Posted 12:30 AM by sport

The Pointer Sisters did a video for the song "I'm So Excited" that originally included a sequence of one Pointer sister rising from a bubble bath, whereupon her towel crept up high enough to provide a clear and unmistakable "beaver shot"...this was no furtive "well, maybe" glimpse of a shadowy crotch-zone, forested only by my fervid imagination.

NO... this was a slo-mo unveiling of real live popstar cho-cha, against suspiciously appropriate lyrics. I mean someone had to know this went out, but damned if it ever got mentioned.

I saw it on MTV one afternoon and spit coffee through my nose. Got wood, too. Told everyone. Nobody believed me. I then recorded hours of MTV content, later fast-forwarding in search o' the snatch. Nada. The video - a big hit at the time, mind you - had vanished. Eventually it reappeared, and lo: no punani. Branded a liar and a cad, I fell apart. A pariah. A broken man. Someone had indeed noticed it, and nothing was ever said. The scissors snipped; history was rewritten.

Years anon, wandering through the internets for some reference... screen capture... ANYTHING that would prove my claim, I still "came up dry" (unlike that succulent Pointer) Every retelling of the tale met with little more than scorn.

I thought I was the only asshole who ever noticed this (well, obviously not, but I mean, outside of the record label, etc).

Mind you, nowadays young female celebrities routinely flash box. Not so in the early 80s... and never, ever on basic cable. So I finally found it on the blessed resource called YouTube. Imagine my glee. A look through the comments confirms that others have noticed the flash. Tears fill my eyes... I'm... I'm not alone after all.

So I captured and edited the pertinent sequence from the pre-and-post-edit versions. Tried to post it here, but the original version will not "show." I suspect censorship. Fascist fuckers.

Anyway, I can easily imagine some unfortunate Google search leading some douchebag to my blog, and then there goes the whole thing... all my archives gone on account of some classic semi/secret yoni footage. No way, jack.

We are, then, reduced to using links. Check right before the chorus, about a minute in: HERE .

And to see the edited version, you can look at THIS . I hope the Youtube posting of the original clip lasts, otherwise, come over sometime and I'll show you.

Thank you for sharing my wonder and delight. My moment of vidvindication as well. I think this breakthrough might well result in the arrival of the change our nation so desperately needs.

Posted 10:59 PM by sport

Comics... sigh. Drew 'em for years, I did. At some point in my 20s, Art Spiegelman saw some of my stuff and brutally critiqued it. I agreed, and gave it up. Moved on to music, determined to carry on no matter what. Now, so many years later, few brutal critiques... not from anyone I respect anyhow... but pretty much the same conclusion. Music... sigh.

So, a glance back at the first doomed avocation. Panels, doodles, etc, spanning childhood to my late teens. None of the later stuff that Spiegelman hated, though. I gave away every page I didn't destroy. It is kind of nice that the blog justifies use of this shit at long last, as a friend noted the other day. I feel like it honors, ever so feebly, the dreamy kid that drew it all. And shit, he deserves it, even if it's only his aged self doing it. There are heaps and heaps of these things, really. All that stuff I did for the love of doing. No shame in that.




The oldest one from the current array is from one of these EC/Twilight Zone fixated books I cranked out between 10 and 12 years old. Lots of bitter twists at the end of each tale. Worked REAL hard on these ones. They're not as funny as a lot of the other shit I did then, but the art is better, and it was rare that I used color except in these ambitious strips.

The other one's from a bit later, with a fellow named "Deeds" about to be spirited off by amorphous baddies. Included here for the silly bit of gratuitous self-praise in the corner. Say what you will, at least I was pleased with myself at the time. I could use some of that now!



There's a portion of a page from a small book I did in high school called "Ripstaver." Completed a couple of issues of that one, a 5 by 8 number following the adventures of a bewildered band of mutant-types. Every page included instructions on which music to play while reading it. Forget what this page called for... maybe Grieg or Josef Marais or something.

