanest, praising-est sounds since Mahalia Jackson. Add Tom Waits, Chrissie Hynde and Mavis Staples. Stir once and apply liberally to your auditory instruments!



John Prine – A John Prine Christmas

‘It was Christmas in prison, and the food was real good…’—has there ever been a truer sentiment? Haven’t been to prison? Well, don’t let that stop you from enjoying Christmas with John Prine. He hasn’t been to prison either. Most of the songs on this aren’t exactly Christmas songs. The first two only mention Christmas in passing, but they’re two of the best songs Prine ever wrote, so look on them as a gradual and seasonal easing into the holiday mode -- that November gloom we all trudge through before the anticipatory arc of the holiday season. Mr. Prine is one of my favorite singer/songwriters and honestly, if he did John’s Polka Favorites or Uptown Boy – Prine sings Joel, I’d buy them.


to be continued....

Elvis v. David Lee Roth

Costello, that is. Let's play!



Elvis radiates intelligence. David Lee Roth oozes sleaze.

Elvis has a 25+ year career. DLR used to be in Van Halen, and they asked him to leave. twice.

Elvis has a receding hairline with a tasteful cut. DLR has a receded hairline and stole Courtney Love's extensions.

Elvis wears black suits with snappy ties. DLR wears spandex animal prints.

Elvis covered My Funny Valentine. DLR covered Just A Gigolo.

Elvis is UCLA's first Artist-in-Residence. DLR is Howard Stern's replacement.

Elvis has worked with Paul McCartney, Burt Bacarach, Lucinda Williams and Chrissy Hynde, amongst others. DLR used to be in Van Halen. and was asked to leave. twice.

Elvis was on a Simpsons episode. DLR was a Behind The Music episode