Now that we know a female named L is watching, let's move on to... concert reviews.

I saw Annie Lennox (who is Scottish.  I was perplexed at her strange accent all night, thinking her to be English, though she sounded either Jamaican or South African), who opened up for Ze Stinger.  Gordon now looks exactly like Richard Harris in Unforgiven:  he has uncomfortably long, wispy hairs full of pomade and bushy, gray sideburns.  He looks like a Victorian undertaker, in his silky collared shirt with French cuffs.  The nubile, sinewy, cargo pants-and t-shirt-wearing Sting was nowhere to be found.  This dude looked elderly.  And wan.

Having said all that, it was the best Schting show I ever seen.  His production gang has significantly upped the ante with 3 honking 16'x8' LED walls (which feature some very cool-looking stuff, even though it's not exactly original.  One song off the wandering Sacred Love album featured -get this!- belly dancers, which U2 did about 12 years ago) and some sweet MAC 2000 light rigs that zip up and down trusses throughout the show.  The music was also very, very good, as the material is always rich and the players are always prodigies from around the world.  He, of course, is always eager to show us he's "still got it" (how many times has he played that exact same solo for "Fragile"?  And how many times has he had a look on his face like, "boy, I hope I can pull this off!  Can you see how difficult this is?"), eager to hitch his wagon to the ever-burgeoning interest in all things spiritual (the iconography was a non-stop deluge of every possible combination of symbolism suggesting spirituality, the afterlife, clairvoyance, ESP, telepathy, astral projecting, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.), and eager to ingratiate himself to the younger slice of his audience (his dancy version of Send Your Love Into the Future was incongruous at best, jokey at worst).  Favorite moments for me included a very cute duet with Annie on "We'll Be Together Tonight", and every time he slipped an old Police bassline into a lifeless new song.  But how much longer does Mr. Sumner have to still be a contributor?

In other news, Ricky Williams, the gazillionaire running back for the Miami Dolphins who once posed in drag with Mike Ditka, retired from professional football at age 27.  This is a guy who apparantly does NOT want to be in the spotlight (I suggest checking his birth certificate to ensure that he is, in fact, American), and does NOT want to be in the business of big-league agents and the marketers of the physically elite (his good-hearted agent Leigh Steinberg held out hope that this might not really be the end of Williams' money-making days).  Ricky said, over the phone from Hawaii, "you can't imagine how free I feel."

I, for one, am very excited for this guy, and very pleased about his courage to walk away from everyone else's dreams for him.  He's going to travel the world for a few months (normal yearnings for a 27 year-old), then do whatever he wants to do.  I like that "I will not give my life to a corporation" attitude, and hope that Sting exits HIS field of excellence before he's completely bereft of meaningful creativity.   

     I pushed on the heavy metal door, made gummy by a thousand hands, and strode onto the linoleum of the laboratory.  The smell of sanitizer mixed with that of something more organic, more acrid in the air around me, yet I was hit with something that wasn't familiar, wasn't expected.  From within the recesses of the echoey chamber, I heard the sounds, not of scattershot tinkling or of chemical expulsion, but of... muffled sobs.  I'd experienced pain and exhaustion here before, even feelings of victory and exultation, but never had my time here drawn tears from my eyes (from others', yes).  I tentatively knocked, knowing that the weeper would never expect a visitor, and probably couldn't understand my humanitarian motives (or morbid curiosity). 
     "Yeah?" came the voice. 
     "It's a child!  That voice can't belong to a boy older than 17 or 18," I thought.
     Sure enough, it was a 16-year-old, confronting some ugly truths about himself.  But what was he doing here?  This was no place for a child!  Had he come here as a stowaway or as a rebel, to prove himself or to retreat?  I had to know.
     The hours began to unravel, as I began a long, unrefined, dense and sometimes dirty conversation with young Darren Weinstein.  Eventually, I unpacked my lunch and sat down there, on the cold hard floor, puddled by overuse.  I knew this was more important than germs or stained trousers.  As Darren was growing older, he was finding out who he really was.  It wasn't all pleasant (not much about that time or place really was).  Darren had realized that, whenever he came to the "moment of truth" in a big Project, he retreated, fearful of the unknown.  Time and again, he'd stand on the precipice of true freedom, of real relief, then backed off from the glory of accomplishment.  Simply put, he was seeing himself as a coward, and couldn't fathom how he could become who he was destined to be if he kept holding it in.
     I've been a coward more than once in my own life, I can tell you, and I had some choice words for Darren.  Words won by agony.  Words of experience.
     "You have to see something through, Darren, once you've started.  You don't sit down to do something, then stand up without laying down everything you've got.  Whatever energy needs to be expelled, whatever needs to come from within you to Finish, has to be done.  Until your nostrils fill with the smell of success, you're not through.  Imagine squeezing out a long loaf of chocolate cookie dough.  You don't want to stop short- you want that entire loaf to come oozing out of its casing- the real enjoyment starts there.  Sure, nobody knows whether you'll produce something grand or half-baked, whether it'll be straight as an arrow, or curved like a snake's spine.  It might come out of you all at once, or have many parts to it.  But you're there to DO YOUR BUSINESS, Darren, and I can't let you out of here until you get there.  Your brow may furrow, your teeth may clench, your temples may sweat, but if you have to grunt and strain to make it through, so be it.  Part of growing up is knowing that, when all you have is dirt and water, you make mudpies.  That's what you need to do Darren:  make mudpies!  And once you've made mudpies, you can wipe away all the doubt, wipe away all the confusion, wipe away all that dirtiness that's left behind.  You did your duty."
     I tried to slowly and purposefully set forth my message of courage, like sausage pushing out of a meat grinder, or cheese whiz inching out of its container.  But for Darren, this same message was powerful, like torpedos shot from a submarine's stern.  Even before I left, I could hear different sounds coming from behind that door.  Sounds of fearless determination.  Sounds of internal power and raw grit.  I never saw what Darren ultimately produced, nor do I want to.  I'm satisfied in knowing that, on this day, a boy became a man, and a wisher became a doer.

