Call for backup

They’re the unsung heroes of song. Backup singers.

Tonight I rewatched a spectacular documentary the wife and I had originally seen in the theater when it came out: 20 Feet From Stardom.

The film focuses on the careers of the great Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, Lisa Fischer, Judith Hill, Claudia Lennear, Tata Vega and The Waters Family. In their own words they tell us their stories of the unbelievable highs, crushing lows and relentless persistence it takes to have a career behind the spotlight. And just how hard it is to step out in front of it.

One of the many moving—although sadly not surprising—stories is how poorly Wall Of Sound producer Phil Spector treated Darlene Love and other women of color, taking advantage of them to further his own reputation.

He was a monster even before he shot anyone.

Throughout the film are interviews with Bruce Springsteen (who?), Sting, Mick Jagger and more explaining how their backup singers make or break their songs and shows. Often, the tunes you’re humming while you're walking to your car after the concert, and then sitting in the line of cars waiting to get out that's going to take at least an hour as you wonder why you didn't pony up for preferred parking and use the bathroom before you left the building, are the parts the backup singers were singing.

And then, there are the voices.

As you might imagine the film is chock full of music and songs, and the voices singing them are nothing short of magnificent. Every one of them deserving of a solo career as the headliner.

So no snappy end lines or funny twists of phrase today. Just a recommendation for a great film that deserves to be seen. About enormously talented people who deserve to be recognized.

Encore post: My dermatologist is Dick Cheney

You know how some things are never as bad as you think they are? Like bad hair days for example. You're the only one who really notices, and if not, the only one who really cares.

Unless it's a really bad hair day.

Then everyone's laughing behind your back and making Nick Nolte jokes.

Here's the thing: I went to my dermatologist this afternoon to have a few dark spots removed from my face. But that's not what it looks like.

It looks like I went hunting with Dick Cheney.

The way it works is the dermatologist freezes the spots with liquid nitrogen, the same stuff they store fertilized embryos, bull sperm and Walt Disney's head in. Then the spots they've treated blister, then scab.

Then the scabs fall off (aren't you glad I chose this graphic instead of a more graphic graphic?). Then you have beautiful new skin when it's done.

There are a few problems. First, the liquid nitrogen feels like it's burning even though it's actually freezing your face. Secondly, the dermatologist seemed like she was enjoying it a little too much. And finally, the time it takes to heal is somewhere between five and ten days. Which is way too long to look like I've been cleaning my gun.

Or hunting with Dick Cheney.

So I'm going nocturnal as much as possible the next few days. Thanks to my little procedure, not only will I be able to finish a few things I've been meaning to get to in the Batcave, it's also shaping up to be a great movie-going, star-gazing, moonlight walk week.

The good news is when I emerge from the darkness, my skin will be smooth and radiant with even tones.

Why go through all this pain for a few blemishes? Because when L'Oreal calls, I want to be ready.

And besides, I'm worth it.

Emotional energy conservation

In case you didn’t notice, we’re in the middle of an energy crisis. Not the one involving Saudi oil barrels. Or the Texas power grid. I’m not talking about the reduction in natural gas production. Also not preaching about greenhouse gas emissions.

I’m talking about the emotional energy crisis.

Maybe it’s just me, because a lot of times it is, but there are just too many things being thrown at me on a daily basis that, for some reason, I’m supposed to care about. It’s a never-ending news cycle in the loosest sense of the word "news."

There are of course more than enough legitimate issues we should all be concerned about:

The war in Ukraine.

The next covid variant.

The national debt.

The fact congress is being held hostage by spineless, right-wing, Trump-loving, racist, conspiracy theory loving, power hungry liars and seditionists more concerned with conducting revenge hearings against imaginary wrongs than actually governing.

I can’t even.

Then there’s the ever increasing, never ending tidal wave of stories about things I couldn’t care about if I tried, but for some reason algorithms deem worthy of being served up to me as if they mattered. And as if I cared. A few examples of “news” from today alone:

Michael Strahan Poses for Rare Photo With Girlfriend at Hollywood Walk of Fame Ceremony

Ashley Graham Shows Off 'Ripped' Gym Session Photo With Husband

See David Foster and Katharine McPhee’s Toddler’s Amazing Drum Solo

Justin Bieber sells his music catalog

Shailene Woodley opens up about Aaron Rodgers relationship

Kylie Jenner reveals son’s name and how to pronounce it

New pill treats diabetic cats without daily insulin shots

Vanna White Distracts ‘Wheel of Fortune’ Viewers With Another Bold Outfit

J.Lo and Ben Affleck Reunite with Jennifer Garner for Family Event

Alright, full disclosure—I’m a little worried about Jennifer Garner. She shouldn’t have to put up with that crap. But everything else, nope.

I only have so much emotional energy to spend, and last I looked the emotional energy filling station was closed. So I suppose the only answer is to try and shut out the noise and focus on the things that really matter.

