Big Bad Talent

Have any of you listened to that "Rockferry" CD by Duffy yet? Yeah, hmm...I bought it when I was at Border's Books and Music the other day, at my sister's urging. Unfortunately, it wasn't until after I listened to it that I remembered that my sister and I have very different urges, musically speaking.

While Duffy's tunes and singing are absolutely catchy, solid, and charming, I have to borrow a line from the author, Gertrude Stein, who, when referring to the town of Oakland where she grew up, famously declared, "There's no THERE there." I guess what I mean to say is, if you're going to claim you're writing and singing from a personal perspective by using the pronoun "I", well then, you better be "you". Having something to say in your uniquely own voice helps.

Frankly, I suspect I dismiss Duffy's "Rockferry" for the exact opposite reason I embrace Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black". Both being talented and British, these two young women have been compared ad nauseum in the press. But, really, there is no comparison. The drugs and the subsequent spectacle surrounding Winehouse and her fragile tattooed frame are the least of which that make her so interestingly listenable. While both Duffy and Winehouse take to the retro runway in terms of production, borrowing heavily from the dark mascara-ed, beehived ghosts of the 60's sound and style, lyrically speaking, Winehouse's perception of the world (and her love troubles in it) is spun as a yarn that has a distinctly new millennium tone and timbre. In other words, she is relevant and believable as an artist because of how she says what she says and means it. She is a throwback, yes, but one who will throwdown if you bleep with her or her man. Basically, on her person, both the mascara in the eyes and the beehive on the head sting like a sonuvabitch.

As it turns out, Winehouse's sound, steeped in the past, still manages to define itself as unapologetically free to play in the present. Her words, unlike those of Duffy and so many others, do not feel borrowed, or stilted, or like they are trying too hard to sort of sound like something that should be true. No, hers feel owned and lived in, pliable, and sincere. And it isn't the drugs. And it isn't the tattoos. And it isn't the chaos. It's her. That poor wreck of a girl with the big bad talent that begat the big bad fame that begat the big bad addiction. While she may not be the most reliable employee for what she does, she seems to be the one who is best suited to do it. I suppose what it comes down to is this: There's something THERE there.

I just don't know, at this point, how long the THERE there will be here.

Mrs. Coffee

My mother does not order coffee when we go out to eat somewhere, even though she desperately wants coffee. She likes to make it herself, or go without it. But she'll complain the whole time about not having coffee to drink. "Damnit! I wish I had my coffee," she'll say on a loop. We'll ignore it the first seven hundred times, but then we'll finally say, "Ma, just order a cup of coffee here. What's the big deal?"

"Nah, nah, nah," she'll say. "I am not going to order coffee here. They use water from the bathroom to make coffee here. You want me to drink water from the bathroom?"

We haven't the slightest idea as to where she got this idea, or which water (Toilet water? Sink water? Mop in that yellow-strainer-on-wheels-thing-up-against-the-bathroom-wall water?) she means when she is referring to "water from the bathroom", but this is always her response to any suggestion of having coffee "out". That is, until she adds an even more specific description to the how they make it.

"Ma, you want something from Starbucks? I'm going to Starbucks. You want a coffee or something?"

"Why would I want coffee from Starbucks? So I can pay five dollars for a cup of coffee that they make with their dirty feet...with water from the bathroom? Nah, nah, nah...I'll make it myself."

So, in summation, my mother will not drink coffee she hasn't made herself because, frankly, she wants neither your bathroom water nor your dirty feet in it.

And you thought you were pulling one over on her.

Nah, nah, nah, you haven't fooled her.

Are We the World?

Whenever I see Barack Obama giving one of his speeches, I can't help but be brought back to the third grade, when We Are the World dominated the airwaves, making compassion and openheartedness seem like the better alternative to scratching out the eyes of your neighbor to secure a Cabbage Patch doll for your screaming child.

We Are the World (song and video) plays in my head when I see Barack Obama standing there behind his podium, all proud to be a human being living in the world's community. Yes, Berlin, I am a proud American...and I love the world, too. I love everyone in the world. The world is my cabana on the beach. The world is my oak desk with the glowing green desk lamp. The world is my SpongeBob ice-cream pop with the gumball eyes. The world is...you get what I'm saying, right?

You remember the We Are the World days, don't you? My cousin Tony and I, who were about 9 and 10 years old at the time, were obsessed with it. Every chance we got, we broke it down piece by piece and analyzed the individual voices when we heard it. My favorite part was Cindy Lauper's part, even though my cousin Tony deemed it too "showy" and threw his support behind Dionne Warwick, whose part I always forgot when we sang the song. Which leads me to the question, whatever happened to Paul Young? And why was Dan Aykroyd up there, singing and swaying along in the video?

Anyway, our stark nerdiness for the song nearly infected the rest of our family on Easter Sunday of 1985. We had all gathered at our house that year to celebrate the holiday, which was marked as even more special because my little sister had recently been born, and my father had bought himself a video camera.

