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Phil Ramone and Danielle Evin: Dog Ears Music: The Family Hasn't Left Yet, Part 2

2009-11-27T17:28:11Z

Back to Part 1

The Reflecting Skin

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Genre: Electronic
Song: Traffickers
Album: Ghostly Swim (Bonus Track Version)

Cody Chesnutt

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Genre: R&B/Soul
Song: 5 on a Joyride
Album: Me and You and Everyone We Know

Thee Oh Sees

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Peanut Butter Oven
Album: Help

Wilco

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Genre: Rock
Song: The Thanks I Get
Album: The Thanks I Get

Noah Georgeson

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Angry Afternoon
Album: Find Shelter

Sly & The Family Stone

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Genre: Soul
Song: Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)
Album: Greatest Hits

Super Furry Animals

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Genre: Rock
Song: Show Your Hand
Album: Hey Venus! (Expanded Edition)

Sonny Rollins

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Genre: Jazz
Song: Where Are You
Album: The Bridge (Remastered)

Boz Scaggs

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Genre: Pop
Song: We're All Alone
Album: Silk Degrees

The Fireman

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Genre: Rock
Song: Two Magpies
Album: Electric Arguments

Les Claypool

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Robot Chicken
Album: Of Whales and Woe (Bonus Track Version)

James Gang

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Genre: Rock
Song: Thanks
Album: Funk #49

Ian Hunter

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Genre: Rock
Song: Words (Big Mouth)
Album: Shrunken Heads

Bruce Springsteen

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Genre: Rock
Song: The Fever
Album: Bruce Springsteen: 18 Tracks

Kurt Vile

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Inside Looking Out
Album: Childish Prodigy (Bonus Track Version)

Public Image Ltd.

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Genre: Rock
Song: Home
Album: Compact Disc

Donny Hathaway

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Genre: Rock
Song: Giving Up
Album: Donny Hathaway

Penguin Cafe Orchestra

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Genre: New Age
Song: Zopf: Surface Tension
Album: Music from the Penguin Cafe

Hafdis Huld

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Genre: Rock
Song: Ice Cream Is Nice
Album: Dirty Paper Cup

Gustavo Santaolalla

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Genre: Soundtrack
Song: Deportation/Iguazu
Album: Babel (Music from and Inspired by the Motion Picture)

Bob Marley

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Genre: Reggae
Song: Treat You Right
Album: 20 Best of Bob Marley

Tony Joe White & Shelby Lynne

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Genre: Country
Song: Can't Go Back Home
Album: The Heroines

Cloud Cult

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Thanks
Album: The Meaning of 8

Jon Brion

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Genre: Soundtrack
Song: All Plays Out (Fire Sale Version)
Album: Synecdoche, New York (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

Elmore James

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Genre: Blues
Song: I Need You
Album: The Sky Is Crying

Dr. Dog

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Genre: Rock
Song: The Old Days
Album: Fate

Yoshida Brothers

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Genre: World
Song: My Heart Holds
Album: Yoshida Brothers III

Baby Huey

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Genre: R&B/Soul
Song: Mama Get Yourself Together
Album: The Baby Huey Story - The Living Legend

Wyclef Jean

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Genre: Hip Hop
Song: Gone Till November
Album: Wyclef Jean Presents the Carnival (feat. Refugee Allstars)

Pop Levi

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Sugar Assault Me Now
Album: The Return to Form Black Magick Party

Sam & Dave

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Genre: R&B/Soul
Song: I Thank You
Album: The Best of Sam & Dave

Astrud Gilberto

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Genre: Jazz
Song: Meditation
Album: The Astrud Gilberto Album

The Cloud Room

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Genre: Pop
Song: The Hunger
Album: The Cloud Room

Mary J. Blige

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Genre: R&B/Soul
Song: No Happy Holidays
Album: Mary (Limited Edition)

Coldplay

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Genre: Alternative
Song: We Never Change
Album: Parachutes

Vladimir Horowitz

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Genre: Classical
Song: Noveletten, Op. 21: No. 1 in F (Markiert und Kräftig)
Album: Horowitz - Complete Recordings

A.R. & Machines

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Genre: Rock
Song: Cosmic Vibration
Album: Die Grüne Reise - The Green Journey

The Last Shadow Puppets

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Time Has Come Again
Album: The Age of the Understatement

Albert Hammond Jr.

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Holiday
Album: Yours to Keep

Steve Miller Band

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Genre: Rock
Song: Children of the Future
Album: Steve Miller Band

Tim McGraw

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Genre: Country Pop
Song: When the Stars Go Blue
Album: Tim McGraw Reflected: Greatest Hits, Vol. 2

Ambient Music Therapy

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Genre: New Age
Song: Sleep: Rainy Ocean Waves (Ambient Sleep Therapy)
Album: Ambient Music Therapy

Phil Ramone and Danielle Evin: Dog Ears Music: The Family Hasn't Left Yet Thanksgiving Playlist

2009-11-27T16:57:06Z

Neil Young

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Genre: Rock
Song: On the Way Home (Live at Massey Hall 1971)
Album: Live at Massey Hall 1971 (Deluxe Version)

Thelonious Monk

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Genre: Jazz
Song: Stuffy Turkey
Album: It's Monk's Time

Black Diamond Heavies

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Genre: Rock
Song: Poor Brown Sugar
Album: Every Damn Time

Gregory & The Hawk

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Genre: Folk
Song: Kill the Turkey
Album: In Your Dreams

Joanna Newsom

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Genre: Folk
Song: Peach, Plum, Pear
Album: The Milk-Eyed Mender

Bernard Herrmann & Joel McNeely

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Genre: Soundtrack
Song: Cleanup
Album: Psycho (The Complete Original Motion Picture Score)

Alice Coltrane

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Genre: Jazz
Song: I Want to See You
Album: Monastic Trio

Benji Hughes

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Genre: Rock
Song: How Many Birds?
Album: How Many Birds? - Single

John Lennon

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Genre: Rock
Song: Cold Turkey
Album: Lennon Legend

Glenn Gould

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Genre: Classical
Song: Goldberg Variations for Keyboard, BWV 988: Aria
Album: Bach: The Goldberg Variations (1955 Version)

Porter Wagoner

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Genre: Country
Song: Eat, Drink and Be Merry (Tomorrow You'll Cry)
Album: The Essential Porter Wagoner

Amadou & Mariam

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Genre: World
Song: Bozos
Album: Welcome to Mali

Richard Swift

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Genre: Alternative
Song: Beautifulheart
Album: The Richard Swift Collection, Vol. 1 - The Novelist/Walking Without Effort

Charlie Parker & Miles Davis

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Genre: Jazz
Song: Chasin' the Bird
Album: Birdsong

Frank Sinatra

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Genre: Classic
Song: The House I Live In
Album: Portrait of Sinatra - Columbia Classics

Joel Grey

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Genre: Pop
Song: Who Are You Now
Album: The Magic of Joel Grey

Edie Brickell & The New Bohemians

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Genre: Rock
Song: Air of December
Album: Shooting Rubberbands

Gene Krupa

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Genre: Jazz
Song: Begin the Beguine
Album: Gene Krupa Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements

King Britt and Sister Gertrude

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Genre: Electronic Gospel
Song: New World in My View
Album: King Britt Presents: Sister Gertrude

Ryan Adams

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Genre: Rock
Song: Strawberry Wine
Album: 29

Count Basie & Tony Bennett

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Genre: Jazz
Song: I Guess I'll Have to Change My Plans
Album: Basie Swings, Bennett Sings

Clara Rockmore

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Genre: Classical
Song: Water Boy
Album: Clara Rockmore's Lost Theremin Album

Bob Dylan

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Genre: Rock
Song: Shelter from the Storm
Album: The Essential Bob Dylan

Maria McKee

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Genre: Rock
Song: Why Wasn't I More Grateful (When Life Was Sweet)
Album: You Gotta Sin to Get Saved

Al Kooper

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Genre: Rock
Song: Am I Wrong
Album: Black Coffee

Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears

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Genre: Rock
Song: Big Booty Woman
Album: Tell 'Em What Your Name Is!

The Everly Brothers

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Genre: Rock
Song: Bird Dog
Album: The Everly Brothers' Best

Crosby & Nash

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Genre: Rock
Song: Where Will I Be?
Album: Graham Nash & David Crosby

Led Zeppelin

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Genre: Rock
Song: Thank You
Album: Led Zeppelin II

Chocolate Genius Inc.

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Genre: Rock
Song: The Beginning of Always
Album: Black Yankee Rock

Alberta Cross

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Genre: Rock
Song: Devil's All You Ever Had
Album: The Thief & the Heartbreaker

Patti Smith

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Genre: Rock
Song: Trespasses
Album: Trampin'

The Stanley Brothers

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Genre: Country
Song: Little Glass of Wine
Album: The Complete Columbia Stanley Brothers

Dmitri Shostakovich

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Genre: Classical
Song: Three Fantastic Dances: II. Andantino
Album: Great Recordings of the Century - Shostakovich: Piano Concertos, Three Fantastic Dances, Preludes & Fugues

Continue on to Part 2 for the rest of the songs!

Pamela Ezell: Invictus Translation: Obama Needs Rugby

2009-11-27T16:10:23Z

During the opening moments of director Clint Eastwood's Invictus, when Nelson Mandela (played by Morgan Freeman) is inaugurated as president of an after-apartheid South Africa, it dawned on me, it was a bigger twist of fate for Mandela to be president there than for Obama to be president here.

I wondered why there hasn't been more in the popular culture linking the two leaders and their transcendent personal histories. They both became their country's first black president after three centuries of white rule. They both rose to prominence from humble circumstances, and by following a path of education and activism. They both won the Nobel Peace Prize, largely for their efforts to restore diplomacy after periods of nationalistic isolation. And they're both leaders who practice a message of tolerance and forgiveness, despite whatever vitriol surrounds them. One faced the realities of post-apartheid; the other faces the myth of post-racism. (Some might posit they are both native-born Africans, but I digress...)

