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Thanks to loyal bloggess Marissa, the high priestess of cybersnark, for this immensely creative piece of apparel.
You see, last night I was wicked jealous of American Idol's David Cook, whose fans made a poster saying "Cougars 4 Cook." So Miss Riss, who always has my fragile ego in mind, decided to even the playing field. Or, um, something like that.
CLICK HERE for more Marissa.
So it's Sunday, and the fam is beat from a Mother's Day at Disney, and we've just frantically pulled off the road somewhere between Orlando and Tampa. I wanna say the name of the town is Scrotum Loop, but something tells me that can't be right. We're in the skeezy parking lot of a weird Wendy's, emergency-feeding my youngest daughter, who is now 14 weeks old, and who weighs in the neighborhood of Dom Deluise. On the radio is Hall & Oates. One on One.
We call our youngest Mai-Mai. Or Pugsley. Or Pugs. Or occasionally Kid TwoTwo. She is our mellow child (4-year-old Kid Lulu is a pip, and a brain, but she's a first-class drama queen). Anyway, Pugs sleeps 10 hours straight every night, and spends the rest of her time giggling and flirting. She's healthy, and adorable, and looks pretty much like a hippity hop. She never loses her cool.
Except, as it turns out, when she's very hungry.
We thought we could make it home from Disney. But we were wrong. Really wrong. So with Lulu passed out next to her, a ravenous Mai-Mai eventually slow-boils to an Exorcistian hunger maelstrom. We have never heard this before. It is a ferocious response to our suspect parenting. We used up all our baby bottles at the park, but we have one precious pouch of Similac left. So we need to find water soon -- or at least before the kid's head starts spinning and she unleashes the forces of hell upon her old man.
Finally, an exit. Scrotum Loop! Take it! Take it! I hit a curve so hard I swear we're pulling a Cannonball Run on two wheels. The Forever Fiancee bolts into Wendy's, and I pull Beelzebaby from her seat. At this point, Pugsley is breathing fire. There's a sad, curious woman right next to us, who seems to be moving all of her worldly possessions from one car to another, perhaps a friend's. I have a feeling this woman is on the run. Pugsley has a feeling that if she doesn't eat soon, she will tear my face off.
Anyway, we eventually pop a bottle in Mai-Mai's mouth, and she basically shotguns the thing. Lulu wakes up and, finding nothing odd about this situation, starts play-by-playing her day at Disney. (She went on Test Track with Mommy. Very exciting.) The FF and I just kinda stare out the window, looking at this weird Wendy's in Scrotum Loop, wondering when all of this life happened. It's now completely dark. Hall & Oates has since turned into Counting Crows' Accidentally in Love. And with that, we drive home.
So last weeked at Hard Rock Park, I got a hula-girl tattoo on my left bicep. (Is it still a bicep if there isn't actually a muscle in there?). This was a pivotal moment in SD history, seeing as how I don't even like pen ink on my skin (or, for that matter, watches or jewelry, especially, it seems, wedding bands).
But there was something in the air up there, so I slapped the money on the counter and some hipster inked me up. Sure, this art was only meant to last a week. And the Forever Fiancee mocked it as soon as I got home. But I've grown rather fond of my grass-skirted gal. She even has a coconut bra. She's kinda ghosty now, with only a day or two left, but I'm gonna miss her.
Maybe I should get a real tattoo? Any suggestions?
Anyway...I'm still on a minor siesta, taking off yesterday and today, trying to regain energy, sanity. But I thought I'd check in, remind you not to forget Mother's Day, for any and all mamas in your life.
If you missed it, I recently spent time with MY NEW BEST FRIEND ROBIN ZANDER FROM CHEAP TRICK. That's right, RZ is my boy, my bro. He's working on a cool Beatles project (with original Beatles engineer Geoff Emerick), so I wrote a big fat feature on it. You can read that HERE.
Is there anything else to report? Oh, if you're an American Idol fan, Syesha Mercado, a Top 3 finalist from just down the road in Sarasota, is in town tonight to warble the national anthem at the Rays-Angels game at Tropicana Field. HERE'S THAT report from our pop-culture desk. (I'll be at the game Monday. Not singing, just drinking. Stop by 113 to say hi.)
Okay, that's that. Hula Girl and I are driving off together, maybe to the beach for a final fling...
I know that I'm speaking for the entire platoon when I say this week should be postponed until this platoon is better rested...
Hey kids, just got back from Myrtle Beach, S.C., where I toured the spectacularly badass Hard Rock Park. I'll inundate you with details of that impressive joint soon enough. (Big story in June. Many adjectives. Stay tuned.)
All in all, it was a weekend filled with lots of hard-nosed journalism. Oh, there was also: my penthouse suite at the Island Vista, myriad synaptic misfirings (and bad dancing) due to Red Bull consumption, a dude at Ripley's who ripped a freakin' phone book in half (I can die happy now) and the coolest, funniest, drinkiest bunch of press peers I could ever imagine. I'll miss each and every one of them.
Now the bad part: Although I'm feeling tired, vomitious, morose, forlorn, funky, smelly, hungover and snotty, I have a Kanye West show tonight and Radiohead tomorrow. Brutal stretch, and I'm sure each and every one of you has great sympathy for me. So now I'm going to sob. And maybe hydrate.
Hey kids, here's a goof on the new "vented" Coors Light can I wrote for the Sunday paper. I'm dedicating it to my pal Guy, who imbibes this stuff like oxygen...
TAMPA — In case you haven't watched TV lately, or read the newspaper, or opened a magazine, or surfed the Web, or visited a post office in downtown Tampa where you were swarmed by buxom young women chirping beer propaganda, Coors Light has declared a war on glug.
That's right: glug (you know, rhymes with ugh).