Posted 11:05 PM by sport

Here's a family group from our living room at 606 17th Street. I reckon that I'm about 4 or 5 here, proudly displaying my Marx Universal Monsters figures on the coffee table, amid the ever-present doilies and magazines. Monsters were very important in those days. These figures were likely purchased at Woolworth's, where they sat irresistably in bins alongside other Marx six-inchers like cowboys and indians, army soldiers (my favorites in these categories were always the "dying guys" ...poor fellows frozen eternally at the moment a bullet or arrow struck them. Bizarre, looking back at it), et al. Dunno if I had already begun collecting the Nutty Mads and Weird-Ohs, but I'll get to those eventually.

Now: left to right. Brother Brian, early in his "hood" phase. Painstaking hair comb (ever after, he'd jokingly comment "bad hair comb" as a way of complimenting one's coif). Tiki pendants were favored on the neck chain, and cologne was liberally applied. Au Sauvage, Old Spice, so forth. Eventually and enduringly, Brut. Next to Brian sit Uncle Freddie and Aunt Sis. "Sis" was the nickname Mom and siblings gave their eldest sister, so naturally we all called her "Aunt Sis." This is indicative of the strange range of relationships in a large, close family where many siblings were born many years apart; cousins as old as Mom who were more like aunts, and of course nephew Pete, who was more like a brother. The tradition continues, with Miles and Lily's brother Alex almost 20 years their elder!

Fred and Sis were sweet, wonderful people. A late memory of Aunt Sis was arriving at her apartment (site of countless holiday bashes in those years) as a teen, toting my freshly purchased copy of Tom Waits' "Foreign Affairs" lp. Just as the sisters momentarily left their tea and crumbcake to come see what I was listening to on the console tv/stereo, Waits barked "...Florence Nightingale stuck her fat ass out the window..." which, thankfully, inspired much laughter instead of the expected chagrin.

Then there's Grandma. Dad's Mom, who then lived at the Ronkonkoma house I'm now emptying. I still hear her Irish brogue... she died when I was nine, slipping and falling in the kitchen. My folks rushed out to the hospital on Long Island, and I was with my siblings Maureen, Brian, Bobby and Petie in this room at 606 when the call came. I recall the people on the tv (Tonight Show, I think) continuing to laugh as we all sat variously weeping and stunned silent. That was a mindfuck. The world just goes on... who suspected? I prayed to her and promised I'd talk to her every night with the day's news, and did so for many years afterward.

Then it's Aunt Ronnie. She kept a big toybox in her living room for all visiting nieces, nephews and grandkids. A complete pearl. Shelley often drove Mom in to see her in the later years, and on her deathbed she roused from near-dementia to embrace me, whisper some of the most beautiful sentiments I have ever heard and promise to watch over me. With a soul like hers, I can almost believe it's true. Wrote a chamber piece for her that was meant for the abandoned followup to "Magic Beans" ...her death sent my Mom into a spiral of depression that set in soon afterward, on Sept 11.

But there she is, Mom Immortal, beaming with Bobby and me between her and Dad. A very happy time... everyone depicted here represents absolute love to me. What a lucky little boy.


Same spot, different sofa and coffee table. Now I'm maybe 11 or 10, playing the Marvin Glass-designed "Which Witch" game with Brian. Right after Christmas, with wrapping paper and boxes still littering the place. Brian is now in his "groovy guy" phase, and Four Seasons / Shirelles records have given way to Chambers Brothers and Sly and the Family Stone. Dangling in the air above Dad, note the day-glo peace sign mobile. Dad, no doubt caught up in a football game or Efrem Zimbalist on "The F.B.I.", is only tolerating the mobile for the holiday season; I reckon it was a gift from Brian to Bobby or vice versa. Dad is doing his aimless hair-twirling bit; 'til the end he'd repeatedly wind a lock of hair through his fingers as he focused on some tv show. And if the scent of Brut brings back memories of this version of Brian, Vitalis permeates my memories of this version of Dad.


In keeping with the era, Brian and I are sporting mod vests, with fringe on mine! I am obviously proud to be garbed so, sitting beside my purple-trousered bro and wishing I could also grow my hair long so I could be a groovy guy as well. (I did, at about 13, and suffered "are you a boy or a girl" abuses for many years as a result. When I was first marooned in Long Island, a jock hit me with that hated question in the loathed homeroom of my detested high school. Nervous as hell but realizing I needed to show some chutzpah, I replied "Why dontcha suck my dick and find out?") Despite the misery their substance abuse brought into our home, I thought Brian and Bobby were the coolest motherfuckers in christendom.


