For the past twenty years, the bestselling author band The Rock Bottom Remainders—comprised of Amy Tan, Stephen King, Scott Turow and others rotating instruments, dropping in and out—have been touring, mostly raising money for charity. Now it appears their last two performances will be here in southern California, after which they are calling it quits.
THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW
I was told by a website guru yesterday after the new PFC website went live, “You need to post more lists. It’s how Americans get most of their information.” That is so fucking scary. Scary enough that I promised WebGuru we’d look into it.
The process of transitioning to this was like giving birth for me, but WebGuru himself had nine sites go live on the same day and barely broke a sweat. He also has a team of several dozen. I promised we’d do lists, but do them our way. You know, quirky but glamorous, just like Daphne Guinness.
Janice Dickinson put Travolta’s fans’ anxieties to rest today by stating, “If you want to fuck a chicken, go fuck a chicken.” Which means Travolta hasn’t been in the closet all these years. He’s been in a hen house.
BAKER STREET
by Eric J Baker
Congratulations. You survived the apocalypse.
I guess Jesus doesn’t read Pure Film Creative (despite the “topless Magdalene” tag last week), because he passed right over me when flinging souls into Hell like I wasn’t even there! However, as surprised – and slightly miffed – as I am to have been spared, it wasn’t the oddest event of my week.
That distinction belongs to Thursday night, when I found myself standing about 18 inches from Weird Al Yankovic, an entertainer about whom I had hitherto no opinion and never expected to see live from that or any distance. Such are the sudden twists and turns of life.
The venue was the State Theater, a renovated vaudeville palace in central Jersey, where I once fell asleep during the 25th anniversary showing of 2001: a Space Odyssey, despite it having been introduced by somebody. He didn’t climb into the audience and sing to the woman next to me, like Weird Al did on Thursday, hence becoming forgettable.
A new tradition: Every generation now has the plain Italo-American chick who morphs herself into an un-nuanced, overdressed, workaholic performer who champions homosexuals and habitually pisses all over the Catholic church.
As Weird Al played his set, I noticed many of the artists he parodies are dead: Jim Morrison, Michael Jackson, Coolio, Kurt Kobain. Oops. Sorry, Coolio. Not content to milk past glory, Al also mimicked Lady Gaga’s Poker Face with his version called Polka Face.
Weird Al or Lady Gaga. Which one is the bigger fake?