She's Got It in the Bag: The irrepressible Michael Lynch wrote me an e-mail today in response to my last post, and it's worth quoting in its entirety:

Date: Sat, 31 May 2003 09:43:03 EDT
Subject: Honey (I Miss You)

Hi Dawn

I just visited 'TDP' where I saw the bit about stuff you keep in your purse, and while I didn't click the link to see what the woman who wrote you keeps in hers, I was reminded...and maybe I told you this once...that I always wanted to write an updated version of Paul Petersen's "She Can't Find Her Keys."  

Enjoy.
-Michael

PS: In case you're wondering why I titled this letter 'Honey (I Miss You)'...That was just so there was at least one worthwhile thing in the world with that title. :^)

She pulls out...
Pepper spray, Mentos, roach clips, Poland Spring
But she can't find her keys
A cell phone, No-Doz, digital rolodex
But she can't find her keys
Contraceptives, Power Bars, 'Tower' card
To buy her Britney Spears CDs
And I'm standing here waiting for a goodnight kiss
Cause she can't find her keys

[Editor's note: While searching for links for this post, I actually found a feminist-journal article that purports "to use 'She Can't Find Her Keys' as a metaphor for writing postbellum southern political history by incorporating gender and the social construction of race as tools of analysis."]

A Prize Purse: Right after making my last Dawn Patrol post, I received a complimentary e-mail from a glamorous stranger, fellow blogger Christy, who spotted this page on Blogger's list of recently updated blogs. She dug my link to the flattery generator. Of course, I had to check out her own blog in turn. It's filled with entertaining timewasters, my favorite being the Starbucks Oracle, plus many lighthearted attempts at self-analysis. At one point, she even describes the contents of her purse and wastebasket, asking readers to tell her what they say about her. Seeing that her purse must weigh 10 lbs.—it contains a folding umbrella, among other things—I say that she either works out, has a sore shoulder and back, or both.

As for the contents of my purse, I'll save that for sometime when you and I have a lot of time on our hands. (No folding umbrella, but plenty of small little things like stray business cards and a Fab Faux guitar pick. [I always carry a guitar pick, in case some handsome retro musician needs one—it's a relic of the days when a Lennon '65 haircut and pointy boots were enough to send me into a tizzy.]) For now, I'll just say that my purse currently contains an all-time low number of lipsticks—six (including one gloss). That will probably surprise people who don't usually see me wearing lipstick, but the answer should be simple to any femme worth her fatale: When I do wear lipstick, I like having a choice.

Flattery Will Get You Virtually Anywhere: Was feeling kinda blue when I got in post-midnight today (garden-variety single-girl loneliness), but was brightened by an e-mail from my friend Alan Abramowitz tipping me off to a flattery generator. If you have a few seconds to spare, give it a whirl—it's certainly smile-inducing. (The header to Alan's e-mail was, "This medium is a massage.")

Rhymes With "Geezer": Is anyone surprised to know that, when it comes to pop music, this femme, who is vehemently clinging to her last few months of early-thirtiesdom, is, shall we say, not on top of the news and ahead of the times? My friend Mike Pollock informs me (in what must be a speed record for the swiftest answer to a Dawn Patrol question) that the song I inquired about in my last entry is more than a year old: "Photograph," by Weezer.

Since I did suspect that the mystery song might be a Weezer tune, I now feel partly vindicated, but, more than that, disappointed that no similarly catchy guitar bands seem to be getting airplay these days. I would have rather it have been someone I'd never heard of—that would have given me more hope.

Coincidentally, I accidentally listened to Matthew Sweet's "Sick of Myself" today—it was on an old, unlabeled tape that I put into my deck out of curiosity. Although I'm still mortified at how dark and cynical the song's lyrics are, I couldn't get over how great it sounded musically. I think I must have taken it for granted when it got its brief run of airplay—it's really an exciting, well-done tune in the classic, non-skinny-tie power-pop mode.

Fab Faux: I was just in the Quick Chek, where I've often heard rare and bizarre tunes (the most notable one during their Muzak days, when they were playing a piped-in instro version of "Nutbush City Limits"—which the helpful store manager had to identify for me) and heard the most interesting contemporary tune since...well, since I heard the DJ Sammy version of "The Boys of Summer" a couple weeks ago (thanks to Roy Currlin for identifying that one).

This tune, maddeningly enough, lacked an easily identifiable title hook. I was only able to catch a couple of lyrics: "I just can't let it be/It's in the photograph." Still, I have faith that a member of my impressively knowledgeable Dawn Patrol readership can identify it for me. It should be easy enough for anyone who follows the Triple-A radio format to place it, as it's the most Beatlesque pop tune I've heard since...well, since the last Weezer album. (Naturally, the references to being unable to "let it be" and a "photograph" reinforce the Fab feel.) For all I know, maybe it is Weezer. At any rate, although I'm not sure I like it enough to buy it (it had a hint of that contemporary "alternative" feel that sends me fleeing to my Freddie & The Dreamers best-of for shelter ["Freddie Shelter"!]), I always like to know who's making catchy guitar-based pop music nowadays.