Now if I could just stop thinking about how much those cats were paying for insulin.

Stop me if you've read this one before

I’m not sure whether it’s a bad habit (God knows I have plenty of those to spare), my failing memory or the fact I’m a believer in the old adage that great writers steal from other writers. Especially when the other writers are themselves.

I’ve written over 1,181 posts on here—I don’t have to tell you. And almost all of them have their own clever little word play titles.

But as you may have noticed, because I know you’ve read, cataloged and committed them all to memory, many of them unintentionally and unconsciously share the same title.

For example I have two posts called Going Bananas. Three if you count the encore post of one of them. And while we’re on the subject, a lot of people, okay, a few people, alright fine, somebody asked me what the encore posts are. Well, they’re pretty much what they sound like.

Encore posts are reposting of pieces that were critically acclaimed, especially insightful, endlessly enlightening and are constantly being asked for, dare I say demanded, by my many grateful followers who appreciate quality writing and want to reread them over and over again.

Nah, I’m just funnin’ you. I slap up encore posts when I’m too lazy or tired to write a new one. Or I don’t feel like living up to that “quality writing” thing.

Where was I? Oh, right. I also have more than one post called With Friends Like These. And I think there’s more than one Here’s The Thing.

I’m not losing sleep over it. In fact I'm in good company. There are more than four movies called Monkey Business. Three called A Night To Remember. There’s more than one Gladiator, and more than one Twilight (one with vampires, one without).

I'm sure there are other examples, but I have to get going on tomorrow's post. I'm calling it Gone With the Wind. Either that or To Kill A Mockingbird.

I haven't decided yet.

Encore post: Going bananas

I never should've looked.

As you may know, I often use Starbucks as my branch office when I'm working on an assignment. And, being a creature of habit, I always have a grande decaf and a slice of Banana Walnut Bread while I'm working.

Now, I've never been under the impression that it's a diet snack. But I always thought, you know - bananas? walnuts? - how bad can it be.

Well, today I found out.

A law went into effect the first of the year saying restaurants/coffee shops now have to post the calorie content of their food where the customer can see it before ordering. Which, as you can see, Starbucks has done.

Not that I ever gave any thought to it at all, but if I had I would've figured maybe 200, 250 calories. Come to find out I would've been off. By half.

It's just not fair. Where I once was just wistful and carefree ordering my faux healthy banana bread, I now find myself sweating like Mel Gibson at Passover dinner deciding whether I can justify that many calories for a snack.

Being beautiful isn't easy. I don't have to tell you.

Maybe next time I'll try to find someone else at the "office" who wants to split a slice with me. Maybe I'll just do without.

I did notice that my Starbucks sells real bananas at the register. I don't see a lot of fat chimps running around. Wonder how many calories in those?

Ace 2014-2023

At first, Ace wasn’t the one. Gus was the one.

It was January 2016, and we were only a few weeks past losing Max, the world’s greatest dog. I’d been saying loudly and repeatedly I wasn’t going to be ready for another dog for a long while, and I didn’t want to hear any conversation about racing out to replace Max (as if any dog could ever replace him).

Fast forward three and half weeks. I started scrolling the Westside German Shepherd Rescue website and came across Gus. He looked like an awesome dog, and bore quite the resemblance to Max. And since WGSR was having an open house soon, I thought what would be the harm In going down there and shaking paws with Gus in person.

So on a Saturday morning, with the wife and daughter in the living room in their jammies watching a leftover Hallmark Channel Christmas movie, which explains why I have no recollection of it, I came bursting in fully showered, dressed and ready to go.

”Where are we going?”

”Downtown to the Westside German Shepherd Rescue. Just to look.”

I’d never had a rescue dog and was curious about it and what the dogs were like. Max had been a German import: a true German German Shepherd we had since he was a puppy. I thought if we ever got a rescue, it'd be strange not to know who he was from the time he was a puppy, but it might be nice to have one that came housebroken, with adult teeth and without an appetite for couches and pillows.

At the open house, Gus was beautiful but scared, as many of the dogs were. Clearly he'd had an abusive prior owner and was fearful of people, particularly men. This is true of a lot of rescue dogs. When you see these beautiful dogs recoil and put their tail between their legs when you try to pet them, it makes you hope there’s a deep, dark circle in hell for people who abuse these animals.

Anyway, after meeting Gus, another shepherd named Jake and a couple others, we were ready to head back home. The woman at WSGR who’d been doing the introductions, and seeing we weren’t having much luck, asked us what we were looking for. We basically described another Max. She said, “Hang on, I have someone I want you to meet.”

She went in back, and a few minutes later came out with Ace.

He was beautiful. Where Max’s eyes had been dark, Ace’s were light brown and a little freaky looking. Max had smaller triangle-shaped ears, and Ace had two giant ears sticking straight up that we figured could pick up 300 channels. Max was a long-haired German Shepherd. Ace was a short hair.

