Day Two: Pulling Out of Pittsburgh

I think Pittsburgh may have provided my soundest sleep of the tour, which is odd because I dozed in a sleeping bag on a hardwood floor. But a strong seven hours of sleep when you're out on tour is not to be questioned.

Pittsburgh was also the only stop where a dog barked and spun around in circles for our entertainment. Bonecrusher was a vocal little bastard, but an all-around good pooch. Except for that moment in the early afternoon when he pounced on my chest upon Bill's return from the store. Could've done without that. But I exacted my revenge by routinely besting him in a series of tugs-of-war, embarrassing him in front of a roomful of strangers and his doggy parents. He never even came close. I totally wrecked him.



Humiliating a 17-pound pug helped pass the time as Bill attempted to get the tire cover back on the trailer, which wound up being a little more difficult than he thought it would be. Or else he just loved our company and couldn't bear to see us go. Either explanation is possible. In any event, Doyle, Drew (the Falcons' drummer), and I kept watch over the gear (which had to be loaded out of the trailer so Bill could do what he had to do), and I made a ball out of plastic and gaffer's tape, much like MacGyver might do if he was traveling around with a band. Actually, I suppose MacGyver probably would've focused more on reattaching the tire cover to the trailer so we could get to Akron. But I do the best I can with what I'm given.

As the day dragged on and Bill emptied out his supply of tools in an effort to get the tire cover into a position where it wouldn't fly off three hours later, it became harder and harder to stay on our feet. Some moved inside to watch TV. Others walked around while reading a newspaper. Doyle settled in among the tools and took a nap.



That reminds me--Pittsburgh also brought the realization of our second minor calamity of the tour. We forgot to take Doyle's bag. With all his clothes in it. For 11 weeks on the road. Oopsie. Plans were made to have the bag express mailed to the club in Columbus, where the tour would hit the next day.

But first, there was Akron. And after Bill was finally able to secure the front of the cover with an L-bracket (thanks again, Bill!), we were on our way to Chuck's Steakhouse in Akron. You hit all the glamorous stops when you travel with a band.

Aside from being in a less-than-appealing area of Akron (with a drive-thru liquor store next to it and a shady-looking gentlemen's club a few doors down), Chuck's was actually a pretty cool place. And, to be fair, I didn't really see any gorgeous areas of Akron while we were there, so for all I know, we were in the nice part of town. Anyway, Chuck's wins the prize for Best Jukebox of the Week (my selections included the Georgia Satellites, Bocephus, Sam Cooke, James Gang, and Thin Lizzy), and my brave decision to once again try pizza outside of the NYC area was rewarded this time with a pretty damn good homemade personal pie. I am told that the bathrooms were less than stellar, but I made a point to avoid bar bathrooms as best I could throughout the week. So, if you're ever in Akron, try to get out. But if you can't, go to Chuck's.



Maybe Pete, whose vehicle was holding up much better, got into Akron well before we did, enabling them to sample the fine cuisine (and beverages) provided by the Akron branch of TGIFriday's. Frankie was well lubricated throughout the evening, holding up the start of his set until Kerri got out of the bathroom (and then chastising her for being too quick, suggesting that she couldn't have washed her hands) and ending the evening by replicating the "Clerks" parking lot dance in a gas station. In between, Maybe Pete delivered a really strong set, highlighted by a killer rendition of "Can't Hardly Wait," the end of which featured Kelly playing the song's riff while on her back, as captured above.

The night in Akron also introduced two firsts into the world. The first emerged from Kelly's insistence that Frankie says the word "badass" too much. So he made a new word that would serve as a synonym: quontagious. I'm guessing on the spelling, so I'll try and get confirmation, thus enabling you to use the word freely in your everyday life. It's gonna catch on; I can feel it.

The other first occurred midway through Maybe Pete's set. Generally, when people don't know your music, they're obviously gonna want to hear something familiar to grab their interest. It's a natural thing. So when Frankie announces that the band is from Jersey, there is almost immediately a request for a Bruce song. A little obvious, but it could be worse. For instance, it's much better than being asked to do a Joe Piscopo impression. So the Bruce requests, while a little annoying, aren't really that bad.

But sometimes you get the less than obvious, off-the-wall requests. Or at least that's what I discovered at Chuck's, where I saw something that I may very well never see again. Yes, dear friends, I have been many places in my life, seen many things. But none of them shook me to the core quite as much as when a black guy shooting pool moved closer to the back of the stage and put in a request for a Phil Collins song. And he was serious.

Akron. It's a weird place.



The Falcons' set was nearly derailed by a discussion among the kids in front of the stage about various scatological acts. And then there was a kid who just stood stock-still in front of the stage with his arms folded across his chest as if he'd been brought to the show as a form of punishment. I noticed several people doing this throughout the tour. Stop it, imbeciles. You're not earning any cool points. And, yes, I'm dispensing the cool points now. So get on my good side.

But aggressive displays of apathy and talk of Cleveland steamers can't stop a Falcons show. It was probably one of their stronger sets of the tour, with the usual steady assault of originals capped off with an end-of-show jam with Frankie and opener (and friend of the Falcons) Doug McKean (from the GC5 and Rosavelt, among others). They ripped through "Sympathy for the Devil" before bidding farewell to Akron with a quontagious cover of "No Surrender" (with Doug on bass and Maybe Pete's Johnny Macko on drums). Yes, a Bruce song, by special request. This is a tour for the people. As long as those people don't ask for Skynyrd or Phil Collins.

And it was probably the best on-stage moment of the tour.




After settling on a Best Western for the night, most of the rock and roll caravan called it a night, seeing as it was 4:15 in the morning. But, never one to turn down a late-night eating experience, I made my first foray to a Steak 'n Shake with Mark and Kerri for some Strawberry French Toast that tasted a helluva lot better than it looked from Kerri's view.



And, by 5:30, it was time for sleep again.

Sleep, Drive, Rock and Roll, Repeat: On the Road with the Hudson Falcons and Maybe Pete

My body is currently in a state of rebellion.

I have spent the last two days in and out of exhaustion, fighting a valiant battle to maintain consciousness. I have fallen asleep in front of the television four times, though I have so far successfully avoided falling asleep in front of my computer screen at work. And I'm currently nursing a cold and fever I probably picked up in Detroit (sure wasn't division championship fever, you saps).

But I'm not complaining. The exhaustion, the narcoleptic episodes, and the sniffles are all just a few extra souvenirs from life on the road with the Hudson Falcons and Maybe Pete for a week. And they'll be gone soon enough. But when the fever breaks and the exhaustion disappears, there will still be the memories of highway gas stations, a hyper pug in Pittsburgh, late-night breakfasts in Ohio, biscuits in West Virginia, and a perfect rainbow on the way to Detroit.

Oh yeah, and kick-ass rock and roll, too.



After the successful tour kickoff at Manitoba's in NYC, and some late-night pizza and a pit stop in Brooklyn, it was off to the Hudson Falcons compound in northern New Jersey (exact location withheld to prevent fans from staking out the place) for a brief sleep. The morning--or, more accurately, five hours later--would mean loading up the trailer and heading out to Pittsburgh for an opening-day doubleheader: an early show at the Mr. Roboto Project (domo), which is technically in Wilkinsburg, followed by another show at the Smiling Moose in Pittsburgh proper. It would be my first time back in Pittsburgh since visiting Duquesne University when I was an eager high-schooler looking for a college. Duquesne finished second, because they wouldn't give me much scholarship money. Fools.

Anyway, we got a bit of a late start, which at least enabled us to watch the latest in an unending series of "Who's My Baby's Daddy" episodes of "Maury." Always a delight. One of the potential fathers was a heinous-looking chap who went by the name of Fuzzy. Doyle, the Falcons' bass player, briefly toyed with the idea of changing his name to Fuzzy for the length of the tour. But that never came to be.

We hit the road a little after "Maury" wrapped up, with a six-hour ride to Pittsburgh ahead of us. I suppose I should include something complaining about how riding in a van for long stretches of time is an unbelievable drag. But it wasn't. I really do think that my marathon bus ride to Charlotte may have prepared me for any vehicular travel that comes my way. Then again, I was only in the van for a week. Maybe it would have started to wear on me by Week 9 of the tour.

But the ride to Pittsburgh (interrupted only by a stop at Sheetz, the rest area of choice for Falcon-in-Charge Mark Linksey and his wife Kerri, at least until we found out in Pittsburgh of some potential union troubles) was pretty smooth, and soon we were pulling in behind the Maybe Pete Mobile in front of the Mr. Roboto Project (domo), only a little off from our estimated time of arrival.

