No Sex and the Single Girl

Oh, my. It looks like I'm going to have the same publisher as Helen Gurley Brown.

I received an e-mail today from a far-off rock-critic pal, informing me that an article I wrote eight years ago, copied for him, and forgot about, has now been used to sell a book of rock essays. The money is negligible, but the cachet is incalculable. This means that, through no fault of my own, I am suddenly no longer the only one of my friends and acquaintances who doesn't have a book out or on the way. (I'm not counting The Encyclopedia of Singles, because I was part of a group of authors and my name isn't next to the sections I wrote. Likewise with the other rock-history books to which I contributed: The Virgin Top 1000 Albums, The Grove Encyclopedia of Music, Behind the Hits, etc.)

Did I mention that I'm happy? I think I'm elated. I just don't know yet because the news is so unexpected and the money so underwhelming. But I'm sure I'll get more excited once the full impact of it hits me.

I'll post more information about this once the book is actually scheduled for release, but for now I'll tell you that it's to be published by Barricade. Meaning that I will be in the company of Gurley Brown's Sex and the Single Girl, as well as a collection of quotations by Margaret Sanger (sorry, no bold type) and—God help me—The Gay Wicca Book. To counteract those cooties, I think I will go out tonight, not have sex, and pray to Jesus—all at the same time.

'Turntable Hits' of 2003: Part 3 in a Series

THE TROUBLE DOLLS
Sticky
Half a Cow Records

FULL DISCLOSURE ALERT: In 1999, I wrote an entirely fictitious bio for this band, which is available in a slightly altered form on their Web site. Also, I went out a few times with a member of the group (during my pre-Christian era) and still think he's cute.

Back in 1988, a man in his 30s was trying to explain to me why the Bangles were such a revelation to him and his peers.

"When the Beatles first came on the scene," he said, "girls went crazy over them not just because they played great music, but because they were sexy," he said. "Guys never had a band like that."

I'm reminded of that as I listen to this, the first album by New York's Trouble Dolls. Not that it's overtly Beatlesque—the Fabs exist here more as what journalists call "deep background"—but because of the excitement of hearing Cherie Leone's remarkable voice over such beautiful, pure pop music. Fifteen years after the Bangles, there are still practically no women with outstanding, songbird voices—distaff equivalents of Lennon or McCartney—directing their talents towards unabashedly melodic rock and roll.

Leone's gorgeous yet utterly unaffected singing, bringing to mind Christine McVie after having her boyfriend stolen by Debbie Harry, is perfect for the Trouble Dolls' sound, which is likewise different from anything else around.

The tracks on Sticky, penned mostly by guitarist Matty Karas, are split radically between new-wave bubblegum rockers and haunting ballads—the latter showing considerable depth. The minimalist production of "Marcelle," for example, projects Leone's vulnerable vocals over a haunting, circular guitar riff that finds the middle ground between the Airplane's "White Rabbit," Ravel's "Bolero," and the Beatles' "I Want to Tell You."

The one track on the album that straddles the fence between bounciness and despair happens to be the best. "I Don't Know Anything at All" is one of those number-one hits in my universe that would probably be a well-played album track in the real world. I say that because I know that radio programmers judge hits by bang-on openings, whereas this song has the opposite—an inexorable pull. Instead of mallet-like punches, it's punctuated by ever-growing emotional waves. Back in the days of the great ballads—the Association's "Cherish"; the Righteous Brothers' "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling"; or a more apt comparison, the Bee Gees' "World," this technique was known as a "build." Very few artists can achieve it nowadays.

"I Don't Know Anything at All" draws me in with its "Eve of Destruction"-style opening, and then utterly hooks me with Leone's plaintive, "I stay at home alone at night..." I must have listened to this song a total of 50 times and it still ends before it can wear out its welcome.

