In Honour of Urk

Maybe you've never heard of Nits, the Dutch art-pop band. They've been around since 1974 and have achieved periodic fame, but arguably their "high point" was in 1988.

They'd just had a major hit with their "In the Dutch Mountains" album and were on a successful world tour. The band line-up was as solid and strong as it would ever be: long-time members Henk Hofstede (vocals, guitars) and Rob Kloet (drums), with innovative keyboardist Robert Jan Stips and recent member Joke Geraets on bass. They had a great stage backdrop: a rack of 32 hanging plates that could be swiftly moved around to create simple shapes (a car, a hat). As evidenced on "In the Dutch Mountains," which was recorded live to tape, the four of them were totally in sync: no edits or overdubs necessary.

The tour was archived as "Urk," a double-live CD of 29 songs, covering their career to that point. "Urk" is simply stunning; they rework their new wave classics -- usually improving on them -- and play all the new "stripped down" hits. You can tell they're loving what they do and that they are getting along very well with each other.

Sadly, the video for "Urk" was truncated -- only 13 songs -- and was impossible to get in North America. I don't know if it was ever released in NTSC format. Us hungry listeners wondered: why's the audience laughing during "An Eating House?" What's with the ten seconds of silence during "Port of Amsterdam?" What did it look like when the Amsterdam Saxophone Quartet blew everybody away with the new, subtle version of "Mask," which -- in its original format -- was an overproduced piece of unbearable schlock?

Without fanfare, Nits have re-released "Urk," now on DVD with an additional five songs (which their lighting director rescued from the garbage), a video diary, and a photo gallery. And holy cow it's good.

So in honour of Urk here's the inevitable YouTube rip of "Cabins." Once again, the original version was overproduced and far too slick, but here they've tightened and stripped it to fine-tuned frenzy. As an added bonus you get to see all four members at their fastest and finest.

Potboilers and Gary Jennings

What's a "potboiler" and why's it called that? Think about it for a second and I'll give you the answers at the end of the post.

Ten years ago my roomate at the time (Scott Irving) encouraged me to read "Aztec" by Gary Jennings, a pseudo-historical adventure about one of the last remaining Aztecs who travels around Central America, currying political favour, having wild sexual exploits, witnessing horrible barbarism, and inventing new devices with only the knowledge and materials at hand.

The book was worthwhile for two reasons: it described how people lived at that time, and why they lived that way. But it also appealed to my desire to be horrified and disgusted; I remember a scene that graphically depicted people being burned at the stake, and another that described the ritual mutilation of aristocrats in order to turn them into immobile and helpless freaks.

Since I've been reading too many "heavy" books lately -- and to carry on learning a bit about medieval life -- I picked up Gary Jennings' "Raptor." So far it seems to be a pseudo-historical adventure about a hermaphroditic child in the 5th century who travels around Europe, currying political favour, having wild sexual exploits, witnessing horrible barbarism, and inventing new devices with only the knowledge and materials at hand.

I guess Jennings new better than to mess with a winning formula.

Regarding the "horrible and disgusting" element, the poor author must have spent much of his time trying to find new things to gross us out, and he succeeded. A Roman soldier, captured by huns, is raped repeatedly through a small incision made in his stomach while watching the headless body of his pregnant wife give birth to a stillborn child. Ummm, thanks Mr. Jennings.

Anyway, when I bought the book at "Old Goat Books," the proprietor said derisively "You're buying a potboiler!" I realized I hadn't heard that word in a long time and I was very curious about WHY such a book was called a "potboiler."

So I asked a few people. Most of them had never heard the word. I myself was incorrect about the definition; I thought a potboiler was a romantic adventure, largely lacking in substance, sort of like a beefed-up Harlequin Romance.

Based on this definition I figured they were called "potboilers" because stereotypical housewives would read them just to pass the time between doing houswork (like while waiting for the pot to boil). Vanilla, on the other hand, thought that reading them was like being inside a boiling pot: lots of pressure, lots of heat.

It turns out that a potboiler is really just any book written quickly in order to make money. The word goes back to the 1800s when people used wood to heat their stoves, and therefore to boil their pots of food. A potboiler was a book written just so the author could afford wood for the stove.

So now we can all rest easy.

No Soliciting, Please

It shouldn't need to be said but I'm saying it anyway: I will delete any comment that I suspect to be an advertisement (eg. "Ha ha, great post! And CLICK HERE to learn how to make money with your blog!"

