http://www.elimae.com/archive2010.html

Many thanks to Kim Chinquee for making it happen.

As we approach the end of the decade, I think back to December 31, 1999 and two images dominate: the smiling crooner of “Mambo No. 5” and Peter Jennings’ sweep of midnights across the globe.

In the months leading up to the New Millennium, a Lou Bega sighting could happen anywhere, including on a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float.  Fueled by an Internet-powered surge, stock markets were at all time highs, and Mambo No. 5 reflected such abundance with an impressive roster of trumpet-playing hotties:

A little bit of a Monica in my life,

A little bit of Erica by my side

A little bit of Rita’s all I need

A little bit of Tina’s what I see

A little bit of Sandra in the sun…

While women everywhere rejoiced, those whose names were mentioned celebrated with the most vigor.

As Peter Jennings suited up for 23 hours of continuous coverage, Lou’s most pressing concern was whether to wear the solid white suit with the black and white Panama hat or vice versa.

ABC linked a consortium of news organizations to present celebrations in Sydney, London, Paris and other great cities, showcasing the results of years of prosperity and construction booms.  The $2 billion dome in London, one million people in Sydney for fireworks, the Eiffel Tower and Washington Monument, pulsating with Star Wars-like photons — each surpassing the one before in their display of excess.

Following falling snow as large as feathers in Red Square was a report from a Somali refugee camp where the only electricity was supplied by the ABC camera crew.  By the time midnight had arrived, the people in the tent city had already gone to bed, stripping them of any sense of promise or the worldwide experience, their time continuum beginning and ending with their last meal.

I’m not sure what happened to my man Lou or where the world is heading in 2010.  Based on recent events, though, I fear he will land on an episode of “Cheaters,” keeping Joey Greco busy following trumpet-playing beauties with digitally distorted faces into various eating establishments.

The Charlie Daniels Band (1979)

Among others, there was William Conrad as “Cannon” (fat), Buddy Ebsen as “Barnaby Jones” (old), and James Franciscus as “Longstreet” (blind). Cannon and Jones often had a thin, young guy sidekick who acted as their “muscle,” but by the end of the episode, had to be rescued by our more seasoned hero. The trio could mix it up when they had to. Cannon’s signature move was an angry stomach bump, which usually sent a bad guy flying and his snub-nosed .45 to the floor. Despite being 80 years-old, Barnaby Jones could beat any 20 year-old in a foot race, and then employ some type of leg whip to knock the bad guy unconscious. If Barnaby happened to be fighting an Asian guy, he might throw in a kick or two, just to show that he was a cultured citizen of the world.

Longstreet used a cane to fell and whack bad guys, and also had a German Shepherd, which in the pre-Pit Bull era, was a scary dog.

Most 1970’s, TV detectives, including Bosley and all six Charlie’s Angels, drove vehicles supplied by the Ford Motor Company, huge LTD’s and Lincoln Continentals. Good thing there wasn’t an automobile crisis back then; Cannon, in particular, would not have been comfortable in a hybrid vehicle or Zipcar.

My own pathetic attempt at paying homage to the genre was to dress up as Columbo one Halloween in my dad’s tattered trench coat and water-sogged Hush Puppies. Unlike the others, Columbo’s challenge was mental – he couldn’t remember the crucial details of the cases he was trying to solve and had to be reminded of the clues by the criminal himself.

Lost in a sea of Waynes and Garths, which were popular costumes that Halloween, I concluded that my Columbo getup was too subtle for my New Jersey neighborhood. The sole acknowledgement I received was from a dapper gentleman in a car who mistook me for a bum and told me to “get out of the neighborhood” or he would call the police. In true Columbo style, I asked him where he got his stylish Polo shirt because my girlfriend wanted me to get one just like it.

By the way, this blog entry is a Quinn Martin Production.

I’ve had my head down lately at work, trying to make some money.  Like everyone else, I’ve been hurt by the recession, so my modest goal for this year is to pay off my 18 year-old debt to the Columbia House Record and Tape Club. I’ve paid off both my college and law school loans in faster time. Little did I know I would be in this unenviable position when I eagerly got 13 albums for a 1¢ so many years ago.

