01/31/05’s illustrious band:

Bordelloriffic!

Brought to you by the Varsity Theater.

On Friday night I headed in to Dinkytown, the cluster of shops and bars that serves the U of M west bank, to see my favorite noise musician Datura 1.0 perform. He was playing at the Varsity Theater, an old movie theater that has found new life in various incarnations that have included a photography studio and now a nightclub. The last time I saw Datura was in a cozy store basement where I sat a few feet from the speakers, so I was eager to experience his set in a larger venue with no "don't disturb the customers" volume restrictions. Noise music is meant to be noisy, for goodness' sake.

The Varsity turned out to have a dandy sound system, but it paled in comparison to the décor. The lobby is done up like an elegant dining room, and I'm told one can get food there. But it's when you pass through the double doors into the theater that the fun begins.

The first thing I noticed was the ginormous movie screen at the other end of the room, right where you'd expect a movie screen to be. Rear-projected images of planets and nebulae swirled across it, silhouetting the men on the low stage setting up their equipment. Cosmic wailing issued from the speakers, setting up a light ringing in the glasses on the bar at my elbow. Ceiling fixtures traced moving patterns of light on the floor, so that I was always looking out of the corner of my eye to see whether someone had just walked by.

Then I started to take in the rest of the room. There's another small stage in the center of the concrete floor with a small four-legged stool in each corner and a one-seater bench in the middle. My guess is that this is for clubgoers who wish to elevate the shaking of their groove thangs just a bit. Along the side walls, several panels of deep-red draperies hang from the ceiling and ripple faintly in the slight air currents.

Along each side of the room stretch two tiers of risers with five air mattresses on each level -- 10 on each side of the room, separated by small table lamps. Each air mattress is covered with a cheap quilted red satin duvet and topped with throw pillows of the same color. More small benches (Jackie Chan fighting benches, to those in the know) crouch at the feet of the "beds" to hold drinks. It's bordelloriffic!

It didn't take long for audience members to take advantage of the unique seating arrangements, lounging and sprawling and making themselves at home. People were very polite about it, though, carefully hanging their feet off the edge or taking their shoes off before climbing on up. I spent the evening on a lower-tier mattress, legs outstretched, leaning on a pillow propped against the upper tier, doing occasional ab crunches to reach my beer from the bench. The only drawback to this arrangement was that any time someone else sat down on my mattress, displaced air popped me up like the kid on the high end of a teeter-totter. Almost made me spill.

While people trickled in, the video display changed briefly to trailers from classic Disney movies. Since the sound remained as it was -- whalesong on acid -- the juxtaposition was jarring. It fit right in with the next film, Microcosmos, which is all extreme-close-up nature photography. Then some disturbing Kenneth Anger films came on, and I wished Old Yeller would return.

Datura's set, although he played for nearly half an hour, was too brief to suit me. Taking my ease on the cushions, hypnotized by the slowly rotating planets on the big screen behind him, I was entirely engulfed by the sound. The low-end buzz comforted, the high-end squeals challenged, and the just-right tones in between made my bones itch. Noise music by definition has neither rhythm nor tempo, so you can either fight the current or sit back and enjoy the ride, rocks, waterfalls, and all. I definitely enjoyed it.

Boring old fuddy-duddy that I am, I didn't stay long after Datura finished. I wanted to, but I was already yawning at 9:30, when the party was just getting started. If the other performances were half as engrossing, everyone else was in for a treat. I hope he plays there again. I want to go back.

Today around the world: January 31 is the Kerner's birthday. Happy birthday, Julie!

01/28/05’s illustrious band:

My Pal Al

Brought to you by my pal Al.

You know all the plumbing/sewer problems I've been having lately? Yes, more than you want to, I'm sure. Well, they're all solved now, thanks to my pal Al. Al is a plumbing and sewer professional, and he also happens to be my next-door neighbor. When I call the company he works for, I request him by name, and he makes my house his last stop of the day so he can just go home afterward. Although he's about 6'2" and at least 210 lbs, he can fold himself into my cramped equipment nook like human origami. He works quickly and efficiently, he cleans up after himself, and he's nice to my cats. He also routinely adjusts the work order to my financial advantage -- but don't tell his boss.

As if that weren't excellence enough, tonight he called me and said, "I think I've figured out your problem. I was discussing it with my wife, and we remembered that two owners ago, there was such-and-such a setup in the house . . ." Long story short, he found the trickle of water that was moving so slowly down the pipes that it had time to freeze. He redirected the drip (a natural function of the furnace) to a bucket (which he supplied) that I'll have to empty periodically. He's had other clients with the same situation, and this ended their troubles, so he's pretty sure it will work for me. And if Al recommends it, I'm happy to do it. A bucket! So simple!

Incidentally, and apropos of nothing, Al has a treehouse. Yeah. I heard some construction next door last summer and peeped over the fence, and Al was building a treehouse. I'm not sure what it's for; there's not much to see in the suburban neighborhood, even from 15 feet off the ground. The structure appears to be barely larger than a phone booth -- remember phone booths? -- but solid. I'm thinking of baking him some cookies when the weather gets nicer in hopes of getting invited up the tree. Meanwhile, his wife Jayne frequently plies my cats with homegrown catnip. They're just about the nicest sort of neighbors you could hope to have. Stop by sometime and I'll introduce you.