The point is, there are many similarities between these two leaders, and this movie, with its simple portrayal of a remarkable man who sought to unite a deeply divided nation in support of a rugby team renewed my hope in President Obama. I thought to myself, I need to give him another chance, to see the glass as half full.

In the film, Mandela makes several statements about understanding one's enemy, and, like Obama, is committed to governing all the people, not just those who voted for him. I thought, Hmmm: bipartisanship. Mandela sees his opportunity in the Springboks, a team synonymous with the old separatist South Africa. Obama has been looking for his opportunity to unite this country behind healthcare, economic reform, and war. These issues, though of grave importance, do not unify a nation. They actually serve to divide us more deeply. We need something symbolic to remind us we are one "team." Now I feel even worse that Obama and Oprah couldn't get us the Olympics.

Invictus isn't a great movie but it's got great moments. Eastwood said during a Q&A at the Director's Guild he'd thought for awhile "Morgan should play Mandela," but it was Freeman who brought the script to Eastwood. It's not a biopic in the conventional sense, but it does provide glimpses into Mandela's life, most notably a trip to the actual cell where he spent 27 years of his life on Robben Island. Eastwood shot Invictus on location, with an almost exclusively-South African cast. Matt Damon looks great as the captain of the Springboks - solidly fit, with bleached hair and what sounds like a pretty good Afrikaner accent. Latin is missing from my life, so, until I googled it, I didn't know "invictus" meant "unconquered." The movie's got more rugby than I've ever seen, not just on film, but anywhere. I'm into now. Might see some in real life.

On a scale of one to 10, one being "don't see," and 10 being "go see, even if you have to hire a sitter," I'd say, Invictus is a six: add it to your Netflix queue or watch it on pay-per-view. Those lucky enough to be on a trans-Atlantic flight next year will probably have a chance to see Invictus on the plane, since its political theme and World Cup rugby depictions will undoubtedly make the film more popular abroad than it is here.

I wonder if President Obama will see it. If he does, he may take heart when the pundits grouse about Mandela after only one day, asking in the press, "Is he qualified for the job?" Mandela answers, "It's a fair question." And indeed it is. There and then, here and now.

Invictus will open in limited theatrical release on December 11, 2009.

Bernard-Henri Lévy: Polanski's Release From Prison

2009-11-27T15:38:22Z

The decision to free Roman Polanski is a wise decision. It honors the people who took it. It shows that the arguments developed by the movie director's partisans -- including those published on the French review's website of La Règle du Jeu -- have finally been fruitful. It shows that Polanski's French lawyers, Hervé Témime and Georges Kiejman, were right to remain tenacious. At this very moment, I am thinking about Emmanuelle, his wife. I am thinking about his two kids who saw their dad's name ignominiously dragged through the mud. I am mostly thinking about him: Roman Polanski whom I don't know but whose fate has moved me so much. Nothing will repair the days he has spent in prison. Nothing will erase the immense, unbelievable injustice he has been subjected to. Nothing will take away the hysteria of those ones who have never stopped pouring contempt upon him, hounding him through hatred and asking for his punishment as if we were living the darkest and most ferocious hours of the McCarthysm era all over again. At least, the nightmare is about to end. At least the end of the hell is looming. And this, for the time being, is what does matter.

Tallulah Morehead: Survivor: Samoa: Deja Ew!

2009-11-27T15:11:32Z

Suspecting that their viewership would be down on Thanksgiving, while people watched football games, or inspirational TV movies on The Hallmark Channel, or just screamed at their ungrateful children, last night's show did not advance the game, but was rather a look-back show. Not exactly a clip show, but rather, a deleted scenes show.

The problem with deleted scenes, as all DVD devotees know, is that it usually quickly becomes obvious why they were deleted in the first place. Anyway, we saw old strategies of long-gone Survivors. I really never wanted to see Fat Chef Mike again, let alone after a large meal of rum-soaked turkey, and getting severely sauced. It's bad enough having to look at Shambles's hair.

We learned that at the start, Erik appointed himself "Triggerman" to Galu leader Black Russell, making himself Oddjob to Russell's Goldfinger. If this had been an action movie, that might have held some significance, but triggerman to a leader who wore himself down and washed out of the game, without ever needing anyone "triggered," is kind of a nothing role. No wonder they never wasted airtime on it before. Fat lot of good it did either of them. Erik got blindsided out by his own tribe, and Russell, it turned out, couldn't cut it at all, and went out on a medical.

Watching early clips of Tribe Zsa Zsa was like attending your forty-year high school reunion; you're surrounded by total strangers who all know who you are, but whom you're sure you've never set eyes on before. (I recently attended my 90-year high school reunion. It was just me. I had to keep telling myself I didn't look a day older, and then tell myself what I'd been up to all these years, like I had any idea. I promised to stay in touch with me, but I know I won't. The odd thing was, I had to travel from California to Long Island, New York, just to attend an event at which I was the sole guest. This is what happens when the event planner is dead.)

So in these Zsa Zsa clips there was some old woman barking at MickMoron, while some slightly attractive guy asked his help. Who are these people? I'm supposed to remember people voted out in September? It was hard enough recognizing my future-ex-husband Jaison when his yellow shirt was still pressed. (Okay, I reran the opening titles. "Old Woman" was Betsy The Cop, and "Slightly Attractive Guy" was Racist Backwoods Ben. I'd completely forgotten what he looked like.)

We saw Mick Moron's early strategy as elected Tribe leader. While Black Russell took the role very seriously, dictating to all and sundry Galuvians who should do what, and who shall suffer His Wrath, and while Shambles, in her one day as Tribe Leader, thought she was General Patton reincarnated, and tried to march on from Berlin to Moscow over General Eisenhower's objections, MickMoron's leadership style was, "I don't know. What do you think we should do?" If he'd had Dick Cheney on the tribe, he'd have been happily deregulating the oil industry.

We revisited Psycho Russell, back when his chest was still freshly-waxed, forming his early string of fake alliances with all the people he has since disposed of, calling himself "The Puppet Master," although he found along the way that some of his male puppets were Pinocchios, and had no strings to pull.

"My tribe will believe anything I tell them at any point, because they're just stupid." This was true for some of them, but Jaison is a Stanford law student with a degree from Oxford. He is not stupid, although he's not always a strong strategizer, as he doesn't think ahead. But these days, trust in Russell is pretty well non-existent, except for Natalie, and his continued survival has been due more to his uncanny power to find mildly-hidden immunity idols, and Galu's relentless insistence on self-destructing.

We saw again Psycho Russell emptying his tribe's canteens in the dead of night, justifying this childish prank with "I'm a do anything it takes to win this game." ("I'm a" is Russell's odd all-purpose phrase. I've yet to figure out what actual English words "I'm a" is supposed to replace.) 19 people have won Survivor so far, and not one of them found it required them to empty out their tribe's water supply at night. You need a strong tribe to win challenges, and come to the merge with numbers. Russell effectively helped Zsa Zsa turn into a tribe of loveable losers who couldn't win an immunity challenge if they played against themselves, thus sending himself into the merge with substantially smaller numbers than Galu, a terrible strategy. Again it's worked for him so far because of his skill at locating idols, and the lousy post-merge strategy of Galu, which Russell did not create, though he has exploited it effectively.

But we also learned of a new strategy of his we'd not seen before, and one which Mrs. Psycho Russell, back in Hell's Service Porch, Texas, may well not find too laudatory, unless of course she's a beaten-down dishrag, afraid to ever cross her seriously-disturbed psychotic husband. After all, only a devoted masochist would have married Russell in the first place.

One of the blonde bimbos: "I just prefer to have someone next to me, because it's so cold. Russell, you want to come sleep next to me?"

Russell: "Yea." Wow, he really took coaxing.

Russell: "It's funny how any girl, at any level, will cuddle with you at night because it's freezing out here. And it is very strategic." Yes dear, I wasn't being unfaithful. Cuddling with all the hot blonde bimbos every night was just "strategy." I wasn't glad to see them. That was just an immunity idol in my pants. (Oh, and I have not the slightest idea of what Russell meant by "at any level." Level with his eyes? Level with his pants?)

Russell, at night, seen through "night vision": "Oh, by the way, I'm happily married."

MickMoron: "Yea, good luck with that, you all."

Russell told us: "This is a game we're playing. You're supposed to lie, cheat, and steal." Well we'd seen him lie and steal before. Now at last, we saw him cheating. (By the way, when playing a game, you are not supposed to cheat. Who wants to play games with cheaters?)

Russell went on: "My wife's probably gonna be pissed off. Ha, ha, ha." I wonder if he's still laughing at that this morning. "Everything I do out here is playing the game." Russell, if you do win the million, bear in mind, it will become community property.

We saw The Viper Queen complaining about how out of it Shambles is: "She just doesn't get when she does something that annoys people, she just doesn't get it." This from a woman whose job is helping conservative lobbyists throw roadblocks against progressive legislation, while working to get regressive, repressive, "faith-based" laws on the books. Talk about someone who annoys people, and "just doesn't get it"!

The Viper Queen continued from on high, sowing the groundwork for the conflict that would eventually see her voted out: "She's 45 years old, and you'd think by then you'd get how to interact with people. That frustrates me, because I don't even like being around her." As if anyone would want to be around The Viper Queen, who, I might add, is a mere six years younger than Old Shambles. In fact, The Viper Queen is a grandmother, while Shambles is, by Christian or Mormon definitions of sex, probably still a virgin.

Rocket Scientist John put it another way, "The overt tomboyish behavior..." Overt Tomboyish Behavior. You mean like Chaz Bono's? "... I think turns a lot of people off..." The same people who complained about Adam Lambert's antics at the AMA's last weekend? "... especially when you have pretty girls here, like the hot chicks we have around here." He can not possibly be referring to The Viper Queen, who is neither pretty, nor a "chick." She's only "hot" under the collar.