In a hellzapoppin' blitz of advertising and promotion, Coors Brewing Co. is touting the latest advance in discount-suds consumption: the Vented Wide Mouth Can. Never mind that Coors Light has slightly more flavor than rain. Never mind that the entire point of Coors Light is that it doesn't stain a bowling shirt. In the great beer battle, Joe Six-Pack is treated like James Bond.
The Coors Light can has been retinkered like a spy gadget, with an opening that's 8 percent wider than before — and 27 percent wider than other domestic beers. Along with the gaping maw is a "vent," or groove, next to the opening, which allows air into the can, supposedly creating a "smoother pour."
Viewed from the top, the new can design looks like a Stratocaster with a whammy bar — or a snowman with a nightstick.
I woke up with this song in my head. It's been lurking for 22 years, waiting for just the right time to strike. Daryl Hall's "Dreamtime," from 1986's "3 Hearts in the Happy Ending Machine." I blame the Double Filet-O-Fish.
Kid Lulu is in her Happy Meal phase now. Every day, the kid asks for a Happy Meal. For better or worse (okay, worse), this coincides with my Filet-O-Fish phase, which is now in its 38th year.
After taking Lu to the library Sunday (see, I'm not a horrible Dad, just a porky one), we hit Mickey D's. Like some sort of religious beacon, a sun-kissed poster on the side of the building advertised the Double Filet-O-Fish. Of course, I thought. What took them so long? My lord, it was a glorious sandwich, twice the tingly pleasure. Accordingly, I used not one, but two ketchup cups, one per deep-fried square, and then ate that blessed behemoth over a hot bed of fries, the tartar-ketchup bombs splattering down with artery-clogging glee. Awesome. Just awesome.
I was worthless for hours afterward. And those sharp pains running down my arm can't be good. But lemme tell you, folks, that sandwich brought me great joy. In fact, I loved it so much, I want to dedicate a few songs to it. (By the way, the "Double" is around 800 calories, 36 grams of total fat. I should be dead by Thursday.)
The Double Filet-O-Fish Playlist
1. Beyond the Sea, Bobby Darin
2. Heart Attack, Olivia Newton-John
3. Fish On, Primus
4. Fried, Blur
5. Yummy, Gwen Stefani
Here's Bob Dylan's recipe for the perfect meatball.
This is so damn good.
I'm totally subscribing to Vanity Fair.
The 2008 Pulitzer Prizes were just announced, and 66-year-old Bob Dylan was given a "special citation" for "his profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions and extraordinary poetic power." Very cool news.
Click HERE for a complete list of winners.
Curious convergence of events going on here at Pop Life. I just received the new Lindsey Buckingham live CD/DVD, Live at the Bass Performance Hall, which is mind-blowingly faboo. Seriously, it rocks almighty. That guy might be the most underrated guitar player in the pop pantheon. His baroque reworkings of Trouble and Go Insane are iTunes-worthy and then some. He also tosses in a robust version of Holiday Road, the rollickin' theme from National Lampoon's Vacation, at the tail end of the set (yep, complete with dog barks).
Oddly enough, Steve Spears and I just recorded a raucous, Coppertone-slathered podcast about "Spring Break in the '80s," including the movies, memories and songs associated with hitting the road for rest, relaxation and demoralizing moments in tropical climes. (The show should launch in a day or two.) Anyway, one of the songs we played was Holiday Road, which I'm proud to say I also own on vinyl. Anyway, here ya go, a little Lindsey to brighten your day...or your road trip.
We've been living in FLA for about three years now. It's basically the only place my 4-year-old daughter has ever known; her Maryland birthplace is now but a tidy entry in the Baby Book. As far as Kid Lulu is concerned, she's a Sunshine Stater through and through. And this weekend, she was proud to let the world know.
On Sunday, I took Lu to Gatorland, "the Alligator Capital of the World." (For Pop Lifers, we went with "Guy," whom you might know as a loyal bloggist and friend of Sparky.) It's the quintessential Florida experience: gator feeding (you throw 'em turkey dogs), gator cuddling, gator eating (I ordered the gator nuggets -- delicious with just a hint of guilt), plus crocs, snakes, parrots and a creepy swamp stroll. I highly recommend the experience, however, fair warning: Gatorland goes out of its way to reinforce the redneck stereotype. One show featured wacky inbred cousins trying to feed chickens to ticked off American alligators. I squirmed; Lu cheered.
Anyway, the last show of the day was the Gator Wrestlin' throwdown. It began with a history lesson, as a guy dressed like Indiana Jones' corpulent cousin explained where the term "Florida cracker" comes from (the crack of a cattle-drive whip, he reasoned). He was proud to be a native Floridian, he said. "How many other Florida crackers are here?!" he bellowed. Tourists from England and Australia and Pittsburgh and Virginia kept their arms down, maybe out of shyness, maybe out of unease.
"Where are my Florida CRACKERS at?!" he repeated.
And then, slowly, one little hand lifted into the air. This tiny hand was connected to a tiny arm which was connected to a wee curly-headed blond girl whose mother and father grew up in the Northeast. But this little blond girl has no concept of sledding or lobsters or the Red Sox. Nope, this girl knows Rays and beaches and gators. In fact, two blocks from her house, there's a canal that has gator in it.
Yep, Kid Lulu, her hand high in the air, was proud to be a Florida cracker.
I wasn't sure how to handle this one. If Ice Cube calls me a cracker, it's not a good thing. However, I was touched by Lu's sense of origin. She's from Florida, and she's proud of that. In a way, I'm a little jealous. So here are a few tunes for my oldest daughter, a smart, beautiful, kind young girl giving Florida crackers a good name.
Floridays -- Jimmy Buffett
Down South -- Tom Petty
Swamp -- Talking Heads
Tallahassee Lassie -- Freddie Cannon
St. Pete Blues -- Ray Charles
Sunshine on My Shoulder -- John Denver
Alley-Gator -- ZZ Top
Crocodile Rock -- Elton John
This is the greatest thing you will ever watch.
