Posted 8:46 PM by sport

A schtick is a terrible thing to waste...

(Here are some postings, originally sent as emails to Irwin Chusid and Don Brockway. The first was sent some months back, in reply to Chusid's emailed query: "who the f_ck is Puddy the Pup?" Irwin had seen several Castle Films reels featuring "Puddy" on eBay, but had never heard of the character.

The subsequent entries are more recent; Irwin and Don sent messages regarding the deaths of Thurl Ravenscroft (Tony the Tiger's voice as well as many Disney cartoon and ride voices) and the great Paul Winchell. We in the amateur comedy writing racket refer to the followup entries as "callbacks." Write that down.

There are all manner of contemporary references, the significance of which will surely fade with time, but we at Sport Spiel feel that this should not detract from their inestimable value as humorous documents of our era. The impact of these hilarious satires is blunted by their "anthology" presentation here, intended as they were to be read as a series of email messages in the context of related news items. However, this is part of the price you, reader, must pay for not being Irwin Chusid or Don Brockway. The entire sequence is, nonetheless, proudly presented below, immortalized forever in this noble amd justly famed web log.)

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(found on www.obscurotoons.org ...odd how your subject line turns out to be spot-on:)

PUDDY THE PUP

Feisty sidekick to Disso / Nance Studio's largely forgotten "Pity the Fool" character, Puddy also frolicked through two of his own shorts. Puddy was a unique - if bizarre - creation: a mutt with one front leg, one hind leg and an ever-tumescent "puddy." The central gag was Puddy's recurring shock and alarm whenever confronted with the fact that he was, in fact, a pup. Puddy, it seems, wanted to be a businessman but could never get his cockamamie schemes off the ground due to the revulsion he'd inspire in prospective clients. Each pitch Puddy offered would be met with the stock response: "You're a PUP! A no-good, two-legged HORNY ALBINO PUP! YECCH!" With this, Puddy would stammer "Me? A P--p-pup?" and freeze in terror, bringing the cartoon to an uncomfortable, abrupt and unsatisfying end.

In CIRCUS CAPERS Puddy attempts to sell jars of pickled capers outside a three-ring roadshow, but is repeatedly humiliated and mauled by goons in the employ of the circus. Eventually a "sympathetic" clown buys out his entire stock for pennies on the dollar, and Puddy watches helplessly as the briny treats become a huge hit with tots and parents alike. He realizes he is but a pup, and freezes in terror.

In FOOLISH FABLES, our hero tries to "one-up" Aesop by submitting his own "hep" morality tales to various publishers, all of whom send form rejection letters, leaving Puddy no option except the vanity press. As luck would have it, Puddy is successfully sued for plagiarism by the very same clown who'd double-crossed him in CIRCUS CAPERS. An embittered Puddy, realizing he is a mere pup, feezes in terror.

Upon the theatrical failure of these shorts, the character was retired until a surprise revival on late 50's children's TV. "Garbageman Gus" Pinzarrone hosted "Puddy the Pup Playhouse" for 2 seasons on local Philadelphia station WYOY. Never popular, the show endlessly rotated the same two shorts day after dreary day, with live intros by the charmless and belligerent Pinzarrone amid constant advertising for the host's own hardware store. In every respect, the venture was as ill-considered and futile as any cooked up by Puddy himself. Irony not being Gus Pinzarrone's longsuit, he spent long stretches of the show's final episodes weeping silently on air.

Despite all the gloom (obviously) implicit in "Puddy the Pup Playhouse", it was the only program broadcast locally at 5:30 am, so many young "early risers" who endured the show in their formative years can still ruefully recall, word for word, the Puddy The Pup theme...


WHO THE FUCK IS PUDDY THE PUP?
HARD-SELLIN' FOUL-SMELLIN' PUDDY THE PUP?
JUST WHO THE FUCK IS PUDDY THE PUP?
THIS TWO LEGGED,
UNPIGMENTED,
EMBONERED,
ENTREPRE..
NEUR...IAL...
PUDDY... THE PUUUUUP...
WHO THE FUCK?!?!