We had Yasmin From Planet X referring to Shambles as "Shamu." That was a very rude thing to say about a lovely, sweet killer whale, especially coming from a psycho like Yasmin From Planet X, who got voted out by her tribe first, long before Shambles was even in the line of fire, because no one could stand being around her and her mouth.

We relived the making-fire drama of Galu, as Shambles, convinced that she alone was The Keeper of Prometheus's Secret, insisted on making fire, which she was pathologically incapable of doing. After watching her wear herself out making sparks but no fire, Danger Dave stepped in, and when he dug a fire pit to work in, Shambles was derisive. "Dave's just a complete and utter moron," said Shambles, who is a certifiable imbecile, about a man with a college degree, albeit, in "Opera," but still, where's Shambles's degree in anything? I have doubts that she even possesses a high school diploma."Nothing in my life ever operated without teamwork," Shambles added, unwittingly confessing that she's too stupid to have ever managed anything on her own in her whole life.

While Shambles was going on about how stupid Danger Dave was, Dave made a roaring fire. Of course, Danger Dave quickly exposed what his weakness is, and it's not his id nor his superego: "My awesomeness speaks for itself," said Dave, speaking on behalf of his awesomeness, just in case we hadn't heard it speaking for itself. "I'm the provider. I'm the firemaker." He left out, I'm the self-impressed pratt.

We saw again some of the game of tackle basketball (only on Survivor do we get such weird sports mash-ups), after which Jaison had a snit of, he thought, moral outrage, because Rocket Scientist John had played, he felt, too rough. Suck it up and be quiet, Jaison my darling. You're just making yourself look like a bad sport.

"Now I don't now who John is," said Jaison, admitting up front that, in what he was about to say, he didn't know what he was talking about, which is when you should shut up, "I know guys like this, guys who get ahead by not playing by the rules." Yes, Jaison, you do know someone like that. His name is Psycho Russell; he burned your socks the first night in camp, and he brags about cheating to win. But you do not know a damn thing about John, and playing rough in a game of tackle basketball is not cheating. It's the game.

Jaison, at least, manned up later, and said, "I should not have said what I said to John. Period." He then told a short version of the tale of how his father, from rural Mississippi, was "kicked off his land by the Klan," and went on to get a degree from Long Beach State, and a PhD from Stanford, and all without complaining. Jaison told how, when he bitches like he did about John, he feels he's letting his dad down. Jaison, my darling, let me kiss away the pain.

We got a follow-up to Shambles letting a chicken escape. The chicken, being a chicken and not a rocket scientist, didn't head off to parts unknown, but rather stayed near the Galu camp for days, taunting them with her "I'm here but you can't recapture me," clucking. That's right, it was a smug, Sadistic chicken. Erik took it personally, and became obsessed with outsmarting that darn bird.

The problem was simple. The chicken is better equipped to run through thick jungle than a tall man is, and also, the bird can fly, and knows how to cluck, "Is that all you got, skinny boy?"

Psycho Russell was dealing with an inner conflict: his desire to win by lying and by concealing the fact that he's already rich, against his desire to brag, brag, brag. We saw him at night, just dying to say to his tribemates, "You all think I'm a dumb redneck. Well I'm richer than alla you put together." Instead, he said silly, teenage girl stuff, like responding to "what's your secret?" with, "I can't tell you," and "do I really look like I'm a millionaire?" Oh please. Over on Castle and The Mentalist (Which, incidentally, are the exact same, identical show!), whenever someone says "Do I look like a murderer?" it's a dead giveaway that they are the killer.

Russell told us, "It's definitely not going to catch up with me here, 'cause I'll tell nobody until the end."

The very next morning Russell said to Mick, "I own an oil company in Houston... Last year I made one point seven million." He managed not to add, "I'm what J.R. Ewing would be if he were a grotesque troll instead of lovely Larry Hagman." Russell is a compulsive braggart. (MickMoron confessed that he's an anesthesiologist, which explains why such a physically attractive man nevertheless puts me to sleep. Unless he just thinks he's an anesthesiologist because people are always telling him he's a knockout.)

Psycho Russell, sharing his delusions with us, "Mick is a good guy. If I tell Mick I have money, he's gonna think he can trust me even more. I mean, if I would a thought that Mick would say anything about what I do for a living, then I wouldn't a told him."

MickMoron to us: "If it got down to he or I at the end somewhere, and that was the only ammo I had against him, of course I'd use it." Of course! Psycho Russell is very fond of telling us over and over how everyone on his tribe is an idiot because they believe all his lies. Well who is the idiot now?

We listened to Erik on the day of the merge: "[Zsa Zsa], they think that they're gonna strategize and make friends. What's Samoan for 'get the hell off my island'?" This again, was Erik, whom Zsa Zsa tricked Galu into voting out the next day! Erik, what's Samoan for, "It's not your island, bartender. Go chase your chicken"?

Shambles grew annoyed at being left out of Galu's plotting, although this was the closest they came to a smart move since the merge. Shambles is not intelligent, and has allies on Zsa Zsa. "I mean, I'm not seven, and that's how I'm being treated," she pouted to Danger Dave. Most of the seven-year-olds I've met are considerably smarter than Shambles, are more emotionally mature, and have stronger hand-eye co-ordination as well. Maybe they should treat her like she's five.

Shambles defended herself, "I've been bossy around camp, I let the chicken go, I lost the snorkel." Shambles hasn't really got the hang of this defending herself stuff. If Dave hadn't shut her up, she probably would have continued, "I made friends with the other tribe. I'm disloyal to Galu. I'm lousy at challenges. I have a crummy attitude. I whine, like I'm whining right now. I made enemies out of all the other women on Galu for no particular reason. I wear this mullet. I'm stupider than a bag of potato chips."

Danger Dave told her to relax, and know that the guys are taking her "way into it." Being told that she has allies looking out for her and watching her back pissed her off. I apologize to all bags of potato chips. Bags of potato chips are much smarter than Shambles. Shambles bristled at Dave: "I resent the fact that you guys are taking me way into it. You guys." Yea, how dare these guys look out for this moron and try to help her? What a liberty!

"I'm nobody's ninny," Shambles self-righteously sneered at Dave. Nope. She's her own ninny. By the way, this is the first time I've heard "ninny" used in a sentence by an adult in about 70 years.

Shambles rebuffed every offer of friendship or help extended to her by her tribemates through Dave. You just can't help some people. "The tribe of Galu is going to take me deep into the game. Oh, I'm so appreciative. These people can kiss my ass." I think that's a little farther than they are prepared to go, Shambles, though they might kiss your ass by mistake, since both of your ends are equally repellant. If she's wearing a bikini-line mullet too, it would be impossible to tell when she's upside down, and when she's not.

Erik's quest to catch Daisy the Chicken continued. "I think the way to catch this chicken, you gotta be smarter than the chicken, not stronger than the chicken." Bad idea, Erik. You are stronger than the chicken. Play to your strength. Because this chicken could beat you at Scrabble.

Erik set a trap for the chicken, using the fishing net, but when Daisy came to call, Erik had already grown bored, and wandered off, having the attention span of - well - a chicken. The trap was sprung though, and we learned for the first time that Daisy the chicken was indeed recaptured, by the very person who let it go in the first place, Shambles.

Said Shambles of the chicken, "It needed me, and I needed it." Shambles, it's true you needed the chicken, as it was good for you to do one thing to redeem your many, many, many failings, but the chicken did not need you. The chicken was just fine living free, not penned up by humans who intend to eventually eat her.

Erik took Shambles's capture of the chicken he fruitlessly stalked for 12 days as a personal victory, despite his not even being around when it happened. Well, Erik was, at this point, just hours away from being voted out, so I guess he needed some illusion of victory.

A short-lived Victory, as Russell's old psycho ways re-emerged. He got up in the dead of night, and set both chickens free. Russell the Chicken Liberator. Well, if he's in the Final Two, he's got the chicken vote sewn up. He will get votes from the fowl and the foul.

But Russell was reaching a new, even more disturbing level of creepiness. He put the immunity idol around his neck, and went wandering among his snoozing tribemates, watching them sleep, and gloating over his perceived superiority to them. I guess he'd voted out all his cuddlemates. You know, calling him "Psycho Russell" was supposed to be just a fun, joke nickname, but he really is psychotic. He's the Blair Witch Psycho. He needs involuntary institutionalizing

His creeping about woke up Danger Dave, perhaps finally actually sensing real danger. Danger Dave demonstrated his right to be called Dimwit Dave as he chatted with Russell, while Russell was wearing the Idol out in the open, and never noticed it! Degrees in Opera must be easier to acquire than I thought. Maybe all you need is the superhuman ability to stay awake through them, hence Dave's wakefulness when Russell came a creeping. Dave was left confident that he was about to knock Zsa Zsa out, one by one. Dave has no future as a psychic either.

That is, they'd knock Zsa Zsa off one by one after they voted out Erik, because here was Dave, a few hours later, telling all of Galu to vote out Erik, which he'd been seamlessly maneuvered into doing by Zsa Zsa. As I said, Dimwit Dave.

Brett, who "designs T-shirts" for a living (a pullover torso, two short sleeves, hole for the head to go through. What's to design?), saw no sense to eliminating Erik, because, for Galuvians, there was none. But everyone assured him there was a reason, they just didn't know what it was. Rocket Scientist John said, "You gotta get on the train, because it's already left the station." Ah John, if the train has already left the station, it's too late to get on. When firing off your rockets, always put your astronauts on board before lift-off, or they ain't going on the ride.

