Howard Owens

My favorite search term this month -- though I suspect it won't please Matt Welch -- "emmanuelle world of desire."

And what the hell was this person looking for: "adultery or aaron or sumo or totalitarians or inkblots"?

BTW: If I get 700 visitors per day, why don't I get more comments? It couldn't possibly be because of my habit of insulting them, could it?

BTW II: If you're linking to or bookmarking hbo3.com or globalnewswatch.com, I wish you would change to howardowens.com. Especially if you're linking (check your blog roll). This would help me out a lot with all of those services that judge popularity by how many people link to you.

As the recall draws near, if you're not reading Daniel Weintraub's California Insider blog every day, you should be. Lots of new goodness posted just today.

This should be sufficiently irritating to the lefties -- one of their counter-culture heroes has joined the other team.

The group played benefits for Robert Kennedy three months before his assassination in 1968. "He was probably the best of the Kennedy family," Hillman said. "He was a fighter. He went after Hoffa and organized crime, and he was a principled man."

Hillman maintains that Vietnam was a tragic mistake. "It was a bad, bad move because we didn't learn from the French," he said. "We didn't see what was going on. We had no business there, but it was the mindset at the time."

Civil rights, too, was a just cause, Hillman said. But today, he feels that a liberal agenda mutated King's message, punctuated by the famous "I have a dream" speech.

"Did it really accomplish what it started out to?" Hillman asked. "I'm not sure, because the race card is constantly played and at this point in time, we should be colorblind."

As for his political shift, Hillman quoted Reagan: "I didn't leave the Democratic Party. It left me."

Hillman voted for Bill Clinton in 1992. But he became "disillusioned" after Clinton made gays in the military a priority shortly after taking office.

.   .   .

... "Gay marriage? Get out of here. It's not meant to be. Two dads? Two moms? It's a mortal sin. I defend their right to do that, but don't politicize it."

Hillman has little patience for the practice of throwing taxpayer dollars at public schools and government social programs, saying it will not cure society's ills. "All of that comes out of this liberal bent of 'Everybody gets a fair deal,' " he said. "It just borders on bad socialism to me."

He's still a damn slow-growth advocate, though.

As for his new music, I had a chance to listen to his (and Herb Pedersen) new CD today. It's probably the best thing he's done in a decade or more. All of you "Sweetheart of the Rodeo"/Flying Burrito Brothers fans will be real, real pleased with it. It's a keeper.

My friend Scott Riley is a very good story teller. Go read this piece if you've got some time (though, I've never heard of this Pamela).

Peter McClymont has been blogging for a bit more than a year now. He's a regular reader here and frequent commenter. For some reason he says he holds this blog in some sort of awe. I'm not sure if that is an awe of appreciation or an awe of head shaking, stupidified disbelief, but it's nice to be noticed and linked to in the process.

I still don't understand why Peter thinks he's a donut. I've seen pictures of the man. And I've seen donuts. Peter doesn't have a hole in his head that I can see.

Matt Margolis wrote today to say he likes my blog, and introduce me to his. His is quite good -- solid and reasonable thinking. You should check it out.

I know of Tyler Cowen from Volokh Conspriacy. I dropped him a note the other day, and he responded by letting me know about his new blog. It, too, rewards a visit.

Also, Bobby Allison-Gallimore has moved.

It all started with a single record. One evening, my wife brought home Dave Rose's "The Stripper and Other Fun Songs for the Family." She spent 50 cents on it in a thrift store in Thousand Oaks. Billie wasn't really sure why she bought it. She just thought it was interesting, and remembered the title song from her childhood (who doesn't?).

At the time, we owned a few of my old rockabilly records, some 70s stuff she had before we met, and a handful of '80s new wave LPs that I hadn't been able to unload. At most, we had 50 albums in the house on the day we first put on "The Stripper."

Soon, we were wearing new grooves in that old Rose LP. What great music. It was bold, greasy, full of raunch and roll. Plenty of brassy horns, snorting sax, big drums, slinky guitar and enough rhythm to rock any room.

Tracks like "Night Train," "St. James Infirmary," "Black and Tan Fantasy," "Harlem Nocturne" are all standards we should all know, but Rose and his band delivered these tunes with a gusto and verve that few musicians on today's pop radio could understand. "My Heart Belongs to Daddy," one of the sexiest songs ever written, and closes out side two with more attitude than even Madonna could muster.

Immediately, my wife wanted to find more music like this. So we started haunting thrift stores and garage sales. Before long, we had crowded our house with more than 1,000 LPs. We didn't just look for the next David Rose. We figured if we found Rose by accident, we might find other good stuff by accident, so we squandered our lunch money on anything that looked interesting. We bought polka and ragas. We bought music from South America, Central America, Tonga and Tahiti, Poland and Latvia. If there is a culture out there that produced music, we eventually found it and bought it. If a record was in good condition and looked enertaining, we bought it.

