Mission Accomplished: Got a one-line e-mail yesterday from Peter Horvath: "more blogging about the rock and roll, please..."

I was actually relieved, because I hadn't gotten any response to my recent rock and roll posts, which included reviews of the latest releases by Mark Bacino and an excellent pure-pop act, the Smile.

Since we do play your requests here on The Dawn Patrol, I'll have to think of something rock and roll to write about in between work assignments today. Maybe something from my vast store of anecdotes about vintage pop personalities?...OK, got one.

In September 1991, I saw Freddie Garrity perform backed by wonderful British instro band the Rapiers at a dance hall in Holland. Freddie did a fine performance, still sang beautifully, did all the old mugging and even a couple of trademark leaps. The crowd adored him. But what do you think was the song that really made them go wild? I mean, wild, screaming, waving, you name it, just fawning over Freddie?

I'll give you a hint. It wasn't a hit in America, even though it came out on a 45. Nor did it hit in England, so far as I know.

Give up? OK. Here it comes. I kid you not:

"A Windmill in Old Amsterdam."

The Original Petite Powerhouse: Currently reading an old paperback copy of The Small Woman, by Alan Burgess. You might know it from the film that it inspired, "The Inn of the Sixth Happiness," which starred Ingrid Bergman. The book is a novelized biography of Gladys Aylward, a remarkable English missionary who worked in China for many years.

It's really not the sort of thing I'd normally read, which is why I made myself put down the $1 last Sunday at that used bookshop that used to be the Gryphon Bookstore, up on Broadway in the 80s. I don't normally like reading about people I never heard of in countries that I don't think of except at dinnertime.* But the missionary angle of the story appealed to me, and it's proving to be a great read—sensitively written and surprising understated, considering the intensity of the subject matter. If you're interested in checking it out for free, Amazon has sample pages available online.

*Yeah, I know, I sound silly for not thinking of China except for food. But, honestly, how often do you think of China on an average day, if you're not Chinese? (Unless you're my friend Joshua Tanzer, who has studied Chinese and speaks it well enough to surprise native speakers.) This is the New Honesty on The Dawn Patrol!

Charlie Brown Goes Mad: This wonderful image comes courtesy of a page on The Mad Cover Site that lists all the "Peanuts"-related items that have appeared in Mad—and vice versa! I must have seen this when it appeared on July 5, 1973, but, while I remember the storyline about Charlie Brown being afraid the sun would look like a baseball to him, I don't remember this at all. It's one of those strips that hasn't been anthologized, to my knowledge. Charles Schulz was such a genius.

Soft Sellers: Had a great time with my sister yesterday. We went to the Metropolitan Museum, where we were met by Jonathan and his friend Lillian. I felt guilty because, a few weeks earlier, at a Fourth of July barbecue to which Jonathan invited me, I had mistaken Lillian for a yuppie, and so had ignored her for the whole party. In my defense, the party was in Hoboken and was given by a banker, two things which might lead a reasonable person to assume that any strangers one meets there are yuppies, but I guess the lesson here is "never assume." Turns out she is a very cool and decidedly non-yuppielike opera singer who also works behind the scenes—publicity, I think—with the Jupiter Symphony.

After checking out some of the exhibits, we watched "The World of Henry Orient," which I'd never seen before. What a delightful* film. It's my kind of comedy: soft-hearted, but with sharp edges in all the right places. Great performances all around, including cameos by such memorable character actors as future "The Odd Couple" player John Fiedler (who looks and sounds for all the world like Bob Balaban in "A Mighty Wind") and, mugging away, Al Lewis.

*That's my new buzzword—"delightful"—as witnessed in my review of the Smile's album.

UPDATED—The Mel-odrama Continues: Zero responses to my last personal-ad tag line, so I've rushed in with a substitute: "In Hebrew, Aramaic, and Latin—with subtitles!"