The new-wave bubblegum tracks contain some of the irony familiar in twee-pop acts (I could do without Leone's disrupting the flowery "Your Love Is the Sunshine" with a Bon Scott imitation), but they still betray a sincere love of the genre. The best of them, "I Finally Figured Out," with its Raindrops-style male/female vocal switchoffs, modernizes the Brill Building sound with an exuberance that hasn't been heard since Blondie covered the Shangri-Las' "Out in the Streets."

Blondie is, in fact, an apt comparison for the Trouble Dolls, not because the T-Dolls sound like Harry and crew—they've got a far greater range—but because Sticky is the first album since Blondie that really stands a chance of appealing to fans of every era of great pop music, from the Beatles, Beach Boys, and Kinks, right up to Stiff Records artists and modern-day hipsters like Guided By Voices.

Crush and Burn

I just left a message for a friend where I talked about how I was easing myself out of a crush: "It's funny how a crush can be fun and scary at the same time."

I am so thankful that I don't get crushes like I used to, back when I was in my teens and 20s. I used to pick a guy—the less attainable the better—and tell myself that life was not worth living unless he returned my attraction. On some level, I knew that I had chosen the wrong person, but I felt totally helpless to control my feelings. Eventually I would realize my folly and my whole world would come crashing down—until I could find someone else and restart the cycle.

Now, in sense, I've gone the other way. If I take an unrequited interest in someone, I tell myself that I'm just going to enjoy the feeling and not expect anything to come of it. It's a clear improvement: Saved from my youthful nihilism, my feelings aren't as intense, plus God lets me know sooner, and more clearly, that I'm on the wrong track. But there remains danger, both earthly—that I can gain a false sense of security—and divine—that I can lose sight of what's really important. The latter is especially on my mind right now because I'm finishing C.S. Lewis's The Pilgrim's Regress, where Lewis introduced his now-familiar assertion that if one tries to hold onto any joy, it becomes an idol.

Another good reason for me not to have crushes these days is that I haven't written a good song in two years. What's the point of having a crush if you can't get a good song out of it? Some of the best songs ever written are based on real-life unrequited affection—like the Left Banke's "Walk Away Renee." Blonde dancer Renee Fladen went out with pretty much every member of the group except for 16-year-old Michael Brown, so he captured his feelings of resignation in poignant lines about empty sidewalks. Then he further immortalized Fladen with "Pretty Ballerina" and "She May Call You Up Tonight"—all without ever dating her.

I wonder what a Brooklyn teen like Brown would do today if he longed for a stunning, unattainable girl who dated all his pals. Probably confess it on his blog.

She Put the Sex in Sexagenarian

At Rififi's fourth-Saturday "Freak Out" dance last night with Kittybeat, discussing POP GEAR! with the club's manager, I noticed the manager was holding a copy of Penthouse Forum. When he saw that I had spotted it, he explained that it had come into his possession during the club's preceding event that evening, "Porno Jim." Apparently, Mr. Jim has a popular nightclub act where he gives the history of pornography, complete with visual aids.

As I contemplated the possibility that Mr. Jim's show might precede POP GEAR!, I felt my familiar discomfort with all things pornographic: a 1/16" veneer of Puritan fascination, wrapped around a core of revulsion. But in this case, those feelings were covered with something I don't normally associate with skin mags—pride.

I couldn't help telling the manager that I noticed the Penthouse Forum because I had a copy of it at home. My great-aunt Alma Denny, an acclaimed writer and light-verse poet who died last March at the age of 96, had written an article for the magazine on "Sex After Sixty."

Alma was a remarkable woman. You can get an idea of her personality and accomplishments from the obituary of her that appeared in The New York Sun. I also did an unpublished interview with her that I intend to make available on this site. She was a wonderful booster and a great inspiration to me as a freelance writer. I miss her very much.

Dessert's on Me

Well, what can I say?

This is me at nine months, in June 1969. Apparently some generous grown-up had handed me a slice of cake.

