Make Me Wanna Holler

... nothing new worth blogging about - a bus strike, Tiger Woods, those goofball party-crashers in Washington - I've nothing new to add to any of that crapola.

So, in lieu of nothing else, here's something for the kids out there who haven't yet seen 'Drysdale's Ditherings' in the year-end ish' of 'The Beat.'


Like it or not, the cultural event and on-going news story of the year has been the the death of Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King of Pop.

I was never a big fan, but I'm willing to admit to owning one Michael Jackson album - 1979's 'Off the Wall,' the predecessor of the mega-hit 'Thriller.' At the time, I justified its purchase because it was produced by Quincy Jones. But actually, I bought it for just one song - the dance-floor hit, 'Don't Stop Till You Get Enough.'

Over the course of the first weekend after MJ died last June, I played that song over and over; back to back with Marvin Gaye's 'Got to Give It Up.' Some of you may be familiar with from it from that scene in the first 'Charlie's Angels' movie set in a space-age bachelor pad in the Hollywood Hills in which Drew Barrymore discovers she's been set up by the supposed shy computer-geek and his kick-ass Emma Peel-gone-bad partner.

There are similarities between the two songs which make them a DJ's dream segue. There's the high-falsetto lead, the party atmosphere, the occassional yelps and squeals of joy; the swirling room-spinning wall of bass-heavy funk. Even the choruses are alike - "Don't stop till you get enough," mirrors Gaye's admonition to "Keep on dancin'."

Gaye's single was released two years before 'Don't Stop,' and Michael and Quincy were either paying homage to the Motown pioneer, or trying to best him. Or just plain ripping him off.

In retrospect, I like Gaye's song better because it shows his continuing evolution as an artist. From Motown to 'Inner City Blues,' to 'Sexual Healing,' the word 'comeback' wasn't something you would associate with Marvin Gaye. He continued to grow until his early death at the age of 44. The brutha was always moving ahead, never backwards-walking into his catalogue to pay the bills with a Greatest Hits tour.

So I won't be buying the new 'This Is It' DVD. Last summer I sat through Jackson's memorial concert, held 12 days after his death and that was enough for me. I can only take so much of 'Reverend' Al Sharpton.

But the tearful on-stage 'goodbye' given by MJ's 12-year-old daughter, Paris provided the most startling revelation of the day - that MJ - the freak, the contrived eccentric curiosity, was also an obviously much-loved Dad. Deep down, underneath all the make-up, costumes and masks, turns out that he was a real human being. Imagine that.

Never saw that one coming. Because by any standards, he WAS a freak. Despite what all the Al Sharptons and revisionist apologists tell you, Michael Jackson was first and foremost, a freak. And it was Michael who deliberately cast himself in that role - and that's partly what killed him.

When talking about the child-molestation trials and accusations, people often bring up the theory that Michael must be guilty after he paid off most of his accusers to go away - "Because, who in their right mind would agree to pay millions to anyone who made such awful accusations? If you were really innocent, why wouldn't you defend yourself against such vile charges?"

Well, the first thing you have to understand is that we aren't talking about a "normal" person here. In fact, dying a cliche Hollywood drug-related death was about the only *normal* thing Michael Jackson ever did.

At some point, he severed all connection with Reality. What caused it? Growing up in show-business? Being a superstar and the family's chief bread-winner from an early age? Well, to name just one of many, Sammy Davis Jr. turned out okay.

Even in Jackson's own family, the rest of the kids seem relatively normal. With the exception of LaToya of course. But she's merely a spoiled untalented brat and so her outbursts are predictable.

After Michael's death, one of the biggest pieces of clap-trap I ever read was an opinion piece on the front page of the 'Globe and Mail' which insisted that "the world" killed Michael Jackson - and by implication, "we" were the murderers. Well, if 'we' are the 'world,' then let me off, because I won't accept any responsibility for the death of a guy whose final years are looking more and more like suicide as a work-in-progress.

If we're going to point fingers at people other than Michael himself, you don't have to look much further than his father/manager Joe Jackson. As a parent, he beat his youngest son and verbally abused him for being lazy. He made fun of the kid's "big nose" to the point that so much plastic surgery was done that it no longer resembled anything human.