Add 'Em in Eden: Michael Lynch just e-mailed me an attachment with an e-mail suggesting I might use it for Tuesday Night Trivia. But when I opened it, I was completely, er, nonplussed:

In case you're wondering, (B) is Doug Mayer, bass player for the delightfully named Contrarians and formerly of Michael's own Lynchpins. No relation, so far as I know.

Heir-Raising Tales: Just got home to an e-mail from a friend of a slightly older generation who displays a wonderful ability to joke in the face of adversity: "My wife and I are going through all kinds of fertility programs to produce a heir. Probably easier to produce a hare!"

Anno Trivius: Thought I'd share the press release I wrote for TNT's first anniversary, as I'm quite proud of it—and even prouder that Caren and I have had such a successful year hosting the game:

JUNE 3 MARKS ONE YEAR OF TUESDAY NIGHT TRIVIA, MANHATTAN'S MOST OVEREXPOSED BAR QUIZ!

In honor of the first anniversary of Tuesday Night Trivia, the only New York quiz game produced by bonafide newspaper folk (broadsheet babe Caren Lissner and tabloid tart Dawn Eden), we've created a special quiz to thank those of you who have made our game a media buzzword. Name the publication where each of the following Tuesday Night Trivia quotes appeared:

(A) "It's probably not as fun as 'Rock & Roll Jeopardy' on VH1, but prizes include $10 and $25 bar tabs."

(B) "[The players] think hard and laugh hard."

(C) [From an article naming Tuesday Night Trivia one of the "Top Five Bar Trivia Nights":] "Come for the banter of the quizmistresses; stay for the $3.50 pints."

(D) "Media types are flaunting their know-how at a new trivia showdown on Tuesday nights at the Baggot Inn."

(E) "An investigation has revealed that Mr. Blair did attend Tuesday Night Trivia, but copied his answers from a neighboring team."

Answers: (A) New York Press; (B) Time Out; (C) New York; (D) Women's Wear Daily; (E) Just kidding!

We would be grateful if you would put the following in your listings:

Heineken presents TUESDAY NIGHT TRIVIA every Tuesday, 7:30 p.m., at The Baggot Inn, 82 West 3rd St. (between Thompson and Sullivan), Manhattan, (212) 477-0622. *SPECIAL FIRST ANNIVERSARY PARTY ON TUESDAY, JUNE 3, WITH EXTRA BONUS PRIZES!* Come with a team, or show up early and the quizmistresses will hook you up with one. Prizes include bar tabs ranging from $10-25, plus Heineken gear. Admission is free, with a two-drink minimum during the two-hour game. Information: Tuesdaytrivia -at- aol.com.

What Is the Matrix? I was in Bleecker Bob's last night with a friend of mine who was visiting from out of town. He's a cute guy, possessing the three W's—warmth, wit, and wcharm—and I've had a crush on him for the 10 years I've known him (though the crush falls into the gently-enjoying-his-company category rather than the furiously-carving-his-and-my-initials-into-woodland-greenery category). I won't name him for fear of embarrassing him, though I think he should, if anything, be proud of the prowess I am about to detail.

Normally, I wouldn't set foot in Bleecker Bob's, because its namesake banned me back in '95 after I criticized his prices and service in New York Press. But my friend wanted to see if the store still had the same Tom Jones album that had been there since '96, so we went in and I made my usual beeline for the cheapo 45s.

A Friends of Distinction single caught my eye. It was a yellow-label RCA promo, and what interested me was the song, a Sedaka-Greenfield tune I'd never heard of. I asked my own friend of distinction if he knew anything about it.

"It's probably from 1968 or '69," he said. "There, see how the matrix number starts with a 'Z'? That means it's from '69.

"RCA used a letter for each year, in sequence," he went on. "'66 was 'T.' They skipped a letter—either U or V—because one of the letters looked too much like the other."*

As he spoke, I realized something. I was really happy. Happy psychologically—what a luxury to record-hunt with a pal who carried around such information in his head—but also in another way. I could feel my heart beating faster. Just hearing him talk about matrix numbers actually got me hot.

