CUT TO:
INT. GARAGE -DAY
The car starts down the ramp and reaches the exit gate.
CUT TO:
INT. CAR -DAY
MARLON
Hal, please open the garage bay gate.
HAL
I'm afraid I can't do that Marlon.
​Jurgin looks back and exchanges a fearful glance with Honoria.

Why is that scene so compelling?

JURGIN
No way!  I am not driving to Vermont with the computer from 2001!  You did see that movie, did you not?
MARLON
Well, he actually can't open the gate.  He's not a magician.
Marlon rolls down the window and flashes his badge and the gate opens.  The car proceeds.
HONORIA
I've never seen that.  What about the computer?
JURGIN
He murders everybody!
HAL
That's not technically true Mr. Turpin--
JURGIN
How does he know my last name?  HOW DO YOU KNOW MY LAST NAME?!!?
MARLON
Everybody calm down!
HONORIA
I'm perfectly calm.
MARLON
You can have the car speak to you in any voice you like.  I picked Hal because I thought it was funny.
HONORIA
How about Julia Child?
MARLON
Hal, change personal interface to Julia Child.
HAL/JULIA
(In JULIA CHILD'S VOICE)  Bon appetit!

Okay, so no more sidetracking with comedy sketches for shows I don't even work for.  I am going to concentrate on finishing this teleplay.  But, if something really pressing comes up, I'll do that.  So, for now...
Please see "Hallmark Movie Part 7" for the continution of this story.

CFR   4/8/24

I have always been tres intrigued by Msr. Jean Genet.  How?  Why?  Qu'est-ce que, Chris?
Let's go back to the beginning.  I had no idea who Genet was when an old friend of mine turned me on to the movie, Querelle.  It was a movie from the early 80's, directed by Rainier Werner Fassbinder, the famed German filmmaker.  It may have been his last.  I recall watching a VHS(!) copy of it with my friend when we were both about 17.  The movie was Artsy, with a capital "A."  It was also campy.  Like uber campy.  I still do not know to this day if that was intentional on the part of Fassbinder.  But, the movie was undeniably Erotic.  Or should we say Erotique (with a capital "E")?  It starred Brad Davis, an actor who was a movie star; but never with a capital "S."  He never really broke through to Superstardom; probably because he did a lot of roles that leaned a in a little too much to the Homoerotic (with a capital "H." Okay, I'll stop doing that now).  Brad had (and still does have) a huge--err--gay following.  The man was hot and he knew it and he knew how to work it.  And I think he worked it with an eye towards the males of a certain lean, who may have been watching.  Let's take a look at a scene and I think you'll see what I mean:

The song "Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves" is woven throughout the movie, and no, it never improves over time.  I just found a clip with the song in its entirety; for those of you interested and/or brave enough it's on Youtube.  In any event, this movie made such an impression on me, that I wrote about in my first book.  Here's what I thought then, and still feel now.  Much like my feelings about Flashdance. From 83 In the Shade:
 
AND NOW, OUR FEATURE PRESENTATION!
(Boy, they sure liked exclamation points in 1950’s Hollywood!)
The screen was suffused with a hazy orange glow and Jean Genet’s masterpiece as interpreted by Rainer Werner Fassbinder, the bad-boy wunderkind of modern German cinema, began to unspool.  A card came up with what was presumably text from the   novel, narrated by a guy who sounded like he was explaining quantum physics theory on NOVA.
Cut to Brad Davis standing on the bow of his ship.  He is wearing a white scoop necked tank top and the tightest bell-bottoms a French sailing man was ever sewn into.  Brad is shoveling coal into the ship’s furnace and he is covered in soot from the waist up, which only adds to his off the charts smolder quotient.  However, his trousers are impossibly pristine.  In fact, they are so snowy white they glow.  Clearly a directorial choice.  Chiaroscuro.  Light and Dark.  Black and White.  Two halves of a whole—etc. etc.  Querelle is conflicted.  I get it.  I think Brad is in the French Navy.  It is impossible to place the period of the film.  Everything—the lighting, the sets, the acting, is hyper-stylized into some Anytime/Anyplace world.  Timelessness of subject matter.  Got it Herr F.!  The sets are minimal to the point of abstraction.  You know, a lamppost suggests the entire street and so on.  However, the walls of the port city where Querelle and the gang are docked are elaborately detailed parapets with columns that don’t just suggest phalluses—They are phalluses! 
This is one of those bizarre multinational productions (French novel, German director, actors from ACROSS THE GLOBE!) that almost always result in some sort of celluloid disaster.  Or camp classic. Querelle, as essayed by Mr. Davis (he of the third hairiest chest in Hollywood), is one naughty boy.  When he’s not getting into shenanigans at the local brothel, he’s out stabbing someone to death in an alleyway.  He’s conflicted—not evil—so we get a lot of The Narrator periodically offering up some armchair psychology and/or cryptic running commentary—kind of like Left Bank Cliff Notes.  “Querelle felt as though he were thrusting his tongue into the mouth of some great granite statue…”  This, after our hero’s rather lackluster lip-lock with the local Leader of the Pack.
The owner of the brothel is a seven-foot tall, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound black man named No-No, whose wife Lysiane (played by a seriously spent looking Jeanne Moreau) is the “entertainment” in their Existential establishment.  Like some Franco-Greco chorus of one, she listlessly toddles through the cathouse she calls home, singing a little ditty called “Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves.”  Besides the words of the title and some other lines muddied by dialogue, the song lyrics consist of a series of wonkily warbled “Da-da-da-da…Da, da, da…da’s.”   She sings it at least a dozen times.
Meanwhile, in the back room, No-No challenges Querelle to a game of dice.  If Querelle wins, he gets to mount Lysiane (presumably for free).  If No-No wins, he gets to mount Querelle.  Querelle cheats in reverse.  He deliberately loses.  You’re never sure why either; since Brad’s facial expression never changes.  Perhaps Querelle would rather walk bow-legged for a couple of days than get it on with a lady old enough to be his Mom.  No-No lays him face down across a writing desk and before he can say “yes-yes” opens a new chapter for Querelle.  This leads to lots of skewed camera angles of sweaty armpits and heaving, statically ecstatic close-ups.  And afterwards as No-No engages in some nonchalant conversation with Querelle’s brother, the immortal line: “Well, if you’d like to know, when I pulled my dick out, it was covered with his shit.” 
            To which Sean proclaimed: “Gross!  Eeeewh, gross!” (This kind of put the kibosh on my chocolate dipped biscotti, which I hadn’t eaten yet).  At this point, Lady Cambridge turned around and glared at us.  “Well, it is—” Scooter said.  She harrumphed and gathered up her things in a fury then moved to another section. Which was fine by me. The dice game scene was kind of the climax of the movie.  The rest of it had something to do with a twink named Roger and a construction worker named Gil who said he wanted to (in regards to Roger’s sister) “fuck her good”.  And then Querelle’s brother was having an affair with Lysiane and he’s supposed to be Querelle’s identical twin but he actually looks exactly like Gil (is it the same actor?) and the Captain who’s lusting after Querelle (Franco Nero) gets shot. And maybe there’s another murder just for fun and Criminals are Beautiful and blah-blah-blah.  Nothing is resolved and then Jeanne Moreau wanders out in a negligee and sings “Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves” again.  The Narrator makes one more indecipherable speech, which confuses things even more, and it’s over. 
All that sashaying man-booty and the town they’re in is named “Brest”.  I guess that’s French humor.  Or maybe German.  Or possibly Italian.  Only a couple of years earlier I would’ve mistaken this mess for profundity, much like I’d done with Mommie Dearest and Interiors; but now I recognized it for its laughable pretensions.  It was an unintentional parody of an Art Film (the best kind!).  Or was it an intentional parody of an Art Film?  The second-best kind!  Querelle could have a slot on the midnight movie circuit, complete with Jeanne Moreau drag queens conducting musical Angst-A-Longs.
The lights came up and we headed for the aisle.

