The Worst Signature Ever

I couldn't be more excited to delve into the last book in James Ellroy's Underworld USA trilogy, Blood's A Rover (available now), but as I was gearing up for last night's book tour opener at the Strand, I was reminded that Ellroy easily has the worst signature going, or at least the worst in my collection. Al Pacino's is likely the closest contender, but I've seen worse versions than the one that I got. Plus, at least he was in a rush. Ellroy has no problem personalizing and chatting you up while he's signing (though I now tend to keep my conversations with him to a minimum...once he told me I shouldn't be wearing a hat indoors unless I'm bald and a few other times--including last night--he's insisted I call him "Dog" rather than "Mr. Ellroy"), but his signature remains consistently perplexing. Let's take a look at the autographs in my Underworld USA trilogy.



I probably should've quit after getting my first book of his signed 12 years ago. That one has one of the greatest inscriptions of all time, and was preceded by him kissing the picture of his dog on the book's jacket.



The Cold Six Thousand brought a signature worse than usual. As I recall, I was pretty far back in line, so maybe he was tired.



And last night, I got some special added lines underneath the signature. Exciting!

Anyway, sloppy autograph aside, he's a good writer (though his machine-gun sentence style aint for everyone, and, occasionally, aint for me). And a helluva entertaining guy. So check out his books sometime. I'm pretty sure I can forge his signature if you want those books signed.

And, for kicks, here's Dog on Late Night with Conan O'Brien in 1997:

Mr. Bocephus Goes to Washington

Just in case you were wondering what Hank Williams Jr. was thinking about the Obama administration, he has clarified his position in a new t-shirt (which you can buy along with the other 13,000 things in his merch store):



I don't mind if you agree with the sentiment, but, please, be at least a little bothered by the lack of punctuation.

Why I'm Glad I No Longer Collect Autographs at Letterman (Exhibit 347,321)

Here's the latest video that makes me infinitely glad that I wised up and stopped hanging around Letterman for autographs (language at the end NSFW).



Actually, I could've skipped putting the video up and just given you five words that make me glad I'm not doing this: "World Trade Center picture, Nicolas" (the "you're choking me" back-and-forth is a gem, too). If you never collected autographs, you might think those words would never come out of a human being's mouth. I'm not that surprised. Still disgusted, but not surprised.

Who Wants Another One?

In my senior year, I came to the realization that I was probably not going to become a journalist when a class assignment found me at a meeting that seemed to never end and featured a significant period of time being devoted to reprimanding someone for going to the bathroom without telling anyone first. The mere thought that I would have to pay dues by sitting through these four-hour meetings and crafting some sort of coherent article about them made me think twice about the career I had chosen.

That said, there were plenty of entertaining things going on at these meetings in Ithaca. And, it turns out, they still are. And here's the proof. If you don't feel like reading the whole article, here's the best moment:

Peterson then told Palmer that his time was up, to which Palmer replied, "I know it is."

He then reached into a bag, pulled out two shoes and hurled one at Alderman J.R. Clairborne, D-2nd, and another at Peterson. The first shoe flew between Clairborne and Alderman Eric Rosario, I-2nd. The second fell short of the Mayor. Several Council members pushed their chairs away from Palmer while Clairborne and Aldermen Svante Myrick, D-4th, stood and began to approach Palmer. There were roughly 30 people in the city hall audience.

Palmer pulled another shoe from his bag and waved it at Council members, asking "Who wants another one?"

I fondly remember watching Mr. Palmer's public access show, which wasn't quite as great as the Saturday night call-in free-for-all but still quite entertaining, and it's good to see he's still flying the crazy flag. I hope you got your shoes back, buddy.

Helmet tip to the Roller Derby Diva for alerting me about the article.

Dressing for success

Tinsel and Rot doesn't condone endangering the lives of innocent children, but if you're gonna have 15 beers and let a 10-year-old boy drive you, a couple of other kids, and your drug-collecting lady friend home, you should at least show the sense that Randy Lewis displayed in wearing a swell t-shirt for the inevitable mug shot.

