The Arf! Arf! [El Cheapo] 2-CD Sampler CD review (Orlando Weekly)

Defining the under-the-radar garage-rock movement for 20 years, Erik Lindgren (through his Arf! Arf! label) has sought to highlight the lost nuggets (ahem) of a misspent youth. Though not focused solely on garage and psych pop, it’s been those two types of releases that have helped define his label. Yet Lindgren is also known as the man behind both Birdsongs of the Mesozoic and The Space Negroes, two concerns that defined the outer reaches of studio extremities. And it’s this oddball outlook that has yielded the most, uh, interesting releases from Arf! Arf!, namely gems like a now-legendary album from Lucia Pamela (recorded, according to Pamela, on the moon, which helps explain “Walking on the Moon”) and compilations like “Only In America” (highlighting some truly bizarre recorded outings from the ’60s like crow-calling records and a song with a vacuum-cleaner solo) and “The Talent Show” (a straight-through recording of a small-town church talent show). Unfortunately, this double-disc set is heavier on the psych-pop that’s obviously close to Lindgren’s heart. Though for collectors it’s a godsend (all of the tracks are previously unreleased, so you can get that alternate version of “Action Woman” by The Litter you’ve been searching for), it’s ultimately not nearly as satisfying as some of the label’s more offbeat collections.

First appeared in the Dec. 26, 2002 issue of Orlando Weekly.

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Eberhard Weber: Little Movements CD review

German bassist Eberhard Weber confounded the world when he released “The Colours Of Chloë” in 1974. The album introduced his “Colours” ensemble, but more importantly, the album displayed a highly unique sound that drew in equal parts from contemporary European classical composition and from jazz improvisation. That album — and the other Colours albums that followed — were spacious meditations on sound that allowed the players plenty of room to stretch out. Part of ECM’s revolutionary mid-’70s repertoire, it was the sound of artists like Weber that made “jazz” sound utterly modern and adventurous without meandering into squishy pop-fusion. By 1980 however, both ECM and Weber seemed to have run out of creative steam. The label had stagnated and many of its artists were recycling the same concepts over and over (or, worse, trying to cash in on the fuzak craze). Weber, seeing the likelihood of Colours going down that same road, decided to disband the group. But not before releasing an excellent bookend to “Chloë” in the form of “Little Movements.” With soprano player Charlie Mariano, piano/synth player Rainer Brüninghaus and drummer John Marshall, Weber creates an exquisite, exploratory space for the listener, relying on compositional restraint to get the point across. Though “Bali” veers perilously close to becoming a bad chardonnay hangover (due largely to some cornball riffing by Mariano), the album as a whole is a fitting close to a stunning episode in jazz history.

First appeared Dec. 26, 2002 in Orlando Weekly.

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Dzihan & Kamien: Gran Riserva CD review (Orlando Weekly)

This Austrian duo has made a name for themselves in the downtempo scene thanks to remix work and their incredible debut, “Freaks & Icons.” This new album doesn’t do much to modify their style, but it certainly takes up where “Freaks” left off by extending its classy, funky sound. Firmly positioned in the new global chill movement, Dzihan & Kamien (like fellow Austrian duo Kruder & Dorfmeister) take the influences of both the pan-European club scene and the sounds of Central Asia to create stylistically diverse — yet unrepentantly beautiful — music. Influenced by recording in locales as varied as Istanbul and Tuscany, “Gran Riserva” maintains a richly organic sound that, though built by sequencers, is enhanced by copious live instrumentation (horns, polyethnic percussion, thick double-bass lines). And, like the title implies, the result is an album that’s as varied in flavors and textures as that $200 bottle of wine you should have bought last year.

First appeared Dec. 26, 2002 in Orlando Weekly.

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Zakir Hussain: Selects CD review

Certainly one of the most well-known tabla players in the world (along with his father, Ustad Alla Rakha), Zakir Hussain has done much to bring the percussive power of Indian classical music to Western ears; through his work with Mickey Hart and John McLaughlin, he has amply demonstrated how effective the instrument can be as accompaniment. On this disc, however, he pushes the tabla as a solo endeavor and the results are quite stunning. Selected by Hussain as some of his most noteworthy solo performances (recorded live between 1997 and 2000), each of the six pieces finds him improvising on both basic and advanced compositional roots. Though accompanied on a couple of pieces by sarangi and harmonium, the focus is (obviously) on the unlimited rhythmic expanses that the tabla opens up. Largely abandoning the more forceful aspects that emerge when he’s accompanying Western players, “Selects” is all about the magical subtleties inherent in the complexities of the instrument. Even when he’s riffing on tabla basics (like on the piece recorded in Ahmedabad in 1999), Hussain’s playing is truly amazing.

