I am going to do radio this morning, and a bunch of work all day, but I am worried. David Bowie is recovering from a difficult health issue. He was hospitalized and had to cancel tour dates to deal with emergency heart surgery. The weight of this is too terrible to bear.

I had an emergency room episode not long ago, and it is highly unpleasant. Nobody from the TV show is there, and it is not fun. How terrible, when you are confronted with the frailty of the human body. I am ok, and I believe Bowie is doing well.

People around me are angry because they think that I did it on purpose, as if this is my way of retaliating against them. The world is a selfish place.

Anyway, pray for Bowie, pray for rock and roll, and if you are young enough to have perfect health, I salute you.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

Why would you change your name to Esther? I am trying to understand, but it is hard. I would understand taking your husband’s name. If I had, I would have the same last name as Chuck D. I love my husband, and I love Chuck D., but I have worked hard for my name, and I tend to think that it is important to hang onto.

You were the biggest public force in entertainment in history. You have changed the definition of what it means to be a woman in the business. You have redefined the world, and challenged the system that would at turns adore you, vilify you, worship you, hate you. And you take it all in stride. I don’t wish to blame your religious beliefs, which I respect totally. I understand Cat Stevens’ name change, and that was entirely a decision based on faith. Yet I forget The Cat’s new name, and that causes problems when searching for his new material to download.

Prince changed his name to that symbol, then changed it to the Artist, and then to the Artist Formerly Known As Prince, and then back to Prince again, but that wasn’t because of religion, or that he was crazy. He was trying to escape being a slave to the music industry, and that his name had become a commodity, a product, and we all know he is much more than that.

But what does Esther mean? I admit, I hate the name, only because it is a common name for Korean American girls my age. There is one particularly heinous Esther that I grew up with, slightly older than me, who was a terror, but physically perfect in most every way. She made my life a living hell, until sometime in her early adulthood, she began to look like her personality, and she was not pretty on the inside. It was good revenge for the sake of girls who feel tormented by society’s standards of pretty, and how we are judged accordingly, and a kind of soulful justice for me, because she was such a bitch and completely deserved it. Perhaps I have too much baggage with that name to accept it. I don’t know the meaning of the word.

Madonna has changed meaning because of you. They used to be referring to the mother of God, but now, it is your name. You had the power to make the Virgin Mary fade into ecumenical history, while you remained the reigning Madonna, the mother of us all. I will still refer to your past and important self as Madonna, but I feel like I don’t know you anymore. Oh Madonna, Madonna, why hast thou forsaken us? I still love you as I ever did, but it is like you have killed off the warrior you once were. Perhaps being a warrior is impractical if you are a mother and a wife, but then again, you never have to drive a minivan or carpool, so you could still do both. You did everything. You were everything I ever wanted to be. I was the Madonna Wannabe that never stopped wanting to be.

Once, I was kicking a drunk and belligerent trannie out of my house, at 4am, after I found an ancient Buddhist relic in her magenta clutch. As she stormed out of the front door, she screamed, “You aren’t Madonna!” The comment stung, because I wanted to be you so badly. And I still do. I just don’t want to be Esther.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

In 1983, Elvis Costello was an enigmatic deity in British pop music; Woody Allen-esque in his avoidance of the press. He didn’t do interviews and was never seen in public offstage. That year, at the height of his hermetic glory, he released an album, brilliant and acidly political, called “Punch The Clock,” which contained the single “Shipbuilding.” “Shipbuilding” is a sorrowful ballad about the Falklands War, and about Margaret Thatcher sending ships to fight while simultaneously closing down the shipyards. It is a wrenching, melodic plea for the working class, for the protest of the war, for the opposition of the government that solidly places itself against the people it purports to represent.

I am such a music geek, I actually watch all the extras on “The Old Grey Whistle Test” DVD, so I know all this arcane music history. Elvis was so intent on “Shipbuilding” reaching as many people as possible, he actually physically brought a copy of it directly to the head of a powerful music magazine in the U.K. and tried to get as much coverage of it as he could. The gesture was astounding, considering his status at the time.

Elvis has always been political. Once on Saturday Night Live, as a last minute replacement for The Sex Pistols, he awkwardly but gracefully - the Elvis way of doing things - stopped the performance of a second song, “Less Than Zero,” to play the song they told him not to play, “Radio, Radio.”

Radio is a sound salvation
Radio is cleaning up the nation
They say you better listen to the voice of reason
But they don’t give you any choice
’cause they think that it’s treason.
So you had better do as you are told.
You better listen to the radio.

I wanna bite the hand that feeds me.
I wanna bite that hand so badly.
I want to make them wish they’d never seen me.

That is some straight up thug genius. “Radio, Radio” was a massive hit, and a continual rousing crowd pleaser at his live shows. He sometimes closes with it, because it sums up what he has been doing his entire life. Doing whatever the fuck he wants. Sadly, the urgency of the message wasn’t the same for “Shipbuilding.” They are both incredible songs. These songs are addressing critical issues as relevant today as ever: censorship, and the senseless, inhumane treatment of the working class in times of warfare, both with beautiful, ominous lyrics and the lushly layered jangled but symphonic chamber music punk rock that makes Elvis like no other artist.

“Shipbuilding” was not a success, because the government sponsored radio wouldn’t play it, and it didn’t go far in terms of the charts, but it is a perennial favorite. It has been covered many times by diverse artists such as handicapped rock activist Robert Wyatt, Suede and Tasmin Archer. I would cover it if I could, but I cannot sing for shit, especially an important and potently moving song like this one and I wouldn’t be able to make it ‘ironic’ like at a Planet Hollywood ribbon cutting, with a beer soaked wife beater and Ray-Bans on, smoking a cigar.

It speaks volumes about how the government can subtly and easily disarm anyone in the media, shut them down without ceremony, no matter who you are, or which government you are talking about, or which war you are talking about.

I got confused when I found out that my new film, “Revolution” was being dropped from promotion by Westwood One because of ‘indecent, inappropriate content.’ I am nowhere near being Elvis Costello in pre- Falklands England in the early 80s, and could never dream of the very comparison of the body of work and the unbelievable talent that he possesses, but nonetheless, I feel like I might get there eventually. People telling me what to do, dismissively, unclearly, insults me, rather than scares me. It is less that I rebel, but I realize a bit more of my true nature, and revel in it. Ultimately, it is a good thing, for the silencing of a voice, only serves to make it louder later.

I would advise earplugs soon. To paraphrase the edict of another artist I worship - I will be playing at maximum volume.