So, this was my first exposure (so to speak) to Jean Genet.  When I found out much later that he and I shared the same birthday, I was hooked. And, since I've been a Francophile since youth, I was further drawn in.  And of course, he's a playwright and a novelist and a former pick-pocket and male hooker.  A monsieur after my own coeur!  I must confess, I find him rather attractive, as well; or is this just a kind of vanity, as I think we kind of look alike--more and more, the older I get (although I still have more hair and my ears are way smaller).  He had style.  He was quite dapper.  Here is perhaps the most famous photograph of him:

And there are other similarities.  'Frinstance, I always roll up my sleeves.  Always.  Always have, always will; since at least Junior high school. If I'm not rolling them up, I'm pushing them up, like Michael Jackson.  I also wear belts that are overlong and then pull them through at the waistband. Or up over and then through again, for that oh so insouciant Ralph Lauren thing...what do the Italians call it? Sprezzatura.  That's it.  It's the art of being nonchalant.  But it's also quite intentional.  There's an art to the Art.  It's like, when you put your outfit on and then leave one shirt tail askew.  The French have a similar thing; particularly when it comes to putting on a scarf.  You can't overthink it. Put it on and go. Because the second you start thinking about it is the second the nonchalance flies out the window.  I call it "Spreggadoccio" simply because I can never remember "sprezzatura."  I'll put on what I'm wearing, muss something up and then proclaim, LOUDLY, usually with the window open: "SPREGGADOCCIO!"* and then immediately leave the house.  No looking back.  If you do, your outfit turns into a sackcloth.  Here's Mr. Lauren doing the belt bit.

Dang!  Ralph is packin' in that last one!  I could live without all the Western "concha" belts he seems to favor.  They can be overwhelming.  And Mr. Lauren is of a stature that is easily overwhelmed.  He's actually tiny.  When I workded at the Rodeo Drive Polo store, he and his wife came in once and "observed."  I didn't speak to him.  He and Ricky were kind of hiding behind a potted palm.  He seemed like maybe he was actually shyer than I was.  Now, not to short-shame; I'm certainly no Vince Vaughn; but Ralph may even be more compact than Jean Genet; who just looks small (or maybe it's the high wasted pants (oops, "waisted." And when are those going to make a come-back?  I love the high waisted pants on men with the skinny belt look of the mid to late 50's; although they tend to make short men look shorter and you kind of end up looking like one of The Three Stooges). 
I can't find any official height for Genet; but Ralph is listed at 5' 6" and I can tell you, first hand, that's a stretch.  Side-note: short guys are usually really good in bed.  Like really. So what else do or did I know about Msr. Genet?  Uhhm, I've learned a bunch of new stuff recently; but between Querelle and yesterday...let's see...oh!  The movie Poison, by Todd Haynes, was based on the work of Genet.  I did see that (again, on VHS) and all I remember is a scene where a prison inmate is spat upon by his fellow incarcerees.  It's like a slo-mo-homo-spit-shower.  Very niche; but I found it rather erotic.  I'm not sure what that says about me...
I saw an interview with Patti Smith once (or maybe I dreamed it?).  She was being interviewed by Charlie Rose, maybe, and was talking about how she was friends with Jean Genet and the two of them once went to visit Devil's Island?  I can only imagine what that trip was like!  I mean, first of all, where did they stay?  The Devils's Island Days Inn?

Of course, Patti always hung out with the baddest of bad boys, didn't she?  

Although, how bad could any boy be who would do the Day-O limbo look?  And if you look closely at Jean Genet's shirt in the famous photo, it's monogrammed; so really, how criminal could he really have been?  Side note: in her famous picture from the Horses album, Patti is wearing an extremely similar shirt, right down to a monogram.  Coincidence?  Perhaps not...

Now I think we need to hear Patti sing...

So, what have I learned fairly recently?  So, the man was a novelist. Yes. Playwright, check. Art critic...who knew?  Fascination of Sartre? News to me! Film director/writer/cinematographer.  He made a movie called Un Chant d'Amour; a 26 minute, queer themed short, set in a prison.  Apparently he was a performer in it, as well; so let's give him an actor credit.  And as I'm looking into things as I write this, dots are appearing and connections forming.  For example: I found this still of one of the actors from the movie and it could be a picture of moiself when I was about 25.  It's kind of spooky.

Also, when I first started losing my mind in college, one of the things that pushed me towards the edge was Jean Paul Sartre.  You know, with all his charming banter about the meaninglessness of existence.  Like literally.  Just what a kid just starting out and developing unbeknownst OCD wants to hear!  Also: is "Existentialism" capitalized?  I've seen it both ways.
Genet, of course, was a political activist later in life.  He was involved somehow with the Black Panthers.  He wrote a play called Les Negres (I've seen it with several titles).  It was one of the longest running off-Broadway shows or something.  Here's a piece from Variety about it.
variety.com/2020/legit/news/james-earl-jones-cicely-tyson-maya-angelou-1234803223/

Cicely Tyson, another December 19ther was in it.  I wrote a blog about her called Memories of Cicely Tyson, which you can find on this site, if you're interested.
So, I have not read any of his work.  The interweb machine instructed me to start with The Thief's Journal, which is apparently one of Ms. Smith's favorite books and what turned her on to Genet.  I thought I would start, instead, with what the general public would've first encountered.  So, that would be 1942's Our Lady of the Flowers.  I will get back to you with my impressions of that.