I imagine it's a little hard to play after six hours on the road, but both bands (aided by locals The War Is On and Unarmed) soldiered on. It was a pretty small crowd, but it didn't matter. As I would discover (or, really, confirm) throughout the week, both Maybe Pete and the Hudson Falcons put it all out there regardless of crowd size. That's what makes a band in the long run. It's easy to get all revved up when there's hundreds of people screaming for you, but when there's a little under a dozen, and you're playing in a room where anybody who has to go to the bathroom has to go through you to get to it, it's a touch more difficult. But Maybe Pete and the Falcons did it every night. And twice in Pittsburgh. It's like the song goes:

"10 people or 200 it don't matter
Gonna leave our hearts right on the stage
For the guy who broke his ass working all week
We're gonna play some rock 'n' roll
Like a Mother Fucker"
("LAMF," copyright 1999 Mark Linskey)



The Roboto Project show was also the first test of the Kerri Linskey Soap in the Merch Tub Experiment. Some of the older shirts were carrying an odor picked up in the basement of the Hudson Falcons Compound. A bar of soap was chosen to go into battle against the odor. And it was starting to make a difference on Day One.

After wrapping up the early show and loading all the gear into the trailer, it was off to the second gig at the Smiling Moose, which is reached by crossing my new favorite bridge, the Hot Metal Bridge. Go ahead, say it like a monster truck commercial announcer would. See, it's your favorite bridge now, too. You're welcome.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Hot Metal Bridge. While traveling on the highway, we heard a muffled clattering, and it seemed like we might have run over a hubcap or something. There was a very brief panic, but when the van kept moving, it was decided that everything was OK. Cool, right?

Except that, as we pulled in front of the Smiling Moose, the guys from Maybe Pete, who were riding a little ways behind us, mentioned that we lost one of the tire covers on the trailer. Not being well versed in trailers, that didn't seem like a big deal to me. Until Mark pointed out that without the tire cover, you could see the axle. Probably not good.

So Mark and our host for the evening, Bill, went to go try to find the cover. Amazingly, they did find it, and it was still sort of usable. Look.



Good as new, right? Bill said he could get it back on the trailer the next day. And he did, God bless him.



With the first literal bump in the road behind us, it was once again showtime. I was in charge of watching the illegally parked van outside until Mark and Bill got back, so I didn't get to see much of Foxy Deathbox, who opened the show. By the time they were done, we had to load in. Maybe Pete started kicking ass a little while later, but not before the overly serious bouncer in the Thai Submission Fighting t-shirt checked my ID twice in 5 minutes, which was fun. Unfortunately, I later missed the same gentleman doing chinups while people were trying to exit the bar. But fortunately, I did witness an early highlight of the tour, him dropping a chair on his foot while demonstrating his effortless, one-armed chair-stacking technique.

But enough about him. Let's talk about the guy (apparently not an avid reader of Tinsel and Rot), who kept yelling out requests for "Freebird" during both Maybe Pete and the Hudson Falcons' sets. The weird thing is he seemed to be enjoying himself and the non-"Freebird" songs being played. But he was really on the "Freebird" kick. Luckily, the Moose has a strict no-covers policy, rigidly adhered to by Maybe Pete but righteously violated by the Hudson Falcons several times (though not for "Freebird"). After driving six hours and losing a tire cover, you can play what you want.



The night ended at Tom's Diner, where we were greeted by the least helpful waiter in all of Pittsburgh. Separate checks were not possible, medium-well was not a viable option for burgers, and, as it turned out, swiss cheese on a burger was also going to take two tries. Then again, it was about 2 a.m., so maybe some slack should be cut. And my food wasn't bad.

The Hudson Falcons contingent and I stayed with Bill (and Christine and Bonecrusher) for the night, while the Maybe Pete folks bedded down in a downtown hotel. It was probably around 3:30 when I fell asleep.

And I think that was the earliest night of the tour.

What I Liked About September

*The Hudson Falcons/Maybe Pete tour (more details to follow)
*The birth of Miles Stuart Lynch
*A Night of Phidelity, Northsix, Brooklyn, NY
*Vintage Base Ball in Roxbury, NY


*The Mike Cagnazzi 30th Birthday Throwdown
*Securing the 2006 Sigman Holiday Greeting
*Drive By Truckers and Bobby Bare Jr., Webster Hall, NYC
*The New York Mets clinching the NL East


*Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge
*The French Dip at Shortstop Deli, Ithaca, NY
*Finding the Carol Channing/Webb Pierce LP "C&W" at Volume Records in Ithaca, NY, and the Phil Ochs LP "Gunfight at Carnegie Hall" at the Atlantic Antic in Brooklyn, NY
*The willingness of people with cars (and vans) to drive me places

Tinsel and Rot Hits the Road

Sorry yet again for the dearth of posts. But Tinsel and Rot has been girding its loins for the Garden State Smackdown tour, where we will be hitting the road for a week with two of New Jersey's finest musical ambassadors the Hudson Falcons and Maybe Pete. So, look out Pittsburgh, Akron, Columbus, Huntington, and Detroit. And look out all the other 30 states that the Falcons will be hitting after both Maybe Pete and me head home for New Jersey.

Tour reports will be up next week, pending survival.

Hail, hail, rock and roll.

Sign here

In pursuit of a photo for the highly anticipated Sigman Holiday Greeting 2006, I dove back into the shallow pool that is in-person autograph collecting in Manhattan last week. Herewith is a rundown of that evening:

6:10 p.m.--I arrive at NBC Studios in Rockefeller Center, where it all began for Young Me lo those many years ago. This is mainly a time-killing stop on the way to securing the Sigman Holiday Greeting 2006, but I am hopeful that I can get Artie Lange to sign a softball.

Things have changed since I started pursuing this ridiculous hobby in 1993, so I don't really know a lot of the collectors these days. I am eternally grateful for that, but I am a little nervous when I only see a few people loitering in the lobby, and only one has the desperate eyes of a collector. I'm thinking that maybe they've changed the time of the tapings for "Late Night with Conan O’Brien" and I've missed out on my target. Then some collectors I know from back in the day show up and all is well. Soon, more people I recognize pop up, and it's party time.

6:15 p.m.--Security instructs us to leave the lobby and go outside, a policy that ensures that random people walking through the lobby aren't frightened by the strange-looking folks clutching Sharpies and paint pens. This means that we have to watch the lobby from outside like expectant children, waiting for someone more famous than we are to appear. Doesn't this sound like fun? I don't know why more people in their waning twenties don't do this.

6:20 p.m.--Tracy Morgan comes through the revolving doors. Two people care. He poses for some pictures. He's not a scheduled guest on "Conan," so something else is obviously going on at NBC today.

6:25 p.m--For some reason, Steve Martin and Martin Short are in the lobby. Their car isn't outside, so they just wait in the lobby with the security folks. The collectors can't figure out if they want to break the rules and go inside. I decide that I like Steve Martin too much to bother him. I know that's bizarre logic, but, well, I'm bizarre. Plus, I get the impression from seeing him a few other times that posing for pictures with strangers makes him really uncomfortable. Imagine that.

After a few minutes, one brave collector goes in, closely followed by a few others. Martin Short leaves pretty quickly, leaving Steve Martin to pose for a few photos. When I see the flashes going off, I start rethinking my decision. It's Vincent "Tod Wilkinson" Antonelli, for Pete's sake. But I hold strong. I think he finally just gets sick of waiting and goes into a car that will take him anywhere that's not here.

6:31 p.m.--Alec Baldwin comes out of the revolving doors. His shirt is fighting a brave battle to contain his neck. And losing. Someone asks to take a picture, to which he responds, "I can't do more than one." And then walks away. Awesome. That takes its place next to Hank Azaria's response to a guy asking him to sign a rolled-up newspaper many years ago: "If I sign for you, I have to sign for everybody." The guy was everybody. And he was Hank Azaria. Good times.

One of my disinterested collector friends yells out, "How about that one, Alec?" as he heads to his towncar. I don't know if the heckling got to him, but he does pose for the one.

6:44 p.m.--Pandemonium erupts as John Mayer makes his way to his van. His music makes me want to jab my ears with a screwdriver, but he seems like a decent enough guy. He signs for a bunch of people, including some very appreciative young women. Then, once he's in his van, my reason for being there, Artie Lange, comes out. He signs for anyone who wants an autograph and takes pictures, too. I get him to sign the softball. Mission #1 accomplished.