Update 6/3/2004: Thank you Dana for the following correction:

Love your blog, love you.

But re your recent entry on Elvis Costello’s wonderful song, “Shipbuilding,” I wanted to point out one thing: The song was actually a collaboration (unusual for Elvis): lyrics by EC, music by Clive Langer. This was Langer’s favorite song he ever wrote, and is, as you point out, a masterpiece of pop protest music, so it just seemed like Langer should get some recognition for being its co-author, especially since your post is being linked to blogs far and wide. Here’s the story of the song.

–snip–
Dana Stevens

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

The small miracles keep you going which actually makes them big, in the scheme of things. In the despairing times that are now, these awful news reports and the endless onslaught of dehumanizing defeat and death, I am looking for a brief, sunlit moment that will illuminate me from within so that I can be a beacon of light for just a second, to help another look for a lost contact lens, or a lost life.

I have found it. The Apple music store shows videos! They can be downloaded and watched over and over again, and the one I am unable to stop playing on my computer screen is “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. It’s my favorite song right now, and the magnetic charm of the lead singer Karen O, singing the sadly happy refrain “they don’t love you like I love you,” is the hook that catches on my mouth. I am singing along, even though my voice will never have her lush, burgundy tones. It doesn’t matter. Beauty like this is for everyone and meant to be shared.

The video is fairly simple, focusing most of the camera lens on Karen’s face, shrouded in the black drama of her shag haircut. The song passionately plays on as she rocks harder and the sweat from her brow starts to make passages through the mystery of her bangs, and slowly, her exquisite face is revealed. At a critical point, awash with the love that she has that no one else has for the unseen lover, a luminous beam, like a lighthouse flash, slowly passes from underneath her chin to the top of her head. That second of perfect, omnipotent human glory - the soul for once instead of the eyes - seeing - is all I need to remember that after all, the world, and life itself, is good. Better than good. No matter what else is going on, outside, inside.

“They don’t love you like I love you.” I think of all who might apply to this sweet yet profoundly barren declaration, and there are so many. Here are a few:

There is a man I will see soon, who waits for me, who is always there, who cares for me, coaxes me to eat and sleep because I forget but he never does, no matter how far I fly away, with whom I share everything but time, hours, days, weeks - what I wish I had more of;

The black dog and the blonde dog, and the regal tiny visitor dog/princess who arrives some months, when the queen mother is away, who are impolite and ill-mannered in varied and surprisingly adorable ways, as they have been raised to believe that they are children and not pets, who eat at the table, and allow us to sleep in their beds, who surround me in slumber so that I will not leave them again, as I always do, as I always must;

A sweet friend in sunny London, heroically rebuilding her life, brick by brick, who I can feel smiling as I write this;

An old friend, one I want to see all the time, but somehow never do, who never fails to send me into gasping, paralyzing fits of laughter no matter how much time and tide has passed between us;

The gentle and remarkable husband and wife, bound to one another by blissful, overwhelming joy, but remain separated by walls of steel, glass and injustice, who listen to my DVD together over a payphone, so they can laugh, like they are sitting in the same room, like they are right next to each other;

My mother, who gets stronger every day, feeling better than ever.

“They don’t love you like I love you.”

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

David Bowie is more than a star, more than a celebrity, more than an icon, more than anyone, anything, anywhere. Also, he is fucking cool. The coolest guy in the world. There is an intensity in the room that I cannot discern. I am only trying to get out. I cannot meet him. He means too much to me.

As I said, fame doesn’t impress me, I have been in the game for two decades, but David Bowie is more than the “famewhatsyourname” of the elegant and eternally loved intergenerational hit song. It is almost embarrassing. I can’t explain, but maybe you would try to understand if I explain properly.

If you took Beatlemania, the real one, not the touring company show, but the insane, truly historical and hysterical, Saint Vitus Dance of the newly born teenagers, happening on and around the weeks John, Paul, George and Ringo came to America in 1964, and you boiled all those tears and screams and enthusiasms of the countless girls trying to hide in laundry bins and pose as room service carts, and made it into a tincture, strong as plutonium, then injected yourself with it, mainlining all that worship and admiration and fan clubs and love and ecclesiastical bliss - but remembering that it wasn’t about The Beatles, but about David Bowie - not that I do not absolutely love The Beatles, and have had life changing moments with one or two, but I will tell you that another time - then you might get an idea of how much a freak I am about the cat from Japan. If you felt in my veins what I felt right then, you would understand. You would make that the moment you would want to capture and hold in your heart forever, into all of your next lifetimes, into heaven, over the river and over the rainbow. Your future self would wake from dreams of this moment, not knowing why, but ever and forever replaying itself into infinity.

Marilyn Manson is talking with a mad passion. He loves David Bowie, maybe a little like I do. He says that he proposed to Dita with the song “Be My Wife” and that he listens to “Diamond Dogs” right before he goes on stage. Dita smiles and winks at me in the corner. She is beautiful beyond words, with her jet black hair and white, translucent skin. I am convinced she is part woman, part orchid, a hothouse flower that wears couture and will be married to rock.

David is looking at me, and smiling, stealing looks out of the corner of his eye. He is stunning. His beauty is relentless and alarming. Fresh from the concert hall’s Byzantine corridors - I wonder if he uses the showers that are always back there.

I never do. I emerge out of the bowels of the dressing rooms to the green room, the fans waiting in annoyed anticipation, and then disappointment, as I arrive, sweaty and makeup running everywhere, friendly and too small for them to believe that it is actually me. When I receive people, I greet them quickly, so that I might leave the theatre quickly, and go to bed. I am no diva. I will sign every autograph I am asked for, and I love and adore anyone who will wait around to meet me, talk to me, but I cannot imagine that I am really that interesting, especially after talking about myself onstage for hours.

But here it is a different story. This time, I am the fan. The biggest fan. My heart will burst out of my chest in a moment. His eyes dart towards me, there are others to talk to, but he keeps looking. Smiling. He is magnificent. Time hasn’t changed him, not a bit, not at all. Tears are running down my face and here it is, the moment that I wish I could play over and over again, when I die. When it is all said and done, and I have reached the “Afterlife” set, and the crew is setting up the green room just like it was. They have hired an actor to look like David Bowie, and more to play the supporting roles of Ava and Dawnne, Marilyn and Dita, Nadir - the tremendously helpful tour manager, Coco Schwab - yes THE Coco Schwab. David reaches both arms out to me. His hands are warm, and he holds my face. He kisses me on both cheeks and says my name. He smells like violets.