Today around the world: January 28 is Democracy Day in Rwanda. Rock the vote!

01/27/05’s illustrious band:

The Current

Brought to you by Minnesota Public Radio.

Minnesota Public Radio has done the unthinkable: It has created a hip public radio station. The new station, 89.3 FM, is called the Current. According to the web site, its playlists will focus on "the best, authentic new music alongside music that explores roots and influences. The Current has a special emphasis on local musicians and groups, and will play local music in every hour. The Current will establish deep ties to the local music community and will serve as a positive force in building the creative economy of Minnesota. There will be no commercials on 89.3."

Did you hear that? A contemporary-music station with no commercials. No commercials! It's already my new favorite, and it's only been in operation for a few days. I've already heard my favorite morning show there (moved from its old home at 99.5) and a past favorite DJ who disappeared from my radar when her old station was bought out and reformatted. The Current will definitely be getting some monetary support from me.

Speaking of things that are current, check out the lead item in today's online version of the St. Paul Pioneer Press Bulletin Board. Actually, you've already seen it; it's my "Goodnight, Johnny" piece from Monday. Yes, I write for a magazine and see my words in print all the time, but they're my serious journalistic words, not my more heartfelt or playful ones. So this is a nice step outside the box. And my 15 minutes of fame are already up.

Warning! Kinda gross!

I'm glad the current is still flowing someplace, because it wasn't at Sensational Acres last night. Al the sewer guy came over to try and remedy my slow-drainage problem but could not. He said I need Steam Jet Guy to come back on Friday and unfreeze what's frozen. Meanwhile, whatever Al did knocked loose enough chunks to take me from slow drainage to none, which meant that I couldn't flush last night. Ack! Al returned to remedy that problem today, but I still have to wait until Friday for the complete cure. Ah, the joys of solo homeownership . . . not.

Today around the world: January 27 is National Activity Professionals Day in the U.S.

01/26/05’s illustrious band:

Big Red Car

Brought to you by various writers, including me.

First of all, thanks to everyone who replied so kindly to Monday's piece about Dad and Johnny Carson. At the suggestion of Grassmaster Amy, I sent it to the reader-submission section of the local paper (the Bulletin Board feature in the St. Paul Pioneer Press). I got an e-mail back from the section editor almost immediately that included the word "wonderful," along with a few edits, so chances are it'll be printed soon. No guarantees, of course; I'll let you know. However, that editor has been kind to me before. I like him. I'm assuming that someday soon he will see the light and magically make me a highly paid syndicated columnist, and I'll do nothing but sit around on my dimpled derriere and blog all day. Yep. Happens all the time.

In the meantime, as a reward for your hard reading work, click here. This advice column is brilliant. I'm not pointing it out because people have been pressuring me to date. On the contrary, my friends and family have been unfailingly supportive of my dating situation, whether it was good, bad, or nonexistent. I want you to read this because it's excellent writing, and excellent advice, and excellent fun.

Today around the world: January 26 is Foundation Day in Brazil, when all citizens apply a base coat of makeup to their faces.

01/24/05’s illustrious band:

Good night, Johnny

Brought to you by the late Johnny Carson.

Johnny Carson died over the weekend. This makes me very sad. Johnny was like an older, less famous version of my Dad, who died almost exactly four years ago. People would show these men anything, including their pets and their stupid stunts, and tell them anything, because they always responded with graceful good humor. The point was always to share the laugh, not make someone the butt of it. "Amuse, don't abuse," Dad always said. Johnny held court behind his desk on national TV, while Dad did it at the coffee table in his small-town drugstore. They both had a decent golf swing, but Johnny had a better bandleader. Other than that, they were pretty similar.

I grew up watching Johnny on The Tonight Show, and his tutelage, along with Dad's, has everything to do with my own present ability to spin a yarn, deliver a punchline, and make droll faces when it's someone else's joke. I pretty much stopped watching the show in 1992 when Johnny retired and Jay Leno took over. Leno lacks the suave confidence Johnny brought to his role of host. He's desperate for the laughs, not sure of them, and uncomfortable to watch.

When I was a teenager, my parents let me sleep in the basement of our house during summers to escape the heat of my upstairs bedroom. It was like having my own apartment, complete with a separate entrance (through which it never occurred to me to sneak out, and what would I have done anyway?) and, best of all, a TV. It was a tiny black and white TV, but it got NBC, and that was all that mattered. I'd stay awake grown-up late on the nubby old couch waiting for Johnny's slightly off-kilter start time, 10:35, to roll around. I watched him deadpan his way through current events, Hollywood fluff, and ridiculous skits, absorbing his flawless timing and his ability to turn even a failed gag into a laugh. He always managed to the make the audience his accomplice; you wanted to laugh with Johnny. Heck, you'd laugh before the punchline just because you knew he'd deliver. It was a great lesson in leadership.

Like Dad, who always welcomed new businessmen to town even when they were his competitors, Johnny was generous with newcomers. He launched the careers of numerous young comedians -- Leno, Letterman, Seinfeld, Roseanne -- who still measure their success in number of appearances on his show. He supported the old guard as well, giving radio and vaudeville stars access to a whole new audience from his stage. He made people look good even when he didn't have to, and they loved him for it. We all loved him for it.