I went through a phase of buying all the Dixieland I could (readily available in bargain bins these days). I loading up on the Dukes of Dixieland, The Firehouse Five, Pete Fountain and Al Hirt. I discovered a piano player named Big Tiny Little, and bought several of his albums.

Then I went through my Latin phase, buying any record with "Cha-Cha-Cha" or "rumba" or "mambo" on the cover. This resulted in the obligatory Xavier Cugart and Tito Puente platters, but also led me to Prez Prado and a rather generically named LP "Cha Cha, Anyone?" and a performance of "Quien Sera" by a group of unknown Porta Rican musicians that is among the finest recordings ever made. I fell so much in love with this recording that I forced my guitar teacher to transcribe the six-string part and teach it to me.

But the love of that David Rose album (it turns out, btw, the rest of Rose's work is pretty lame) also drove us to seek out what I call "Adult Pop from the 1950s and 1960s." This means Peggy Lee, Jackie Gleason, Tony Bennett, Carmen Cavallaro, and Julie London, among others, not to mention Dean Martin. Of course, it also means Frank Sinatra. When I first started on this quest somebody told me that it is almost impossible these days to break into collecting Sinatra records at a reasonable price. Well, I soon proved that guy wrong. I now own more than 30 Sinatra LPs -- all in very good to near mint condition. I didn't really start out to build a big Sinatra collection (I mean, I already had some of his CDs), but when you see one of his records collecting dust in a thrift store, and it's in good shape, you've got to buy it.

The interest in adult pop, or what is also sometimes called lounge, or cocktail music, led quite predictably to exotica. We're talking Martin Denny and Arthur Lyman, mainly. In fact, one of my best finds was a still-sealed copy of Lyman's "Taboo." Exotica remains among my favorite music to relax by, or put on when my wife and I want to enjoy a romantic dinner. Exotica is also a little more collectable and harder to find in good condition than the rest of this stuff, so there are a few $7 or $8 exotica LPs in my collection (and they book for more).

I'm sure some of the albums I have are worth quite a good bit of green. I've seen some of them on sale for $25 to $50, and the book value on a couple is over $200. But that's not why I buy them. I buy them for the love of the music, and that's why I usually stay away from used record stores that charge collectors prices (not all do), Ebay and any place that isn't likely to charge more than $7 or $8 dollars for any record, no matter how rare. And at least 90 percent of the records I've bought, I paid less than $1 for. I've found used vinyl is the most cost efficient way to explore obscure, rare and hard to find music.

As of today, I'm down to about 500 records, though. Storing 1,000 records is just a bit much. I had to weed out. Some of the records I decided to get rid of are on consignment at a local record store, Grady's on Main Street, and a few I sold at our recent garage sales. The rest went back to where most of them came from -- a thrift store. That's not to say I lost money on these records -- regardless of what I get on consignment from Grady's -- the reward of being able to hear all of these LPs at least once was worth whatever price I paid for them, not to mention the fun of looking for these treasures in the first place.

But old LPs aren't all about music -- part of the joy of old records are the record sleeves. Some of the album covers I've come across are as entertaining (in some cases, more so) than the music. Here is a slide show of some of my favorite LP covers (NOTE: to view the slide show, click the link, a pop-up window opens ... click on each image (anywhere on the image) to see the next cover).

Call me crazy, but I'm going to make a prediction right now -- the 2004 National League West Pennant belongs to the San Diego Padres. Forget the Giants, forget the Dodgers (and certainly forget the Diamondbacks and Rockies), the Padres are the team to beat next year in the NL West.

I write this as the Padres finish a two-game sweep of the Diamondbacks, giving them their fifth series win. Over the last 10 games, the Padres are 8-2, usually winning by decisive margins, as they did yesterday, 12-0. These are not the same Padres who went 5 for May.

What's changed?

Two things, first Sean Burroughs has been batting leadoff. Second, the Padres acquired Brian Giles.

Getting Giles was big, but moving Burroughs to the #1 slot was bigger. Since making the move, Burroughs is hitting .429 with an OBP of .529.

The classic leadoff hitter is a speed burner who steals bases. Most of the time, these guys hit about .250 with an OPB of a tick above .300 and they get caught stealing more than 3 times out of every attempt. In other words, their value is often overrated.