There is more, but there is a show I must to do tonight, and there isn’t time to say all I want to. Some things, you need to keep to yourself anyway, because they are yours. Sometimes when you talk about them, they cease to be yours. Some things, I want to hang onto, I want to hang onto myself. These are my precious gems, my memory is my jewelry box, and the twinkling ballerina does a pirouette whenever I open it.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

Note from Team Cho: Just got this email from a friend of Margaret’s who writes for the Ellen DeGeneres show:

Sent: Tuesday, April 20, 2004 8:10 PM

I just saw the Entertainment Weekly where the people name Margaret #1! Awesome.

Also, we are taping a show with David Bowie as we speak and in his interview portion he mentions Margaret being at his concert dressed like an Asian princess. Total props from Bowie. I know she’ll freak. It airs Friday.

Hope all is well over there. Here it’s all work, all the time, but I love it.

In the seething hot summer days of 1999, I lived on the Lower East Side, and my neighbor and friend John Cameron Mitchell insisted that I beat the heat, and go see a remarkable Japanese film called “Afterlife.” So, in the midday sun, to escape the pissy glare of the street, I ducked into the Quad for a matinee.

I was working at the Westbeth with my off Broadway show which was attended by Tony Visconti and May Pang, as well as countless other music legends, and I clocked in at about 7pm, which left my days lonely and long, stuffy and claustrophobic. But I still feel like I’m playing hooky when I go see film during the day.

The dark coolness of the theatre welcomed me. The story happens in winter, adding the delightful chill my mind needed. Snow, even pictures of snow in the misery of muggy Manhattan, will make your sweaty headache disappear directly, an ice blue pack of wondrous joy.

“Afterlife” is about what happens when you die. You go to a halfway house for approximately three days. It isn’t a four star hotel, but a comfortable dormitory that you share with the other recently dead, old, young and in-between, and you are interviewed by a crew. They are there to re-create your favorite memory, what you loved about being alive, what you wish to relive, one last time. There doesn’t seem to be much of a budget, but then again, you have died and nothing matters so much now. It doesn’t need be perfect. Mostly, the memories are quietly mundane.

One man recalls being in an airplane, clouds surrounding him. His crew arranges cotton balls around the cardboard cutout of a small flyer, wind machines providing the breeze in his hair, and the lights go down, a director calls - “Action!” It is his moment and it is beautiful. You see why he would want to remember that and make that the scene that would define his life.

I just had mine.

Dawnne and Ava, my dates for the David Bowie show, had a hell of a time trying to get me to stay in the green room. It was scary, and I tried to look for an escape route. Terrified, crying already, trying to jump up on the tables, planning to slide my body out the window, La Femme Nikita style, I was there to meet the Great God of Rock, BOWIE - my nowhere-near-false-but -absolutely- real idol. The only wondrous, glorious, prolific, dangerous, legendary, iconic, impossibly beautiful star I had ever wanted/ didn’t want to meet, because what do you say to God? “Hello? How are you? How is the weather up there?”

Decades ago, when I first discovered him on “Rock Show,” a half-hour show on Sunday afternoons, where they aired “DJ,”"Look Back in Anger,” “Ashes to Ashes” - before MTV, before music videos entered the landscape of American pop culture, his music made my terrible then world seem survivable. I had bruises on my face from my parent’s 20- year domestic-marital war, where I served the entire time as a P.O.W. Bowie’s face seduced me in its asymmetrical perfection. How is it possible to have a face so lovely? Unbloodied, untouched by brutality, or so it seemed to me then.

There may have been sexual feelings, fleeting dreams that involved my lithe yet sensually unaware undeveloped body. Bowie might be responsible for making me a light sleeper, as I developed the habit then, a girl in a shoddy, sadly sagging, smelly canopy bed, with odd wishes to be a boy, but in a girly way. These complex thoughts swirled around my head, never allowing sleep to come, only visions of the future. Was there a way to grow up to be David Bowie yet still be a girl? Would I ever meet him? Would I ever tell him how he shaped my life, my destiny? Would I have the courage to do so if I had the chance?

That little girl grew up well, despite the circumstances. She walks the earth with a heavy confidence, an irrepressible swagger and cadence, due to those nighttime reflections. There were sleepless nights filled with dreams, so many that have come true. I almost expect them to now. That is what dreams are for.

Today, I can meet the most famous people. I can do shots of fine vodka with Mikhail Gorbachev; gossip with Hillary Clinton while she gets her mascara done; lie in bed for hours with too numerous to name rock stars; listen to A-listers talk about themselves so much that if you change the subject, it is almost as if they disappear, for without their celebrity, they cease to be interested in you, and therefore cease to exist, leaving behind hostility and quiet rage, although their body has not moved an inch.

Most white male celebrities, if you are not young, blonde, beautiful and slim, will literally look right through you. To them, I don’t exist, not in the least, and it doesn’t make a difference. I went through a phase where I’d go out of my way to make conversation, because it annoys the hell out of them. It’s fucking hilarious to see them try to ignore me when I am stepping on their foot.

Actresses are competitive, and mean about it, if they are threatened by you in any way. Thankfully, I am not considered an actress, nor a reknown beauty (although I am secretly both. In fact, I am one of the most beautiful women in the world, and the most talented actress, but that isn’t important), and I spent a lot of fat girl time, so I am well liked by most women in film and television and even music.

Rappers are different. They adore me, and I worship them, and that is that.

Anyway, I stayed in the green room, and I - love a cliffhanger. Don’t you?

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

We used to drive up this way, along the beach to Santa Barbara, years ago. We’d stop for donuts, see the full moon on the beach, then find a space where turning back and going home made sense. I had remembered that, and you, from the view of the water, the clear sky on the horizon, the sun so close to it, the fast freeway and my hair flying into my eyes. But that was then. Yesterday, I had a good reason to be going up the 101. I was desperately tired and in a bad mood, but then I saw the sea, and I saw you there, and the badness disappeared.

I went to go see David Bowie. This is the third time I have seen the Reality Tour, and I wish I could go again and again, but I am on tour too, and the shows are hard to get to, not as easy as a drive up the coast, but oh, it was sublime. How I wish you’d come. How I wish you still loved me. Then I could tell you this story in person. Perhaps you will read this and be happy for me.