FINIS
​CFR   3/28/24

*ADDENDUM
I just looked up "spreggadoccio" and it's an actual Italian word.  It means "contemptuous."  And if you shorten it to just "spreggadoci" it means "shower waste."  So, my outfits are contemptuous shower waste.  Also known as "dressing down."  Works for me.

So, when the Muse hits, I find you should follow her.  Or him. Or them.  I know I have a muse.  I wonder which one they are?  Let me do a quick check.
I did a quick check.  There are not a lot of Muses.  There are nine of them.  Most of them cover theater and poetry.  I kind of lean more toward narrative and essay.  I think I also lean toward comedy and history (my own); so, there's Thalia and Clio.  Since Clio has been coopted by Madison Avenue, I feel I should go with Thalia, primarily.  However, I have always been fascinated by advertising in all its forms; so Clio is in.  Would I be tempting fate to make up my own muse?  The gods and other folks in and around Mt. Olympus tend to frown on presumption.  Hubris, if you will.  So, we won't.  My muse(s) however, keep leading me to one Msr. Jean Genet (seen above).  What to make of this?

Hold the presses! (And I wonder how many whipper-snappers nowadays actually know what the "Vvvvvvvrrrrrppppp" sound effect comes from.  Maybe more than I think, as "vinyl" has made something of a comeback?  Well, when I was a pup, pre-Hip-Hop on purpose record scratching; that sound was something you didn't want to hear.  It meant you'd either bumped the turntable or accidentally hit the stylus with your hand, dragging it across the record.  Now, this didn't neccessarily scratch the record but it could; which led to the annoying "record skip").

DETOUR:
I was going to write about Jean Genet; and I still plan to, just later.  Right now I wanted to do some side-work, some tidying up, some checklisting.  Some accounting...
So, where are we, here in the world of christopherfreidy.com (backslash) blogging?  Well, actually, I'm pretty up to date.  I have a habit.  Some might call it a bad habit, although it's not neccessarily "bad"; it's just how I work.  Or, I'm finding out, it's how I work, since this is the first time in my life I've blogged.  I guess I got into it in earnest about two years ago. The blogging, that is.  I will often start something and reach a point where I have another idea.  I will stop and work on that idea; so, for a while there, I was ending up with a lot of unfinished blogs (unfinished business) that usually ended with the inconclusive coda: ...to be continued.  And I'm happy to report that so far, EVERYTHING has been "continued" to completion!  Except the Hallmark Christmas TV movie I'm working on.  That was not supposed to be anything more than a one joke scene.  But now, it's becoming a full-length script because the Muses are compelling me.  The characters are demanding it.  That happens sometimes.  The characters you create will INSIST that you finish telling their stories; and if you don't, you end up with a nagging feeling.  A guilty feeling.  I'm all about telling GUILT to get lost nowadays.  And nowanights!
That being said.  There is one thing from an old blog that is not finished.  And I promised I would finish it.  And it is, 98% finished.  I just need to kick myself in the butt to finish it...and I think a certain muse has already shown me the way. In my blog titled: Art Therapy from July of 2022, I wrote about transforming a piece of mass produced art into a new work by adding hip, ironical visual layering.  It's a thing. Just look up "transforming thrift store art" or whatever.  So, I ran out to Goodwill and this is what I found:

I pretty much launched into the project and was finished in a couple of weeks; but then I stopped.  I stopped because of the last final detail.  Why?  Because it required detail work.  I hate detail work.  I like the "broad stroke" approach.  So, I want to show you what I have thus far; and I know this will spur me to finish and then I won't have any unfinished business here and I will be able to sleep without that nagging feeling.  You know that nagging feeling?  The one when you misplace something and you know you didn't LOSE it; but then, you still can't find it and then you start praying to Saint Anthony (the Patron Saint of Lost Items) or proclaiming "Nothing Is Lost In Christian Science!" three times, out loud; because your friend Terry Sue told you it worked; and sure enough, it usually does.  Like nine times out of ten?

Terry Sue Starker, seen on left.
Drum roll please...!

So, this is what I have so far with my hip, ironical thrift-store retro-fit.  Or should that be Futoro-fit?

You may recall the title of this painting (in its original form) is "French Cottage."  Thus, the France reference.  Here's the fellah holding me up:

He's all out of whack, from a perspective, perspective; but at this point, I'm not redoing him.  I'm just gonna finish him.  But now, I think Msr. Genet has to join the party!  So, I will repost the final, finished product, hopefully soon.  And not in another two years.  But don't hold me to that, s'il vous plait.  But while you wait, how about passing some time with this delightful Francophile, Mme. Seberg.  I wonder if she ever met Msr. Genet.  She must've.  She was married to one of them there existentialists--err--Existentialists?  Existentially adjacent?  He didn't deserve her.

More to come? Oui!
When? 
Quoi?
Quelle absurd!

CFR  3/29/24

CONTINUED:
MARLON
It's in the shop. I love your hair that way.
HONORIA
(Sheepishly, running her hand through her Sheena Eastonesque hair) Thanks.  Will only take five years or so to get it back to where I had it; but we got the account.
MARLON
You could always wear a wig.  Or get a weave.  Or a schmatta--
Jurgin rushes up to them, carrying several suitcases and bags, etc.
JURGIN
Okay.  I'm ready!
HONORIA
Jurgin's ready!
MARLON
He surely is.  (Pulls car key from his pocket).  So let me show you the car.
SMASH CUT TO:
INT. PARKING GARAGE -DAY
CLOSE on the luggage in the trunk as Jurgin slams the hood down with a loud WHOMP.
MARLON
Let's not take the paint off, huh?  I'm still paying for it.
JURGIN
Sorry.
MARLON
So who's driving?
HONORIA
I thought it was self-driving.
MARLON
It is; but someone still has to be in charge.
HONORIA
Well, Jurgin?  Right? That way I can get some work done--
JURGIN
I don't know.  The whole idea freaks me out.  Haven't people blown up in these things, like the Pinto?
HONORIA
Are you talking about beans?
MARLON
Nobody's going to blow up.