It started out great. I got every Hall & Oates and Rick Springfield album in the world plus a few more for a penny. Next thing I knew, Columbia House and I started a correspondence that rivaled any I’ve ever had with family members, friends or lovers.  For awhile, I had the upper hand, dismissing their insistent requests that I buy a Bette Midler or Christopher Cross album for $18, plus $6 for shipping and handling. Pretty soon, I found their letters to be inexcusably redundant. I lost interest in my new pen pal, and didn’t bother to respond. That jilting led to my current obligation, which would keep Ken Lewis of Bank of America up at night. 

I’m no financial whiz but I do believe I got my penny’s worth. One of the albums I received in that initial package included what, in my opinion, is the best song ever performed by twins with a Scottish, British or Welsh accent, involving a measure of distance.  (Note: songs by The Thompson Twins don’t count because there were 3 of them and, despite their protests to the contrary, weren’t twins.)

I’m proud to say I never used a fake address (like many others) nor went on the lam to evade the Goon Squad from Terre Haute. At least I have my dignity, and, if you ever need me to burn a copy of Kajagoogoo’s “Too Shy,” Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings,” or any single off the soundtrack from “Xanadu” for you, just let me know.

ASHLEE/WENDY/MADONNA

Why would I put Ashlee Simpson, Wendy James and Madonna together in an Affinity Trinity of Popstars? Well, if you’re like me and have given up on your 8 year quest to figure out the plot to the movie “Vanilla Sky,” you now have time to click on this link and find out. http://www.sauromotel.com/2009/04/bridging-the-chasm-three

ASHLEE/WENDY/MADONNA

I came home from my warehouse job one day in the summer of 1984 to find that, like her character in “Desperately Seeking Susan,” Madonna had busted into my creative house. One day, everything was in order and the next, she’s prancing around in my girlfriend’s sexiest, never-worn clothes. It was the “Borderline” video – number one every Friday that summer on video countdown show “HOT” – that provided the portal.

It’s now 2009 and things have been kinda slow at my home-based, Y2K Compliance Company, so I’ve had some time to analyze it. She did what she had to do because, in 1984, no one was ushering Madonna in through the front door.

By the fall of 1984, I was working for a Wall Street law firm. Madonna sightings downtown were rampant, but the closest I got was the spiky-haired, paralegal co-worker who lived on the same block as the Hell’s Angels in Alphabet City, and was in Madonna’s aerobics class on 4th and Lafayette. On my recommendation, she was one of only four people to attend the private deposition of Nixon-era CIA Chief William Colby before she successfully escaped to a creative endeavor.

On June 7, 1985, in the basement jukebox of a 30 Rock tavern, a mechanized, B-side crowd chants for Madonna to sing “Angel” while 2 blocks away, she hits the stage at Radio City for real, posing, preening, and promising to dress us up. Despite a record 3-day sellout (34 minutes), “The Daily News” is critical of her performance, based in part on her dropping her tambourine, and predicts that she will never fill a hockey arena.

On October 3, 1984, Ashlee Simpson was born in Waco, Texas. In New York at the time, clubs and restaurants like Limelight, Odeon and Area were trendy, and McInerney was blowing up literary circles with Bolivian Marching Powder, in the second person. Why does Ashlee belong in an Affinity Trinity with Madonna and Wendy James? Well, if you’re like me and have given up on your eight year quest to figure out the plot to the movie “Vanilla Sky,” you have enough time to continue reading.

Wendy James emerged onto the U.K. music scene as the lead singer of “Transvision Vamp” about the time “Like A Prayer” was topping pop charts around the world. While the Pope was busy objecting to the burning crosses in Madonna’s passion play Pepsi commercial, Wendy rose to the top of the pops and became the pin-up girl of U.K. music magazines “Melody Maker” and “New Music Express.”

For me, Wendy’s entry to the United States came via the video jukebox at a Penn Station, New York bar. Transvision Vamp’s “Tell That Girl to Shut Up” video was a potent weapon in the unofficial, bar room VJ brawl I had silently declared. No one will ever invite me to spin at LAX but I can put together a video jukebox set that will entertain even the most miserable train station bar crowd. Lost in the smoke at The Creature Cantina, I’d make the daring move of breaking the tenuous silence. Twelve monitors would come to life, capturing people’s attention in all sections of the bar. I usually sandwiched “Tell That Girl” between Jody Watley’s “Some Kind of Lover” and the red jock mastery of Cameo’s “Word Up.” The silver-studded, leather jacket, black ankle boots and red lingerie combo that Wendy sports in the video did the initial work, but it’s actually her eyes that stay fixed, even as she turns her body, that made the connection to the driven-to-the-brink-of-the-night crowd of Jersey commuters, undercover cops, and Hell’s Kitchen wannabees.