We missed the opening act, Polyphonic Spree, but just in time for “Rebel, Rebel.” This song is such an anthem, the perfect way to explode onto the stage, and recalling the video, where he’s the glam pirate in the red pants, filmed in methodically swirling disco kaleidoscope Amsterdam shots, with his confidently curled lip, poised to hijack the world, I realize I have loved David Bowie for so long because he makes me feel okay that I am myself. I want to wear that same eyepatch and suspenders and long scarf. I long to strut like the dream of the stud he is, and he makes me feel it is possible. He bounds out onto the stage, and Ava says, “He is just - golden.” His hair falls anime-like onto his forehead. I want to draw him, although I am unable to hold a pencil correctly, my warped fingers are a testament to that handicap. We can see his glorious face perfectly from our impossibly good seats. There are many exacting and astute words for beauty, and then there is just a kind of syrupy, ridiculous, girly, idolatry that spews forth, that I wish I could contain, but I just can’t.

I know big words, good words, impressive words, that is my talent, my gift, my fortune, but I lose them when I talk about Bowie, and lots of people understand, because there is something about him, that he makes us lose our religion, our intellect, our wit and wisdom, because he is David Bowie, and that explains it all.

The crowd was bundled up against the cold with sleeping bags and down vests. People who attend outdoor events tend to spend a lot of money on Patagonia. The fog rolled in from the beach and the amphitheatre was chilled like a boxed chardonnay that you’d rather not drink. We were prepared to pay homage to the master, yet stay warm. My friends wore monster white fur coats, and I wore an emperor’s gown I’d bought at the Chinese superstore on Broadway, along with polka dot plastic hot pants and navy knee socks emblazoned with white stars. To pull it all together, I wore my new belt, made out of a real cobra, with the head and long tongue still attached. I am afraid of it, and I think that it might still be alive, but it looks really good with this outfit, so I don’t care if it kills me.

The show was incredible, as it always is, as he always is. As is the booming “Under Pressure,” a duet with the righteous and luminous Gail Ann Dorsey, whose voice is pure Mercury, and whose mercurial talent makes the entire hillside shake in reverie. I love Bowie’s voice in this song, because it pleads with the gods of all things, not only in the lyrics, but in the sadness of his soar, and it makes for a kind of good cop/bad cop diptych, Gail (Freddie) raging to give love one more chance, David - all
reason and asking for mercy, this is our last dance,
this is ourselves.

There are special treats, like “Quicksand,” and the new songs from the Reality album, a new favorite “The Loneliest Guy.” It is almost too much to ask for, the ageless, timeless, faultless, flawless Bowie in a vocal storm of versatility, the heartbreaking nihilistic optimism of “Heroes,” the fantastic noble androgynous machismo of “Suffragette City” - here underneath the stars, where I used to love someone a long time ago, surrounded by the night sky, and Mars is bright and blinking, like there is life there.

Marilyn Manson and his lovely Dita are in front of us, and don’t miss a lyric or a beat. We know all the words too. I introduce myself to the couple backstage. A couple of years ago, I modeled with Dita at the Fetish Ball in Hollywood. They are brightly dressed, but all in black, if that’s possible, but it is them, so it is. They are recently engaged, and beam like stars, which is sweet. I am a great fan of Marilyn Manson. He is handsome and somewhat shy. His personality not at all as I would have imagined it, having seen him in his live shows which are magnificently malevolent, terrifying and jubilant. No one is as they seem, are they?

Ava is convinced someone has torn off her backstage pass, and emerges from the barricades, having found it rolled up and stuck inside her coat.

Gail Ann Dorsey is surprisingly a fan of mine, and we are in mutual admiration as the crowds move through behind the tour buses.

It takes a few minutes to get to the inner sanctum, but we are soon cordially invited in.

I want to keep you in suspense.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

His name is Prince, and he is funky. The opening night for the Musicology Tour was astounding, and the Artist, the Symbol, the Artist Formerly Known As, and without doubt the New Power Generation were in full effect.

We got to sit in the section of the Staples Center where the stars were, next to Paul Stanley from Kiss, Gwen Stefani, Hilary Duff, Babyface and the ever reclusive Eddie Murphy. It was the first time I have ever seen a crowd give a standing ovation to an audience member. He came in, looking as young and about to crack wise as he did in the old days of SNL, talking about how he gonna go and “C-I-L-L” his landlord. People were practically fainting at the sight of him. This was my first time seeing him in person, although I worked briefly for his production company in the very first pilot I made, “Move the Crowd,” a vehicle for the comedy duo Ed Lover and Dr. Dre - the other Dr. Dre, which was a spin off of the enormously popular film “House Party.” I played a ’round the way girl, with a huge weave on my head stacked up to the sky, the heaviest gold bamboo hoop earrings and a tutti-fruitti-this- my-booty dress. Very “BAPS” - which was my cultural road map at that time. Kris Kross was the musical guest and we jumped - now who can tell me that ain’t old school?

The show started on the dot at 8pm, and as soon as the lights went down, it was on. I am glad the lights went down as fast as they did, because people did not dress for the occasion, which is my big problem with going out to see the legends play. The audience, at least from my perspective, is also there to entertain the performer, and therefore, should dress like the person they are about to salute, so they can rock them. I slicked back my hair and wore a purple metallic vinyl piano dress by Lip Service, and when I got in, I threw my pantyhose in the garbage because I was there to party. We only saw one guy in a “Sign o’ The Times” era military cap with chains draped across the front, but we are not sure if he saw us.

Prince is always a revelation and a revolution. He’s the type that Ava so delightfully says has “A cock in one hand, and the Bible in the other” - which is true and beautiful, because he isn’t preaching with the Bible, hitting you upside the head with it, nor is he turning any pages because his other hand is busy, but the man loves God, and in the realest way.

Remember the lyrics for “Controversy?” “I wish there was no black or white, I wish there were no rules.” I honestly think that God wants us to accept ourselves and not be taken over by the rules that society lays down. That God doesn’t make rules, only love.

God especially loves live music. Prince chortles after an impressive saxophone solo by Candy Dulfer, “We are live musicians, we play live music, we don’t believe in lip- syncing” - which draws a tremendous response from the wild audience. He’s an incredible live performer, as all those with the iconic and lasting A-list star power have in common. Bowie is a fair comparison, although Prince seems to retain his image with more recurrent motifs. There is always going to be lace, there is always going to be a slim flared pant, there is always going to be some type of asymmetrical thing happening, whether it is a one legged trouser or a half tailcoat-sportcoat, which symbolizes the asymmetry of Prince, or to reach even further, the symmetry of Prince, for he is neither androgynous or butch, top or bottom, alien or human, black or white, mansion or ghetto, Symbol or Artist, but easily equitable and at odds with all there is to be.