When I was at that journo conference in S.C. a few weeks ago, I had the chance to judge a criticism contest. The original assignment was to critique my keynote address earlier in the day. But because I'm fragile, I couldn't take the ridicule. So I told the students to tee off on (or praise) any subject they like, and I'd help them through the process. That class was the highlight of my trip.
The following slam is from my buddy Meg, a wise-cracking high-schooler who was having a hard time with a music review. So I told her to scrap that. Who does she despise in pop culture, I asked? Who drives her crazy? Meg cranked out the following in mere minutes...
She's only 21 years old, and already she's been in rehab more times than I can count. Her clothes look like rags, her teeth are the same color as butter, she can’t sing worth shit, and yet the whole world is obsessed with her.
What is wrong with Lindsay Lohan?
What is wrong with society?
Lohan does not even wear underwear for God's sake. Even Paris Hilton bashes Lohan publicly; that’s got to say something, right? I had to laugh when Brandon Davis announced that Lohan was a "firecrotch" to the press while Hilton sat next to him laughing so hard she was crying. Lohan got what she deserved when she went commando and let the world see “Little Lindsay” for themselves.
I don’t understand why young girls find Lohan so entertaining. Is it really trendy to be a slut these days and sleep around every two weeks?
Also, I have never seen one picture of her where she looks halfway decent and healthy. Her hair is not brushed, her makeup is always smudged, she looks high off of something, and most of the time it looks like she’s been homeless for about two months.
After being on probation for DUI and having an alcohol monitor attached to your ankle 24/7, wouldn’t you be smart enough not to go to a club and drink all night? Lohan wasn’t, hence her stay at rehab for probably the fourth time last year.
She’s also supposedly an amazing actress, but out of the six movies that I’ve seen her in, I’ve only liked two. She was a disaster, not to mention annoying, in Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, but I think that’s only because she was basically playing herself in the movie (slutty girl with no work ethic who blames her behavior on her father.)
She uses her father’s scandal as an excuse for her wild behavior, but I think we all know she had it in her as soon as she turned 15. It’s sad to me though, because she was a really cute little girl in The Parent Trap, and now she’s just another anorexic-looking millionaire.
The thing that disappoints me the most is that her sister made a statement to the press saying that she wanted to be exactly like Lindsay when she got older. I don’t think I could handle another one, but maybe Ally Lohan will have enough sense to wear panties when she ventures out in public.
Not only is my four-year-old daughter a world-class comic, but she's now deftly weaving the Absurdist philosophical movement into her act. As a result, Kid Lulu has been slaying 'em at school with her hot new batch of surreal knock-knock jokes. My friend Stephanie Hayes swears Lu's gags have restorative powers, so I thought I'd share a couple.
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Tree!
Tree who?
A lightbulb that poops.
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Magazine!
Magazine who?
A lamp with pants on.
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Poop!
Poop who?
Woof! Woof!
If you'd like to share your own knock-knock jokes with Kid Lulu, she'd love to hear them...
A few of you have inquired about my youngest lass, the Bonus Daly -- or Kid TwoTwo, as one of you so brilliantly dubbed her. I'm happy to report that she's doing great. She's now, somehow, six-weeks-old (...Old Man Daly typed as Father Time continued to kick his butt). She's a mellow tot, much calmer than her sis, Kid Lulu, who was no doubt scarred by her first-child-spazzy parents. ("Omigod! Omigod! She's crying! For the love of God, call 911!")
What does Kid TwoTwo look like? Well, with all humor and love intended, the Forever Fiancee and I have taken to a little naming game. Each morning, I'll see a new resemblance in the baby, and the FF (who looks fantastic, by the way -- hot, very hot) will see another. This morning, when the baby got surly for her Similac, she looked exactly like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Seriously, she even made those angry pterodactylian Mr. Stay Puft roars. Her mom, however, said she looked more like Peter Boyle, grouchy, with a ring of hair around her bald dome.
Yesterday, when the babe was in her prison-issue jumper, I thought she looked like Dr. Evil. The FF thought she looked stuffy and proper, like Winston Churchill.
The twist, of course, is that there is one person she resembles more than any other. And that person is me. So yes, she's BEAUTIFUL.
Spent a mind-blowing weekend in Columbia, S.C., with the hot-shot students of the Southern Interscholastic Press Association. Honestly, I was a total waste-case as a high-schooler, a real bonehead. But these kids today, good lord -- they're smart, good-looking, pop-culture savvy and a helluva lot of fun. I judged a review-writing contest and couldn't believe the stuff they were spinning out. (Plus they indulged my love of alliteration. Take that, j-school profs.) I'm supposed to get the winners' work sent back to me. When I do, I'll post the goods here, including brilliant stuff from my new pals Katie Dickson (the cutting social critic) and Megan Lamb (the withering smartass).
Anyway, I taught four classes and gave a keynote address. (Sorry about the anatomical Guns N' Roses story. The kids made me do it.) And although I'm absolutely wiped out today, it never once felt like work. So thanks to the folks at SIPA for having me.
Oh, and I'll never forget the wildest, most potentially litigious compliment I've ever heard. After my speech, a young woman pointed at me and, pretending to rock an infant in her arms, mouthed the words, "I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES." Remember that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Professor Jones' student writes "Love You" on her eyelids? Yeah, like that.
Here's a angry reader upset by my lack of love for Herbie Hancock, my abundance of appreciation for Van Halen...and, um, something to do with Jennifer Aniston. The letter also ties me to George W. Bush, which is new.