Not even continuous coverage of the San Francisco earthquake could silence the pop-punk, torch-bearer of Strummer and Jones.

Soon thereafter, Wendy reached the apex of the true barometer of fame; she was inundated with mail from men in prison. What interest would someone on death row have in her? It makes perfect sense to me because when you’re confined, you covet the freedom that’s been erased from the photographs but remains in your memory.

Dubbed the tomboy kid sister of Goddess Jessica, Ashlee emerged with stains on her T-shirt and a punk-pop sound. Although she wanted out of the shadow, the immediate move into the spotlights had to be somewhat jarring.

Given her sound and her Blonde Period looks, it’s not surprising that she, like Wendy before her, cited Debbie Harry as an influence. Ashlee missed The Clash and slam dancing the first time around, but not the criticism that dogged Madonna from the beginning and Wendy, as her star power rose. It’s the intensity of the criticism that really binds the Three.

The Ashlee slams are so pervasive I don’t need to mention any, and you know what I’m talking about. For Ashlee, as it did for Wendy in the early 1990’s, the attacks became a deranged intruder trying to wreak havoc in her creative house.

Instead of performing Blondie covers, though, Sauro Motel suggests Ashlee cover the contrarian anthem “Marchin’ On” by Welsh statement-makers The Alarm the next time she hits the road. Unlike in the video, though, faux military garb and Eastern Bloc, zombie-like crowd are optional.

Like Frank Gorshin and his black and white opposite in that Star Trek television episode, the Manager of the Universe gets nervous if Madonna and Wendy are on the same continent, so, in the late 90’s, they established a New York-London axis, with Madonna moving to London and Wendy moving to New York to front her new band “Racine.” The transposition raised some eyebrows with the Mona Lisa mural on Broome Street, who previously thought she had seen everything, and was hoping for a convergence of the Three in NYC.

Ashlee also established a New York-London axis, but, true to form, it was her own. Like Madonna in her early days, Ashlee first landed in New York as a trained dancer, but later catapulted to London on stage in “Chicago.”

“Borderline” or “L.O.V.E?” You tell me.

Wendy is the most elusive of the Three. I still have my tickets from ’89 for TVamp’s NYC appearance at The Cat Club – I wound up working through the night thirty blocks away. I’ve never gotten over missing that show; it’s not unlike the disappointment I’ve felt watching George Peppard in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” fifteen times and never hearing him say how he loves it when a plan comes together.

A decade later, my luck was just as bad. A Racine show in NYC scheduled for the summer of 2006 was mysteriously canceled while I was en route from out of state, reminding me of my failed attempt in that same part of Manhattan to see Steven Soderbergh’s film “Kafka.” I spent the better part of an hour arguing with what I assumed was an ex-Bryn Mawr Debating Team Captain who had been shoe-horned into a ticket bubble. She denied the film was playing that evening although the title was clearly spelled out above her on the marquee.

After Transvision Vamp broke up, Wendy released a solo album in 1991 called “Now Ain’t The Time For The Tears.” For all of M’s overt sexuality, it is Wendy who sings, “Now he’s getting fucked silly somewhere in Piccadilly” on the Elvis Costello-penned tune “London’s Brilliant.” No stranger to controversy, Wendy was chastised by various media outlets in the late 80’s/early 90’s for championing environmental causes and animal rights, for defending Chrissie Hynde, and, my personal favorite, for not representing “post-modernism” properly.

Wendy and Ashlee generate strong opinions from fans and haters alike, but the opinions are really nothing more than theories.  With wolves at your heels, the hardest thing to do is to move forward without looking back.