Behind the sofa is the rickety stereo, before which I'd sit for hours listening to the soundtrack from "2001, A Space Odyssey," the Bee Gees' "Odessa" and other favorites of the moment. Just to the left of the stereo, a GI Joe paratrooper hangs from the wooden bars lining the staircase. These bars were perfectly spaced for getting one's head stuck in between.

Fast-forward to a gathering 'round the sofa at my room in Ronkonkoma, aeons later. Now I'm about 17. Foreground is Maryrose, a gifted gal who was later in the original cast of Sondheim's "Merrily We Roll Along," and was immortalized by an Al Hirschfeld caricature on the album cover! She's now a successful writer, notably of fiction for young women. I think that's Steve next to her, a guy I spent many many many hours with through the years, some of them sober. Last saw him, along with his rowdy brood, a couple of years back at a party here at the current house.


Frank is chortling next to him. Like Maryrose, he and I recently re-acquainted on MySpace. He does a sort of retro-Vegas comedy and music act around the area. Lovely Karina - current whereabouts unknown to me - is agreeably strangling me as I extinguish a butt in my beer cup. I had just begun that odious habit, which I still relish, unfortunately. And that's Carrie sitting bobsled style between my legs. I can't fathom now why I decided to break up with her; she was a great, sweet, beautiful gal. Probably still is, somewhere.

Doubtless, there was music playing. My guess is Neil Young, Beach Boys or Stackridge, whose album "Pinafore Days" was a group favorite: Tony DeCosa bought every copy he came across and gave them out like new-daddy cigars. We also had a collective fixation with actor Ted Bessell of "That Girl." Fan club buttons, the works. Long story. This sofa was a Castro Convertible... not yet as rank with beer and other drippins as it quickly became before getting deep-sixed for good.

This room became Brian's when circumstance led him to his decline. Last week a truck hauled away tons of shit that had accumulated there... it will soon be the domain of Alex and Cat, who will likely install a new sofa ...and fun will once again reign o'er all, set to Drum 'n' Bass.

That same house, downstairs, another few years along. Now I'm about 22 or so, with Charlie and Bari on the Furry Sofa. It was like cozying up on Robin Williams' back.


We seem to be inebriated on some combination of toxins. Charlie was a dear friend, dead at 33. He and his wife moved to New York City around this time, an unfortunate choice, as it turned out. Wrote a song for him called "The Mighty Sun" ...it recalled, in part, our long nights of deep deep music listening; I turned him on to Tom Waits and he got me into Alan Price. Lotsa Stevie Wonder, Leon Russell, Elvis Costello. Bari, a real salt-o-the-earth type, married a fireman a few years after this photo, and where she is I do not know, but bless her wherever she be.

I was never the Cory Hart sort, so the sunglasses can only indicate something bad afoot. Around this time I shattered my front teeth attempting to play the trombone out the window of Charlie's overloaded VW Bug. Brrrapp! CRACK! Sparks flew as the slide hit pavement at a stupidly high speed... and the brass mouthpiece smashed the ol' incisors like one of them medieval battering rams. 3,000 bucks later I could smile brightly again. No more mescaline, thanks.


Maybe I'll get around to telling you about a week spent in a woodland cabin with Charlie, Brian, and Steve from the previous snapshot. A "fishing trip." Oy fuckin Vey!! But one afternoon that sordid week - sprawled on the cabin's sofa, you betcha - Charlie somehow got the ancient tv to work, pulling in only one channel thru its rusty rabbit ears. We watched Frank Sinatra in "The Joker is Wild" and permanently adopted his toast "Post time!"

And here's a toast to all of them (water, alas), here and gone. With thanks for all the heapin' helpins of their hospitality.