I had intended to simply ignore your insane spiral into certain infamy after NOT ONE, BUT TWO back to back mini (all you're capable of?) diatribes about Mr. Hancock’s unforeseen Grammy win last week, but today was the last straw. You are stupid. Have we not suffered enough these last seven years at the hand of a small minded ignoramus…now to suffer the quintessential music nincompoop...enough should really be enough. But no, now I am led by you, music "critic", to believe that the VH grampies are perfect. You probably would have stayed with j/Anniston…she’s so girlnextdoorish. You could be replaced today by any one of my fine, clever sons. They each write with more skill…and actually understand Music. You have got to go…please, and real soon. Regards, just another spt reader trying to prevent the editorial death of a fine paper
"Let's get real sweaty / I'm talkin' rainforest sweaty / I'm talkin' swamp sweaty / Let's fill the bathtub full of sweat." Eat your heart out, Barry White.
Four years ago, there was an ice storm in Baltimore. And in the middle of this mess of Mother Nature, I had to drive a freshly newborn daughter (Kid Lulu) and her mother (the Forever Fiancee) from a Charm City hospital to the city of Silver Spring, normally a 25-minute sojourn.
Now, as any Dad will tell you, Baby's First Drive is a doozy. If the speedometer cracks 30, it's a miracle. Anticipating this hellacious test of courage and anti-lock brakes, I picked Hall & Oates as my driving music on that winter day. The way I figured it, nothing bad can happen to you during "Kiss on My List." So with Lu and the FF both in the back seat, black ice on the highway and H&O harmonizing on the radio, I crept home, a slow-rolling, sing-along trek that took about 38 days. But hey, we were safe.
For my newest daughter (a snurfling ball of cute who's asleep right now), the drive-time conditions on Saturday were predictably paradisically January in Florida. Sunny, 72. But that doesn't mean I wasn't freaking out. That doesn't mean every car on I-275 wasn't a homicidal maniac intent on making this Baby's First Bumper Cars. I still needed cool, calming tunes to guide me home.
I considered Dylan, Randy Newman, even Van Halen. H&O did the trick once, why not again? But ever since going to Memphis last year, Otis Redding hasn't been far from reach. So, despite Redding's tragic plane crash death, I went with Side One of his 1998 Rhino anthology. The way I figured it, nothing bad can happen to you during "Shake." At least not in a car. And hey, we were safe.
So anyway, I'm curious how many Dads out there remember what was playing in the car during Baby's First Drive. Maybe nothing; maybe Mom told you to shut the dang radio off. But I bet some of you remember exactly what you turned up to steel your nerves -- and to bring the crew home safe and sound.
You'd think that entire debacle of a Super Bowl would have been tough for me. Well, I didn't love it. However, the combination of (1) my newly hatched daughter sleeping in my arms plus (2) that Doritos commercial with the giant mouse pummeling the dude kept me relatively cheery.
Explain this to me: Tom Brady goes the whole season keeping his girlfriend away on gameday...and then lifts the ban for the Super Bowl? Did we as a people learn nothing from the teachings of Tony Romo?
So because I'm a shameless TV whore, I agreed to go on Fox this morning. Due to lack of sleep, sanity, etc., I'm pretty foggy on what went down during my segment. However, I am fairly certain I said "nipple clamps" approx. 87 times. (By the way, I was also ridiculed mightily for being a Pats fan. So trust me, I'm paying for my big mouth.)
And finally, a coworker said I should pony up a New York Giants playlist if they won the whole dang thing. Fair enough. I know when I've been beat.
"Gigantic" -- the Pixies
"On the Road Again" -- Willie Nelson
"You Upset Me Baby" -- B.B. King
"Shattered" -- the Rolling Stones
"New York State of Mind" -- Billy Joel
"Grace Under Pressure" -- Elbow
"Hurt Me Bad (In a Real Good Way)" -- Patty Loveless
"Champion" -- Kanye West
Hey gang, Stephanie Hayes here. Sean has Wee Munchkin Maya chillin’ on his shoulder doing baby type things like being cute and whatnot, so he asked for a hand.
He thought it would be no big thang for me to blog about Super Bowl entertainment. He was SO wrong. My Internet connection went kaput. Then, our 57-inch high def TV BURNED OUT. So while we were frantically hauling a TV down from the bedroom, I missed Alicia Keys. ARRRRRGH. But I saw a picture of her, and she had on REALLY BAD PANTS. Like, Erica Kane on acid-bad.
Now, I’m web connected via snail cell phone, watching the game on a tiny TV. And the snooty mac and cheese I made tastes like corrugated cardboard. Frick.
But enough about that. I love you people! Let’s talk Super Bowl!! In a completely non-football related way, of course.
1. Tom Brady: Hot.
2. Jordin Sparks sings the National Anthem: How nervous was she? Poor thing looked like she wanted to blow chunks, "8 Mile" style. But I think she did a great job. I was holding my breath for the money note, but she nailed it. And her corset dress looked fierce. Well done, Jordin. By the way, her dad is former NFL player Phillippi Sparks. Bet he shed a few tears tonight.
3. Announcers: Why are they all so… ORANGE? Jimmie Johnson looked like Mystic Tan on carrot juice boosters. What happened to people being people-colored?
4. Bill "Stumpy Arm" Belichick: I just don’t understand a short-sleeved sweatshirt. It's a warm garment. Sleeves make sense. Why cut them off? Why, then, layer ANOTHER shirt underneath? Anyone?
Half Time
1. Shot through the heart: Um, is it just me, or did that “arrow” sailing into the heart-shaped stage look a little, ehhh, phallic? Maybe they were trying to out-skank Prince’s guitar silhouette incident from last year. Well, turns out, it was the most titillating part of the show.
2. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: It felt like… okay… if all my uncles got together and played a round of Rock Band on Xbox. Old-ish dudes, words and guitar chords blaring across the screen, cheap flashing lights, limited range of hip motion, bad facial hair, Centrum Silver. Just saying.
