Me,me, me

I’ve always admired Rochester women for their fortitude, their pulchritude, and
their attitude. After a recent break-up, a friend of mine pawned all the
jewelry she’d gotten from the ex and bought a stack of Charles Bukowski books. She’s
available, and soon she’ll know all our secrets.

            “Be a model or just look like one.”
I posed at Sari Gaby’s portrait class last Friday morning for three hours. A
room full of budding art students looking at me, drawing pictures of me, and
asking questions about me — me, me, me. That’s right, sitting still for
eternity, staring at the wall as Van Morrison drowned out my guardian angel.

            Word to the wise: If you’re hooked
on these new Colgate battery-powered toothbrushes like I am, you might want to turn
it off before pulling it out of your mouth (big mess if you don’t). These new
dental devices work great on belly buttons, as well.

The virtuosos in The California Guitar
Trio waxed euphoric and hypnotic at their Milestones show. They were like PDQ
Bach munchin’ peyote on a Baroque surf board in the Santa Fe desert, while the
good, the bad, and the ugly looked on for a fistful of dollars.

Ok, so Drums & Tuba are unique in
their approach (though I think the tuba player should wear lederhosen), but
what about that guitar player? Holy shit. He made them sound like The Band Of
Gypsies in space — funky, exploratory, and fun.

The
new Lux Lounge is truly a lounge; ultra-hip and tres cool. I’m having all my mail forwarded there.

Went to the LA County Zoo last week, where the line
between animals and humans blurred. The endless parade of slack-jawed dimwits,
snickering at primate genitalia while shrugging off their brat’s demands for
corndogs, ice cream, and attention, seemed to amuse the animals.

The Gore Gore Girls, three red-hot Motor City mamas
in go-go boots and white vinyl mini-dresses, positively tightened the wigs of
all the hip-shakin’ hipsters at Montage Friday night with their bad-ass
girl-group-in-a-girl-gang garage rock. Carried on with the girls until 3:30
a.m., feeding our faces at Mark’s Texas Hots (where the girls received a
standing ovation upon entering). Dragged my Lumina against Herman’s Omega down
Monroe Ave. for pink slips, with the Gore Gore Girls screaming out the window.

            Played a mighty triple bill with the
Razzles (muscle-car punk from Buffalo), The Cheats (dirtypunk rock from Pittsburgh), and special guest sax-man Tommy
Gravino (in clothes) at The Bug Jar Saturday in front of one of the best
looking audiences I’ve seen in a while, all shakin’ their asses in the torrid
heat and diggin’ me, me, me.

            After being up a record 72 hours, I
fell back to earth at the Clothesline Arts Festival and admired the widely
varied art and widely varied patrons through glassy, road-map eyes. One patron
entertained me one on one with some contemporary blue-eyed soul.

            A few hours in dreamland, then I’m
off to play me some bingo.

This article appears in Sep 18-24, 2002.