UPDATE, 7/26/03: Got a response right away, and, as with most of the others, it's from a secular Jew wanting to know why I converted. (Apparently, none of the Christian-born agnostics or atheists care.) As mentioned before, I don't feel obligated to give a reason for my faith if the respondent's only real interest is in trying to pick me up, so I used the handy "block" button to prevent his contacting me again. Here's what he wrote:

I find you beautiful. Your face. Your mind. You know so much about the music of my generation. So should I join the religion that is resposnsible for so much murder, persecution, and is led by pedifiles and insipid evangelists? Please tell what makes a beautiful woman betray her people and culture?

I thought of telling him that I just love being in a religion led by pedifiles, because they do my toenails for free...

If you have yet to read Part 1 of my "Turntable Hits" series, a record review of the Smile, please read that first.

Turntable Hits of 2003:Part 2 in a Series

MARK BACINO
The Million Dollar Milkshake
Parasol

On paper, this one looks like pure pop heaven. Mark Bacino sings in a lighthearted, perfectly pitched tenor and writes painstakingly concise three-minute pop songs, buoyed by soaring harmonies, jangly guitars, organ flourishes, and the occasional flugelhorn (watch out, Terry Kirkman). His primary influence is the '65 Beatles, followed by the Beach Boys, the Byrds and the Monkees, with hints of the Turtles and Seventies power-pop acts like the Raspberries, the Rubinoos, and Pezband.

So why doesn't it click?

On this, Bacino's second album, my problem is, as always, his voice. Technically, he's an excellent, albeit non-soulful, singer; the "rock and roll equation" would be Eric Carmen minus Steve Marriott. What he lacks is feel. He sounds like a fine session singer, not a songwriter expressing himself from the heart. And, as any pure-pop fan knows, Ron Dante and Tony Burrows were amazing singles acts, but they couldn't carry an album.

That's why I can't even judge Bacino's songs by themselves. Sung by someone else, they might prove to have hidden depths. Sung by their writer, they sound like, "Here's one the kids will like—it's got a good beat, and you can dance to it."

For more information on Mark Bacino, to purchase The Million Dollar Milkshake, or to see Bacino's very well done, Slim Whitman-parodying commercial, visit popjob.com.

Turntable Hits of 2003:Part 1 in a Series

THE SMILE
Brighton Pier
Cribsong

When a CD by an unknown group arrives in the mail with a note explaining that the group's singer and songwriter was one of Peter Noone's most recent Hermits, you've got to pay attention. As it happens, Smile mainman Ron Vail's melodious voice clearly bears the marks of his tenure with Herman, plus he's got the best faux British accent this side of the Anderson Council.

Musically, there are some albums that break radical new ground, and then...there are the albums I like. This is an absolutely delightful album.

The production is toned down, atmospheric at times, with lots of acoustic guitars and simple vocal harmonies, but with the steady folk-rock drums keeping things vital. And this is bouncy stuff, all right; many of the tunes have a Northern Soul-influenced feel that brings to mind the janglier work of the best early-Eighties post-Mod revival bands like Squire and the Jetset.

If you think that Village Green Preservation Society is the best Kinks album—and I do—then you'll have an idea of the sensibilities at work here. One can hear in the ear-candy-laden arrangements a remarkable sensitivity, yet it doesn't sound overly precious. And if the music overall is not as hard-hitting as one might like, it's a relief to hear a band erring on the side of delicacy.

For more information on the Smile, including song samples, visit their homepage, thesmile.net.

A Cry for ELP: My friend Peter Horvath of the wonderful Anderson Council (a favorite of Little Steven's Underground Garage) writes with an alternate to my Nice headline: "'Bomb blast rocks Nice—Emerson escapes with life—O'List sought for questioning...' OK, it's too wordy for a headline, but the spirit is there."

This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. —Psalm 118:24

Just Cause: Had a good headline in Monday's paper, about a lawyer/philanthropist: "Lawyer's heart is too big for his suits".

I also wrote a three-deck (that is, three-level) headline in the same edition, of which I was inordinately proud: "Bomb blast rocks Nice, hurts 16". It took some effort to capture the essence of that story without writing, "Nice bomb huirts 16".

Word Up: Came home from Tuesday Night Trivia and was moved to update my personal's headline. Since the last one—"Likes male authors: Moses, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John..."—got no serious responses, I decided it's finally time for some real-world, singles-bar attitude. My new headline: "So, what's your Logos? Read the Good Book lately?"