Johnny didn't just showcase comedy, either. I first saw the King's Singers on The Tonight Show and sat open-mouthed through their a cappella arrangements of Beatles hits. I've been an a cappella fan ever since. I saw the Gypsy Kings for the first time there, too, and realized I'd been missing a whole world's worth of great music. I even saw post-modern mime, of all things (Mumnenschanz). Where else was a small-town girl supposed to get this stuff?

Johnny Carson's final exit means the passing of more than an individual; it's truly the end of the era of late-night TV hosting that he pioneered. Folksy good humor and the art of the anecdote -- staples of Dad's coffee klatch -- are mostly things of the past, replaced by faux edginess and product placement. As always, his timing is impeccable. He's left us laughing, and wanting more.

Today around the world: January 24 is Economic Liberation Day in Togo in western Africa.

01/21/05’s illustrious band:

Spock's Beard

Brought to you by one of my new favorite blogs, Sci Fi Daily, where hosts Bill and Greg discuss all things science fictional.

I'm on a geek streak, ladies and gentlemen. (As if you needed telling.) In today's edition of Sci Fi Daily, host Bill mentioned having run across a reference to a rock band called Spock's Beard -- so unlike most BND bands, this is a real one. The band's name comes from the classic Star Trek episode "Mirror, Mirror," in which Kirk and a couple other lucky crew members are transported into a parallel universe. In the mirror universe, they're not the good guys anymore, and you can tell Spock is an especially tough customer because he has a goatee. Ooh, dangerous facial hair!

Since Spock was always my favorite character and I'm always looking for interesting new bands, naturally I had to follow this up.

Spock's Beard looks like your basic small-time band. It's unclear quite what type of music they play, although it involves the standard guitar, bass, drums, and keyboard, as well as more exotic instruments like the cello, theremin, and saw. The musicians all appear to be over 30, maybe over 35. They have a nice web site, a funky logo, albums for sale, and a tour calendar heavy on European venues. I'm too cheap to spring for a CD, especially with my player still on the fritz, but I'm sure it's grand.

Moral of the story: Read sci-fi and expand your mind in all directions.

Today around the world: January 21 is Feast of the Sacrifice (Festival of the Sheep) in Cameroon. Spock would not have participated in the sacrificing of a sheep; Vulcans are vegetarian.

01/20/05’s illustrious band:

Nerd Power

Brought to you by the American Nerd Association.

Know how I go to DorkFest -- excuse me, MarsCon -- every March to commune with other science fiction/fantasy fans? This year a friend of mine has suggested that I take part in a panel discussion on what it means to be a nerd in America today. I'm such a nerd that the prospect actually appeals to me. Not for the opportunity to scam hot guys; this is a sci-fi con we're talking about. But I wouldn't mind finding out what other socially inept dorks have to say about their lot in life.

There can be no doubt of my qualifications; I spent my first 15 minutes in the office yesterday discussing the relative merits of the classic Star Trek movies, complete with references to directors, actors, TV episodes, and obscure characters. (Wrath of Khan rules!) We segued into X-Files territory, and it was the same thing. Do you know who the Lone Gunmen are? I do. Did you know that one of them -- Dean Haglund, who played power nerd Ringo Langly -- showed up on Tim Allen's comedy series Home Improvement? I did.

And one Halloween, when I was just a little nerd, but more than a little nerdy, I dressed as Princess Leia because my hair was long enough to form her signature hair donuts. OK, let's be honest: My hair was long enough for Mother Media to form it into donuts. I just sat there in my white gown and complained that she was pulling it too tight.

I am so qualified for a nerd seminar. I need to get in touch with chief nerd Dan and see if this thing is happening for real. I'll let you know.

And would you please let me know? If you have any ideas you'd like to see addressed in BND, pass them along, whether it's a catchy word, a phrase, a topic, or a whole essay. Guest bloggers welcome. No idea too small.

Today around the world: January 20 is Inauguration Day in the U.S. Let's start GWB's second term off right with a big "no comment" on the cheese dip being served at one of the many inauguration parties.

01/19/05’s illustrious band:

What the Pig Meant

Brought to you by Grassmaster Amy.

Grassmaster Amy was at the hair salon recently, and the stylist remarked that she had some depigmented hairs.

"What kind of hairs?" Amy asked.

"Depigmented."

"Depigmented?"

"These," the stylist said, indicating a couple grey strands.

"Oh!"

"But," continued the stylist, "we could always repigment them if you like."

"Repig -- ? You mean dye them?"

"Um, yes."

Gotta love euphemism.

Anyway. The plumbing update you've all been waiting for: still flushing. Huzzah! But the tub is still draining slowly, so I think it might be time to have the rotorooter guy come over anyway. He can redeobstruct my pipes. Or something like that.

Today around the world: January 19 is Arafa in Afghanistan.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

01/17/05’s illustrious band:

Feeling Flush

Brought to you by Old Man Winter, that unfriendly wretch.

Remember last winter, when temperatures plummeted and there was too little snow on the ground to insulate sewage pipes beneath? And remember how I had some serious drainage problems when my pipes partially froze? And how I had to have the nice sewer man with the super steam jet gun come over and give the system a cleansing?