All of that has to have a big effect on a child and explains a lot. As a father and a manager, the Jackson patriarch was a bully and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to suggest that Joe Jackson killed Michael just as surely as Marvin Gaye's father killed his own son.

If you remember, Marvin Gaye Senior blew his own boy's brains out with a shotgun in 1984 over a business disagreement.

The Annual C&W Record Review

Taylor Swift (top photo,) and Rosanne Cash in the lower photo, both put out popular country CDs in the past year. Which is better, you may be asking. Which would make the prefered Christmas gift?

I'd say go buy yourself Rosanne Cash's 'The List.' For one thing, it's pretty well a given that you're gonna get Taylor Swift's 'Fearless' for Christmas from your grandmother or a 'cool' aunt or someone older than you. It's like this year's 'Tapestry' by Carole King. Everyone and their dog has a copy.

I know I got mine. Bought it myself. Months ago. And proud of it too. It's one of my favorite CDs. Pop music doesn't get much better than 'Love Story' or 'You Belong With Me' ("I wear T-shirts/She wears short skirts") or even the grandly stupidly titled 'Hey Stephen' (that's right - not 'Hey Steven' but 'Stephen.')

If I was a 14-year-old girl, I would love this CD. Hell, I AM a 14-year-old girl, and I can assure you it is da bombe. I put it right up there with the soundtrack to the 'Josie and the Pussycats' movie.

Because 'Fearless' is pure bubblegum. Unbridled adolescent joy and angst. Beautifully produced and heartfelt delivered 'gum. And I can't give a better compliment than that.

But it ain't Country. Then again, nothing is country on Country Music Television or New Country Radio these days. A few days ago when Taylor won CMT's 'Entertainer of the Year Award,' it wasn't just for the mega-millions of CD's the eighteen-year-old sold last year, but because country-rapper Kayne West made her cry at the Grammies by coming on stage, grabbing her 'Best Video' Award and saying that his video from the Broadway production of 'Oklahomo' was better.

I tell ya, when he did that, it made ME cry too. I'd like to give that guy a good swift kick in the ass. Tell me Kayne, how many millions of CD's have you sold? He's had two medium-sized hits. And both from Oklahomo - the ballad, 'Cowboys in Love,' and the undeniable foot-tapping/thigh-slapper 'If I Were a Cowboy (A Rootin' Tootin' Tootin' Tootin' Tootin Tootin' Cowboy Too)'. Just jealous, I guess. Because Taylor is prettier and smarter than he is. And definitely has a lot more class.

I don't know if Rosanne Cash's CD 'The List' was even nominated for an award. Seeing as New Country Radio and Country Music Television totally ignored her daddy until after the guy died, I don't reckon Rosanne would have even been considered for recognition for a CD compilation of covers of her pa's favorite country and western songs.

But I like it. Because for one thing, they come from a list by Johnny Cash of the one hundred essential country and western songs and given to his then-eighteen year old daughter as a form of education. So, you know you can't get much more Country than this. And for another thing, if there's one voice I appreciate more than that of John R. Cash, it's his daughter's.

Some of these songs are new to me - 'The Long Black Veil,' 'Miss the Mississippi and You.' Some are obvious selections - 'Sea of Heartbreak,' 'Take These Chains from My Heart,' "Heartaches By the Number,' and Patsy Cline's 'She's Got You.' Hell, Rosanne Cash could put out a whole CD just devoted to Patsy Cline.

Some, like the hauntingly beautiful '500 Miles' are old friends who keep me company in the wee hours of the morning at work. And this is what makes this CD the better record. All of these songs are timeless. In the obvious sense that they'll be sung and listened to for more than the next hundred years. Taylor Swift's songs won't be.

But they're also timeless in the way that you can listen to them any time of the day or night. That's what makes a GREAT song. I can dig Taylor's she-bop classic 'You Belong With Me' at any time - but not before noon and not after one-o'clock in the a.m. It's bright sun-shiney pop and doesn't stand up to scrutiny too well much after dusk.

Not so with the songs on 'The List.' They all meet the Test of Time. They sound just as good on a Saturday morning as they do while you're making supper or later at night when you're trying to get laid - or at three o'clock in the morning when you're alone and in the mood for feeling sorry for yourself.

Local Man Sticks It to Fast-Food Franchise

City resident Jim Swabos pulled a fast one yesterday on his neighbourhood Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise.