Dimwit Dave had the reasons for voting out Erik instead of a Zsa Zsasian: "I thought he was legit. He's totally not. He's bad. He's cancer. We got to dump him now." Well, when you put it like that. Danger Dave is determined to appear cool, smart, hip, and in control. The problem is, he's really just a higher-functioning version of Shambles. He thinks that because he doesn't get lost going to the bathroom, and looks a bit like a tall, thin Kevin Spacey, that he's brainy. Shambles is a dumb dimwit. Danger Dave is a smart dimwit. She's a Stan Laurel; he's an Oliver Hardy. And who always ended up stepping into the potholes in the puddles? Ollie. Who stood high and dry, staring blankly at him as he did so? Stanley.

Now I have been expressing utter loathing for the walking sickness that is The Viper Queen for several weeks now, yet even I, who already abominates her, was shocked at her new bout of vileness. Shambles was recounting the not-at-all funny tragedies her family has suffered over the years to an uncaring Viper Queen. Shambles told of a brother who died at 3 months, and a sister who died of cancer at age 27, while a newlywed.

The Viper Queen, sunbathing as she listened to this litany of woe, with, I swear, a smirk on her face, tossed off this casual reply, "Sad. Well, they're better off."

What??? Did I hear correctly? Did this self-proclaimed lady's pastor, this "caring Christian," this vile piece of Republican crap, actually say Shambles's prematurely dead siblings were "better off"? This is the sort of deep illness I associate with Christianity, in all it's wicked, hypocritical forms. The pretense of empathy, the stock banality, and the always-sick concept that this life is a misery we endure for a better life when we're dead. By Christian "logic," we're all better off dead. Well, we'll all be better off when The Viper Queen is "better off."

Shambles understandably began weeping recounting this traumatic bit of her history, and The Viper Queen, continuing working on her tan, made insincere noises of pretend comfort, lies so transparent that only Shambles being lost in her grief kept her from seeing how she was being patronized in the guise of caring. As Shambles wept from her heart, The Viper Queen whined, "Come on, where's our sunshine?" I guess her tan wasn't deepening fast enough.

Now I don't like Shambles, and yet even I was appalled by this horrible creature disguised as a youngish Christian grandmother saying these vile things. The Huffington Post codes of blogging conduct forbid me from telling you in an unbridled manner what I think of this horrible, horrible woman. Surely there must be at least one reader out there who is acquainted with this despicable creature. If so, please relay my loathing to her. Viper Queen, I'd call you walking excrement, except I'd be insulting excrement. Do the world, and your grandkids, a favor, and go "better off" yourself.

In hindsight, Shambles didn't fall for the fake compassion. "I was pretty much broken down and sad, and she wanted to play buddy-buddy with me, and her little reach-out-and-touch-me superficial bull sh**." I couldn't have put it better myself, and I can generally put most anything better than Shambles can.

Shambles continued, "I can't stand [The Viper Queen]. I want no conversations with her. You don't even like me, and you want to sit here and pretend like you're befriending me. It's just like, don't make me throw up on your face." Oh go ahead, Shambles. Throw up on her face. I'd like to see that. In fact, I'd like to see all the members of Igag line-up to take turns throwing up on her face, but I had to settle for seeing her voted out last week.

We had a filler piece of Russell cementing an alliance with Natalie, the last of his "Dumb-Ass Girl Alliances," as he famously put it in the first episode. She actually said to him, as she promised never to vote him off even if she thought it meant the difference between herself winning or not (an idiotic promise to make, and an insane one to keep), "It's not worth the money to me to lose my integrity out here." Russell must have wondered what the hell she was blathering about. But then, you have to have integrity to lose it, and Russell has shown not a trace of ever possessing it, or even grasping what it is.

We were left, at the end with this from Russell, "I'm a write a book on how to win Survivor." Russell, speaking as the authoress of a book or two, let me give you one bit of advice: read a book, or even two, before you try to write one. Even Sarah Palin had read one book before "writing" hers. Okay, it was The Bible, but it is at least a book.

Overall, it was an hour of wasted time, but at least I enjoyed seeing Black Russell's massive manboobs again.

Oooh boy. We get rid of one religious crazy, only to spawn another. In the previews of next week, Shambles was shown believing she's getting messages from God to vote off Dimwit Dave. Shambles, let's pretend for a moment that this "God" thing is a real entity, instead of the fictional character it actually is. If it were real, don't you think an entity with the whole universe to attend to, mega-trillions of planets in billions of billions of galaxies, would be a little bit too busy to give a Mickey Mouse's butt about who gets voted off Survivor? I am mostly a lady of leisure these days myself, and yet I only care because I'm writing this column. A teensy bit of perspective and reality wouldn't hurt you, lady.

That said, getting rid of Dimwit Dave is fine by me. Just leave my Jaison alone.

Over the credits we had Shambles singing Eye of the Tiger, or at least what she could remember of it's banal lyrics before resorting to "doo-doo-doos." I was momentarily tempted to throw up on her face, except that:

1. It would have required walking over to the TV.

2. It would have made my living room an even bigger mess. And

3. The vodka I'm drinking is much too good to waste on Shambles.

Cheers darlings.

To read more of Tallulah Morehead, go to The Morehead, the Merrier, or buy her book, My Lush Life.

Keli Goff: Giving Thanks for Pals -- and Palin

2009-11-27T13:23:12Z

With the chaos of the Christmas season beginning earlier and earlier each year (I swear I heard a Chipmunks holiday song playing in some store back in early October and let me just say that they're lucky no firearms were sold there), I know that I am not alone in seeking a few moments of non turkey-related, non Black-Friday related, non-travel related, zen. Just a moment or two of peace and quiet from the holiday shuffle where I can catch my breath, reflect and give thanks for some of the people, places and moments that have helped make life more memorable, bearable or fun, at least in my book. So off the top of my head, here are a few of my faves at the moment:

5) Great American Heroes: Our servicemen and women, and their awesome pets

Why I'm Thankful for them: Because they try to keep us safer -- and through their videos try to keep us smiling too.

Words really can't do justice to the video series of veterans being welcomed home from Iraq and Afghanistan, so I won't even try. I will simply post the link and say to the servicemen who shared them THANKS for your service AND for sharing your awesome pets with the rest of us.

4) Sarah Palin: Former Governor, Vice Presidential candidate and *Bestselling Author
(*I know reading this stings a little -- especially for those of us on this site who fancy ourselves as "real authors," but she did sell 300,000 copies of her memoir in one day which is easily more than most authors on this site combined, yours truly included.)

Why I'm Thankful for Her: Because she's the gift that keeps on giving.

Love her or hate her, something even her toughest critics can't say about her is that she's dull -- or predictable -- which are perhaps two of the biggest crimes a public figure can commit (you know, without being arrested). In a world in which the average politician, CEO, and their families, are stage managed and handled within an inch of their lives, there is something endlessly entertaining about the Warrior-ess from Wasilla and her tribe. To say they are straight out of central casting simply doesn't do them justice because two years ago if anyone had pitched a fictionalized movie on a cougar-ific, moose-hunting, mom of five/governor whose oldest daughter is impregnated by a hockey star turned Playgirl pinup whose mom is headed to the pokey, they would have been laughed out of Hollywood, long before things got to the casting process. You just never know what Palin and her clan are going to say, or do, (as the McCain camp learned the hard way) which means those of us constantly looking for stuff to write about owe Palin a humble THANK YOU.

3) Mad Men: The best show on television (Says who? Says me, that's who! And the Emmys.)

Why I'm Thankful for It: For restoring my faith in the tube.

I had just about given up on television. After a youth spent enjoying what I consider TV's golden age (or my generation's version of it): The Cosby Show, The Golden Girls, Cheers, and the original Law & Order (the Jerry Orbach years) I had finally begun to think that whoever came up with the term "idiot box" was on to something. I'm not sure when the exact moment came that I was ready to throw in the towel, wave the white flag and call it a day but let's just say that Flavor of Love, was definitely a low point (not just for television but for the human race.) The more television turned into "Who-Wants-to-Marry-America's-Biggest-Loser-while-on-Survivor," the more I gave up hope.

Then came Mad Men. The writing. The acting. The wardrobe. The sets.
Wow. Just wow. Well wow, and THANKS to Matthew Weiner (and the rest of the Mad Men cast and crew) for saving us from drifting further into an abyss of cultural idiocy, on a life raft helmed by the likes of Tila Tequila.

2) Bo Obama: The First Dog

Why I'm Thankful for Him: Have you seen him?

What's not to love about Bo Obama? He's adorable and has approval ratings that would probably make any other public figure in Washington (including his own master) jealous. I admit to being a sucker for dogs but every time I see his face it's as though the tension is taken down just a tad regarding whatever contentious political issue is that day's topic of debate, and that is incredibly refreshing so for that -- Thanks Bo!

1) My mom: The best mom in the world.

Why I'm Thankful for Her: See description above.

We're apart this Thanksgiving, and I am incredibly thankful for the wonderful pals I'll be spending the holiday with, but I will miss mom (or momma Goff as some of my friends call her) and her home cooking and just want to say THANKS FOR EVERYTHING MOM.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

www.keligoff.com

Howie Klein: Patti Smith, A Guest Post By Sandy Pearlman

2009-11-26T22:57:19Z

photo by Jean Baptiste Mondino, 2009

The Museum of the City Of New York just put out a compendium of the 400 most essential people in NYC's 400 year history. It's quite an inspiring list and one of the names on it is Patti Smith, someone I first met long before she had recorded anything. I was visiting NYC for the first time since having moved abroad in 1969 and she was living in a loft on 23rd Street with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Sandy Pearlman, an old college chum, brought me over to meet her and later to see her and Lenny Kaye do a beat poetry session in the basement of a church. I was floored by the performance, which I told Sandy was probably too spectacular to ever capture on vinyl. I was wrong. Last Thursday Patti gave a talk on the poet William Blake at the Morgan Library. Sandy, who now teaches music at McGill University agreed to help put Patti into some kind of context for readers who might not be familiar with her work.