Hopefully this won't become an epidemic...advertisers seemed a bit fond of the "cat" post below.

Chef's Tip

I love when advertisers try to raise the status of an item, even though the item itself is so obviously crass or base. Whenever I go to the Forbes website to read their news, I'm treated to a full-screen advertisement (for cars or cel phones or something) with a message at the top reading: "Click here to skip this welcome screen."

It's not a welcome screen. It's an advertisement. But somehow their PRETENDING that it's a "welcome" screen -- even though I'm sure they know that they're not fooling anyone -- makes the screen sort of welcoming anyway.

Since I'm a sucker for quick meals I bought one of the new President's Choice frozen dinners. This line of dinners is being marketed as upscale...the fonts are all "script" and they feature maps showing you where the food supposedly comes from (no, not a map of the factory floor, a map of the region famous for that particular dish).

So I bought the "Piemonte Risotto with Porcini Mushrooms." It's ready in five minutes and has its own little microwave-safe plastic dish. Nothing about the food or its preparation sets it apart from other $2.00 microwave dinners...but on the back -- above the cooking instructions -- I found this totally discordant bit of overreaching promotion:

CHEF'S TIP
Serve with a red wine, such as a Chianti Classico or a Pinot Noir.

TV dinners and a nice red wine. That's class.

Sad Cats and Bored Cats

In 1993 Eli and I recorded a sweet little song called "Song For a Sad Cat." I mention this because now, 13 years later, he's come up with a sequel as part of his very disciplined "song-a-day" exercise.

To hear "Song For a Sad Cat" (1993), click here.

To hear "Song For a Bored Cat" (2006), click here and follow the link.

I'd like to point out that my present cat doesn't respond in any way to either song. Like, she doesn't perk up her ears as though there's really a cat in the room. Or maybe she just doesn't like the songs.

Musical Moments: If There Is Something

A while back Eli posted a list of five musical moments, that is, moments in a song that make you go "ARRR!" with delight.

I wanted to put my own list together but I realized this would be even more subjective than a list of rare perfect albums; the most obvious "musical moments" would leap to mind first, resulting in a list of twenty-five songs where I say "they go up an octave at the end and I get goosebumps." Not useful, the equivalent of Madonna and Michael Jackson winning 95 of the Top 100 Viewer's Choice Best Videos of All Time Awards.

So I figured I'd post "musical moments" when I came across them, therefore:

"If There Is Something (Live Viva! Version)" by Roxy Music.

If you've never heard it, the song -- from their first, self-titled album -- is really three songs in one. The first part is a ridiculous, embarassing Texas ho-down complete with twangy slide guitars, a fiddle, and Bryan Ferry doing his worst C&W hiccups, singing somewhat cryptic lyrics about trying to be in the place where a special somebody might think of looking for him.

This segues shockingly into an over-emotional, sparse, I'd-do-anything-for-you dirge. The tension -- and the Mellotron -- builds, but all the instruments slowly fade down to just Paul Thompson's mechanical, thumpy drums.

And this is the moment: Bryan Ferry, voice cracking from an excess of volume and emotion, breaks in with the final, simple, evocative, uplifting lyrics, under which the the instruments gradually return in a hypnotic and repetitive refrain:

Shake your hair girl with your ponytail
Takes me right back...when you were young.
Throw your precious gifts into the air
Watch them fall down...when you were young.
LIFT UP! your feet and put them on the ground
You used to walk upon...when you were young.
LIFT UP! your feet and put them on the ground
The hills were higher...when you were young...

This is when you pick up your cat, swing her around the apartment, and sing along as your heart jumps out of your chest and into heaven for the final sixty seconds. Sixty seconds of BLISS!

I single out the live version on their "Viva!" album because the silliness of the first segment is toned down and the middle portion is extended to a ridiculous length, giving every band member a solo. Therefore when the final segment begins you're really READY for it.

I'm not fond of the version on their 2002 "Live" album, however, as it's one of the few moments when backup singers manage to SPOIL a song. Instead of hearing Bryan Ferry's painful and exultant howling we hear a lot of sweet voices that can't carry the required emotional load.