While waiting for his order to be filled, he asked the counter-help if plates and utensils were free. Informed that indeed they were, Swabos replied that he could use about 20 paper plates and about 30 plastic knives and forks.

When his meal was bagged, Swabos then instructed the clerk to throw in an additional 13 plates and a handful of those ketchup thingies - "I have some people dropping by for supper," he said. "Say, is there any limit on the number of napkins? My family are real messy eaters."

At home, while Swabos, his wife and six-month-old son sat down to the still-warm '15-Piece Bucket' and small container of potato salad, he explained to the press, "Don't kid yourselves - it's a BIG company, they can spare a few extra paper plates. The Colonel is a frickin' millionaire. Believe me, he ain't gonna miss them. ... Besides, the last time I was in there and ordered a Family Meal, they claimed to be all out of those free toy Simpson figurines. The bastards."

When contacted, KFC duty-manager Shayne Westcott immediately recalled serving Swabos that night. "Oh, yeah. I remember him. He's in here pulling that shit every other Thursday. I was going to call Corporate about it but I had a big math exam the next day and was pretty swamped that night.

"One time he talked the part-time help into giving him 57 packets of pepper."

Attaboy, Vic!

When soundtrack composer Vic Mizzy caught a cab last week at the age of 91, all of the obituaries focused on his work as the creator of the theme songs for 'The Addams Family' and 'Green Acres.'

Wonderful achievements that they are, as every Vic Mizzy fan out there knows, it's Vic's movie work which best encapsulates the man's artistry. Even if it's a movie you've never seen before, the man's style is instantly recognizable. That was the case for me when I saw the William Castle production, 'The Busy Body' a while ago under the misunderstanding that it was a Wally Cox movie. The opening credits begin and it's a soft-shoe tap dance thing punctuated by machine-gun blasts - and I'm thinking, I've heard this kind of stuff before. Sure enough, it was Vic.

Think of his work as Henry Mancini all hepped up on laughing gas. Whimsey and joyful goofiness. The kind of tune that will having you tapping your feet or bobbing your head and stay locked inside your brain for days to come. The closest we have to it these days is Danny Elfman - but only from his 'Pee Wee's Big Adventure' and 'Beetlejuice' period.

All Mizzy scholars agree that the work which showcases his talent the best is his soundtrack to Don Knotts' 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.' The was the first of many projects between Mizzy, Knotts and writers Ev Greenbaum and Jim Fritzell. They also collaborated on 'The Reluctant Astronaut,' 'The Shakiest Gun in the West,' 'The Love God.' In some Knotts films, such as the dreadful 'How to Frame a Figg,' Vic's music is often the best thing in the entire movie.

But what's that you say? You haven't seen 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken' in years? Well, let me hum the theme for you - 'Duh-do.Ta-do/Da doodle-da-do. Ta-do.' Ring a bell? Well, perhaps the stains from the haunted organ which plays by itself. The one old man Simpson was playing the night he murdered his young bride with a pair of garden sheers. Her bloodstains are still on the keys. They could never get them out. And they used Bon Ami.

It's such a classic that it's been covered by surf-guitar punks The Tiki-Tones. Their version even includes an "Attaboy, Luther!" thrown in for good measure.

Photos above - Don Knotss as 'Luther Heggs' in 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.' Below, Vic Mizzy at the organ in his Beverly Hills home.

Fun With Dics

Offal, pronounced - Of-fal - (noun)- meaning 'refuse' or 'garbage.'

You seldom hear that word anymore. Only rates two or three words in my Websters dictionary.

Yet, it sprung immediately to mind the other day while cruizin' the wheel in my automobile and the car that pulls up ahead of us stops a bit short - and then does that shakin' its rear end stuff that you can only really pull off it you're driving a 'standard.'

So, like a lemming, I check out his vanity license plate.

- UOFL

or - You garbage.

I don't think I have ever been insulted in such a subtle manner before. A lot of thought went into that. And I'm sure most people who see the plate don't get it. But I did. In fact, saw the driver snickering in his rear-view mirror. So I rear-ended him. And then took off. Offal *this*, fella.