Posted 11:56 PM by sport

Below is part of a diary entry from when I was 13 or so. The point of interest is the tiny doodle in the upper left corner, depicting Pete, Frank Fulco and me unsuccessfully warding off sleep as we all bunked together in front of the tube. One of our rituals was a Saturday night pyjama hang, where we'd try to stay up all night in order to watch the first shows on Sunday Morning, when the tv stations signed back on the air. The shows we craved were both on channel 5, WNEW: "Reverend Cleophus Robinson" and "Wonder Window." "Rev. Cleo" - as we called him - was a classic southern preacher of enormous vocal power; we'd goof on the sermons and enjoy the singing. Wonder Window was a piss-poor religious kid's show... kind of a "Wonderama for Jesus" thing. Mind you, part of the idea with our stay-up was to achieve a giddiness that enhanced appreciation of these shows.

Soon we applied the same theory to the Jerry Lewis MDA telethon, to which, as you know, I remain devoted. There is always a time during my Jerry-thon endurance ritual when I catch a sweet whiff of those ancient Saturday/Sunday no-sleep-overs. Any man who fell asleep was subject to vile torments and humiliations, as is only right, but evidently on this occasion we all dropped out as one... a blot on our collective escutcheon worthy of commemoration in this diary. The real danger zone for dozing was the brief period when there was NOTHING on the tv (not to be confused with today, when there is a very loud nothing on, every channel, all the time). CBS 2 Signed off around 4:30 or so, give or take, and WNEW came on maybe 5. So figure at least 30 minutes of very bleary attempts to remain up and stoked.

It's a goddamn shame that tv stations don't sign off anymore - don't even get me started on infomercials - and I collect old examples of sign-offs and sign-ons from equally rabid weirdos on YouTube. So far nobody's posted a WNEW 5 Sat-to-Sun sequence for my nostalgic wallowing, but fortunately I found a recording we'd made one of those halcyon overnights, which includes the sound of Rev Cleo preaching and the opening theme from Wonder Window, all with our giddy kiddy chatter in the background. Man, do I treasure those recordings.

Making tape recordings was our passion. We worked that Panasonic cassette machine to death in those years, doing the usual puerile parodys, silly tunes and audio-verite. I still have things ranging from entire pillow fights, vacation travel reports and tv-commentary shenanigans (the reason I never dug MST3K is that I always thought this was a fab party game and still can't understand why anyone would want someone else to supply the wiseassery for them) to audio experiments and original music. Below left is an illustration for a now-lost game show parody I did with Pete, "Manslaughter!" We filled notebooks with visual complements to our audio oeuvre. Who needed blogs and laptops? Pete's specialty was impersonating Nipsey Russell and Muhammed Ali, mainly because of their penchant for rhymes. As Frank did his Evel Kneivel or Bob Eubanks and I'd do my Joey Heatherton or Richard Nixon, Pete would intrude with an inane, improvised couplet that would stop the proceedings cold with a good few minutes of uncontrolled giggling. One of those very crack-ups concludes the "Uncle" album.




Regarding the "original music" - most of the tunes we did were credited to our "band," Hot Turd. Here are some bits of H.T. ephemera:



I assume the illo with the spear was a beginning attempt at an "album cover" The other one, with portraits of Me, Frank and Pete (with our nicknames Sport, Ace and Projie, respectively) includes an inset (see, I'm sparing you full-page scans, so think of how excruciating this entry could have been) of "us" "performing." Properly, Ace's guitar should be a neck-sprung acoustic or a toy banjo, Projie's drums should be a series of toy drums and pots and pans. Me, I'm at the OPTIGAN. Which is also still there, mouldering, at the old homestead. Our sound was sonically adventurous, like, say, chimpanzees covering the Shaggs.



Our work boldly dealt with issues like farts, the other retards at school, boogersnots, the assholes who taught us at school, and of course, turds.




Hot Turd began its fabled career as the "glee club" component of the Viking Club, formed by me and best chum Mike "Woody" Woodworth back in the single-digit days of kidhood. Woody. I smile at the thought of that guy. Not long before Pete's death, he told me he'd run into Woody on the street. Woody gave him his phone number and asked him if he could pass it on to me. I called once, got a machine and hung up. I keep meaning to call. Dunno if I should or not, but I love Woody like a brother, and that's exactly why I hesitate.

You know, I still periodically check to see if the number is active under "Woodworth."






