Of the Matter of Patti Smith's Horses, Horses

-by Sandy Pearlman
15 November, 2009

(1) Sing Goddess. Of things now past but not forgotten. It's 1975 OK. Avery Fisher Hall, home of the NY Philharmonic, sanctified space under Bernstein & Boulez, about to be re-energized as the 1st Big-Box Venue for Patti, in honor of release of Horses. A full house is in the house. Two Goddesses have converged. The ancient antagonists, Aphrodite and Athena back at it for one more fall that's all. Taking a back seat for once, though seated in the front row, the world's de facto reigning sex goddess, Marilyn Chambers, the Queen of Porn herself, is perched for good view of the stage. As above so below, Aphrodite for a Day, know your competition. Above her, was the Girl with the Tie, Patti Smith, commanding the stage with full panoply of Athena's playbook. From onset of Patti Smith's project way back with Jesse James, live in 1971 w/Lenny Kaye (one time only and ever only so) at St Mark's in the Bowery, the Athenoid parallelisms have been too dense for mere coincidence: Wisdom, Fury, Poetry, Guardian of Heroes, the Merciless Heart, Tamer of Horses. Athena was the archetypal Tamer of Horses. Incarnation or possession, perhaps, but, mere coincidence, never. As above so below, the dance of the archetypes begins. Needles and Pins. Two Goddesses on the track, but one of them will sing. "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine."

(2) That there's no such thing as coincidence. That Patti Smith often hung w/the alien that ran the Saucer News Book Store over at 45th Street on the West Side of Manhattan. That he was not human. That Patti would wind up 30 years later, totally by coincidence, with the sign that hung outside that store, when she discovered it on a wall of the house she was about to buy. That Birdland was written with crop circles in mind and UFOs on the brain when no one even knew what crop circles were. That Wilhelm Reich, who's at the controls, in, and whose son is inhabitant, of, Birdland, wrote The Mass Psychology of Fascism. That what Patti Smith stands for, now and forever issues a challenge to the very existence of essentially pessimistic Mass Cult Fascist Art, and, by extension, to insidious propagation of those industrial music objects, which, deploy entrainment by repetition and commodity fetish compulsion as compliance mechanisms first to captivate, with exclusionary repetition like airplay, then to capture, their captive audiences. That the Cult Patti simultaneously embodies and serves is of the truth that music is born of invention, adventure, of paradoxical limitless individuation: Love Minus Zero/No Limit. That the truth is music is neither wallpaper, nor means of entrainment; neither vehicle of domination, nor of its mass psychology; neither an industry, nor industrial. That when music is treated as if it is of that kind, then what we get is more of what we've got now and no more Horses. That for exposing The Mass Psychology of Fascism, Wilhelm Reich got run out by the 3rd Reich. That as a function of insights developed earlier around his Mass Psychology, in the late 1940's thru mid 1950's, Wilhelm Reich went on to dream up a comprehensive theory of the great world systems, even accounting for UFOs, the age of which was at first dawning. That this theory anticipates and encompasses the X-Filing Corpus Mulder/Sculley.,That this theory got him run off the Planet (i.e. he died in prison) by his next government, the same US government that brought leading lights of the 3rd Reich home to build Space Ships in Area 51,White Sands and Huntsville, Alabama. That Moon of Alabama written by Kurt Weill (also run out by 3rd Reich), not Steven Foster, was covered by the Doors and eventually recovered by Patti's Crew on Brecht/Weill Night at her London Meltdown performance in 2005. That Horses as recorded at the Meltdown now closes, or, better, recapitulates with a 3rd cover (...beyond Van Morrison and Cannibal and the Headhunters...) and that cover is the Who's My Generation. That on the night of her Meltdown, the night when Patti's Band played all of Horses from cover to cover, for the first time, live, in the order it was recorded, Patti revealed the corrosive irony that dare not speak its name: That Our Generation had given the world George Bush.

(3) There is a geography of Horses. Its territory is divided into two parts: Birdland and The Land of a Thousand Dances. They are the same but different. Twins again, since we've seen this before. Twin states of mind, of matter...? As above so below. Upper and Lower Egypt, The Twin Towers, Places Charmed and Ordinary, the State of Maine and New Orleans... Twins again, but not identical. Perhaps "twinned" would be better. Each twin influences the other, but, their differential "gravities" disruptively interact to produce unpredictable dynamical outcomes. With chaotic perturbations in the orbits of their spheres of influence and dialectical chaos at their structural core. The center will not hold. Actually there is no center. This territory has no capitol city. When systems collapse like this, for better or worse, liberation attends. Not just of, and, from things. But of, and, from process itself. Including the process of language. Within the concept logic boundaries of Horses transit is possible without transition. Transformation is possible without process. To get anywhere it's not necessary to go through somewhere. Transformation Direct, that's the ticket. With Horses, truly the transformational generator's on interstellar overdrive and all wormholes fully activated. There are no loops but Mobius and Patti Smith is their prophet. And the radical, clearly counterintuitive leaps of lyrical faith that characterize the "texts" of Birdland, Land, Kimberly, Free Money, Redondo Beach... all pass for intuitively logical in the final analysis. Free Money/Free Language. If poetry like music is born of invention, adventure, of paradoxical limitless individuation, then the first principal of Patti's excellent adventure w/Horses was to bet the ranch on a poetic language that directly transforms itself by means of clearly counterintuitive unstaged leaps of word faith, that, wind up being perceived at the other end of the combinatorial wormhole as inevitable intuitive logic. As if creation of Horses somehow entailed the simultaneous running of an infinite number of data loops, and, where they stopped and started nobody knows, nor, cares, since, all their data are already mapped for previously unknown intuitive validity anyway. As if by coincidence. Or paradox of limitless individuation. Or by virtue of Patti Smith, Our Lady of Perpetual Intuition's Greater Magdalenic Cloud of Grace. Consider, for example, the dialectical orbit of Patti Smith and Chris Carter, the X Files/Millennium Creation God. That Chris Carter would cut Lara Means' awesomely creepy revelation overload sequence from "Time is Now," the 1998 Millennium season finale, to the full 9 minutes and 26 seconds entirety of Land, closes the Mobius Loop that Patti opened 25 earlier with Birdland, her comprehensive premonitory dream of Domaine Mulder/Sculley, dreamt up before anyone had ever dreamt of an X File.

(4) Pulling out of Birdland. On the Glossolalia Moonlight Express. Riding the Trend Line. Somewhere near the end of the Line. Where Do Wop Shaman reveals mastery of autoexstatic trick of Singing In Tongues by singing own name to produce sax parts Charlie Parker would have played, if only not precluded by circumstances unforeseen (i.e. his death), this being Birdland after all. A function of access to the Exstatic Instruction Set, induced by consumption of Maine Blueberries under unique plasmatic moonlight environment. (Plasma being the 4th State of Matter.) The photoreactive bacterial noble rot (more noble than that of Sauternes even) on the surface of these blue berries being activated thru exposure to a one time per year manifestation of extremely limited edition light from the Harvest Moon. It was the last discovery by Wilhelm Reich, made on his farm in Maine, just before the US Government put him on ice, that blue was the color of the fundamental energy of the Universe. By 1957 he would be dead enough to discover nothing more. Speaking in Tongues was only 1st level of this Adventure. Singing in Tongues is actual bomb. Then there's the Tonguing in Tongues. The viscous, plasmatic eroticism of Birdland. Swimming the Thick Ocean. Singing in Tongues while you swim. Be bop Do wop Re bop Zo bop. Mostly of the Voodoo Lexicon. The Glossolalia Express embarking now for Haiti, ultimately bound for Guinee, the Old Country, all by way of New Orleans. The Mobius Loop is closing. In 1962 Chris Kenner is back in New Orleans. He's pretty much blown whatever he's made from his monster hit, I Like It Like That, way back in 1961. Please sir, may I have another is what he says to himself. Which is how "Land of a Thousand Dances" gets to be written. Nobody really knows who's recorded the song, or, how many times since Chris Kenner launched the trend back in 1962. Certainly its enough to be a trend, including Fats Domino, Rufus Thomas, Cannibal and the Headhunters, Little Willie and Thee Midnighters, Wilson Pickett, Tina Turner, Patti Smith, Tom Jones, Junior Walker... Notwithstanding the manifest greatness of the whole cover crew, the only versions that matter are Patti's and the Cannibal. Alone of all their kind they discovered the dark chaos ritual inhabiting the antic shell of the song. This was always there, but, an interpreter of genius was needed to bring down the night. The first such interpretive breakthrough was made by Cannibal and the Headhunters in 1965. In an Alternative Universe this band was actually a gang in East LA. But they wanted to become a band. They were looking for simple songs, since, that was all they could play and they landed on "Land of a Thousand Dances." That was their first mistake. Their 2nd mistake would make them immortal and is outlined by Cannibal (nee Frankie Garcia) below:

"Now the original of that song, if you've ever heard it, is lyrics from beginning to end. Dances all the way through. Lots of lyrics. And on stage, I blacked out and couldn't remember the words. So I started ad-libbing, 'Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na.' After the show, the other musicians went 'What were you doing?' and I said 'I don't know.' And they said 'Well do it again, it sounded real good. Could you do it again?' Finally we got to where I could remember it, but didn't care about the words anymore. I just wanted to get to that 'Na na na na na."

What Cannibal had done was to recover the sanctified incantorial stuff still latent from Chris Kenner's original inspiration for "Land," an old Spiritual (Are there any new ones?) called "Children Go Where I Send Thee." Once the latent sanctified incantorial got dressed down to preverbal reptile brain sex moans coupled to a very modern prepunk amphetamine anti-Disney fright park shred track. Well, the dark side of entrainment was in the house and on your phone. In 1975 Patti Smith's left handed re/sanctification of the Cannibal Worldview gets released upon an unsuspecting world. Recalling Cannibal's complaint about "Lots of Lyrics" from a piece in Hit Parader or a show at the Camden Armory, she reacts the way anyone other than Emily Dickinson would, with lots more. Somewhere a young Chris Carter takes note and we're back to where we started. Sing Goddess.