First appeared in the Dec. 26, 2002 issue of Orlando Weekly.

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Charles Lloyd: Lift Every Voice CD review (Orlando Weekly)

Recorded in early 2002 with Geri Allen (piano), John Abercrombie (guitar), Billy Hart (drums) and either Marc Johnson or Larry Grenadier on double bass, this expansive double-disc set finds Charles Lloyd feeling rather pensive. Lloyd’s tenor playing is deeply informed by a spiritual sense of loss that apparently arose out of the events of Sept. 11. However, “Lift Every Voice” is far from melancholy. As the album unfolds, Lloyd and his group move through various stages of a spiritual journey, using both traditional songs — “Amazing Grace,” “Deep River,” “Go Down Moses” and “Lift Every Voice and Sing” — as well as truly effective Lloyd-composed pieces like “Hafez, Shattered Heart” and “Hymn to the Mother.” Though the overall tone is kept quite hushed — thanks largely to Abercrombie’s delicately bluesy playing and Allen’s understated piano approach — it’s clear that it’s a slow catharsis and the effect is reflective, rather than somber. Lloyd’s gentle mastery of his instrument, combined with his uncanny writing abilities, makes “Lift Every Voice” absolutely necessary listening.

First appeared in the Dec. 26, 2002 issue of Orlando Weekly.

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Best CDs of 2002 (Orlando Weekly)

Allow me to apologize in advance for this highly-subjective and completely personal list. Year-end roundups of CDs always seem to be determined by some Illuminati-style Star Chamber of rock critics. You’ve probably already noticed the numb repetition of 2002’s lists. Well, allow me to diverge from what will surely be a seemingly endless barrage of praise for Wilco, Norah Jones, Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen, The White Stripes and Eminem to share with you a rundown of CDs that came out in 2002 that actually got played around the house, in the car and at the office. And got played a lot. As far as I’m concerned, they’re definitely the best of 2002.

Everything old is new again

Reissues and compilations have become the most exciting by-products of a struggling record industry that can’t sell its new crap. Available on substandard import CD for some time, the classic “Damned Damned Damned” (Castle/ Sanctuary) by, er, The Damned finally got a proper reissue this year. The liner notes are great, but finally, “New Rose” sounds as good as it did on vinyl. Another punk masterpiece reinvigorated by improved fidelity is “Never Mind the Bollocks,” as included on the whimsically titled box set Sex Pistols (Virgin UK). The “original analogue master” really brings out the fire that ignited the revolution. Given that the other two discs of demos and live tracks should have been three discs, Virgin left the bootleg market wide open. But to be able to get 1976 demos, various alternate versions and the legendary “Screen on the Green” gig with a beefed-up version of “Bollocks” makes up for any shortcomings.

Considering the exact opposite of punk rock, you’d come up with David Sylvian, whose “Camphor” compiled instrumental tracks and various remixes from the ex-Japan vocalist. Taking Sylvian’s ostentatious warblings away from his densely textured musical atmospherics (on which he’s accompanied by everyone from Talvin Singh and Ryuichi Sakamoto to Robert Fripp and Mick Karn) just helps you realize how much of a pretentious twit he is. In a good way.

Filed under “if it wasn’t for alt.country, we wouldn’t have thought of it,” rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson finally got her two classic Capitol albums reissued. Of the two, her second, “Rockin’ With Wanda” is superior, pushing the sexpot rocker’s twang to the redline with “Mean Mean Man” and “Fujiyama Mama.”

Jazz is well-served by reissues and a recent surge in vault-digging has meant that “lost” classics will be able to be noted for quality rather than rarity. Free-jazz warbler Leon Thomas (best known for his work with Pharaoh Sanders) is a legend in France, where an excellent reissue series includes the classic “Spirits Known and Unknown” (RCA Victor Gold Series France). Orlando’s Sam Rivers also found one of his buried treasures rediscovered this year: “Crystals” finds the blower in “an orchestral context,” which means otherworldly improvisations flying atop lush string arrangements. If Rivers is still nuts in 2002, you know this album was crazy in 1974. Though not technically a “reissue,” “Naked City Live, Vol. 1: Knitting Factory 1989″ is an early, barnstorming set from John Zorn’s squonking free-metal ensemble.