What can I add? It's getting very late. I miss him. I loved him more than I can ever convey. And I don't give a shit about the date, really, because every day's just another unless you share it with people you love, doing things that make you laugh. Looking forward as Pete did. And for all the laughing days we were cheated out of, we had so many like these. A considerable blessing.
So on to the future and the laughs that'll follow tonight's tears.

Posted 12:34 AM by sport

O.K. Here I am again. I have spent a lot of time immersed in the grueling task of clearing out the old family home. It's tiring, depressing, sometimes sweet and mostly interminable. The images I've combined (and retexted) to the left are among the heaps of old artwork I unearthed during this effort.

I don't think I'll get all detailed about any other old flames, though. But you'll meet a few more, I reckon. Here's some school notebook shit...

Death Cheez Snax / Portly Grad Girl

Yeah, nothing grand, I admit. But that's just it. This is not an art exhibit, it's a biography. Just ad hoc exhumations, and if there are any interesting stories, I'll include them. Skoal, friends.

Posted 2:07 AM by sport

OK - this is compelling, kinda. Last week a piece of video from my famed archive aired as the cold opening to the Letterman show on CBS. Here's the exciting tale.

My chum, Steve -writer for the show and foremost authority on the Industrial Musical genre- stopped by the house a few months ago for a spot of coffee and chat. It's no secret that the eccentric aura of our home is a rich source of inspiration and renewal to all manner of non-LI-phobic creative types, and Steve is no exception.

Once a particularly dry and acrid intro from some ancient p.d. sales film worked its magic on jokester Steve, it was a short step to the discerning eye of veteran tv funnyguy Letterman himself (in Steve's words, "Dave seemed sort of amused") and then to the vasty reaches of the public airwaves and a nation hungry for nocturnal camp.

You bet I used the "DVR for IO" function of my dauntingly complex cable box to save this moment for the sub-category of my archive concerning those fragments of my collection that have been re-re-used for media meta-schtick applications at sundry levels of public accessibility. It's a small but worthy array, and I'd delve further into it here except that it's very fucking "de trop" to brag about one's cool connections in "the industry."

Point is, now I can save that recording to vhs, rip it to the computer, burn a dvd, and then - at any time I wish - watch the same exact footage - mere seconds of entertainment dynamite - in either its "original" post-context context or in its new, retooled (but exactly the same) mass-media, neo-coffee-n-chat, "sure-you-can-borrow-it" infra-context. Will I? Dunno. Depends on whether I can find a minute amidst the countless amusements afforded by living on Long motherfucking Island: the very crucible of big ideas.

As Sinatra sang: "The Looong... it's so loooong... very looong...."

Posted 11:46 PM by sport

Sorry there are no new posts... dunno when. Songs? Unlikely. If there's ever a compelling reason to re-engage with either, I'll meet you back here to discuss it. Meantime, I wish you good fortune. See ya.

Posted 1:29 AM by sport

The Five Stages of Death You Can't Say On Television:

DENIAL:
"No motherfucking way I'm dying."

ANGER:
"God, you miserable cunt... NOW I'm pissed!"

BARGAINING:
"Whose cock do I have to suck to get out of this predicament?"

DEPRESSION:
"I'm crying my tits off over here."

ACCEPTANCE:
"Oh well... shit happens."

Posted 2:56 AM by sport

A familiar chunk of the Pisan Cantos by Ezra Pound
(I know, I know...)


What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee

The ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.

"Master thyself, then others shall thee beare"
Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst'ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
I say pull down.

But to have done instead of not doing
This is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open
To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
this is not vanity.
Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered . . .

("Paquin" was, evidently, some kind of fancy dress designer.
"Blunt" was an old fashioned poet. Poetry is a pain in the ass and I don't really get it, but this piece from the old psycho/fascist always got me.)

Posted 2:30 AM by sport

One great fucking record... "Sugar Man" by Sixto Rodriguez

The lure of oblivion.

Sugar man
Won't ya hurry
Coz I'm tired of these scenes
For the blue coin
Won't ya bring back
All those colors to my dreams
Silver magic ships, you carry
Jumpers, coke, sweet Maryjane
Sugar man
Met a false friend
On a lonely, dusty road
Lost my heart
When I found it
It had turned to dead, black coal
Silver magic ships, you carry
Jumpers, coke, sweet Maryjane
Sugar man
You're the answer
That makes my questions disappear
Sugar man
Coz I'm weary
Of those double games I hear...

