Never Gonna Survive

Lights blink in the city

Gina was crazy.

That's not a diagnosis. Or a value judgment. It's how she described herself.

In High School, she'd tell us all that she had bathwater running through her veins. But she really wanted ice water.

Gina hated the humidity. And every summer she'd complain about the weather.

"I'd rather be up north," she said. "Where it's cold. Where there's no light. No heat."

She was the first girl most of us knew who wore a bikini. Then the first girl any of us had ever seen who wore a string bikini. It shouldn't have looked good on her, but her attitude made it work.

She was also the first person in my High School to get a tattoo. Which caused a minor scandal and was the only subject at four complete faculty meetings. They wanted to discipline her, but they couldn't think of any rule she'd violated. So they agreed to keep an eye on her.

And the guidance counselor started "accidentally" running into her in the hallways so he could ask if everything was okay at home.

One night, she told us of her plan to hitchhike northwest. She was going to go to Saskatoon or somewhere in the Yukon Territory. "Just gonna pack my toothbrush. And a bikini," she said.

And we'd all swoon, even though we weren't quite sure what we were swooning over.

Junior year, she got sick two weeks before the end of school. It was 90 degrees out with 90% humidity. She was shivering, but didn't want to go to the nurse. "It's the first time in my life I've felt like the temperature was right."

When she collapsed in sixth period, they took her to the hospital.

She was in the hospital for a few weeks. Then, one night that summer, she vanished.

Her Mom said the only thing she took was her toothbrush. And the bikini.



The other day it was warm. For the first time in months.

There was a warm breeze blowing in through the mountains.

I was driving and I rolled down my window, enjoying the breeze. Enjoying the heat that was almost too much to bear, but still oddly enjoyable.

And I thought of Gina for the first time in years. Because my blood felt like bathwater. And I suddenly knew what it was like to crave ice in my veins.

I'd always imagined her in the Far North. Found frozen to death wearing only the bikini. Finally it would be cold enough for her -- a cigarette on her blue lips, maybe a needle sticking out of a blue vein.

And if it weren't for Facebook, I'd still imagine have that image.

But there Gina was -- older, heavier. But with the same eyes.

And in the course of several emails, she said she did hitchhike out of town. She made it 400 miles, to her Dad's house. And she finished High School there, went to college, got married, and settled into a suburban life with kids and a picket fence.

She didn't remember saying she wanted ice water in her veins. She didn't remember the bikini or how scandalous her tattoo was. She talked about High School as if it was another lifetime. Which, I guess, it is.

And, Gina added, "We were all a little crazy back then. At least I know I was."

Just Something Fun

Just because.

Sometimes the world is sad beyond belief.

So, after the tragic events of this weekend, I wanted to post something that's just goofy and silly.

Here, nicked off Hey Dullblog ("for people who think about the Beatles maybe a little too much") is a dog who only responds to bad Liverpudlian accents:

He's Got This Dream About Buying Some Land

He's gonna give up the booze and the one-night stands...

Gerry Rafferty, best known for "Baker Street" and the Stealer's Wheel hit "Stuck in the Middle with You," is dead at age 63. Although his later career had few sucesses, he created at least three (and arguably four) nearly perfect pop songs.

I know three important things about Gerry Rafferty:

The name of his first solo album was Can I Have My Money Back?

The first Stealer's Wheel album (the one with "Stuck in the Middle with You") was produced by Lieber & Stoller ("Yakety Yak," "Jailhouse Rock," "Spanish Harlem," etc.). Rafferty had already quit the band by the time the record came out and started to sell millions.

And then there was a record store. In a mall. Where I found myself before I knew how uncool mall record stores were.

But in the carefully ranked pantheon of cool, record stores were still up there (even if they were in malls). And the record store clerks knew this and wanted you to know it too -- especially the ones who weren't quite cool enough to work to work in non-mall record stores.

So, while I was perusing the cut-outs, someone's Mom wandered up to the counter and asked for a Gerry Rafferty album. Except she didn't know the name Gerry Rafferty. Or the name of any of his songs. Instead, she asked if the clerk could identify a song for her. And then she started to sing (in a screechy, off-key way) the opening sax part of Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street."