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Desmond “Hap” Blodgett, 92, Cartoon Voice Artist

On Monday, June 27, Veteran voice actor / marketer Hap Blodgett, professed bit performer in RKO comedy shorts and self-described occasional talk show guest evidently held a press conference in which he claimed to be “very much alive” and well. According to an alleged transcript of the obscure press conference, Blodgett feels that the recent deaths of Thurl Ravenscroft and Paul Winchell have left a void he's eager to fill. Blodgett: “These guys were a bunch of damn homos, all of them. Whiners. Pussyboys. Good riddance to ‘em. I’m here, and randy as a he-goat. It’s these vegetable shakes what do the trick. I can do at least 4 voices. Let me at ‘em! I’m entitled to make a living too, I guess!”

Although a check with Imdb.com turns up no mentions for Mr. Blodgett, the mysteriously forwarded transcript cites his as the voice of “Puddy the Pup,” the star of an apparently short-lived series of animated shorts from the 1930s. “I WAS Puddy the freakin’ Pup, don’t let anyone bullshit ya” Blodgett avers. “Good Ol’ Hap” - as he refers to himself in the frequently incoherent transcript - supposedly left the entertainment business after an unpleasant on-air fracas (he is unspecific as to the date or nature of the so-called incident) with “that scummer” Arthur Godfrey. “The best years of my life, and that fat drunk ruined me! RUINED me”

Thereafter, he insists, he eked out a living selling “Huge Mouth Sammy Sturgeon,” a novelty wooden fish with a series of detachable “word balloons” imprinted with parody lyrics of popular tunes. “It was a million dollar idea,” he purports, “we just didn’t have the bugs worked out, and then these two-bit son-of-a-bitches did the same thing, only with sound.” A footnote on this transcript offers a sketch of Blodgett's original, rejected patent, to be faxed to any interested parties upon request. When asked about the transcript, noted entertainment writer Leonard Maltin replied “I have to admit I’m stymied; neither Mr. Blodgett nor his cartoon character have ever come to my attention, but I’m glad to hear he is hale and hearty, and uh… I wish him well.”

Blodgett continues his “press conference” with a succession of mysteriously lecherous, obviously fantasy-based references to 50s star Dagmar, and concludes with a challenge to Casey Kasem, whom he refers to as a “snake in the goddamn grass.” After goading the famed radio and television personality to “put up or shut up” Blodgett ends the transcript with an abrupt “Ah, what’s the use… piss on you all.” Kasem, contacted by telephone for comment, simply sighed and said, “The world is full of troubled people. Whoever this ‘Happy Whatshisname’ is, he must have me confused with someone else. Good day.” Repeated attempts to contact the source of the transcript for further information were considered, but rejected in favor of watching a little television before bed.

http://www.convincingparodicemaillinksimulation.org
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SHARK WOES CONTINUE IN FLA

Sally Goodin, correspondent
Hernando, Florida, June 28

It’s been a tough summer so far on the Florida panhandle, and things took a turn for the worse yesterday with a multiple shark attack that left 3 dead and 1 wounded. The incident occurred during an outing of the “Cartoon Voiceover League, ” a fraternal organization of retirees from the animation industry. The 4-member “league” met here to enjoy the sun and surf at Foley Park, where, in the words of survivor Agnes Trubell (68), “An awful sound came up from the beach. I was at the concession stand ordering lunch while the others decided to take a little dip… I heard what sounded like 30 or 40 people screaming, but you must understand, these were very gifted artists with a wide repertoire of voices.”

The “30 or 40” voices Ms. Trubell heard actually belonged to Sam DeBucca (73), Jennifer Armbruster (81), and Desmond Blodgett (92), her three companions and fellow voiceover artists. “We picked Foley Park because nobody ever goes there anymore and we like our privacy.” A fatal decision, as the beach had recently been closed due to shark activity. “You’d think the guy at the hot dog truck would’ve said something” kvetched Ms. Trubell. Hector Attilio, the concession vendor, claims “I was happy for the business. I never know nothing about no sharks, but it has been a slow couple weeks since they put them chains up.”