Burroughs isn't going to steal many bases, but he has enough speed to keep the infield honest when he's at the plate. You don't want to double pump when Burroughs is trying to beat out a hit, because if you do, he'll burn you. But more importantly, Burroughs knows how to work the count and draw walks. The ability to make the pitcher work against the first hitter he sees in a game is the most valuable asset a leadoff hitter can have. Bochy plans to keep Burroughs in the #1 slot next year, and I applaud his decision. Burroughs is the prototypical leadoff hitter of the slugging generation -- make the pitcher work, get on base a lot so the big guys can drive you in.

As good as Burroughs is as a leadoff hitter, he's made even better with Mark Loretta hitting behind him, and Loretta is a better hitter with Burroughs on base half the time. And better still with Giles hitting behind him. This creates a situation where Loretta is seeing more fastballs, more pitches over the plate. These are pitches Loretta can rip. Over the last 10 games, Loretta is hitting .432. He and Burroughs have combined for a better than .500 on base percentage. Obviously, they won't keep this pace up, but they will remain tough outs.

And when you have the second best left handed hitter in Giles hitting third, you're going to score runs. Especially when you have a Phil Nevin hitting clean up.

You're now talking about four hitters who hit for average and know how to draw walks. With the last two guys hitting for power.

But wait, we're not done. Next year, a healthy Ryan Klesko will be hitting fifth. Again, power and average and plate discipline. After Klesko, as it stands now, is Mark Kotsay. Again, a good professional hitter.

That's just want we know will be there next year -- a 1 through 6 batting order that is going to make pitchers work. And when pitchers work, they get tired and become more mistake prone. And mistake pitches often have a way of reaching the seats, especially when guys like Giles, Nevin and Klesko have a bat in their hands.

But wait, we're not done. The Padres say they are going to spend money this off season. That means we could wind up with a pretty good hitting catcher in San Diego -- Ivan Rodriquez, say. Plus a couple of front line pitchers, like, say Javier Vazquez and Greg Maddux (not the pitcher he once was, but still a great veteran presence.

With Trevor Hoffman healthy again, and Rod Beck working as his set up man, you're talking about a formidable bullpen to back up a young, strong starting rotation.

The Padres will also sport a strong bench, possibly the strongest in the NL West, certainly stronger than the Dodgers.

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, but if you're a Padres fan, you can't help but be excited about how this team is coming together.

Hundred-nine-year-old Tony Pierce needs to take his medication. He's hyperventilating again. I'm not sure he can survive a bona fide Cubbie pennant race.

More evidence of my irresponsibility ... long ago I asked for and received a review copy of Lee Rocker's latest CD "Bulletproof." After a couple of listens, I knew it was good enough to review, but I got bogged down with a bunch of work-related deadlines. Then I lost the CD. Then I found it, but again, didn't have time to review it. Then I lost it again. It's been months since I've seen that shiny little disk, even though I still have the handsome jewel case.

But my lack of care in keeping track of "Bulletproof" is not a commentary on the quality of the music. It says more about the disorganization of my office.

Rocker's CD is full of revved-up rockabilly, and even if it is a little predictable at times, what with "One More Shot" overt bow to "Mystery Train" and guitarist Tara Novick's repeated aping of Brian Setzer, it is still a CD I wish I could listen to in full tonight. I especially miss hearing Rocker do the title track and his hep version of "Frankie and Johnny."

"Bulletproof" isn't going to convince any non-rockabilly fans to get tattoos and slick back their hair, but for those of us who are already greased up and ready to go, Rocker's latest disk is full of fire and fun.

I'm sending this link to Rocker's publicist, whom I'm sure will write me off as a total flake, if he hasn't already, but all I can do is to beg you, gentle reader, not to judge Mr. Rocker's effort by my tardiness in calling your attention to his CD. If you love rockabilly, even with my little nitpicks, you should own "Bulletproof".

People send me links ... here's three of the latest ...

• For all you anti-Moore fans, here's Bowling For Truth.
• Not getting enough recall opinions, here you can get them on video.
• This is supposedly a grassroots pro-Arnold site.

Colby Cosh wouldn't put Bobby Bonds in the Hall of Fame.

If you look at the most-similar batters to Bobby Bonds (using another James method), you see names like--to take the top five--Ron Gant, Reggie Smith, Jack Clark, George Foster, and Fred Lynn. Bobby Bonds isn't truly similar to any of those guys, and he was probably better than all of them, except maybe Lynn at top form (or Clark coming to the plate in the bottom of the ninth). But the list reminds you that it won't do merely to show that Bobby Bonds was terrific, fantastic, splendid: so were Jim Wynn, Kenny Singleton, and Jesse Barfield, for a while. Anybody want to put Singleton in the Hall? (I know some people want to put in Bobby Murcer, who was once traded straight-up for Bobby Bonds.) Now, me, I'm almost willing to vote for Bob just because he smoked in the dugout between plate appearances. But let's do this in the right order, eh? Bobby Bonds isn't going to get any deader while he waits for Evans, Murphy, and Raines.