Well, it's rerun time. The plumbing is a bit clogged, and while we haven't yet reached the point where flushing the toilet is a bad idea altogether, you want to make sure there's no water waiting to drain from the tub before you do it. When I checked in at lunchtime, things were OK, and I left a trickle of warm water running. I hope that the higher temperatures scheduled for the rest of the week will keep things from getting any worse; I'd like to make it to the next thaw without another steam enema. I'll check again on my way to class after work, just to make sure.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed -- and my legs, too, if necessary. Meanwhile, see if these these campy campers don't warm your heart.

Today around the world: January 17 is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

01/13/05’s illustrious band:

Gap Year

Brought to you by wanderlust.

The "gap year" is a growing phenomenon among high school graduates who choose to take a year off before entering college. Most spend it traveling, working, or volunteering, and generally decompressing from the hectic schedules and pressures of completing their senior year and applying to colleges. Students, parents, and college officials report that students who take a gap year arrive at school more refreshed and focused than those who matriculate straight out of high school.

Cool, right? A gap year wasn't even considered as an option when I graduated, so my big question is, can I have one now? Well, I guess it would be called a sabbatical now that I'm old. I'd still like to explore the world a bit, though. I'd be willing to work my passage, and I have plenty of work experience to bring to the table. Just for a year, or half a year. And then I'd meekly return to my cubicle. Or maybe I wouldn't.

Question: If you could take a gap year, where would you go and what would you do?

Today around the world: January 13 is Defenders of Freedom Day in Lithuania. Thank you, veterans everywhere.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

01/11/05’s illustrious band:

Waiting for Altman

Brought to you by Big Sean and the Big Apple.

My second day in New York dawned latish after Saturday night's revels. The General and I cleaned up, grabbed brunch, and set off for a walk through Central Park in crisp winter sunshine. Plenty of people had come out to stroll and skate even on a chilly day, but the park still seemed very serene. I loved it. And I love having points of reference now for all the books I've read that are set in New York City.

Leaving the park, we ducked into a salon for manicures and pedicures -- my first ever. (Cotton candy pink, in case you're wondering.) To dry the polish, we sat for a while at a counter along the front window, our hands and toes under air jets. When I was deemed smudgeproof, the nice lady swathed the toe ends of both feet in plastic wrap to further protect against the rigors of sock and shoe re-entry. I forgot it was there and left it on for the rest of the afternoon.

After a brief stop back at the Jenga apartment, we took the subway to bookworm heaven: the Strand, a multistory independent used bookstore whose slogan is "18 miles of books." And they're not kidding. We spent nearly an hour browsing just the main floor, touching everything from books containing artisan wrapping paper to histories of typography to used Star Trek novels. Surprisingly, I didn't buy any books -- too many to choose from! -- but I did come away with a sweatshirt.

Then came food and a wardrobe change (I removed the plastic wrap from my toes, as it had gotten damp and squinchy rambling around the Strand) and discussion of the night's entertainment. I had originally planned to leave New York on Sunday morning, but the General had learned, after those plans were made, that Sean Altman would be performing on Sunday night. Sean is the former front man of Rockapella, the band that drew me to town in the first place, and a solo performer not to be missed. So I spent a total of nearly four hours on hold with Travelocity's customer "service" line around Christmastime trying to change my plane reservation. After all that, I thought, Sean had better be damn good.

Upon closer reading of his gig description, however, it appeared that Sean wasn't doing an actual solo show, but rather appearing in a booking showcase, an event in which numerous performers do 30-minute auditions for booking agents in hopes of landing future work. Well, half an hour of Sean is better than none, and we could hit the Statten Island Ferry for a view of the Statue of Liberty afterward. Once we sorted out some confusion about the address (wrong on Sean's web site), we grabbed a cab and headed for the show.

Incidentally, did you know that in Manhattan you can simply step outside and wave your hand and a cab will appear? It's like magic! You don't even have to call ahead! And a ride even of several minutes won't cost you $20. It's more like $6. Split between two riders, that's . . . downright cheap. The Twin Cities really should look into getting a system like this. It kicks butt.

Anyway.

Sean's January 9 mini-show: Waiting for Altman

Verdict: Worth the wait.

The next couple hours were full of stories before we toddled of to various modes of public transportation, home, and too-early alarms. We never did make it to the ferry. The music of the concerts was good, and the music of laughter was better. A Manhattan toast to my homeawayfromhomegirls, Laura and Rachel: Thank you. Let's do it again sometime.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

Sean's January 9 mini-show: Waiting for Altman

The cab dropped us at the Hilton hotel. We made our way up to the second floor, and it was like walking into a Christopher Guest movie. Waiting for Altman. The dozen or so conference rooms on that floor had all been set aside for the APAP showcase, so the area teemed with performers, promoters, helpers, and hangers-on. Aspiration and perspiration hung thick in the air. We passed, among others: guitarists in all stages of scruffiness, from "His that a homeless person?" to "Look, a leprechaun;" a tiny lady wheeling a huge harp; bald, shirtless breakdancers in baggy pants and suspenders; Broadway babies with stage parents in tow; Jeff Thacher; a country-western duo decked out like drugstore cowboys; fly girls (backup dancers) with striped stockings, chunky hair, dirty kneepads, and makeup to spare; a squad of buff young men in kilts and sassy t-shirts; and Sean's wife Inna. But no Sean.