When I was a kid, I hated this photo. I think perhaps its coffee stains and other mysterious blotches come from childhood attempts to destroy it. Now I finally think it's cute. At the very least, it shows how blessed I am that, a few months after it was taken, my parents took me in for an eye operation, saving me from having to go through life looking like Ben Turpin.

Last-Minute Rosh

On my way to work tonight, I picked up some apples and honey, plus a pound of rugelach. I sliced the apples when I got in and laid it all out for my co-workers, who seem pleased. (It's hard to get them to eat the apples though--apples go brown about five minutes after they're sliced, unless you put lemon juice on them or whatever it is Heloise advises.) It was just something I wanted to do. I've done it before, too, at one or more other jobs. Jewish holidays make me feel nostalgic for old traditions.

For one thing, I like the sense that there's our time and there's God's time—the calendar year, and the spiritual year. To borrow from Rudy Vallee, God's time is our time, but He also imbues days and seasons with meanings of His own. I find the cycles of the Jewish year beautiful, and beautiful too are the ways that they correlate to the weekly Torah parashiot. In addition, the last year brought me a lot to be thankful for, and I feel the need and desire to show gratitude to God by saying the shehechiyanu over an apple slice dipped in honey.

Now "Gear" This

Had dinner last night with pals Kittybeat and Michael Lynch to discuss our exciting new venture: POP GEAR! We are going to host and DJ our own swingin' dance party at Rififi, the nightclub at Cinema Classics in the East Village, on the second Saturday of every month, starting October 11. The uber-cool Phast Phreddie Patterson recommended me to the club, and I brought in Kittybeat and Michael because, in addition to being good friends of mine, they've got way more disc-jockey experience than I do, each having hosted a longstanding beat/psych/garage show on college radio. (Kittybeat's is still going, on WSUB.)

I'm so excited about this. It's going to be a blast to have the experience of being a DJ and watching people have a great time to the music I play. I've DJed in public places before—most notably at CB's Gallery, back when it was the CBGB Record Canteen—but never at a club that attracted such a dedicated crowd as Rififi, where people are serious about dancing and about mid-Sixties music. The club already has three very popular monthly Saturday-night mid-Sixties dances—Subway Soul, Smashed! Blocked!, and Freak Out—so our night rounds out the club's schedule. Here's the press release I wrote:

IT’S MID-SIXTIES BEAT’N’PSYCH’N’SURF’N’MOD’N’EVERYTHING’N’BETWEEN!
IT’S POP GEAR!

Calling all Sixties-pop fans! Starting Saturday, October 11, Rififi—home of such super shindigs as Subway Soul, Smashed Blocked, and Freakout—starts a new monthly dance night: POP GEAR! Admission is fa-ree, baby.

Behind POP GEAR! are three groovy Gearheads—college DJs Michael Lynch (who’s made some Sixties-style records of his own) and Kittybeat, both of them hosts of longstanding '60s radio programs, plus rock historian Dawn Eden—playing the most Frug-worthy mid-Sixties tunes from the U.S., U.K., and beyond.

Expect lesser-known numbers by hitmakers like the Kinks, the Small Faces, the Byrds, and the Zombies, plus loads of underground faves and one-hit wonders like the Remains, the Move, the Music Machine, Liverpool Five and Moving Sidewalks. And while Subway Soul is still Gotham’s R&B heartbeat, POP GEAR! reserves the right to spin pop-soul stirrers like Irma Thomas, Arthur Alexander, and Dee Dee Warwick.

So swing by every second Saturday and dress up—or dress down. This is an attitude-free affair where you don’t have to fret over whether your pants are pegged, your heels are Cuban, or your two-tone socks match your skinny tie. Just wear comfortable shoes and be prepared to Frug, Watusi, and (oh yeah!) Jerk the night away. And when you need a breather, just plop down in one of Rififi's cozy couches, enjoy one of the club's famously cheap drinks, and watch the groovers move against a video backdrop of Mod-era films.