Kim Morgan: Ugly Talents: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf

2009-11-26T21:16:39Z

Thanksgiving brought me to one of my favorite dysfunctional romances and one memorable social occasion.

Good, better, best, bested. Many of us can understand this.

Back when I was a teenager studying movies, one of my film professors said to me, "Watch Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf every three years of your life; you'll understand and relate to it better upon each viewing." Perhaps horrifyingly (to some, not me), but ever so poignantly, he couldn't have been more correct. Mike Nichols' debut film, the adaptation of Edward Albee's searing stage play, is a blisteringly real, and though mostly stage-bound, a wonderfully, living, breathing depiction of the destructive and at times, psychotic battles between an aging alcoholic couple intent on outdoing each other with clever, though wickedly malicious verbal gymnastics.

A shocking picture for 1966, the film was an expletive-ridden salvo that frightened some and impressed many. So notable was Woolf that the picture that was the first to use the words "goddamn" and "bugger" went on to Oscars galore, earning Elizabeth Taylor a greatly deserved second Academy Award. It also garnered Sandy Dennis a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, a win for Haskell Wexler's gorgeous cinematography (he was the last to win for a category that doesn't exist anymore -- best Black and White cinematography). On top of those accolades, the movie was nominated for Best Picture, Best Actor (Richard Burton), Best Supporting Actor (George Segal), Best Director (Mike Nichols), Best Screenplay (Ernest Lehman), Best Sound, Best Original Music Score (for Alex North's at times gentle, haunting score), and Best Film Editing. Though Oscars are no barometer of greatness, they can point out a certain zeitgeist. This one? Mr. Burton referring to Miss Dennis as "monkey nipples."

Though Bonnie and Clyde helped kick-start the emerging '70s cinema, Virginia Woolf was a formidable front runner and, in a few ways, more disturbingly violent. In it, words and deeds are doled out with a ferocious vitriol that's remains unmatched, at least in terms of eloquence. Nothing so nasty has ever been so sickly beautiful.

And dammit if Liz's dumpy, yet oddly sexy drunk and Burton's broke-down "bog" aren't beautiful losers. Never mind how toxic they make their lives. Beginning with a gorgeous title sequence during which we watch History Professor George (Burton) and his saucy and sauced wife Martha (Taylor) walking back from a function drunk and cackling, the movie immediately places us in their dark, disconsolate universe -- one of shattered hopes, nihilism, and dipsomaniacal game playing. To George's surprise, Martha is expecting guests (at such a late hour) and, after their return home where she famously utters the Bette Davis line "what a dump" while harping on George about a movie: "What's the name of the picture?" (I'm always happy I know the name of the picture. It was the misunderstood, borderline brilliant King Vidor camp-fest Beyond the Forest). She eats chicken (she really eats that drumstick -- and it's kind of beautiful), calls George a "cluck," and they booze it up. And booze it up. And booze it up. And then come the guests. Opening the door to a couple of young, unsuspecting colleagues, well, oh my. These two have no idea what they're in for.

Nick (Segal) and Honey (Dennis) are attempting to be cordial, but since Martha's father holds weight in the university, Nick's going to sit this one out, no matter how weird, no matter how sexual, no matter how "Georgie Boy!" it gets. And the two-hour party (in movie time, the picture takes the group into the wee hours) goes beyond weird -- it enters a vortex of nasty, though sometimes wistful, revelations for both parties. The two couples become increasingly sauced, and move their action to a nighttime bar where a vulgar dance breaks out between Nick and Martha (Oh how I love this dance). Things fall apart. The center cannot hold -- just the way George and Martha like it. Nervous Honey admits she yearns for a baby. "Well built" Nick admits his wife (whom George calls "slim hipped") had a hysterical pregnancy. George recalls a tragic story of a child killing his parents that's probably about him. And Martha, well, she pulls out the big guns by bringing up the "blue-haired, blonde-eyed" kid (the game, "Bringing up Baby"). And that is quite enough -- George digs in his claws once and for all.

With such substantial, fearless performances, and Nichols' active, observing camera, the picture attains a visceral power that leaves the viewer both raw and transfixed. There is little respite from these character's actions, and even moments of humor are soon met with yet another discomforting bout of disgrace, cruelty, or sadness. But it never becomes sickening; on the contrary, there's a sense of nobility to this movie that's unusual for its often-crass subject matter. And once we make it through this harrowing night, we learn that there's a lot of love between dueling G and M. George and Martha may be poster children for extreme dysfunction, but dammit if they're not meant to be. And there's something oddly romantic about that. By film end, I am firmly on their side. All these inane romantic comedies are supposed to make you feel inspired by love. Not me. I'm pro-George and Martha. I want them to never lose each other -- ever. Have another drink and stick it out with your "quietly noisy relaxed intensity."

So professor was right. Watching the movie every three years does deepen the experience. And in my perhaps, perverse case (I've been watching the thing about once a year since then), I feel a sadness, nostalgia and fondness for G and M. Again, there's something heroic about their dissipation. When Martha sticks up for George after her indiscretion with Segal ("Him can't. Him too drunk.") and the broken-down couple take to calling Segal "houseboy, well, at that point, I get it. Quite simply, I love George and Martha.

Find yourself a healthy relationship, fine. Good luck. But if not, and if you've found your soulmate, even in the bottom of a liquor bottle, then, I say, "Get the Guests," get your booze, get your dreams, get your nightmares, get your monkey nipples, and hold on to each other. Even if you have to cradle a bottle of gin in the process. After all, Martha's "thirsty."

Frances Moore Lappe: A Thanksgiving Hymn For 2009

2009-11-26T17:09:26Z

For a world of unprecedented hunger where more than one in seven of us now go without the food we need...

As we come together to offer Thanksgiving for all of the plenty we share here today, our hearts seek the courage to end the growing hunger that kills so many millions and makes us all poor.

We know how to do it, for hunger is needless. Our world harvests plenty for all to eat well. Together let's now use our common human caring to take the thrilling risks to be champions for life.

To the tune of "We Gather Together," a common Thanksgiving hymn based on a 16th century Dutch song; with new words by Richard Rowe and Frances Moore Lappe

Greg Mitchell: Beethoven's "Hymn of Thanksgiving": The Greatest Piece of Music Ever Written?

2009-11-26T15:07:33Z

To give us some perspective on this day: Beethoven in 1825, very late in his life, wrote the third movement, molto adagio, of his string quartet opus 132, offering thanks for being alive, despite having gone completely deaf, the worst possible fate for a composer and musician.

Music lovers around the world know it as "the Heiliger Dankesang." Beethoven's full description on the original score is: Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart or: "Holy Song of Thanksgiving by a Convalescent to the Divinity, in the Lydian Mode."

The more sprightly portions of the hymn he labeled "Feeling new strength." Indeed, he had recently survived a near-fatal illness. He would pass away two years later after completing the last of his string quartets, which many believe form the summit of Western music.

Next week in New York City I'll be attending at Lincoln Center a performance of it along with a reading (by a top British actor) of another masterpiece it inspired: T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. Next week in NYC I'll be attending a performance of it along with a reading of another masterpiece it inspired: T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. Eliot wrote to Stephen Spender: "I find it quite inexhaustible to study. There is a sort of heavenly or at least more than human gaiety about some of his later things which one imagines might come to oneself as the fruit of reconciliation and relief after immense suffering; I should like to get something of that into verse before I die.'

On a perhaps more prosaic level, it had a featured spot in the recent film The Soloist and at the climax of Copying Beethoven .

As for it being Beethoven's greatest piece: certainly one can mention piano sonata no. 32, piano concerto no. 4, the Ninth Symphony, and one or two others, all written when he was mostly, or totally, deaf.

You can hear the third movement in two parts, totaling 17 minutes, at YouTube, or watch he final scene of Copying Beethoven via this link..

Greg Mitchell is editor of Editor & Publisher. He is writing a book about his life in rock 'n roll--and how he eventually came to Beethoven. He can be reached at: epic1934@aol.com

Jacob Heilbrunn: Precious: Giving Thanks To Those Who Count

2009-11-26T03:33:19Z

It's time to spread some good holiday cheer and offer thanks to five precious, leading public figures who've really made a difference.

First, God bless Sen. John McCain for picking Sarah Palin to be his running mate in 2008. Her continued visibility testifies to his good sense in selecting her. It's good to see that Palin has even become a bookish individual, or at least an author, who managed to produce a best seller in her very first effort. It might not have initially seemed as though Palin had an IQ much above room temperature, but she's proven to be a canny and astute operator. The GOP establishment shouldn't be afraid of her. It should be quaking. Who knew that the crusty Senator had such a good eye for talent spotting?

Second, God bless another Senator--Senator Joseph Lieberman. Where would the Senate be without Lieberman? His mournful insistence on stopping health care--or at least insisting that there shouldn't be a public option--has nothing to do with the insurance companies in his home state of Connecticut. No, no. Americans should be thanking him for stopping the creation of a predatory government-based bureaucracy that can only harm the health of those who don't have any health insurance. It's better to be without than to have a government program that might well injure your health as well as the economy's. Sen. Lieberman, please, keep it up! As you seek to keep the national debt from ballooning, we're all indebted to you.

Third, I want to single out Afghan leader Hamid Karzai for praise. No one has done more to shore up the war effort than Karzai. Sure, he can seem a little ungrateful at times. But he's displayed true family values in running his country--his entire clan seems to be contributing to economic activity in Afghanistan in whatever way it can. As President Obama prepares to announce further troop deployments to Afghanistan, it's reassuring to know that American can count on such good and valorous and forthright allies in the fight against terrorism.