My most cherished and mesmerizing images of Prince was when his backup band was the Revolution. I loved the brocades they wore, straight out of upholstery glam lands like Michael Levine’s downtown, reminiscent of Louis XIV, 2 inch court heels and all, with Wendy Malvoin and Lisa Coleman, who are impressively gifted stars in their own right, and now work with another enduring favorite of mine, Neil Finn - known to do his own renditions of Prince songs now and again. I have a Wendy and Lisa t-shirt, and in Neil’s dressing room at the House of Blues, Wendy held me tightly to her, saying “Thank you” over and over.

Prince has always worked with the best musicians, and with women in particular. It is a powerful feeling to watch a woman like Wendy play guitar next to our Prince. The years when we were ruled by our Prince, after the release of “Purple Rain,” the film and album, were empowering not only in the beauty of the music, but in the equality that needs no soapbox, for it is heard in the arrangements and the chords themselves.

There was an overwhelming moment onstage during the acoustic portion of the show, where its just Prince, and he’s sitting on a stool playing guitar, and the crowd is unable to stop screaming. He just stopped for a moment. His eyes welled up with tears, as he looked out into the massive crowd of worshippers, kids who were now adults who had grown up with him, the purple light cutting into the blackness of the Staples Center. It seemed he hadn’t played a show like this in years, to so many fans, and possibly that he’d forgotten how much he was loved. Maybe Paisley Park is an isolated place where they practice and record and work and then leave for the day, and that he just didn’t remember, that it was Prince we all screamed for, and that love for him was a tidal wave of nostalgic bliss, and we loved him now as we always did and always will.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

“Here is something you can’t understand, how I could just kill a man.” - Cypress Hill

I love this song, and of course, the lyrical mayhem and murdering rhymes of the great Cypress Hill. Be Real’s sneery, cheery cadence lends lightness to the incomprehensible idea of taking another life. But then again, is that act so incomprehensible? Cypress Hill also speaks to me, because I have such rage inside me, having asked myself the question - could I kill someone? I think we all have that killing instinct, that fire within. It is an animalistic yet highly human response. If I visualize going to the post office, where the lines are too long, and the window on the end is about to close, leaving only one window open, out of the dozen that should be in operation, it assures me to know that I have a seven day waiting period in order to purchase a firearm, and that would inevitably place me in another long line, so that killing a clerk would do no good except to expedite my own death by firing squad. If I am behind someone at a toll booth, and they do not have the exact change, I shudder to think what their fate would be if I were packing heat.

What is that saying, “Judge not, lest ye be judged?” I can’t help but to judge, and that is why I hate judgment. I dare not cast the first stone because I am so down with sin. Looking into my own prejudices and biases, which might be different than those of the status quo, yet still exists as hatred within my heart, I hate to think that I am guilty of the same crime as those whose ideas I try so desperately to fight. If I have the capacity for such hideous thinking, I don’t want to know the thoughts of those who might be less compassionate. Which is why I don’t think that the government should have the power to enforce the death penalty, in any situation. If my own murderous tendencies can be felt on the surface, how could I in good conscience put the power of life or death in the hands of a bureaucracy, or worse, a theocracy?

So many people on death row do not belong there. We kill the innocents time and time again. The American judicial system is guilty of more crimes than any criminal - yet the issue never seems to get anywhere. The prisons are so racially imbalanced, what could the reason for that be, if it is not clear and present racism?

Why is there such a thing as “hip hop cops?” There are not law enforcement specialists for other “non-ethnicity” driven music. Could you imagine the “Emo-enforcers?” Narcs in “Jesus is My Homie” t-shirts and reddish-brown vintage Levi’s cords, alternating between riding skateboards, hiding in shrubs and documenting Conor Oberst’s every move? “Okay, he is leaving his girlfriend’s house. I believe that the suspect is crying. copy that. We will be requiring back-up. Tell them to bring Kleenex.”
He is sweet, I love that little white boy, he is very sensitive. I am just trying to find out why there has to be a Special Unit for rap stars.

Even if it is not a racially motivated reason, bigotry is still in full effect. Currently, Damien Echols is on death row in Arkansas. He has been there for almost eleven years for a crime he did not commit. He is part of the West Memphis Three, accused of the murder of three little boys, and caught up in the insanity of one community, who sentenced Echols to death and the other two, Jesse Misskelly and Jason Baldwin, to life without parole. No evidence was ever found to connect the then teenagers to the killings. It was all hysteria over the possibility of a Satanic cult living in their midst, and a complicit court system, which glossed over the facts in order to placate the outrage of the locals, and to this day, cannot admit what they have done wrong.

There have been two documentaries, “Paradise Lost,” I & II, and two feature films currently in production, as well as several books and numerous writings about the case, websites dedicated to the innocence of the West Memphis Three. Celebrities like Eddie Vedder and Winona Ryder have tried to help to no avail. What right to their lives do we have if it has been shown time and time again that their innocence is real? Not only have the initial terrible crimes still gone unpunished, their effects have merely grown and spread like a cancer into the lives of these young men and their families.

I say ‘we’ because unless they are free, none of us are free. Of course there are criminals who have been justly apprehended and jailed for their crimes. I am not asking for all the prisons and institutions for the criminally insane to open their doors like school is out forever, but how can we let those who do not benefit from the technological advancement of forensic science in the last decade still wither behind bars? DNA evidence is proving to be the real deal, the be all end all of who is lying and who is not. It is better than Wonder Woman’s golden lasso. Unfortunately, it is expensive and therefore mostly unavailable to those serving time for crimes they didn’t commit years ago. The only reason they probably were incarcerated in the first place is that they couldn’t afford anything but a court appointed attorney, more like a public offender than defender.

I have followed this case for many years, and just recently, I am stepping up my game. I send Damien books from his Amazon Wish List and write about what life and the world is like out here. He’s a bright and gentle young man, and very apologetic when he gets behind in his correspondence. He is very much a Kerry supporter, although he preferred Wesley Clark to anyone else so far. Of course, he will not have a chance to vote, since they don’t let people who have been in jail do so, even if they do get out, at least not for a really long time.

When you go to the polls, think of him, and all the injustice that exists in our nation today. Know that your voice has to count for many who have been silenced. Don’t take freedom for granted, because we don’t have it yet.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

Bush is “troubled” by gay marriage in San Francisco.