POP GEAR! is at Rififi at Cinema Classics (332 East 11th St. between 1st and 2nd Aves., 212-677-1027) on Saturday, October 11 and every second Saturday, for six boss hours: 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. Admission is free.

A Troubadour's Tail

Wonderful news! My friend Joshua has offered to let me store photos on his OffOffOff Web site so that I won't have to face high transfer fees from my server. So, if there are any photos you've seen during The Dawn Patrol's Quick-Turnover™ period that you'd like to see again, let me know which ones and I'll put them back up. Many thanks to Joshua!

For now, as a placeholder, I pulled out one of the odder picture sleeves I own: a French EP featuring Michel Polnareff's biggest hit, "La Poupee Qui Fait Non" ("The Doll That Says No"), on which the singer is pictured with a gerbil creeping down his shoulder.

Later today, after I've gotten a good night's sleep, I'll put up a different photo and tell about what's new here in Eden.

Pillow Talk

I wrote a headline in today's paper for a story on a poll claiming that Americans were having less sex: "Cooler beds prevail: Sex declining in U.S."

UPDATED—A Shot in the Dark

I was so disappointed yesterday when no one wrote to tell me that they got a laugh (or any kind of reaction) from the mysterious photo of me flanked by Robert Hegyes and Ron Palillo. No one commented on my Bruce Davison photo either, or my Wreckless Eric photos. So I think I'll lay off the Dawn-with-celebrities thing—that means no Freddie Garrity-in-Holland album—until I get a little more feedback.

I don't mean any offense or lack of appreciation to the family, friends, and strangers who give The Dawn Patrol its remarkably consistent 65 daily hits. It's just that it takes time and effort to put photos up. While I enjoy doing this blog, I wouldn't put so much into it if I intended it solely for my private amusement.

Life in general has been very good lately. I love my new job. I'm listening to an advance copy of the Trouble Dolls' debut album right now, which has some fantastic songs on it and is due for a Dawn Patrol review. Tonight I finished the press release for the night that Michael Lynch and Kittybeat and I will be hosting at Rififi—more on that very soon. I am reading C.S. Lewis's The Pilgrim's Regress and a book about the Heaven's Gate death cult. I am writing a lot of declarative sentences. I am very sleepy.

UPDATE, 11:14 a.m.: Just got a thoughtful e-mail from Kevin Walsh which I suspect reflects the views of other friends as well: "I enjoy your photos with celebs. Keep them coming. I don't comment on them every day because, on rare occasions, I don't have anything witty to say about them! When I don't say anything, it doesn't mean that I am not reading."

Come Again?

A friend writes in the midst of an e-mail:

On a lighter and equally serious note (and please don't misunderstand this)...

My Gill-ty Pleasure

I have a very silly headline in today's paper about the member of Phish who was cleared of criminal charges: "He's a Phish out of hot water."

Is He Silicon? Or Just Teflon?

Many thanks to Todd for turning me onto an article in a San Francisco paper in which mayoral candidates are subjected to Philip K. Dick's test to determine whether they're human or android. You really must read the whole thing; I was laughing out loud. Here's my favorite exchange:

TW: You’re in a desert walking along in the sand when all of the sudden you look down, and you see a tortoise, Tom, it’s crawling toward you. You reach down, you flip the tortoise over on its back, Tom. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can’t, not without your help. But you’re not helping. Why is that, Tom?

TA: That’s interesting. I don’t know. I’m a Republican?

T-R.I.P.

Today I am throwing out the T-shirt that Kenn Kweder gave me in 1987. It is black with white lettering—perfect rocker colors. The front advertises his double-album Pandemonium Years. The back reads: "KENN KWEDER ON HIS DE-LUX PROSTITUTE TOUR."

I made the unfortunate discovery early on that, with the long blonde hair I had for most of my teens and twenties, the only part of the T-shirt back that was readable was "DE-LUX PROSTITUTE TOUR."