DeBucca and Armbruster sustained major injuries to the remaining parts of their bodies, and later died at Shriner’s Memorial Hospital, babbling very convincing animal sounds and foreign dialects as death overtook them. Mr. Blodgett’s remains were never recovered, and there is in fact some doubt as to his existence. “I only see 2 people go in the water,” said Attilio, “but what do I know? Sounded like many more. Very impressive.”

Ms. Trubell suffered minor injuries when, running to the shore in an attempt to save her companions, she fell, poking her good eye with the stick of a corn dog intended for Mr. DeBucca. “I’ll be fine,” she bravely confided, “I only wish Sammy could have tasted that corn dog. He loved corn dogs. Like a man possessed, he was, when he saw a corn dog…” she rambled, “…never did you see a happier man than Sammy DeBucca with a corn dog in his mitt!” The stick, still partially embedded in the victim’s eye, stood as a poignant reminder of a nostalgic weekend gone horribly wrong.

Detective Tony Rexroth of the Hernando Police Department told reporters: “These people were playing with fire, so to speak, even though it was water, not fire, really…” the officer metaphorized “…as far as the alleged 3rd fatality, we are mounting a full investigation as to the whereabouts of his remains, if any.” According to the officer, only Ms. Trubell claims any knowledge of his existence, and she has alerted the HPD to look for a “Dutch father and son team” who, while accosting a teenage vacationer, had earlier given the CVL group directions to the beach. “A bum steer they gave us,” complained Trubell, “But they spoke to 'Hap.' They can back me up.” Neither the Dutchmen nor the accosted female teen have been located at this time. “These others, like Mr. Blodgett, may or may not exist,” offered Detective Rexroth “…this old gal has one hell of an imagination to go with her spectacular repertoire of character voices, and with the recent rash of teenager abductions connected with visiting Netherlanders, we get a lot of these shaggy dog tales… not that there is any actual canine involvement in this incident… it’s a figure of speech.”

A memorial service will be held at the Hernando “Olive Garden” restaurant upon the first Wednesday following Ms. Trubell’s release from the hospital. “We would all often eat… all of us” she said, rather obviously, “Especially Sammy… he’d eat and eat. Corn dogs, especially.” Mourners will be advised to arrive before 3 pm: “Wednesdays is ‘senior lunchtime special’ over there…” confirms Mr. Attilio “…they load the old folks up with pasta and these huge salads for like half price. How can I compete?”

“He can’t; none of the independent food service people can, really. They have a lock on the old-timers, that’s for sure.” stated a grim Officer Rexroth.

http://www.sharksapoppin.com
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A Tsunami, graded as 5.3 on the Tsorinsen Tscale, pummeled the coastal city of Okidoki Japan in the early hours of Wednesday morning, according to news agency Boshnet. Fatalities were limited in this largely abandoned industrial area, but damage to real estate was extensive. Eyewitness accounts describe a heartbreaking scene of utter devastation:
“Many large building
Consumed by raging water
Property all gone”
Said local resident Omei Akinbaku when interviewed by local television reporters. Confirmed deaths at this time appear limited to approximately 23 “voice artists” employed at the Joto animation studio, who were holding a memorial sunrise vigil for several U.S. colleagues who died in an appalling shark attack earlier in the week.

The Japanese government has decreed a nationwide moment of silence at the discretion and convenience of each individual citizen:
“In your own way, friends,
Consider the lost voices,
So loved through cartoons.”
The loss of these performers adds “insult to injury” in an already devastating scenario of destroyed buildings and equipment; studio heads wept openly as they trudged through soggy former soundstages, furiously punching at calculators and conferring with insurance agents on their cell phones.

Tragic as the property loss is, there is also a personal dimension to the 23 human fatalities, particularly within the ranks of their profession, already rocked by so many recent losses. Sosei Allovus, the half-American daughter of lost voice artist Wishei Hadawatamelon, choked back tears as she offered a touching comment:
“Bad time for children.
Anime mute now, as if
Pre-Steamboat Willie.”
Ms. Allovus, it may be recalled, recently made news when she narrowly escaped abduction by a yet to be apprehended father and son team from Vootoreijnie, Holland.

(Reported by J. Blair for Boshnet News Service)

Posted 8:45 PM by sport

Who the fuck is Puddy the Pup? 

Posted 5:36 PM by sport

Bird In The House
…the video!

