Art, Pop Culture

Of ‘Star Trek’ & (still?) developing libido

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Uhura in a midriff-baring uniform on Star Trek was stirring as a kid. By “stirring”, I mean “ohmigod thatissohot” swirled with a hunger for acquisition even when my sense of anatomy and what goes where was, to put it kindly, vague. The episode she showed her abs was “Mirror, Mirror” and on Sunday afternoon I went to a production with my spouse and friends and new acquaintances to see a local troupe re-enacting the episode, verbatim, with great humor, ingenuity, charm, and energy as part of an annual “Trek in the Park” event. More on that later.

Back to early stirrings and burgeoning lust.

Seeing Nichelle Nichols as Uhura sadistically, strategically, and dangerously tantalize George Takei as Sulu (Uhura, distract him with your wiles from seeing that flashing light on his console! Sulu, you lucky dog!) with a knife then sashaying off when she got what she wanted was ¡RAWR! to early-pubescent me.

A transporter accident beams four Enterprise crew members (Kirk, Uhura, Scotty, McCoy) to an alternate universe where the Federation is an assasination-happy empire. Enough summary. Confident cheesecake below!

HAWT, right? This imprinted me. I have a Nichelle Nichols CD of her singing (including made-up lyrics to the ‘Star Trek’ theme song) she recorded in the ’90s. My friend S was similarly imprinted. We can both recite her favorite two anecdotes verbatim: when she wanted to quit ‘Star Trek but Martin Luther King Jr. begged her not to, and hearing from Whoopi Goldberg that seeing a black woman like Uhura on prime time television was a BIG inspiration to little Whoopi in the 60s.

In high school/college, seeing the episode again, my eyes were opened to ANOTHER BABE on the very same episode: Barbara Luna as Marlena Moreau. Not the typical romantic interest for Kirk – ditzy, blonde, easily tricked – Marlena was a brunette, ambitious, great presence, and two-dimensional (maybe three dimensional?). Check out Marlena pitching woo to Kirk, not knowing (yet) he’s from another universe where they are NOT shacked up:

Hubba, and then again [gets a drink of water, stands on porch, watches the sunset, does dishes] hubba.

Dialog is goofy, hilarious, and female-empowering in a ham-handed way. “You could be anything you want to be.” Meaty episode with lots for actors to chew on, and a great choice for Trek in the Park.

Sunday was the first time I’ve attended. Wanted to before, but didn’t get around to it the last two years. Finally, friend E. evangelized enough to get me and my spouse past our torpor and our asses on blankets. She got there about four hours before show time. I got there three hours before, and we held ground for the gradual trickling in of friends and family. E. got GREAT seats for us, third tier up from the ground in the tiny outdoor auditorium, center looking at the captain’s chair. A shot of the crowd to my right about ten minutes before show time, rows of people behind THEM you can’t see in the photo, captain’s chair draped in orange on the left:

E. & her spouse say the crowds have ballooned in the 3 years of Trek in the Park. Always in this park, but now the actors have to project loudly and essentially play in the round. They do a good job of it. Microphones & speakers are saved for voice overs (like intercom and computer voices).

Attending this, I knew I was going to comment on the two original scenes shown above and would want corresponding photos from the reenactment. Kirk (Adam Rosko, who started and leads Trek in the Park) with Marlena (Allison Hergert):

And in this scene with Uhura, actress Dana Thompson gave a bonus playful jab of the dagger at Sulu (Kaebel Hashitani) before her exit that got a big laugh:

During these moments with the actresses, camera shutters went clickity click click. Below, a photo of another early scene with Marlena and Kirk where camera shutter noises also rippled around. Wonder why?

Am left to conclude the other photographers MUST also be bloggers commenting on these scenes. Weird coincidence! Looking forward to those write-ups as soon as they’re posted. In the photo above, Marlena is using the Tantalus Field which can monitor and exterminate people at will. Maybe it was fans of high tech weaponry with all those cameras?. As I’m not much of a gear head, their mentality is tough for me to grok.

No admission charged, but comemorative t-shirts were for sale after the show. I bought us two. Might try to go back with the kids next weekend (the final pair of shows this summer). It was worth the wait for a good spot. A lot of enthusiasm + crowd deeply into it and giving love back = a high time. At the end, they even did a preview of next summer’s episode: “Journey to Babel” where we first meet Spock’s flinty Vulcan dad Sarek, his human mother, wolf dude with a pig snout, murder, intrigue, sneering sneaky blue guy, knife fight, derring-do!