(sung to the tune of “Trouble” by Cat Stevens)
Trouble
Oh trouble set me free
I have seen the gays
And it’s too much too much for me

Trouble
Or trouble can’t you see
To be married and be gay
You’re taking my laws away
And there is nothing much left of me

I’ve made us war for a time
All the world could be mine
So won’t you be fair
Not that I will play fair

I don’t want to more of you
So won’t you stop the GLBT
San Francisco or anywhere
Don’t make me go there

Trouble
Oh trouble I hate gays
I have seen men in drag
And it’s too much for me today

Trouble
Oh trouble can’t you see
Same sex marriage is bad for me
I might even lose my presidency

I’ve seen those guys
Lesbians locking eyes
Happy and free
Happy and free

I’m beat, I’m scorned
Unflattered ignored and warned
Too shocking to see
Oh Daddy why me?

Trouble
Oh trouble move from me
I’ve raised the national debt
Let me lead the nation into misery

Trouble
Oh trouble please be kind
I don’t want no fight
And I haven’t got a lot of time

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

I don’t think I enjoy the awards show press gauntlet anymore. At least this year I had the best gown ever, designed by Derek of Narcisse, a couture peacock feather fantasy, which was named the Worst Dress of the 2004 Grammys by E!, Entertainment Tonight, Joan Rivers and Steven Cojucaru - which means it was the best dress there.

I think that is the point though, because sometimes you have to really shake the people up, and that if they don’t like it, you are doing something right. I actually threatened Steven that if he didn’t trash me, I would come and find him and he would be sorry. He was just doing what I told him to. I interrupted his interview with Samuel Jackson, someone I’ve known for years, so it seemed totally okay to step into their moment even though we are on live television. I get sick of waiting.

I remember when Steven was just a little boy, standing with a little tape recorder on the wrong side of the velvet ropes. He was a kid reporter for People, making his way up the ranks. We shared a giggle about the fact that I had the tags tucked into my sleeve still on my gown so I could return it the next day.

Joan Rivers was talking to someone and I was about to do the same thing to her when the segment producer saw me and told her assistant “There she is - Margaret Cho - keep her away from here - she is going to jump up here - look she is getting ready - stop her stop HER!!!!!” and I said “Joan is a personal friend of mine, I was just going to say hello.” With that I walked away fast, but not fast enough for the people wanting to interview some star - I had no idea who he was, because I thought they were pointing at me, and then when I started walking toward them they said “NO NOT YOU-NOT YOU!!!!” So I got right up in their camera and said, “No - not me - anyone but me!!!” and kept going.

I am so over people. I have been walking that fucking red carpet for decades now, and I know the people behind the ropes better than the people in front of them. It is sad because the celebrity crush is demeaning and the turnover is about as fast as at a Burger King. There is a new person at the counter every time you go. I have seen stars come busting out blazing hot only to get ignored the very next year. I have been ignored my entire life, so I am not offended by the invisibility, but it is sad to watch someone who thought that their fame was real, realize that they are already irrelevant before the next swing shift.

I got stuck in a logjam behind Alicia Keys, who is sweet and beautiful and was amazed at my eyelashes, “How did you get them that way?” Individual lashes in Natural Brown applied one by one top and bottom and then covered with black mascara sealed with Estee Lauder’s Raincoat for Eyes. It takes two hours.

Creed was behind me trying to get in in one piece, as we were all being trampled on by Parliament Funkadelic, with the Atomic Dog himself George Clinton right on top of us. Not that I mind. I love the funk, and there is a softness in my heart for Creed I cannot lie about anymore. I am so sorry. I know. I secretly adore them. That is the big music geek secret of my life.

Sean Lennon came up next to me, sooo cute!!!!!! He is just like his father!!!!!!! He whispered that his mom was there and that they were big fans of mine. I told him I’d loved him forever, ever since I’d seen him play with Cibo Matto years ago. His new solo album is just finished which he was really happy about. I cannot wait to hear it. He is the most beautiful boy.

When Yoko Ono appeared onstage and accepted the award for The Beatles, I stood up and cried and cried, because seeing Yoko in person is completely an emotional experience for me. To be in the same room with her, even if it is the cavernous Staples Center, is to be in the presence of true greatness. She is not only a tremendous artist in her own right, she survived such tragedy, watching the love of her life shot down in front of her. John Lennon, who was not just a man, a musician, an icon, a father, but a symbol of peace and love and truth, not to mention equality; a messianic figure who loved her and fearlessly ignored the racism and misogyny that would threaten the strongest of bonds. Yoko Ono, who should be regarded with the same awe and adulation as Jackie Kennedy, as she also is the other half of a visionary cut down in his prime, is not given props that she is due, because of her race, mostly, and then perhaps because of the tremendous power of her art, which is too controversial and smart for so many to understand, and she was much more stylish than Jackie anyway. I have to go to a Yoko place with a huge white brimmed hat and white minidress and white knee boots at least once a week. I told Sean I go to great lengths to look like his mom. He was blushing I think, because it might have seemed flirtatious. Couldn’t be helped. He is soooooo cute, but out of the question because I am old enough to be his mom.

The Osbournes were also nearby me in the crush mob. They all are lovely to look at and nice as can be. I got to the last part of the press line, the paparazzi - which is the “Celebrity, guess your weight as a star” portion of the evening and is the grossest part of the night. The length of time you spend, the number of flash bulbs that go off, the volume at which they shout your name determines what you are worth. When I got up there, I seemed to start an argument among them, as they are familiar to me, face by face, and I have seen them more often than the ever changing faces of the stars. One new photographer said “Who is that?” There was a booming and rather disgusted response from the others - “Margaret Cho!!!! Hi Margaret! How can you not know that? Over here Margaret!!! Over here!!!!” I couldn’t really get a firm handle on my ‘worth,’ but the gown was stunning, and undeniably photographable.

My attention was elsewhere, knowing I had mere seconds to make the Prince/Beyonce opening number, wondering if I would be able to eat the Three Musketeers bar my publicist gave me during the ceremony. I have been through it so much that I ceased to give a shit about ten years ago. I waved at Courtney and Frances Bean Love. Ms. Love made what seemed like a communal “Urgh - I hate this shit!” face at me. Madonna walked by my seat so fast and close, I felt her skirt against my arm. EUGENE LEVY WALKED BY ME TWO TIMES AND I HADN’T THE NERVE - I just couldn’t say anything, do anything. I was paralyzed by his beauty. He blinded me with science. We were seated directly behind Kelis and I didn’t know until she left, but I was dying to tell her that “Milkshake” fucking rules.

There was a moving memorial to the staggering number of musicians who died this past year and nobody really paid attention to it, but when Elliott Smith’s picture filled the big screens, the audience let out a grievous wail, loud and spontaneous. It surprised me, but then not really. Not at all.