Today, Rich Black dropped off a copy of the Kill Rock Stars “Video Fanzine 3” dvd, which I didn’t even know existed. It includes a video for “Bird in the House” …a tune from the “Uncle” album. I think the dvd hits stores on July Somethingteenth. I shot the video on a camcorder a long time ago, back when I still had some contact with the label, and it was edited at some guy’s office on his pc. That guy, Rich and I edited it. We intended to do another one for the song “Behistun” but it got late and we figured we’d get back to it another time. Never did.

I hadn’t seen the video since that night, and finally viewing it now felt a bit strange. It has an unavoidably cheesy “public access” quality to it, and I’m unsure whether the humor of the thing comes off; the bridge, for example, is accompanied by a long shot of me waving from a rope bridge across a chasm at Rock City in Tennessee. Nevertheless, as it is the sole video document of my fabled career, it may interest one of you. Hell, it may interest both of you. Since the dvd also includes clips of Sleater-Kinney and the rest of the KRS roster, it represents the latest chance for my work to be mentioned in passing on web sites. I look forward to Googling my name to see if any of these passing mentions also include passing commentary.

So mark your calendars for July Somethingteenth, stalwarts! And, as ever, keep on a-rockin’!

Posted 3:05 PM by sport

OH FUCK! OH SHIT! GREAT CUNTING COCKTITS!
I think I missed the generously extended deadline to “submit” to CMJ!!!
I could have played there!
Who plays there?
Why, only EVERYONE who MATTERS, that’s all!

It only costed something like 35 dollars to submit to CMJ and be considered for a coveted slot at one of the fabled performance venues of New York Cit-tay! AND I BLEW IT!

I been there before though. It’s so fucken great.
All these really interesting people from all over the place wander around wearing badges that get them in FREE to like every place where the chosen bands play, and these people are, like WRITERS and RADIO people and other IMPORTANT people who can really help you get noticed and it’s exciting cause you hear all the really great new artists and get all kinds of free compilations and flyers and other stuff! To KEEP!

I remember the last time I played a show for CMJ. It was at a place called “Knitting Factory” (which was once in another place which was once a real factory where knitting stuff got made) and most of my band, well, they weren’t really prepared to play, but they pretty much knew my stuff already so it was no big deal and anyway they had a benefit to play the next day and had to play several sets under various names and that was more important anyway. How much can one band be expected to prepare? I mean, SEVERAL SETS. That can add up! What… 20 songs maybe? Hey, it was cool. And the CMJ thing didn’t go so bad anyhow. Some of the cool college music type people who couldn’t get into the BIG show upstairs wandered in and stared for a while. I bet they’d even have clapped if they weren’t so tired out from handing out cdrs and being handed cdrs. These people really know music, too. They are familiar with EVERYTHING from IDM to to Black Metal. Definately the place to be.

Anyway, the band. Most of them had played before with me at another CMJ. That was at a place called “Thread Waxing Space” (which at one time was a real space where thread got waxed) with Ronnie Spector! That was an even better “gig.” The piano player mentioned to me a week or so beforehand that she had since been offered a WEDDING GIG the same day and couldn’t do my show unless I could PAY HER the amount she’d be losing by missing the wedding gig! What a conflict. Luckily, she graciously accepted partial payment from me and did CMJ with me anyway! That was swell, especially since the whole band had only just complained that I was “keeping all the money” from several lucrative shows at “Living Room” (I don’t think it had actually BEEN a real living room before, but maybe “Performance Alcove Around The Corner From Katz’s Delicatessen” would have cost a fortune to have painted on a sign). In fact, the guitarist, who told me he wouldn’t do the show at all, due to his disgruntlement over my bald-faced greed, changed his mind when I replied “Oh… OK... we'll do it wihout you then."

It was a great experience! A writer from a Long Island paper covered the show and wrote a long article about how sick she was from food poisoning and puked a lot and missed most of the set. but what she heard was pretty interesting in spite of what seemed to be the onset of diarrhea. Boy did I feel bad for her when I read the piece, but my folks were real proud of the last paragraph, where she discussed at length what I said before about our set being fairly good, she thought. And as a bonus, there was a picture of me, and whenever I want to recall what I wore that night, I can go to my clipping file and look at that article.