Boxes o’ Beats

With hip-hop having numbed itself by hitting the wall repeatedly, finding interesting variations on rap can be a challenge. On one hand, Talib Kweli just stepped up to the plate and delivered the goods with “Quality” (Rawkus), a solidly excellent record that managed to incorporate both Bilal’s crooning and the lyrical slayings of Cocoa Brovaz. On the other hand, The Roots pushed the genre a giant step forward with “Phrenology” (MCA), a dizzying exploration into the outer reaches of what it means to work in the rap game. Unfortunately, there are no other hands; despite the fact that hip-hop releases were as common as diarrhea on a Disney cruise, only a few others like Clipse, Blackalicious, MC Paul Barman, Cee-Lo and DJ Shadow managed to display any real ingenuity. But even those CDs seemed a little tired. (Both Common’s “Electric Circus” and “God’s Son” by Nas came in too close to the wire to get fully digested, but damn they’re both good.)

Electronic music seemed similarly flustered. Although “Intelligent Dance Music” was the order of the day and certainly holds hope for the future, it ain’t there yet. Releases by Minus 8 and Thievery Corporation were nice, but not necessary. “Electro-globalism” stood out as a personal bright spot. “Krishna Lila” (Six Degrees) by DJ Cheb I Sabbah (a pulsing spiritual meditation) and the drone-by-drums hypnotism of “Live in San Francisco at Stern Grove” (Axiom/Palm) by Bill Laswell’s Tabla Beat Science project were both excellent “tablatronic” adventures. Compilations like Arabica (Bar De Lune UK) — featuring Nickodemus, Khaled, Digital Bled and other hummus-filled folks — and “Buddha Lounge” (Beechwood Music UK) — a cut-rate knockoff of the ultrapricey “Buddha Bar” series featuring Nitin Sawhney, Fila Brazilia, Jazzanova and others — kept the chill-out room well-chilled.

Oh yeah, that record by The Streets? Totally overrated.

Rock is not a trend

Notice that all the fashionable rock bands — The Vines, Sahara Hotnights, The Datsuns — were eventually unmasked as frauds? It’s because rock doesn’t brook trendiness for long. But there were a lot of good, untrendy rock records that remembered that it’s all about having fun and being loud. Former That Dog leader Anna Waronker released her solo debut “Anna” (Five Foot Two), which found her utilizing both the pop-floss expertise of her boyfriend (Redd Kross’ Steve McDonald) and her own penchant for thick, guitar-driven harmonies. My subwoofers were given a bit of a workout thanks to Fu Manchu — the insanely catchy stoner rock of “California Crossing” (Mammoth) blew out the speakers in my car — and High on Fire, whose “Surrounded by Thieves” (Relapse) combined dense thuds and gut-busting riffage in a truly evil fashion. Sure, punk, hardcore and metal are still vital, but “Irony Is a Dead Scene” (Epitaph) by The Dillinger Escape Plan with Mike Patton raised the bar for combining them all with hyperbolic insanity.

Oh yeah, The Flaming Lips released the best rock record of the year and it was called “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots.” But that’s on all those other lists, isn’t it?

Patriotism?

Ironically, the aftermath of “the tragic events” saw an upsurge in interest not in traditional American music (that had already been done to death by O Brother), but in music from far away places. Long in the works, the Yo Yo Ma-curated “The Silk Road: A Musical Caravan” (Smithsonian Folkways) — a double-disc collection focusing on the musical traditions of Central Asia (with an emphasis on Iran and Afghanistan) — didn’t seem the best idea in a country full of flag-bearing SUVs. Yet somehow it found a niche.

But it was music from subcontinental Asia and sub-Saharan Africa that, as usual, most often worked its way into my ears. “Vira” (Sona Rupa UK) was an excellent, under-the-radar collaboration between the tabla-playing of Talvin Singh and Rakesh Chaurasia’s flute, while “Electric Highlife: Sessions From the Bokoor Studios” (Naxos World) brought together 13 poppy tunes from Ghana’s massively influential ’60s and ’70s “highlife” scene.

Where’d you get these?

Without giving too much away, an Internet download of “Zero” by Van Halen (the Gene Simmons demos, long a holy grail of Van Halen fans) and a Sabotage 3-CD bootleg of Prince’s legendary 1986 “Hit & Run” tour titled “Parade Around the World” (a collection that inarguably makes the case for the little man’s reputation as a live performer) were big hits around the house. But you know, I have no idea where they came from.

First appeared December 19, 2002 in Orlando Weekly.