Random Thoughts From Mom: I woke up this morning to find in my e-mail box that my mother had initiated a "Random Thoughts Diary." She sent me two entries, inviting me to select one or more to print as I saw fit, so I'm using my favorite of the two. It's her response to those annoying people who say, "You've made your bed...":

Why lying in the bed that you made can be difficult:
Maybe you made it too lumpy.
Maybe you made it too fast.
Maybe you don't have coverings..
Maybe you don't have pillows.
Maybe your laundry is dirty.

Now I Can Walk Without That Painful Bunyan: Finally finished John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress, Part Two, which is to Part One what the New Monkees were to the Monkees. Now I can return it to the library and start on something else. The only reason I plodded through it at all was because I'm a completist, and I couldn't believe that the author of something as inspired as the first Pilgrim's Progress could possibly write something so turgid. (It did have one redeeming passage, which I've duly noted.)

The Dawn Payroll: Last night I wrote to a fellow blogger whose page had come up on Google while I searched for Nilsson-related info. It was a nice e-mail complimenting his blog and suggesting he read my Al Kooper posts, as I thought any Nilsson fan would probably appreciate Al Kooper too.

The guy wrote back saying that he never heard from his readers, and that he was happy to hear from me until he read one of my Kooper posts, in which I said I'd done publicity for the 2001 World Trade Center oldies concert series. Ah, so that's it, he thought—I must be a rock publicist using my blog to draw attention to my clients! That's why I cared enough about his Weblog to want him to read the relevant posts on mine.

I swear I'm not making this up. The poor man.

I was actually quite angry when I first read the accusation, but it just seems silly now. Moreover, since I so rarely hear from any Dawn Patrol readers beyond my circle of friends—and I believe that circle makes up less than half of the blog's readership—I can relate to the man's disbelief that anyone would write to him without an ulterior motive.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to figure out how to get John Carter, the Mets, Paul Petersen, and, of course, Mom to pay me retroactively for all this free publicity I've been giving them...

Today's Reason Not to Be Cynical: Finally got a thoughtful response to my online personal. Further correspondence revealed the respondee wasn't a real "match"—he's not big on faith, and I don't think he shares any of my other interests either—but it was nice of him to spend a dollar just to give me encouragement:

kudos to you...
for being yourself in the post-ironic land of hipsters, wannabes, and conformists who think they're trailblazers.

Wednesday in the Park With Al: Just returned from Al Kooper's wonderful concert in Rockefeller Park, by Battery Park City, and it brought up many memories and feelings, ranging from sweet to bittersweet. If you found this post via Google and are hoping for information on Kooper, you're better off going straight to AlKooper.com than plowing through this, but, if you'd like to get an Eden's-eye-view of him, read on.

Even though I've become friendly with Al over the past few years, I still go ga-ga when I see him perform. It takes me back to 1984, when I first found a copy of the Blues Project's Live at Town Hall LP in the 25¢ bin at the Millburn Public Library and immediately thereafter became known to the DJs on WFMU as "the 16-year-old Al Kooper fan." I guess you never get over the feelings you had when you first heard an artist as a teenager.

What grabbed me about the Blues Project's sound was Al's organ. I had never heard anyone play like him before, combining blues influences with classical and pop, and putting them together in such a fluid, intuitive way. I also adored the group's infernally catchy "No Time Like the Right Time," penned by Al, and, in general, liked their approach to blues-rock. The latter had a loud, garagey, yet tight feel that reminded me more of my favorite contemporary artists, like the Dream Syndicate, than it did other Sixties white bluesmen.

I remember, too, the first time I saw Al perform, in 1986 when I was a 17-year-old NYU freshman interning for WCBS-FM's Bob Shannon. At my request, Bob got me a ticket to see Al in one of Cousin Brucie's "Heroes and Legends" shows at the Bottom Line. I can't remember who the other heroes and legends were on the bill—all I remember is Al Kooper, seeming a bit distant (perhaps because it seemed incongruous for him to be doing a Cousin Brucie concert at that late date), but still playing beautifully.