"It's like being backstage at a show choir competition," said the General. The two of us tried desperately to think up an act just so we could get access to the warm-up areas. Does Rockapella need fly girls?

Weaving our way to the end of the hallway, we spotted the room in which Sean was scheduled to appear. It was occupied by a brass ensemble oompahing out the longest wedding/birthday/barmitzvah/Oktoberfest medley in the history of music. Beating a hasty retreat, we nearly backed over Six, whom we'd talked with the night before. The three of us clustered, a small island of sanity in the surreal swirl. The conversation consisted mostly of "Did you see -- ?"

We also snagged a couple of promotional flyers, on which Sean is listed as the former front man of Rockapella and the songwriter responsible for "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" Personally, I think the man should stop trading on the Rockapella name already and call himself the Groovebarbers' front man, because what is Rockapella but the GBs' farm team, anyway? (That's a joke, by the way.)

At last we spotted the man of the hour -- not difficult to do as he cut down the hall, all cheekbones and piercing eyes in head-to-toe rock star black. He had bootleg CDs of other performances in his hands (he'd promised one to any fan who showed up) and a worried expression on his face. More fans than CDs, apparently. Still, our trio was close enough to the head of the line to score one apiece. Then he disappeared. The brass band was packing up, so we figured it he'd gone in to prep for his set.

We spotted a nearly empty table at the front of the conference room, occupied solely by a slouchy, shaggy guy in ill-fitting khakis. Exchange of looks: Geek alert! Were we just transported to a science fiction convention? Our fears were realized when Socially Obtuse Boy began blathering at us before we'd even set our purses down. He didn't offer to scoot over so we could all sit together, so the General wedged a chair in between him and me. His Female Proximity Alert went off then, and he finally budged. The SOB kept talking. So did we. Not to him.

Soon Sean was introduced by a man in a bad Buffalo Bill getup. Sean's shadowy sidekick was not, but we knew from the web site that it was his frequent coconspirator Julian Maile. They launched right into a song that consisted largely of the singing of Sean's praises and the spelling of Sean's name, hanging on a melodic hook I thought I recognized from a previous (and equally catchy) composition. He managed to tread the fine line between straight-up earnestness and sly self-awareness and stop just this side of obnoxious. S-E-A-N A-L-T-M-A-N. SEAN. Yes, I think the booking agents remembered it. I still can't stop chanting it.

Though short, it wasn't an easy set. There was a wardrobe malfunction when a guitar strap went flapping during an instrument changeover, and Sean managed to break not one but two strings about halfway through his 30 minutes. He called upon Buffalo Bill to entertain us with some bullwhip stunts while he restrung. Bad idea. For one thing, I've seen better whip cracking. (And yes, that was at a sci-fi convention.) For another, a dim, cramped hotel conference room is a lousy place for feats of accuracy; the lash licked Six's shoe, nearly sending her into my lap.

Bill was mercifully brief, and Sean returned to the stage. Well, the carpet. He invited anyone familiar with "The Notion of You" to sing the backup vocals, sort of reverse karaoke. Our SOB immediately began clearing his throat and warning us that his voice wasn't really the right range for the song, but he'd do his best. Fortunately, Sean's ragged guitar drowned him out.

Sean's lovely wife Inna, an opera singer by trade, joined him for a Buddy Hollyesque ditty called "Don't You Leave Me." She was not drowned out. Inna is the poo, I'm telling you. And Mr. Rock Star appears tightly wrapped around her petite finger.

Then it was time for the song I'd prayed I'd hear, the surf-rock anthem "Taller than Jesus." Sean, 6'4" when fully moussed, is indeed much taller than Our Savior could have been, given the average height of His day. Jesus may have turned water into wine, but when it comes to changing light bulbs, Sean is divine. Amen. After the weirdness of the hallway hopefuls, the errant whip, and the SOB, this struck me as the funniest thing I'd heard in ages.

And then he was done. We spilled into the hall to regroup. The SOB vultured over our little group until Six asked him, "Who are you, anyway?" She stepped forward to hear him over the chatter around us, and I've never seen a man backpedal so fast. As he mumbled a name, we turned away to watch Sean approach.

Sean worked the crowd with practiced efficiency, autographing an album for me while talking with Six and scanning for bookers. Then he sailed on, and we started looking for an exit. We needed drinks, stat. We started walking. The SOB followed. We bid him good night and changed direction. The SOB followed. Finally we loudly proclaimed we were going to the ladies' room and darted around a corner. He did not follow, and we made it outside unmolested.

Verdict: Worth the wait.

01/11/05’s illustrious band:

Thank You

I don't have time for a proper blog today, but I did want to let everyone know that January 11 is International Thank-you Day. So thank you for reading BND and letting me know what you think of it.

Stay tuned tomorrow to hear about my second day in New York, including a performance that blended a spelling lesson, religion, and bullwhips. Seriously. You don't want to miss this. I'm sure glad I didn't.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

01/10/05’s illustrious band:

I Heart NY

Brought to you by the General and the Big Apple.

"I have tickets to see Rockapella in Manhattan on January 8. I have an extra. I think you should come."

So read the e-mail I got from the General, Pen Pal Numero Uno, a couple weeks before Christmas. Once I cleaned up the puddle under my chair, I wrote back to say OK, I'd go. It was as simple as that.