Miss India International [Orlando] Beauty Pageant feature (Orlando Weekly)

Sari Surprises

I’ve been to Bombay more than I’ve been to Los Angeles, and I’ve been to L.A. enough. So I felt well-prepared for the combination of subcontinental superficiality that the Miss India International pageant (Nov. 30 at Hard Rock Live) should have been. After all, we are talking about a beauty pageant, and Bombay is a city that defies all the hokey Western stereotypes about India as a homespun land of gurus and salt-of-the-earth peasants.

India (though certainly weighed down by poverty resulting from endemic political corruption) is perfectly capable of meeting and exceeding America’s finest when it comes to opulent emptiness. Though cities like New Delhi and Bangalore can hold their own when it comes to parties and flash, it’s Bombay that spins out the plastic fantasies that provide dreams of fame for the country’s teeming masses. Like Hollywood, Bombay is a city that runs on star power and whether it’s MTV India, the omnipresence of film posters or some star DJ spinning trance at Fire ‘N’ Ice, the city — like Tokyo or New York — always feels as if it’s spinning on an entirely different axis from the rest of the world. Having briefly rested on that axis by interviewing Miss India 1997 in her suburban Bombay apartment (she was then a VJ on MTV India and a bona fide celebrity), I felt uniquely qualified to understand this pageant’s proceedings.

Well, I’m still trying to figure it out.

Organized as a fund-raiser, the pageant drew participants from 17 states to compete for the crown of Miss India International (not the same as Miss India or Miss India Worldwide, apparently). The actual beauty contest, however, was quite secondary to the sheer pageantry of the entertainment that preceded it. After being ushered to my seat, a spectacle unfolded before me that could only be described as impressive.

Whether it was dance-school students lip-synching to numbers from Bollywood films like “Asoka” (sadly, there was no re-enactment of one of the shootouts from “Sholay”), full-on music-video choreography accompanying a Talvin Singh remix of a Najma track or a showcase by some straight-up Bollywood B-boys (yes, there was breakdancing) it was quite a musical affair. And though Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan might have done a grave-turn if he saw what was going on while one of his songs was playing, it was incredibly entertaining.

But little could have prepared me for what I consider to be the evening’s highlight. As a man emerged from side-stage banging on a dhol (a two-headed drum), a performance began that was truly inspired. Avtar (the dhol player) wasn’t playing any regular instrument. No, the bass side of his dhol just happened to be equipped with a flashing strobe, so he had his own portable light show. And, as his playing grew faster and more frenetic, with the lights coming more furiously, the curtains behind him parted to reveal … acrobats from Splendid China! Spinning plates! On sticks!

Needless to say, this was not what I was expecting.

Thankfully, intermission soon came and I was able to catch my breath before the beauty contest got into full swing. With a cast of judges that inexplicably included Ranier Munns (of the Bogin, Munns & Munns law firm), the contestants were graded neither on swimwear nor on talent.

No, the 39 girls up for the crown were being judged for two main things: ability to beautifully wear beautiful clothes (both “Indian” and “Western”) and ability to answer queries from the judges. Questions like “What do you think your best attribute is?” (best answer: “My smile”) or “If you could have everyone in this room give to one charitable cause, what would it be?” (best answer: “Education,” which I didn’t realize was a charity). Most responded admirably, but it was certainly the first category that provided the judges the most to work with. And, given the stunning beauty of the contestants, it probably also proved the most difficult to decide upon.

In the end, it was Nasheyn Lally who won. But the pageant was less about her than it was about celebrating the mad, modern diversity that is Indian culture in Orlando. And though this was only one of many Indo-centric events that happen in town, it certainly turned out to be one of the year’s best.

First appeared December 19, 2002 in Orlando Weekly.

Suicidal Santa Claus Xmas Gift Guide (Orlando Weekly)

[This was a "team-written" piece by me, Billy Manes, Bob Whitby, and Steve Schneider. I forgot which parts I wrote.]

Dec. 13
Dear diary,

Christmas, oh Christmas … could there be a merrier time of year? Not for your old pal Santa Claus. At least that’s what I thought until yesterday, when the fine folks from the mall called with some joyous news: I got the job! They wanted me to do my thing in their atrium every day between now and Christmas. It’s been 11 months since I was last gainfully employed. I’m sick and tired of onion sandwiches, and they were offering $8.23 an hour! Naturally the Clauster was stoked.