After the show, a sympathetic Bottom Line guard let me backstage to meet Kooper before any of his friends could enter the small room. He was splayed out on the couch, utterly spent, but still looking resplendent in his polka-dot button-down shirt, black jeans, and exotic cowboy boots—every inch the rock star. I must have been quite a sight myself, all 160 lbs. of me, standing there in my late grandmother's shirt—one of those Sixties mock turtlenecks made from a rug—black bubblegum-stretch jeans, and enough black eyeliner to blind five rabbits.

I remember the night so clearly because, although I've met many of my idols since then, that was my last real juvenile fan experience. I blurted out what a big fan I was, asked for a hug, and Al, being unable to move from his supine position, proffered me his hand instead. In retrospect, it was probably a wise move. I kissed some place in between his rings and ran back to my dorm.

So tonight, 17 years later, having seen several more of Al Kooper's concerts and enjoyed a few years of e-mail friendship with him, I hightailed it from work to Rockefeller Park. As I walked there from the Chambers St. subway stop, I thought about the last time I saw a concert in that area: August 28, 2001, when Mitch Ryder performed at the last concert of the "Summer Hits at the Twin Towers" series, for which I handled the publicity. Just as I could hear the strains of Kooper's band wafting in my direction, my World Trade Center concert recollections were interrupted by a sight that I never saw at the Twin Towers: four policemen bearing automatic weapons and wearing disturbing, "Hogan's Heroes"-like military helmets that I'd never seen on policemen before. It was a stark reminder of how times had changed.

But then I saw the back of the band, and the crowd spread out before them, and it felt like things hadn't changed so much after all. I arrived in time to see him begin "Green Onions." The whole setup was beautiful, Kooper and his band, a bunch of Berklee School of Music professors called the Funky Faculty [Kooper being a former prof there himself] under a quaint stone bandshell, with several hundred people and about 500 feet of bright-green grass between them and a stunning Hudson River view.

The first thing I thought—when I wasn't thrilling over Kooper's typically fantastic, hemidemisemiquavering organ leads—was how great it felt to see New Yorkers out at a free WTC-area concert by a star performer again. There's a line in some movie—I think it's spoken by Peter O'Toole in "My Favorite Year"—where an actor describes how, when he goes onstage, he thinks he loves the audience, but he really doesn't. I felt the opposite. I looked at that crowd—some of whom I recognized from those WTC concerts during the summer of 2001—and I loved them. Well, OK, individually, when I smelled the smoke of a nearby guy's cigarette, or when a well-meaning guy whom I didn't want to know tried to strike up a conversation with me, I got annoyed. But, collectively, I loved them.

I loved Al too. Individually, and with his group. First of all, he's just so amazing to watch on his Hammond B-3. There is a real joy for me in watching a master organist create sounds with his keyboard. I have had the pleasure of watching both Al Kooper and Rod Argent play up close, and, if I had to die now—God forbid I should, but if I had to—I could die happy just for that. Then there was Al's voice, which is every bit as good as or better than I remember from earlier shows. Tonight, I was taken by his use of blue notes. He has a way with them, doing a kind of Nina Simone thing that is all the more appealing because it seems effortless.

Al was more comfortable onstage than I've ever seen him, and much more gregarious as well. In the past, I've seen him engage an audience by introducing his song with stories, but, at this show, he did more than that. At one point, wearing a headset mike, he walked off the stage and towards the back of the audience, to get the crowd to clap at the right rhythm. He seemed happy to be playing not only a hometown gig, but a gig for a wide range of people from all walks of life who might not be able to afford seeing him at the places he usually plays.

The high point of Al's set was his last song before his encore, "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know," which, as he said in his introduction, has recently gained notoriety from "Late Night With David Letterman." He used the song as a launching pad for a fabulous jam—and regular Dawn Patrol readers know that I never use the words "fabulous" and "jam" in the same sentence. All right, if you press me, I could have done without the Berklee prof guitarist who kept piling on the Hendrix heroics. But none of that seemed to matter as Al segued from "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know" to the signature riff from "A Whiter Shade of Pale," to the signature riff from "Like a Rolling Stone" (!!!). From there, he went, appropriately, to the Rolling Stones, with a vocal take on another tune on which he originally played the organ: "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Next was his version of "Season of the Witch," which I knew well from Super Session, and, next, the power went out.