So here I am now, all out of sorts on account of I missed the deadline. So here’s what I’m thinking. Since this is so crucial to my career, what I’ll do is play a show at the new Living Room (which is a lot bigger than the old “Living Room” so if I was them I’d of called it “Liquor Selling Area” or something). Then I’ll keep all the money and bribe someone at another venue… maybe “Shoe Repair Nook” or “Remaindered Porn Paperback Warehouse.” It couldn't cost too much, minus the 35 dollars I would of paid anyway for the right to submit. I'll get the show, I swear. There I’ll sing my fucken balls off and maybe some really savvy kid from Grand Rapids Community College will play the free cd I give her on her show. Or maybe some really sharp kid from South Dakota will post a review online if I buy him a drink. I can see it now!

“…Me and Dylan were really drunk by now and wanted to get to the Bowery Ballroom to see Queef open for The Ocean and Pie, but we caught part of Sport Murphey’s set at “Bone Boiling Slum.” Murphey is an old-timer who’s songs reminded us of Magnetic Fields only not as smart. He seemed like a decent guy but his palms were sweaty. Anyway, Dylan met some chicks and...”

Posted 6:53 PM by sport

By the way…
I am a member of this generally idiotic online “community” called MySpace. If you are also a member and wish to add me to your list, my profile is here: http://www.myspace.com/18112373

I can vow that you will never, upon viewing my profile, be subjected to instantly-loading videos for godawful hiphop or emo tunes, cluttered and ureadable page "design" or personal sincerity of any sort.

Posted 6:38 PM by sport

OK… Christ… several friends write, urging me to shitcan the whole idea of selling my songs. Shelley has also taken umbrage at the idea, and I concede that it’s probably a stupid thing, so fuck it. I will keep my compositions and forsake the grand dream of riches abounding. My children will own the work Daddy made, and I hope it will mean something more to them than it did to Daddy. Let me say this though… this was not a fucking “statement” or anything like that. I simply NEED MONEY. Period. I’m a middle-aged high school drop out with no job history and nary a chamberpot to urinate in. You try what you can, you know?

eBay, here I come.

Posted 12:42 AM by sport

Happy 40th, Petey

When a western man loses his best friend many days are spent in years
And without belief he knows his empty grief is a name for his own fears
Oh, the eyes are still. Oh, but even sleeping

My dearest friend till we meet again and ever, we'll be blowing
Maybe weep awhile for those below; until then I'll keep on going
But oh, the heart, the hurt keeps on keepin' on, on and on

Let them alone for those down there speak our sorrow
While we can't share the joke together, yeah, we keep on going
My dearest friend till we meet again
O-ku Nsu-kun No-ko
The dead are weeping for the dead
(VACANT CHAIR - lyric by Vivian Stanshall, music by Steve Winwood)

He sings the songs that remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that remind him
Of the better times:
"Oh Danny Boy
Danny Boy
Danny Boy..."
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You're never going to keep me down
(from TUBTHUMPING by Chumbawamba) 

So an old 45 by my old band sells for 26 bucks on eBay.
HUH?
Completist Sport Murphy fan?
Burgeoning "cult" rediscovery?
An old follower of the band getting nostalgic?
Someone confusing us with the current, same-named NJ band?
I checked the winner's other auctions.
He collects FEZZES, and Shriner memorabilia.
There's a pic of a Shriner on the sleeve.
Our vanity label was "Mystery Fez."
So it goes, friends. So it goes.

Posted 2:28 PM by sport

I, like any right-thinking person, reject the term “wigger” to describe a Caucasian immersed in / obsessed with the perceived trappings of African-American culture. “Whegro” is slightly less odious, but sounds like a brand of cereal. Besides, “Negro” is perilously close to THAT word… ssshhh… and calls to mind, if anything, images of early-sixties “protest” as opposed to late-sixties “revolution.” While the former actually accomplished much more than the latter, the latter is way sexier, and sexy / aggressive means less - therefore more - than dignified / determined.