Now, in case you are thinking that this was a video camera of a reasonable size, think again. Remember, it was 1985, so there was no real convenience associated with this monstrosity. The camera was like a rocket launcher perched on the shoulder, and you couldn't go far with it because the VHS tape slot was not built into the camera itself. No, if you followed the thick, black cord that spat out of the ass of the camera it would lead you to a forty pound VHS player. That's what you had to drag along with you if you foolishly opted to move. Say cheese!

Anyway, we all thought it was the coolest, most high-tech thing in the world, and were eager to get ourselves in front of it. Hey, film me, Dad. Dad, film me. Franco, watch this. Watch this, Franco. Did you get that? I want to see it. Move over, he's filming me now. Move over. Owwww, stop pushing me. Dad, Dad, over here. Look, Dad, look! Are you looking? Franco, over here! Over here, Franco!

Of course, my father, after watching years of American television, really thought he had the television broadcasting system down. Instead of counting us off with, Three, two, one...you're on the air, he'd authoritatively say, "Wan, two, tree....en you een da area."

So, that Easter Sunday, with my cousin Tony and I sharing "area" time as we sang our favorite parts from We Are the World in front of the camera, my Uncle John had an idea. "Let's take this seriously," he said. "Let's do this for real." In other words, no more spontaneous fun would be had, but we didn't know that yet. My cousin Tony and I nearly jumped out of our skintight clothes, we were so excited. What a great idea! Could this really be happening?

Quickly, we set up rows of chairs in front of the video camera and put people in position. You stand here. You're Bette Midler. You, you, and you...you three stand here. You're the Pointer Sisters. Bruce Springsteen, here. Michael Jackson? Anyone? Anyone want to be Michael Jackson? Of course, no one stayed put and everyone complained, save for my cousin Tony and I who sat in our positions and got increasingly frustrated when no one else seemed to be as enthusiastic to partake in the wonders of our We Are the World basement revival as we were.

Speaking of wonders, my Uncle Clement was tossed from the video shoot by my Uncle John because of his "over-the-top" performance as Stevie Wonder. Thus, in an inspired act of rebellion, my Uncle Clement and my cousin Ricky, who were about 13 and 14, respectively, decided to turn our We Are the World video shoot into a terrorist video shoot. So, oblivious to the evil lurking behind you, you'd be singing, in earnest, about saving the world, when suddenly, a cap gun would fire next to your head and a red balloon (meant to symbolize your exploding brain) would be tossed into the air behind you. You're dead. Stop singing.

My Uncle John called them both jackasses and they eventually skulked off into the living room to join the rest of the people who were cast off the increasingly miserable island of hope and world peace. My cousin Tony and I ended up singing the whole thing ourselves. Family members would walk in and out of the frame to get milk out of the fridge, or a glass out of the cabinet, and we would want to kill them. When it came time to hit the choruses, off-key Italian-accented voices could be heard coming from various points in the house, as two sad kids helplessly sat in front of the camera, trying desperately to hold onto the melody line...with their dreams crushed.

That said, corny as it sounds, Barack Obama really does give me hope for a united world. My more specific hope though is this: that he have better luck with uniting the world in peace than we had with uniting our family in song.

There comes a time, when we heed a certain call...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jcrwu6WGoMs

Welcome, Y'all

For a girl from New Jersey, that's the best I can do to express my version of Southern hospitality, Southern Italian hospitality, I suppose.

Anyway, in the event that you have somehow found yourself here, I welcome you. I'd offer you something to eat but, sadly, I am the only one in my expansive family of chefs and restauranteurs who does not cook. Nor do I care to try to learn, if you must know. The truth is, if I had my druthers, I'd eat everything right out of a paper bag, save for the stuff I put ketchup on which is, you know, just about everything else. If I cannot dress my meal in a paper bag, alas, it is likely due to the fact that it is wearing a generous coating of ketchup. God, I love ketchup.

Unfortunately for me, I have had to cut back on my ketchup consumption as of late. As it turns out, agita, or heartburn, as it is so referred to in our American culture, is not something to be taken lightly. My esophagus is officially irritated from something called Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease, or GERD, which calls to mind the stench one might encounter in an old folks home, yes, but that's what it's called. So, yeah, I've got the GERD...and it officially drove me to the emergency room last summer at around 4 o'clock in the morning with my hand clutched to my chest because I was convinced I was having a heart attack.

In my mind I was imagining all the people I loathe approaching my coffin with their empty tears and inner cheers as I lay there looking super fat because someone would have had the bright idea to dress me in something other than my usual black because that someone would have thought he or she was doing my spirit a favor by outfitting my body in some flowery pastel atrocity so that I could meet the Lord without looking so dark and depressed. Needless to say, I didn't die of a heart attack.

One year and one prescription to Protonix later and I am feeling pretty darn good. If only I could gulp that lemonade the way I used to. My goodness, how I love me some lemonade, sitting and sipping on the porch on a hot summer day, singing along to Patsy Cline records.

Hmm, perhaps I'm not as far from the South as I had initially imagined.