CUT TO:
INT. CAR -DAY
Marlon is in the driver's seat.  Jurgin is in the front passenger seat and Honoria is in the back; already with spread out spreadsheets and her laptop open.  Marlon presses the "ON" button and the car starts.  The engine and a series of display panels that rise up from the dash and drop down from overhead.  Mirrors adjust and so on.  We hear a soothing MALE VOICE as a soundwave fluctuates in time with it on the display.
CAR VOICE
(In the VOICE of Douglas Rain as "Hal" from 2001) Good afternoon Marlon.  I see we have guests.
JURGIN
Why does that voice sound so familiar?
MARLON
Hey Hal.  We do.  This is Jurgin and that's Ri-Ri in the back.
HAL
Hello Jurgin.  Good afternoon Ri-ri.  Is that short for Honoria?
HONORIA
Ah, yes.  As a matter of fact, it is.  
JURGIN
Oh Hell no!  I am not driving a talking car named Hal!
MARLON
Well, he'll be driving.  Hal, could you explain the interface, please.
HAL
Certainly Marlon.  Who will be giving me commands?
MARLON
Both guests; but primarily Jurgin.
HAL
Very good.  Jurgin, you only have to ask me a question or tell me what to do or where you want to go; and I'll do the rest.
JURGIN
We want to go to Vermont...
HAL
Where in Vermont?  I could suggest some lovely places you might want to visit--
JURGIN
What's the name of the town?
HONORIA
Winooski Falls.
HAL
Birthplace of Maple Balls.
JURGIN
Excuse me?
MARLON
Hal, proceed to exit.
CUT TO:
INT. GARAGE -DAY
The car starts down the ramp and reaches the exit gate.
CUT TO:
INT. CAR -DAY
MARLON
Hal, please open the garage bay gate.
HAL
I'm afraid I can't do that Marlon.
​Jurgin looks back and exchanges a fearful glance with Honoria.

Please see A HALLMARK X-MAS MOVIE PART 6 (CUMMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS) for the next installment!
CFR   3/31/24

Again; learning something new.  I was not aware that St. Christopher is sometimes portrayed with a dog's head.  Is it because God spelled backawrds(!) is Dog?  Not so much.  It gets pretty weird.  Cannibalism...werewolves...and so forth.  But I want to keep this Show-Bizzy.  But what could be more Hollywood than The Wolfman?

My Confirmation name is Charles.  Isn't that interesting?  I think the most interesting thing about a Confirmation name is that you get to pick it yourself.  Oh, Confirmation is a Catholic sacrament.  It confirms, I suppose, one's commitment to being a Catholic.  I was about 16 when I was Confirmed.  I think it was probably kind of redundant to confirm it.  It's one of those things you kind of can't escape.  If you were raised Catholic, by gosh, even if you renounce it; you're going to be calling for those Last Rites when the time comes!
Your middle name, Mr. Lorre, is "Michael." And again, I find this really interesting.  I almost picked Michael for my Confirmation name; but as it was already taken by my younger brother as his middle name, I opted for Charles.  I thought "Christopher Francis Charles" had a nice ring to it.  Kind of tony (and we're back to the idle rich again!).  Charles was also a Saint.  In fact, there were more than one St. Charleses.  At least one of them was a writer.  Although he's not cited as a patron Saint of writers; but, as we're both scribes, let's invoke him for, at the very least, good luck.  And I apologize if I'm being presumptuous, since you're Jewish.  I'm 1% Jewish myself, according to Ancestry.com.  But as they say: "It couldn't hurt!"

I think that's sage advice from St. C of S.  Let's castigate our guilt! Your, I presume, Jewish guilt and my, I presume, Catholic guilt.  Or Catholic-Jewish guilt, as I'm 1%, as I mentioned.  Let's give those hair shirts to the Salvation Army!  Let's return those chains to Lowe's (More saving! More doing!).  I hope you kept your receipt, because those scourges are going back to The Pleasure Chest!

As I mentioned, I was doing a little background research on you.  I read that your birthname was Levine; you grew up in Bethpage, Long Island and that your father opened a luncheonette.  I couldn't find any further information on this luncheonette, which bummed me a little.  I love luncheonettes.  Diners. Coffee shops. Greasy spoons.  They're becoming harder and harder to find, even in Los Angeles, where they may have had their salad days (so to speak!).  I also couldn't find any information on whether or not you had/have any siblings.  You may have gathered I'm trying to psychically put myself into your past.  Astral project, if you will.  You will probably think I'm crazy; and there are those who say I probably am (myself included); but that, as a writer, is just how my mind works.  You may find this interesting.  I came across this guy who is a chef, in a town very close to where you grew up: Farmingdale.  He won Chopped, apparently; and has also been named the best chef on Long Island.  His name is Eric LeVine (pronounced Leh-veen, and not Lay-Vine (also apparently); as one would think it would be.  Could he be some long, lost relative?  You mentioned in one of your Vanity Cards that you changed your name from Levine to Lorre because it was a source of pain for you; that your mother used it as an insult.  Seems to me that the Levines (and the LeVines) have done pretty well for themselves!

He could easily pass for your brother! 
So, you must be wondering: "Who is this person and why are they getting so personal with me?"
Well, firstly, I feel a connection to you.  I'm not quite sure why, but I do.  Secondly, you put forth your personhood and your world-view via your writing.  Both the scripts and stories you produce for your TV shows; and those Vanity Cards, which have become a sort of stream of consciousness, running commentary on not just your views on life; but your life.  And you are presenting this stream(!) to millions of eyeballs several times a week (and if you factor in re-runs, that runs into the thousands...).  You have an online archive of these cards. These thoughts.  You do not, however, have a way for people to respond to them; which I think is a little one-way.  A tad on the pulpity side (which is maybe why this got so religiousy from the git-go (as Nancy Grace would say).  So, this is my way of responding (if you're even reading this, which, I think at this point, is pretty plausible.  Feasible even.  I'm almost certain Steve Molaro is).

Now, back to your "failed" song, "Who Could Ask for More" (which, interestingly, does not have a question mark; and we might ask: "Why?").  You mentioned you wrote it 45 years ago.  45 years ago, it was 1979.  I was 13 going on 14.  You were 27.  I was just about 27 when I first moved to Los Angeles, which is kind of late in the game to try and break into that world, speaking of failure.  But I recall the year 1979.  It was a great one!  Studio 54 was in full swing (did you ever go there, during its heyday.  Did you get in?  Did you try to get in? What were you wearing in either case?  Did you have on cologne?  I never did get in.  Or try.  But I sure wanted to!!!  And I would've been wearing this):

Oh heck.  Let's check out my whole outfit for my night out at Studio!  Jeans, courtesy of Mr. Klein, natch:

KIcks? Cortez!

This shirt, a Halston, which came from the Camp Lejeune PX.  Why, here I am wearing it.  In the year of our Lord, 1979, no less!

I so loved that shirt!  And I really do look like a person from any other ethnicity, other than Irish.  I kind of look like John Oates, who has Italian and Moroccan heritage.  Time for a John Oates break!

And I just gotta ask...why were Hall and Oates always disrobing and/or scantily cladding so often in such close proximity?  And why did they have matching necklaces?  Matching necklaces?  Gay dudes don't even do that.  What's going on John and Daryll?

They have these matching necklaces on a lot in old pictures.  And what is that?  A palm tree?  A marijuana leaf?  What is going on Hall and Oates?
I'm getting off track, Charles.  I do that a lot.  My apologies.  So, anyways...do you think I would've gotten in to 54?  Would I have made it past the rope?  