As Artie signs, I think Mayor Bloomberg comes into the building. Or at least that's what I hear people saying. I'm caught in a crowd of people and can't see much. Then I move to the side of the building, and Zach Braff rushes by. He heads straight into his car while everyone else is distracted. A few collectors try to get him and are rebuffed. Then I lose sight of the collectors, which probably means that they went to go follow him. Sorry I had to miss out on that, but I had a Christmas card photo to get.

6:46 p.m.--As I leave, Jon Lovitz is standing outside in a white jogging suit, flanked by two security guys. People are taking pictures of him and imploring him to smile.

7:06 p.m.--I arrive at the "Colbert Report" studios, located on a dark block where I can't help but look suspicious. This is why I don't do this much. It makes me feel creepy. Well, that, and it loses its charm as you approach 30. There’s a fine line between collecting and social retardation.

7:21 p.m.--Some collectors arrive. I immediately wish it was just me here. They're loud, annoying, and armed with pick guards for the night's guest. The pick guards, once signed, are then attached to a guitar and sold for a lot. It's a hassle to bring six guitars out, but it's a breeze to carry six pick guards. But, inexplicably, one of them also has a guitar. And he's idly strumming it and composing songs about one of his fellow collectors, most of which consist of affronts on his sexuality and graphic descriptions of his alleged sexual proclivities. This goes on for about 15 minutes. I am apparently the only one who doesn't find it amusing. Well, unless you count the people walking back to their apartments who can't decide if the gay bashing was directed toward them. They didn't look too pleased. But luckily, the people who live on West 54th St. are not violent. Lucky for the collector, I mean.

7:47 p.m.--The guest emerges, and his security guy informs us that we can only get one thing signed each. But that just means that after one of the collectors gets one thing signed, they slide over and thrust another item out. If I cared about actually getting an autograph this time, I guess I would have been annoyed. But I just really wanted the picture for the Sigman Holiday Greeting. And, after a camera malfunction, I got it.

So, who will be on the Sigman Holiday Greeting?

December's only a few months away. Be patient. It might be my favorite one yet.

Of course, the journalists/amateur sleuths among you will be able to figure it out. I’ve given you enough clues, people.

7:50 p.m.--Another exciting night on the town ends. Let's hope that I don't feel compelled to do this again anytime soon.

Everything dies, baby, that's a fact

There is perhaps no worse feeling than being thatclose to something, only to see it slowly slip away. Luckily, 29 years of living have prepared me well for that feeling, so my recent return to Atlantic City and, more important, "The Price Is Right Live," wasn't as crippling as it could've been. But it wasn't exactly a cakewalk either.

After finally taking a bus ride to Atlantic City that didn't involve some heinous traffic delay, I arrived at Bally's Park Place a good three hours before the 3 p.m. "Price Is Right Live!" show. So, I headed up to register and get the all-important price-tag nametag that marked me as a potential contestant, ready, willing, and able to come on down at a moment's notice. As I looked around, it was clear that I was the only rube who had actually dropped money on Ticketmaster. Everyone else (most several decades ahead of me) was clutching coupons and vouchers that offered some sort of discounted seat to the show. An older man whose mouth valiantly hung on to a few lower teeth asked me if I knew of anyone on the line who didn't have a coupon. When I told him that I was one such soul, but that I had prepurchased my ticket on Ticketmaster, he expressed his sorrow that I would not be able to take advantage of the deal spelled out on his coupon. As far as I could tell, it would have involved a significant discount for both of us. Oh well.

The gentleman, a repeat attendee himself, continued to express shock that someone had actually ordered a ticket in advance. The mere thought that someone might've paid full price for this thing seemed to offend him. A lot. He asked if I could cancel my order, which I, of course, could not. He then kept repeating what a shame that was, but I stopped listening at some point and just kept moving forward.

Soon it came time to get my ticket, register, and bid on the two prizes that would determine who made it up to Contestants' Row. Those who came closest to the actual retail price in the year in question would find themselves with a chance to take home some lovely prizes. Unfortunately, the first item was a bedroom set from 1998. Whenever bedroom sets pop up on "The Price Is Right," I zone out. I've never bought one, never really want to buy one, and just generally don't care. So I just bid close to what I heard some people coming out of the registration room say they had bid.

As it turns out, those people were very dumb. Or else they were really shrewd and intentionally threw their fellow contestants off by talking about fake bids. In any case, a few hours later, I discovered that I was roughly $8,000 off. Oops.

I felt a little better about the second item, a ratty-looking sailboat from 1974. It couldn't have been that much, so I went with the old birthdate and typed in $1115. That sounded about right to me.

With the bidding done, I headed back out into Bally's and grabbed a bagel and a doughnut at the little coffee shop next to the brightest casino area I've ever seen. As I grabbed a seat, I noticed that my dear friend from the registration line was lurking around. He went up to the cashier, asked for something, and was quickly denied. As he wandered around, I tried not to make eye contact, as I wasn't in the mood to talk to him anymore. I did a good job. But it didn't matter. And soon I was eating my bagel next to some strange, bleary-eyed guy as he peppered me with questions about my bidding.

"What did you bid on the sailboat?"

"Um, I don't know [long silence, during which he just kept staring at me], like, $1100 something?"

""Yeah, I bid $1102. What about the bedroom set?"

And then I told him my bid and he kinda started yelling at me. I assured him I didn't care that much. I thought maybe our conversation was wrapping up.

Nope.

"So you actually bought your ticket in advance? Man..."

"Yeah, well..."

"That's too bad, I coulda gotten you a deal. And I coulda really used that five bucks. The slots have been killing me."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Are you staying overnight?"

"Um, no. No."

"Yeah, they said they'll give me a room, but I gotta give them my credit card to hold it. And I aint doing that."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't bring credit cards to the casino."

"Well, that's a smart idea."

Finally, my disinterest in having breakfast with a guy who doesn't have 5 dollars to play slot machines started to show, and he wished me luck and went on his way.

Just to let you know that this story has a happy ending, the guy wound up winning a microwave, a portable DVD player, and an air hockey table after conquering the "Clock Game." On stage, he said that his son would love the air hockey table, but my guess is that it was quickly turned into quarters and nickels.

***

Apparently, they do the same pricing games at every "Price Is Right Live" show, because I once again saw "Race Game" (during which a woman just gave up with 10 seconds left), "Hole-in-One (Or Two)," "Cliff Hangers," and the rest of the games I saw on my last visit. That was only slightly upsetting, because the games are dandies in the show's oeuvre. Still, would it kill them to play "Plinko"? Or "Safe Crackers"? "Shell Game"?

Another slight disappointment was that my man David Ruprecht isn't the host anymore. He has been replaced by J.D. Roberto, who has hosted a bunch of subpar game and reality shows, the most popular being "Shop 'Til You Drop," which never really held my interest in the post-"Supermarket Sweep" timeslot and still doesn't do it for me. He also apparently cohosted "E! News Live" for awhile. When they showed a clip of him next to Giuliana DePandi, a palpable feeling of awe enveloped the room. But he's no Ruprecht. I didn't even want a picture with him after the show.

But it would've been nice to have a pleasant contestant-to-host chat with him on stage. When he announced how the contestants were chosen toward the end of the show and revealed the actual retail price of the bedroom set, I had a really strong feeling I wasn't getting to Contestants' Row. But there was still a chance with the sailboat, which would make me part of the Showcase Showdown. It's pretty hard to win the Showcase Showdown, as, unlike the actual show, you have to come within $100 to win the showcase. And there's only one showcase for the two contestants to bid on. However, the person who comes closest without going over does win something. And it's nice to win something, which, in this case, would have been a pool table.

So, after the final pricing game, J.D. cued the announcer to call the names of the two people for the Showcase Showdown. Knowing this was my last chance at getting up on stage, I was desperately hoping that my name would be called. Sure, it wasn't the real "Price Is Right," and Bob Barker was on the other side of the country, but it was sort of like the real thing. And what red-blooded, TV-watching child doesn't one day dream of being in the Showcase Showdown? Please don't actually answer that.

Anyway, I thought my bid was pretty reasonable and might just get me up on stage. The other four people at my table were a little on edge, too, though one of them had won 1,000 Total Reward Points during one of the between-game giveaways, the actual value of which neither she nor her husband could quite figure out. But it was something, albeit not time on the big stage. That was the true Total Reward, and we all wanted it.

"Our first contestant is...James..."

Yeah, yeah...

"Si..."

Holy...

"...mmons."

What? Is that a mistake? Did the announcer read it wrong? No one's getting up. He must've read it wrong. He meant to say "Sigman," but he screwed up and now...

Oh. James Simmons is the old guy in the fourth row. There was no mistake.

Crap.

I wasn't the second contestant either.

The dream had died.