I rolled out of bed at the ungodly hour of 3:45 a.m. on Saturday, Jan. 8, to shower and eat before catching a Super Shuttle ride to the airport. It was supposed to arrive by 4:55 a.m. but did not, so I called them. Turns out the driver had had a problem of some kind and they'd been trying to call me, but I had given them my cell phone number and the phone was not turned on. Oops! They sent a cab instead, and I was off and running. Well, more like dozing. But I was off.

I arrived at the airport early enough for a nap and caught several more ZZZs on the plane, so I was wide awake by the time we landed at La Guardia. Never having visited New York City before, I was all agog. I had plenty of time to gog as the shuttle wound its way through Manhattan, dropping off other passengers on the way to the General's bunker on the Upper West Side. The route included Park Avenue, Broadway, and Central Park, so I got half my tour out of the way before even reaching her front door.

The General lives on what might as well be Sesame Street, a narrow byway lined with multistory prewar brownstones with worn steps and pigeons out front. Nervously I pressed the buzzer to gain admittance to her building. We had never met in person before, so I had first-date jitters. My fears proved groundless, however, as the General gave me a warm welcome.

I'd had plenty of warning that the apartment, while marvelously located, was very small. I soon discovered that what she meant by "very small" was very small. As in 10 x 15 feet small, plus a loft/shelf for her mattress. Futon and closet along one wall, junior-sized kitchen (sink, stove, fridge, cupboards) and fold-down table along the other. Window; ceiling fan; done. Bathroom? Down the hall and to the right, shared with other residents of that floor. Me? Suddenly very, very large. Good thing I packed light. The necessity to stack belongings inside and on top of one another has lead the General to christen her digs the Jenga apartment, like the game in which you try to remove strips of wood from a stack without toppling the whole tower.

Actually, I liked the apartment quite a bit. It was cozy, but everything was within reach. There's something comforting about a room that has its arms around you like that, especially in a big scary city like New York. Plus, we didn't plan to spend my whole 48 hours in town tripping over each other in there. As soon as I'd tossed my bag under the table, we donned hats against the drizzle and hit the streets.

And what streets they are. I expected to be wigged out by the hustle and bustle, such a contrast to my quiet suburban existence, but I wasn't. There was a lot of foot traffic because there were actual stores people could walk to -- stores that weren't part of huge conglomerate chains, nor housed in flat, fat sprawls devoted to the automobile. Or perhaps the people were walking the few blocks from the handy public transportation to their apartments, stacked neatly above the shops. My home metro area lacks anything resembling this kind of urban planning, so I was fascinated by the contrast.

Also, New Yorkers are friendlier than Minnesotans. Sorry, but it's true. Aware of the need to get along with their elbow-to-elbow neighbors, New Yorkers, or at least Manhattanites, have decided that cordiality is the way to keep things moving smoothly. Which means that they'll actually make eye contact and speak to you. I've lived in Minnesota for 11.5 years without feeling any similar sense of community. Nobody got up in my face as we strolled up Broadway, but they didn't pretend I didn't exist simply because we hadn't know each other since preschool, either. In fact, I had a rather lengthy discussion about Brazilian voting laws with a woman who sold me some postcards, the General gave a lost lady directions to the subway, and the waiter at a café we visited twice recognized us on the second visit. That was refreshing.

After a just-right diner lunch and chat about our favorite band, we returned to the apartment. We had intended to go back out for some more sightseeing, but never quite got around to it, opting instead to continue the gabfest. And check e-mail, of course. We're both such geeks! The General checked her mail while I called Mom to let her know I'd arrived safely, and I checked mine while she returned a call. It was a perfectly normal and natural part of the day for both of us, kind of like the siesta is in some cultures. What does that make our tech break, an e-esta?

Then it was time to pretty up for the concert. I've caught a bit of flack for traveling all that way just to see a little ol' Rockapella concert, but here's the deal: I didn't travel all that way just to see a Rockapella concert. I went to see my friend the General, and the city, and some other online buddies, and Sean Altman's Sunday night performance . . . and Rockapella. The concert itself was the icing on a very rich cake.

We arrived at the venue in good time, thanks to an expedient cab ride, and found our seats right away. (Actually, we found somebody else's seats on the first go, thanks to the usher. D'oh!) They were toward the top of the smallish house, a better distance from the stage than either of us had been at previous concerts, and we could see everything perfectly.

Then I spotted another e-friend, Six, down front and trotted off to introduce myself. This turned out to be the rosette on the icing on my cake, as we ended up visiting not only after the show, but before and after the following night's performance as well. It's always dicey mixing cyberlife with real life, but we all got along great in person. Much more common ground than not. I now think of Six and the General as my home away from homegirls. I had hoped to see Lexi there, too, but didn't

The concert was fantastic. The meet and greet was fun, too. Click here for details.

After the meet and greet, the General and I bid Six farewell and hit the bricks in search of a nightcap. We ended up near Times Square at a little pub called the Film Society, where I drank, as I had promised myself I would, a Manhattan in Manhattan. We hoofed it back to the apartment, since it really wasn’t far, and spent far too much time comparing favorite web sites late into the night.