Really—it went out right then, and, for one depressing moment, it seemed like the concert was going to end with a whimper rather than a bang. Thankfully, it was restored within a few minutes, and Al and his band returned to the stage to finish their show with Otis Redding's "I Love You More Than Words Can Say," which Al said was a major influence on "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know."

Afterwards, I went to the side of the table where Al was signing autographs and watched for a couple of minutes. There were about 75 people waiting. It didn't seem like a good time to make conversation with him, and I've outgrown the hug-request stage, so I just called out, "Hi, Al," and he greeted me back.

One pushy guy at the head of the line brought what must have been every single one of Al's solo LPs, plus many of the albums he's done with groups—at least 20 in all. Al signed a whopping eight of them—I counted—before moving on to the next person. Things like that make me proud of my taste as a 16-year-old. I chose the right idol.

Scale Wages: Currently plowing through Part Two of John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress (1684), which, for the most part, is a painfully inferior rehash of the classic first part, but has one passage of startling beauty. I'll quote it for you here to save you the trouble of reading it, but that doesn't get you off the hook from reading Part One. If you're a musician who's plumbed life's depths, or anyone who's suffered from depression, I think you'll understand why I find the passage profoundly affecting. And what it says about God I know from my own experience to be true.

The passage comes after one character relates the story of a pilgrim (making the pilgrimage from the earthly city to the heavenly city) who was always in fear, sadness, and trepidation. He is asked, "But what would be the reason that such a good man should be all his days so much in the dark?"

The man replies that "...[the fearful man] and his fellows sound the sackbut [which was like a bass trumpet], whose notes are more doleful than the notes of other music are; though, indeed, some say the bass is the ground of music. And, for my part, I care not at all for that profession that begins not in heaviness of mind. The first string that the musician usually touches is the bass, when he intends to put all in tune. God also plays upon this string first, when he sets the soul in tune for himself."

Book 'Em, Dawn-O: The latest headline for my online personal [sorry, no link here, but you can e-mail me for it]: "Likes male authors: Moses, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John..."

I still think "I know what the Narnia books are REALLY about" was better, but it only got responses from a Jew wanting to know if I were really Christian, a Jew wanting to know if I were really Jewish, and one Zen Buddhist from Jersey City whose response was simply "wow."

The Hope Diamond: The top of the Mets' dugout no longer bears the slogan it wore last season, "Always Believe," but Shea Stadium remains a hopeful place, as I saw when I went to yesterday's game. If you follow baseball, you know that in hindsight, even in such a poor season for the Mets, I could have picked a better day to go—they lost to the Phillies in extra innings—but I had a wonderful time anyway.

I was the guest of my friend Chris Granozio, who is the operator of the Mets' scoreboard— or, as it's called in the trade, the matrix—and so got to watch the game in the air-conditioned comfort of the control booth, with its stunning view of the field. You can see a photo from inside the booth in the article the New York Post did on the Mets' producer of video and entertainment—Chris's boss—Vito Vitiello.

It was a blast getting to hang with the control-room crew, who included, besides Chris and Vito, the Mets' organist, their announcers, and their video engineer. The team's video operations gives their production department its official name: Diamond Vision. The guys are all fans of not only sports, but also pop culture in general, especially music, so the conversation ran from the cornet episode of "The Honeymooners" to "I've Got a Crush on You" (which Harry, the video engineer, correctly identified as Gershwin—something I didn't know), to Peter Finch's being the last actor to receive an Academy Award posthumously (a nugget supplied by Chris). Surrounded by fellow travelers, I talked a blue streak myself—until one moment between innings when I was suddenly shocked into temporary silence by the fantastic sight of the matrix—remember, that's the big scoreboard—flashing:

THE METS WELCOME

DAWN EDEN

THE PETITE POWERHOUSE

The Peter Finch anecdote was sparked by their showing his clip from "Network" on the video screen, where he says, "I want you to go to the window, stick your head out, and shout," and then the screen switches to the "Let's go Mets" logo. It's just one of many, many pre-edited clips and animations that the Mets' video and audio production team prepare, many of them unique to each game. Another was a clip from Monty Python's "Ministry of Silly Walks" sketch, which they used when one of the Mets had a walk. (Is that the right expression—"had a walk"? Or just "walked"?)