***
But the worst, it turns out, was yet to come. As James Simmons and the other guy were escorted backstage to be debriefed on the rules, J.D. explained how they were chosen? Already knowing the process, I just wanted him to get to the point, to reveal just how ridiculously far off I was on the price of the sailboat.

"And the price of that sailboat in 1974 was... $1137."

Sonofabitch. You're telling me that I was only off by $22 and somehow I didn't get up on stage? I smell a rat.

After telling my tablemates that I was only $22 off, and accepting their condolences (or apathy, I can't remember which), I briefly considered cornering James Simmons after the show and demanding that he tell me what he bid. But he seemed old and frail and I didn't want to induce any heart attacks and/or seizures, so I let it go.

To make matters worse, the bid that I concocted in my reeling head during the Showcase Showdown would've made me the owner of a brand-new pool table, since both of the elderly morons overbid. That pool table sure would look nice crammed into my living room, either in place of my futon or with my TV and stereo on top of it.

***

Luckily, I was able to rally my spirits later in the day. My actual reason for being in Atlantic City was to see former "Nashville Star" contestant Miranda Lambert at the House of Blues in the Showboat casino. It was actually the second show in three days in which I saw a contestant from the first season of "Nashville Star," a season that has not been and likely never will be topped in the show's history. Two days earlier, I had seen first-season runner-up John Arthur Martinez at the Ace of Clubs in NYC, where he put on a pretty damn entertaining set.

So, as you could imagine, it was an exciting three days. What? You can't imagine? You've never watched "Nashville Star"? You suck.

And I wasn't just going to the Showboat to see Miranda in concert. No, there was also the Miranda Lambert Fan Club meet-and-greet beforehand. Yessir, I am in the Miranda Lambert Fan Club, making me an official "Ran Fan." Wanna make something of it? Look, I think she's got some good songs (particularly "Kerosene") and she covers John Prine, The Band, and Steve Earle in concert. And she likes Old Crow Medicine Show. Pretty cool. And, oh yeah, it's been brought to my attention that she don't look so bad (pardon my red eyes...why are you looking at me anyway?).



Take that, James Simmons.

What I Liked About August

*"The Best Show on WFMU" meet-and-greet at Exchange Place
*Ollabelle at Banjo Jim's, NYC
*The return of sauerbraten at Day Two of the German Alps Festival
*The Campbell Brothers and the Lee Boys at BB King's


*The Rob Trucks Birthday Celebration at Lakeside Lounge
*Billy Joe Shaver at Joe's Pub
*Meeting Miranda Lambert
*The William Shatner Roast on Comedy Central


*Photo time with Ray "Dr. Hook" Sawyer
*John Arthur Martinez at Ace of Clubs
*Willie Nelson, John Fogerty, and Bruce Springsteen at the PNC Bank Arts Center
*The willingness of people with cars to drive me places

Three for Thursday

1. Tonight marks the season finale of "Who Wants to Be a Superhero?" This gem, which airs on the Sci-Fi Network (a network I'd never watched before and will likely never watch again), is easily the best reality show since "The Joe Schmo Show" (Season One). Everything about it is phenomenal, from the bizarre challenges to Stan Lee's heavily scripted speeches to the craziest bunch of bastards on television. There has been what seems to be genuine crying the last two weeks (though, really, I don't care if it's genuine or not--it's hilarious). And the only prize that I know of is that you get to be featured in Stan Lee's next comic book and, I think, a Sci-Fi Network movie. People are crying over that. I love it, even if my boy Major Victory was wrongly eliminated last week (Fat Momma should've gotten the axe). Luckily, he got one last shining moment, a cell phone conversation with his estranged 16-year-old daughter, who claimed to love and be proud of Pops, who was crying and wearing a shiny red spandex suit at the time.

Anyway, the finale's on at 9 p.m. Thursday night. I hope there's some sort of marathon so you can catch up (it's only a six-episode series). It's a completely ridiculous show. You'll love it.

I'm rooting for Feedback, who will surely cry again at some point during the finale, win or lose. Watch it.

2. Tonight also brings the conclusion of a much less successful endeavor, GSN's "50 Greatest Game Shows of All Time." Based on what's been on the countdown already, I've gotta think that the top two are "Jeopardy" and "Match Game," probably in that order. I guess I can accept that (I loves me some "Match Game," but it shouldn't be that high up; no way is it better than "The Price Is Right"), but I cannot and will not accept that "Lingo" is the 16th best game show of all time (higher than "Remote Control," "Super Password," and "Name That Tune," among others). Shame on you, GSN. You can't play favorites. But at least there's an explanation for that. "Deal or No Deal" at #26? Nonsense.

If you want to see the list for yourself, check out the Wikipedia entry. And if you want to watch the not-so-exciting conclusion, it's on Thursday night at 10 p.m. on GSN.

3. And this isn't related to Thursday, but I needed the alliteration: on Friday, Todd Snider and his merry band of men (and woman) will be the musical guests on the far-superior-to-Leno "Late Show with David Letterman." It's the same lineup as their appearance on Leno, but swap out Doug Lancio on guitar for Will Kimbrough, which, no offense to Mr. Lancio, makes this appearance even cooler. Check it out, OK? And buy "The Devil You Know" and "Americanitis" or suffer my wrath.

More Things Not to Do Near Me at a Concert

Adding to and expounding upon the thoughts already expressed on pp. 110-111 of Critical, But Stable , while also building on my concert experiences this summer, here are some more things that I don't ever want to see/hear again at a concert:

1. No ear-shattering whistles. Look, I’ve never really done a survey on this, but my guess is that performers don’t really care that you are capable of producing a whistle that can puncture an eardrum. I doubt there’s a moment when a musician is thinking, “Hey, this show isn’t going well. I hear no high-pitch whistling. Let’s not do the encore tonight, boys.” So, keep your fingers out of your mouth, hot shot.
2. Do not attempt to harass me into dancing. It’s not going to work. I’m not going to dance. I promise you. And just because I’m not dancing doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying the show. It means I don’t like dancing. Also, I probably don't like you. So, leave me alone.
3. When John Fogerty has just introduced Bruce Springsteen as a special guest, don’t ruin the moment by turning to me and saying in a real snotty voice, “I’m glad to see you finally got off your blanket.” I was sitting on the blanket because I knew people behind me were sitting, and since they were there before I was, I didn’t feel like standing up, blocking their view, and ruining the show for them, you stupid cow. And why are you so focused on me anyway? Am I more compelling than Willie Nelson and John Fogerty?
4. Do not talk throughout the show. I originally kept this to intimate acoustic shows, but I'm expanding it here. And this is a tough call for me, as I was once chastised by a concertgoer for talking to my friend Dan during a show. The show was, ahem, an Art Garfunkel solo show at Carnegie Hall (to make it a little more pathetic, I was 17, it was Valentine’s Day, and both Dan and I were—and, though I haven’t seen Dan in a long time, I’d say still are—heterosexual…oh yeah, and James Taylor was a surprise special guest). Toward the end of the show, the snooty gentleman in front of us turned around and in his best Thurston P. Howell III patrician snarl said, “Why don’t you just shut up?” I really don’t think we were talking all that much. Sure, we were making fun of Art’s wife and his vindictiveness toward Paul Simon, but we kept it mostly between songs. Our high-class friend disagreed. OK then. Lesson learned. Now you try. Also, even if you’re my friend, I don’t want to talk to you while the band’s playing. I bought a ticket to hear them, not you. You I don’t have to pay a cover charge to hear. Of course, if you wanna start charging, that’s your call.
5. Do not be disrespectful to any band on the bill. Ideally, the band you like would be paired with a similarly awe-inspiring band every time they played. Ideally, news that Corey Haim may have to cancel a convention appearance because of immigration problems wouldn’t have much effect on a 29-year-old man. But clearly we do not live in an ideal world. You don’t have to applaud every song by a band you don’t like, but don’t be an ass about it. Just find a spot far away from people and take a break while they play. And make a mental note to never see that band again.
6. If you're going to clap along, you're gonna have to stay on the beat.. It's not that hard. And if you find it hard, just don't clap. When you're clapping off the beat—whether you're just a little off or so wildly off that one wonders if you can even hear the music—you're just making everyone hate you. Also, a note to those who can find the beat: don't get all fancy and start throwing in sixteenth-note claps. You're not impressing me.
7. Stop it with the "Freebird" crap. It's not funny in a straightforward way. It's not funny in an ironic way. It's just not funny. Oh sure, someone's bound to laugh, but that someone is not someone worth knowing.
8. If the artist is introducing a song and you realize what song it is while this introduction is still going on, keep it to yourself. The concert isn't a game show, ass brain. No one cares that you can name that tune. There will be no pats on the back after you announce that the song Roger Daltrey has just said is "about a kid who's at home in the arcade" is "Pinball Wizard." So don't bother.
9. Under no circumstances are you to describe anything musical as "tasty." Music does not have a taste. Food has a taste. Get a new vocabulary, hippie.
10. If you insist on thrusting a mailing list in my face, don't be angry when I don't want to sign it. If I want to sign a band's mailing list, I'm capable of finding it. I really don't need someone shoving a clipboard in my face and asking me to give away personal information. But, hey, I appreciate your aggressive attempt at marketing. Good for you. Just don't yell at me and insist that when the show's over, I'll definitely want to sign the mailing list. And, when, after the show, it turns out that I still don't want to sign the mailing list, because I have no interest in being kept abreast of shows involving crappy attempts at being clever, don't call me "weird."