Perhaps a little too stoked. A celebration seemed in order, so I indulged in a little indiscretion and opened a present laid under the tree for me by my lead elf, Katzenberg. (Rumor has it he’s really a midget, but we don’t split those kinds of hairs around the workshop.) Dear old Katzy had set me up with a “Jacks Are Wild” Jack Daniels gift set ($54.99, ABC Liquors, various locations). For the next hour, I positively gorged myself on sweet whiskey, cheese, crackers, beef summer sausage, mustard and chocolates. So good!

When I was finished … well, everything after that is a bit of a blur, I’m afraid. I vaguely recall hearing some strange noises emanating from the workshop Christmas tree. It was our Heirloom Talking Photo Ornaments ($29.95 for a set of two, Sharper Image, The Mall at Millenia, 4200 Conroy Road, 407-363-9000; The Florida Mall, 8001 S. Orange Blossom Trail, 407-859-2171), personalizable trinkets into which dear, sweet Rudolph had recorded the greeting, “God bless us, everyone!” But at that moment, I could fairly have sworn they were calling out, “The horror! The horror!” Then … blackness.

I awoke in a pool of my own sick, midday sunlight streaming through the windows. It was already noon! Damn that Katzenberg, he knows my history of problems with strong drink and honey mustard. I was three hours late for my first day of work!

By the time I could fire up the sleigh and get to the mall (and secure a parking space), the line of kids and parents stretched all the way to the food court. And by the way those people held their noses as I hurried by, I could tell the odor of whiskey, mustard and vomit still hung heavily on my body.

Long story short: I was sacked. And tossed out the door besides, like a bum. The disappointment was crushing, but I can’t say I take issue with the decision. I let everyone down. I’m a bad Santa.

To absorb the blow, I responded in the only way that seemed sane or productive: Doing doughnuts in the parking lot while cranking the two-CD version of Jimi Hendrix’s “Blue Wild Angel: Live at the Isle of Wight” ($25.98, Park Ave CDs, 528 Park Ave. S., Winter Park, 407-629-5293; also at the University of Central Florida Student Union, 407-282-1616).

Dec. 14
Dear diary,
Some days you just don’t feel like leaving the house. When you live in Celebration, well, most days you don’t feel like leaving the neighborhood. Today was just such a day.

Yesterday’s humiliation still hurt like an icicle in the back. What were the chances of finding another job before the big day? Slim to none, that’s what. Damn that Katzenberg.

So I turned my attention to safer pursuits — like playing with Edward Gorey’s “Dracula: A Toy Theatre” ($18.95, Urban Think Bookstore, 625 E. Central Blvd., 407-650-8004), a nifty little playset that re-creates all three stage settings for Gorey’s Broadway production of Dracula.

Focusing my attention on the plight of poor Renfield in the sanatorium really did wonders toward putting my own problems into perspective. Soon, I was feeling positive enough to entertain the idea of human company — well, simian company, anyway.

My spirits were further brightened by the rich sonorities of Myron the Monkey ($25, Dillards, six Orlando-area locations), who kept me entertained with his highly enthusiastic jungle noises and (lyrically altered) rendition of “Hey Hey, We’re the Monkees.” Just adorable.

Well, what can I say except that old Santa has a problem setting healthy boundaries? An hour or so of Myron would have been a fine frolic, but I was so caught up in the moment that I decided to engage in some heavy battery-testing. By the time the batteries were dead, I was imagining chimps crawling out of the baseboards, and that song was practically imprinted on my cerebellum.

To bring myself back down to reality, I curled up with the latest issue of Ride BMX Magazine (gift subscription $19.99/year; includes free ride belt, ride stickers or beanie). There’s nothing like full-color photos of your favorite ramp, street, dirt and flatland riders in action to convey the reassuring message, “Everything’s chill.”

I just turned the last page, and before I peel off my suit and climb into bed, a vow: Tomorrow I will get back among the living. Santa may be down, but he’s not out.

Dec. 15
Dear diary,
This was my day to take the proverbial bull by the metaphorical balls. But things only got worse.

The elves, the reindeer and even Mrs. Claus left me. Gone in the night. Or maybe it was the morning, as I couldn’t seem to get my backside out of bed until 1 p.m. Mrs. C. left a note saying she’d heard about the imbroglio at the mall. She’d had it and no longer wanted to be married to a malingering elf. I’d soiled the good Kringle name once too many times, she wrote. There was a hoofprint on the bottom. It looked like Rudolph’s.

Screw ‘em. I’m sick and tired of those little elfin bitches underfoot anyway, and frankly I’d like to see how my fat-ass, soon-to-be ex does on the singles scene.

I left home, drove to downtown Orlando and proceeded to get in some quality panhandling time.