In general, I was so impressed at the amount of preparation that went into the control-booth staff's work. It was also fun to watch their delight when a new addition to the matrix's repertoire—the "WOO"—made its mark. I'm not exactly sure what are the circumstances under which the "WOO" is set into motion—I think it's when a Mets player does something impressive—but, when that word goes onto the screen, the crowd "WOO"'s. And that's a victory for the control booth's staff, whose main mission is to raise the crowd's level of enthusiasm.

As for keeping up the enthusiasm of the control-booth staff, they have their own scorecard, posted where everyone there can see it, which Chris updates after every game. Chris has graciously allowed me to publish it here. Most of the items on it will make sense only to Diamond Vision insiders, but some of it will make sense to anyone who follows the Mets. Thanks to Chris for allowing me to use this, and to everyone at Diamond Vision for an afternoon I'll remember:

DIAMOND VISION ANNOYANCE SCORECARD 2003
THRU 7/12


MR. MET SUITE REQUESTS: 72
BRIAN MICROPHONE REMINDERS: 66
“PAINT-IT” REMINDERS: 61
WHITE BALANCE REMINDERS: 54
LAME-ASS BRIAN EXCUSES: 49
CLIPSTORE FREEZES: 48
GAMES WITHOUT TIMO LINEUP INTRO: 48
FASCIA Tas 47
PRESS ROW PHONE CALLS 46
GAMES SILLY WALKS NOT USED: 43
VITO ANTHEM BERATEMENTS: 43
P-A PAGE REQUESTS: 41
GAMES VITO LEAVES BILL WEB UP: 40
LOUD-ASS MONITOR REMINDERS: 38
LANCE POOL LOSSES: 36
WHITEWAY DROP-OUTS: 35
BAD VITO PREDICTIONS: 31
CHANGED ANTHEM/FIRST BALL NAMES: 29
MARIO PERILLO PRE-GAME TOURS 28
OPPONENT FIRST INNING EXPLOSIONS: 24
BRIAN CONTESTANT WITHHOLDINGS: 22
WHIPLASH FREEZES: 21
WINDBREAKER SIGHTINGS: 21
OPPOSING PITCHER HITS: 20 (2 BY OHKA, OSWALT & LIVAN)
SPORTSTICKER PROBLEMS: 20
INCORRECT OFFICIAL SCORER LINES: 19
VIC SHOT ADORATIONS: 18
THREE-HOUR TOURS: 18
VISITING CLUBHOUSE TV REQUESTS: 17
GRASSY KNOLLS: 14 (7 LEFT, 7 RIGHT)
JASON CHEW-OUTS: 14
LAST-MINUTE CEREMONY ADDITIONS: 13
SPEED PITCH RE-BOOT: 11
LATE GAME-TIME TEMPERATURES: 10
“JESSICA” HIPPIE FLASHBACKS: 10
PACKS OUT: 10
BOTCHED TICKET REQUESTS: 9
PIAZZA LIMP BISCUITS: 8
TORN-UP LOGS: 8
HOME RUN BALLS MISSED: 6
AWARD CEREMONIES CANCELED: 4
TIMESHEET REMINDERS: 4
BLOWN BENITEZ SAVES: 4

Nick at Night: The photo above, taken by Roy Currlin on June 3 (my last night co-hosting Tuesday Night Trivia), shows me in all my trivia afterglow, putting the squeeze on beloved pal Nick Sarames. Nick has his usual smile, and I have no doubt he's just said something to make me laugh. In the background is Rich Appel of Hz So Good fame—he played Tuesday Night Trivia for the first time that night.

Roy makes CD-R compilations that are legendary among his friends. I'm still waiting for my copy of his "I Gotta Have More Cowbell," inspired by a Christopher Walken SNL routine and featuring such cowbell classics as "Hitchin' a Ride," "She'd Rather Be With Me," and, of course, "Don't Fear the Reaper." However, it contains no "All Right Now," as Roy says that isn't a cowbell to his ears.