We’re SO there next year.

Pop Culture

Summer’s Eve & vagina pride

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Lots of commentary about a new series of Summer’s Eve ads with distinctly ethnic voices. Some people are shocked at the relative bluntness, others at the spots targeted to different ethnicities (presumably – could be a “look at us, we’re multicultural!” play to United Colors of Bennetton-susceptible demographics, too).

The approach is new, but the content isn’t that daring. The word “vagina” doesn’t appear in the Latina and Black ones. I’m all for vagina/uteral pride, there needs to be more of it, so no big deal there. The content isn’t anything that most ladies aren’t capable of sharing after 1-2 glasses of wine.

A few comments have been: “How dare they imply all vaginas are stinky!” These are ads from a company selling douches. Toothpaste, mouthwash, and toothbrush ads don’t get by assuring us everything is fine in our mouths. No big deal there, either.

Others have commented on racial stereotyping. Not sure there. Certainly people with accents like these voice overs are all over the place. Wonder how many complaining about racial stereotypes actually are Latinas or Blacks, and not people over-reaching and showingly getting offended on behalf of ethnicities that don’t really care?

Glad Señor Wences isn’t around to see the talking hands. Dated reference. Money shots:

The Latina ad:

The Black ad:

The Cracker ad:

V, out, my viggas!

Activity, Pop Culture

Virtual personal trainers: you aren’t the boss of me! (But I crave your approval)

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My Wii avatar, nomenclature: “Mii”. Note the smirk.I’ve been using two fitness programs on the Nintendo Wii: Wii Fit (for about two years) and EA Sports Active (once two days ago).

Wii Fit was ready to go. No extra stuff to attach to your person. No mess. Bouncy, soft. Yoga a big component. But a lot of the yoga stuff is weird. You must maintain balance as measured onscreen by a red dot centered as you move and hold positions. Then you are given a star rating. Hardly a contemplative or simplifying journey inward based on modulated breathing. More like competitive yoga, a vogue-off in slow motion with softer music.

Well, hell-lo, there. Why, yes, I did splash on a little Paco Raban.There’s a choice between having a female or male trainer talk you through the strength and yoga exercises. I went with a lady trainer. I DO NOT perform and stretch and moan and strive for the approval of dudes. No way, José. Eros is a fitness motivator. I don’t want to rise from embarrassing positions to be invited by a sausage fest on my television. Even if virtual, I feel better taking orders from a lady.

Dude trainer = Yelling about issues “Is that good enough for ya, Pop? Is it good enough for ya?” or competing for the attention of the female trainer lurking in the background, stored somewhere in the machine. “Hey, virtual guy. Look at MY plumage indicating willingness to mate. Behold and tremble at MY MIGHTY WINGSPAN! I shall DESTROY YOU! (Can you see this dominance display, are you awed by it, yon virtual female trainer?)”

All was well for a while. Okay, I ignored Wii Fit for more than six months. But when I got back to it, Wii Fit was all like: “Hey. You okay? Oh, you weigh the same. Welcome back, prodigal sack of meat.” and I got back to hula-hooping and step aerobics and doing yoga EXACTLY WITHIN THE LINES every once in a while. I visit a gym about twice a week, and go on walks and occasional bike rides. So, somewhere in there, I moved through three dimensional space beyond lifting fingers and arms around a laptop.

About a year and a half ago, my kids gifted me with EA Sports Active for the Wii. It came with a crazy pair of devices requiring assembly that was more than I wanted to deal with so I shelved it until two days ago. Here’s the ensemble:

That gray thing is not a face mask or a jock strap but a leg strap for the right leg to hold the Nintendo nunchuck controller to monitor your leg movements. The orange ribbon is a resistance band, a contraption that always looked pathetic when seen in fitness infomercials or footage of the elderly or infirm wanting just a TOUCH more challenge than gravity, but not any actual WEIGHTS, fer Pete’s sake.

Who was/is Pete, and why are we concerned with his sake?