We spent some time with Ace, walked with him a bit and then let my daughter walk him. She got down to eye level with him, where he proceeded to put his giant paw in her hand and give her face a sloppy, paint roller size licking.

That did it. We were at the point of no return.

Ace was our beautiful boy for six years. Every German Shepherd bonds with a person, and in Ace's case it was my wife. He was her shadow, her protector, her love, following her everywhere and always having to know where she was and what she was doing.

If she'd had plans for a life going to the bathroom alone, Ace put an end to them.

About three years ago, we discovered in the most terrifying way that Ace had epilepsy. I've posted about it here, so I won't revisit all the gory details now. We managed his seizures, which would run few and far between and then, for no reason, frighteningly close to each other.

Last Friday, Ace had a seizure that medically and behaviorally altered him in a way he couldn't come back from. So we made the decision every pet owner dreads, and knows they'll have to make eventually. As my friend Scott Thomson says, "They're angels with expiration dates."

We wanted to make his send off as lovely, if that's a word you can use, as possible for him. We gave him an In-N-Out burger-double patty (but not a Double Double cause of the cheese - he was an all meat guy). We leashed him up and took him for a long walk around the neighborhood, where he got in all his usual sniffs and explorations. When he got back to the house, he enjoyed some whipped cream his favorite way: straight from the can. He was in good spirits.

Instead of a cold veterinary office, we had a vet come to the house and said our goodbyes through our tears in the backyard. We were all down on the ground around him, holding him and making sure he knew how much we loved him.

Right now I imagine Ace and Max having a conversation about how the wife, daughter and I were as dog owners.

ACE: Did he do that stupid treat-in-his-mouth thing with you?

MAX: All the time! But it made him happy so I put up with it.

ACE: He'd always brag about how we'd never rip his face off.

MAX: Good thing he wasn't a mind reader!

ACE and MAX laugh hysterically.

Ace was the strong, silent type. And without his giant presence and even bigger heart, now the house is silent.

We'll miss his manly sighs when he laid his powerful body down. The way he looked up at you with his "Don't you love me?" face whenever we held anything edible in our hands. The look on his face when he'd lay dreaming on the love seat. His joyful howling when he knew he was going on a walk.

We're going to miss every little thing about him, and we'll love him forever.

Most people get one great dog in their life if they're lucky. As the wife said, we definitely exceeded our quota.

ACE: Who're all these treats and giant bones for?

MAX: They're for us pal!

ACE: Do we take them over that bridge right now?

MAX: Not yet. We're going to wait here awhile.

Encore post: No know how

As I've written about on here before, I'm about to embark on a bold, new, money-sucking, patience-straining, marriage-testing, argument-inducing adventure: my kitchen and living room remodel.

Like everyone who goes down this road of no return, my journey began at Home Depot and Lowe's. The wife and I didn't just go there to get ideas about bathroom vanities, kitchen sinks, drawer pulls and countertops. We were also armed with a list of items from our contractor we had to either purchase or make decisions on before they start.

If you know anything about me, you know I like figuring out how things work and, if needed, could MacGyver a way into building a house from the ground up using only a hammer, spatula, paper straws and lawn grass.

Nah, I'm just funnin' you. I can't put together a bookshelf from Ikea. But I can tell you the first film Jeff Goldblum was in—that's gotta be worth something at some point.

Where was I? Oh, right. So to paraphrase Blanche DuBois in Streetcar Named Desire, when it comes to construction I do depend on the knowledge of strangers. Of course it helps if the strangers actually know more than I do. And while there are a lot of scary things about this process, not least among them is the frightening fact I may already have more answers to my questions than the people who work at Home Depot or Lowe's. That just ain't right.

The good news is the big box hardware and lumber stores aren't the only game in town. Fortunately, thanks to a trusted recommendation, we discovered the family-owned Faucets & Fixtures in Orange. They have a quiet little storefront in a not great section of Tustin Avenue that comes nowhere near tipping its hand to the remodeling wonderland waiting inside.

In an experience that was a first, their employees know all about the inventory and are able to answer all the questions. "Yes it comes in polished nickel, but it's plastic-y on the inside." "You can get the one-piece Memoirs toilet, but the two-piece is about $400 cheaper." "That's a stock medicine cabinet, but we can custom build one for you no problem." "The sink is ten inches deep, but the porcelain finish is brighter and thicker on that one." The store has a big selection, yet isn't overwhelming.

I could make a hundred trips to Home Depot and Lowe's, and never get as much done as we accomplished in a couple hours at Faucets & Fixtures with our man Austin.

The point is this-once you've had knowledgable, friendly, patient customer service, there's no going back. It's like going from J.C.Penny to Nordstrom. Stater Bros. to Trader Joe's. Winchell's to Starbuck's (Those are big corporations, but you get my continental drift).

From now on, it's mom and pop, family-owned, highly recommended merchants for all things having to do with the remodel and beyond.

And in case you're looking to win a bar bet, his first movie was Death Wish.