I liked Bobby when I was a kid, but I remember being disappointed when it turned out that he wasn't really another Willie Mays. Bonds the Elder was a good and poetic player, but he wasn't one of the greatest ever. Barry on the other hand ...

And now what you've all been waiting for -- my official report on the California Gold Rush 2003 Vacation and Anniversary Celebration Tour (the title seems to get longer every time I mention it).

First, the facts. Yes, they did find gold in Northern California. Unfortunately, it was more than 150 years ago, and all the easy pickin's (placer gold), have long been mined. Once I got over my disappointment, I was more easily able to enjoy my drive through the Sierras.

We started out by driving up Highway 99, which takes you through the heart of California. This is where the real gold is -- orchards, and grapes, and lettuce, and nuts. If it can be grown and consumed, California's central valley probably grows it.

The 99 is a long, straight, flat road. But it's not as flat as you might think. There are times, you swear, that you are ever so slightly going up hill. I don't think this is an optical illusion. A check of elevations finds, for example, that Pixley is at 271 feet, Tulare 288 and Fresno 296.

Our first proper stop on our trip was in Tulare, where there is a great Ag Center. It has a museum of old tractors and a fun learning center.

We spent our first night in Merced, which is a cute little town that I would like to revisit some time and explore more thoroughly. After a swim in a motel pool and a good night's rest, we headed up the 140 into Gold Country. Our first gold mining town was Mariposa. It's a pretty tourist stop, serving as sort of a gateway to Gold Country and Yosemite. Lawyers would appreciate a stop at the Mariposa Courthouse, which is the oldest, still operational courthouse in the state.

After a couple of hours in Mariposa, we headed north on Highway 49. The 49, which actually starts far north of Mariposa in Oakhurst, strings together a whole collection of old gold mining towns (Gold Rush of 1849, the 49ers, Highway 49 -- get it?). Our trip, over two and a half days would take us all the way to Placerville, with stops overnight in Jamestown and Plymouth.

I'm sure we didn't see all there is to see along the 49. There are probably about 75 historical markers along the highway (we stopped and read many of them), and we would have made slow progress indeed if we parked every time we saw a sign for a museum (we were busy enough stopping at about a third of the antique stores we saw, and all of the bookstores and even a couple of thrift stores).

The best museums were in Mariposa and San Andreas. The best "preserved" gold rush towns were Columbia City and Coloma. The stories these points of historical interest tell gives you a pretty good idea of what life during the Gold Rush was like. It was hard, dangerous, rarely rewarding, sometimes entertaining existence, but made enough men their fortunes that you can't blame any man (or woman, and there were a few) for taking the huge risk and trying to strike a claim.

The house we stayed in on our anniversary night was in Plymouth. It's a bed and breakfast called the Plymouth House Inn. It's been a B&B since the 1970s. It's a beautiful house, well appointed and comfortable (with a first class breakfast served by the charming proprietress Sandra) and was originally build in the 1880s Dr. E.V. Tiffany, who made enough money digging for gold that he put himself through medical school. After school, he returned to Plymouth and built his house (and doctor's office) over his old mine. The old mine is now a bar under the house called the "Mine Shaft."

From Plymouth, we cut through Placerville on our way to Coloma and the site of Sutter's Mill. It was in a tailrace about 50 yards from the actual mill that James Marshall actually first spotted gold. The old town of Coloma, and area surrounding the old mill (now reconstructed in a different location) is a state park. We spent a good three hours in the park. Even though few of the old buildings still stand, the park service did a great job of putting up signs explaining where everything once was.

Sutter's Mill was pretty much the end of the Gold Tour part of our vacation. We might a quick swing through Sacramento, doing a quick tour of the Capitol Building. I tried to find some of my old co-workers, but one woman apparently no longer works for the legislature (that's a surprise) and Bill Cavala, the mastermind behind many Democratic campaigns in this state, works out of a building that now requires ID passes to enter.

I wanted to have a drink at Posey's, a famous (infamous?) Capitol bar, but all that appears to be left is the sign. If the little outdoor cafe that's there now is still called Posey's, I doubt it's the same atmosphere I was introduced to by Cavala in 1993. It didn't look the same to me, so we didn't stop.

The trip back south on the 99 included a luncheon stop at Pollardville, which is probably only a shadow of its past glory, but still a great, campy find outside of Stockton.

We had such great luck in finding classic motels in Merced (we didn't even stay in the best one because we didn't find the really cool ones until the next day) that we thought we'd try our luck in Lodi or Stockton. Lodi's motels were all fleabags, and while driving down the main drag in Stockton, we saw several prostitutes and decided maybe Stockton wasn't our kind of town.