I set up camp in the nearest blue box and courted the sympathy of passersby by proudly displaying my Jesus Action Figure ($6.66, Static, 240 N. Orlando Drive, 407-478-1083). But the cute totem’s upward-swept arms and smooth-gliding action did little to sway the more fortunate to my cause. Derision ruled the day. (A repeated comment: “If you’re really destitute, how come your ass is so huge?”)

I did, however, attract the attention of one of Orlando’s “finest” who apparently was too stupid to notice that I was in a blue box. The lump-headed fuzz tried to roust me from my rightful place on the pavement. Good thing I had my Cell Phone Stun Gun ($89.95, U-Spy Store, 5227 E. Colonial Drive, 800-393-4779), which looks like a cell phone but dispenses enough body-flattening power to keep attackers at bay. (Useful when you spend most of your professional life breaking into strangers’ houses.)

I zapped the cop and took to my heels. Got away from him too, but I think he was trying to get his gun out of his holster. That’s right buddy, put a cap in Santa. That’d give The City Beautiful a big PR boost.

I found an alley, rolled myself up in a Badtz Maru shower curtain ($21, DiVersions, Fashion Square Mall, 407-894-5101) and went to sleep behind a Dumpster.

Dec. 16
Dear diary,
As the saying goes, I had nowhere to go but up. And in this case, “up” meant “off the pavement and toward the BioLife plasma donation center” (1122 W. Church St., 407-841-2151). Thanks to our fine medical community, I was rewarded handsomely for turning over just a few pints of Santa juice.

Twenty-five bucks richer and only mildly disoriented, I was able to score my first decent meal in days: A jar of chocolate body paint ($10, Schakolad, Winter Park Village; 480 N. Orlando Ave., Winter Park, 407-677-4114) which I found both filling and useful for camouflaging the body parts exposed by the ever-more-numerous holes in my red suit.

Maybe this Kringle-at-liberty business was going to be easier than it looked.

Flushed with the lure of easy money, I responded to a newspaper ad that solicited human guinea pigs for a sleep-deprivation experiment. It probably wasn’t a brilliant idea to bring along my microwavable neck pillow ($35, NFX Apothecary, 327 Park Ave. South, Winter Park, 407-622-1611) which made me so comfortable that I drifted off to dreamland in no time. Before you could say “bowlful of jelly” I was declared 4-F and shown the door.

Luckily, I had company: some practicing Wiccans who had been thrown out of their eating-disorder study for carbo-loading after hours. These wacky witches, God bless ‘em, took pity on your old pal Santa and invited me to stay at their crash pad. The one named Glenda even suggested I dig into a Prosperity & Abundance Draw ($24.95, Avalon, 1211 Hillcrest St., 407-895-7439) to help turn my life around.

Appealing to the higher force of magick gave me a feeling of comfort that the universe was about to reposition itself in my favor.

Dec. 17
Dear diary,
And indeed it has. Indeed it has. Santa got his Kringle waxed, oh silent witness to my trials and travails. It’s been a long time, been a long time, been a long lonely, lonely, lonely time. Oh yeah.

OK, no one’s reading this so I’ll confess that sexual congress with Glenda is not a fer-sure fact. Now clearly, I should know whether I was naughty or nice, but it’s all kinda foggy. I remember the draw, I remember playing strip Twister ($11.99, Toys “R” Us, three Orlando-area locations) with Glenda, I remember thinking it fortunate that my beard is so long, I remember throwing back a six-pack of Zima ($6.69, ABC Liquors, various locations), then nothing. Yes dear diary, Santa is still having trouble setting healthy boundaries.

I woke up on the Bernini leather sofa ($1,275, Rooms to Go, 5200 E. Colonial Drive, 407-228-8337; also in The Florida Mall, 407-438-6799) sore as an elf after a rugby match, and the house was empty. Glenda, Brenda and LaWanda were gone like the fuzz on an elk’s antler. “No matter,” said I to no one in particular, “Santa’s a bit of a rolling stone anyway.” Besides my agent would pop an artery in her head if some bastard paparazzi caught me macking with a denizen of the dark side. (Note to self: Get blood test). Forget about those free “there’s Santa’s on the weather radar” promos on Christmas Eve for sure.

So I’m in the bathroom wrestling with that big black belt, I drop my trousers, make a thumb-grab for the old BVDs only to find them replaced by a pair of Wackyjac panties embossed with the word “slut” on the front ($13, women’s size XL, www.wackyjac.com). Which explains the crotch burn but what in the name of Blitzen is going on? Did Glenda slip a Rohypnol (availability varies) in my Zima and ride me like a broomstick?