Bonus Comment

It seems to me that many percussionists are playful eccentrics; every time I see a concert video the percussionist has a streak of individuality and is more than a little strange. From the bald guy who toured with everybody from Roy Orbison to George Harrison during the '80s (and who can be seen playing sax in the "not stupid, but definitely a sexual metaphor" version of Harrison's I Got My Mind Set On You video), to spastic Steven Scales (who I'd show you a screen capture of if my DVD copy of "Stop Making Sense" didn't cause my computer to crash), to the lovely Julia Thornton.

Julia Thornton using what seems to be a specialized type of castanet, which produces a precise quadruple snap.

You can see Julia Thornton's deadpan oddness on the Roxy Music "Live at the Apollo" DVD, as well as on the "Bryan Ferry in Concert" DVD. Her fashion sense is eccentric to say the least, and she plays percussion like she is simultaneously loving it and feeling embarassed about it. She particularly shines in "Mother of Pearl," the call-and-response of which always makes me think of The Rocky Horror Picture Show ("Well I was up all night--" "AGAIN?") ("...thus even Zarathustra--" CLAP-CLAP!) ("...a few throw-away kisses--" SMACK-SMACK!) ("...just give me your--" "FUTURE...")

What's up with percussionists? Do they feel insecure because their niche is so specialized and so many of their instruments are used to just add variety to what the wage-earning band members are playing? Is it because they need to have an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure types of gongs, the names and specific uses and histories of which nobody else cares to know? Were they the slow children in music class who had to choose the Temple Blocks after the other kids had taken all the COOL instruments?

I don't know, but I DO know that -- while trying to figure out what the hell Ms. Thornton is holding in the picture -- I've discovered that this whole percussion business is more organized and complicated than I thought. You've got idiophones, membranophones, chordophones, aerophones, and controversial electrophones. Some of them have definite pitches and others produce sounds that are too complex for pitching. You can make a lot of them at home. You can become your own percussionist. Hmmm...maybe this gongs-and-rattles stuff is pretty cool after all...

Frosty

On Friday night -- hearing that I would be without heat until at least Monday -- Vanilla took me on a whirlwind tour of the city's foremost hardware stores. My apartment is drafty so I decided it would be futile to buy something that gently radiates heat...I needed something that blows like a hurricane and is really frigging hot.

We found it: the Honeywell Utility Heater, which I've nicknamed Big Red. In the picture below, Zsa Zsa and I thaw our frostbitten features before a night on the town:


Whenever I get cold I think of William T. Vollman's novel "The Rifles." To research the book he took a solo trip to Isachsen, as close to the north magnetic pole as possible. He did this in March when the temperature hovered between -30 and -40 degrees. Every piece of equipment he brought with him broke down during the first day; his sleeping bag froze solid, his radio received only static, the metal pump for his cooking stove snapped off.

He spent a feverish week waiting for the plane to come back and get him, frost-bitten, hallucinating, shambling through the abandoned weather station trying to stay alive. Reading about his experience makes you feel very cold indeed. Here's a few excerpts, but you should really go ahead and just read the whole thing for yourself.

The sound of something creepy coming down the hall was only the sound of his stove pressurizing. Likewise the sound of police sirens. The sound of bells was the sound of his frozen zippers clinking together when he walked...

Every night now he wondered if he would live until morning. He'd read in Stefansson that there was no danger in sleeping when it was cold, that one would wake up when one was chilled, and that was exactly true. But it was still unnerving, to lie down shivering, on the near edge of a dark night, and to know that he'd only get colder and colder. Lying still in the darkness, waiting for the next shiver, he did his best to thrust beyond notice the collar of iron around his neck, the helmet of iron on his face, and the frozen hood behind his head. After awhile, the first drop of ice-cold water ran down the mask and across his nose. The iron collar began to limpen, and water ran down his back. Meanwhile, inside his clothes, the opposite was happening. The sweat on back and buttocks and belly turned to ice...

That night again he thought that he might not survive. The pad of the sleeping bag felt like ice, and probably was. The down was clumped into frozen pebbles whose sharp edges had worried holes in the nylon shell of the bag. He closed his eyes, and saw a fire in a fireplace, with andirons; he dreamed of a warm woman hugging him. When he woke up, he'd slept three hours. The collar of his sleeping bag, thick and white with frost, stuck painfully to his throat. He was suffocating in his own breath-ice. In the darkness he could not feel hs arms and legs. His back and buttocks ached sharply with cold, and he was shivering. He was cold deep inside his belly.