(photo from NET News Service)

You did it, Randy!

Reconsidering

According to Friday's Daily News, the "plucky" winner of the Air Guitar Championship Regionals in Brooklyn had to have her toe amputated because of an in-song accident.

Now, if I can be assured that every Air Guitar Championship contest will involve at least one amputation, I may soften my stance.

Twinkle, twinkle little stars

I have written many times of the glories of both Atlantic City itself and the always-entertaining travel to and from the City Where Dying Dreams Get a Proper Burial (like here, here, here, here, here, and, most recently, in video form (now fixed) here). But last Saturday's bus ride to AC may have featured the kookiest guy I've ever shared a bus with, the gentleman across the aisle who spent almost the entire trip on his cell phone.

Now, it wasn't merely the fact that he was on a cell phone for over two hours (with occasional welcome pauses when we hit dead zones on the Parkway) that made him kooky. It was what he was talking about that earned him the prize. His entire conversation was about astrology and its link to his day and, more importantly, its impact on which tournament (poker, I'm guessing) he should enter. Two hours. No joke.

The otherwise sane-looking gentleman (younger than me, I think) called his buddy asking him to run some astrological charts on whether he should enter the tournament at 7:15 or the one at 8. At first, I didn't realize that astrology was playing a role in the decision-making process; I initially thought his buddy was calling up a tournament roster or some other pertinent info about the events at hand. But that notion was dismissed when I started hearing phrases like "well, Capricorn's in retrograde" being bandied about, at which point I got completely distracted from doing work and became engrossed in the loony banter coming from across the aisle.

It was eventually decided that things looked better for the 7:15 tournament, but the conversation continued about all things astrological. When I heard particularly entertaining nonsense, I did my best to surreptitiously write down these pearls of wisdom. My two favorites were as follows:

"I just had my lunar return one or two hours ago." (This apparently was a good sign for tournament success.)

"As astrologists, we're privy to the objective truth about things." (I hope my jealousy didn't show.)

And there was too much BS going around to get these as exact quotes, but these capture the spirit of the thing:

"I want to live to, like, 100, or over 100, just so I can say I've been studying this for 80 years, and people will think I'm, like, the wisest guy ever."

"Plus, 'Capricorn' has 'Corp' in it, like in 'corporation,' so that's probably a good thing. Yeah, I just realized that now."

Somewhere along the way, things moved from irritating to entertaining, and I began ignoring my work and anxiously awaiting the next nugget (like that he has never been--and likely never will be--friends with a Virgo but that he always gotten along famously with Sagittariuses [Sagittarii?]). Then things came full circle at the end of the trip when he had his buddy run a chart on the bus trip, because we didn't hit any traffic, and he wanted to know the astrological rationale for that. At that point, my head was pounding, and I was ready to get off the bus. But I did wish that I could go to the 7:15 tournament at the Tropicana to see how things panned out.

Honestly, you really have to take a bus to Atlantic City at least once in your life. Just bring headphones in case it becomes too much to take.

Do Your Dance

Sometimes the timing's just right. Sometimes you're just where you need to be. Sometimes you're walking down the Atlantic City boardwalk and a 73-year-old man named Tony is dancing his ass off to Cameo's "Word Up."



Sometimes the world is beautiful.

(Note to anyone planning on inviting me to a wedding: Play "Word Up" and you're gonna get my version of Tony. Believe it.)

Another Atlantic City story coming up in the next day or so.

In the Garden

I posted this on The Palm Isle, which, if you ever read it, you're certainly not reading in the off-season. So, I figured I'd cross-post it here. You're welcome:

I was reading a story in the New York Post Page Six magazine (keeping track of Sean Avery's whereabouts)about the multimillionaire in charge of granting medallions to NYC cabdrivers when I came across an interesting nugget. The main crux of the story was that the guy has his own box right above the players' entrance for every event in Madison Square Garden. Yes, every event--Rangers games, Knicks games, concerts, circuses, Ice Capades (they don't still have the Ice Capades, do they? I'm old), whatever he wants. That's how life is when your born into a ridiculously lucrative line of work. Must be nice.