You will find my enthusiasm, fitness, and bird-like face compelling.See the lady on the box? She’s the female trainer and in the exercis demo videos. What of the male trainer? I saw him to only reject him in the initial setup for my profile and options, and he popped up in a video showing how two people could do the same exercise in a chummy way, and at the end he nudges the lady trainer away. “Hey, bub, don’t be such a DICK to my new virtual friend here. And RESPECT MY MIGHTY WINGSPAN! BEHOLD MY POWER AND DESPAIR!”

So, chivalry increased the bond I felt with this lady trainer, a real live person in video footage. I had defended her honor, and she would reward me by persuading me to do goofy things like squats back and forth and pretending arm curls with a resistance band resulted in anything at all and, gods help me, her voice (or the voice of another female) made me walk in place, jog in place, then do high back kicks so my heels would nearly touch the rear of my thighs or butt.

We hardly knew each other, yet there she was already TASKING ME to abandon dignity. The nerve! Still, she’s cute, seems nice, and has a job (getting me to do stuff), so history is littered with less dignified relationships.

Jogging in place – there’s no way to make that cool. In the early 80s my Mom had a mini-trampoline that was used to jog in place while watching television. She gave it a go for a while. Maybe she got bored with it. Using it looked like tantrum calisthenics. Stomp in place a good 20-30 minutes so your legs would be READY to outlast anyone not giving you that thing you wanted. “Holy moley. That mom/dad has been hopping up and down, pace undiminished, for 20 minutes. We’d better cave in and exchange that oscillating fan without the receipt.”

The mini-trampoline WAS excellent for bouncing action figures and toy cars off of. Not sure what the statute of limitations is on getting in trouble, so let me say thay my brother and I knew some people who discovered that…

Bob Greene, Oprah’s fitness guru sez: “Hey, let’s rap while sitting on giant blue balls.”EA Sports Active features videos by Oprah’s fitness expert Bob Greene. He’s been on her show jillions of times (I’ve heard), co-written books with her (I’ve seen). One of the few Oprah shows I’ve seen had her in a restaurant after she’d dropped a lot of weight lecturing/scolding her staff on how they should order a salad that met specific criteria she knew all about, or they utterly hated themselves and were doomed to early death. Have you seen Oprah the last few years? Yeah, I skirted by any Bob Greene videos.

Went through a solid hour of activity from EA Sports Active. It was VERY lunge and squat happy. I did it obediently. Scoffed “This is EASY. People DO this for exercise and think it makes a difference?” Lady voice complimented me on pacing and form.

Tried to pick a suitable customized avatar. I think all the models make you look about 22 years old. Below is the closest I could get:

Nudge that body type thing to the left = too skinny. Tried to be realistic about hairline, color, height, all that stuff. THIS virtual dude is ready to inline skate (one of the activities I did in this hour), in real life? Not so much. Clothing options were all more current and hip than Real Life me, too. Bet this virtual me probably goes to cooler concerts all the time, too.

My avatar, one notch toward chubby. TOO chubby (I hope), but note the arms are still JACKED no matter what the body type selection.Spouse got home from her trip to the gym. I packed up shop. Thought I would probably give this EA Sports Active thing another try down the road. Unstrapped the contraption from my leg. Folded up the resistance band. Started up the morning.

Next day, legs were really, really stiff. Those squats and lunges kicked my ass (or my heels hitting my ass literally kicked my ass). The sort of good muscle soreness that indicates good exercise. Though sitting on the toilet puts pressure on my tenderized haunches and make the pain receptors say: “Hey, hey! What the heck? Ow!”

After I recuperate, I’ll use the program again. I want to show that lady trainer that I can do powerful side kicks AND left and right crosses consistently and knock the hell out of that pretend punching bag. She will nod or give a compliment. I shall blush slightly then stand a little prouder the rest of the day hoping I closed the blinds to all the windows so the neighbors couldn’t see.

Art, Music, Pop Culture

Time has not been kind to ‘Captain EO’

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Watched the Captain EO Tribute: Presented in 3-D today at Disneyland. Even when I saw in in the late-ish 80s (’86? ’87?) it was slapdash, disjointed, nonsensical, and dorky on at least three different levels. Weak-ass songs, shoddy choreography mimicking more inspired videos by MJ, here performed by people in pajamas. Theater was only 1/3 full, but even at the Kremlin there were slow days of visiting the waxen corpse in Lenin’s Tomb.

But, hoo-boy.

