Creepy Pedro's Favourite Songs from Movies

• I was offended when Tina Turner sang "We Don't Need Another Pedro." In response to this insult I called her a "spoiled ham." When asked about this on television she called me "a no-talent meat-man," and we have not spoken since this incident.

• I was happier with her song called "Acid Queen" from "Tommy," which did not address me personally. But the song I REALLY liked in that movie was Ann-Margaret's rendition of "Beans, Beans, Beans!"

• "Indian Love Call," from I forget.

• In "Kiss Me Kate," when Ann Miller sings "Too Darn Hot," she is sexier than a cat with tap shoes!

• Songs about asteroids make me cry for obvious reasons.

• In "Forrest Gump," Tom Hanks farts in a way that I consider musical, if unstudied.

(A few years ago I wrote movie reviews for Genxine, the literary organ of Generation X Video. Some of them were pretty good, so I plan on reprinting them here, including those -- like this one -- that I don't believe were ever published).

Miss Burke's Expressive Hands

Melon fetishists like their ellipses, but HAND fetishists go for double-barrel adjectives:

How do these gay, clever women keep their busy capable hands exquisite and pretty when they use them for so much interesting active work?

Those gay, clever, busy, capable, exquisite, pretty, interesting, and active women rely on Cutex Liquid Polish, of course...and this includes Billie Burke!

"I love the stage," says Billie Burke, "but I also love simple country things--gardens, woods, tramps--dogs. What terrible things it does to my hands!"

I sure know that simple country tramps can get you awfully dirty, but let's assume that Burke is using the word "tramp" in the pre-'60s American sense of the word, that is, "to hike." Although "tramp" could also mean "hobo" at that time, for some reason it was an acceptable word for "hiking" as well. I have an old Ann Miller advertisement where she brags about her ability to go "cross-country tramping."

In any case, if you can get your busy, capable hands on a box of this stuff, your friends might admire you in the way that they admired Burke:

"My friends say, 'What lovely half-moons you have!'"

Because It's Sunday: Rambha

Next to Sridevi, Rambha was by far my favourite Bollywood actress. She wasn't a particularly GOOD actress last time I checked, but she had genuine spunk, a terrific turtle-nose, a strangely genuine screen presence, and WOW she could dance. For these reasons I think of her as India's Ann Miller, always likable but rarely the "star."

To illustrate this, here's one of the few good numbers from "Beti No.1." Rambha is the only person who can out-dance Govinda, and in this song she effortlessly matches him move-for-move.

Because It's Saturday: Ann Miller

Many people have idols, drag queens especially. There's a lot to be said about the type of idols we choose, but mine is a natural fit: Ann Miller, queen of taps and all-around wonderful person.

If I can be half as sweet, tolerant, and tight-lipped as Ann was, I think I can probably die and go to heaven. She died a few years ago -- still sweet, still down-to-earth, still tight-lipped -- and it's my GREAT regret that I never got to meet her.

Here's Ann in "On the Town." Her life was full of tragedies, one of which that she was paired with lunkheads like Jules Munshin. Ignore that, get a kick out of her "kicking and spinning," and reflect a moment on a B-starlet who never kissed butt or talked sh*t. Ann, some of us cared deeply for you.

Some of us still do the "Ann Miller Hand Gesture," which I'll demonstrate again soon.


PS: Re-reading this, I realize it sounds funny. What I meant was that I ASPIRE to Ann Miller-hood, and I respect her immensely, but I do not think I come close to reaching her Ann-ness. Yet.

Shakin' the Blues Away!

Last year, Lydia of Delirium Clothing made me a FABULOUS replica of Ann Miller's "Shakin' the Blues Away" outfit (from "Easter Parade"). I've never been able to get a picture of it that does it justice, but last night...

Click to see the dress that we affectionately call "The Bumblebee." And I'm the lucky person in it!

Because It's Friday: Emergency Broadcast Network

Oh man, EBN. Eli introduced them to me in the best possible way, by showing me the videos at the end of their only full-length CD ("Telecommunication Breakdown").

Through some obsessive-compulsive technique that nobody else would dare reproduce, EBN created video-songs using reams and reams of recorded footage. They didn't have a "video sampler" (as the sort of shoddiness of their VHS tape makes clear)...they just meticulously catalogued and sampled and trimmed. And in the process they made songs with themes, usually involving television overload and media manipulation.

EBN is no more, but every month it seems like more and more goodies are appearing on YouTube, both full-length videos and strange experiments from the EBN archives. This song, "3:7:8," is my favourite, and I'm thrilled to finally see an unedited version (with the "Beginning of the End" section at the end). It doesn't have a "theme" and it's one of their more polished efforts, and it's a great song to boot.

Are you a savvy culture-spotter? See what you can recognize. I'll put my discoveries below the video.



I think the falsetto boy at the beginning is from "Prospero's Books," but I haven't seen it in a long time. The Dalai Lama is laughing in one clip, and Danny Kaye is definitely yelling "CONGA!" (Jeez, his mouth!) That's Ann Miller doing "I've Gotta Hear That Beat" from "Small Town Girl" (two bars forward, two bars backward, but no audio from the actual number). The surprise footage in the "Beginning of the End" segment is partially from "Carnival of Souls" and "Brainstorm." The singing woman looks and sounds an awful lot like Virginia O'Brien, ol' stone-face herself.