I am throwing the T-shirt away because now that I'm a Christian, I really can't wear it anymore. It's not a good witness. (Don't worry, friends; I have not yet given up on the witness of a John Lennon cap, a chartreuse leather jacket, a two-tone minidress, crocheted tights, and 2-1/2-inch heels.) Also, I don't wear T-shirts around the house, and I can't even think of bringing it in to the sweet elderly women who volunteer at the St. Mary Thrift Shop.

I hate throwing perfectly good clothes away, but I'm already saving my Graham Chapman and Mosquitos T-shirts (among others) for posterity and one has to draw the line somewhere.

I haven't heard from Kenn almost since he gave me the shirt, when I was doing publicity for him and trying unsuccessfully to get a label to release a great album that Ben Vaughn produced for him, Man Overboard, which was about eight years ahead of its time.

Everybody Knows

A couple of quotes to share from a fun outing yesterday with my mom:

While we were getting manicures, one of the manicurists asked my name. My mother answered for me—something I realize now with a smile; you don't notice things like that when you're with your mom—and the manicurist was very impressed by it.

"You know what Dawn means in Korean?" the manicurist asked me, pronouncing my name "Doan."

"Money," she continued. Then she said, with a big smile, "Everybody knows Dawn."

***
Afterwards, Mom showed me her new favorite fitness place: Curves. She said that she was certain that Curves—which is radically different from other workout places (no mirrors, for one thing)—would not just be a passing fad.

"Just like I knew that pantyhose was here to stay," she explained.

Dawn to Earth

Haven't published much news about myself, because, other than my wonderful birthday party (which I still really need to take time to detail), I haven't had a lot of dramatic news or events to describe. Starting at my new job has been a tremendous experience for me, but it's also been familiar in the sense that I've been freelancing there for over a year and a half. So the greatest aspect of that for me, other than the sheer joy of finally being hired, is being able to start at a job where I already know and like the work and the people....I didn't write as many wacky headlines as I'd like to have during my first week—I think it's because I was overwhelmed with getting used to my new situation and difficult schedule—but I'm getting better at expressing complex concepts in 25 characters or less. Last night, I had to write a four-word headline about how the Colorado attorney general's Web site accidentally published the name and address of Kobe Bryant's alleged victim. I came up with "'Net-wits name Kobe's accuser."...I received some very sad news this week about Mike Smith, singer of the Dave Clark Five, who can be seen at the top of my main page. He had an accident at his home in Spain and is in critical condition. Updates are being posted to his Web site's message board.

Tubular Kvells

I just uploaded a photo of me on the London tube as the Dawn Patrol illustration on my main page, Gaits of Eden.

The Critics Raved: I was walking to work this afternoon, wearing jeans, a silvery-gray mock-turtleneck, the black leather Lennon cap of mine that comes out after labor day, and my black PVC jacket (nice for rainy days). I'd only gotten half a block away from my house when a man walking towards me—apparently one of the many 60-something Italian men who populate my neighborhood—muttered "cute" as he passed. A block down, after I crossed one of those Hoboken intersections where the drivers don't care that there's a blinking yellow light, I heard a driver yell very loudly behind me. I can only guess he wasn't happy that I'd insisted on crossing in front of his car, though I hadn't run out in front of it or anything.

What he shouted sounded bizarre. At first, I thought he yelled, "You look like a creep." Then I realized he'd probably said, "You look like a cretin."

I could understand the driver's being angry if I'd been walking irresponsibly, but this really was out of order. To give him the benefit of the doubt, I looked into a store window and tried to imagine how I would look to a rude bigot driver. (I say "bigot" because, after all, cretins have the right to cross the street too.) I could see how, to a rude bigot driver, my hair underneath the cap could have that sort of Prince Valiant, mental-institution-escapee look that might imply "cretin" to some.

Then I remembered the Italian gent and smiled. I may look like a cretin, but I look like a cute cretin.