On the way to Modesto, I suggested to my wife that if the Modesto A's were in town, maybe we could stay in Modesto two nights and catch a minor league ball game. She thought that was a great idea, so we got ourselves a nice room at a chain hotel and settled in for an "extended" stay.

Minor league baseball is a lot of fun. It's been a couple of decades since I went to a lower league game, and I'd never seen Class A teams play before, but it's still baseball and these guys are professionals. It's not a sloppy or poorly played game at all. Modesto won, which was fine by me.

At the game, some nine candidates for governor showed up and shook hands and threw ceremonial baseballs. For some, I imagine, this will be about the biggest highlight of their political career.

Around the 7th inning, I decided to wonder around the stadium a bit, and all but one candidate had left the promenade. That was Brooke Adams. Adams is 25, an independent, and running for office for the first time. I asked her why she was running and she talked about the problems of the state and how many people were leaving because of those problems. I said, "Let's be honest, you haven't got a chance to win, so why do it?" "I think I can win," she said. "I'm getting a lot of coverage in small town papers and I'm starting to get some name recognition. People are fed up and I think they're looking for a change." (or something like that ... not an exact quote).

We'll see.

When you plan a vacation, especially one as important as this one was to us, you're always nervous. Many things can go wrong. Our vacation, I would say, was about as perfect as they come. We had a great time, enjoyed each other's company immensely, and even learned a thing or two about our state. For nearly a week, I got to spend everyday pretending I was Huell Howser (though it would have been more fun if I'd had a video camera for the trip). We also met many fine Californians (who uniformly seem to favor recalling Gray Davis, but are leery of voting for Arnold ... that's my very unscientific, unprompted poll ... amazing how many people wanted to talk about this issue without prompting). California is a great state and I'm glad I got to spend some time exploring it. Next year, we might head into the same territory and see a few things we missed this time around.

I've peppered this post with links to related photos, but I have an entire slideshow/photo essay you can view (all of 71 photos) right here.

Happy Birthday Charles Bukowski.

Should Pete Rose be in the Hall of Fame?

The question will never lose its luster, just as the same question about Shoeless Joe Jackson, will never fade away, so long as he is excluded from the Hall.

My quick answer is, "No." That's my personal answer. My person answer is based on the belief that any player or manager who bets on baseball deserves a lifetime ban from all things MLB related. Betting on baseball while actively involved in the sport is the worst baseball sin. If baseball were a religion, which some would argue it is, betting on baseball is comparable to breaking all Ten Commandments simultaneously. It is the one thing a baseball man mustn't do at all, ever. It isn't a character issue, like using drugs, it is an integrity-of-the-game issue. And while corking a bat or spitting on a ball is properly called cheating (though I'd entertain the idea of making spit balls legal, as they once were), either of those transgressions only effect a small portion of the game and are subject to other unpredictable human variables. Betting, however, deals with final outcomes, and cuts too close to (if not outright) directly manipulating those outcomes. That is unacceptable. Ever. Forever. Period. End of debate.

It will be one more sign of the coming apocalypse and the end of time if Pete Rose is enshrined in the Hall of Fame.

But when Rose and the hall are discussed, another debate has become fashionable of late -- whether, based on Pete's on-field performance, does Rose deserve to be in the Hall? The average fan would answer, "Of course. He's the all-time hits leader." Some statheads say, "Hey wait a minute. Sure, Pete got a lot of singles, but he really didn't contribute much to helping his team win."

Keith Woolner, writing for Baseball Prospectus, crunches some numbers and concludes that while Rose, while not putting together anything near a Ruthian or Bondsian career, did well enough to make the Hall. As much as I think stats, and the right stats, are important for evaluating baseball talent, I have never had much interest in comparing players from past eras with other dead legends for the propose of saying, "Frank Chance was overrated, and Wee Willie Keeler was under appreciated." I don't think those kinds of exercises do anything productive or useful. The purpose of studying past performance, to me, is to gain some insight into future expectations. GMs, like Billy Beane, should use sabremetrics to help them build better ball clubs. Fans should study the numbers to help them evaluate their favorite teams and to build fantasy rosters. The past is only important if it helps us understand the future.

Furthermore, I've never been a big fan of deciding whether a player should be in the Hall based solely on stats (traditional or otherwise). Don Sutton, for example, is in the Hall, because he won 300 games. Obviously, Sutton was one of the better pitchers in the game during his era, but he wasn't a Tom Seaver or Nolan Ryan. He wasn't an impact player. He was, at best, non-descript. He wasn't a player fans envied other teams for having. He just glided through his career well enough and long enough to amass 300 wins. And that's about all he did.