Thanks. See you at the show.

Don't mention the war

Summer is simply not summer without catching at least one show by 15-time Grammy winner and owner of the most carefully coiffed hair in polka Jimmy Sturr and the Jimmy Sturr Orchestra. And there is no better place to see that show than in the big tent at Hunter Mountain in Hunter, New York.

The big tent once played host to tons of big names every summer, from Bobby Vinton to Hank Williams Jr. to Carl Perkins to German überstar Heino, all of whom I saw at Hunter Mountain when I was a kid, though my memories of most of those shows are, for better or worse, a little hazy. But I do remember seeing Willie Nelson there and waiting patiently as he signed autographs from the lip of the stage for about an hour. And the only time I saw The Johnny Cash Show was in Hunter, too. And I think some guy from The Association gave me his phone number (I was, oh, about 14 at the time, probably) as he signed my program after the Rockstalgia festival in Hunter. But cherish is not the word I use to describe myself of that occurrence. I just thought you should know.

Anyway, the centerpiece of the festival season, even in the boon days, has always been the German Alps Festival. There was a time when it ran the entire month of July, but, well, things have changed. Now it's two days in August, there are only a handful of vendors, and they're so ill prepared that they can't stock enough sauerbraten, a criminal offense if ever there was one.



But one thing that hasn't changed is Jimmy Sturr and the Jimmy Sturr Orchestra, the star attraction of the German Alps Festival year after year and a guarantee that there will be a bunch of senior citizen asses shaking on the dance floor for a few hours.

For those who haven't read the literary masterpiece Critical, But Stable, Jimmy Sturr is a Grammy-winning machine who can rightly claim to be the modern-day king of polka (Frankie Yankovic still holds on to the all-time throne). His stage show, which, as the guy next to me during Set 1 (of four I took in over the weekend), could probably use some freshening up, but the devoted don't seem to mind that much.

The average show begins with, naturally, the theme to "2001: A Space Odyssey," starting with just Keith Slattery on keyboards and building as the rest of the eleven-piece orchestra takes the stage. Then comes "Rebel Rouser," after which the man of the hour bounds onto the stage and proceeds to lead the band in "Play Me Some Polka Music." Then it's off to the races, with the songlist usually determined, to some extent, by the crowd.

This particular weekend's best set was the evening set on Saturday, marked by Sturr inviting a bunch of guys and girls who looked to be my age and were wearing homemade "Jimmy Freakin' Sturr" t-shirts. It was all a good, fun, slightly inebriated time until one of the guys attempted to put his hat on Sturr's head. The man will let you up on stage, the man will let you sing into his microphone, but the man will not let you mess up his hair. It was the most uncomfortable moment of the weekend, unless you count the moment during Set 1 when I turned to my left and I noticed the guy in lederhosen was loudly singing "I Can't Stop Loving You" and looking in my general direction. What is the etiquette in that situation?



In addition to the usual star vocalists of the Orchestra, Fiddlin' Frankie Urbanovitch, Gennarose and sax player and Polka Hall of Famer Johnny Karas (the latter two above), Sturr also had the Calhoun Twins along for the weekend. The Calhouns are an old-time country music duo, which you wouldn't think would match up with polka. Of course, you're wrong. And, as proof, just go to any Jimmy Sturr show and count the times he says the phrase "a guy named Willie Nelson." Willie's guested on a few Sturr albums, and in case you didn't know that, you will have it seared in your memory by set's end. Country also pops up through covers of Gretchen Wilson's "All Jacked Up" (Set 2) and Frankie Urbanovitch's barn-burning rip through "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" (Sets 1 and 4), which literally stopped the show for the weekend, as it was the last song played before the band packed up Sunday afternoon for another gig later that night.



The hardest-working band in polka business, people.

***
Another yearly highlight of the German Alps Festival is summed up in three simple words: "direct from Germany." Every year, there's at least one band imported from Deutschland for the occasion, and these bands are occasionally tough on the ears but always impossible not to look at. The prime example, of course, is the aforementioned Heino. Think of the awful things that come to your mind when you hear the phrases "German pop" and "German folk music." But then look at a picture of Heino and tell me that you wouldn't watch him put on a show.

Unfortunately, Heino hasn't been to Hunter Mountain in over a decade, maybe more. But filling the "direct from Germany" slot this year was die Bayrische 7 , a group of seven women dressed up in various attention-getting costumes, who, we are told, are the highlight of the Oktoberfest. The veracity of this claim is a bit suspect, as the same statement also made about 2004's direct from Germany group, Münchner Zwietracht, who were six guys dressed up in various attention-getting costumes. But, whatever the case, one thing is clear: Oktoberfest attendees love attention-getting costumes.

Of course, while I didn't notice many women ogling the members of Münchner Zwietracht, there were certainly a few men mesmerized by the bassist of die Bayrische 7, whose shirt barely made an attempt to cover her breasts during Set 2. I almost took a picture of the guys in the front drooling over her, but I chickened out. So instead I took pictures during one of the songs that featured the Alpine horn. You fill in the joke.



The ladies did a brisk business at the merch table. I made do with a free signed postcard.

***



But wait, there's more. There were also several dance demonstrations by the HSV Bavaria Schuhplattlers from West Haven, Connecticut, who never fail to (a) entertain or (b) bring back warm memories of the one truly good scene in "National Lampoon's European Vacation."



And there was also die Klosterjäeger (direct from Austria), who took it to the tables on Sunday to play the bells for the people.



Then they jammed in the pub with Alpine Squeeze.



The festival hasn't been the same since Ingo and Caroline called it quits, but the Schwarzenegger Connection attempted to rouse the masses at the Bier Garden stage with sets that mixed German tunes with some painfully bad country covers, including a version of "On the Road Again" that was so bad I almost cried. But they did occasionally get people up and dancing, including the all-time greatest dancing couple in the world, who I've seen at the festivals before and also, I think, at Polkapalooza in Atlantic City five years ago. Finally, I got a good picture.



See you next year.

Happy Todd Snider Day

There are but a handful of artists whose CD releases command the declaration of an official Tinsel and Rot holiday. In fact, let's establish the list right now as Bob Dylan (holiday but three weeks away), Marah, the Avett Brothers, and today's honoree, Todd Snider.

Todd's new CD, "The Devil You Know," has been available for digital download for awhile now (as avid watchers of the "Now Playing" section of this site no doubt know), but today is the official release date for the disc, Todd's first on a new label, New Door Records. And maybe this declaration loses some of its luster on the heels of my declaration of love for Huey Lewis and the News, but "The Devil You Know" may be the best CD I've heard this year (at the very least, it’s neck and neck with "Four Thieves Gone").

I've explained my devotion to Todd before here, so read up if you haven't. But in all my years listening to Todd, no other CD has sounded as good on first listen as this one. There are slamming rock tunes ("If Tomorrow Never Comes," "The Devil You Know") folky singalongs ("Happy New Year," "You Got Away With It (A Tale of Two Fraternity Brothers)", and brilliantly crafted songs that sound like short stories set to music ("Lookin' for a Job," "The Highland Street Incident," "Just Like Old Times"). Plus, you can learn about Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan in a song with a fiddle hook that won't leave your head for days ("Thin Wild Mercury").

Normally, Tinsel and Rot maintains a steadfast, "support your local independent record store/online merchant" stance when it comes to buying new CDs, but we're flexible here. So, if you're poor and/or miserly, Best Buy has "The Devil You Know" available for just $9.99 (cheap!), plus you get a bonus disc with your purchase. Hence, Tinsel and Rot grants you official dispensation to purchase the disc(s) at Best Buy. Then it's back to the independent record stores/online merchants, OK? In fact, why not go there and buy Will Kimbrough's "Americanitis"? That's a good one, too. And Todd plays harmonica on it. It will help you wipe away that icky Big Box feeling.

