Bad Advice

"Mmm. . . yeah, no, we don't have that. . ."

So said the Sound Fix indie twinkie when I asked if they had the new Shelby Lynne CD. She shot me a look of disdain and added, "and we don't plan on stocking it. Ever."

What she meant to say was "Take your adult contemporary needs elsewhere and quit polluting my cool place of employment with your old-people cooties."

I gave her a tight smile and made my exit, but the voices in my head were screaming, "Hey there, little missy! I used to be cool! Cooler than you, you anorexic, corduroy-pant-wearing little twit! I saw the Clash! and Minor Threat! and, and, and, the Beastie Boys when they were a hardcore band! I had a mohawk! Hell, I had a bitchin' double mohawk back when people didn't do things like that. I got yelled at, pushed around and called all sorts of horrible names and by doing so made the world safe for people like you to walk around wearing foolish blue hair extensions and ironic kitty cat glasses."

But even in my outrage I knew that saying any of that aloud would serve only to reinforce my granny status. The fact is, cool is for the young and I normally don't give a shit, but this got on my nerves. Besides an aberrational love for all things Madonna and Bruce Springsteen, my musical taste has always been above reproach. And now all I wanted was a enjoyable record of Dusty Springfield covers to relax with during my golden years! No crime in that!

I left quietly and vowed to buy the CD at an establishment that would appreciate my old-people dollars. Then, when I was in Seattle last weekend, KBR and I wandered into yet another record store, but one where he knew the owner. I asked him for the CD, explaining I'd heard her perform it live on Nick Harcourt's show and loved it. (While this was technically true, mentioning Morning Becomes Eclectic was a lame attempt at appearing cooler than I actually am. Note to self: still trying too hard!)

But even busting out my shaky cool cred didn't help. Kurt's friend didn't stock it. This was obviously a CD I was going to have to buy at a major chain store. How annoying. I told them how condescending the chick at Sound Fix had been and they both looked at me like I was semi-retarded for caring. Then, when we got back to his house, KBR gave me a review copy he had laying around. Mission accomplished! And with minimal humiliation.

Rainy Monday

This is Just WRONG!

The boobs at the Beeb gave into the whims of the weak and edited the best Christmas song of all time, the Pogues/Kirsty MacColl collaboration, "Fairytale of New York," just in time for the birth of the baby cheeses! Deeming the lines, "You're an old slut on junk" and "you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot," too offensive for the delicate limey ear, they chopped the hell out of a Christmas masterpiece. Bah humbug!

Stickin' Up for Mick

I guess Richard Smith at the Guardian got a little sick of all the Joe Strummer coverage of late (Julien Temple's film on Strummer is due out any day), and so took it upon himself to write an entertaining, though rather unnecessary, defense of the Great Mick Jones.

While Joe is without a doubt, my fave of the four, Mick always ran a close second. (It does not escape me that I sound like I'm writing about the Monkees.) After all, Mick wrote and sang both "Train in Vain" and, the second-best Clash song of all time, "Stay Free." (The best being "White Man in Hammersmith Palais," in case you were wondering.) Whereas Joe was the soulful, political, heart of the band, Mick seemed dirtier and in that way, kind of sexier. When I was a tiny little punk rock, I developed a mad crush on a guy simply because of his resemblance to Mick. Though he's been playing music fairly consistently since he got kicked out of the Clash, lately Mick's best known for snorting lines with Kate Moss and Pete Doherty.

On second thought, maybe he is due a defense.

I'm Not Alone

I think it was the wise Eddie Spaghetti who said people could be broken down into two types: those who liked the Beatles and those who liked the Rolling Stones. I definitely fall on the Rolling Stones side of that spectrum. Though I can't say I'm a rabid fan, Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were about a zillion times hotter than those foppy little moptops, John, Paul, George and Ringo, could ever hope to be.

But mostly I hate the Beatles because my whole life, I've been serenaded with "Hey Jude." This was especially bad when I was a kid. Lately, that's been replaced with, "Judy, Judy, Judy!" The inevitable eye roll that escapes me is then met with "Bet you hear that a lot!" Why yes, I do. But I don't dare complain because as corny as a Cary Grant line is, it's better than "Hey Jude." Especially the variation that the kids in grade school made up to torture me with:

Hey Jude
I saw you nude
Don't try to fake it
I saw you naked!

"Did not! Did not! Did NOT!!!!!" I'd scream by way of reply, as I burst into tears. Obviously, I was not the toughest six-year-old on the block. But having that trauma under my belt made me very sympathetic to this woman, tortured by the Beatles "Lovely Rita Meter Maid."

Old Punks Don't Die. . . .

They just get really, really sad:

Germs drummer Don Bolles was arrested last week after police pulled over the 50-year-old musician on a traffic stop. Police said a toiletry kit containing denture glue, razors and a bottle of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap was found inside the vehicle.