He put on his boots and went outside and walked a mile until he was warm enough to think...

There was a mountain straight ahead of him, soft, white and saddle-shaped. Its base was shaded in snow as in a fog. Above it, nary a cloud. He decided to walk toward it. He'd never have the chance again. The new-exposed strata of snow were hard and off-white like gypsum. There were lemming-tracks in the snow. He followed them. They paused in a wide and shallow hole in which the animal had left urine and a few specks of excrement like sunflower seeds, and then they went on and then a fox track joined them and then both tracks ended suddenly in the new-blown snow. As he walked toward the beautiful mountain, he was suddenly filled with pity for everything in the world, and he cried.

So I'm not THAT cold. But just in case I ever AM, I keep his three big tips in mind:

1. Never wear an inner glove too thick to brush ice from your eyelashes and also pick your nose.
2. Keep your crotch unzipped in the sleeping bag to warm your hands. (Masturbation at low temperatures, however, is most unrewarding.)
3. It's better to wipe your ass with chunks of snow than to fumble with unmitted fingers for toilet paper.

Saturday night I returned from the bar, turned on Big Red, popped a treat in the microwave, and the power in my kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom went out. I clattered into the basement to try to find the breakers or fuses, couldn't find anything that looked definite, and got myself a nasty shock. The next day the landlords were amazed to discover that I've lived here six years without ever noticing the breaker box above my stove, but here's me finishing off "The Name of the Rose" during that dreadful night:

Sleep tight!

My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part Five

Muffy is wet and happy! And then she has to leave.

This is part five! Click on the links to read parts one, two, three, and four.

Context: When this was written, Bush had recently announced the date for the invasion of Iraq (March 19), and reports were just coming in that SARS had hit Toronto.

Rain

The drizzle begins early Saturday morning and by the time the sun comes up...well, there IS no sun. It's a dark and unceasing downpour. I don't know if the rain is heavier than it should be or if LA just doesn't have enough storm sewers, but all the water is running downhill and taking the easiest route there: the street. When Eugene and I park it's a struggle to jump the river that is running past us. It's at least six inches deep. This is something quite rare around here. Experiencing it is a mixed blessing for a tourist without an umbrella.

Rain in the morning...

We visit Amoeba records and Wacko's, two places you need several hours to properly explore. Wacko's in particular is a purveyor of kitsch and kitsch-conscious objects, alongside books about those kitschy objects, and books about the people who collect the kitschy objects or otherwise contribute to the aggrandizement of them. They have a nice art gallery in the back where you can hear the endless, driving rain.

Later, with Chris, we check out Jet Rag, which doesn't have much happening except a killer decor: bombs and ducts and a sort of woodsy cottage feel, all at the same time. Aardvarks on Melrose is a bit meatier, but I'm destined to end my vacation without the gorgeous feather showgirl outfit that I had in my imagination. I regret not entering the ritzy boutiques on Sunset when I had the chance.

That night Talia picks me up and we drive, through the downpour, to Echo Park to see "The Cover Problem," an offshoot of a local band called "The Negro Problem," with Joe Berardi on drums. The group's headman -- Stuart, though it's uncertain if this is his first or last name -- is doing a reinterpretation of '80s pop music...or maybe he's just having fun.

Tonight's juxtaposition of styles is Morrisey vs. David Lee Roth, who Stuart can almost make you believe are the same person. The band seamlessly merges "Hot for Teacher" with "This Charming Man" with a gender-bending twist. They expose the zen meaning behind "Jump." They explore the motivation behind saying the word "zen" and "paradigm shift" on stage. These blues reinterpretations of songs are wonderful to hear, but the bar isn't exactly packed; the downpour outside is torrential and the venue is difficult to find.

The wonderful Talia, the wonderful Ron, and me.

I chat with Joe for a while in between sets. I ask him if, as a drummer, he ever feels slighted when he doesn't get songwriting credit, even though he's added something unique to the song. He says yes, sometimes. I ask him what it's like to be a popular (I may have said "famous") musician in Los Angeles. He looks offended and confused. This, sadly, is where I leave Joe.

Since it's still early I say goodbye to Ron and Talia, and Chris and I head off to a loft party in downtown LA.