Anyway, back to that interesting nugget. Check this out:

"When MSG offered to put leather captain's chairs in the box, he said no. 'It was too showy.' When they suggested turning his area into a jury box during hockey games by putting a spotlight on the seats and asking his section to give a thumbs up or down on whether or not to pull the goalie, he said, 'No, I don't think fans should be making those decisions.' It's hard to say what's more jaw-dropping. That MSG offered, or that he turned it down."

Seriously? The offer was on the table to have this douche and whomever he brought to the game decide if the Rangers should pull their goalie? That has to be a joke. I would say that the reporter should have confirmed this story with the Garden, but it's the Post (and a ridiculously vapid offshoot of the main paper at that), so that's asking too much. But if this is, in fact, true, it might just represent a new low for the Rangers, or at least a low not seen since the Sassoon days. I'm trying to imagine a stoppage in play with a minute left in the game and the classless baboons in the stands at the Garden turning their eyes to the spotlight that shines on a multimillionaire and his clients who will dictate the team's strategy for the rest of the game.

Oh, how I wish the guy agreed to do it.

Run, boy, run

While taking a well-deserved and not-at-all-unnecessary break from doing work, I saw two blogs (here and here mention Charlie Daniels's Soap Box entry detailing his dislike for the way "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" is used in Guitar Hero III. Specifically, he writes, "I want any of you parents out there whose children have this game to know that I did not grant these people my permission to pervert my song and am disgusted with the result." His main concern is that, unlike the story he told in song, the Guitar Hero version of the song finds the devil sometimes winning. Unacceptable.

Of course, I, along with the several dozen readers of my still easily purchasable book, know already of Mr. Daniels's occasional looniness and so wasn't terribly surprised to see the "Guitar Hero" rant. But, with my interest in the Soap Box (once daily reading) renewed, I took a look at the current Soap Box entry on the "bald faced power grab" that is global warming. Again, not really surprised that Mr. Daniels doubts that global warming exists. And I'm used to reading anti-global warming screeds because of the journals I copyedit at the day job, so no big whoop.

But I was a little taken aback when I saw the responses to Mr. Daniels's words. It was an experience that reminded me that there are a lot of odd people in the world. And they apparently love the fiddle.

My two favorites:

"Never once have I seen Al Gore and his band of earth loving sycophants riding in a Yugo but given the oppertunity, he'll make you drive one."

I like the use of "earth loving" as an insult. I also look forward to Al Gore making everyone drive Yugos. I'll admit that I will question his sanity when he does that.

"I hope John McCain selects Condelleza Rice as a running mate. That would be a certain 8 more years for the Republicians. I can see Opry right now saying: " Oh I Love you Obama, but I got to go with my black girlfriend, Connie". And my tip for Al Gore: You and Tipper just shut up already. We're not stupid out here in the USA, cretin's."

I've gotta be honest here--I can't see "Opry" getting on her television show and saying "Oh, I Love you Obama, but I got to go with my black girlfriend, Connie." But that's just me. I'm probably one of the cretin's.

Are You Ready for Some Fleecing?

Every few months I check in with the Hank Williams Jr. website to (a) see if he might be crossing the Mason-Dixon line to do a show and (b) to see the latest addition to the vast Bocephus merch catalog. So when I went to the site and saw the banner on the page advertising "The Ultimate Meet and Greet," my interest was piqued. I've only been to one meet and greet, but I'd go to more, well, if there were more current country artists I wanted to actually meet and/or greet. Bocephus would be one person I'd be interested in meeting and greeting, which is something I can't really explain. I'm just fascinated with Hank Williams Jr., as evidenced, of course, by the two singing and dancing Bocephi in my apartment. We've discussed this before.

