Liz and Michael

A few minutes of a morning show's time was today devoted to the up-coming auction of many of Elizabeth Taylor's goodies: designer clothing, diamonds (one that is expected to fetch $2.5 million all by itself), artwork, and whatnot. Among the artwork was an Andy Warhol portrait of Liz, including in the margin a note from Andy to Liz, followed by a "thank you" note from Liz back to Andy. The item had stayed in Warhol's personal collection for twenty-some years before it ended up in the Taylor collection and ultimately the Taylor estate. I was struck by this portrait because without the afore-mentioned notes, the casual viewer would have a hard time deciding if it were a picture of Liz Taylor or Michael Jackson!

Google it and take a look for yourself. This must have been what Michael showed his plastic surgeon(s) when he said, "Make me look like this." The nose, and to a lesser degree, the eyes. But the shape of the lips! Even the hairstyle. It seems to me that at one point, some wag suggested that LaToya didn't really exist; she was just Michael in drag. Well, if anybody could have been Michael in drag, it was the young Liz Taylor. Fortunately they were close friends and thus often seen together, so there's no secret identity issue.

The resemblance suggests an alternate defense that Dr. Conrad Murray might have used: "I thought it was Liz Taylor that I was treating!" Not much worse than his actual defense.

The End of the World As We Know It...

Everybody OK? I thought so. Now we're in for more excuses from the morons. "I made another mistake in my calculations." Or, "God can do whatever He wants. It's His way of showing us how powerful He is."

Next thing we'll hear is that this was a preliminary test for The Saved. Look out for the big one in October. When that date passes, we've got the end of the Mayan calendar to deal with. Oh well, another day another Armageddon.

Ta-ta for now.

Read This Right Away!!!

Well, I hope that got your attention, because if you're not reading this before 5:59 PM on Saturday, May 21, you're probably not going to get to it at all. Why? Because that's when the world is ending! Don't you watch the news?

That's right, there is a sizable chunk of the world's population that believes we're all on our last mile. Unless you're one of the saved who expect to be taken up to heaven in The Rapture. The rest of us are done for. Wouldn't you know that right up to the end of the world there are going to be the haves and the have-nots. Doesn't seem quite fair, does it?

I have a couple of questions. First, why is this killer earthquake starting in New Zealand? They seem like pretty nice people to me. Here's another: Since God created the Earth and the rest of the universe at the same time, is he now destroying the whole ball of wax or is it just Earth? And if so, why are we getting the short end of the stick?

Here are a couple of my own personal tips to enjoy The End. First of all, don't feel sorry for anyone who died today, like Randy Savage, the wrestler; they're only being short-changed by 24 hours or so. Whatever else you do, don't pay any bills today. Now that I think of it, tomorrow (before 5:59PM of course) would be a great day to bounce a few checks. After all, they won't bounce until Monday... Or forever. If you want to feel sorry for someone, give a thought to those folks who believed this hoohah so thoroughly that they started bouncing checks last month. They're going to be in more trouble if the world doesn't end than if it does.

And finally, spare a little sympathy for the misguided preacher who has been promoting this whole thing. This is at least his second such prediction of Armageddon. The last one suffered from a "miscalculation," which he's corrected for tomorrow. So have an extra glass of wine tonight and don't worry about pissing anyone off. As for me, I'll be sitting at the keyboard tomorrow evening, writing my next installment. Hope I'm right!

Greatest Guitar Riffs

My friend Al sends me all kinds of e-mail stuff. You probably have a friend like Al. Some of it is interesting, some silly, some mildly pornographic. Chain letters, urban legends, photoshopped pictures, and "tests" on anything from cars of the fifties to the citizenship test are included. We joke that Al has too much time on his hands, but every now and then he sends something brilliant. Two of his forwards this week fit that category. One was a short film of a young woman playing with and teasing a group of about 10 cheetahs. You can watch it here Click here

The other one, which I'm writing about today, was a link to a web-site that lists someone's opinions of the 50 greatest guitar riffs ever, and includes all 50 of them. A riff, by the way, is defined as a short repeating musical theme that forms a song's framework. Most music includes riffs, whether classical or rock, by Mozart or the Beatles. (A couple of Beatles riffs are on this list, although Mozart didn't make the cut. After all, this is a rock list.) I invite you to check out the list, listen to some you're not familiar with and refresh your memory of some old favorites. It seems to me that you'll have the same reaction I did: Hey, they left off ...! If that happens, please feel free to point out the oversights to the rest of us. I can't believe they omitted the bass riff from Stevie Wonder's Superstition. After all, what's a bass but a big guitar. And how about The Temptations' Papa Was A Rollin' Stone. That was a funkified riff. And I've got a couple from Eric Clapton and Duane Allman I'd like to add. And the Doobies! Holy crap! How could they forget the Doobies?! Well, you get the message. Just set aside some time to listen to some real Guitar Heroes. Enjoy. Click here

A Barn Find

In the second half of the fifties, I was in high school in NJ, one of the “car guys,” as opposed to the “jocks,” or the”geeks.” Every cent I earned went into a ’39 Ford DeLuxe rumble seat roadster. Equipped with the usual goodies – 3 Stromberg carbs, Edelbrock finned aluminum heads, glasspaks – and a few less usual items like its vacuum-operated Columbia two-speed rear, it was my Deep Cherry Metallic pride and joy.