La Vie en Prose: Nobody has seen the image at left in nine years, except me, a couple of friends, and Harry Nilsson, who signed it eight days before he died. [9/13/03—Sorry, the image is gone; it was one of my new "One Day Only" specials. If you've just gotta see it, e-mail me.]

Just to say that Harry signed that photo for me is an understatement. He was extremely generous to me on that afternoon of January 7, 1994, when I began my interview with him—it proved to be his last—at a sushi restaurant in a Los Angeles suburb.

He was showing me his manuscript for a book of his recollections of his life and career, which went under the simple working title of "Harry's Book." He had made it clear to me from the start that he was dying—he'd had two heart attacks and was suffering from serious complications of diabetes. I didn't doubt it; he looked ill, had difficulty walking, and his diabetic neuropathy made it hard for him to use his fingers normally. So Nilsson, thinking of his impending death, wanted the world to know the truth about his life.

As I paged through the book—which, true to Nilsson's enigmatic character, seemed to obfuscate as much as enlighten— I came to that photo and gasped. I exclaimed that it was the most beautiful photo I'd ever seen of him—which it was, and still is.

No sooner had those words escaped my mouth than Nilsson, without a word, tore the photo—a color photocopy—out of the book. I protested his defacing the manuscript, but he assured me that he had the original and could make another copy. Then he autographed it—with his characteristic Beatlefest scrawl and the beautiful "Casablanca" quote— and gave it to me. As you can see, he included the year—"'94." He only lived 15 days into 1994.

One of the reasons almost nobody's seen this is that it depresses me too much. I know I should just look at it in a positive way—Harry Nilsson showed me great kindness and generosity at a time when he was ill and in pain—but I can't keep the thoughts of the tragedy of his death out of my mind. I keep the photo put away where I can't see it. I think about selling it to somebody who wouldn't feel sad to see it on their wall, but I've never been able to put it up on eBay—it seems crass to put it under a header like "NILSSON'S LAST AUTOGRAPH." So I'm sharing it with you regular Dawn Patrol readers because I do believe someone should see it and know that Nilsson tore it out of his own manuscript for a writer he'd just met—not because he cared about what writers thought of him, but because he knew it would make this fan happy.

The Glam Patrol: Dawn Patrol reader Carolyn Dorsey, a fellow Millennium fan who coincidentally shares the same hairstylist as me, recently sent me this impressive reworking of David Chelsea's Dawn Patrol drawing. I don't know if she's a professional artist, but she sure can work those painting tools!

Carolyn writes, "I read today about your success with your diet, so I decided to give your picture a makeover—with all respect to David Chelsea, you look different now. I can't remember exactly how you looked at the time I met you at Studio Z when you were talking to [hairstylist] Chuck, but I remember your hair being much darker and you were much thinner than the fun picture DC did of you."

Actually, I weigh the same as I did when the photo upon which David based his drawing was taken (by Michael Malice in August 2002, at the Stiff Generation record-release party at Maxwell's), but ever since I got my hair cut, people have thought I lost weight. (Funny, because the popular wisdom is that long hair is slenderizing.) At any rate, I'm tickled to be trimmed down in Carolyn's very thoughtful and well-done adaptation. I especially love how she glammed me up by putting me in an elegant outfit similar to the one I wore at a formal event in May. And what a compliment just that she would go to all that trouble!

Carolyn's drawing—actually the second updated Dawn Patrol drawing I've received (the first was a very hip, original effort by Jeremiah Murphy)— impressed me so much that it motivated me to do something I'd been meaning to do for a while: commission a new drawing from David Chelsea. So I wrote to him and he's agreed to do one for me. Unlike the first one, it'll be paid—at my request (after all, I'm now working full-time)—but at a friend-of-David rate that is very generous of him, especially since he's one of the most talented comic artists of his generation.