Now, I know that the fact that said friend is cute had something to do with it. Not every record hound with near-"Rain Man" abilities could affect me that way—otherwise I'd have nabbed the guy in a rumpled suit who used to canvas stores looking for 45s that were pressed at certain plants. (He could tell you when and where a disc was made just by looking at the matrix number and the typeface on the label.) Likewise, I wouldn't have been so intrigued had my friend been reciting a 1966 railroad timetable—or even a weekly singles chart—from memory. But there was something about his taking the trouble to know something that was so simple, yet so functional. It seemed somehow manly. Like he were telling me about some other thing that guys know, like how the stock market works, or what is a high-pressure front, or what good wine can I order now that I can't drink anything French...

Nah, that's not it. I really don't know what it was. Just that it felt good to hear my friend explain the matrix numbers, and, on top of that, it made me feel young to even think that I could still care about such things. Now my mission, should I accept it, is to find a marriage-minded man on the younger end of the 33-and-death spectrum, living in the tri-state area, who knows matrix numbers and reads G.K. Chesterton. Hurry, operators are standing by...

*I have since discovered that my friend was slightly off. According to a Web page on Elvis recordings, 'Z' was 1970. But he was right about their skipping U or V (it was U).

I Really Creamed Them: Seeing the name of the female-fronted band Moisturizer in Pierre Jelenc's wonderful Gigometer reminds me of the time I received an unsolicited e-mail from them. I don't know how they got my address, but they did. Now, as a once and (I hope) future rock writer, there's one thing I like even less than unsolicited e-mail from bands who have sent me bad music. It's unsolicited e-mail from bands who have never even sent me their music and therefore have no reason to even think that I would care about them.

Usually I respond to such intrusions with a simple, "Remove me from your mailing list"—in capitals if I've gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. I was about to do the same to Moisturizer when I had a flash of inspiration:

Dear Moisturizer - Remove me from your mailing list. Signed - Astringent.

To Moisturizer's credit, they responded with appropriate softness, sending a nice e-mail thanking me for making them laugh. Then the correspondence ended. I guess you could say it was no longer absorbing.

Being for the Benefit of Mr. Lynch: The always-interesting music webzine Fufkin.com has an excellent new piece by my friend (and Dawn Patrol jingle writer) Michael Lynch on Sergeant Pepper vs. Satanic Majesties. Amazingly, Michael, who will call me at odd hours just to tell me that he purchased new Stones reissues (he knows I hate them), takes the Fabs' part. Gary Pig Gold is in favor of the Stones album that produced such forgettable "drone" numbers [Lynch's term] as...as...believe it or not, I've really forgotten the title. But you'll read it in the article, as well as inspired (and frighteningly well-informed) references to Herman's Hermits' Blaze, Dylan's "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," and the Monkees' "Head."

I'll Sit Belonely (on Mumblesday)
Once upon a Times there was a wee lass who had a mumble and a stepladder. On Mumblesday, she wanted to taker mumble out for a ride and lunge. But her stepladder wanted to lunge along. "No," said the wee lass. "My mumble is my mumble, and you can lunger anytime of the yeah. This is the won day I should be Abel to make mumble feel lubbed." Butter stepladder wouldn't bulge. So the wee lass had to head lines for Fox' sake all Mumblesday long, while mumble and stepladder did other fumbly business. The end.

Reservicing the DJs: My best find of the WFMU record fair was a mint-condition promo copy of Sagittarius' "My World Fell Down," a wonderful gift from fellow fairgoer Michael Lynch. What I love about this particular pressing of that classic 45 is that it says on the label, "Special Radio Reservice." Could one of you experts out there please tell me what Columbia meant by that? Were they sending it out again in case the stations jettisoned it the first time around? At any rate, the phrase has a certain delicious mystery that reminds me how it's all those little details that make record collecting fun.

Catch Us If You Can: Just got a thoughtful e-mail from Lynn Briggs, who, along with her husband, John, runs the official Web site for Mike Smith of the Dave Clark Five. She passed on this photo of Dawn Patrol jingle writer Michael Lynch and me dancing onstage at B.B. King's to Smith's live performance of "Bits and Pieces." The photo came to her from Mike's wife Charlie, who asked her to send it to me. I am duly impressed, and very grateful! (My account of that special evening, illustrated by Bruce Alexander's great photo of me awestruck by Mike Smith, is in the Dawn Patrol archives.)

Carl Signer: I felt kinda lonely at the Carl Reiner book signing yesterday, since none of the friends I'd invited made it down (though Ron Hogan did send his regrets). But I got to thank Carl for the happiness his work had given me, and I got his "To Dawn" autograph on my copy of his new book, My Anecdotal Life. He was very pleasant, witty, and in good spirits.

As I was leaving the bookstore, the woman who'd been in front of me on line showed me what she'd had him sign: a copy of the Mel Brooks/Carl Reiner LP 2000 and Thirteen. But what blew my mind was that she'd previously gotten it signed by Mel Brooks. So there they were on the album cover, Brooks and Reiner, each with his name perfectly signed above his head. Wow.