The Saddest Word

ter'mi-nal - (adjective); definition - Final; also known as 'the saddest word in the English language' - as in, "I'm sorry but your father's pulminary-fibrosis heart disease has entered the 'terminal' stage."

My dad, Doug Pegg died last night at home and at the age of 81, from pulminary fiborsis. Apparently, it's a heart condition that gradually weakens the lungs so you can't breathe anymore. He found out about it five years ago - but didn't bother to tell anyone. I can't blame him. I would have played it the same way myself.

But he WAS old and even though you could tell during the past year or so that he got easily winded, I just assumed it was just one of those getting old type things. When we went to the family picnic a two-hour drive out of town, the first weekend of August, he was the one who drove us there and back. He was fine behind the wheel. But just try asking the guy to carry the cooler into the house. Even then, relatives and people who know him better than I were taking me aside and asking - "Is he okay to drive home?" Lots of huffing and puffing and being winded just from walking from the driveway into the house.

Two weeks later my parents came over for my birthday the last week of August. He could barely make it from the driveway (and yes, he drove,) then up the three steps to the porch before gratefully collapsing onto the couch in the front room where he decided to settle for the afernoon. Couldn't even make it to the kitchen, where my family does most of our hanging-out when they come over.

He said he was going for respirology tests the next day. When the tests came back a couple of days later, they put him on oxegen. And it seemed to help for a bit. But then he needed more and more.

I saw him about a week later, and he looked good. Well, about as good as you can while walking around with a tube up your nose attached to an oxegen tank.

But about a week ago, he wasn't doing too well. My sister came down and found out about all the pulminary fibrosis stuff and that his repirologist gave her the news that he had entered the 'terminal' stage of the disease.

I went over last Thursday morning. He was able to sit up on the edge of the bed to talk, get a bit weepy and then get onto his commode to get rid of the cornflakes and bran-buds he insists on having for breakfast. That said, he had been basically in his bedroom for the past two days. Even making it to the bathroom, five feet away would have wiped him out.

Yesterday - was our Family Thanksgiving dinner. All his kids and their wives and his grandchildren would be there. And we get there and he was still in somewhat good humour for a bed-ridden guy, but didn't have the energy to even be able to sit up in bed.

He lay there while a procession of family came in and told him how much they loved him - or like me, talked about everything else under the sun. The last I saw him, he was tuckered out and just wanted to roll over into his favorite sleeping positon and go to sleep. Me and the boy helped him do that.

Then we ate and went home and a few hours later, he was gone.

It's like he was just holding on long enough to say 'goodbye' to EVERYONE and once that was done, it was okay to go.

When my brother called shortly after midnight to say that he was gone, I wasn't surprised. And I wasn't the only one who thought he was hanging on just to say goodbye one last time.

For five years, the guy knew his time was coming sooner rather than later and that he could never be sure when he saw any of us, whether or not that would be the last time. But being the true parent he was, he didn't want anyone to know.

Obviously, he's the kind of guy that didn't want a lot of fuss made about his passing. And according to his wishes, there won't be any funeral, etc. But he shan't go unmourned. So I'll say it here - he was the ultimate nice guy. If you walked into the room, he'd look over and there'd be smile on his face just from seeing you. He was that kind of guy.

Not to cheapen his passing with a reference from a pop song, but for past few days, I had been listening to 'Coney Island Baby' by Lou Reed. Know the one? It's a soft, gentle then angry ballad-type thing circa 1976 that starts off with Lou monologing,

"You know, when I was a young man in high school/Believe it or not but I always wanted to play football for the Coach ... Because, man, you know, someday you're gonna have to stand up straight - or you're gonna fall - then you're gonna die/And turns out, the straightest dude I ever knew was standing right by me all the time./So I had to play football for the Coach/And I want to play football for the Coach."

After my brother called with the news tonight, we went over and I only went in to see him the one time. But it was right after we got there. Body still warm. I know for a fact that he had moved around and had lifted his head enough to take his pills in the hours in between. But I can't tell you how nice it was to see that when the time came, he went away in his favorite sleeping position. Just like when I had last seen him.

*** Photo at the top *** - my dad, and his shortlived Shirley Temple-locks sitting in his own father's lap, my Aunt Betty and my own namesake, Uncle Bob (who died in World War Two,) beside them.

Together again - with the exception of Betty, who will hopefully outlive us all.