Have you seen this woman?  You may recognize her (or remember one of her friends) from the tv or news ads for Herbal Essences Shampoo brand hair care products.  What makes her notable is the fact that, whenever she (or her friends) uses HE products in the shower, she (presumably) has orgasms.  Hmm.  In my world, this makes her a Mutant Freak To Touch Only With Gloved Hands But Avoid When Possible, but in the world of All World Products and Selling Things For Money, this makes her Money In The Bank.
 
Well, she's going to have to have all that intoxicating pleasure without me, I'm afraid.  Not only because I'm happily living with a bottle of Pert, but because I'm moving on from AWPSTFM.  Yep, that old highway's a-callin'.  I'm finally going to start that Lik-M-Aid Fun Dip factory in my basement and sell delicious confections door-to-door.  They say it can't work:  "You're too old to start a new career!"  "You don't have any experience in either the manufacturing or sales industries!"  "It's already someone else's product!", etc. etc., but Walt Disney built an empire of wonder and imagination out of nothing.  Snoopy Dogg did it too.  So can I.

Yesterday, I saw not one, but TWO people who were significantly taller than I am. And fellas, I'm 6'4" (I think). When I see these big guys who're 6'9"+, I am IMMEDIATELY filled with sympathy. I about want to cry for them. Because I INSTANTLY know that a) they're either really not very good at basketball AT ALL or they were never in a place to capitalize on that, and b) most of their lives are spent in physical discomfort. These poor pituatary mutants are crowded into automobiles, under desks and dinner tables, and don't get me started about airplanes. God bless these men. AND GOD BLESS OUR TROOPS, who're out there shooting at people, and watching stuff, and sexually harrassing prisoners, and..
have a nice day everybody.

Riddle me this: if Shaquille goes and plays basketball in Miami, Florida (where it's hot), and Kobe stays in Los Angeles (where it's DIRTY), which of these players will I choose in my fantasy league draft, seeing as how I have the first pick? I would like some opinions on this (and if anybody out there can get the Drunkard to come visit this site, I would especially cherish his views).

Well, kids, it's smack-dab in the middle of summer, and what does that mean? That means it's Movie Time. Movie Time happens when large amounts of Americans, motivated to be entertained in air conditioning while physically inert, head to the film house by the millions. And it's here! Now!

--Scoop! It will make him positively squeamish for me to say so, but I've read Jif's new screenplay (co-written with Tim Stitzel, Fantasy League. It's hilarious and fun.

--I got my hands on the current issue of Filmmaker Magazine, which features a generous interview with Shane Carruth. While happy for him, I'm always saddened by the fact that I read for one of the leads for that thing, then Shane told me later that he would've been happy for me to do it, but he didn't think I was all that interested. Sheesh.

--I've heard Spiderman2 is a big turdball.

--Harry Potter and Azkaban IS a big turdball (Didi likes this series. Leave me alone).

--Didi says The Notebook is absolutely wonderful. I'll take her word for it.

--Napolean Dynomite's Cincinnati sneak preview is coming in two days!

--Seinfeld's Comedian is on the DVDs now. Everybody seen this? It's both nice and good.

What are YOUR Movie Time HSOs, Sports Fans?