This is an entirely subjective evaluation, of course. But to me, the question of who makes it into the Hall and who doesn't should be, first and foremost, a subjective question. The Hall should be for players who were judged great by their contemporizes (fans, fellow players and sports writers). They should be the kind of players fathers will tell their kids about, and their kids will tell their kids about. Fifty years from now, nobody will be talking about Don Sutton the way I heard Sutton talking about Warren Spahn the other night. The writers who vote on players should ask themselves, will my grandchildren really care about Brett Butler? Players in the Hall should only be players who are exceptional and remarkable, not just good.

And by that standard, Pete Rose is Hall of Fame calibre. Not only is he the all-time hit leader (a remarkable accomplishment no matter how much you value sabremetrics), but he defined hustle, hard work and dedication for all future generations of ballplayers. That's something no calculator can measure. Any fan who ever saw Charlie Hustle play can't help but think of him every time they see a current ballplayer slide headfirst or bowl over a catcher. That, as much as the hits, define Pete Rose, and to transcend mere stats. It's the kind of transformation of the game than earns a trip to Cooperstown -- so long as you don't bet on baseball.

Franxman thinks we should post pictures of our offices. Here's my home office.

Of all the music I've ever owned, the CDs labelled "Buddy Blue" are among my all-time favorites.

Why? Because Buddy Blue is nothing if not authentic. There's no posing here. Buddy is a true American-music aficionado whose taste and range of knowledge spans the spectrum of blues, folk, country, jazz, rock, hillbilly, rockabilly, jump blues, ragtime -- you name it. If it's music made in America, Buddy has absorbed it. He hasn't just picked up a few licks or memorized the right chord progressions. The full range of the American musical experience has become twisted in with his DNA.

Whereas many other purveyors of "retro" American music, whether it be Wayne Hancock or Big Bad VooDoo Daddy, succumb to mocking their own genres through comic book posturing, Blue plays music purely for the love of the concoctions he can mix. He imitates stylings out of love, and expands arrangements out of respect, not only capturing the essence of the older sounds, but also the intentions of the musicians who originally coined the musical vocabulary.

So when Blue announced he had signed a record deal to record an all jazz CD, I was excited. Blue is a formidable songwriter and given the sorry state of modern jazz, I expected Blue to release something truly astonishing.

For people not familiar with Blue's music to date, especially jazz fans, Sordid Lives, might really knock them on their asses. Americans haven't made jazz with this much gusto for at least four or five decades. Blue's music hits listeners like too much mescal and cigarette smoke. It is full of life, not the listless life of the David Sanborn or Kenny G crowd, but jazz like it was meant to be, derelict and seamy.

Still, given Blue's talent and inventiveness, it is a little disappointing that Blue didn't take this all-jazz CD further. All but two of the tracks are remakes of songs from his four previous record. Great songs to be sure, and they are improved by Blues better understanding of his own material, a few jazzier touches, and an extra lick thrown in here or there, but for the most part, the arrangements don't depart far from the originals. That may be a testament to how tightly crafted the songs were in the first place, and they were, but it would have been more of a treat to hear Blue stretch himself further.

All of the covers of himself makes the lone new, self-penned song on the CD all that more frustratingly tantalizing. "Uptown at Minton's" is a fine tribute to be-bop, both in subject matter and execution. It once again displays the range of Blue's talents, and shows what he could have done with this opportunity to make a through-and-through jazz album.

Longtime Blue fans need not feel the compulsion to rush out and buy this CD (ed. Rush out? You're review is months late. Yes. Sorry.), but anybody who has never heard Blue, and has any taste for jazz at all, should give himself (or herself, of course) a steamy Christmas present in August and buy Sordid Lives. On its own, it is certainly a five star record.

Oh, another favor you can do for yourself, stop by Buddy's site and sign up for his e-mail newsletter. It's the most entertaining musician's newsletter on the net.

I've been remiss in not linking to Jay Christopher's blog sooner. He's doing good stuff, and he wrote to me more than a month ago to introduce himself. Somebody should call me an arrogant fuck for this.

Oh, and Jay's a fellow Venturan. Somebody should nominate him for the Bear Flag League (I think I just did).

And Jay's not the only blogger I've done  this to. I remember one guy a couple of months ago sent me a URL to his new blog. It was great stuff. He even wrote some pretty damn fine poetry. Before I could write anything, I accidently deleted his e-mail. Sorry to whomever that was. And before the evening's over, I bet I find more such misplaced blog URLs.

Where was I Friday night ...  I was poolside, at the concert event of the year -- at the "Retraction" tour appearance, the one-and-only appearance, the reunion show of Newshole.

Yes, Ken Layne and Matt Welch aren't the only journalists around with musical talent.