George Lucas directed, Francis Ford Coppola produced (or was it the other way around?) and the signs were all there that the Star Wars prequels were going to suck 13 years ahead of time. Incoherent script. Things like “Hey, here’s X, doing that thing X does all the time.” [X does that thing]. Everyone: “Oh, X…”

Accountants cackling at the thoughts of how much merchandise with X people will have to buy because it’s 3-D! Michael Jackson! George Lucas! That guy who did The Godfather! We put some outerspace stuff in there with peew-peew-peew laser beams ‘n’ shit! And it’s got elements of Aliens and Tron but with mediocre-Broadway musical design, airbrush makeup, & songs! Something for everyone! And Michael Jackson can shoot blue and orange bolts easier than making a fart, just by feeling!

Mercifully, some people in the audience laughed when the Borg-ish bad guys were converted by the power of Michael Jackson b-sides to become highly-moussed pop-lock dancers. Many (me fo’ sho’) recalled when pop-lock/break dancers were dropped into entertainments, and it was exciting – because OMFG some spinning on the ground and walking like robots was ABOUT TO GET DONE! Remember that guy at the end of Footloose? Many of us were parsing his moves and imitating him in school hallways back in the day. Then talked defensively about how we were so much better.

Then the movie was over, some applauded. Not presumably because the movie was any good, maybe out of politeness, as if a member of the Jackson family was in the theater. I didn’t applaud. It was around Captain EO and Bad that Michael Jackson lost his way. Mimicking the heat and energy that once moved him, enough to fool many he was still digging it, though his flame was dimming.

I’d rather have spent the whole 10 minutes or whatever looking at Anjelica Huston in that electric blue dress billowing in the dawn. Pleasing, camp, stirring all at once. A vision all too brief. Alas.

Art, Music, Pop Culture

Shakira ‘Rabiosa’

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Caught this video, thought “Who’s the brunette? She’s kind of cute.” Saw the in the opening title it was Shakira. Thought “Still kind of cute, I mourn that magnificent mane she whips around.”

It is unlikely I will buy a Shakira record. Many years ago I complained her songs regularly mashed 3-7 genres, which induced disorientation and groove whiplash.

BUT(T)…

From the start I have admired her self-possession. In her videos she seems aware and in control at all times. That is hot.

About five years ago at a then-annual “Man’s Weekend” with high school friends, my buddy J, knowing I prattled on and on imitating Shakira’s hiccupy songs and dissecting them, rented a Shakira concert video. We watched it while playing some game (or maybe porn on an adjacent tv?) but I kept looking at the Shakira concert video in preference over whatever we were collectively doing.

“Look at that!” I would marvel. Shakira working the crowd, hard, and they were LOVING it. She was strong. We may have even had the sound off.

A confident woman directing the music, the crowd, the staging, deploying every wiggle and look into the audience knowing their effects. That was wicked hot. My buddy J, an accomplished drummer and showman, also marveled at her showmanship. So very different than the current gaggle of ditzes who walk as if they are in shoes for the first time ever.

And, oh lord, those hips.

Then shortly into this video, Shakira’s dirty blonde mane was revealed still in tact. And all was right again.

BTW, I’ve seen her in her presumably natural brunette hair. When long, it still totally works.

Activity, Music, Pop Culture, Writing

Flying back from Chicago

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‘Cloud Gate’ by Anish Kapoor (also known as The Bean”) in Chicago’s Millennium ParkOn a plane headed home. Four and a half hours to kill. Groggy. I typically have trouble sleeping the night before traveling. Not with worry, but wondering if I should dash out and do one more thing in a famous place I may never see again. Flush away the minor concerns of sleeping and packing and proper sleep. Grab the supply of the wines of experience to fill my brain and have it swirl around in the hope that between my eyes and the cheat of a camera it will stain the walls or its residue will settle at the base of memory to give an aroma when scratched.

I packed in stages. Made up one last jaunt. Came back to the room and packed some more, then split the difference: stayed in the room and selected photos with their subdued colors (Chicago was overcast, but mild, the whole time) and lack of depth and sound and smell and motion and will and posted them to share. Wrote terse captions while my sense of geography and paths were fresh. Fell asleep after 2:00 a.m.

