“Spinal Tap II: The End Continues” A Review

The lede shall not be buried.

The sequel to “This is Spinal Tap” is not as good as the original.

It happens.

There’s only one “Godfather 2.”

Only one “Astral Weeks.”

Only one “Guernica.”

That settled, next question: Should there have been a sequel?

After all, the original is a masterwork. It essentially invented the category of Mockumentaries. It is hilarious, and nails the big rock scene. It holds up four decades on.

Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer, and Rob Reiner are all quick witted, very clever improvisers with a reverence for rock & roll along with affection for its and foibles. So too their brilliant supporting cast. The original (and the sequel) are love letters to the music and culture that sustained my generation.

It was all there. Crank it to 11. Stonehenge. They’ve taken on new meanings in pop culture vernacular. Read the rest of this entry »

Mad Magazine: Blast from the Past

Impulsive compulsive consumerizer that I am, it doesn’t take much.

So, I was toast when the face stared out at me from the ‘zine rack by checkout at Jeff Bezos’ grocery store — purposely there to snare a dude with my predilection.

From the way back machine.

Someone I haven’t thought about for decades frankly.

Alfred E. Neuman.

The Mad Magazine “Golden Collection of Garbage” was in my cart with nary a second thought.

It was a significant part of my subteen years. Maybe a few more.

Have no recollection when I was mature? enough to move on? Read the rest of this entry »

“Thunder Road”: Fifty Years On

Screen door slams/ Mary’s dress sways/ Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

It is the opening line of the opening tune of Bruce Springsteen’s 1975 masterwork of an album, “Born To Run.”

A collection of eight short stories no less relevant and seminal than Salinger’s “Nine Stories,” or Joyce’s “Dubliners.”

“Thunder Road.”

My firm belief — subjective of course, not an absolute — it’s the singular greatest teen rock & roll anthem.*

*For Dylan, it’s “A Teenager in Love.” Like I said, subjective.

Which, because rock & roll at its essence is the chronicling of teen angst, a time to begin figuring things out, a longing to escape, a fantasy of hitting the road for new life changing adventure, a meeting THE ONE, a get out of jail card for preternatural high school loneliness, means the song is the great rock anthem.

Roy Orbison singing for the lonely/ Hey that’s me and I want you only

I was thirty when the album and song were released, remember exactly where I heard it for the first time. At my next door neighbor Johnny C’s apartment in the Triangle.

I recall that the spare less than orchestrated opening of the album version gave clearance for the resonant lyrical poesy to hit me like a shot to the solar plexus. Read the rest of this entry »

Cellphones: A Curse & A Blessing

My my my generation is one that grew up learning how to dial a rotary phone, which plugged into the wall with wires that ran to a telephone pole outside.

Some of us experienced the oddness of family lines, where several households had the same number and could listen in on the others’ calls.

True.

We remember when Ma Bell was deemed a monopoly and broken into regional monopolies.

We remember when we could buy our own phones instead of renting one from SC Bell.

And when push button phones became the norm. In colors no less.

We had answering machines.

Etc, etc.

You’re welcome for the quick trip back in the time machine.

Some of us were late arrivals to phones you could carry around in your pocket.

Guilty. Read the rest of this entry »

Celebrity Wedding Culture & the Antithesis

It has happened a few times recently.

A moment when I’ve been chided with something like, “You’re the Culture Maven, or so you say, but you don’t seem to be posting much about, eh, culture.

“The occasional movie review, or another blog about how much you love the Tedeschi Trucks band, but not much else.

“So, are you the Culture Maven or not? Fish or cut bait, dude.”

OK. Guilty.

I remain fascinated as ever by the passing scene, what Katy Perry’s up to, or the every once in awhile curiosity about Paris Hilton.

In fact, I’ll own that I’m been more curious than I should be about those nuptials over in romantic Venice. One of the world’s richest dudes. His shapely new bride. The A+ list on hand for the celebration.

Actually, and this is the truth, I mostly look at the photos. Lots of security protecting Oprah as she gets in and out of water limo.

I wonder. Is Jeff Bezos really friends with the Kardashians? If so, whatever might they talk about? Does Tom Brady chat them up, now that’s he’s single?

Plus, are the Kardashians really friends with  . . . anybody? Read the rest of this entry »

It’s A Beautiful Day

Triple entendre, that.

The title, that is.

First, simply literally.

As I was taking care of errands, motoring about the other afternoon, it was a poetic spring day.

Sunny. Short sleeve warm. Not too humid.

And, oh my, that sky.

Azure to infinity.

Lazy billowy Cumulus. Layered. Textured.

The sort of visual, like the Pacific at Big Sur, the verdancy of Cherokee in full bloom, or an August field of tall sunflowers in the Périgord which causes you to stop and marvel at the beauty of Spaceship Earth at rest in its natural state.

And figuratively.

I’m at the stage of life that while savoring the day, I had successfully completed two of my triad of medical appointments last week. Not that many over the norm for an octogenarian. Good news at both. Blessings. All that’s left is annual eye checkup. Easy peasy.

So, it would have psychologically been a boffo day even were Mark Weinberg on the telly huffin’ and puffin’ about some rotation hovering over my condo.* Read the rest of this entry »

A Hoopaholic’s Derby

Yes, kids, that’s me wearing my personalized Hoopaholic ballcap.

All day, Derby Day.

Along with a Dr. Gonzo Kentucky Derby is decadent and depraved t-shirt.

As for the quote on the back above the signature of Randall Ave’s Favorite Tormentor, “From that point on, the weekend became a vicious drunken nightmare,” those days are long past*

*But while knocking out this perfunctory, meeting-my-contractual-obligation obligation, I remembered another doozy tale from yesteryore, which I’ll regale you with below.