Posted 12:52 AM by sport

Banzai. Seems right that I return to this bullshit after Mother's Day. It's been a month or so of post-death adjustment, and life is life, as it usually is. The above pic was taken on one of the Unassailable Days, part of a weekend in NY's Greenwood Lake many ages ago. Me and Mom and Dad. Happiness and freedom, safety and possibility with the two people I always trusted and enjoyed. Dad let me taste some Lowenbrau beer and I pompously asserted thereafter (to all my school chums) "of course, Lowenbrau is the best beer." As if I had a clue, but yeah, why not? It was, given the particulars.

Recent weeks have been OK thanks to an assortment of factors. Alex's pals Rob, Greg and Dan have hung with the old bastard here at the redoubt; merry times with people young enough to still have some. I now claim Alex's pals as my own. "My own" chums Brian and Sharon have also braved that 1-hour LIRR trek so many of my NYC mates fear and loathe, to join us at the redoubt for a long night's gambol. This is the best therapy, although my shrink is a wonder and keeps me breathing.

The redoubt itself is subject to a number of significant renovations and improvements thanks to the superb wife, and that process speaks of life ongoing and unfolding as well. Enjoying a really fucking good Absinthe named "St. George" made right here in the USA by a small California concern. Sammy Davis Junior has kept us all inspired and entertained, becoming a special favorite of young Miles.

I long for Paris daily. Even go to Google maps to gaze bird's-eye on dear Rue de Martinique, retracing the steps I took daily with Eloise and Sing Sing to the local shops and such on that blessed interruption of brutal time back in March. Lordy I miss my friends in France.

I am even maybe writing some songs. Dunno if I really am or not. I kinda don't give a fuck, except that it's what I figured I "did" for so long that not doing it breeds anxieties worse even than the songs themselves. Who cares.

Here's something I meant to post a long, long time ago and probably didn't. It's a fine, perceptive review of a song of mine, and I even agree with the complaints.

by Will Robinson Sheff

T.S. Eliot once famously wrote, "this is the way the world ends...not with a bang, but a whimper." The work of Mike "Sport" Murphy would deny Elliot even that whimper; Murphy’s "The Night Surrounds" is a narrative of a boring and ridiculous world idiotically refusing to end. Clearly weaned on icons of folk-pop bitterness like Leonard Cohen and Jacques Brel, Murphy’s worldview would be almost wrist-slittingly dark were it not simultaneously so cheekily funny.

"Kettles will be whistling to proclaim with shrill insistence an impending cup of Sanka / and someone will be hearing, and presumably enjoying, something written by Paul Anka" is how Murphy sets the scene at the beginning of the song, immediately creating for the listener a place of such horrific and hilarious blandness it recalls the world of Todd Solondz’s pitch-black comedy "Happiness."

Meanwhile, the band plays soft folk-rock with a polite prettiness that belies Murphy’s almost savagely mean description of the pathetic events unfolding: teenagers around the country all furiously masturbate behind closed bedroom doors while a desperate rock band dreams of whoring themselves out to the first available A&R guy and hypocritical pseudo-intellectuals try to impress each other in boring and long-winded conversations.

Murphy kind of overdoes it a couple of times, when his contemptuous reading of his already-unambiguous lyrics (listen to his phrasing of "true genius" and "substantial issues") borders on dead-horse-beating, but just when the misanthropy is nearing toxic levels, Murphy sweeps all of his pathetic scenarios off of the table like so many chess pieces and, with the chorus, switches to the first person voice, as he himself implores a second person, who may be a character in the song and may actually be the listener, to just sing into the night sky a song that will only be there for the singing and then will fade away forever.

There are still moments of beauty, he tells us, rare and hard to keep and unimportant to the rest of the world though they may be, and these are really the only things that matter.

Quite so, Mr. Sheff, and thanks.
Come, pilgrims... come to the redoubt for some St George and Sammy. I aim to avoid NYC for a while, so come, come to the redoubt. For Calvados and clam pizza. Come! Come! Or don't, prick.

