My Friend Oscar

My seventh- grade teacher teacher Stan Sofield once had us parse a sentence that began, "My friend, Oscar of the Waldorf...." Unfortunately that's all I can remember. Now, why would that sentence fragment stay with me all these years?  Who knows- it's not the point anyway.

The point is, Oscar is a funny name, especially as used by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.  And, not only is it a funny name, but the ceremony bearing the name has become a moribund, tedious and strangely technically inept awards show now that we are truly in the 21st century.

First, the technically inept part- am I the only person listening who kept hearing this strangely buzzing sound underneath the audio? A kind of metallic feedback that accompanied every word spoken? Apparently not- Google has over 169,000,000 results in a search titled "Bad oscar sound". One listener compared the sound to the vuvuzelas at the World Cup Soccer games.

Experts claim that it was not apparent in the hall itself, only in the broadcast signal. Oh, okay then- just so the three or four hundred pampered guests weren't annoyed. Everything's fine then.

You'd think that if we could (at one point) put a couple of men on the moon, we might be able to broadcast a show about technical excellence in the media without annoying muffled vuvuzela sound. But, no, I guess not. (At least I got to use the completely illogical "man on the moon" complaint.)

Conclusion- no Emmy for Oscar.

I also noticed that the orchestra was placed in different loges located in the balconies of the theater. I've attended enough advertising and corporate meetings to recognize this as one of those stupid ideas that someone thinks is really "different" and "creative" and that everyone who works for that person says, "Wow, boss- what an idea!" and then goes home to their spouse and says, "My boss has got to be one of the biggest morons I know." I'm pretty sure the orchestra couldn't even see each other but it didn't really matter because of the annoying buzz in the sound which rendered everything they played painfully inaudible.

Billy Crystal looked stuffed. Thyroid condition maybe?

As for the awards themselves, well... some people were clearly and movingly thrilled to be selected. Meryl "Weepy" Streep's speech where she thanked her hair person was a breath of fresh air. Angelina Jolie looked great for a woman who has adopted 50 or so children- she's really kept her figure, and made sure we all knew it too.

Jean Dujardin, who allegedly said, "Fuck" in French during his acceptance speech, mentioned the great Douglas Fairbanks, a guy who probably enjoyed doing the act Dujardin mentioned.

This year I actually saw three of the contenders. The Artist and Hugo, were both about a time of the cinema that was new, wonderful, exciting and visionary. Midnight in Paris was a nostalgic romp through an amazing era in early 20th century France. They were all, I thought, terrific films, truly entertaining and all three were filled longing for times long gone.

What is that supposed to tell us about now?

Oscar of the Waldorf

The Future Is In the Past, pt. 1,000,000,005

What happened to these?

Aspiring to Mediocrity

I saw an announcement on NBC for a new show about fashion designers starring Jessica Simpson. Of course, it's a competitive, reality- based show where, I think, the designers compete for commissions from major retail outlets. The outlet reps hit buzzers, much like, say, Jeopardy. The difference is that Jeopardy sort of celebrates intelligence while this show obviously celebrates stupidity.

Evidence of how low this bar has been set is the prescence of the unbelievably vapid Jessica Simpson. Now I know you're probably saying, hey, Bret- Jessica Simpson? How is it that she is able to get work while thousands- no- make that millions of Americans are unemployed? You're probably wondering, as I did, why she isn't still regarded as a washed- up, overly cosmetised harridan?

I'm really sorry to say that the answer lies deep in the collective stupidity of the American public. And also, the collective capitalistic brilliance of NBC's programming executives. You know- the same ones who fired Conan O'Brian so that testy, ancient, not- funny Jay Leno could (much like Jessica Simpson) stay employed. Reality shows mint money. The writing staffs are almost non- existant, the contestants don't get paid and of course Jessica Simpson, flanked on this show by hostess Elle McPherson who at least has some semblance of fashion credentials, and Nicole Richie, late of that ridiculous show with hotel non- heiress and professional party- goer Paris Hilton, probably works for low calorie meals and bottled water.

Furthermore, all the retailers get what amounts to free hour- long advertising. Keep in mind that during the great depression, stores and restaurants paid unemployed people to walk around with sandwich boards advertising their enterprises, as in "Eat at Joe's." Nowadays we've become so sheeplike we actually pay the retailers to put their trademarks on their wares, a la Nike, so we advertise for them, making them millions of dollars. And we wonder why we owe the Chinese so much money.

Any ad revenue that comes from "Fashion Star" is pure gravy. Gravy for the network.

And how do they get away with it? Well, this is where you come in, America. You watch this stuff. As long as you do,  they will continue to broadcast it.