AMENDED*—Squeezing Out Sparks: Legend has it that, when my grandparents were bringing up their kids, the words "shut up" were banned in my their household under threat of a soap-and-water mouthwash. But I don't think that would have stopped Atlanta's relentlessly clever Shut-Ups. Their relentlessly ironic lyrics and turn-on-a-dime melodies suggest that they can and will endure—indeed, have endured—all manner of indignities for the sake of their own cleverness. It's very annoying, and would be inexcusable if it weren't that on their album It Hurts to Be Seen (Imperial Fuzz), they show themselves to be the smartest pop smartarses I've heard in a while.

Personally, while I like some 10cc and XTC, I've never been able to abide the tongue-in-cheek stylings of Sparks, and in general believe that such artists, far from being geniuses, use irony as a cloak to prevent themselves from having to express their emotions directly. But every so often, a self-consciously witty band comes along who are so talented musically as well as lyrically that they break through my defenses, like the Sugarplastic, They Might Be Giants, and the Breetles.

Shut-Ups singer-songwriter Don Condescending, judging by his lyrics, has given himself a painfully appropriate name, but he's got a fantastic ear for melody. Moreover, like 10cc on their first album, he patterns his song structures on Smiley Smile-era Beach Boys. So a song like "Stupid Sissy Boys" (the outraged cri de coeur of a boy whose sister is obsessed with boy bands) has a verse, a chorus, and about four different B-sections—all supremely catchy, all connecting musically with chord changes that stop deliciously short of predictability.

Other songs on the album structurally suggest The Who Sell Out (or even "A Quick One, While He's Away"), or even, on occasion, a kinder and gentler Guided By Voices. It's ambitious stuff, to be sure, and it's to the band's credit that they manage to pull it off—often creating a series of unique atmospheres within a single song—while retaining a live feel.

For a tiny handful of the album's 13 songs, Condescending at least partly removes his tongue from his cheek. On these, like the title track (the verse and childlike percussion of which recalls "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times") , "Permission," and "Don't Know Why," he supplants his bons mots with insights into male psychology. It may just be the loneliness of the long-distance punster. But especially on "Don't Know Why" —with its "My Girl"-style verse leading into a gorgeous, Hollies-inspired chorus—they remind one of how much emotional impact can be packed into a three-minute pop song.

Vocally, Condescending shows impressive flexibility: although his main voice is a classic power-pop tenor (imagine a less nasal John Flansburgh), he also has a fine falsetto in the Lol Creme mode. It's such a good voice, in fact, that I wonder how it would sound if it were singing from the heart. But I have a feeling I might as well ask Andy Partridge to devise an album title that doesn't combine two unrelated nouns.

*Added fifth paragraph.

Sour Notes: I just read a liner-note essay by a writer whom I normally consider to be professional and authoritative, and I was surprised and disappointed to find that he had done something thoughtless. I won't mention him by name here because I don't want to publicly embarrass a colleague, but I'm still going to describe what he did, because I'm really mad that he was so irresponsible.

The writer uses quotes from a band member who says several disparaging things about the band's producer, to the point of assuming vengeful motivations on the part of the producer. That is, the band member says things to the effect of, "The producer did such and such because he wanted to embarrass us." Yet, the writer never gives the producer's version of events, nor does he give any evidence that he solicited it.

The reason why I'm so particularly annoyed at this is that I know the producer in question. I've interviewed him twice. He has an incredible memory—much better than that of the members of this band. In short, he's lucid, fair, and always willing to clear any misconceptions, as well as to admit the times he did do something unwise.

The members of the band in question have a reputation for disagreeing among themselves about what exactly took place at different points in their history. They also have a reputation for criticizing the producers of their biggest hits.

I know that, as an interviewer, if an interviewee is charming and knowledgeable, one wants to take his perspective as being both accurate and complete. But if that interviewee is making negative and hurtful assumptions about the motivations of someone who is still alive and able to defend himself, there's no excuse for failing to solicit the other side of the story.