Who knew Studio 54 had a snack shop?  I wonder if Halston and Liza ever popped by for weiners?
But again; back to your song.  You wrote it in '79.  It's about the idle rich.  Dallas had been on the air for a year.  Knot's Landing had just hit the airwaves.  So that whole 80's motif of dripping in fabulous wealth with little to do but spend it was already wafting on the breeze.  I'd say you were in on the ground floor, idea wise.  Now, I'm not a songwriter--
Wait, a few questions spring to mind here.  Now, does a songwriter neccessarily have to read music or play an instrument?  Or can a songwriter be someone who simply supplies the words. The lyrics?  Which is really just poetry, is it not?  Could any poet claim the title "songwriter"?  Is there a distinction between songwriter and lyricist?  Can you be a songwriter and not have the ability to play an instrument and/or read music; which, let's face it, is a form of MATH.  Yikes!
I wish I could read and write music.  Or play an instrument.  I have several musical insturments, none of which I can play.  But that doesn't stop me from trying!  But, as I was saying, I'm most decidedly not a songwriter.  Looking at Who Could Ask For More (which I will henceforth refer to as "More") it seems to me that it doesn't have a chorus.  The "Who Could Ask For More" part is literally confined to parentheses during the course of the song.  I think you should retrofit the song and make the parentheses part the driving force, narratively; and the parts about the specifics about the haunting pair, more asides.  Again, I'm not a songwriter.  But I do like to think of myself as a "story-teller" and this song definitely has a story.  As a matter of fact, I don't think this "song" wants to be a "song" at all.  I think it might want to be a novel.  Or...and hear me out Chuck...a night-time soap!
Night-time soap, Chris?  Are you out of your mind?  Nobody but nobody is doing night-time soaps, nowadays--err--nowanights!  Besides, I specialize in sitcoms.  I don't do drama.  You might say.
And I might say:
But, don't you though?  Kinda?
Is Young Sheldon almost as much a drama now as it is a comedy?  Is Bob <3 Abishola so somber for most of its run-time now, that it qualifies as a half-hour dramedy?  I mean, when I tune in, I feel like I'm watching Billy Gardell in an Arthur Miller play.  Here's what I'm thinking.  You branch out, Chuck, into drama.  And I think a nice soft launch would be adapting More into a TV movie (another genre I feel is ripe for a big Broadcast TV comeback).  If it does well in the ratings, then it's on to series.  The hour long TV soap is back; and I think Succession proves it.  And ones about idly rich fams, to boot.  More is ripe for this!  Ripe I say!  Except, let's not call it Who Could Ask For More; although, I don't hate that.  Let's go in for a place name, like back in the day, and you've already got one built into the song: Forest Hills.  As in Forest Hills, New York.  In my brief research, it said the burg was affluent.  Works for me!  And then you've got the whole tennis thing...
So, here's my pitch:
The show is called Forest Hills.  It's about a Jewish family that has made a fortune in the sporting goods racket(!).  Now, as you never specifically name any of the characters in the song; or indeed, a family name; I think there's one way to go here.  Levine.  So, the Levine family have this sportswear empire (think Nike or Wilson or whatever).  There's of course the Scion of the family.  The Patriarch who may or may not get knocked off.  The Wandering Wife. Etc. So, the usual suspects.  One of the offspring (or maybe several) are tennis champions; which would open up a whole set of storylines (and tennis movies are HOT right now...take a look):

They're Manhattan adjacent; so you can work in all that idly-rich-glam (maybe there's a storyline where the spoiled brat daughter decides to resurrect Studio 54; which she does; but then becomes a cocaine addict! Cue Lou Reed song).
So, that's my bare-bones starting point.  And you certainly have the pull and the pesos to get it made!  Get crackin' Chuck!
Speaking of pesos.
You know, a person can go on the internet, stroke a few keys, and find out your net-worth.  Your real estate holdings.  The car you drive.  The suits you wear.  And if one were to do this, one could turn from the computer screen and say to themselves: "Boy, that Chuck Lorre.  He may not have been the Bernie Taupin of his time; but he sure was the Sitcom King of his time!  Yeah, that Mr. Lorre.  He is a SUCCESS by anyone's estimation.  In the world, on the planet, in the Universe.  But particularly in America.  Yes, that Mr. Lorre embodies THE AMERICAN DREAM."
Yes, that is what someone might say.  You have quite literally embodied THE AMERICAN DREAM.  And yet, that you were not (in your own estimation) a success in what you originally set out to do; you seem to have regrets, sadness and retroactive doubt.  It's like you're still kicking yourself over it.  Why?  I don't know why.  And I can't answer the question for you.  Not that you've asked me to.  Although, come to think of it; through your Vanity Cards you have asked the dialectic; of which, I'm a part. Apropos of nothing: Daryll Hall is a Libra.  John Oates is an Aries (Fire sign).  But maybe it is apropos...
I have a couple of friends in Los Angeles.  Joel and Donovan.  They're married.  Joel is a Libra.  Donovan (a Gemini) is also a songwriter/singer.  I think I should try and hook the three of you up.  Not for anything kinky, mind you.  Just to hang out.  I think you'd all get along. You and Donovan are around the same age. They have a piano in their house.  It's the first thing you see when you walk through the door.  Donovan has recorded and released a few albums.  He has a funky, jazzy style all his own.  Here's a video for his song, "At the Drive In Show":

And Joel goes to a pole dancing class.  I think you should join him for that.  You could kill numerous birds with one stone.  You could continue to take good care of your body.  Have some fun. And see what it's like from the pole dancer's P.O.V (I mean, your shows do feature a lot of pole dancing type gals, am I wrong?).  Here he is in action:

​www.facebook.com/1131013028/videos/420471787060320/

So, I guess that's it Charles.  I hope this helped...whatever.  Or at least made you smile.
So, I'm gonna play you out on fellow songwriters, Hall and Oates, who, fingers crossed, will kiss and make up.  We can only hope.

CFR  3/24/24

Okay, Chuck, I'm not saying I'm a Saint or anything.  I certainly have the patience of one though.  And I am writing this in a spirit of truth seeking; because, according to Bazaar magazine we are both truth seekers (as you, a LIbra and I, a Sagittarius); and as such, have this as our bond.  Let's see what Harvey Sid Fisher has to say about this!  First, you LIbra:

And moi, Sagittarius:

Now that's some song-writing!  And speaking of song writing...I wanted to talk about this:

DISCLAIMER: The above "Vanity Card" is the sole property and proprietary chattel of Chuck Lorre Producions, Inc. (Reg. TM Pat-Pend All Rights Reserved) and is used WITHOUT PERMISSION.