I bet neither of those guys played in a little rockin' combo that included killer accordian.

And just to preserve the historical record, I took pictures.

I can't decide what in this story is hardest to believe:

• That people would actually buy stuff via spam
• That lots of people would actually buy stuff via spam
• That lots of people would buy a penis enlargement product via spam
• That some guys would pay lots of money for large quantities of a penis enlargement product
• That the spam company would expose information about all of its customers to the entire internet
• That these customers would make credit card purchases on a spam-related site with no visible contact information using non-secure server
• That the guy running the "business" is a tournament-level chess player
• That the guy who mentored the spammer is a former neo-nazi who dropped out of the movement when it was revealed his father was a Jew

This is the kind of wacky plot you could weave into a wild novel. I think Larry Jonestowne needs to get on the case. All it needs is a statue of a predatory bird to pass around, a few dead bodies and a fat man.

Glenn Reynolds thinks that Matt Welch didn't like Le Divorce. I've got news from him, because the way I read it, Welch loved the movie:

"An urgent bit of advice ... see this movie. ... You'll be glad you did, or I'll give you your money back."

Whatever Matt says ...

I love all kinds of music. A lot of the best music was made before I was born, and some of it even pre-dates my parents. Here's a site dedicated to some of the great tunes of my grandmother's youth. Thanks to James Lileks for bringing this site to my attention. I have a bunch of CDs, too, that my dad made for me. The songs are culled from 78s he and I have bought over the last couple of years. My Dad digitizes the music, cleans up the recordings a bit with his fancy software and then makes these wonderful CDs of songs from the 20s through 50s.

First Listen: Lisa Marie Presley "To Whom It May Concern."

Presley can sing. No doubt about that. She's sultry, controled and expressive. There is really only one reason to praise her debut CD -- her natural talent. Not even mounds of over production and pop-commercial lameness can hide her gift.

Musically, the CD is thin at best. It's not that Lisa Marie is a bad songwriter. She crafts pop songs reasonably well. The songs are just too layered with studio techniques designed to be radio friendly.

I think the CD will grow on me, but what I'm really waiting for is the day she escapes her record company handlers, whose obsession with commercial viability stifle artistic expression, and makes a record that reflects the real Lisa Marie Presley. There is something there that is more than this, and hopefully someday it will get out.

What's the best new show of the summer?

It's got to be Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

The premise: Five gay guys (The Fab Five) enter the life of one hapless straight man and give him a total life makeover. They redecorate his living quarters, redress him, teach him how to cook, teach him manners and grooming and even improve his CD collection, if necessary.

The show works on many levels. It's hilarious. It's fast paced and entertaining. It maintains the spontaneous edge "reality" shows strive for. It's full of good advice for men. And women, especially those whose favorite Oprah episodes involve makeovers, will love seeing that not all men are hopeless.

Everybody I know is talking about the show. I heard about it from a gay friend, then found most of my co-workers already knew about it. People who turned their nose up at Survivor are already hooked on Queer Eye.

I'm particularly impressed with the marketing potential of this show. Once the ratings are huge, which they will be, the money the producers can rake in on product placement and merchandising on the show's web site will be tremendous.

And I already have my TiVo season pass all set up.

I just found this out ... Dean Esmay sucks.

These anti-blogger blogs are catching on.

Are these hard times? Well, it's not quite 1933, or even 1943, but we are less than two years removed from Sept. 11. We've recently fought two wars and are now deep into reconstructing a damaged nation. Our economy is faltering. It seems, maybe, that we could use some good news or maybe a happy story.

Where's Frank Capra when you need him?

A movie opened last night, and we went to go see it this afternoon, that is capraesque not just because it's set in the 1930s, nor is it capraesque because it is without guile or cynicism, nor is it capraesque because it has heroes. It is all those things, but what makes it the most capra-like movie that I've seen in a long time is that it validates the importance of hope and the value of dreams. It shows that no adversity is too great to be overcome.

I can't imagine this movie getting boffo box office prior to Sept. 11. We were all too cool to be taken in by the idea that everybody lives happily ever after. But when a movie sells out on a bright, beautiful, sunny day in Ventura, and when the audience cheers the forgone-victory of a movie-screen horse, and when that same audience sits through most of the credits at the end, you know Frank Capra is smiling in heaven.

Seabiscuit has been getting a lot of press, and rightfully so. It deserves consideration as one of the best movies of the year. It's a great script; it's well edited and deftly acted (Jeff Bridges is my early favorite for Best Supporting Actor), and it entertains from beginning to end. I'm not sure if the Academy of Motion Pictures has caught on yet that cynicism no longer sells and that dreariness is no longer an artistic virtue, but if they have, Seabiscuit should have its title called out a bunch of times at the next Oscars.