Fourth, NFL commissioner Roger Goodell deserves some kudos for his stalwart attempts to maintain a healthy, physical lifestyle among professional football players. No doubt a few lily-livered naysayers want to crimp the style of the game. But in denying, at least until recently, that concussions can have a deleterious effect on the health of football players, leading to dementia and even suicide, Goodell has displayed real courage and stuck up for American manhood against the namby-pamby pacifists. Good on you, Goodell!

Finally, I would like to thank former press secretary Dana Perino for clearing up a matter that had been troubling me as well as presumably most Americans. It seems there never was a terrorist attack, according to Perino, during "President Bush's term." Good to know. So 9/11 never happened? Apparently, it wasn't until Fort Hood that America suffered a terrorist attack.

For that reminder of all the Bush administration did to keep America safe, she deserves our gratitude. And inadvertently provides a useful reminder of why all of us should now be truly grateful that the president celebrating Thanksgiving this year is named Obama.

Shawn Amos: Let Us Now Give Thanks for These Bands Below the Top 40 Radar

2009-11-26T00:21:21Z

Let's be honest: it's tough for all of you musicians out there to get any attention these days. There's no room for you on MTV. There's no room for you on the radio. There's room on YouTube, but there's room for everybody on YouTube. It's thankless work for an audience who only wants their music from "American Idol" and awards shows.

Who's To Blame The Most For Shutting Out Independent Music?

Meanwhile, a world of great music lies underneath the Top 40 surface — bands and singers whose sound is as fresh as a Clear Channel playlist is stale. Next week, I'll be one of a million bloggers writing about the latest front page musical news. It's why they keep me inside the Yahoo! Music tent, and I'm not looking get kicked out. But on this Thanksgiving Eve, I want to give thanks for some bands I'm grateful to have in my collection. These six acts have made some of the best music this year and have given me shelter from the Big Music Machine steamroller that seems be on every TV and radio channel these days.

Monsters of Folk: "Monsters of Folk"

This is a supergroup I can love. Indie darlings M. Ward, Conor Oberst, Mike Mogis, and Jim James have banded together to raise the ghosts of '70s AM radio past. Some might call the Gram Parsons-CSN-Neil Young mash-up of their debut album derivative. I call it refreshing.

A Fine Frenzy: "Bomb in the Birdcage"

Admittedly, there are about 10,000 bands out there with waifish-voiced female singers backed by delicate, tasteful arrangements. And admittedly, I'm a sucker for most of them. Still, Alison Sudol's followup to her 2007 debut stands above the rest of the sensitive piano girls for her inventive melodies and the infectious giddiness of her lyrics.

Grizzly Bear: "Veckatimest"

The Brooklyn outfit's latest album is full of the twisted, weird folk that has come to define a new musical genre. As ethereal and eerie as the album is, there's something more insanely twisted: the alternate single version (available on iTunes) of "While You Wait for the Others," with ex-Doobie Brother Michael McDonald taking lead vocals. I'm not kidding.

Amadou & Mariam: "Welcome to Mali"

The blind husband-and-wife duo from Mali have opened for Coldplay, played the Glastonbury Festival, and count Blur's Damon Albarn as a fan. Still, like so many African artists, they are criminally underexposed in the U.S. Their seventh album (with lead track "Sabali" written by Albarn) might change that. It's got grooves as long as the Niger River.

The Avett Brothers: "I and Love and You"

The North Carolina brothers released their major label debut with producer Rick Rubin presiding over their fraternal harmonies. The Avett Brothers dress like the Band, sing as hypnotically as the Everly Brothers, and write instant singsongs. The achingly epic title track alone will make you look for someone across the bar to marry.

The Phenomenal Handclap Band: "The Phenomenal Handclap Band"

This is the kind of music that could only be invented in Brooklyn. The brainchild of New York club DJs Daniel Collas and Sean Marquand, their self-titled official debut is the sound of a blaxploitation film cast meeting at a downtown rave that they turn into a flaming, psychedelic disco where episodes of "Love, American Style" are projected on the wall. Dig?

Stuart Whatley: Palin And Twilight: American Pilgrimages

2009-11-25T21:28:00Z

Two events were cause for Americans to leave the house this past week: Sarah Palin and The Twilight Saga: New Moon. The mass, separate interest in each has left many who are fans of neither wondering: What the hell is wrong with these people? Sure, nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public. But there's more to it than that. The trips to the book store or to the movie theater were in fact pilgrimages of the faithful.

Each event was a form of cultural catnip for its respective, rather homogeneous audience. An indulgence for many who, at least for a stint, would rather see the world not as it is, but as they wish it to be. What attracts the fans and confuses everyone else is one and the same. It's about faith.

Faith is how our society conceptualizes -- and then puts a ribbon around -- intense desire. If one wants something bad enough, they begin to ignore the absurdities and believe that anything is possible. Substance gives way to wish fulfillment, and it's why those who are not fans are left so confounded.

Cinematically, the Twilight films hover somewhere between bad and god-awful -- a fact that some loyal fans readily accept. And yet they flocked to the theaters in droves. For many fans, it's actually quite difficult to explain exactly what the appeal is. But from a number of conversations I've had with them, one strong reason seems to be that element of wish fulfillment that attracts so many young women and teens (who overwhelmingly comprise the Twilight following). The cliché fantasy of being swept away, falling in love, and forever basking in the wardship of what was described to me as a "hunk" becomes an ephemeral reality.

The romance between Bella and Edward is presented as the joining of soul mates, with a theme of Romeo and Juliet-like forbidden love. It's the type of love that most teenage girls long for before learning from life's trials and tribulations. And in actuality, it more resembles an obsessive co-dependency than a healthy relationship.

Which is why the message the Twilight series sends is not without controversy. While young adult fans who enjoy escaping into fantasy for a few hours know full well that Bella and Edward's relationship is far from realistic -- and probably unhealthy -- many of the younger fans do not. Hence the concern of many parents that the films will imbue teen girls with a distorted and damaging view of relationships, to say nothing of their self-esteem. Natalie Hjelsvold, who has a 9-year-old daughter, summed up her concerns to a CNN reporter as such:

"I spent the entire movie interjecting things like, 'boys don't think about girls like that,' 'boys won't stare at you across the parking lot like that,' 'boys don't spend all day thinking about you and wishing you were sitting beside them in class,' 'boys won't sniff your hair,' " Hjelsvold said. "I think it got on her nerves after a while, but I worry that she will develop this totally warped sense of love and it makes me crazy as a parent."

And as it is with the Twilight phenomenon, so it is for the masses who bought Sarah Palin's book, Going Rogue -- which she didn't actually write -- and who are waiting for hours in the cold and rain just to see her. Many cannot explain why, and when they try, it becomes obvious that their adoration has nothing to do with substance or rationality.

As a politician, Palin is a veritable failure. As an abstract idea, she is the fulfillment of millions of Americans' wildest dreams. As it happens, something that stands for nothing can end up standing for everything.

The fact that Palin has no policies or constructive ideas to offer actually makes her the perfect vehicle for wish fulfillment. "Drill, baby, drill" is not a serious policy prescription. It's verbal gold that translates into practical lead. But that doesn't matter. It feels good to say for those who chant it, just as it feels good for the more mature Twilight fans to see the fantasy play out for a few hours. Who cares if the plot sucks and the characters are ridiculous.

The problem though is with that other group. The 'Twilight teenyboppers' who think it's real or possible or even remotely reasonable to believe. Faith of this kind is fine as a feel-good indulgence, but when it blurs the lines between fantasy and reality too much -- which it inevitably does -- one has to wonder what the damage is.

We're in hard times, it's reasonable to expect that people will look for saviors and fantastical escapes -- be they in the form of vegetarian vampires or meat eating pseudo-author/pseudo-politicians. The portion of Sarah Palin fandom who falls into that 'Twilight teenybopper' category -- those who fail to draw the distinction between fantasy and reality -- seems rather large (though it's not easily quantified). Let's just hope that sooner, rather than later, they realize it's just a movie.

David Finkle: "Glee" on TV: Is It the Best, the Worst or Both?

2009-11-25T21:14:56Z

Okay, let's talk a minute about my idea of this season's best and the worst television series: Glee. All right, I don't actually think Glee is the absolute best. At the moment the honor goes to Curb Your Enthusiasm. Nor do I think Glee is the worst. Too many others are duking it out for the distinction.

So yes, I admit to stretching in order to make a point. But I maintain that Glee--which is getting a great deal of media attention and a respectable viewership--has frequent superlative moments preceded and followed by deplorable stretches.

It comes down to this: Glee's musical sequences are top-notch. The choice of songs from a wide genre spectrum is expert. One minute you have something country or Heart's "Alone" or Lionel Richie's "Endless Love," and only a few minutes later you get something like a sing-off to Stephen Schwartz's "Defying Gravity" from the Broadway phenomenon Wicked.

The presentation is imaginative. Who will ever forget the group wheel-chair number to John Fogerty's "Proud Mary" or the solo wheel-chair turn that preceded it, Kevin McHale interpreting Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself"? The singing--often by Broadway-trained Matthew Morrison and Lea Michele--is thrillingly first-rate and may account, along with Disney's High School Musical trilogy, for a reawakened interest among teenagers in musical comedy, so long a butt of sitcom jokes.

Since variety hours like The Ed Sullivan Show and The Carol Burnett Show died the horrible television death, Glee is a welcome replacement. And for its high entertainment quotient, many thanks are due the music staff, which includes (or has included) P. J. Bloom, Ryan Murphy and Heather Guibert. Thanks also to choreographers Zachary Goodlee and Brook Lipton.

But uh-oh, too often the music stops and the ridiculous Glee plot elbows its way in. Supposedly set in a high school, it follows the lives of several teachers and students, most of the latter played by actors who haven't seen their high school years for some time.

