Monday, April 21, 2008


Nancy's been home a week and we're settling back into the Routine.

God, I love the Routine.

Work all day on various art projects, always surprised and pleased when money comes in, talking to friends throughout the day, maybe a meeting uptown, wrap it up around 6:00 PM, pour a cocktail and meet on the couch, the Fat Bunny between us, to enjoy some fine televised programming.

We studiously avoid going out at night, only dragging ourselves to the Theater when profound Guilt and intense Pressure overwhelm us.

Usually enjoy it, actually, but too many years of crushing disappointment, impotent anger and just plain bad theater have warped us into the couch-dwelling cocktail monkeys we are.

On the Sunday morning talk show circuit yesterday, Clinton's new man, Geoff Garin, got his ass handed to him, repeatedly, by Obama's David Axelrod.

It got a little silly.

Garin is highly respected, I guess, but he came off like he had just arrived in Washington from his previous post as assistant principal of a high school in suburban Michigan. The man was stammering, stuttering, avoiding Russert's questions, getting trapped in Axelrod's arguments, all but just getting up and walking off the set while apologizing to the cameraman and endorsing Obama.

Not good.

Struck me yesterday that what Clinton has done by taking the race to the mat over the last two months is to turn herself into Obama's Sacrificial Bull.

We need to know, here in the USA, that our President will kill people for us. It's why Bill had to execute that retarded guy back in Arkansas before he could sit at the Desk. Arthur Miller wrote about this right before he died, great little piece in Harper's, I think.

We're casting the lead and the movie is not a comedy. We need Brando, or at least Daniel Craig. Not a heavy, per se, but a guy with blood on his hands.

So Clinton, by refusing to die, is telling Obama:

"You kill me or you lose. It's a Death Match, son."

So Obama has to, metaphoricaly, kill this nice white lady while still being the Candidate of Hope, the New Kind of Kid. Clinton's people have looked at this particular eye of the needle and calculated that ain't no camel going through nohow noways.

Smart people. Cynical as all fuck, but smart.

On a happier note, Thurman Matthieson, our good friend out in L.A., provides the inspiration for this morning's MMMQ. Thurman gave us this extraordinary collection called Simply World,4 CDs of world music.

World music. As opposed to what, exactly?

Soul music? Gospel?

They really need to come up with a better name for this stuff. Is a falafel "world food"?

But holy Christ playing a zither, this is extraordinary stuff.

Years ago, another Los Angeleno, Jamie Angel, turned me on to some of the African sound with King Sunny Ade. His album Synchro System is still something I put on when I'm writing.

King Sunny played with an amazing band. Were they:

1. King Sunny Ade and The Tembo Brothers

2. King Sunny Ade and His African Beats

3. King Sunny Ade and The Earthquake

4. King Sunny Ade and His Bride, Queen Fudgie the First


Ann said...

Instead of world music how about "Stuff Peter Gabriel and David Byrne really want you to listen to more often, so quit with the Top 40 crap, Pal. This here is good for you."

Okay, so here's the deal on the MMMQ - I have no clue what the answer is, and I *REALLY* want to use The Google to find out...but then I remember that cheaters never prosper (Umm, except in presidential elections) so I'm going to do the honorable thing and guess like a mad bastard.

I say...c. No, b. It's b. Final. Answer. I'm readin' your mind again Clancy.

Rose said...

I know it's wrong, but I can't help but vote for Number Four. Anything with the words 'Queen Fudgie' in them make me giggle and cringe at the same time, and that's a good thing. :D moo!

Ann said...


I saw the comment you left on my blog but I don't know how to reach you - I had to wait until you showed up here and pounce on you.

I am fine now, my pee is no longer radioactive. Thanks ever so for asking. You rock.

John said...

Ann has a blog?

Fess up, girl, what are the magic words I type on my screen to appear in your Blogdom?

And get the hell out of my mind. I'm like Malkovich over here.

Rose said...

Awesome. I am the young up and comer co-star in Being John (Clancy) Malkovich. How sweet! :D Anyway. So glad the pee is all better Ann! I have also joined the band wagon and restarted my blog. Terrifying thought. Now when are we going to open up our t shirt company in Johns Mind?

Ann said...

All you have to do is click on my name, John, and you will magically be transported to my year-old (completely unupdated!) cancer blog. I think it's a hoot - pathos and popsicles, what more could you want? Feel free to add clowns and turn it into a night of theater....

If you want to see my NEW blog, you'll first have to talk me into starting one. I'm on the fence.

BethMc said...

Ah, Routine. When you have it, you sometimes worry that you have it. But when it's gone in an instant, poof! boy howdy, how it's missed!

See, "routine" is derived from "route," and when we've been knocked from our routine, we've also been knocked from our path. Sometimes a good thing, sometimes a bad thing, always disconcerting.

Here's to routine (raises her chai - a world drink).

Oh, and definitely #2 - The African Beats. I've got some of that music in my cd collection....somewhere around a box? on a fox? with some rocks?

Yeah, bad theatre will make you prefer the idiot box to (what could potentially be) an earth-shattering live experience (but is all-too-often....not). I mean, when you're sitting at home on your couch and bad tv comes on, at least you can change the channel, as opposed to sitting there fuming about how the lighting is all wrong, and the set is all wrong, and the actors are more suited for the high school stage, and you can't believe you paid good money for this shite.

No, I don't know what you're talking about. Who are you? Why do you keep writing me?