So, #734 seems to be a lament, Charles, about your failed attempt to be a Big Time songwriter, like, I'm thinking Holland-Dozier-Holland, The Sherman Brothers, Carole King, Barry Manilow (he does Write the Songs, right?), Carole Bayer Sager, Neil Diamond etc. etc. et. al. e.g.i.e ad infinitum.  But were you a failure?  Or should we ask, are you a failure?  Because you seem to be having doubts.
Failure.  Now there's a word we love to toss around in America.  Because if you weren't a success at what you set out to be, usually in the Arts, you're "failed."  Failed actor, so and so. Failed writer, so and so. Failed singer, so and so. You never hear about failed people in other purviews, though. Like you never hear of Failed plumber, so and so. Or, failed librarian, so and so. Or failed stripper, so and so.  Why is that?  Is it schadenfreude?  Is it because it takes a certain amount of hubris to set out to be a creative person; and as humans, we like to see those of us with hubris faceplant on the Sidewalk of Life?  I'm gonna have to go with "yes," on this one.
But you did have a hit song, Chuck. "French Kissin' (In the USA)." With parentheses, yet.  I love songs with parenthetical continuations.  In my book, they're always good!  Debbie Harry recorded it for her second solo album Rock Bird.  Let's take a  listen and a look:

I had a friend who had Rock Bird on cassette(!).  He was gay. I recall staring at the cover art, which was designed by Stephen Sprouse.  Just learned he died of lung cancer at age 50. I have a friend who started a rock band because he loved Debbie Harry so much.  I don't know if you know this Chuck, but Debbie Harry has and always has had a huge gay following.  You don't strike me as particularly gay, Charles.  In fact, you strike me as emphatically straight.  But this song is a little on the gay side.  I mean, it has French lyrics!  What was going on in your head when you wrote this?  I don't know, but it worked.  It's a great song.  It's fun.  If I recall correctly, it was the only hit song from the album and it's still the only song from it people remember.  And come on, Charles...how many people in this world can say they wrote a song that was played on the radio?  That's another American dis.  The "One Hit Wonder"; usually said in a mocking tone, as though it were an embarrassment.  Hey, I don't know about you, but I would kill to be a one hit wonder!  What's the option?  A No Hit Wonder (read: failed songwriter)?
Speaking of gay...
I think you're kind of cute, Charles.  But I'm married.  Stop looking at me like that!!!  (Giggle-giggle-flirt-flirt).
As Harvey Sid said in his Libra song: "...I like to take good care of my body...when diet calls for a remedy...who watches scales more so than me?" And I was inspired to find a picture of said body: yours, that is.  And you do keep yourself nice and trim; but I could not find a single pic of you showing any skin.  Not even your tootsies on Wikifeet.  I would've thought the papzz might've caught you frolicking a la plage in St. Barts or Kitts or Turks and Caicos in bathing trunks.  No such luck.  I couldn't find any pictures of you showing anything more than two buttons worth of frontal neck-nape and maybe some forearm. :(

I really like the longer hair, dark 'stache look.  Very John Oates!
​Time for a John Oates break!

You know, you really do learn something new every day.  'Frinstance, I was never sure exactly what Debbie was singing during the chorus part, in French.  I mean, I recognized it as French, as she was/is won't to utilize French lyrics in her songs.  And of course, the word "Francais," is pretty clear.  But French is really hard to decipher when it's sung and/or dropped into songs primarily in English.  For example, I always thought the backing vocalists in Billy Idol's "Eyes Without a Face" were singing "...ashes falling down..." when, in fact, they were singing the song's title in French: Les Yeux Sans Visage; which, is also the title of a French thriller.

What's that called when you mishear lyrics?  It has a name.  In any event, I learned that she's singing: "...embrasser c'est Francais..." Which means, "kisses are French," more or less.  Is this where we get the word "buss" for kiss?
But back to your song, "Who Could Ask for More?"
To use an already ossified "buzz phrase"; "...there's a lot to unpack here..."
So, it's a classic story song, in the vein of "Hollywood Nights" or "Life In the Fast Lane" or even "Run Joey Run."  And I think we all need to watch that video, right now!!!

It's a song about the idle rich.  A subject near and dear to my heart.  Not that I come from the idle rich, and in the research I've done on you, you did not come from the idle rich, either.  But I've always been attracted to that milieu, n'est ce-pas?  I mean, The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite books.  I was glued to Dynasty from the git-go.  That show had me at the TV Guide ad!

Maybe it was the part about Steve Carrington being "Helpless before his own desires."  And let's face it, gay or not, aren't we all kinda helpless before our own desires?
So, you grew up in a small suburban town on Long Island.  I grew up in a smallish town in Massachusetts.  We're both, I think from what I can glean in my research, products of the middle-class.  Somewhere in the Venn diagram of working/educated/white/blue-collar/New England/New York's mega-metropo-suburbia.  The same cultural ball-park, let's say.
And I have quite a bit more to say; but I think I'll have to say it in a "Part 2" of this epistle.  Don't you find it shocking that nowadays reading material is disclaimed with actual "reading times"?  As though, anything longer than a "five mintue read" is unreadable.  Have we really dumbed it down that far Charles?  Let's explore that in a further blog.
Ciao for now!
Your friend,
Chris

Please see: A Second Epistle from Saint Christopher to Saint Charles, for the continuation.

CFR   3/22/24

You know, it's funny.  I talk a lot about how the Universe speaks to me.  Probably too much.  I also talk about how I feel about plagiarizing, appropriation, IP "borrowing" etc. etc., most decidedly too much.  I'm kind of tired, hearing it myself.  Hearing myself.  So tired, in fact, I was going to write a blog about it.  About how I wasn't going to talk about it anymore; unless it was some kind of glaring, undeniable example of it; because maybe I'm coming off as a little crazy here. Like, demonstrably.  Like clinically.  And who wants that?  I know I don't!
So, tonight, I'm lying on the couch, channel flipping.  It's Saint Patrick's Day.  It's also my husband's birthday (which makes it really easy to remember!).  I land on Masterpiece on my local PBS station.  Was it a documentary about Saint Patrick, Chris? You might ask.

No.  No it wasn't.  But it featured an actor who, I think, would be a great choice to play him and could do so quite easily.  Mr. Dohmnall Gleeson.  If you've been following along at home, you may recall that I've written about Mr. Gleeson more than a wee bit, in these pages.  You may recall I cast him and had him in front of mind when I was writing my screenplay, in real time: Heartfight.  He was one of two male leads.  The othere being Adam Driver.  I posted this picture of the pair.