That's not the worst of it, however. The worst is the idiotic set-up wherein a football hero truly believes he impregnated his girlfriend in a hot tub, when she was actually knocked up by her bf's team buddy. The equally worst is that the teacher played by handsome, abundantly talented Morrison believes his wife is pregnant, although she isn't and is just stringing him along for some foggy reason. Yet another worst is the ruthless cheerleaders coach, played by the stage vet and gotten-up-to-look-butch Jane Lynch, a character softened in a recent episode when she was discovered to have a Downs Syndrome sister filed away in a home. No one seemed embarrassed at the abrupt and blatant play for sympathy.

So many of the other Glee plot turns are ludicrous that a conflicted fan doesn't know what's truly the worst-of-the-worst element. The hardest part to accept in the series, though, is its basic tenet: that the glee club is a haven for losers. This glee club's members are so accomplished, the musical productions so creative and skillfully performed that any student not among their number wouldn't so much mock them--which happens whenever someone has a slushie tossed at him or her--as they would fight tooth-and-nail to join the ensemble. (When the Madonna-songs episode looms--and Madonna herself would be foolish to turn down the guest-star offer that has to have come her way--the glee club should really register as be-there-or-be-square.)

But just a minute here. I'll admit that Glee is so exaggerated it's possible the writers think they're satirizing the form and maybe the lunacies of daytime soaps as well. It might be they see themselves as sending up the High School Musical entries--taking off from them, nudging them farther out on a humorous limb. If so, the satire is so esoteric that most of the audience isn't getting it--isn't noticing that the school in question is (ironically?) named after William McKinley, the country's assassinated 25th president. Instead, most people tuning in--a large percentage of them not especially interested in American history--are taking the unbelievable proceedings as a literal illustration of today's high-school realities. And where does that leave the series creators other than winking at each other over an obscure in-joke?

My guess is that as the series continues, the musical segments will only get better--I'm waiting for versions of my fave rock 'n' roll cuts, the Rolling Stones's "Honky-Tonk Women" and the Ike and Tina Turner "River Deep, Mountain High" with its Phil Spector wall of sound. On the other hand, I expect the non-musical scenes will only become increasingly far-fetched. Oh, well, maybe a love-hate relationship isn't such a bad thing, after all.

Trish Kinney: Rape Fantasy And S&M at the AMA's

2009-11-25T21:02:00Z

As the Beatles progressed through their personal artistic journeys, they took us along for the consciousness raising ride. The Rolling Stones were raunchier, with "Lets Spend the Night Together", a shocking subject for a single in those days. Nirvana indoctrinated us to the world of dark grunge with their shadowy, uninhibited "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video. Yeah, it was cool but you couldn't help but notice the pervasive pain buried in those lyrics. Tori Amos spoke for young women with her Little Earthquakes debut, putting the music world on notice that women were claiming their artistic voice. Alanis Morissette took things a big step further with her angry "You Oughta Know", turning Tori's notice into brazen entitlement. What happened at the American Music Awards last night took brazen entitlement to a new level.

Janet Jackson started things off, a hip-hop Pocahontas, with a long medley of her hits beginning with "Control", a harbinger of things to come. She danced and sang her way through it with competence and confidence, a feat for a woman in her 40's. She grabbed her crotch firmly a few times, a puzzling trademark she shares with her famous brother, and threw in the grabbing of a man's crotch which caused quite a stir in one of her videos back in the day. I was just proud of her for getting through the marathon medley and didn't really take her that seriously. She was a trailblazer and it is good to remember that through her music she gently helped women get in touch with their sensual side.

Admittedly it was hard to take Shakira all that seriously either. Who doesn't still think of her as the one who used to do the faux belly dancing? But that was when her hair was really wavy. It's straight now and she seems to have given up the one trick pony image for something a little more mainstream. Her performance did introduce us to the legions of dancers, her own forming a small battalion, who wore little black panties throughout the evening.

The combination of Kelly Clarkson singing a real ballad in a classic black gown with strings accompanying her and knowing that Carrie Underwood was going to perform later fooled me into thinking that maybe the little black panties were just a Shakira theme. Carrie is known for her soulful country ballads and her gorgeous dresses.

But then Rihanna showed up in a video intro on some kind of metal slab, nude, with painful things being done to her while restrained. She then appeared live on a giant metal wheel, spikes on her shoulders and bracelet, wearing a body suit that looked like her jammies, except that it was skin tight and the white stripes alternated with her bare body. She had the name of her album Rated R tattooed on her throat. Later her shoulders lit up with red laser lights and she kept saying "so hard" over and over, obviously the song title.

Carrie, not to be outdone apparently, appeared with writhing girls in even smaller black panties than those worn by Shakira's battalion, only she added boys in black to surround her. (Think Rosemary Clooney's big nightclub solo in White Christmas featuring a very young George Chakiris as one of the back-up boys in black). Later the boys and girls worked out on chairs which included legs up in the air and lots of stroking from above. Carrie wore what resembled a gold and black curtain of some sort that reminded me of Scarlett's dress in Gone with the Wind, only a lot smaller. (I still can't figure out why her boots were silver instead of gold but that's neither here nor there.) The dancing girls were having their way with the boys, using them for their pleasure and then rejecting them, a sexual theme that was laced throughout the evening.

Lady Gaga was predictably over the top featuring a flesh bodysuit, floor writhing a la Madonna, glass smashing, piano flaming, liquor bottle breakage, and gas mask wearing violinists. Even if she was trying to make a sexual empowerment statement, it was lost in all the special effects. No harm, no foul.

J Lo put a more literal spin on female sexual empowerment using a boxing theme complete with a ring, a fight announcer, and male boxers. She had the men remove her robe, grabbed her crotch (albeit a little half-heartedly compared to the veteran crotch grabber Ms. Jackson), repeatedly threw the boxers off her, fell on her bottom (but on a perfect music cue and featuring a quick recovery into the dance break), and changed her outfit with the help of her boys into spike heels and a little gold skirt at the end.

But who knew the piece de resistance would come from Alicia Keys, promoting an album called Element of Freedom. She arrived by video on a motorcycle and then appeared live in a black cat suit with a metal jacket and a chain belt with some type of medallion pointing down between her legs, singing about feeling her departed lover touching her in bed. She and her girls lined up against a brick wall, performing a roundhouse pelvic thrust that was much more aesthetic than the usual back to front thrust, prompting the LA Times Music Critic Todd Martens to describe it as West Side Story inspired, calling the girls "cute to boot". While all this was going on, a man appeared at the top of the brick writhing wall, dressed in all black including an open overcoat with a beanie stretched down tight over his ears, and began to writhe himself. He turned away from the audience and opened his overcoat, flasher style. He then leapt down to confront Alicia, circling and crouching around her, trying to lean into her intimate space. She rejected him with a hand gesture. But he persisted. Finally, inexplicably, she turned around and left with the shadowy man, disappearing behind the brick wall, leaving the cute West Side Story girls to dance without their leader whose voice continued to be heard. She then appeared on a rising platform seated at the piano in less clothes than when she left. She finished her song from high above the stage, one errant camera angle revealing that she was strapped across her thighs onto the piano bench, presumably for safety purposes but on an evening like this, who knows.

My husband watched this performance unfold and said in a matter of fact tone that this was a rape fantasy. My grown son disagreed, saying the shadowy man was obviously the vision of the lover she was trying to forget which was why she rejected him with the hand signals at first. Why then, I asked, did she go behind the brick wall with him and then rise up in just her backless cat suit? He couldn't explain that part. Neither can I.

I'm all for sexual empowerment and so forth, but not so much for a man full of sexual innuendo lurching off a wall and taking a woman behind the wall from whence he came. It is left to our imagination as to why they were going behind that brick wall, but the intent seemed pretty clear. And this on a Sunday evening prime time network broadcast with music stars that young people are dying to see, to emulate. There was enough sex and raunchy clothing and bleeped out lyrics and body parts and suggestive movement during this show to overwhelm any young woman trying to figure out her budding sexual identity.

Ah, but then came the long awaited non-American Idol debut of Adam Lambert. Looking slippery in grey lame (say "lahmay"), he was an equal opportunity sadist, dragging men and women around by collars and leashes and devices attached to their crotch, although it was clear that he had far more interest in the sometimes blindfolded males. How do I know this? Because he allowed one of them to simulate oral sex with him, kissed another long and hard on the mouth but in all fairness, he did allow one woman to massage his crotch. All the while, he kept saying "can you handle what I'm about to do". And, of course there was the mirror pointed towards the audience so they could see the shock on their own faces. And even in a crowd full of music royalty, there was a heavy pall over the place when he finished. Oh, Adam, what have you done? And where do you go from here? I guess you have empowered young, gay boys to flaunt their sexuality. Is that a good thing? I could recommend a therapist and then maybe you could go back to dazzling us with a good Tears for Fears cover.

Since these are the awards the fans vote for, it was interesting to note that 5 of them went to young Taylor Swift who couldn't be there because she is rehearsing a Wembley Stadium show in London. So she stayed up past her bedtime to accept her awards on camera, including Entertainer of the Year. She hugged her young friends, dancers from her show probably, expressed appropriate shock and disbelief, and was gracious in her thank you's. If Taylor had performed live at the AMA's and received her accolades in person, how might that have changed the tone of the evening? And would her fresh, youthful appearance and song themes have been a much needed balance to all the black panties and sexual antics? The fans obviously love and support her and the courage to be who she is at this stage in her life. Gosh, I hope she doesn't become a dominatrix in a few years.

And there was the female favorite, hunky Keith Urban, smiling in his black jeans and somewhat sparkly western shirt singing "Kiss a Girl", bubble gum country. He won Favorite Country Male and adorably thanked his lovely wife Nicole Kidman, whom he referred to as "baby girl" and their daughter Sunday, saying how much he loved them.

Imagine if an alien landed outside the auditorium Monday night and snuck in for a peek at our culture by watching the AMA's. What impression would the alien have of women? And our society in general? If the alien had an entrepreneurial spirit, he would immediately go into women's lingerie, preferably little black panties.