P.S. If I had won (I was nominated for best comedy album), I planned on giving the award to Weird Al anyway. He deserves it for all of his incredible work, not only for the record he was nominated for, which is a tour de force, but the many years of joy he has given me as a fan and fellow comic. Congrats to Weird Al. He is my homie and a hero.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

Sometimes you get so lonely,” Bowie singing from “Be My Wife” - without introducing it as he had at the Shrine, addressing it to no one in particular. Maybe it is about that void that we all feel from being human and not able to connect all the synapses and neurons that would make us complete. In that, aliens possibly feel the same way. Last night, the Wiltern was lit up like a spaceship, and it was the first time I had ever seen a show that was not determinedly lo-fi, so it was of course, spectacular.

There were a mix of a few solid music industry types that had come the night before, rock stars in slight disguise taking mental notes, youngster actors in the same cords and All-Stars, but then there were lots and lots of younger kids. One boy had on an entirely white suit, bright red hair, bringing the Thin White Duke of Echo Park to the show. We waved at him from our car, as we drove into the underground garage. My suit was lavender Bianca Jagger and I had on the as promised “Life on Mars” eyeshadow rings around my eyes. There were more fans of the rabid variety, who had come to pay homage to the god that Bowie is, and all the incarnations that he has been, illuminating all his aspects.

The show was somewhat similar in content, but he had changed the songs around completely, which is an amazingly interesting thing to do. As a performer, I know it takes a lot to change the order of things. It breaks up the rhythm which isn’t easy, unless you are David Bowie.

We hijacked the best seats in the house, the front row of the balcony, where I waved my multicolored boa and mauve lace covered hand at him. People were discussing us in the lobby - “Those two girls - they know how to attend a Bowie concert. They were bringing me back to 1973.” Ava hooked up the backstage passes, they’d been left for some reason without the tickets, and she wouldn’t leave it alone. I was terrified of going backstage or meeting Bowie, she had no problem whatsoever with it. I guess she owes me one.

I took her to meet Bryan Ferry backstage at a show in Anaheim last year. He was awesome, beautiful, like for me, a close second to Bowie, and she wasn’t able to speak. Ava, who talks all the time to everyone, leveling the playing field for all present, was actually, speechless. I had to gently nudge her over and say, “This is your biggest fan, Bryan, she really is very talkative, but I think you have made her a bit bashful.” He held her hand and spoke to her warmly, softly, and it was a gorgeous moment. She looked like five years old at the most, talking to a daddy that was more than a father. Some people are that - more than a parent, more than a role model, more than anything less than a religion.

Bryan Ferry had a slight cold, and was leaving for Tokyo in the morning. He was not particularly thrilled about the long flight, but he spoke to us for a long time in the cramped stairwell between the dressing rooms and the stage entrance. He was kind, gentle and it was the best kind of star meeting that you’d ever want. Like a walking, talking human “Pajamarama,” my favorite Roxy Music song, which is candy floss for the ears, and like a Tibetan Singing Bowl, heals all hearts if played long enough.

Seeing Bowie two nights in a row, makes it no less of a pilgrimage to the Great God of Rock. If I were truly devout, I would have made the journey from my house to the venue on my knees, but I would have ruined the cut of the sleekly trousers that crash so marvelously onto the tops of my blood red Chinese dragon cowboy boots. His body is lithe, like a ballet dancer still in the corps. His training with Marcel Marceau still shows through a bit, as he naturally stands with one foot slightly akimbo. The fact that I know he had a tenure as a mime really shows my fangirl fanatics. I sit back a moment during “Sufferagette City” - where the audience voices back an ecclesiastical “WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA’AM!!!!!” like we wuz at church. Looking into his boyish face and sincere smile, seeing all that he has been through weaving in and out of personae, less like schizophrenia, more like having lots and lots of closet space.

I hope that the man himself, is happy. He seems so, as all the players that play do, unless they intend to make it their business to be unhappy, but then underneath you find that they really are happy - way happier than their fans anyway. I have secret wishes. I wish that he and Iman are holding each other close at night away from all the lights and the coterie of makeup and hair and roadies and photographers and that the nights in their home, wherever it might be, who knows, possibly on another planet, or at the very least a bright satellite are cozy and sweet relief. My eyes shut and momentarily wished that the godlike rockstar I worship so much is really also just a man, a happy one. I hope that his little family is full of surprise and laughter. I hope his bed is warm when he wakes, that he feels good all the time, has few colds and never has trouble with his voice. I hope he doesn’t get terrible jet lag and that he has friends welcoming him all over the world, not as the aladdinsanefameashestoashesstationtostationiconicbionicman, but as old mates, with teary eyes and arms holding him tight. I hope that he is kissed by his children often and uninvited and that he has many days in a row of quiet contemplation. I wish that all the fans that try to grab him, that try to capture a piece of what he means to them don’t drive him mad. I hope that he doesn’t miss his friends too badly, the ones that haven’t made it this far along with him, those who didn’t survive the excess and the melee not to mention AIDS of the 70s and 80s. I hope that he knows in his heart that he is a great actor (OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE HIM IN BASQUIAT??!!). I hope that when he goes on stage, he knows that he feeds us all with a kind of sustenance that cannot be given by anyone else, anywhere else, and that some of us are so hungry that sometimes we don’t know if we are a boy or a girl, that we are stepping though the door, and it’s time to leave the capsule if we dare, that we wish we were sipping milkshakes cold and long, not knowing we were part of his song, all us, the pretty things that drive our mothers and fathers insane, us mellow thighed chicks, the fat skinny people, the queers throwing up at the sight of everything, all us Americans who are afraid of Americans. We leave his table for the first time, content, no longer starving from the malnutrition of identity. We leave his table with a name.

I didn’t meet him. I couldn’t. Ava was about to drag me up to the Mighty Bowie himself, and she would have done it, but I dug my heels into the pavement. His makeup artist, a fan of mine, said he had wanted to meet me, and was waiting too, wondering where I was, insisted that I go up to the dressing room, one I myself have used many times, the stairs that I run up and down to do my shows - this time seemed too long and scary. How do you meet someone who has meant so much to you? How do you say hello to God? I don’t know. I just went home. But that was enough. Oh thank you David Bowie. Thank you.

And thank you also for declining knighthood. Why should you be knighted when you are already King?

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

Bowie. Whoa. You wish you could have been there and I do too. If you haven’t seen him live, do so as soon as possible. If you haven’t seen the legend of him, the history of rock that he carries with him everywhere he goes, take a moment and recognize. All hail.