You Dogg to Never Be Wrong: After Kevin Walsh saw my item on the translated Flowerpot Men page, he sent me a link to the most inventive translation device I've seen yet: the Snoop Dogg Shizzolator . Please note that it is not a site for those wishing to avoid foul language. (I write that because it seems that The Dawn Patrol has been chosen by Korea's Safenet as a "moral" site.) I recommend putting http://www.dawneden.com into the Shizzolator. I did, and had a good laugh reading that the Warren Zevon CD for which I did the liner notes is available on "tha big a--* river" (actually Amazon.com).

*Deletions mine, just in case anyone from Safenet's reading.

[UPDATED] "You dog to never be wrong": Some Dawn Patrol reader I don't even know wrote to Rich Appel yesterday asking to subscribe to Hz So Good, so I feel obligated to tack on a music link today for all the lurkers. Check out this Google translation of a Spanish tribute to the Flowerpot Men, complete with groovy photos and hilarious mistranslations*. (The header of this post is the Google translation of the Spanish title of "You Can Never Be Wrong.")

UPDATE: I just revisited the site and have decided that my favorite line of the translation is, "the Flowerpot Men transported the refulgente Californian loudness to foggy British earth."

Walk This Way: I came home tonight in desperate need of a more godly perspective on life*, so I pulled out Augustine's City of God. I try not to read it too much, because there's so much in there that I could easily read it to the exclusion of all else but the Bible. However, since I hadn't opened it in six months or so, I figured I was due. Of course, I used the I Ching method of just turning to a page at random ("a widely approved method" for reading religious tomes, as I think Philip K. Dick put it in A Maze of Death), and, as usual, it worked. [Note: The one book this doesn't work with is the Bible. I used to have great luck gettting a good verse out of a random Bible page, but now, every time I try, it opens up to Isaiah's prophecy against Moab—topical, perhaps, but not quite the inspirational passage I'm looking for!]

Anyway, the City of God passage to which I opened was a beautiful chapter about why man needs a Mediator in order to be close to God. If you'd like to read it [it's short], I've found an online translation of it, which, while not nearly as good as the Penguin Classics translation I use, gives an idea of the beauty of Augustine's prose. Here's the last line of the Penguin translation (by John O'Meara). Augustine is writing of Jesus: "As it is, there is one road, and one only, well secured against all possibility of going astray; and this road is provided by one who is himself both God and man. As God, he is the goal; as man, he is the way."

*Note to pals: Don't worry, nothing dire has happened. I'm always in desperate need of a more godly perspective in life. Even in those moments when I have it, I still need it desperately—the Holy Spirit's guidance is like oxygen.

Veni, Vidi, Venti: Sometimes I think I should take down The Dawn Patrol and just make it one big link to Forgotten NY.

Despite my numerous plugs for my friend Kevin Walsh's site, I'm actually shamefully unfamiliar with it, as its graphics-heavy format makes it unsuitable for browsing on my home computer, which has a lowly dial-up connection. Today, while my mysterious travels took me to a computer that had a fast connection [if you don't know about said travels, feel free to e-mail me], I visited Forgotten NY's page on subway vents. That's right, subway vents—not gratings, but stand-up vents. The article is just plain hilarious. I've never seen anything like it. I was almost—just almost—completely taken in by its mixture of fact and fiction. Even now, I'm not quite sure whether the Department of Transportation doesn't call its various models of vents by names like "The Holmes" (after John, of course), "The Ocelot," and "The Dingo."

All hail the mighty "Percheron"

Every Little Bit Hz: My friend Rich Appel, who masterminds the famous music trivia challenge (the "M-T BOWL") twice a year at the Sony building, has just released the latest issue of his wonderfully entertaining and educational e-zine, Hz So Good. Now, if the idea of 62 kilobytes' worth of highly personal, highly informed musings on topics ranging from "what actually went down in [WCBS-FM's] real 'Ingram mess,'" to memories of "frozen images" that would stay on old TV sets after the set was shut off, to how the Big Bopper "makes it sound like the telephone was just invented in 1958"—if all that doesn't make your fingers fire off a "subscribe" request to audiot.savant@verizon.net, then perhaps you should be reading a different blog—like this one.