It would be an offensive exercise in futility to cobble other portmanteau constructions out of terms like “spear-chucker,” “cracker,” “mouli” or “peckerwood,” but this leaves us with a dilemma. How may a Caucasian person respectfully refer to a fellow Caucasian who has accepted the irresistible call to embrace the “urban aesthetic?” After all, even those persons of pallor who stubbornly cling to the hegemonic paradigm of…
(…wait… got a chunk of something caught in my wordflow… brain Heimlich, please! …ugh… GAK… splat… OK, thanks.)

Even Caucasians who act and speak in conventionally Caucasian ways cannot, for example, resist using words like “bling” whenever a piece of jewelry is under discussion. It’s true! Walk up to any ofay… the more well-heeled the better… and wave a necklace or ring under his/her nose.
“What do you think?”
“Look at you with the bling bling! That’s what I’m talking about.”

With this in mind, we would do well to indicate respect - if not deference – to those who’ve taken it the full nine. We must seek to establish a useful, non-demeaning term for these specific forms of transracialreselfidentification (and remember that there are many variants, from the “albino jazz cat” to the “hip hop honkie” to the “alabasta rasta” and beyond). While it is generally accepted that the correct informal term for a Caucasian male is “whiteboy,” it should also be understood that, for Caucasians referring to fellow Caucasians who affect African –American traits, the term is inadequate.

Worse, it even smacks of postcolonial epithet-appropriation, a pernicious and subtle strain of Eurocentric linguodomination. Whoops! There I go again, typing over my head. To the point, then.

Here's my "two cent": I’m thinking “Caucafrican-Urbmerican.” It seems a little unwieldy perhaps, but consider that it actually adds only one syllable to the accepted term “African-American, ” which also seemed at first awkward to our lazy white tongues, so accustomed to simply saying “Black.” It is historically appropriate that we load on another syllable: from “Colored People” to “Negroes” to “Blacks,” an evolving lexicon of awareness reduced the syllabic count in steady increments. Naturally, we grant less significance to terms that require less effort to utter, and this subconsciously minimizes the subject’s importance:
Trump Tower / home
Lobster Fra Diavolo / beans
Ludwig Van Beethoven / sport
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder / nerves

It took a great deal of corrective effort to establish the 7-syllable majesty of “African-American.” Is it a coincidence that the 3 –and- 4 arrangement of syllables mirrors our standard ordering of local phone numbers? Or is it a “wake-up call” to adopt “standards” and “act locally?” What do you “think?” If my line of reasoning seems to suggest that an additional syllable somehow elevates the status of a Caucafrican-Urbmerican above that of an actual African-American, then you are obviously trapped in a tangle of niggling semantic bugbears and I can only pity you.

Let us work to cast off disuseful habits of thought and their correlative verbal signifiers, which reinforce cultural prejudices by making implicit mock of those who seek to overcome same by means of their own off-casting of antiutile complexion-based norms in their day-to-day life-modes. It’s simple common sense.

Posted 10:44 PM by sport

How happy I was to have chanced upon the MTV Movie Awards, something I’d never before seen. In addition to watching rich children award other rich children for things like “best onscreen kiss” (I’d like to thank my top lip and my bottom lip, who really are the kind of facial features one dreams of working with… and none of it would have been possible without my costar’s tongue…”), there was one very moving moment.

This actress, Hilary something (Duff? Swank? Dude? Gent? Nugget?) sashays out with that “I’m about to introduce something truly important” air about her. “Every once in a great while, a true film EVENT occurs: a life-changing, era-defining masterpiece of such eventful great-whileness that lives are changed and eras defined!” (of course, I paraphrase) Whatever could she be leading to?

THE BREAKFAST CLUB.
Oh my aching perineum! Jesus aitch Cocksucker! Great flaming heaps of Mole Rat dung! THE BREAKFAST FUCKING CLUB!?!

“And here to help us relive those memories as we view a heart-tugging montage of scenes, a special performance of the immortal theme (Don’t You) Forget About Me by the unbelievably awesome YELLOWSTREAK!” The band had a name something like that, anyway; I am a middle-aged man, and do not feel obliged to “keep up” with the dire amusements of today’s cretinous kinderhordes. Anyway… There’s this band: the absolute usual, plus a fiddle. The dirgey version they extruded actually managed to make me nostalgic for Simple Minds! “Now THAT was bad music! In my day, bad music was bad! It was MUSIC! It was BAD MUSIC! These kids today don’t know nothin’ about Bad… nothin’ about Music! Why, this shit’s too nowhere to even dislike!”