Tomorrow: The real, the surreal, and a toast to new friends

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Rockapella concert at Florence Gould Hall

I was excited for this show because I hadn't yet heard all the new material with the new guy in the lineup. I'd seen John in the Christmas concert in Madison in December and hadn't gotten much of an impression of him one way or the other. Since I want to like him, this was my (and his) big chance.

There was a bit of a stutter step during the opening remarks. Scott began his usual introduction of who Rockapella is and how they produce their signature sound, emphasizing that all percussive effects come from Jeff. However, when he went to describe Jeff's Sound Spots throat pickups, they were . . . not there. Scott stopped in mid-point. "Oh, so, uh, you don't have them tonight?" Jeff, busy laying down the beat, just shook his head and tapped a nonexistent wristwatch.

So the show went on for its first few numbers with Jeff using only a hand mic. He sounded good, though the beefy bass thumps were missing. Soon, however, after spending a song offstage -- "California Sad-Eyed Girl?" "Lazy River?" -- he returned with Spots on, jacket off, and sleeves rolled for some serious work on "Use Me." Question: Does Jeff ever miss a beat? I've heard, and heard of, goofs by everyone but him.

My verdict on the new additions to the set list is in: mostly thumbs up. "California Sad-Eyed Girl" doesn't do much for me (yet), but "Rock the Boat" certainly delivers. Nice song, I thought as John began it. This guy is growing on me. Then George took over the lead and I jolted upright in my chair. OH! I realized. This song is about SEX! Uh, yeah. Part I was pretty much the Gospel According to John. Part II was all about sin. Personally, I'd prefer to sin first and pray for forgiveness later. Rock on, George.

Amendment to previous review: Remember how I said last time that John looks like Carlton from Fresh Prince? Well, now I think he looks like a scale model of MadTV comedian Aries Spears.

Anyway, back to the new songs. Soon it was time for someone to go get a Beg Lady, and Kevin practically stage-dove into the audience. Question: Is Aries -- er, John -- no longer the picker? Kev quickly came up with Sue, who, to the surprise of many, was (A) old enough to drink and (B) modestly attired in seasonally appropriate clothes. He cleared up that mystery immediately, though. "You wore this to the concert and thought you wouldn't get pulled up onstage?" he asked, fingering Sue's fuzzy, nubbly knitted poncho. The whole band spent a few minutes raptly stroking, patting, and fondling the wrap. Geez, you would have thought someone had just given them a puppy.

Once they could focus again, it was time to introduce Sue to the guys. Kevin's, Scott's, and John's hellos went as usual. Then Kevin introduced Jeff, "the man with the strong tongue." It took everyone quite a while to recover from that. After a few tries, the band undraped themselves from the microphone stands they'd been clutching for support and carried on. But even the big G-Man's subsonic greeting couldn't compete with that.

Next Kevin asked Sue what she does for a living. "Do you really want to know?" she asked. Yes he did. Sue sighed. You could see the wheels turning: Should I lie? She didn't. "I'm a kickboxing instructor," she said.

Four men took a giant step back. The fifth, however -- the one with the intact testicles, apparently -- knelt beside Sue's chair and pretended to lick her hand with his notorious tongue.

And then Kevin, recovering from being dumbfounded, made a series of distressingly sexist remarks, all along the lines of "Guess we know who wears the pants in your marriage" and " I fear you, dangerous woman!" Question: When the HELL are people going to get over turning a woman with any kind of personal power into an object of fear and ridicule? Being a martial artist myself, I run into that brand of ignorance all the time, and let me tell you, it isn't cute and it isn't funny. Why do you think Sue was reluctant to reveal her job? She didn't want to deal with precisely that tired old crap. She was a very good sport about it, though. Better than I’m being.

What was funny was Scott starting to improvise "Kung Fu Fighting," Jeff right behind him with a beat. Those cats are fast as lightning. I would really enjoy hearing an arrangement of that song. I would also have enjoyed a lengthier jam session, but I think Scott ran out of lyrics.

Anyway. I have the set list quite out of order, but it's worth noting that they threw in several Christmas tunes for the benefit of the booking agents in the audience (yeah, the ones Kevin probably shocked with that tongue business). "Glow Worm" was one of them. I'll go on the record as saying that I do not like John's Glow Worm Shuffle soft-shoe routine. Some of the dancing stuff really works, like the suave, cocky Temptations-esque turns and slides. And some of it doesn't, like the shuffle and the happyslappy thing. The last time I saw something like that, the dancers were wearing lederhosen and I was drinking beer from a stein the size of a mailbox. But this Rocktoberfest ain't happenin'.

Also not happenin': "Zombie Jamboree" and Kevin's Speedo speech. A number of fans have yellow-carded both. Just add me to the list. The only thing that saved the Speedo routine from cringeville this time was the guy in the row behind us, who had participated at a previous concert and been dubbed Speedo Man by Kevin. He was so excited to be reconnecting with his close personal friend on the stage that his buddies had to coach him, loudly, on what color Speedo to claim he wore (blue).

I'm not deliberately picking on Kevin. I swear I’m not. I love his voice and the sweet warmth he brings to the group. But somebody has got to write him some better material -- or better yet, can the script and let him wing it. Yes, you might get another Beg Lady incident. But you might get another strong tongue one, too.