And, for you French people: if ten of you raise a hundred bucks each, I can return. If a hundred of you pitch in 10 bucks each, I'm there. My humble suggestion: a series of small benefit gigs. Earmark some of the take for the "Bring Back Sport" fund. I will play a free show, dedicating an original song for each contributor (sure, the songs may be 10 seconds each, but, merde, still... ) as recompense. Imagine the fun. Discuss it with one another.

I will wait patiently for your response, here at the redoubt, digging Sammy fuckin' Davis fuckin' Junior.

Posted 11:41 PM by sport

Thanks for the various gestures of kindness, everyone. I will probably not be doing very much of this blogging for a while. Love to all of you and all of yours.

Posted 11:56 PM by sport

The wake will take place Tuesday.
I think it's 2 to 4 in the afternoon and then again from 7-9, but you can call them and check.
Moloney's Lake Funeral Home
132 Ronkonkoma Ave
Lake Ronkonkoma NY 11779
(631) 588 1515

Burial is Wednesday morning at Calverton, after mass at St Joseph's church, Ronkonkoma I think. I'll post more info if I can.
Thank you for the messages of support and sympathy.

Posted 9:53 PM by sport

Mom is gone.

Posted 11:21 PM by sport

Posted 11:35 PM by sport

I see her sweet, sky-blue eyes every time I see Miles, and yesterday I saw hers again, now sightless and distant. She still hears, so I told her all I could think to say, kissed her as much as I could, held her close and sang some songs. Stardust (which we danced to when I married Shelley), Night and Day, Skylark, Small Fry, La Mer, I've Got You Under My Skin, I'll Be Seeing You, Paper Doll and others. She managed a few returned kisses and a number of smiles. Even now, frail and mysterious as it is, that smile is the sun, moon and stars. She is supposedly in no pain now, and that's a comfort. It's hard to predict how this is going to go with regard to my sister and me. I worry that she's gonna fall apart, since she's been the one taking care of Mom every day and night for months now. Her agony, weariness and worry is clear to see, and when the moment arrives I fear what all that bottled-up pain will become. Her caring and that of her husband Ira has been incredible... Mom could not have had finer and more tender treatment, and it's a debt I owe them. As for me, I have to assume I'll manage; I have no choice. But this is the fucking worst... the thing I've dreaded most in life.


I write this now as a means of putting it somewhere outside my head. Others reading this have gone through the same, and with enough grace and forbearance not to publicly wail. So I'm sorry for that... just trying to use what I can to cope. That's what a lot of this blogging has been, of course. Thanks to those of you who have responded in ways huge and small through all these avalanches; I know you will be there in coming weeks and months as well, and I thank you in advance because I truly don't know how well I'll be able to do so. One becomes numb, in part, after such relentless loss. Not numb to the love or the sorrow, but to other things... parts of me are dead, and that's just part of growing up, maybe. This is true, though: I am acutely aware of how lucky I've been to have this wonderful family, and I take all the tears as part of the bundle. I'm lucky to have my own wife and kids, 4 lifelines to the reason it all happens and all matters. I'm lucky to know such friends who've always reminded me what music and laughter can do even when I didn't feel that another song or smile was possible. I'll need it a lot now. And, best luck of all, I had Helen Rose. Christ, I am going to miss her.

Posted 10:23 PM by sport

Miles and Lily were about one and a half when this picture was taken. On recent visits to see their Nana, they insisted we stop for flowers. They are crazy about her, and Lily has a special bond with her, climbing up onto her bed and throwing her arms around her neck, kissing and nuzzling her. It's going to be very hard for both of them, especially Lily. We're told that Mom's got hours to go, maybe a few days. My sister faithfully attends her. We are both overwhelmed with dread and sorrow. I don't know what we're gonna do. My saint, my soul, my Mother.