Anyway, I figured I'd check out the info on this "Ultimate Meet and Greet." And I soon experienced the horror that enveloped me when I researched that card show last month. I need to stop spending time on the Internet.

Here are the particulars:

A LIMITED number of TEN fans will be offered the opportunity to meet Hank Williams Jr. in person, each night of the Rowdy Frynds Tour!!!

Selected participants will be escorted backstage PRIOR to Hank’s performance to meet Hank Jr. and have a photo taken with him.

Rules:

The Ultimate Meet & Greet opportunity does NOT provide you admittance into the concert or the Rowdy Frynds Tour. You must purchase a ticket to the show.

Hank Williams Jr. will NOT be signing autographs. If you would like something signed, please join the fan club or purchase a signed photo through the fan club.

Photos taken at the meet & greet will be posted at www.hankjr.com for fans to view and print out. We will NOT be sending printed copies of the photos to recipients.

Hank Williams Jr. will meet fans before his show. If you are late or not at the designated area to be escorted backstage, you will lose your meet & greet privilege and your money will NOT be refunded.

Thanks and we look forward to seeing you on the road in 2008!!!

The Hank Williams Jr. Fan Club

OK, so let's take a look at this "ultimate" experience. Hank Jr. will not be signing any autographs for you, making me question the "ultimate" claim. But, hey, with ten people to attend to, you can't expect Bocephus to invest all that time he would have to spend signing an autograph. Fair enough. I'll just buy one off the website. Oh wait, it's $100? A hundred dollars?! Maybe I'll pass on that.

But at least you'll get a picture with him, probably by a "professional" photographer like that card show. Cool. What? You'll have to print it out from the website? Oh.

Well, that's fine. So I'll get to meet Hank Williams Jr. and maybe take a picture with my own camera. That'll be interesting, I guess. Yes, it will be. I'm in. Let me just join the fan club or pay the fee or whatever it is I have to do. So, that'll be...

Five hundred dollars?

Really?

April Fools?

No?

For $500, Bocephus oughta take a picture with me, sign however many autographs I want, let me wear one of his dad's suits, and sing "Fax Me a Beer" until I get tired of it (shouldn't be too long). I guess "Monday Night Football" doesn't pay Rockin' Randall enough, or at least not enough that he doesn't need to toss another $5,000 a night into his pocket courtesy of his fans.

I'm not sure what depresses me more--the fact that Hank Jr. is doing his best to erase the years of goodwill the country music industry has established with its fans or that the Charlotte and Detroit meet and greets are sold out.

Luckily, I got this and two (horribly scrawled) autographs awhile ago:



Total cost: $0. Much better deal.

Pickin' the flesh off the bones

So, the Country Music Association Awards ceremony is coming to New York in November. The event is usually held in Nashville, a perfectly reasonable place to hold an awards ceremony honoring the alleged best of country music, but the Country Music Association decided to break with tradition and give out the awards in a city that doesn't have a legitimate country music radio station. Good call.

But, whatever. I live close to New York, so I thought it was cool that the show was coming to the Big Apple. And I thought it was even cooler when I found out that it would be held on my birthday. Granted, I don't like a great deal of popular country music today, but I hold out hope for the genre as a whole. I want to believe. And I'm willing to sit through dozens and dozens of schlocky Kenny Chesney songs and Toby Keith's relentless odes to self in the hopes that somehow, someway, one good country song will make its way onto country radio. It's a tough fight, but I do love country music, so I'm in for the long haul. Just as long as Rascal Flatts only has, like, one more year of popularity. I'm just not sure how much more of them I can take.

Anyway, with the CMAs on my birthday and with a venue as big as Madison Square Garden to fill, I held out hope that the powers that be at the Country Music Association would make tickets available to the public. I've never really been to an awards show (well, I went to the New York Music Awards when I was little, but all I remember is that Full Force, Buster Poindexter, and The Real Roxanne were there...I don't even recall actual awards being given out), and with country music being a genre that prides itself on being fan-friendly, I figured the CMAs would be a good time.