3. Oh Janet, come back: I was praying for a Tom Petty nip slip. A bit of ankle. A seductive shimmy. A sly hair toss. ANYTHING. The most exciting part was when they sent weak AAA “stranded in rural Wyoming” automotive flares sailing across Uncle Stu’s Rock Outfit. But I will say this - Tom Petty has some great songs. And he can still very much play and sing. Everyone in my house was singing along – “Make it last all niiiight!” So, there’s that. But his songs are just a little slow to get the crowd moving, don’t you think? Like Valium and red wine.
4. American girls: How about those insta-fans? Are buxom 21-year-old blondes REALLY that into Uncle Tom? Or was it an open casting call? How much were they compensated to learn the lyrics AND wear low cut tank tops?
Let's discuss!
It's also official that my daughter looks a little like Harvey Korman -- that is, the cutest, littlest, mellowest version of Harvey Korman you could ever wish for. I'm tremendously, gushingly proud of my three gorgeous gals.
Now as most of you have gathered, I prefer to cloak my loved ones in nicknames. So as soon as the wee one starts flashing her dinner-plate peeps and reveals her true nature, she too will be shrouded in a pet moniker a la the FF and Kid Lulu. But hey, we've been at this naming process for awhile, and seeing as how my daughter's arrival is being heralded in Friday's newspaper, it's only fair to share.
So there you go. For those of you new to the blog, and are expecting some modicum of actual musical conversation, I guess we should be getting back to that, too. Just give me a minute. The house is a wreck and the FF returns soon. She'll kill me if I don't sweep up the Funyun crumbs.
In the meantime, go do that voodoo that you do so well...
Times pop music critic Sean Daly is a proud new father of a baby daughter.
Sean just called to say his family's new addition was born today at 7:29 a.m. and weighs 7 pounds, 8 ounces. She's 20 inches long. The baby and mother are doing great.
And who wins the sweepstakes for the name? It's a push! There still is no official name, Sean says! Although, people in the delivery room were calling her "Maya Rose."
But here's the best part: It turns out Baby Maya is going to be an '80s baby. Sean says that as he was carrying the newborn to the nursery, Journey's "Faithfully" was playing nice and loud. Then came "Jump" by Van Halen. Then "Mysterious Ways" by U2 and finally .... "Relax" by Frankie Goes To Hollywood.
Sean sang along to each tune, thus ensuring his new daughter is just as much stuck in the '80s as her old man.
That's all that's left between me and cute, cuddly baby hell breaking loose times two. Yep, on Wednesday, Kid Lulu gets her new sis. Jeez, what if it's actually just a really shy boy? He'll have a pink bedroom but a totally badass name: Dash Daly! (Please, FF?)
Anyway, this is my last day at work for a coupla weeks. I have to hammer out a Phil Ramone profile today and then skedaddle, possibly to Mexico to create a new life for myself. However, I fully intend to keep blogging, including a no-doubt freakout tomorrow. (ThisiscrazyThisiscrazyThisiscrazy.) Indeed, my sanity depends on hearing from Marissa at least 37 times a day. Plus to enhance your reading pleasure, special guest Steve Spears will be entertaining you as well, hosting the American Idol chats Tues and Wed.
Oh, and if you're wondering: STILL NO BABY NAME!!!
Hey kids, just got back from a sweet lunch break. I holed up in the holy confines of Bananas Music, one of the largest record stores in the U.S. They have more than 3 million vinyl albums, tapes, CDs spread out in two warehouses. If you live in FLA and you've never been to Bananas, you're missing a true St. Pete institution.
(This is also where I shot my new columnist pix for the paper. I think the ad campaign starts Sunday. Expect the newspaper industry -- and Slim Fast sales -- to have a massive turnaround as a result.)
Anyway, Bananas owner Doug Allen is selling tons of vinyl overstock, in fine condition no less, for only 25 CENTS apiece. So I bought a bunch of records, many of them for strictly nostalgic purposes. Not exactly collector's items, but good times nonetheless. I promised Kid Lulu we'd dance around in my office tonight, so here's what I picked up for the big father-daughter party:
Sister Sledge -- We Are Family (which includes the 8:06 epic version of We Are Family. If dancing around to that doesn't tire Lulu out, nothing will.)
The Outfield -- Play Deep
Randy Newman -- Little Criminals
Randy Newman -- Born Again
Bruce Hornsby and the Range -- The Way It Is (If you've ever heard my "Mama, No!" Norway story, you should know that this, believe it or not, was the soundtrack of that summer. Weird, huh?)
Night Ranger -- 7 Wishes
Men at Work -- Cargo (Overkill and It's a Mistake. Colin Hay is a genius.)
Genesis -- Genesis
Genesis -- Abacab
Julian Lennon -- Valotte (I just interviewed Phil Ramone, who produced this. He had some interesting things to say about the making of it, so I picked it up.)
Bryan Adams -- Cuts Like a Knife
Asia -- Alpha
Phil Collins -- No Jacket Required (I probably listened to this album more than any other in the '80s.)
John Waite -- No Brakes (Yep, finally found it on vinyl.)
Had a great chat with Alanis Morissette last night. In all my years interviewing musicians, NO ONE -- not Mellencamp, not Brian Johnson, not Slash -- has been able to string together profanity like the 33-year-old pop star. At one point, we were basically just trading the f-bomb back and forth. I was smitten.
Alanis, who plays the St. Pete Times Forum this Saturday, also looooves tequila, and says introducing alcohol into her life has made her a better, more balanced person. All of this leads me to wonder what in the hell Ryan Reynolds was thinking...
Anyway, here's a rough draft of my Alanis profile, the final version of which runs in the paper Saturday. I had about an hour to be brilliant (or not), so be gentle...
Alanis Morissette is looking forward to her next panic attack. This nasty shard of self-doubt will arrive this spring, on the eve of the release of her new album, Flavors of Entanglement, yet another brutally revealing look into the heart, soul and messed-up lovelife of the pop poet.