Another Vine Mess: I just listened to the Hollies' version of "A Taste of Honey" (or, as Allan Sherman sang, "A Waste of Money") off a great bootleg that Nick Sarames gave me for my birthday, and it occurs to me: Doesn't practically anything taste sweeter than wine? Unless it's really bad wine.

Done Eatin' *

My weight this morning, on home scale (in lbs.): 121 1/2

My weight this morning, on doctor's scale, estimated: 127

My weight one month ago, before going on 35th-birthday weight-loss campaign, on home scale: 127

My weight when I first attended a Fabiani Society meeting, the first week of July 2001: 154

My personal opinion of how I looked that evening: schlubby

Jonathan Leaf's opinion of how I looked that evening, as stated last night at my wonderful birthday party (more on that to come): "beautiful"

Number of future sort-of boyfriends I met that evening: 1 (not Jonathan—we're just friends)

Months it took me to lose 30 lbs. in hopes of attracting said future sort-of boyfriend: 5

Months after that before sort-of boyfriend sort of dumped me: 1

Months it took me to gain back the weight: hasn't happened yet, ken ahora

Foods I love that I rarely eat anymore (some followed by their correct serving size): chocolate (anything; correct size for M&Ms is an 8-oz. bag), Cheez Doodles (7-oz. bag), Ben & Jerry's twisted cookie-dough/brownie frozen yogurt (pint), muffins, pistachios, cashews, Wise Salt & Vinegar potato chips (5-oz. bag), Dunkin Donuts Vanilla Chai (20 oz.), cookies, french fries (McDonald's SuperSize, with ketchup) or pretty much anything fried, the Mexican Fiesta platter at Quantum Leap or any other Mexican food.

Foods that I now eat when I want to pig out (followed by their correct serving size): Miss Meringue Meringues in any flavor that contains chocolate chips (one tub), Robert's Balsamic Vinegar Potato Flyers (4-oz. bag), strawberries (about 1 pint), sliced mango (about 1 pint).

Most I ever weighed on home scale: 172 (ca. spring 1987)

My jeans size back then: 18 (bought at Lane Bryant, no less)

My bra size back then: 38C

My jeans size now: 9

My bra size now: N/A (I don't want any unsolicited bra submissions)

*Homonym

Anderson Counsel: The Anderson Council's Peter Horvath recently sent me a sneak preview of songs from their upcoming album, and I wrote back with comments on the tunes. Regarding one of the standouts, "Strawberry Smell," I complimented Horvath's use of a downward cycle of fifths.

Ah, but I forgot that, just as I squeezed through Music Theory 101 and can barely play an instrument, most rockers, to quote John Lennon, "couldn't tell you a Handel from a Gretel." Peter wrote back, "downward cycle of fifths? go ahead and explain that one..."

Well, the first explanation that comes to mind of what most people call a "circle of fifths" is "Rain and Tears" by Aphrodite's Child (or my favorite version of it, by Jonathan King), which is itself taken from Pachelbel's Canon. You'll find both of those compositions referenced in this fascinating page from a Queen fan site, of all places. Haven't gotten to read it all the way through, as I'm rushing off to see Rich Appel cohost Tuesday Night Trivia, neither have I gotten to read this interesting music theory lesson or the text surrounding this actual mention of a "downward cycle of fifths" in a piece about "La Traviata," but all those sites look like they'd be helpful. Or, Peter, perhaps you could post "Strawberry Smell" on your Web site's MP3 page so that my favorite Berklee dropout (excluding the drummer of this band) could tell us for sure whether my ears are correct about said fifths cycle.

Labor of Love: Just got back from spending Labor Day weekend in Cincinnati with my beloved sis, which is why I haven't blogged in a few days. Expect something in this very space later today, after I've slept. (There's a book title for you: While Eden Slept.) Cincinnati was not a bad town at all—much of it was lovely—but loses points for not having a record store that sells used 45s.