BTW: This isn't the first movie about Seabiscuit. Last night I TiVo'd one from 1949 starring Shirley Temple. We'll probably watch it sometime this week. I don't expect it to be as good, but old movies are always worth watching.

Pulling up to the house this evening, I could see a padded envelop hanging from the mailbox. That meant only one thing -- a CD had arrived. The only CD I was expecting was from some filthy cajun commie country crooner I knew before he threatened to lob lawyers at me, but it wasn't from him. (Note, now Layne says the damn thing is late because he's supposedly conned somebody into actually mastering the thing. Sheesh, what some guys won't do to avoid blogging. Oh, wait, he's been blogging a lot recently, especially for a guy who's on summer vacation.)

So it wasn't that CD, but it was still a bundle of goodness. The Trophy Husbands finally have a new CD out, and Dave and Kevin sent me not one, but TWO copies, which means I get to spread the happiness.

The new CD, btw, has the very happy title of "Walk with Evil."

I'm listening it now. It's everything I've come to expect from Arizona's finest C&W-Rock-Rockabilly-Blues-Folk band. Lots of foreboding, defilement, crunchy guitars, pounding drums, and dust on the trail.

The still fabulous Dark and Bloody Ground can be found here.

The final thrill of it all: Dave and Kevin include "Howard Owens" in their liner notes' "Thank You, Thank You"s. Here's a first -- my name on a commercially available CD. Fun.

Spring cleaning in the middle of July ... I found a box of old cassette tapes. In the midst of the dust and forgotten T.S. Eliot renditions of his own poems was one box marked "Ken Layne."

I already knew I had a demo of Layne with the Roadhogs, which I burned on CD so I could give a copy to Layne. I had no idea I had this tape.

Imagine finding a acetate of Hank Williams rehearsing "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." I'm not saying I have that, but I do have Layne with just his guitar running through "Not Lonely 'Nuff For You," as well as "You Aren't Doing' Nuthin'," "Drift Back," "Thank You Babe," and "Winter Rains."

Clearly, this was a demo Layne gave to my roommate (Todd Hilton, operating then under the name Hugh Jorgan, playing bass for the Roadhogs, now a math teacher in Temecula) so he could learn the songs.

And I've got it.

Not that I can do anything with it. I mentioned something to Layne once about putting an MP3 up on this site and he mumbled something about having three lawyers, and I crawled back in my hole.

But I've got a genuine Ken Layne demo tape. Though I hear such tapes are about as hard to get as fake uranium purchase orders in Niger. If you haven't scored a Ken Layne demo yet, you can buy his new CD here. All of the cool people have already bought a copy.

In The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract, James writes about the wonder of it all during the first 30 years of professional baseball -- no hitters were hardly remarked upon.

From our vantage point, the question seems to be not how it developed, but how it could have taken so long to develop. It's such a perfect diversion for the early innings of a game. Although I have been to hundreds of games and have never seen a no-hitter, I still think about it almost every time I've at the park. I think about when the first batter gets out or when he gets a hit. I think about it when either side goes in order in the first, and I think about it whenever I look up at the scoreboard and see that 0 0 0. Each day the pitcher plays Russian Roulette with sudden immortality, and each day he loses, and after the fourth inning it is all forgotten.

No Padres pitcher has ever thrown a no-hitter, and I never give up hope. At the start of every Padres game, whether I'm in the ballpark, watching on teevee, listening on the crystal box or following the game over ESPN.com, I'm thinking no-no until the other guys get the first whack. And I never fail to notice when the enemy's pitcher has held the Padres hitless past the first batter, the second and third ... on up until the scoreboard reads at least 0 1 0.

But I do have something up on James, as amazing as that sounds. I was there the night Doc Ellis threw his no hitter. The night was particular remarkable because it was a double header and we were treated to a fireworks show between games. I remember this because the PA announcer promised more fireworks after the second game if Padres pitcher Danny Combs managed to redeem the team by throwing his own no-hitter. Roberto Clamente dashed our hopes with two-out in the first inning.

I was also there the night Pedro Martinez threw 9 perfect innings against the Padres, only to give up a double to Bip Roberts in the 10th. Montreal won that game 1-0 in 10 innings.
UPDATE: I should add -- it's funny how you can disremember things over the years ... for years I've told my Doc Ellis story and said that Steve Arlin pitched the second game. Also, on the Pedro story, I've always said the Padres won that game. But thanks to the power of the net, I can get the true facts and discover I've lied (under the new Democratic meaning of "lied") for all these years.

If you ever need to know anything about a Bob Dylan bootleg, you can go here. Me, I needed to look up "Tangerine," which I found in a thrift store a while back for 50 cents.