"The night before my albums are released, I always wake up in the middle of the night seized with horror," says the 33-year-old calling from Los Angeles. She’ll worry that she's said too much. She’ll freak out that a former paramour is going to go ballistic.
"But then I eventually go back to sleep, and I’m fine in the morning. Every time I've [panicked], nothing’s happened. The sky didn’t fall. It’s been fine."
And no, she says, none of those former paramours have ever called to complain.
A few months ago, I asked you guys for rock 'n' roll girl names. In this very SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT from the Forever Fiancee, you're about to find out why. Take it away, honey...
Hey Pop Lifers!
Sean, Kid Lulu and I are gearing up for a big life-changing event and we wanted to share it with you guys...
On January 30, we are going to welcome a new addition to the Daly clan: another baby girl who will hopefully inherit Sean’s long, hairless legs, thick, curly mane -- and my utter distaste for Funyuns!
We’re very excited and anxious to meet our new kiddo, but there’s ONE BIG PROBLEM. SD and I cannot seem to agree on a name. Actually, it goes much deeper than that. I HATE just about every name Sean has suggested. His choices either solidify our daughter’s future career as a pole dancer (Tiki, Trixie, Dixie) or condemn her to a lifetime of "growing into" her name (Gertie, Sadie, Pearl).
This has been going on for months, and quite frankly the constant bickering and eye-rolling is starting to get to me. Our latest argument is over Maya (Sean) or Mia (me).
So what we need is an epiphany, we need a sign from God -- we need your help, people! Give us your thoughts and maybe we will choose one of your suggested monikers for Baby Girl Daly. Remember that she arrives in 12 days. That means we have exactly 288 hours to come up with a name. Or 17,280 minutes. Or 1,036,800 seconds. But who’s counting??
So to my progeny, who may or may not have a name by the time she's born, I dedicate the She Who Shall Remain Nameless Playlist:
1) What's Your Name, Lynyrd Skynyrd
2) A Horse With No Name, America
3) The Name Of The Game, ABBA
4) Your Name Here, A.F.I.
5) My Name Is…, Eminem
6) Know My Name, Blake Lewis
7) I Don’t Even Know Your Name, Alan Jackson
8) Hallowed Be My Name, Alice Cooper
9) I Call Your Name, The Beatles
10) You Don’t Know My Name, Alicia Keys
Just received this rather brilliant letter from a seventh-grade class at John Hopkins Middle School in St. Petersburg. The students had a few pointed things to say about my Soulja Boy review (which you can read here). Point taken, gang. Point taken.
Dear Mr. Daly,
We were very interested to read your concert review of Chris Brown, Soulja Boy and Bow Wow.
Our Journalism teacher Mr. Mabe had us read it to see what a professional concert review is like. Plus he knew those performers are all very popular with our age group.
But we soon ran into a problem. We could not understand what you were talking about. As one student noted, when it comes to vocabulary, "Mr. Daly be tripping."
Still, Mr. Mabe was able to use it as a lesson for us. We went through the story and found the dictionary definition of all the words we didn't know and then Mr. Mabe would give us an example of how it is used. And it only took us two 80-minute classes to look them all up!!
Here are the words we had trouble with, along with their definition:
fodder = raw material
fanatics = fans
sate= satisfy
jones = addiction
snippets = small parts
cohesion = sticking together
currency = money
bevy = collection
critiquing = analyzing or criticizing
rickety = unstable
grit = crunchy bits
mudslide = landslide of mud
swagger = jaunty walk or strut (Mr. Mabe said some guy named Mick Jagger invented that one.
emblematic = representing
bust = failure
lanky = skinny or raw-boned
tutorial = something that teaches you how to do something
raunchy = dirty or nasty
throngs = a large number of people (some kids giggled when Mr. Mabe said it because they thought he said "thongs.")
ubiquitous = everywhere
strains = part of music (but we only figured that out after looking at 33 other possible definitions.)
venue = a place
unison = all together, as one
foster = promote
conjured = bring or summon
engaging = interacting
banter = talking, chit-chat
dubbed = named or called
loose-limbed = flexible
We also never heard of Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly. Some of the kids sort of knew the names but we had no idea why. So Mr. Mabe put on a preview of the movie "Singing in the Rain," and we all sang along.
So anyway, what's with all the big words, dude?
7th Grade Research Class
John Hopkins Middle School
Hey kids, here's an essay I'm working on for a package about the downside of iPod Nation. What are we losing in a world of 1's and 0's? Here, I wax on about the venerable box set...
In the clean, clutter-free wonderland of iPod Nation — where we strive to fit our entire record collection in the pocket of our Levis — there is no greater grotesquerie than the box set.
Why, the very notion of this bloated salute to excess — epic liner notes, myriad CDs, assorted propaganda stuffed into a look-at-me! container taking up more precious shelf space than a burial urn — goes against every streamlined principle of the digital age.
And I love it.
The iPod, some models no bigger than a stick of Juicy Fruit, cleanly delivers an insta-blip of your preferred flavor whenever you want it. That’s why "physical" sales are plummeting — and digital sales are booming. You do not have to stop living life to be fed by your iPod. It’s small, immediate, popular — a beloved Pez dispenser of 1's and 0's.
On the other, clunkier, what-do-we-do-with-this hand: The box set, especially when made by those music geeks at Rhino Records, brings life to a screeching halt. It demands that you get on the floor, tear it to pieces, explore its guts, dig around to get the hits you crave. The box set is bulky, complicated, a mess to clean up — a blue crab of Black Sabbath B-sides and rarities.
But much like that big girl on Grey’s Anatomy, the box set can also be beautiful, sexy, chunky-but-decidedly-funky. I own box sets that are bound in black leather corsets (The Goth Box) and are designed to look like old record players (Ray Charles Pure Genius: The Complete Atlantic Recordings). Let it be known that my four-year-old would rather play with these than her Barbies. I’ve never been more proud.