Absolutely, that is absolutely what happened. The only possible explanation, because I’ve never worn women’s panties before. Katzenberg probably does, the oily little bastard, but the Big Elf. No sir.

I kinda like ‘em though. (Note to self: Change the lock on the diary).

I left the witches’ pad thinking maybe there’s still a little north in Santa’s pole after all. Yeah, I’m 180 years old, overweight and look like Jerry Garcia, but Santa is still Da Elf.

So I’m feeling randy but there’s no Glenda to help me get my groove on. Next best thing? Fairvilla MegaStore (1740 N. Orange Blossom Trail, 407-425-6005), of course. I spent the better part of the afternoon perusing the shelves. Santa had his eye on a Dicky Sipper sports drink bottle ($11.95), a chainmail bikini ($81), a coffee-table-size edition of “Exquisite Mayhem: The Spectacular and Erotic World of Wrestling” by Theo Ehret ($60) and the December edition of 50+ magazine ($7.99). Sadly, Santa didn’t have enough cash to pay for his goodies.

But, lord help me, virtual flesh can only satisfy an elf for so long. I did a bad thing and took to Orange Blossom Trail with the $15 I still had tucked in my cummerbund. Sometimes the lure of sin is more than I can stand.

Up and down OBT I schlepped, looking for love in all the places Katzenberg told me to look last year when I confided in him last New Year’s that things weren’t quit right between me and the missus. He’s such a scuzz.

It took 20 minutes, but I found a Claus a date (availability varies). Christmas is coming indeed!

Dec. 18
Dear diary,
Santa’s up, Santa’s down, Santa’s high and Santa’s low. Santa’s out of Prozac and feeling a little bitchy today.

And that hot little number dressed like a candy cane? To quote Michael Jackson, “She’s out of my life.” She walked after she found out that the $15 I lavished on her charms was the last of my scratch. “I thought you had a sleighful of neat shit,” she screamed at me while we were watching a little post-coital “Cops” at the Host Inn Motel ($40 per night plus $5 key deposit, 919 W. Colonial Blvd., 407-422-6311) and only then did I notice that indeed, she didn’t have all her teeth after all. Good riddance.

So I’m at loose ends again. I spent the day cruising from mall to mall looking for work. But the sleigh eats gas like reindeer eats grass, and the tank’s on “E.” I did, however, find my LYNX Passport one-month bus pass ($35, LYNX, 445 W. Amelia St., 407-841-2279) lodged in my beard. Thought I’d lost that sucker for good.

But Orlando’s a small town, and I’m blacklisted. An elf at Herndon Plaza pulled me aside and told me that Katzenburg was shooting off his mouth about me at the Bar of Bethlehem two nights ago, and a lot of the guys were there. “You might as well be Jeff Nolan,” he told me. “You ain’t gonna find work.”

Guess he wasn’t lying. (The manager at one mall made me throw my head back and touch my nose before telling me there were no openings. Hysterical, buddy.)

So Santa’s sitting in the motel bathtub with a gallon of Arbor Valley Burgundy ($6.49, ABC Liquors, various locations) trying to drown his troubles, if not himself. What’s the future hold for me when I can’t get a mall job a week before Christ-mas? Immediately, it holds a delightful foot massage thanks to my Homedic Bubble Bliss Elite Pedicure Foot Spa with heat ($39.99, Target, three Orlando-area locations). Other than that, squat.

But this is the freakin’ season of light, so I’m holding fast to the idea that tomorrow won’t drain my soul of the milk of human kindness nearly so bad as today.

Dec. 19
Dear diary,
Still at the Host Inn. I talked the clerk into letting me stay one more night with the promise of paying in the morning. Fat chance, pal. I didn’t get out of bed until 1:30 p.m. I ate a deluxe 15-inch sub from Lenny’s Subs ($7.65, 3812 E. Colonial Blvd., 407-895-8521) and skimmed a few back issues of High Times ($29.99, one-year gift subscription, www.hightimes.com).

Another day closer to Christmas, another step closer to financial ruin.

Dec. 20
Dear diary,
Hey fate: want to shit on Santa some more? I’m still alive, so maybe you want to hit me with a bus or something?

As God is my witness I tried. This afternoon I woke up with steely determination (and no small case of morning wood). Dammit, I said to my Cheech & Chong Head Knocker Set ($29.95, wickedcoolstuff.com), if Christmas wasn’t going to happen for me, then maybe it’s time to look for another line of work. I’ve gotten so used to seasonal employment that I really have no idea how the other half lives. Maybe, just maybe, the Christmas gravy train thing is coming to an end. Whatever.