Woke up at 5:30. Push-ups. Shower. Wimbledon on television. Reviewed the comments on the posted photos and videos. Enjoyed the attention but also the reward of delivering the boon of new visions or evoking memories for some people who are dear, others I’ve not seen in decades, still others I’ve never met or have spoken with for scant seconds or minutes. An exhaling gust at my deeds and my people. I turn on my heel and remove the shaman robes and set them on the rack, or hand them to someone else to don. Can’t recall if the robes are in a closet or another’s possession. I had to pack, and only know the robes did not drop to the floor.

I get to airports at least two hours early. It’s prudent, but also to get through security and take strolls up and down concourses to get some exercise into a day of being launched across states and time zones, but while sitting on my ass.

An actor from a cult t.v. show (Michael Horse – Tommy “Hawk” on ‘Twin Peaks’) popular 20 years past walked by, slightly hunched, into the Men’s Room. Wiry white hair to his shoulders. Blue denim jacket with a patch of a white hand making the peace sign, words “American Indian Activist” over that logo. He looked well, and not visibly anxious about being in public. I let him go pee instead of saying “Hey!”

On the plane as it ably performs its aeronautical miracle of transport, but the cabin air is hot and muggy. The air nodules in the console above offer no cooling, allowing minimal airflow like pointing a body-temperature, sustained, stink-free dilated fart lasting several hours.

Big gourmet headphones (not Bose!) clamped over my head, I am surrounded by rectangles. This journal. Book of poetry on my lap but under the seat tray. When Music player wedged between my legs piping about an hour of The Western Canon audiobook (a chapter about Marcel Proust) before I switch to Québécoise chanteuse Martha Wainwright trills and torches Piaf songs ably and with a full voice she does not commit to her own songs. One bar of organic fair trade chocolate in my belly, another bar of another kind in my bag at my feet. Laptop in that bag. Portfolio holding notes and outlines of a writing project. Kindle. Powered-down smartphone in my bag (pssst… you don’t truly have to shut it down, the crew only needs that for your attention during the tender take off and landing phases – so says science and airline pilot columnists). Girl two seats down jumping from movie to movie on her parents’ laptop. Rows of monitors mounted above us play the CGI cartoon film Rango and I wonder if someone in an airline meeting room raised a hand and suggested they routinely calibrated their monitors. Am guessing that person was shut down by a bean counter or a philistine boss who sees no problem with wildly different hues, washed out or blown out colors that look nothing like what artists and other billion dollar companies intended. The same kind of philistine who thinks the wide screen HD televisions with murky non-HD programs look just fine so long as the stretched image fits the whole screen even with people looking like squat blotchy toads. Usually within minutes in a hotel room I’m trying to circumvent the pokey Fisher Price remote and leaning behind the t.v. searching for buttons or knobs to make the window to the world or to fantasy look normal.

I have a fever. Wish they would hook up the apertured fart vents above us to a frost giant. Can I roll down the window? Frost along the edges show it’s nice and cool outside.

Pop Culture, Religion

“I believe that in 1978 god changed his mind about black people.”

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When looking at the cosmic membrane that gets pressed in one place, to rise in another, it looks like the Mormon Church bankrolling the shitty, hateful Proposition 8 in California is responsible for the revenge of The Book of Mormon musical triumphing on Broadway.

Studying Mormonism was a hobby back in the early 90s, and The Book of Mormon hits on a LOT of the absurdities of Mormon cosmology. Men get their own planets in heaven, the Mormon President speaks to god, Joseph Smith transcribed the contents from golden plates he never allowed anyone to see. But there’s simply too much idiocy – leading to authentic human misery – for even one musical to cover. The song “I Believe” performed on The Tony Awards packs a bunch of ’em in, though. In the plot Elder Price is one of two missionaries assigned to Uganda for his mission and he has to deal with violent warlords and an AIDS-ridden culture in which many people with AIDS feel if they have sex with a virgin their AIDS will go away.

Among the things left out of the musical? Satan and Jesus as brothers. Joseph Smith was a convicted con man before his “revelation”. Bigamy. Constant divine revelations about purely bureaucratic matters – though the musical does have instances of people making up doctrine and revelations right on the spot.

A single line in “I Believe” touches on the generations of doctrinal racism “I believe that in 1978 god changed his mind about black people.” The whole book is horribly written (yes, I read it once) in the style of a mock King James Bible. Did Jesus come to the Americas? Check. Was a lost tribe of Israel running around the Americas? Sure, why not!