The party is in a renovated complex of old factory buildings, and like many buildings in LA you have to buzz at the front gate in order to enter the parking lot, which is surrounded by a huge fence. The party itself is calm. I find myself watching Fatty Arbuckle on TV for the second time in two days, which I can't properly explain.

Everybody I've met seems to be involved with the movie industry in some way, usually as script writers. It's entertaining that whenver you talk to someone about a movie plot they'll jump in and finish it for you in exactly the way the plot would be pitched to a producer. For example:

MUFFY: I was watching this kids show tonight called "The Fairly Odd Parents." Have you seen it?
TALIA: No.
MUFFY: It's about this kid whose parents are fairy godparents--
TALIA: ...and they fulfill wishes for him and try to solve his problems, with wacky and unexpected results?

Afterwards Chris takes me to Bar Sinister, one of LA's biggest goth nightclubs. It's gorgeous and yet not ntimidating or ostentatious. The usual bad attitude "more goth than thou" folks are here, but they're outnumbered by people who actually smile at you and say hello. The attitude is good. The go-go (or rather "goth-goth") dancers are kick ass, sometimes literally. I have never seen so many anime-inspired hair extensions in my life.

I'd love to stay...but it's getting late. What was previously a dim realization -- that I'd be leaving LA soon -- has become a nearby physical ache, felt especially as I say goodbye to Chris. She did more for me than just untangle my fishnets and give me spectacular hair. Sopping with rain and alcohol and regret I watch her drive away in her pickup truck.

It's still raining when I get back to my hotel. People are drunkenly weaving up and down Sunset, wet and silly. In my room, washing up, I regret leaving disgusting panstick stains on the white towels. But considering how they gouged me for the phone bill I don't feel THAT bad.

...rain at night.

March 17, 2003

We are a strange crew inside the LAX shuttle bus. Most gregarious is the band manager of AFI, who has had a night of wild adventures involving candles. He explains to me the joys of PS2, Burbank, and cheap Mexican food. We pull up to a house to pick up a middle-aged woman whose father is hugging her goodbye. The AFI guy says it looks like a postcard. Then the father tells the driver to "take care of my daughter...she's till a virgin!" and the tone of the postcard suddenly changes. "Candy wants to come with you" he says, holding out a tiny toy poodle, and I ponder the stort of life these regressed oddballs lead.

Things are not exactly jumping at the airport so, after spotting Kiefer Sutherland smoking a cigarette by the entrance, I strike up a converssation with a woman who is stuck in line with me: Connie, on her way to vacation in Paris. Both of us are control freaks but she has managed to tone it down through a masters degree in...Inner Spirituality. She's a very positive person, a blessing in a place where the staff is obviously in no hurry to process a gate full of people who have a plane to catch.

I don't know what sort of conditions these folks work under but I have yet to see an airport employee in a hurry. The woman who takes away my bags (to give them a good dusting) moves with a slow, syrupy stroll. The people who process our tickets have an incredible "just out here fishing and enjoying the weather" attitude, except they're totally disinterested in their surroundings. They hold long conversations about their lunch breaks while the line up of passengers stare fixedly at their watches. But the person who actually CHECKS my ticket has spirit: he barks at me that I should change my hair and cut my fingernails because I "look like a girl."

This time around the security check goes smoothly, as I'm savvy enough to remove my boots and foil-wrapped life savers before braving the scanner. Next thing I know I'm on the plane ignoring the movie -- "Keith of the North" -- and passing the time.

From the Air (Again)

Unfortunately, due to some bad directions from a guard I go through security a second time in Chicago, which some people find amusing. I am getting very good at removing my footwear in a timely fashion. I have a few moments to relax so I settle in and watch the news.

CNN is really loving the world situation, they've got lots of nifty graphics for each segment of war coverage. They no doubt hope it will last forever. Their theme songs are stirring and scary.

The folks drinking their heads off in Wolfgang & Pucks are sober and sedate about the war. Nobody is spitting venom about anything, maybe because they're about to board a plane. I think back to war comments I've heard during my trip to America. One of the people at the DGA asked me "what's up in Canada, other than being morally smug about the war?" That was sort of ambiguous. A scriptwriter at the loft party last night greeted me and apologized for trying to destroy the world. At a bar somewhere -- it was either Parlour or Canter's -- there was a general agreement that George W. Bush is frightening. Carrie, on her way to Paris, hoped she wouldn't be treated badly for being an American. As much as I wish I was staying in LA longer, I'm happy I'm not going to be going through airport security two days from now.