So I've been checking the CMA website for info, and since today was the day nominees were announced, I figured information would be forthcoming. And, bang, there it was, a news item on tickets being made available to the public for the CMAs. There was a quote from Ed Benson, the CMA executive director, about how the association had been inundated by phone calls and e-mails asking how to get tickets to this event and how he was pleased that the fans would now have their chance to attend.

The next paragraph gave the details--the on-sale date, where you can get tickets, and so on. Then, there was the last sentence of the paragraph:

"The ticket price is $250 (not including tax and service charges)."

$250! For $250, I better get a lap dance from Miranda Lambert. And she sure as hell better put her knee into it.

I kept looking for the part where it said, "The entire price of your ticket will be going to hurricane relief" or something that would justify such a ridiculous amount of money. But there was nothing. Charging $250 was apparently yet another example of pure, unadulterated greed from an industry that goes out of its way to embrace fans, just so it can get a little closer to their wallets. I know it's not exclusive to country music, but there's just something about the Country Music Association--an association that purports to speak for a genre dedicated to common, everyday folk--charging such an exorbitant price for a seat that kinda makes me sick. And I'd like to believe that for $250, you're at least gonna get a good seat. But I ain't holding my breath.

Fifty bucks would be a good price, and I think I could handle it if they charged, say, $100. That, to me, sounds almost reasonable. $250 just sounds criminal. But it's indicative of country music today, where every other radio hit is a sappy treatise on being a dad, where Gretchen Wilson might be the only man left on country radio, and where fans are really just ATMs in carefully creased cowboy hats, spitting out money whenever asked.

Have fun at the Garden, kids. I'll be watching, as usual, on my TV, yelling periodically at the screen. It ain't much, but it's free.

I wanna be a rock and roll star

Will Hoge
Originally uploaded by MrBadExample.

So, remember that Will Hoge show I mentioned a few weeks back? What? You don't? You haven't been reading every entry? I am disappointed in you.

Anyway, so I went to the Will Hoge show at the Mercury Lounge. I had seen a different incarnation of the band (with Yayhoo and Tinsel and Rot's first cover boy Dan Baird on guitar) at the same club a bunch of years ago (a vague phrase that enables me not to look up the exact date, because, well, I don't really want to) and I was certainly one of only a handful of folks who came to see them that night. I also was among a small group of Hoge fans at the shows they did at the late, rarely lamented Wetlands Preserve, where they once opened for Flickerstick, who won VH-1's "Bands on the Run" and have spent the last few years carefully working their way back into obscurity.

Will Hoge, on the other hand, has developed a steady following since lo that bunch of years ago, so I expected this show to have more than a handful of people to show up to greet Hoge and his bandmates.

Little did I know that there would be quite a bit more than a handful. And that they would be young women. Loud, young women. With too much alcohol in them. And a desire to declare the hotness of various band members repeatedly over the course of 70 minutes. And there was no escape from them from my spot near the stage.

Don't get me wrong. I am a big fan of attractive, young women (though the feeling, tragically, does not seem to be mutual). However, I prefer them to be quiet and, if at all possible, attracted to me and not the better-looking guy with the guitar and the vintage t-shirt. And, if that's not possible, if they could just not stage whisper "Ohmigod! He is so f**king hot!" during a quiet moment in a song, I'm probably gonna enjoy the evening more.

For a few minutes during the show, I started wishing it was the good old days, until I realized that my good old days and the band's good old days probably don't match up. Sure, I really liked being able to get close to the stage at Wetlands to take a couple of action shots and feel a little closer to the music. But my guess is the band is pretty glad that the silently bobbing heads of me and a few other baseball-capped guys have been augmented by a few infinitely better-looking females, professing their love in breathless screams of devotion.

So I tipped my cap to the gods of music, promised to stop being so judgmental, and vowed not to let the new folks stop me from seeing Will Hoge at Maxwell's in Hoboken. That show's Tuesday night (8/9). Come on out if you can and look for me.

I'll probably be in the back this time. Silently bobbing my head.