Sure, you can buy box sets in digital form, but without the packaging, without the bulk, without the ego, what’s the point?
The greatest, gaudiest perk to land on my desk last year was The Brit Box, Rhino’s four-disc, 78-song monolithic salute to U.K. indie music "of the last millennium." Rhino designed this sucker to look like the red phone booths of London, the kind you might see in Piccadilly Square. If that weren’t overt enough, The Brit Box also lights up and blinks. It is obnoxious? Sure.
And I love it.
So basically, for the marketing dept.'s big new ad campaign, featuring critics and columnists in various artsy shots, we're going to re-create this picture -- albeit with a bigger bikini and less body hair.
Actually, it's gonna be pretty cool. We're gonna shoot me in the middle of a crowd at....THE SOULJA BOY CONCERT!!! (Yeah, you know the dance moves.) Whole crowd will be looking one way, I'll be looking the other -- with a sexy, smoldering look on my face, pen and notebook gripped in my magic hand.
Or maybe something else will come up. Who knows? It should be a hoot. That said. I should probably fast for the next few days, 'cause the holidays have left me fat as a zeppelin. Seriously, I need a mumu. And unless you're Mama Cass, there's nothing rock 'n' roll about a mumu.
Happy Birthday, Elvis Presley. January 8, 1935.
This post is basically just an excuse to run a hot picture of country spitfire Miranda Lambert. And provide a link to my interview with her. And seduce the young lass into my inescapable web of love.
According to the Associated Press, Lambert's family -- from lil' ol Lindale, Texas -- is marketing a series of wines based on Miranda's song titles.
From their private wine label, aka Red 55 Winery, the Lamberts will provide such delicious blends as "Gunpowder & Lead Merlot" and "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Sweet Wine." (No, seriously.)
There is also a wine called "Electric Pink," named after one of her guitars. Methinks these wines will come in the screw-top variety, although I can't be certain about that.
Okay, so the PR department at the St. Petersburg Times is launching a new ad campaign for columnists and critics. The idea is artsy outside-the-box pix. For my ad, one idea was to re-create an iconic album image. Sure, it's been done, but it might be cool.
I was also thinking of getting the FF and Lulu involved, a shot that blends home and work. But the FF wasn't keen on the readers who hate my guts knowing what our kid looks like. Good point.
So I come to you, gang. I'm DESPERATE for ideas. Here's the deal. For every 10 withering jokes at my expense, I'd appreciate one badass idea. Tee off on me, but then come up with a cool image. There's a record warehouse in town with some 30 million albums, and I could probably stage a shot there. But if you dream up something better, I'll gladly go with that.
The weirder, wilder the better. Push the envelope, baby!!!
After a sleepless night of mixing and mashing, dancing and prancing, weeping and cackling maniacally, I've finally come up with SD's 4-Hour Party Mix, which will be on full display in downtown St. Pete tomorrow night. The vibe I was going for was cool but celebratory, potentially danceable but not so obnoxious that you can talk or crunch crudites over it.
And if Beach Blanket Bingo happens to break out (pictured -- btw, is Frankie trying to smuggle a cactus in his trunks?), so be it.
I might garnish the list with a few Disney songs (a private nod to my good friend and editor who's being feted farewell); maybe a couple more harmless Hannah Montana tracks for her kids, who are also my very good pals. And I'm a little worried about a few trouble spots, a few omissions (where's Otis Redding, Booker T, anything from the '80s?). But it should hold together.
So here you go. Click on the magic link below and have at it...
Continue reading "HERE IT IS! The 4-Hour Party Mix! 65 Tracks!" »
When 2007 producer of the year Mark Ronson made throwback albums for Lily Allen, Amy Winehouse and himself, he relied on inspiration (and brassy talent) from Brooklyn's Daptone label, which excels at Stax-style soul as pure as Otis Redding's wail. Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings are the stars of the indie label. In this tricky lil' vid, they perform 100 Days, 100 Nights from the '07 album of the same name. Fire up your iTunes, young lovers. This is smoldering stuff...
So as I was telling the ladies last night...
A good friend (and editor) is leaving the paper, and I'm in charge of iPod DJing the going-away shindig this upcoming Friday. I need four to five hours of music. Maybe dancing will break out, maybe not. I'd guess it's gonna be a nod-your-head, drink-and-flirt kinda party. However, there's gotta be a good beat and a cool vibe to the tunes.
I put together a rough cut last night: Mark Ronson, Amy Winehouse, Lily Allen, Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Moby, Stan Getz, Madonna, Rihanna, Tom Jones, Elvis Costello, Kanye West, James Addiction, Beck...
I figure I'll load up the dancier stuff toward the middle and end, when everyone's properly lubed up.
NOW GIVE ME MORE!!!!
THIS JUST IN! On Christmas Eve, a Vancouver, Wash., man claiming to be Ozzy Osbourne was arrested after barging into a convenience store and waving a gun around. You can see the video HERE.
To the dude's credit, he kinda looks like Ozzy. Plus he lives in Vancouver, Wash. I wouldn't mind defending this guy in court. After a lonely day of drinking, with no one to spend a cold Christmas with, it's understandable that this lunatic would look in the mirror and see the Blizzard of Ozz. It was his only defense.
He should sue God for $1.3 million. While he's at it, he should also slap a suit on the folks at MD 20/20 just for good measure.
A friend once described me as a morphing of Tom Hanks and John Candy. I didn't mind that. Hell, I love Splash. That said, Volunteers sucks.
Because this blog is wandering aimlessly, let's finish with the FIVE BEST OZZY SOLO TUNES...