Up here in the plane, in the dark, somewhere near the border, what I remember most vividly about my trip are the people. The awe at the size and diversity of LA, the beautiful scenery, the joy of putting on a good show...none of these things feel as immediate as the people who generously showed me around and became good companions. I went from knowing nobody to having these great people around me so quickly that it sort of feels like they're still here and that I'll be meeting them tonight for potato pancakes and coffee.

As for the city itself, I'm fortunate in not having seen a single bad thing, and I barely paid a dime for anything. My overwhelmingly positive impression must have somethng to do with that. I want to go back, I want to see these people again, I want to spend a leisurely time drinking it all in. Next time I'll get a more balanced impression of LA, and hopefully it won't lose its magic.

EPILOGUE

I haven't gone back again, partly because I don't want to impose again on these sweet people. But someday...

If you're wondering how all this came about, well, I used to post Bollywood film reviews at the rec-arts-movies-local-indian usenet group. David Chute was a frequent reader of the site, and he got me in contact with Asian Cult Cinema magazine, for which I wrote an article called "I Rejected Coronation Street." For reasons I forget ACC seemed to be giving me the runaround, and David passed the article to LA Weekly's film critic, Ron Stringer.

Next thing I knew, Ron called me from LA to buy the article for the paper (which is still online here along with a picture of me licking a D-cell battery), and to ask me to come down and perform at the "Kaante" gala showing. He'd heard from David that I impersonated Bollywood starlets, which wasn't really true. I gave him all sorts of reasons why they shouldn't foot the bill to bring me all the way down, but he convinced me. I can't believe I NEEDED convincing!

I didn't check my email until I returned home. I discovered that Bappa Lahiri had emailed me while I was down there, saying that his father -- Bappi Lahiri, one of the most famous Bollywood composers -- had read my article and wanted to meet me for coffee in LA. This was totally incredible, but I'd already come home and had to decline, which is probably good since I'd called him "obese and frog-like" in the article.

Now, why didn't I take more photographs? Because I was afraid of looking like a tourist. This didn't stop me from babbling about all the differences between Ontario and Los Angeles, though, and I kick myself for having no pictures from the DGA or Bar Sinister. But there was a film crew filming my performance, so maybe it will appear someday...

As for the wonderful people...

Joe Berardi doesn't show up in many Google searches at the moment. Double-Naught Spy Car is still performing, and holy cow, I've just discovered these pictures taken the night I saw The Cover Problem!

I saw an exhausted Ron Stringer in 2004 at the Toronto film festival; he was there to review the movies and we didn't get much of a chance to talk. He may be the Ron Stringer who takes photographs, his name doesn't show up in the LA Weekly reviews anymore. Must email him again...

While I was down there Chris D'Anda was planning a line of Gothique hair products...now you can buy them here! I can vouch for them...they're great (and have a bewitching smell). Or go down to her salon and get a fabulous hairdo. Chris and I still keep in touch, thank goodness!

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!

As An Aside...

...now begins the second week that our apartment has been without heat. They have promised to fix it every day, and every day there's a new problem getting parts. Now I find out that parts are coming from Germany and won't be here until at least Monday, and we're looking at a windy, colder weekend ahead.

I am frustrated and angry. The smelly girl across the hall -- who's been staying with her family to avoid the cold -- looks like she's going to cry. One of the landlords has just offered a $50 rent rebate and recommended I get an electric blanket. I said that what I really want the minimum 21-degree temperature required by the city's bylaws, not to mention the timely repairs mentioned elsewhere in the bylaws. I said an electric blanket will not keep me warm when I'm not in bed, and won't heat the air in my apartment. I asked that they provide a heater until the problem is fixed, and the landlord said he'd contact the other landlord and they'd contact me this evening or tomorrow.

Which, judging by how things are going, means I probably won't hear from them until Monday afternoon, when they call to tell me the part hasn't arrived and they need to get one built in Mandalay.

These landlords have been responsive and responsible for six years (other than their delay in fixing my door a few months ago). That's why I've signed a rental agreement to move into another of their apartments. I don't want to sour our good relationship or demand more than they can give, but I also find it hard to believe that this is an acceptable situation or that they are doing everything they can do. Is there nobody in this city who can fix this furnace?

Jeez.