I found out later that the picture of Adam and Dohmnall was faked.  You could've fooled me!  And you did, whoever you are.  It was actually a picture of Adam Driver and Viggo Mortenson.  And honestly, I can't decide which one is more fantasy inducing.  And I'm not talking fantasy films (mainstream anyways). Am I right people?

Adam is giving some serious Bromance vibes here.  And then some!  But that's for another time.

So Chris, what happened?  What did the Universe unveil to you this time?
Well, Chris, I sense a note of sarcasm in your tone (I'm talking to myself here, btw, which is often cited as either good or really questionable mental health).
Sorry Chris, I'm just trying to infuse this with a healthy dose of skepticism...Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling, so crazy​...so, I'm waiting...
​SPOILER ALERT NEXT PARAGRAPH
Okay.  So I'm watching this show Alice and Jack and it's caught my attention because Mr. Gleeson is in Full-On-Hot-Irish- Lad-Mode, with the shining beacon of flame red hair and the shamrock flower white skin.  I watch.  Oh, it's a low-key love story about a shy, retiring research scientist (Jack/Dom) and a ballsy, hard as nails lady financier (Alice/Amanda Somebody) (and you can tell she's ballsy 'cuz she wears a black leather moto jacket) who lives in a London flat the size of a Heathrow terminal.  They have a one-nighter toss and then a few months of ghosting then a second "please stay the night, even though I'm emotionally broken and kick a bloke's ass out before dawn..." And when he does stay the night, she drapes herself over him and it looks like this:

Which may put you in mind of this:

Well Chris, I recall you posting that photo of the two spooning blokes as visual accompaniment to one of the scenes in you Heartfight screenplay; but that's a fairly common repose for any reclining lovers.
Yes Chris, you're right.  But do you recall the dialogue that accompanied the accompaniment?  
Oh, you mean this dialogue?

​HENRY
Yes Paddy.  Sometimes realizations come on you like, I don't know...a drop kick from Jesus.  We only have so much time.  I don't want to waste any more of it.
PADDY
Henry?
HENRY
Yes?
PADDY
I...I...love your tattoo...
Paddy kisses the tattoo and lays his head on Henry's chest.  His face registers surprise.
PADDY
Your heart just skipped a beat...wait, there it went again.
HENRY
​You make my heart go pitter-pat, Mr. O'Riada.
Paddy CHUCKLES; but he can't hide the look of concern on his face, which, Henry can't see.

Okay, so?
Well, guess what Jack and Alice were talking about in their scene.
Just tell me.
How fast her heart was beating and then he asks her if she's all right and she says she is; to paraphrase.
Hmmmmm.  I'm gonna say coincidence.
Okay, sure.  Let's say coincidence.
​Oh, Saint Patrick is back!

That is one rough trade Saint Patrick.

So what now Chris?
Okay, so if this continues to happen in the future, which I fear it will; I am not going to call it out in a Big Way.  I'm just going to do some "quiet" complaining.  You know: Gentle Reminders.  Soft Admonishments. Wrist rubs. Waving, not Wagging Fingers.  Tut-tuts and pooh-poohs.  That sort of thing.
But, in the meantime, I invite the above-the-line talent of Alice and Jack to a rebuttal.  A point-counterpoint type sitch.  I welcome them to come here and tell me how I'm once again mistaken about all of this.  And in particular, this incidence in their "limited series"; the rest of which I will not be watching, Dom or no Dom. And speaking of "Dom": that "H" is a real bug-a-boo, Gleeson.  I mean, who can remember where it's supposed to go?  And it's silent, only adding to the confusion.  Might I suggest the following? How about Dom H. Nall-Gleeson?  Or Dohmhnall? Or how about Dohmhnahll?  Or just drop the "H" altogether. Domnall?  But I do like the H. H is such a butch looking letter, even though it's often dropped or silent.  Do you have an Hermes "H" buckle belt Dohm?  I found one at the Lost Luggage store in Alabama for only fifteen bucks!  You should get one.  Yes, a little on the pricey side, but they are reversible, so it's really like, two belts for the price of one.
Particularly-in-particular, the following gentlemen.  Writer, creator Mr. Victor Levin and directors Hong Khaou and Juho Kuosmanen: American, British/Cambodian and Finnish, respectively. And I have no idea who directed the scene in question.  Who would've thunk this would go International!??!

That is all.
Are you mad at the Universe Chris, for dropping this in your lap, unsolicited?
Well, I've been having issues with the Universe lately; but I'm certainly not one to hold a grudge.  I mean, where would we be without the Universe?

CFR  3/18/24

I guess I wasn't finished.
So, yeah.  Moving on.  Do you know how hard it is to find generic pictures of women of mixed races (or should that be "different" races?) listening to music together?  Try it.
For our next entry, I wanted to do a funny lady singing.  No, not that "Funny Lady."  Madeline Khan.  But let's go with a video of her reacting to someone singing, which is really what makes the undertaking funny to begin with. Which is why Mel keeps cutting to her. The theme from Mel Brooks' High Anxiety feat. Victoria Brisbane.

And this unsung funny lady.  Her name is Christine McIntyre.  She was The Three Stooges go-to gal for everything from ingenues to femme fatales.  And I guess she was an actual opera singer.  And she would go toe to toe with the Stooges any day. Now this is my kind of dame! She had really great chemistry with Shemp, who has always secretly been my favorite Stooge.  Maybe 'cuz he's the underdog; he has to try harder.

And here she is singing.  If you get it, you get it.

I had a close friend as a teenager.  She passed away when she still was one, in a car accident.  She was always playing music: often latching on to one favorite and playing it over and over.  Level 42's "Something About You" was one of them.  Whenever I hear it, I like to think she's sending me a message.

Tori Amos is an all time favorite of mine.  She is Woman as the enigma, wrapped in a puzzle, inside a...you know the rest.  Her songs tap into deep, universal feelings; even when you're not quite sure what she's getting at, exactly.  I'd post a video, but in her case, they distract.  Just the audio on this one...one of her lighter pieces (which are few and far between and not all that light). "Snow Cherries From France."

I asked Joseph for his input.  He mentioned Yvonne Elliman, a performer he's quite fond of.  Here she is as Mary Magdalene; a woman for the ages.

Some consider them pure corn from down under.  I can't think of a more sublime handful of perfect late 70's pop songs.  Little River Band with "Lady."  Not to be confused with "Lady" by Styx; but you might!

Back to Japan.  I loved this song back in the day.  And sorta liked their variety show, Pink Lady and Jeff.  Now, you'd think they would've sung their biggest hit song on their own show...but I can't find any record of it.  But you can listen to the record, through the magic of the Interweb Machine (TM/Reg. Pat-Pend. All Rights Reserved)!

And I think we really all need to watch some clips from their 1980 TV show, if only to remind ourselves that it actually happened.