Jim Kerr was one goofy looking dick whose attempts to pose as a pouting rocker came off like Kukla making Marilyn Monroe fuck-me faces. His band of nonentities played a brand of droning, sub-U2 linoleumlieder only slightly less stimulating than those white noise generators people use to help get some shut-eye. This big hit song, “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” or “Don’t (You Forget) About (Me)” or any way you parenthetically subdivide it, slid across the ears with relatively little abrasion. Consider other tunes of the time:

Mister Mister: “Broken Wings,” a song built from a stolen line from McCartney’s “Blackbird.” Followup ideas: “Vera, Chuck (and Dave),” “Tres Bien Ensemble,” “(Please) Lock Me Away.”
Lyric: “when we hear / the voices sing / the book of love will open up for us / and let us in” Gee, Gumby!

Glen Frey: “The Heat Is On,” a milestone of rhythmically annoying, clueless bad-assery. Late of Rolling Stone magazine’s bimonthly 70s cover faves The Eagles, Frey was odious enough to force a grudging respect for his somewhat less detestable bandmate Don Henley, which is like yearning for a toothache to distract you from stomach cramps. Do any of you actually enjoy – or have you ever enjoyed – “Hotel California?” Then I have no choice but to point at you and titter.

Starship: “We Built This City.” My oh my… what is there to say about the time-honored inanity of this spectacular tub of chum? Here is a work so egregiously incoherent you are forced to despise its philosophical stance even though you couldn’t claim to understand one couplet on all the hallucinogens in Frisco. Here’s a chunk of product so heavy laden with mucous-gleaming gated-reverb overproduction it was outdated one hour after final mixdown. Here’s a musical cipher so redolent of syntars and mousse-caked mullets… a spandex-bulging embarrassment of such jaw-dropping shopping-mall-essence it achieves inarguable Dork Divinity. Listen to the breathy synth-flutes, like HAL with asthma! Listen to Grace Slick snarl about “corporation games” with a baldfaced in-biz smugness of Sarandonian immensity! Behold little Mickey Whatshisname posturing like an angry pixie through the video, eyes revealing such depths of stagnant stupidity that to gaze into them is to osmose into a hell-dimension of teal blue carpenter pants and terrycloth kamikaze headbands.

OK – that’s too easy and obvious a target for abuse, and I’m way off on a tangent. But let us recall that the song sold millions of copies. That was America, and those same idiots also bought millions of tix to The Breakfast Club. And now, 20 years on, if both of these exemplars of cultural chaff seem like artistic peaks in contrast to their intolerable contemporary equivalents, we can only wipe a tear and forge onward.

So… this a-hole band grinds out their cover version as the simpleminded audience is shown clips of The Breakfast Club, edited in such a way as to ostensibly play like the “Gonna Fly Now” sequence of “Rocky.” Somehow I couldn’t have mustered up one little chill with a dry ice suppository. After the clip, Hilary calls to the stage Molly Ringwald, Ally Sheedy and the nerdy guy with three names. Ascending the steps to a mass roar of ecstasy, They seem overcome with rapturous pride. Molly Ringwald hogs the mic, babbling on and on about how they knew they were working on something important, but had no idea just HOW important it would turn out to be in the full context of history. The guy who played the mean teacher (or whatever he was) hands the trio a trophy shaped like an enormous order of popcorn. The thing is bigger than Ms Sheedy. Tears, cheers.

What can I say?

Posted 1:08 AM by sport

Things are looking up.

Expect a lot from here. Much to do... whole heaps of much.

Some of you, in this time of holy wars and unholy arguments, may wonder at the references to "faith" in the previous entry, and I can assure you there will be no preachments coming down from this particular rostrum.

If there's a God for me, its name is Miles-n-Lily.
Someone reminded me of that, and it works just fine.
But so do your prayers, thoughts and messages.

Thanks