Maybe that was the advice Debbie Harry left for them backstage at Top Of The Pops:

In any event, none of the criticism prevents the Three from doing their thing on stage:

As you may have guessed by now, once your creative house has been breached, you spend a lot of time looking for ways to fill the cracks. Ultimately, time passes, the cracks expand to chasms, and you realize they can’t be filled, because they were meant to be bridged. In my case, the inevitable result is a character named Reggie, who arms herself with pink lip gloss as she guides her boyfriend through dying boardwalk towns and NYC alleyways in my novel Across the Borderline, Edgewise. Reggie is a young woman who lost her mother at age six and whose loneliness remains, like a Jackdaw crow clawing at the edges of her ample old soul. The fashion school scholarship she was promised turns out to be a just another story; the athletic training program that follows shuts down overnight when the 105 year-old company funding it goes bankrupt. Her oft-broken heart regenerates only when her high school sweetheart’s new-found vulnerability flashes before her like summer lightning strikes pummeling the darkness at the edge of a Nebraska meat-packing town.

For the literary spelunkers out there, these links will take you to the bridge - Reggie exploding cherished childhood memories with pink lip gloss (http://www.sauromotel.com/2007/06/abe-chapter-22/); Reggie all alone, as she turns Sweet Sixteen (http://www.sauromotel.com/2007/06/abe-prologue/).

In the meantime, it’s only fair that I disclose I have a fantasy involving the Three. To think it could happen is as senseless as the increasingly hostile argument I have been having with myself over whether Aja, The Firm, or Damn Yankees was the true 80’s Supergroup. It’s that Madonna, Wendy and Ashlee each take a verse on rocker John Eddie’s song “Tattoo” during an unannounced appearance at a small club I happen to stumble into; whether it be The Stone Pony or The Bitter End, on a brutal winter’s night, or Toby Keith’s Bar & Grill at Harrah’s in Vegas, tucked deep within the gaming labyrinth where small fortunes are won and loss.

I don’t have any tattoos, but I’ve never been into literal meanings anyway.

            I love flying American Airlines out of Miami back to Atlanta; because American flies out of the international terminal there, I feel like I’ve traveled to another continent.  After a weekend in the sun looking for ungrateful, middle-aged women to save from drowning (see http://www.elimae.com/archive2010.html), I had a number of hours to kill at the terminal before my return flight. It gave me plenty of time to explore the cuisine and sights of some foreign lands.  At the “La Carreta” cafeteria, I raised my blood sugar significantly with a “café con leche” and a pastry that I thought was a chocolate croissant but was actually filled with some kind of meat that tasted like cooked broccoli.  With my meal in hand, I sat at the gate of a flight headed to La Paz.  From my high school Spanish days, I knew La Paz was the capital of Bolivia.

        I caught the eye of an elderly, Bolivian woman wearing a colorful derby, toasted her with my meat croissant, and said: “Bolivia.”  She gave me a dirty look, which must have been because it’s winter in Bolivia right now and all I had on was my Sauro Motel T-shirt.

            The flight to La Paz eventually took off, and I was once again traveling alone.  Before joining my fellow Atlantans at our departure gate, I stopped off at the Duty Free Shop where I totally scored.  I picked up a bottle of Absolut Citron for $69 (because I paid in Bolivian Bolivianos, it actually cost $484), and a Kenneth Cole watch for $269.  Since I didn’t have to clear customs in Atlanta, who knows how much I beat ole Uncle Sam outta.  Warning to my family members: Don’t be surprised this Christmas if you receive cartons of cigarettes, liquor and chocolate with funny-sounding names on the boxes.

            Alas, my international adventure came to an end as I arrived at the gate for the flight home.  Across the way, I looked longingly at the passengers waiting for a flight bound for San Paolo, Brazil.  Phil, the unflappable host of “The Amazing Race,” seemed to like it there, so maybe I would too.

Relax with family members and store up “POA” trivia or recite your favorite lines, such as: “He never met a Simian he didn’t like.”

I watch them back to back, without stopping, and usually make it somewhere between Nos. 4 and 5, at which point I get the urge to watch another Charlton Heston-fueled movie, “Soylent Green.”  That 1973 film depicts New York City in 2022, ravished by the effects of global warming and overpopulation.  NYC has over 40 million people, but very little meat, fruit or vegetables.  Instead, people eat mass-produced, synthetic food, including green wafers known as “Soylent Green.”

Heston discovers at the end of the movie that Soylent Green is made from human remains, the only raw material that is in abundant supply.

Have a great weekend and don’t forget to startle well-dressed church-goers by yelling the climatic line: “Soylent Green is people!”