And in even more exciting news, Todd will make his debut on "The Tonight Show with Jay Leno" (bad show, good exposure) Wednesday night to do the first single off the CD. Set your TIVOs or VCRs or whatever. Better yet, just stay up late. Trust me on this one.

Don't Need No Credit Card To Ride This Train

The news that I would be attending the Huey Lewis and the News/Chicago concert at the PNC Bank Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey, was greeted with responses that included the following:

* "I can't figure you out."
* "Did you lose a bet?
* "Hahahahahahahahahahaha"

I am used to this, and there was a time when I might have felt some shame at my concert selection. But no more.

(Well, OK, I'm a little ashamed at seeing Chicago. But at least they didn't sing "You're My Inspiration." Or at least I think they didn't. There were a few times when I heard that grating Lite-FM keyboard intro and I zoned out. In fact, I honestly thought that they did play "You're My Inspiration" until a post-concert conversation with my friend where he assured me they didn't. Whatever. They did play "25 or 6 to 4," though, which is good because it's the one Chicago song I unabashedly enjoy. Unfortunately--but wisely--it was the last song in their set. But I digress...)

I come here today to declare that, yes, I truly enjoy a great deal of the music created by Huey Lewis and the News. And I have seen Huey and the boys in concert three times, enjoying each show. I own a Huey Lewis and the News t-shirt that I wear in a very unironic way. I believe that "Four Chords and Several Years Ago" is an exceptional album, one that I listened to on my Walkman throughout my freshman year of college (need I say that freshman year didn't go well?). "Sports" is also a classic. I have a signed copy of it. And of "Picture This." And the 45 sleeve for "Jacob's Ladder."

And I am not ashamed.

Now, do I enjoy Huey Lewis and the News as much as I enjoy, say, Marah or the Avett Brothers? Clearly, no. My devotion to Huey and the boys is, admittedly, based largely on nostalgia and summers spent hearing the hits of "Sports" on the radio and listening to "Hard at Play" on walks down to Ralph's Ices. But there are plenty of bands of the 1980s that evoke a nostalgic fondness that I wouldn't pay money to see. I was a really big fan of the Glass Tiger song "I Will Be There," but I have very little desire to see whatever remains of that band. The same goes for Billy Ocean, though I reckon I could be persuaded to spend a little money on seeing him if I were guaranteed that he would sing "Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car" and "When the Going Get Tough, The Tough Get Going."

Huey Lewis and the News, though, they're the real deal. And if that ruins my credibility as a music fan, so be it. I just think it's foolish to dismiss a band I liked when I was a kid simply because time has passed and it is no longer cool to be a Huey Lewis and the News fan (was it ever cool? Maybe not). Your musical tastes are, of course, always subject to change, but they're always based on the foundation of all the music you hear in your life, starting with what you hear when you're young. And I happen to think that Huey Lewis and the News--the first band I probably ever considered "my favorite band"--is a pretty strong foundation. Their music isn't particularly profound, but it's not meant to be (or at least I hope it isn't). It's just straightforward, easy-to-hum pop music. Nothing particularly wrong with that. And it's got a lot of harmonica in it, which is always a good thing.

I will admit that the last HLN (dig that hip acronym) album was kind of a poopfest. And I sincerely doubt that the boys will produce another album that will interest me. But that's OK. If I ever achieve relevance, I'll be stunned if I'm able to maintain it for 25 years. Huey and the boys have earned some time to coast on the hits. I still like hearing "Power of Love," "Heart and Soul," and, yeah, "Hip To Be Square" (alas, not played in Holmdel). And I likely always will.

So long live Huey Lewis and the News! A pox on the haters! And on Chicago (the band, not the city)!

What I Liked About July

*The Green River Festival, Greenfield, MA
*"The Price Is Right Live!", Atlantic City, NJ
* Roger Hoover and the Whiskeyhounds doing "Look Out Cleveland" at Club Deep, Asbury Park, NJ
*Eddie Money's nonsensical monologue about "Saturday Night Live" at the Beach Bar, Atlantic City, NJ



*The release of Will Kimbrough's "Americanitis" CD (and t-shirt)
*Scott Avett's stage dive at the Bowery Ballroom, NYC
*My new air conditioner
*Huey Lewis and the News, PNC Bank Arts Center, Holmdel, NJ



*Major Victory on "Who Wants To Be A Superhero?"
*Watching a woman spit on a guy at an otherwise boring Little Feat show
*VH-1's "World Series of Pop Culture"
*The willingness of people with cars to drive me places

Still good to be the King

It's been a slow month here in Tinsel and Rot Land. Sorry. But I shall now reward the TaR devotees with the latest brilliance from everybody's favorite columnist, Larry King III. The work was sent to me under cover of night, with the utmost precautions taken. It's a gem. Enjoy.

If I'm Tom Petty, I tell people to stop taking pictures of me..."The World Series of Pop Culture" is compelling television, and I was glad to see the Velvet Rope Revolution hit the bricks...All this rain is rather annoying...Two good reads for your late-summer beach trips: Carry My Bones by J. Wes Yoder and Fantasyland by Sam Walker...I couldn't possibly care any less about Peter Cook and Christie Brinkley...This new Will Ferrell movie--not so sure about it just yet...Things are bad in the Middle East, kids..I had a turkey burger for dinner last night...I just can't bring myself to get all worked up over "Last Comic Standing"...I'm tired of people being raped and/or murdered. Cut it out, creeps...Is it the fall yet?...I am completely bummed that the kid from Staten Island was the first one bumped off that "Who Wants To Be A Superhero" show...It seems like only a matter of time before one of the high school kids beats the snot out of me on my way to work in the morning...Kudos to the new managing editor of the Ithaca Times ...I don't get Dane Cook. I'm sorry...I wonder what James Ellroy's up to these days...An Auntie Anne's just opened up in the mall...Ashlee Simpson has taken a turn for the worse...Our hearts go out to the people of Queens who suffered through a treacherous blackout this week...They've finally released "Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp" on DVD, but I hear the quality's not so hot...Tina Yothers really let herself go...Murder/suicide pacts give me the willies...As the old song goes, I think this year's Mets may have the team work to make the dream work...Is it too late for a "Caddyshack 3"? Because the second installment left me thirsty for more...There is no time more precious than family time...This just in--a stitch in time now saves ten!...I love pineapples, but they tear at the inside of my mouth.

'Til next time, kids.

LKIII

New Jersey & Me: Perfect Together: Part 2

I know you've been anxiously awaiting Part 2. I've let you down. I apologize.

Anyway, the weekend after the Great Atlantic City Adventure found me in the Giants Stadium parking lot, at the State Fair, which, as far as I know wasn't actually an official state fair, like say, the New York State Fair (maybe someday I'll be back, Butter Sculpture). But, hey, a fair's a fair. Who has time to debate semantics? Besides me, that is.

So, after a typically bad experience on the NJ Transit bus, I walked along the highway and headed for the "State Fair" (one of their actual slogans: "Animals: Live, Stuffed, Fried"). The real mission was to obtain a photo with Buffo, the World's Strongest Clown, a gentleman brought to my attention by a fellow Old South Hill Association fantasy baseball player last year. Buffo played some minor-league baseball before deciding that his life would be better spent in greasepaint, entertaining the children of the world and ripping phone books in half. I think it was a good choice, and if I could rip phone books in half, I might even head down that path myself. But a life as a carnival clown is yet another career that a communications school doesn't prepare you for. Unless you graduate with a degree in broadcast journalism. Oooooohh...burn.

I arrived at the fair just in time to miss Buffo's early evening performance, so I had a few hours to kill before the late show. I figured the Coronas Circus Hollywood might be fun. I figured wrong.



The motorcycles in the great big Globe of Death (always a favorite, along with Gunther Gebel Williams, at the much more enjoyable Ringling Bros' circuses my family went to when I was a wee lad) were about as exciting as it got. The clown's (I didn't even catch his name because the sound system was so crappy) big moment came when he played an interminably long pair (?!) of light-jazz songs on his saxophone. I'm not laughing. And other big acts included poodles dressed up in increasingly embarrassing costumes and two horses who mainly trotted in circles and gave the impression that they would rather be glue. It was the type of circus that David Lynch would look at and say, "Too creepy for me." I was glad to get out of there, but I still had more time to kill.

I passed on the reptile house, the petting zoo, and the various freak shows (including the 29-inch-tall woman) because those all would have made me feel very uncomfortable. I briefly toyed with the idea of paying $5 to get my picture taken with a monkey on my lap, but cooler heads prevailed. So I just snapped this while a kid gave the monkey a quarter.