Back to things that do work. Like George's chocolate milk monologue. When he mimes singing in the shower, well, never has a shower felt so dirty! And that falsetto is just as devastating as his low end. I mean, the low end of his vocal range. Aw, shoot. He's worked me into a lather again.

Question: Where is Jeff's chocolate milk monologue? It's not as if he's the designated nonspeaking band member; it's not Penn & Penn & Penn & Penn & Teller up there. Jeff tosses off some of the funniest ad libs in the group -- funny enough to off-balance Scott, whose wit is as agile as his voice. So why not chat us up a bit? Afraid of wrecking the vp mystique? Too late; his cover is already blown by singing in a voice so clear it refracts light. Come on, let's make it five for five.

And speaking of Jeff singing: The encores were terrific, as always. I can't get enough of that off-mic sound. It just reinforces how effortlessly good these guys really are. Also, the crowd started the "We Are the Champions" stomp-stomp-clap to call one of the encores, and we were treated to a few measures of the song. That's another one I bet they could polish up. In their abundant free time, of course.

Final note: There's still an Elliott-shaped hole in the harmony for me, but it's not the gaping wound it once was. Now it's more like the gap left by a lost tooth. Something familiar is gone, but something new is growing in to take its place. It's not fully formed yet. But it's getting there.

The meet and greet

The m&g at FGH was a jumbled affair held at the base of the stairs leading into the concert hall. Loitering with the General and Six, I'm told I was nearly mowed down by Jeff's brother as he joined the scrum. I didn't see him at the time, but had no trouble picking him out of the throng when I turned around.

Fans were clustered around the CD table, hoping for the band to come out, but there was nowhere to seat them. So the guys worked the crowd instead. Can't say I minded having handsome, talented men approaching me one after the other. Jeff charged down the line first, Sharpie at the ready, and I suddenly felt bad about not having anything for him to sign. But there was no program for the evening, and I didn't care to fumble out an album with only four of the five current members on it, so I had to settle for a big smile. Twice.

It pays to hang with the right people, though; I got to bask while my cohorts visited briefly with Scott and John. Kevin and George were too trapped to make it to our little knot, unfortunately. So we headed out into the night and walked off our show buzz in the dazzle of Times Square.

01/07/05’s illustrious band:

Fan Dance

Not much time for blogging today; I'm preparing for tonight's semi-impromptu kung fu demonstration and tomorrow's trip to New York, where I'll get my groupie groove on.

Oh, didn't I mention that I'm going to the Big Apple to see both Rockapella and one of its former members in concert? Well, I am. So I'm off to pack. Tops on the list: good socks for walking and good markers for collecting autographs. See you next week!

Today around the world: You're celebrating Christmas today if you're Russian Orthodox. Merry Christmas!

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Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

01/05/05’s illustrious band:

Whoopie Couch

Brought to you by Chef Jeff.

The big, fat, squashy maroon couch that serves as headquarters in the living room here at Sensational Acres has seen better days. The back cushions slump more than anyone leaning against them does, and the bottom sags worse than Fat Albert's. When the movers wedged the couch through the front door of the Acres, something snapped, and the center support has been a bit lax ever since.

The couch is at least 10 years old, probably more. El Pendejo and I acquired it during the first year of our acquaintance. A coworker of his was about to throw it away because it didn't match the décor in her new home, so he offered to buy it from her -- without consulting his chief financial adviser, namely me. I think he bargained her down to about $300, and we were so broke that it still took us six months to pay her in full. We already had a maroonish couch, and I did not think that we needed another at the time. However, when we split, I kept the newer, plusher couch, and he got the ugly old granny settee he brought to the union, so I'm not complaining. (For those keeping score at home, I also kept the big TV, the good computer, the better vehicle, both cats, the good china, and oh yeah, the house. Not that such material things matter, of course.)

Anyway. Chef Jeff christened my sofa the Whoopie Couch when it made a very, shall we say, distinctive sound when he sat on it during his recent visit. Most unusual. The closer you sit to the middle, the whoopier it gets. It also tends to settle unexpectedly, as it did once when Princess Jocelyn's travel seat was sitting on it. Just a little tectonic shift, but enough to make her wide little eyes even wider. Ours, too.

Despite its faults, the Whoopie Couch is the best reading/video watching/napping couch ever: soft, and with armrests low enough to act as headrests without straining your neck. And it's wide enough for two people to nap together if they're so inclined. One of the more positive remnants of the marriage. Whoopie!

Today around the world: January 5 is Twelfth Night.

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01/04/05’s illustrious band:

Things that Don't Go with Watermelon

Brought to you by watermelon, a summertime treat that weighs heavily on my mind during these cold winter days. Whether it's due to a mismatch of taste, texture, or aroma, the following things don't go with watermelon:

• aspirin
  
• barbeque sauce
  
• Cheez Whiz
  
• demiglace
  
• eel
  
• frankfurters
  
• gravy
  
• horseradish
  
• ice milk
  
• Jerusalem artichoke
  
• kashi
  
• lentil stew
  
• mustard
  
• Nerds candy
  
• oatmeal
  
• peanut butter
  
• quiche
  
• ranch dressing
  
• sushi
  
• tahini
  
• unpasteruized dairy products
  
• venison
  
• wasabi
  
• xanthan gum
  
• yams
  
• zucchini
  

Today around the world: January 4 is Trivia Day in the U.S.A.

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