Stevie Nicks.  Here she is with Fleetwood Mac, doing the lead on "Gypsy," which is really kind of the final word when it comes to all things Stevie.  Bonus: my friend Linda appears in this!  She's one of the extras.

Okay...this is the last entry.  Classic all "girl" group, where the women did all the singing, song-writing and instrument playing.  The Go-Go's of course!  But lately, I've been reappraising The Bangles, who I liked a lot back in the day, but not enough to go out and buy their albums.  I can't pick favorites.  They're both amazing bands and gone to soon.  Here's one from each of them; perhaps metatextually commenting on the never ending frisson between men and women.  The Go-Go's with "Turn to You" and The Bangles with "The Hero Takes a Fall."

Finis.

​CFR  3/13/24

I thought I had a whole month for this...but I think I've still got the right day.
So, I was thinking for International Women's Day, March 8th, that I would post eight music videos that remind me of women.  Either the women singing, what they're singing about, the subject of women, etc. You get it.  So here we go!

1. My niece, Maggie Slater and the video for her song "Pulp."  She has no idea how cool she is.  Well, maybe a little; but she doesn't seem to care.

2. A song about women.  Women decidedly not taking bullshite from a dude.  Kind of obscure; but I guarantee you won't get this slinky beat out of your head for days.  Gang of 4's "Woman Town."  

3.  Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work."  Everything about her speaks (or sings) to The Mystery That is Woman. Figures, she's half Irish.  She even directed the video to this.  Wish she'd done some features.  Maybe she still will.

So, I want to make this is as "international" as possible.  You know, a varitey of ethnicities amongst the ladies, etc.  Chaka Khan came to mind; and naturally, her undeniable anthem: "I'm Every Woman," which I love.  And Whitney's amazing version as well.  But, instead, I'm gonna go with this number, which I think is exemplary of passion.  The passion of any human's persuasion.  "Ain't Nobody."

Jennifer Lopez immediately leapt to mind when I was thinking about this (and you can't get much more "womanly" than JLo!).  Particularly her song "Waiting for Tonight." In fact, I liked this song so much, it was the reason I picked her CD On the 6 as one of my Columbia Music Club selections, back when there was such an entity (look it up whipper-snappers).  They referenced this one on SNL last night, so I took that as a sign.  So, here it is:

These two women harmonizing is always pretty incredible and this is one of my favorite instances of it.  Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson of The B-52's.  This band was always coming up with sly metaphors for sex and I had no idea what this song was all about until a couple of years ago when I read a quote of Cindy's: "...somebody told me this song was about making love!"  Made me hear it in a whole new way.

Oh so corny.  But in such a good way.  Sort of a lost ballad of courtly love, via the 70's.  Styx's "Lady."

I wanted to get some Asian ladies in here, but you know, there are not a lot of Asian women in popular music to choose from.  I thought of Yoko Ono; but then I had second thoughts.  Mainly, and I'm sorry to say this, but she can't really sing.  She vocalizes.  And I couldn't think of a Yoko song that made any sense for this, let alone be enjoyable to listen to.  "Walking on Thin Ice" came to mind, but it doesn't really have anything to do with women.  So, how about a song that is ejoyable, that was inspired by Yoko.  "Woman" by John Lennon.

Here's a woman who I think is the best rocker. Of all.  And here's an unapologetic rocker about ladies getting nasty and owning up to the consequences.  At least that's what I think it's about. And I know whereof I speak when I speak of the consequences of getting nasty.  Legendary Chrissie Hynde and her band Pretenders.

Ooops...I think I went over.  And I might even add some more!  This is fun.
I wanted to post some funny ladies singing and I will.  I wanted to post Gilda Radner as Candy Slice or Gilda, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman and Shelley Duvall as The Video Vixens singing about wanting to "beat the daylights out of Helen Hayes!" but I couldn't find any good clips on Youtube.  So instead, I'll give you the real thing on the fake Saturday Night Live; Fridays.  Wendy Williams, lead singer of the Plasmatics probably went beyond the antics most guys would do in the name of Rock.  She's still ahead of her time.  I knew she had passed away; but I didn't know it was at her own hand.  But I'll never forget watching this performance on live TV.

Here's a song that is pure ear candy.  And it features two women.  Really four.  The narrator of the song's Mama, his "little woman," and the two ladies actually in the band.  I prefer bands that have both male and female singers in them.  I mean, I love all the combos, but that's my favorite, like Fleetwood Mac.  Here's the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose with "Too Late to Turn Back Now."

Here's Fleetwood Mac with one of their gorgeous harmonies.  What band more encapsulated the WOMAN/MAN-MAN/WOMAN dynamic?

Okay, now I kinda feel bad about Yoko Ono.  But who among us has actually listend to one of her songs from start to finish?  "Walking on Thin Ice" is about a "girl," so I guess it qualifies for this blog.  And Yoko does make me think of her when she sings.  And she's a woman.  So let's all give peace a chance...and give Yoko a chance...and all listen to "Walking on Thin Ice," our last entry.

FIN

CFR  3/11/24

Okay, so if you read my blogs, you know I bitch constantly about being "appropriated."  Also, plagiarized.  So let's all get on the same page before I go any further with this, because I'm about to accuse someone of something that might and should (but probably won't) have ramifications. Appropriation is taking something for one's own use, typically without the owner's permission. Plagiarizing includes the stealing of someone else's ideas and claiming them as your own. I recently wrote a piece about the 2023 Oscar nominations.  It focused on a particular film, The Iron Claw.  And, I suppose, sub-focused on the film's star, Zac Efron and his expressive eyes:

I posted this blog a little over a month ago.  It was entitled: 2024 Oscar Noms (Or is That 2023? I'm Always Confused by This)...
In the blog, I went into the reasons I suspected the film was not nominated for almost anything. So, a couple of days ago, I see this article in my phone feed from Entertainment Weekly.  It's all about why The Iron Claw didn't receive any recognition, how great the author thought the movie was and then proceeded to wax rhapsodic about Mr. Efron and his eyes.
My first thought was to just let this slide.  But then, my feeling was more: why?  Why should I let it slide?  If I'm right and this person lifted my idea for their own article, why should they get off scot-free, with a paycheck to boot?  So, here is their article:  

And a link to it:

My original blog, is of course, here on my website.
So, that's it.  I invite you to read both, if you are so inclined, and draw your own conclusions.  I do this because I'm tired of feeling like I'm the crazy one; constantly having to defend myself and for some reason feeling guilty that I'm the one being stolen from.
Also, I invite Ms. Bucksbaum, her superiors and the magazine they work for to respond to this.  Please, if I am in error, correct me!  Please tell me how and why I'm mistaken.  There is a comment section below.  I welcome their responses.
I throw down the gauntlet.  

CFR   3/7/24