Here's what is really going on, everyone. Little By Little, your hard- hitting fact- gathering blog has the inside scoop! The networks are run by aliens! Not the kind that used to have to register at the post office each year, but the actual, let's- invade- the- earth- and- eat- mankind- kind. Okay, I know that's too many "kind"s, but you get the point. The fact is, stupid people simply taste better than smart people. And nothing makes people stupider faster than television! I don't think anyone can argue with that. Even Rush Limbaugh is on television- there's a live feed of him doing his show every day!

So taken altogether, this drek has begun to lower the intelligence quotient quicker than a Martha Stewart souffle. Or a butter sculpture at a Paula Dean anti- diabetes rally in Atlanta in July!

Don't want to be eaten by aliens? Then stop watching stupid TV. Stop playing video games non- stop. Stop getting your news from Rupert Murdoch who, if he is not an actual alien, is certainly in their employ.

Start asking questions. Find out what your political candidates really stand for. Question everything! EVERYTHING!! Ask your doctor why he prescribed something. Ask your clergyman or religious authority figure what your particular Holy text really says. Try to grasp important concepts, like evolution or string theory.

If you do these things, you won't get eaten.

I promise!

Drawn With My Finger

...on a Kindle Fire.

The Fuccons

From If Charlie Parker Was a Gunslinger...

What the F***! Department:

Courtesy Confetta Ras, from a post by Ralph Carney:

Johnny Otis and Etta James

Etta James (Jamesetta Hawkins, January 25, 1938 – January 20, 2012) was fourteen years old when she auditioned for Johnny Otis in a San Francisco Hotel.

She had written an answer song to Hank Ballard's "Work with Me, Annie" called "Roll With Me, Henry." She and her friends the Michell sisters had a girl- singer trio called the Creolettes, and the oldest, Abye, set up the audition. Johnny Otis liked what he heard, and despite the girls' ages (Jean was also fourteen, her sister Abye, 23) took them under his wing, put them on the road and produced Etta's song, retitled, "The Wallflower."

On the road in the early days

 He also changed their name to the Peaches, and Jamesetta Hawkins became Etta James, nicknamed Peaches. Johnny Otis (Ioannis Alexandres Veliotes, December 28, 1921 – January 17, 2012) was many things: vibist, drummer, arranger, songwriter, producer, talent scout, entrepreneur, bandleader, dee- jay and farmer. More, probably. The son of Greek immigrants, he grew up in Los Angeles and embraced Black culture. Much like the newspaperman and essayist Lafcadio Hearn, who after moving from New Orleans to Japan adopted the Japanese culture as his own, Johnny Otis pretty much became a black man, albeit a somewhat light- skinned one, probably darker though than Don Robey of Dallas, who really was African- American.

 Like many zealous converts, he became an uber- black man: street king, hipster par excellence. He was famous for re-molding his discoveries: JamesEtta into Etta James, Johnny Watson into "Young" John Watson (later Johnny "Guitar" Watson), Gene "the Mighty Flea" Connors, "Pee Wee" Crayton- reinventing them as he went along, because, after all, wasn't he his own greatest reinvention? He produced their records, often wrote their songs, or at least got a co- credit, and booked them on the road. If you wanted to make it as an entertainer in black Los Angeles in the late '40's to mid '50's, you had to go through a swarthy Greek. He held the keys to that Kingdom for many years, and that's how Etta James started out.

Eventually, their lives diverged. Etta James went on to sign with Leonard Chess at Chess Records, had many hit records, recorded "At Last" (introduced by Glenn Miller in a 1942 movie), the theme song of "...every graduation, wedding and big event in this country," she said when I saw her at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in 2006.

At a later performance, after her massive weight loss

Otis never stopped playing, never stopped putting bands together or promoting new musicians, including his talented but troubled son Shuggie. He was featured briefly in Clint Eastwood's film, "Play Misty For Me" and the album of that performance, "Live at the Monterrey Jazz Festival" helped him get back into the public eye, albeit a whiter, younger eye than before. He maintained a high level of professionalism to the end of his performing days, and gained reknown as a painter and organic farmer, ever the classic renaissance man.

Fascinating lives, hard lives, intense lives, American success stories, real American success stories (as opposed to Horatio Alger, whoever he was). Etta, frustrated and proud to the end, unhappy with the President playing Beyonce's weak version of her song at the Inaugural. Johnny Otis, playing at his son's organic market on the weekends to sell- out crowds, despite the ultimate failure of the market itself.

Both gone now within seventy- two hours of one another. Starting together and somehow finishing together, with a lot of stories in- between.