All embarrassments to humanity now. What’s additionally unforgiveable is the Mormon Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints Bachman-Turner Overdrive is their bankrolling the forces that passed Prop 8 in California. Is there any issue in our country MORE OBVIOUSLY DOOMED TO HATEFUL OBSCURITY than banning homosexuals from full legal rights, including marriage? The arguments are exactly the same as those who stood against mixed-race marriages. Those bigots ALSO cited holy writ (which is always POORLY writ and never, ever holy) to make their case. “Based on my book of made-up nonsensical rules from a barely literate dolt…”

The Book of Mormon musical on Broadway is the artistic community dragging the silly Mormons into the light for ridicule. Long overdue. Hopefully the light will exercise Mormonism from otherwise considerate, compassionate people who will realize they don’t need generations of compounded flimflammery to be nice people. They are already nice people.

Parenting, Pop Culture

X-Men + fatherly pride

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Saw ‘X-Men First Class’ with the family tonight after a dinner of noodles. Movie was fine. James MacAvoy used the phrase “groovy mutation” TWICE in the movie, which is pretty boss. Not a Marvel kid growing up, more DC, but I could recognize most of the characters.

I cannot read your thoughts with mittens on.

But, ugh, two black characters and one of them turns to the bad guys (Lisa Bonet and Lenny Kravitz’ daughter – her celeb pedigree very obvious) and the other dies in service to the other characters. Ugh.

Exiting the theater, we had driven in separate cars. Which kid would ride with whom? I mimicked the movie and said to the kids they could choose the side of cooperation, hope, and peace and follow me, Charles Xavier or their mom, militant and forging a new path like Magneto. Son chose me, daughter my spouse (the usual arrangement) but spouse said that if ANYONE was Magneto, it was me. Family agreed. In the movie lobby, I pulled my shirt over my head so only my face poked out from the neckhole I said: “Stop trying to READ my MIND!” Son came up next to me and did the same. The telepaths thus foiled, they headed to the car on the other side of the mall.

Strolling with my son through the mall, I looked down at his 11 year-old self and saw he was already acquiring an adolescent shuffle and slight slump, hands in pocket, a running stream of verbally summarizing everything. I realized I would not be looking down at him much longer. In the parking lot again, as he was talking about the Wilderness Survival-themed daycamp he was at today, he glanced up at me and I got a glimpse of the teenager to come, but also over that the man he would be someday. I beamed proudly at him. He smiled back and continued with his story. Got in the car, I let him sit in the front seat on the ride home (still a thrill for him).

Okay, January Jones. Betty Draper was a MARVELOUS character the first two seasons of ‘Mad Men’ and she has not had as much to chew on the last two seasons. But, she was a SEXPOT character in ‘X-Men’ with lots of skin and heaving bosom. Is there any actress so beautiful and yet so astonishingly unsexy? Not repellent, but the constant effect of looking at her is: admiration, then feeling I should feel stirred, and yet Eros sits on the floor eating a sandwich. A phenomenon bordering on the medical.

Pop Culture

Liking Rufus Wainwright backwards

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I was first aware of Rufus Wainwright in a group photo that ran in Rolling Stone in a gallery of spawn from music stars. Saw his debut album for sale and went “Okay, whatever.” Passed it by. Then in late 1998 this ad came out for the Gap in which Rufus sings “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve”:

My reaction? What is up with that minor chord mopey caterwauling? Bleh! Not my thing. Pass!

In 2001 was aware his album Poses got some acclaim. Not tempted to buy it. Minor-key caterwauling. Not my thing. Pass!

Jump to 2007. Heard his song “Going to a Town”, about losing faith in the U.S. as it denies rights for gays saying they are unworthy of love or respect, is lost in superstition to a pretend god, rejects world compassion, awash in arrogance. He resolves to head to a place that has already fallen and taking his inspiration there. Bush politics and the trouncing of the forces of reason made this resonant. I bought the song, and then the album: Release the Stars.