So what did I miss?

PS: When the fancy menu pops up at the end, do yourself a favour and watch the next EBN video, "Rock This Base." Shiver.

My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part Four

A trip to both the animal and the human zoo! Once again featuring never-before-seen photographs...and you wouldn't believe the stuff I found while looking for them. But more on that later.

This is merely part four of the tale. Click on the links to read parts one, two, and three.

The LA Zoo

Friday, like every day I've been here, starts out looking gloomy and ominous then quickly heats up to a gorgeous temperature. The actual numbers don't matter to me; I'm basking in it and loving it.

Morning off the Grafton patio.

I start the morning off by eating at fake "western" restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, where the staff members yell at the customers. It'as a form of non-Canadian fellowship that I recognize and I enjoy, but if the manager of a restaurant in Toronto asked me why I'd "left so much fuckin' food left on the plate" I'd expect some sort of fight to start. Here it means they like you.

While finishing my (enormous) meal, my waitress hears that a country music show in Nashville is sending a camera crew to film her because they think she'll make a great VJ. She freaks and I hear the giddy details of her Texas childhood. It's a wonderful moment and I hope she gets the show; she'll be perfect.

Eugene arrives and we take a scenic route to Griffith Park. Apparently he hasn't been to the zoo since he was eight. I hear that the zoo was horribly neglected at some point (and the polar bear STILL looks disgrunted), but now things are pretty much back in shape. We take our time strolling and exploring. We are skeptical that any koalas live in the darkened koala pavillion. We share a belief that monkeys are pretty horrible. At one of the many souvenir booths -- where you operate a machine to inject plastic into moulds of about 20 different animals -- a very strange man tells his son that "this is how God makes animals." "God injects the plastic," he says in all seriousness. Eugene and I don't believe this.

A Los Angeles gorilla, with bonus Eugene silhouette.

We're late to pick up Chris for a trip to Melrose, so we shortcut through the park, return to civilization, and the three of us have a typically heavy and slumber-inducing Indian meal. It turns out that Chris is a real zoo veteran and she chastises us for missing the most excciting predators. I off-handedly mention that two people I'd love to meet in LA are Johnette Napolitano and Andy Prieboy, and I am less shocked than I should be to learn that Johnette did a benefit show for Chris, and that Chris used to do Andy's hair at his apartment. This blurring of the line between celebrity and private life is surprising and odd. People see celebrities very differently here.

Sadly we are a bit rushed on Melrose, but I do manage to see some fabulous things. These are the first funky stores I've been to since I've arrived. Some of them are certainly generic and/or trashy, but Chris and Eugene are great guides and don't discourage impulse spending. Passing on the genuine leopard shoes (because I'm squeamish), I settle on a beautiful ostrich-feather fan.

Bricktops!

Since arriving I have been hearing the name "Vaginal Davis" from everybody's lips. In keeping with the synchronous theme of the weekend, three different groups of people independently suggest I visit "The Parlor Club" to see Vaginal's show, which apparently has a roaring '20s theme. I get ready at the Best Western (where I'm now staying) and while waiting for my clubbing companions I become intrigued by "Battle of the Sexes," a reality TV program that I can only assume is typical of the genre. I am convinced that the pressure of the camera spurs soap-opera behaviour. People keep going on "trash the cabana" sprees when they're upset, and beloved ex-members of the teams are repeatedly lionized by those remaining. People watch this under the impression that it's "reality" and start acting this way even without the cameras on them. It's depressing and engrossing at the same time.

Oh my goodness, the Bricktops show is fabulous. The crowd is mixed, some in full '20s gear and some more casually dressed. On the corner of the dancefloor a woman does a quirky and lovely tap routine in front of projections of inept retro porn. Faux-Irish lads get up on stage and sing heartfelt songs in faux-Irish accents. These folks can REALLY sing and they can REALLY play the piano, especially "Mr. Uncertainty" who mixes oblique political observations with goofy camp.

Meanwhile, in the back room, we've scored a couch and are drinking heavily. This is easy to do because the mixed drinks seem to be about 9/10'ths alcohol, about which few complain. I find myself discoursing about the things I find intriguing about LA, and people are patient with me and make fun of the way I say "about."

Me, Chris, Eugene, and nameless sweet girl in the Bricktops backroom.

Chris and I, apres booze.

Vaginal Davis -- Miss Bricktop -- appears. This lady's manner is simply beyond my experience, and I won't try very hard to describe it. She is very funny. Her "hootchie-kootchie dance" is a cross between a Disney cartoon and a Ken Russell film. She plays St. Patricks Day matchmaker in the crowd. Her method of announcing last call sounds a bit like a gibbering ghost in a washing machine.

She is not nearly so baffling in close quarters, however, and I get the chance to thank her for playing "Tom, Dick, or Harry." Music to an Ann Miller-lover's ears!

The night ends before it should, sadly. Eugene, Chris, and I retire to Canter's (fortunately not Oki-Dog) for the perfect post-drink experience: grease. Hash browns, actually. We talk bafflingly of politics, geography, and the other things you talk about when you've been drinking what tastes like rubbing alcohol all night.

Part five is on the way!