The problem was finding – and affording – parts, a situation shared by two friends who had ’40 Standard coupes, almost duplicates of the ’39 DeLuxe. Remember, this was long before restoration was a big deal and before replica parts were available. Salvage yards were our haunt.

We must have visited half of the junkyards within three hours of our homes. One of us heard of a small yard in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, down behind the Hotel Bethlehem. We visited one day and asked the usual question: “Have you got any ‘39/’40 Ford parts?” To our amazement, the crusty old coot who owned the place said, “Yeah, seems like there’s some old Ford stuff in the hayloft of the big barn.”

As we found our way up to the hayloft, we guessed we’d find mostly unusable, rusted, cruddy parts. Boy, were we ever wrong! There in the hayloft was a pile of parts that people like us would kill for. Complete sets of fenders, still wrapped in cosmolene and brown paper. Pristine bumpers wrapped the same way, Complete grille assemblies. And headlight rims, brand new and still perfect. And those beautiful ’39 taillights, 2 pairs of them. And the less attractive ’40 chevron-style taillights.

I can’t remember how much we paid for it, but we bought the whole lot. Drove home and borrowed a truck to come back the next day and pick it all up. After we had skimmed off the stuff the three of us needed for our Fords, we looked up other Ford enthusiasts and sold the rest, for enough to cover all our costs.

We didn’t find a car in that barn behind the Hotel Bethlehem, but it seems to me what we found was even better: the fountain of youth for two ‘40s and a ’39.

So Long, Jack LaLanne

I was saddened recently by news of the passing of Jack LaLanne. We worked together 25 years ago, and it was a fun time. Jack, of course, was the fitness guru, and had recently celebrated his 70th birthday by swimming and pulling 70 rowboats, each with one passenger, from Alcatraz Island to Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. Oh, I forgot to mention; he did this while handcuffed at the wrists and ankles. Honest!

Anyway, Jack had agreed to voice a daily radio vignette for a client of ours. It was called Fun and Fitness Over Fifty, and featured Jack describing exercises appropriate for our audience, and pitching his unique use-it-or-lose-it philosophy. I have to admit, I don't think I've ever met a more enjoyable character.

Well, Jack arrived for our first session at a studio in Manhattan with scripts in hand. He swore he had studied them, but it may have been more like reading than actual studying. We ran into our first problem almost immediately. You see, Jack, like many people, was too vain to admit his need for reading glasses. As he read a script and reached the end of a line, he moved his eyes back to the start of the next line. And lost his place every time! Of course, there was no way we could talk him into reading glasses, and there was no way Ben, our faithful engineer and editor could cut and splice every line of every script, although that's what he had to do for this first session. Remember, this was before the advent of computer editing; this all had to be done with real tape and razor blades. When the session was done, we shook hands and bid farewell until the next session. As Jack left, Ben banged his head on the board and likened the session to the Bataan Death March. It had taken just a tick under 4 hours, about twice the usual length of our sessions.

As we were discussing possible solutions, the receptionist came in and said, "You've got to see this." "This" was Jack in the elevator lobby... doing jumping jacks as he waited. The session may have tested our endurance, but it sure didn't faze Jack.

Our solution was to get a bigger type ball for our IBM Selectric typewriter and a high intensity lamp for Jack's scripts. There was one more problem. Our sponsor wanted Jack to deliver the offer of a booklet of exercises. The mailing address was a PO box in Kankakee, Illinois. No problem, except that every time Jack tried to say, "Kankakee" it came out "Kankalee." Now wiser, we quickly decided to get one good take and edit that take onto the end of all the rest of the shows.

Goodbye, Jack, it was truly a delight to know you.

Keep Walking!

No, this isn't what you expected, not a warning to get yourself in shape before it's too late. No, it's something else entirely. In the midst of the NFL playoff season, with the Super Bowl looming large, we are starting an annual festival of crap and pap that's being sent our way dressed as advertising. Most of it seems to be entries in an inanity contest. Could the Pepsi commercials about Pepsi being "drafted" as the official cola of the NFL be any sillier? Does anyone not realize that all that means is that Pepsi was willing to pay more for it than anyone else?

Anyway, here's a link (http://www.crikey.com.au/2010/08/17/johnniewalker/?source=cmailer) that will take you to the most nearly perfect commercial I can remember seeing. It's a long one (over 6 minutes) and it's a brand image spot for Johnnie Walker Scotch. It appears to have been shot on a Steadicam, in one take. I'll admit that there could have been some digital cuts in there, but I don't think so. And even if there are, they are so masterful they only add to the beauty of the finished product. Oh, and the sound appears to have been looped (re-recorded), again skillfully.

So I'd suggest you pour yourself a wee dram of Johnnie Walker, plop down in your favorite chair, and enjoy the rare beauty of perfection. It seems to me there's precious little of it these days.