Got engrossed by the creativity, breadth of sounds, daring, cheek, and feeling. I’d also matured to the point where life itself was more minor key, yearning, and ambiguous. I started buying and listening to his albums in reverse order. And getting into his biography. Especially the album Poses with its salutation to a life of indulgence, compulsion, debauchery, staying up too late, adolescence. Rufus was saying goodbye in 2001 to this phase of his life, or wondering if he ever would. After the album he had to deal with a severe meth addiction. A great anthem for those who seek to get lost in destructive habits and find wisdom there and hope to get out, or stay lost: “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk”

Cigarettes and chocolate milk
These are just a couple of my cravings
Everything it seems I like’s a little bit stronger
A little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me

If i should buy jellybeans
Have to eat them all in just one sitting
Everything it seems I like’s a little bit sweeter
A little bit fatter, a little bit harmful for me

And then there’s those other things
Which for several reasons we won’t mention
Everything about them is a little bit stranger
A little bit harder, a little bit deadly

It isn’t very smart
Tends to make one part so broken-hearted

Sitting here remembering me
Always been a shoe made for the city
Go ahead, accuse me of just singing about places
Where scrappy boys faces
Have general run of the town
Playing with prodigal sons
Takes a lot of sentimental valiums
Can’t expect the world to be a Raggedy Andy
While running on empty
You little old doll with a frown

You got to keep in the game
Maintaining mystique while facing forward

I suggest a reading of ‘A Lesson in Tightropes’
or ‘Surfing Your High Hopes’ or ‘Adios Kansas’

It isn’t very smart
Tends to make one part so broken-hearted

Still there’s not a show on my back
Holes or a friendly intervention
I’m just a little bit heiress, a little bit Irish
A little bit Tower of Pisa whenever I see you
So please be kind if i’m a mess

Cigarettes and chocolate milk

Onward listening to his music swirled, and in August 2009 I went with a longtime friend to see Rufus play a concert in Seattle. Great show. Great company. Spent several hours with my friend catching up on a decade of history and shifting from deep to frivolous then back again through the afternoon/evening. Had fun at the show enduring a dreary, precious opening act. Rufus was very engaging, gave the audience the songs and the banter they wanted. He included songs from upcoming projects including his opera Prima Donna.

November 2009 Rufus announced a new album: All Days Are Nights: Songs for Lulu. “Lulu” is the name of a dark side diva personna. Many of the songs dealt with his mother’s long battle with cancer, and facing her probable death. Rufus’ mother is Canadian folk singer Kate McGarrigle. His sister is Martha Wainwright, another singer and recording artist.

In January 2010, Rufus’ mother died. In February 2010 the album was released. In August 2010 I went to see Rufus in concert, again in Seattle, again with the longtime friend. I arrived scatter-brained and distracted. My friend was very patient. Martha Wainwright opened. I had her solo album I Know You’re Married, But I Have Feelings Too. The writing was clever, but her voice reedy and tough for me to listen to for more than 1-2 songs at a time. As the opening act? Martha was feral and worked the crowd and the microphone stand and seemed ready to break and to pounce in turns. Very moving presence, and her voice was in great form. Her prowling had me shifting in the seat. I was bowled over. It was fun to discover that next to my friend and gave a sense of now I was lacking earlier. We were buzzing and inspired during the intermission.

When it was time for Rufus to take the stage, there were explicit directions given to the crowd: no applause for the first section of the show. Why? We would soon discover.

Rufus performed the entirety of his album as Lulu, in a long blue dress, tall plumage, and heavily marked up face. He deliberately booked six months of solid concerts after his mother’s death in an effort to get lost in music, delay the grieving. This was his last show of the tour with his sister. Below are the opening two numbers: “Where are You New York?” and “Sad With What I Have”:

The next song is “Martha” about trying to reach his sister with their mother near death and an estranged father. After the series of songs were over, he got up from the piano, exited the stage as the crowd stayed silent until the long blue train of his dress almost slipped out of sight. After a few minutes Rufus entered the stage as himself and gave a performance on piano and guitar, and sang several of his solo songs with his sister along with some favorite songs of their mother. Very affectionate, very engrossing. All throughout I was delighted by the music, taken to deep places and memories and glad to have an attuned friend who was also having an enjoyable time. “Martha” below, to close the loop:

Rufus is now a father with his longtime boyfriend, a ferociously handsome and funny German dude. Rufus plays off the contrast in their dispositions in “Sad With What I Have”. The mother is the daughter of Leonard Cohen. Looking forward to what he does next.