Because it's not a visit to a fair without stopping by to see the racing pigs, I spent the remaining pre-Buffo time at the pig track, which was, I swear, right next to the vendor selling BBQ pork platters. Now that's a lot of pressure. But, as far as I could tell, the pigs all did a swell job. I missed the big finale with the really fat pigs, but, you know, sometimes you have to make sacrifices.

As I situated myself to the left of the Buffo merchandise trailer, Buffo was leading the kids in a spirited "Cotton-Eyed Joe" group dance. But after that wrapped up, it was showtime. It was a brief show (maybe 30 minutes or so), but during it, he did indeed rip a phone book in half and, as his big closer, broke a piece of wood with his bare hands. I have to admit that he was indeed the strongest clown I'd ever seen, so, really, complete truth in advertising there. Of course, you can see for yourself at any one of the fairs Buffo will be visiting this summer. Plan your vacation around the dates at Buffo's site. Or book him for your very own "Adult Party," with the "optional surprise ending." And let me know how that party turns out.

After the show, I lingered around until all the kids were gone and got my signed photo. I actually bought two photos, one for me and one for this year's fantasy baseball champion (which will not, I fear, be me). When he asked me the name to sign on the first one, I told him my name and he asked who James was. When I told him I was James, I think I probably frightened him. But then I explained the fantasy baseball situation, and he and Mrs. Buffo seemed pleased that I knew of his baseball career. He also told me that he recently appeared in some sort of bodybuilding magazine, hoping, I suppose, that I would go out and buy the magazine. But my Buffo fandom only goes so far.

Luckily, my fandom did extend far enough for me to put on the red nose he gave me for the picture. I hope that you, dear Tinsel and Rot reader, are appreciative of the complete lack of shame that brings the following picture to your computer.



No one can party on a Saturday night quite like me.

New Jersey & Me: Perfect Together: Part 1

Dear friends, there is no more appropriate state to hold the title of "Official State of Tinsel and Rot" than my beloved New Jersey. And to prove as much, I regale you with stories of travels in the Garden State that served as the bread for the government shutdown sandwich lovingly prepared by Governor Jon Corzine at the beginning of the month. If this posting doesn't bring in billions of tourism dollars, I don't know what will.

Weekend #1 began, once again, at Newark Penn Station, as I headed out to see one of New Jersey's patron saints, Southside Johnny, headline a night at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park, NJ. And if that weren't enough reason to go, there was also a set from Maybe Pete in the hours leading up to the show. And a fine set it was, capped off by a guest appearance by Bobby Bandiera, who plays guitar in the Asbury Jukes (Southside Johnny's backing band) and is a New Jersey music legend in his own right. Or so I'm told. I'm still a little new on this Jersey thing. But I'm learning as fast as I can.

Anyway, Maybe Pete gets better with every show. And I don't say that because members of the band occasionally read this blog. I say it because it's true. See for yourself someday. How about the Bitter End on 7/22?



Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes played for about two-and-a-half hours on the outdoor stage at the Pony, and I finally had to bail to catch the train back home right about the time they started singing "The Star-Spangled Banner." I don't like leaving shows early, but I also don't like being at the Asbury Park train station at midnight. I doubt you would either. But don't take my word for it. Try it for yourself; maybe you'll dig it.

In a horrible, dreadful turn of events, Phil Lesh and Friends and Trey Anastasio were at the PNC Bank Arts Center that same night, meaning the train home was filled with burnouts and pseudo-hippies once we pulled out of the Aberdeen-Matawan station. To make matters worse, one of the kids in front of me started having a loud discussion about that day's events in the World Cup. Combining the Grateful Dead and soccer into one train ride is like shocking my testicles while kicking me in the face with a steel-toed boot. Not fun. Nor did it get any more fun when some burnout started screaming out "Free Kicks?" and "Pele" repeatedly, egged on by the morons in front of me not engrossed in World Cup chitchat, who found it hilarious. Then he would stop for a minute and the storm appeared to be over, only to be ramped up again by the Phish nuts. Soon he started yelling out "New York Cosmos" for a change of pace.

It was a long ride home.

***

It was also a long ride to Atlantic City the next day, as the bus from the Port Authority traveled about five miles in 90 minutes because of an accident on the Garden State Parkway. Anytime I try to get to Atlantic City for a time-specific event, things like this happen. I foolishly assumed that getting the 10:30 bus from the Port Authority terminal would get me to Atlantic City well before 3 p.m.

Wrong. We pulled into the Sands at 3:10 p.m.

And to make matters worse, the Sands, unbeknownst to me, doesn't give you cash back. Instead, they give you a $25 card that you can only use to play on the slots. Wow. There's a great deal. You might as well just punch me in the face and take $25 out of my wallet. Or at least give me a $25 card that I can only use to play pinball and skeeball in the kiddie arcade. It would be more enjoyable and only slightly less profitable. And I say only slightly less because I did win back $7.50 on the quarter and nickel slots. Whoopee.

Anyway, the main reason for going to Atlantic City was to see "The Price Is Right Live!" at Bally's (the 3 p.m. show) and "Family Feud" (at 7 p.m., and, of course, I'd already missed this once). But, because of the late arrival, I couldn't register for "The Price Is Right Live!" and could only watch as other people came on down and played "Race Game" and "Cliff Hangers." A tragedy.

Actually, it wasn't so bad, because, as it turns out, the host of "The Price Is Right Live!" is none other than David Ruprecht. That's right: the host of TV's "Supermarket Sweep," a killer show (not a Top 10er, but real good). That was almost worth the price of admission right there, particularly with the photo op afterwards (the other guy is "The Price Is Right Live!" announcer, Dave Walls; I don't know him from Adam, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him I didn't really want him to be in the picture...seems like a swell guy, though).



***

I was able to register in plenty of time for "Family Feud" (hosted by the much less cool Michael Burger of "Mike and Maty" fame...or nonfame), but I didn't make it on stage. You have to guess the number-one answer to survey questions, using those fancy push-button mechanisms you see on "Love Connection" or "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," to get on stage, and I was a dud when it came to that. My best chance came when the computer broke and they had to switch to random selection. Still no luck.

The most fun I had was sitting next to a group of young tykes, who were at that age that reminds me that in about, say, seven or eight years, I may have to start looking for friends who are barren, impotent, or simply hate children. Since this version of "Family Feud" isn't really geared toward kids (they can watch but aren't eligible to play), the questions on the in-theater TVs were occasionally slightly randy. This led to one of the kids asking the inevitable question, "Daddy, what's a condom?" Daddy deflected it. The kid decided it was another way of saying "condo." Then the word came up again in one of the "Family Feud" clips shown in between games. I think the kids were starting to get suspicious. One of them wondered why you would put a house on before you go to bed.

Overall though, "Family Feud" was not quite as enjoyable as "The Price Is Right Live!," despite the fact that there was still the illusion that I might make it up on stage at the former. I wish I had been able to help the woman who was going for the $17,000 Fast Money jackpot at the end of the show. She had come by herself, so she decided to enlist the woman sitting next to her to help her win the dough. But then that woman only managed to answer four of the five questions in the allotted time, offering that a skunk was a kind of animal you would find in the desert. It didn't work out well.

***

With some time to kill, I walked down the boardwalk and suddenly heard the sounds of what sounded a lot like Eddie Money outside of Trump Plaza. And then I remembered that Eddie Money was playing the Beach Bar, a completely pointless business venture in that you can here and see the show just fine from the beach, without the embarrassment of having to spend $25 to see Eddie Money (though many did fork over the cash, God bless 'em). So I watched and waited, hoping to hear "Two Tickets to Paradise" or "Take Me Home Tonight" or even "I Wanna Go Back" as the big closing number. Apparently, he gets those out of the way early, because I didn't hear one of them in the half-hour I stood on the beach (though I did hear "Walk On Water," a song I had almost completely erased from my memory). And in that half-hour, he must've thanked the crowd about 189 times. Every time he started thanking people, I assumed the show was over. But then it would just go on. And then there'd be really uncomfortable stage patter, such as "Aw, I'm sorry I got old, guys" and "My in-laws are over all the time. I didn't marry them. They love the kids so much, they can have 'em." Or, my personal favorite, this completely incomprehensible monologue:

"You guys remember when 'Saturday Night Live' was good? They had John Belushi and Gilda Radner. Man. And there was this skinny guy from Long Island, wearing dirty jeans and, God, I don't know what else."