The clerk let her go on for longer than he needed to. Then she stopped, somewhat embarrassed. And said she was going to get the record for her daughter, who loved the song.

A few years later, record store clerks would stop knowing much about music. A few years after that, record stores started to close and never come back. And now, you can limit your embarrassment to your smartphone because if you wanna know who sings any song in the world, hey, there's an app for that.

But this was back then.

"I know exactly what you're talking about," said the clerk. As he bounded up the aisle, I caught a glimpse of an intricate tattoo carefully hidden by a long-sleeve black t-shirt.

He picked through the albums, frowning, then squatted and went through the stacks stored below the inventory that was on display.

Finally, the clerk reared up to full height, as triumphant in his own way as the Raphael Ravenscraft sax solo on "Baker Street." As he handed the woman a record, I thought for a second the clerk (with hair all disheveled and eyes barely containing his fury at having to service the bourgeoisie) could have been a bear -- if bears listened to twitchy new wave bands and took speed in the woods.

The woman thanked the clerk and clutched the record to her. "My daughter will love this."

But when she turned back to walk to the cash register, I saw what she was carrying. It wasn't a Gerry Rafferty record at all -- it was a Sex Pistols album.

I looked at the clerk, who smiled conspiratorially at me, and held a finger to his lips.

Part of me knew it was wrong. But who was I to argue with anyone cool enough to work in a record store (even if it was in a mall)? And in pursuit of the cool and the dangerous, I didn't say anything. And who knows, maybe her daughter grew to love the Sex Pistols and became the bass player for an amazing pop-punk band (hopefully one that recognized how great a sax solo can sound).

Up with Glenn Close

What Little Remains of My Mind has Now Officially Been Blown

So... Glenn Close used to sing, record, and tour with Up with People.


This actually explains her character in Fatal Attraction better than any movie review ever could.

Happy New Year

Reasons to Love Northern Climates

A lot of my friends in L.A. ask me why I love the northernmost areas of the world. Wouldn't I rather be on a warm beach? Or feeling the hot Santa Ana winds blow through the palm trees?

Nope.

And here's a few reasons why:

Photo by Anchorage Daily News reader Iwao Hiraga of Chena Hot Springs Road on 09/16/10.


Photo by Anchorage Daily News reader me-Lilianne from Bliss Street in Anchorage on 11/14/2009.

Finally -- Reykjavik, Iceland, a city where they have no formal New Year's Eve fireworks. A city where people buy and set off glorious fireworks displays to welcome the New Year -- and manage to do it year after year without injuring themselves (h/t to the Iceland Weather Report).



Happy 2011 to everyone. I hope the year brings you hope, health, and happiness.

And music. Lots of great music.

Wish I Didn't Know Now What I Didn't Know Then

I've Avoided This for Over a Year

Partly because I didn't have the money. Partly because I didn't have the time to figure out if it was better to go mono or stereo. (I mean, the mono mixes were the ones they labored over... the stereo mixes were tossed off quickly by assistants with most of the principles long, long gone.) And partly because I just don't know how many times I can be expected to buy certain Beatles albums in "new" configurations.

Sure, I read all about the remasters.

But I hadn't heard them.

Until a few days ago.



Maybe I'd hoped I'd win the lottery (or at least pay off all my debts).

And maybe I'd secretly hoped the remasters wouldn't really be that different. Or that good.

But I'm sad to report that the remasters are crisper and clearer. And just plain better.



Damn it.

Guess I'd better start buying lottery tickets.

Lazy Lazy Lazy Road

Jack Be Nimble Jack Be Quick

"I love this song," she said.

Not possible, I said.

"No, it's cool. I love it."

But the lyrics.

"I don't care. I never listen to the lyrics."



It didn't last long, but there was a brief time in the late 70s and early 80s where Lindsey Buckingham seemed to live and breathe catchy melodies. That may just be the only possible explanation for this insanely catchy song.

And yet... to call the lyrics insipid is an insult to insipid people all over the world.

There barely are lyrics at all ("I found out long ago it's a long way down the holiday road" and "Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, take a ride on the West Coast kick") and they don't seem like anything more than placeholders.

And sure, no one expects much from a song written for the movie National Lampoon's Vacation, but that was 27 years ago.

Wouldn't you think he'd have wanted to write some lyrics and make a real song out of this?