Adding to the legitimacy of my header: While running errands drizzly Derby morn, I ran into Lancaster Gordon at Costco. That counts, right? Plus upon returning from a post-race pizza run (Wheated, if you must ask, on my virgin trip. Tasty, worthy of being mentioned in same sentence as Pizza Lupo.), my hosts graciously agreed to turn off the local post-Downs telecasting, and turn to the Nugs vs. Clips.

Ya know, enough is enough even for the obsessed, watching folks limping to buses, shoes muddied, fascinators drooping

So, yeah, I was bi-sportal, Derby 2025. Hoops & Horses.

It ended up being my favorite Derby Day in decades. Read the rest of this entry »

Tales from Derbies of Yesteryore

One of Glorious Editor’s cute quirks is his annual call for members of the Commentariat to regurgitate their most mondo bizzaro stories of how they got home from the track on Derby Day.

Hey, since, I got the key to the gate, I’ll weigh in. And, triple post it at all my venues. And, in addition, throw in other tales of the first weekend in May, some of which might actually be of moderate interest. Some with more info than you probably ought to be told.

But let’s start with 2025, since I got a huge dose of Derby Derby just last evening.

Derby Wednesday Dinner at Jeff Ruby’s.

Our corner table was multi-geographical. Guy in from LA, gal in from NYC. The usuals from New Orleans. Crescent Hill, Clifton and a Downtown denizen all in attendance.

The place was jammed. And jammin’. Electric. Like everybody had a power cord comin’ outta their hip, plugged into a socket under the table. Vibes of Good Times.

Fellas with rolls of pocket cabbage. Ladies on their arms in four inch stilleto fuck me pumps. Dudes who looked like they wandered in off the street staring. Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest Redux: Whither New Orleans

Since I’m not at JazzFest — COVID shutdown years aside — for the first time since 1990, I’ve decided to repost some of my favorite reports from the past.  

This from the first Fest after Katrina.

Bob’s back at Galatoire’s. Sumptuous and gracefully worn, it’s New Orleans finest old line eatery. Both survived Katrina. So far.

For the last several years, Bob has waited on our gang at an annual Galatoirean feast the night before the first day of JazzFest.

That the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Fair itself would survive Katrina was far from a given. Its survival is the work of some supreme spirit force that bestows gifts on the flock.

Bob is the dapper, engaging waiter, the long time server with a gleam in his eye and Stratford-on-Avon-quality double-take when diners are as offbeat as he. Despite his charming faux befuddlement, he’s a marvelous garçon in Galatoire’s mirrored main room, the one where the city’s gentry celebrates birthdays and lingering Friday afternoons. Read the rest of this entry »

Facing 80

I am now a denizen of the Land of Daily Medical Treatments.

I know my pharmacist better than the neighbors who live on either side of me at my condo building.

Last week’s smile inducer was discovering there’s a 24 hour/ 7 day pharmacy just five minutes from my place. On the Sunny Side. Paying the bridge tariff for the comfort of knowing it’s there just in case is but a slight nuisance.

In a couple of days, I’ll be an octo-.

Seems like yesterday that it took me an hour staring at the phone to get up the courage to call and ask Jenni Lehman to a hay ride in the 9th grade.

Time, whatever that really is, accelerates.

My pal Michael in New Orleans had a rule he invoked at our annual dinners during JazzFest at Galatoire, Mosca’s, Peche, GW Fins or wherever.

One medical conversation per meal. Read the rest of this entry »

Perspective & “Moonstruck”: A Contemplation

Yet again, I am struck by how one’s personal situation, health, station in life, sense of well being, all that personal stuff affects one’s perception.

It’s a significant thing to keep in mind.

Whether it’s how we hear a new song.

Or meet someone new.

Or watch a film.

Chasing down some rabbit hole or another recently I came upon a review of a movie written by the same guy who penned the screenplay to “Moonstruck.”

John Patrick Shanley.

The review shredded the film in question — forgot the title already — and wondered how Shanley, who was masterful in crafting “Moonstruck” could have been so off his feed.

Which reminded me of my reaction to the Cher/ Nicholas Cage comedy romance when I saw it upon release in ’87.

Which was luke warm.

Certainly didn’t hate it. Didn’t consider it a bad film by any stretch. Recall just feeling, OK this is nice, but don’t get all the hosannas being tossed its way.

So I went to Roger Ebert’s review of the acclaimed flick. It was so adoring. 4 of 4 stars. Figured it was time for a revisit. Read the rest of this entry »

Rock & Roll RePast: Solomon Burke @ the Zoo

Let’s consider Solomon Burke.

Though never as famous, the charismatic soul singer sits rightfully in the conversation of his more noted contemporaries. Otis Redding. James Brown. Sam Cooke. Wilson Pickett.

Always a man of considerable girth, even before the morbid obesity of his later years, he was ever entrepreneurial. On those extended Parade of Stars tours in the 50s and 60s, when performers would often get to towns where they couldn’t find eateries that would serve them, Burke cooked. Burke supplied sandwiches. For which eats legend has it, he would up the prices as the tour ground on.

He was banned from appearing at the Apollo for insisting that he control concession stands on the nights he performed.

His career never really waned, though he was never a big time headliner.

But he was thrust back into the mainstream spotlight in 2002 upon the acclaimed Fat Possum release of his Joe Henry-produced “Don’t Give Up on Me.” He won a Grammy.

I probably saw him on one of those tours in the 60s. Though, frankly, I have no specific remembrance.

I did hear him thrice in the 90s. I can’t give exact dates. Or the order.

Two were marvelous. He was always on, workin’ to make it work. Read the rest of this entry »