And then he just started playing a song. Was Eddie Money in the original cast of "Saturday Night Live"? Did I miss something?

***


Just when I thought the night was over, I came upon this scene between Caesars and Bally's Wild Wild West. Let me see if I can describe this for you. The woman with the mask on was posing as a mermaid. The guy in the wheelchair was having some sort of conversation with her. The women between the two were protecting the mermaid.

What? You want more?

Earlier, I had noticed the presence of the mermaid. She was striking various poses and, I guess, if you paid her, you could take a picture with her. Wow, I remember thinking, that's dumb. Then, after the Eddie Money Experience, I tried desperately to find reasonably priced, mildly nutritious food not part of a buffet in the casinos and was coming up empty. So, as I popped out of Caesars, I came across the above scene. When I got there, it was just the amputee in the wheelchair and the mermaid talking kinda close (that's a sentence, by the way, that can only be born in Atlantic City). There was a fairly large crowd gathered, and many were shouting at the guy to leave the mermaid alone. But he wasn't listening and kept at his "conversation." Eventually, a guy came out of the crowd and wheeled the amputee a short distance away. This brought cheers from the assembled. Until the guy just rolled right back. Then, a few seconds later, this scene was repeated with another gentleman. Again, cheers, followed by groans upon the amputee's return.

It was at this point that the Wall of Women went into effect. Several women formed a protective wall around the mermaid, with their backs facing the amputee while ensuring the mermaid, "Don't worry. You've got us to take care of you." And so one of them was in charge of encouraging the amputee in the wheelchair to get lost while the others secured the well-being of the mermaid. It was at this point I took the above, flash-less picture. Perhaps you're thinking, "Hey, why didn't you take charge and wheel the guy far, far away?" Well, if I were confident that I could win a fight with an amputee in a wheelchair, I surely would have. But I'm not so sure. The best I could do would be to outrun him, and even that's iffy.

Anyway, eventually someone did wheel the guy away and then some other guy called the cops while the amputee tried to restart his conversation with the mermaid.

Satisfied with this conclusion, I went to catch my bus home. I wound up getting home at around 2 a.m., just in time to get a good night's sleep and get back on a train to Asbury Park to see another of New Jersey's finest, the Hudson Falcons, at Club Deep.

And after that, I rested.

What I Liked About June

* The International Bowling Museum and Hall of Fame
* TV Land's "Benson" marathon
* Sebastian Bach's "Savage Animal" crusade on "Supergroup"
* The birth of Harper Catherine Ellis



* 18 shows in 30 days—including the Yayhoos (twice), Scott Miller and the Commonwealth (twice), the Bottle Rockets (thrice), Marah, Alejandro Escovedo, Bobby Bare Jr., and the Avett Brothers
* The celery root chips at Ragazzi's
* Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions band on "Late Night with Conan O' Brien"
* Howard Stern streaming online



* Jancee Dunn's But Enough About Me
* Guillo's Place's TV debut on "The Sopranos"
* Spending time with "Nucci Soprano" at Chiller Spring 2006
* The willingness of people with cars to drive me places

Missouri Loves Company: Days Five and Six: I've Still Got Rock and Roll

I spent much of my last afternoon cultivating a sunburn while walking the streets of St. Louis, stopping first at the Soulard Market, which wasn't as breathtakingly cool as the Twangfest Guide to St. Louis made it out to be but was still a good time. And I had my first taste of beignets for breakfast. And I declare them good. Then again, anything that involves dough and frying is gonna be just fine with me.

After an hour or so at the Soulard Market, I set out for Cherokee Antique Row. That's right. I went on an antiquing expedition. When I start having sex with guys, it's gonna surprise absolutely no one. In any case, I was hoping to find a cool Western shirt or two. I finally did, but up in the Delmar Loop, not in the Cherokee District. There looked to be a cool store with lots of antique radios on Cherokee, but the owner seemed content to stay inside and keep the front gate locked. Interesting business strategy. I also nearly ended up buying an old movie drive-in speaker at one of the shop(pe)s, until I realized that would be really stupid. Yes, sometimes I come to realizations like that. Rarely, but it does happen.

On the way back to the hotel, I figured I oughta at least take a quick gander at the Anheuser-Busch Factory. So, I took a 10-minute stroll through the gift shop and the displays in the visitor center and that was enough for me. For the record, if you're looking to buy something that says "Anheuser-Busch Factory" in the gift shop, you'll have your choice of about 5 things out of 500. They seem more content to just sell generic Budweiser gifts. So if you want something that actually commemorates something other than your pedestrian taste in alcohol, tough. But you can get a pint glass with the Budweiser logo on it. Wow!



Speaking of beer (wicked segway!), Mic Harrison and Scott Miller's "Cold Beer Hello" duet on the last night of Twangfest was probably my favorite Twangfest moment. The two were members of the V-Roys, who put out three really good CDs (two studio, one live) on Steve Earle's E-Squared label before calling it quits. I'd only had the chance to see them once before they quit (at Maxwell's, opening up for Los Straitjackets), so I'd always wanted to catch one of Miller and Harrison's occasional shows together, during which they do their own sets and then do one or two songs together at night's end. And Twangfest X finally gave me that opportunity.



Mic Harrison opened the evening, backed by the High Score. It was also the first time I'd seen Harrison leading his own band (he was in Superdrag for awhile after the V-Roys), and I was impressed with the power of both Harrison and the High Score. They did one V-Roys song ("Over the Mountain") and one song off Scott Miller's new CD ("The Only Road") as part of their set (without Scott) and were by far the best opening band of any night of Twangfest. They surely sounded better than the band that followed them, Lucero, whose lead singer, to be fair, seemed to have been overserved.



Scott Miller and the Commonwealth followed Lucero and kicked their usual ass. The fact that I've planned two of the three solo vacations I've taken in my life around Scott Miler and the Commonwealth shows should tell you what I think about him. At turns self-deprecating and a touch cocky, Miller's one of the more engaging lead singers I've seen. And the Commonwealth, anchored by drummer Shawn McWilliams and with a new guitarist since I'd seen them last, are the perfect backing band—not upstaging the lead singer but not laying back and being spectators either. Go see them when they come to your town. They have the coveted Sigman Seal of Rock Approval.

The main set ended with the "Cold Beer Hello" duet, which in true V-Roys style, had the drummer and guitarist switching instruments and Miller admonishing Harrison for drinking something other than a cold beer while singing the song. Harrison also joined in on the last encore, singing a song the two wrote together, "Earthly Pleasures." Maybe seeing the two V-Roys lead singers on stage together means nothing to you, but seeing and hearing them do those two songs together was one of the musical highlights of the year for me.

BR549 headlined the last night, and since I had a 7 a.m. flight in the morning and had seen BR549 three times already this year, I was not sticking around to see Twangfest's conclusion (which apparently ended with the Blueberry Hill sound guy pulling the plug on the band at 1 a.m., which apparently is closing time). One of the event's organizers tried to convince me to come to the afterparty at the airport hotel, but I explained the situation (hotel—and luggage—is downtown...I have to be up at 5:30...no, I'm not going back to the hotel to get my luggage so I can go to the airport hotel, stay up all night and watch everybody get drunk, and stumble over to the airport at 6:30) and expressed my regrets. But to be honest, I don't really have regrets about that. I'm not an afterparty kind of guy. I'm rarely a beforeparty guy, sometimes a party guy, but almost never an afterparty guy. It's not that I'm antisocial, but, OK, it's because I'm antisocial. Sorry, world. Don't take it personally.

***

Somehow, after a brief struggle to get my suitcase closed, I made it out of the hotel right on schedule Sunday morning and expertly deflected an offer of a $20 car ride to the airport from a hotel employee. Why pay that when the train ride costs, like, $3? They tried to convince me that the train might not be running at that time of day on a Sunday. C'mon, people. I'm no public transportation amateur here. I know the schedule, creeps. And, sure enough, the train picked me up downtown and I was at the airport about 45 minutes later.

After weather reports had been threatening them all weekend, thunderstorms finally arrived Saturday night and lingered into Sunday morning, delaying my flight a half-hour but not causing too much of a problem. Quite honestly, on about three hours' sleep, the plane could've been aflame and pelted with giant boulders for three hours and it wouldn't have affected me all that much. I was running on the fumes of fumes.

But it was worth it. I got to see and experience a new city, checked out a new stadium, bowled a game at the Bowling Hall of Fame, nearly touched a penguin, almost inadvertently slandered the St. Louis homosexual community, earned a real good sunburn, and saw some of my favorite bands of all time. Not too bad. Thanks, St. Louis. Maybe I'll see you again someday.