"D.C." Comics: Comic artist David Chelsea is known for much more than drawing my caricature for The Dawn Patrol (which was based on a photo of me onstage at Maxwell's last August, taken by Michael Malice). He's featured in the just-released "Top Shelf: Asks the Big Questions," distributed by Diamond Comics, which, in addition to a portfolio of his and a career-spanning interview with him, also features "a tribute to Charles Schulz, with strips by Chris Ware, Seth, Ivan Brunetti, Joe Matt, Tony Millionaire, Tom Hart and more! Plus: works by international creators Jason Martin, Tom Dieck, Nicolas Mahler, Ulf K, Winshluss, and Swiss comics collective Atrabile, and stateside ink-studs Matt Madden, Renée French, Josh Simmons, Jesse Reklaw, Mack White, James Kochalka, James Sturm, Steve Weissman, Peter Kuper, the Robot Publishing Posse." Whew!

My Latest Post: Forgotten New York's Kevin Walsh thoughtfully sent me this photo of what he writes is "part of the mosaic series on East Village lampposts. The new ones commemorate local theaters that have been torn down."

[UPDATED 7/3/03] O, Solo Me-o: A couple of things have happened in recent days to make me think that I am at risk of becoming a bitter old single woman before my time. I'm afraid such a thought may come as no surprise to lurkers who read this page without really knowing me (and I know they're there—this page got 55 hits yesterday). However, the truth is that I do not normally define myself as cynical in matters of love, so the thought of turning into one of those dreaded rampaging New York City single thirtysomething gals—when I don't even own a single pair of Manolo Blahniks—is fear-inspiring.

One disturbing sign: My continued resentment of a type of single-man behavior that really shouldn't bother me. [ENTIRE PARAGRAPH DELETED 8/27/03 IN A RARE ACT OF SELF-CENSORSHIP.]

As I said, I really shouldn't care about such men's actions in the first place. If anything, I should be amused by their odd mating dances.

Exhibit B is the reaction I've been getting to my online personal ad. (I won't post a link to my ad here, but if you'd like to know where to find it, e-mail me at the address at left.) I wrote my ad in such a way as to filter out anyone who's not a believing Christian. [UPDATE: See sample passage at the bottom of this post.] As mentioned here earlier, the tag line is currently, "I know what the Narnia books are REALLY about." The ad says that I was born Jewish and am now "Protestant" (a word I don't particularly like; what am I protesting? It'd be better if I lived in 17th-century England; then my personal ad could read, "Nonconformist."). It also says that I'm a writer and copy editor, and it mentions a wide range of my other interests, from Peter Cook to Phil Ochs, the Zombies, sushi, Philip K. Dick, and, of course, G.K. Chesterton.

So, what kind of men have responded? Jews wanting to know if I'm for real.

One wrote to me from Australia, wanting to know if I was half-Jewish. I responded politely that I was Jewish on both sides—and then hit "block" to prevent his replying further. I know that if people are really interested in Christian apologetics, I'm obliged to continue answering their questions. But not if they just want to know if I'm a bat mitzvah.

Today's response came from a Jewish New Yorker who began his e-mail with a reference to a question at the end of my ad, where I asked respondees which section of a bookstore they head for first:

Uhh the Christian section?

Tell me you can't be for real.
If not, your [sic] a genius and I love you.
If so then Dr. Laura is a real doctor.

I didn't feel like being witty, so I just penned a short response saying that I was a genius, he wouldn't love me, and I hadn't checked Dr. Laura's credentials. Then I hit "block." Later research revealed that Dr. Laura's doctorate is in physiology, but she is a licensed counselor and has served on the graduate psychology faculty of Pepperdine University.

UPDATE: One friend who read this post wrote to advise that my ad stress to respondents that faith is an essential requirement. It already does, in the space provided for "Religion": "Protestant, born Jewish. Please respond only if you share my Christian faith."