5. Over the Mountain
4. I Don't Know
3. Bark at the Moon
2. Crazy Train
1. Flying High Again
Hey Pop Lifers. It’s Stephanie, invading the blog for a nanosecond to spread some holiday cheer. Isaac Hayes has once again warmed me to the core with another Shaft-tastic greeting. And what good are the holidays if not for sharing? So while little Billy pummels his unwieldy new Air Hog into your fine china hutch, enjoy this e-card from the Hayes family. It's OK to cry.
In typical Sean Daly, only-child, fat-brat fashion, I totally raked in the goods this Christmas. I was rolling around in luxurious piles of iTunes and Best Buy cards like a corpulent Demi Moore. Howeva, for all the sweet Santa scores, the gift that really made me go "Holy sh--!" was courtesy of my best pal (and loyal blogger) Guy.
After hearing our Stuck in the '80s interview with John Waite -- which you can listen to right here -- Guy knew just what to get me. You see, I've been obsessing about John Waite's 1984 No Brakes album ever since I lost my vinyl copy way back when. It's been out of print for years. Not only is Missing You on there, but so are the equally faboo Tears (WATCH) and Restless Heart. I even begged Waite himself for a copy when Steve Spears and I chatted him up.
Anyway, I never saw it coming. But I opened the Christmas package, and there was the CD. Pretty damn cool. So thanks, Guy. And rest assured, I've been playing that sucker ever since.
So I dropped a "Heat Miser" reference at work the other day, and a 24-year-old colleague had no idea what I was talking about. She even hit me with a withering "Musta been before my time" dig. Out of desperation, I tried to sing some of it. But that just made me appear both old AND creepy. So this clip is for her -- and for the rest of us graybeards raised on wicked awesome television.
Saw this snapshot in the year-end ish of Rolling Stone. It's just about the coolest picture of all time. Look at her, sparking a ciggie off the candles of her 100th birthday cake. If that's not a giant "up yours" to the Grim Reaper, I dunno what is. Now kids, I'm not condoning tobacco products. However, if you make it to 100, smoke 'em if you got 'em, I say.
To read more about this young lady, go here.
Hey Young Lovers!
Before I start telling tawdry travel tales of being belt-whipped by a blond bartender in Harrisburg or introducing Red Bull & vodka to an unsuspecting populace or trying to grow an Amish beard, allow me to gush aplenty about my very special guest blogger.
Let's hear some chatter for Stephanie Hayes!!!
Not only is she a world-champion bowler, but she's funny as hell and a whipcrack writing talent. I only had one chance to check out the blog while I was away -- at a hospital, no less -- but it was sublime. She even kicked Spears' ample butt in an ol-fashioned blog battle!!!
Maybe now that she's cozied up to such Pop Life pals as Marissa and Carla and Al, Stephanie will visit us on a regular basis. One can only hope. For now, you can visit Stephanie here and here.
Someone in London paid $48,000 for a lock of John Lennon's hair!!
Holy split ends, Batman! Who has that kind of dough to blow on hair? It makes me wonder, though... was John's hair greasy? Shiny? Full of body and natural wave? Was there dandruff? And wouldn't it be a fantasy buzzkill if your idol turned out to be kinda dirty and raunchy smelling? I don't care if you're a musical genius and you feed blind babies in your free time, if you smell like feet, you're OUTTA THERE!
Anyway, suppose you had unlimited bucks and a creepy hair fetish. Which celeb's locks would you bid on?
Here's my top three:
1. Sinead O'Connor, whatever her hair used to look like. Come on. How much would THAT be worth?
2. The fluffy top half of Jon Bon Jovi's 80s mullet. Business in the front, party in the back, and more bang for your buck.
3. Amy Winehouse's beehive. Whatever, ahem, "items" are stashed inside might be worth more than the hair - depending on the street corner.
Let's hear it!
The love of my life, my wee daughter, turns 4 years old on Tuesday. She's very excited about this. In fact, Kid Lulu started celebrating early the other day, unveiling her birthday suit in front of the Quiet Neighbor Boy.
Oh yeah. It was quite the moment. The Forever Fiancee walked into the room and an innocent game of Legos had gone full-frontal. My dear FF calmly corrected the situation -- and then calmly told me.
Anyway, the kicker was that the Quiet Neighbor Boy, a kid who never makes a peep, started singing at the top of his lungs. Seriously, my daughter's clothing-optional policy had instantly broken this little guy out of his shell. The formerly silent kid was suddenly hitting all the notes: "HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS! HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS! RIGHT DOWN SANTA CLAUS LANE!" I think he even did a little jig.
Anyway, happy birthday, Kid Lulu. Go on, open Daddy's present first. It's a robe.
Was just riding around Tampa with Times sportswriting star Tom Jones and saw this CD in his car. This is the 2006 Fantasy reissue of arguably the greatest Christmas album of all time (no offense, Mr. Spector, put the gun down). Recorded in 1965 and remastered with breathtaking clarity, jazz pianist Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas is the very definition of perfection.
This is what I wrote about it last year: An absolute must-have, this deluxe edition of Guaraldi's 1965 cool-jazz masterpiece has been remixed, remastered and reinforced with four bonus tracks. It remains an essential catalyst for any TV-raised tyke (or tyke at heart living in balmy FLA) trying to get into the spirit of the season. Guaraldi's puckish piano noodlings have never sounded so crisp and clean, especially the iconic Linus and Lucy and that propulsive hepcat-rhythm breakdown. Christmas Time Is Here (both a vocal and an instrumental track are included) manages to capture the sound and purity of gently falling snow without being sappy. Now let's all do the Snoopy dance. Grade: A
Kid Lulu and I watched the special the other night -- she was flat-out howling at Snoopy's antics. Plus I loved how my 3-year-old bobbed her head to Guaraldi's soundtrack. What a legacy that guy left, huh?
Anyway, CLICK HERE TO BLISS OUT.
I wrote this gadget guide for today's Business section. You might want to talk to Santa about these...