Posted 3:56 PM by sport

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. ~James Joyce


True in my case, and right now sorrow gathers because Mom is dying. It will be soon. Not soon enough, considering the pain she's endured, and too soon, considering what a horrible tragedy this is going to be. She was thrilled about Paris and beamed over the pictures I showed her. Now, Paris - my little dream that in its planning, experience and immediate aftermath occupied my mind and lifted my spirit in the grim sorrow of finding my brother dead and watching Mom fade away - is a memory. There's only this now. I prayed for her in Notre Dame cathedral, a proxy for her faith. Bought her a little rosary. Her God, not mine. Her Love is mine. She is and has always been a woman of faith, and I hope that sustains her in these last days. But she always had faith in me, too, and now I can only live up to it by giving that to my loved ones, especially Shelley, Alex, Miles and Lily. It's easy to do that, but the rest seems impossible.

Fuck, it's been brutal since 2001. Pete, Dad, Brian, and the million defeats and sorrows surrounding all that loss and all those tears. Friends gone - Hilly, Donna - friendships gone. Dreams evaporated, efforts wasted. It continues. I visited Mom on Wednesday and first took a walk through the old neighborhood. It's not mine anymore... summoning the ghosts was hard. I feel that way about music, too. And a lot of other things. But I got a hell of a welcome from my friends in Paris, and that gave me a lot of smiles to give Mom. I told her of all the exciting plans the trip inspired, and that made her glad. Fact is, those things are very unlikely; those plans were pipe dreams. But I dunno, I guess one thing I can do now is thank all those responsible for those sweet days and nights and the evanescent dreams they granted me and Mom for a little while. I'll thank Mom, too, but not now. She still breathes right now; maybe there's time for another kiss, another embrace. Maybe not.

Posted 1:44 AM by sport

For the curious, my pals from Norway, Thinguma*jigSaw have posted some more wonderful images of our Paris adventures on their My Space blog. Thanks, my dear Vikings.

Posted 12:06 PM by sport

Posted 3:23 AM by sport

Posted 2:57 AM by sport

Here's something of possible interest... a pre-gig promo bit from a French website. No, don't mention it.

Posted 11:34 PM by sport

Posted 11:12 PM by sport

Posted 11:05 PM by sport

Some more shots: my beloved hosts, some of my bandmates, some fans from England and USA, into the shop to grab three bottles of the green fairy( consume delicately and never EVER mix with the evil mandragora), and hanging with the disgustingly handsome and talented Luke Temple.

There's no question that this trip has changed my life just as Gavin MacLeod promised it would.




What this means, I dunno exactly but I have some idea. I guess that's a topic for another written entry.

For now, we move ahead and finish the album. The rest is rather unimportant now. For the first time in my life in music, I feel vindicated.




And I don't care if I ever play or release another album in the US.

Posted 9:49 PM by sport

Here's me with the enchanting and mysterious Eloïse Decazes, indispensable guide and beloved hostess... we are standing behind Notre Dame cathedral, on our way to the absinthe shop.


The steps of infinite torture, up which I dragged my gasping old self countless times, leading to the home flat of Eloïse and Sing Sing (otherwise known as the musical duo Arlt), where days began at 9 am and seldom ended before 5 am.


Wonderful Mariette, Sing Sing, Eloïse, and Wladimir.

Have you met Miss Jones? Oui!
Backstage: guest performer, Martha Redivivus of Norway's Thinguma*jigsaw, who played magical Saw, and the inspired Alban Dereyer, who leaped onstage with Vincent to sing with us.


A lovely bunch of mugs: Thinguma*jigsaw's other half, banjoist Seth Horatio Buncombe, Luke Temple's partner, multi instrumentalist Tyler Wood, moi, et the annoying and impossibly French Sing Sing, whom I could not get rid of for the entire fucking trip.

These pics indicate an enormous amount of drinking and smoking, which I only agreed to tolerate in the spirit of international brotherhood.





And another at Notre Dame, with me as Quasimodo. "I used to be on Kill Rock Stars, and all I got was this lousy hoodie" ...nah.


More of these to come, especially once all the others send me the pics they took.

Missing in all these is my beloved pal Baptiste, who decided to play some football the day of the show and broke his leg!

However, we did visit Gainsbourg's house together and share a great after-hours night of cognac, indoor smokes (ssh!) and singalong.

I miss Paris, and all these friends, but it's great to be home. And we all recover now... slowly.