I saw him at the Shrine last night and I am going again tonight to see him at the Wiltern. I wish I could have seen him on the Spiders From Mars Tour, Ziggy, The Thin White Duke, any and all of the incarnations, but the Reality Tour is all of him, right there, spanning all time. He looks great. Age has not affected him in the least, almost as if the “Look Back In Anger” Dorian Gray image is a true story, that somewhere in the home that he shares with the equally enigmatic and beautiful Iman, there is a portrait of him rotting away.

To prepare, I spent hours putting on makeup and watching him on “The Old Grey Whistle Test,” with his jumpsuits and his blue guitar, singing “Queen Bitch” in 1973. I am constantly reminding people to be sure that “Life On Mars” gets played at my funeral, not that I am planning one, but you never know, and that needs to be blasting as I am lowered into the ground. It is the last song I want to hear.

As an artist, David Bowie has been challenging the cultural definitions of gender, music, image, fantasy, identity, politics, sexuality, originality, beauty, fashion, fucking everything. As an icon, he has been the most inspiring deity to hit the world since the beginning of time. He has no peer. No one compares. No one comes close. Strangely, he swaggers onstage with a kind of youthful poppy quality that he had less of when he was the orange haired androgynous fop king in the early 70s. He has grown younger and a certain humility has overtaken his once formidable presence. It is an acquiescence to age, possibly, a modesty only taken on by the truly great, who have nothing to lose in taking down the glossy veneer a notch to show the true human being that lives underneath all the costumes, the Klaus Nomi couture confections, the makeup and the legend.

Through the set list, there were many old classics, which always sound terrific and fresh, like nothing ever heard before or since, and then new songs, that challenge his own catalogue. It is insane how much of a religious experience it can be, the way that he moves, the sound of his voice, his slim, youthful body in possession of the deepest and holiest range - it is a sonic boom, a sarcastic sneer, a lonely passionate plea, the all of it - everything.

The best moment for me was the duet between his guitarist, an amazing black woman, forgetting her name is sacrilege, for she gave the most beautiful Freddy Mercury to Bowie’s “Under Pressure.” Channeling him like he was right there with his tight pants and his bathhouse moustache. I could only weep. That anthem is for me the requiem march of all the men and women lost in the war of AIDS that we still fight. It is as relevant to me now as it was then, and not totally ruined by the temptation to say “Ice Ice Baby” during the opening strain.

It is a pity that no one in LA takes the glam route at these shows anymore, it is too much of a bother to consider dressing in the knicker pants and platform shoes, attaching a bronze sphere to the middle of one’s forehead, no jumpsuits or velvet overalls. It is just tiny celebrities in their denim and All Stars, leather car coats and backstage passes. Not a feather boa in sight. This was not true for me. I wore a white satin gown that had to be pinned to the middle of my head to stay on, so it was like a Jean Harlow as Mary Magdalene look, which was a little inconvenient as it was raining like crazy, and the train of my sacred garments got soaking wet, plus people kept talking to me too close, so I had innumerable lipstick stains on the outside of the hood. However, it was only proper to wear vestments to see the man who sold the world, fell to earth, who was Ziggy Stardust and Major Tom.

We went backstage to meet him afterward, only because I had been invited by David Bowie Himself. I know! When I found out he had invited me, I cried and then I got really sick. He didn’t emerge for a long time, and so I thought I would have a better chance at the Wiltern. I know the layout. I am going to wear the pale suit he wore in the “Life on Mars” video, with a ring of sapphire eyeshadow in homage to him, and I will let you know what happens.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines
  • Blogmarks
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

The moveon.org moved the crowd and the minds of all the people involved. I met Chuck D - Chuck DDDDDDDD!!!!!!!! We went to the soundcheck at Hammerstein, earlier in the day, and saw Chuck D and The Fine Arts Militia rocking a new version of “Fight the Power.” He is beautiful and the terrific strength and promise that he brought the world so many years ago has only grown and prospered. He was my teacher. He told us that we had a voice. That the media wouldn’t be putting him on prime time because they were too afraid of the truth. Chuck D brought the truth, brought it again and again. I got to tell him so and speak to him about his impact on the lives of all those who didn’t know we were allowed to speak. He is a gentle soul, generous and kind. He accepted my compliments, that he is a visionary, a revolutionary, a genius, a true leader. He hugged me, introduced me to some of The Fine Arts Militia, and they did a banging performance knocking us all down with the funk. It was a moveable feast of the most important thinkers of our time.

I bum rushed Al Franken and Michael Moore in the green room, with congratulations and warmth. Al Franken jokingly remarked that I gave a more enthusiastic greeting to Michael Moore - but then again, I was so blown away and starstruck by Al Franken, the moment was just escalating, and then the Magical Mystery Moore right behind him. It was all so overwhelming.

Moby and Vernon Reid opened the show with the best version of the “Star Spangled Banner.” I’d never heard it with thrashing guitars before. Moby is just like you think he might be. Shy, darling, charming, organized. Vernon is hilarious. In the green room we were talking about this cheese that looked like bread, and then when we found out it was cheese and not bread, Vernon kept going on about how there are so many ways that cheese can go awry. It is true!! Cheese can fuck you up sometimes, and I am not even referring to lactose intolerance. He brought up the tragic nature of the brie omelet. How wrong that the rind is in there, and then you get a big bite of mold without warning. We live in troubled times.

I had major posse with me, got to see old friends, Rufus Wainright and Janeane Garofalo. I remember Rufus from the Largo days, and he rocked the waistcoat like it was 1899. I called him “Lord Byron” because he was bringing me back to the Romantic Poets era all over again. Let’s do some laudanum and stay up all night writing gothic novellas. His performance was magnificent and grand as he is to the manner born. Or the manor born.

It is weird and chaotic to be at events like this. I wish I could take you all and show you how strange it is being around people you usually only see on tv. It’s an alternate universe, feeling like stepping into the screen for a moment. I realize I have been around so long I know a lot of famous people, and it isn’t a brag, I am just old and shit. Nobody seems to really hang out, and they all separate into either their own spaces to watch the shows, or disappear into their dressing rooms. This event had a lot more unity, there was a camaraderie between the artists that was more human, less VIP. We had a mission, to educate and to bring together disparate elements of our society that have much more in common than anyone realized. I hope that the contributions made by the major politicos and the monied liberals helps us to get that fucking shithead out of office.

Bush in 30 Seconds was a brilliant concept and the night was devoted to all the people who made ads on their computers, using their own money, their own hearts and minds, and most importantly, their right to free speech. It was the first time in a long while where I felt proud to be an American.

• Social Bookmarking!
  
  • Subscribe
  • Bloglines