Okay, not humiliating enough that he got busted with denture glue; Bolles's stanky, hippy, Dr. Bronner's soap was apparently dosed with the date-rape drug, GHB. Though transmitting GHB through foul-smelling soap seems a rather dubious tactic, even more horrifying was the 50-year-old drummer's defense: "A date-rape drug is the last thing I need," he said. "If anything, I need a way to keep the girls off me. They make my girlfriend mad."

Just take out your teeth, grandpa. That ought to keep the ladies at bay.

*BTW, that's the new "Germs" line-up; Bolles is at far left. Yum.

Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Approximately one-billion years ago, as the album Peace and Love was released, I interviewed Shane MacGowan. We met at the now-upscale scary/then-downscale charming Gramercy Park Hotel and chatted over white wine. It was about 11 AM and I was the first of many interviews he was doing that day. We were joined by his young date Ramona, whom he'd met at a Boston gig a few nights prior.

MacGowan was very sweet, smart and funny. He got me drunk by noon and I wrote a story that's since been lost in the archives. Tonite I'm going to see the Pogues at Roseland. I'm a little apprehensive as the last time I saw him perform—with the Popes—he appeared to be wearing an adult diaper under his baggy trousers. He had to be helped to the stage by handlers and barely made it through the set. Depressing would be an understatement.

The Times says the Boston show was a good one, so hopefully they'll be able to carry it off tonite. After re-reading this review of a Popes show I wrote 12 years ago, I'm just glad I'm not going to be there on Saturday.

More Positivity on a Tuesday

I always liked the Luna Lounge okay. I didn't much care for the back room where the bands played because the sofas were so nasty, but the front room was far less annoying than most bars on Ludlow Street. I forget why they closed (I'm guessing more sweet, sweet condo action), but they recently reopened out here in Brooklyn.

Unlike the old place, there's no free ride or foosball here. But also unlike the old place, there's a big stage, a huge room, and what seems to be a pretty great sound system. Last night was the Pipettes. My man (I'm turning into one of those annoying "we" people, aren't I?) guilt-tripped me into going and once I got there, I was pretty happy he had.

These girls are as cute as a pile of shiny new buttons. They wear polka-dots and sound like all my fave lady singers—Kirsty MacColl, the Revillos, Shangri-La's, and even a little touch of Lush and the Slits. Plus, they have a song called "Judy". It's not a particularly kind Judy song, but like Wreckless Eric's "Hit or Miss Judy," that just makes it better.

Leader of the Wack

Did anyone else read the amazing Ronnie Spector story in the Post the other day? It's long, but so jam-packed with nutty goodness it's a don't-miss. Not that I hold the Post up as an example of journalistic integrity, but I had no idea ole Ronnie was almost as looney as Phil. Here are a couple gems:

• "It was a sick love," she says. "He [Phil Spector] even said, 'I have a glass casket in the basement, for Ronnie. So I can look at her anytime I want.' But I was in love with the guy, so I didn't think that was too bad."
• So I turned to the maid - this poor old black woman who came in a few times a week to clean up and put fresh flowers on the table. Turns out, the maid is the mother. Ronnie would never talk to her, and only refer to her as 'the maid': 'Oh, the maid's here.'"
• After Phil was arrested in connection with the death of Lana Clarkson in 2003, Ronnie defended him to the press, insisting that Phil wasn't that homicidal - he may have threatened to kill Ronnie, but he wasn't going to do it personally. He was going to hire hit men.
• Ronnie claims to have a good relationship with her adopted sons - especially Donte, "the half-breed like me." She pauses. "Four years ago, Donte's saying, 'Mom, I have AIDS.' I don't know if that's true - he may be trying to distract me from what I'm doing."

Um, what?!?

In other news, my latest column is up on the Seattle Weekly website. It's about the Michelle Pfeiffer I'm-too-pretty phenom, but please. . . no more comments from beautiful women telling me how rough they have it. As far as I'm concerned, being "too pretty" is akin to being "too wealthy," "too talented," or "too smart." I think anyone would agree that the tragedy of being fantastically beautiful pales in comparison to actual real-life problems, like say, cancer or even a large port-wine birthmark.

In fact, for a completely charming look at people with real problems, check out this story about the retarded and their love for Huey Lewis. I read it in my shrink's waiting room yesterday and it's caused me to rethink my entire position on Mr. Hip 2 B Square.

Johnny, are you queer?

My friend Heater just sent me a wholesome Christian website listing gay bands for parents to watch out for. Wouldn't want little Johnny turned homo by Bjork (!!!) would you? The list is so retarded it would be funny if the page didn't start off with the Phelps mantra "God Hates Fags." If this sentiment is true, I can only imagine that god holds inbred rednecks quite dear.

While the occasional certifiably homosexual act does make the list (Elton John is ID'ed as "really gay"), others come out of left field—like the Grateful Dead having "AIDS" after their name. Right-wing breeder/gun nut Ted Nugent makes the list, with a "loincloth" after his name. George Michael is inexplicably called out for being "Texan" (!!) in addition to queer. I love that while Metallica is listed as definitely gay—and bolded to boot!—Morrissey is only considered "questionable." I guess at least one moron out there bought his whole "celibate" claim.