And This is My Tale of Woe

Long-time friends may already be familiar with this story but on a nice warm autumn day like this, I can't help but think of her and feel like retelling it all over again.

Idaho Ilsa was her name. And I was her man. And this is my tale of woe.

When I was growing up in Poplar Hill a few decades ago, the little village north of London was the heppest place in this corner of southwestern Ontario. It was home to the annual Nihilist Picnic where spasmatic nihilist rockers and their friends and family would come to town for a day of orchestrated madcapery and bedlam. Rumour has it that the sleepy village was also the site of the first Burning Man Festival.

But the most interesting yearly celebration was what we locals referred to as 'Malcolm Merriweather Day.' It was an old custom which pre-dated the First World War. No one remembers where the name came from - none of my friends or parents knew who Malcolm Merriweather even was. There certainly were no 'Merriweather's listed in the Poplar Hill phone book. Was he a founding father? One of those old pioneer guys? A travelling salesman? We didn't know.

Doesn't really matter what it was called though - it could just as easily and accurately been named 'Do Whatever You Want That You Would Never Get a Chance to Do Otherwise Day.' The unwritten rule was - do whatever you want, as long as no one gets hurt.

Because of its spontaneous and impromptu nature, Malcolm Merriweather Day wasn't much of a tourist attraction. It was just for us townsfolk. Every fall on the first day that the temperature reached sufficiently high to make it hot enough for an authentic Indian Summer, everyone took the day off. Supposedly in celebration of Malcolm Merriweather. In his honour, even the fireflies returned and put in an unseasonal appearance.

What would happen was - for that one day of the year, if there was something you had always dreamed of trying, your fellow townspeople would help make it happen. One year, as a minimum-wage earning teen, my best friend, Dan Brown had always fantasized about rolling around in piles of dollar bills and throwing them up in the air. Well, sir, just for Dan, the Poplar Hill Savings and Loan unlocked the doors to the vault and for 15 minutes, Dan did just that.

Another year, my girl at the time, Idaho Ilsa - a red-headed Kim Novak-lookalike, had always dreamed of being Mayor. So Mayor Pike gladly handed over the official Mayor's Hat and the Keys to the City, and Ilsa spent the day making proclamations and hanging up flags outside Town Hall. As you can see, the day was very Brigadoon. Very Never-Neverland.

The whole village got involved in the spirit of Malcolm Merriweather Day. For those lacking in imagination or personal dreams, there were plenty of spontaneous activities. Pie-eating contests, parades, girl-carrying races, soft-ball games, hot-dogs, corn-on-the-cob, watermelon, ice-cream, egg-salad sandwiches, free Kentucky-Fried chicken supplied by the local franchise owner and at the very end - fireworks! It was like an all-day community picnic. Only without any opportunistic speeches by politicians. Those were banned.

For me, the most memorable Malcolm Merriweather Day happened in the fall of '63, not too far into October. It had been a cold wet September so no one argued when Mayor Pike declared Merriweather Day during the first hot spell to happen in weeks.

Idaho Ilsa and I had been seeing each other for about three years and were at that point in our relationship where it just seemed about *time*, if you know what I mean. All day long during the festivities, we two kids couldn't keep our eyes off each other. So at dusk, while the rest of the town gathered at the ballpark to watch the fireworks, we snuck off to consumate our own personal wishes. Which, according to legend are only granted through the graces of the omnipotent Malcolm Merriweather. Whomever that may be.

There was a pasture in the countyside just outside of town to which we were both partial. And that night, in a field of wildflowers and daisies, we lay down on a flannel blanket, took off all our clothes, and there under the stars, with only the cows and fireflies as witnesses, Idaho Ilsa and I made Hot German Potato Salad.

It was such a profound and earth-moving experience that we both instictively knew that even with another Malcolm Merriweather Day, chances are, we would never be able to duplicate it again. We decided to remain very close friends.

Three years later, Ilsa was killed in a car accident. Hit by a drunk driver while picking up mayonnaise and bacon in the condiments aisle of the Poplar Hill Valu-Mart. I never really got over it and moved to London.

But to this day, whenever I'm in a grocery store and pick up a 10-pound bag of Idaho Reds, I smile wistfully and think of Ilsa. And Malcolm Merriweather.