Sure enough, my chakra seemed improved. No sooner did I step out of my room than a corpulent, middle age woman who called herself “Betty Kinglehorn from Omaha” (over and over again, while my head was throbbing like zit) popped out of the room next to mine with a $20 bill she swore she owes me for “services rendered last night.” Last thing I remember was passing out in front of the TV, but who knows? Santa is still having problems setting healthy limits when it comes to popping Xanax ($79 for 30.5 mg tablets, available at local pharmacies, prescription required).

By the way frau Kringlehorn was smiling, I can only imagine that old Santa once again got into some lewd dealings. “More where that came from,” she leered as she tucked the $20 into my belt. Then she pinched my ass!

The shame lasted just as long as it took me to walk downtown and drop that Jackson at the Bar of Bethlehem. As fate would have it, my buds the Three Wise Men were there, already well into their fifth drams. Jesus was working the taps. “What would you drink?” I asked him, and he poured me what has to be the strongest vodka and OJ old Santa has put down his gullet in a decade or three.

Just as the booze hit my bloodstream, a little cutie in a tight sweater plopped down and whispered her wish list into my ear. She wanted a Mini Cooper (from $16,975, Downtown Mini, 131 N. Orange Ave., 407-835-2727), a Segway Human Transporter ($4,950, orders for March delivery now being taken on Amazon.com), and a hot-air balloon ride ($165 per person, Blue Water Balloons, Orlando, 407-894-5040). Greedy little princess.

So there I was, lit up like a Christmas tree with those old-fashioned-style bulbs, and who the hell should come in and plop his fat ass on a barstool right next to me but Katzenberg! He has what Jesus would drink, then another, then a third, and pretty soon he’s all in my face about what a scrawny, emaciated bitch I am. He’s got boogers all over his tunic and he’s calling me a disgrace to the profession!

I just go on snuggling with Mrs. C du jour, which pisses him off even more (I always get the chicks). Before I can wiggle my nose and get the hell out of there he’s got me in a headlock on the floor! Pulling my beard! I’m pretty potted, but old Santa still has some kick in him, so I busted a chair over his head. Didn’t phase him a bit, though, and he’s after me with a lighter trying to set my duds on fire. Meanwhile my “friends” the Wise Men are taking bets on who will prevail in this battle of the Christmas giants, and Jesus is levitating behind the bar! Or did I imagine that?

I seem to remember someone calling the cops, and a truncheon blow to my head, but again everything goes black. Sure am getting tired of that.

Dec. 21
Dear diary,
Jesus H. Christ! Apparently, the “H” stands for “Heaven Hill,” because that must have been the cheap-ass “bourbon” ($12 per liter, ABC Liquors, various locations) Mr. Son Of God was serving me last night after he ran out of vodka. I’ve got to remember to never drink what Jesus drinks. He’s got an unholy tolerance. Mutter Kringle told me there’d be days like this, but really, this is just ridiculous.

I figured the tingling sensation around Santa’s back chimney this morning was the result of one of my if-one-is-good-11-must-be-better binges of vegan hot dogs ($2, somewhere on Orange Avenue). But then I remembered I never saw that nice fella with the cart. And then I remembered I was broke and couldn’t have bought ‘em anyway. And then I remembered getting my ass beat by that no-good Katzenberg. (Note to self: Beware of career-minded underlings.) And that was when I noticed my Wackyjac panties around my ankles and my cellmate … oh, yeah, my cellmate. Apparently, diary, Santa got locked up last night.

I once prided myself on my ability to bring good cheer to my fellow man, but Katzenberg’s the exception. He flat pisses me off.

According to the police report, I grabbed that not-so-little elf’s Ace Frehley Zippo ($33.95, www.pipeshop.com) and lit a stack of Hollyberry cocktail napkins ($1.99 for a pack of 50, Albertson’s, various locations) which, of course, I then flung at Katzenberg.

Although I missed my intended target, I did manage to set ablaze a rack of Orlando Weekly’s (free, all over town). Although this should have pissed somebody off, nobody seemed to care about the papers, but everyone was irritated that I was being such an asshole. Jesus came over the bar (wasn’t levitating after all) and led the beatdown on me. Of course, they told Officer Stapp that they were just “holding” me until he showed up.

And here I am. With a cellmate named Paolo who got separated from his Brazilian tour group near WonderWorks ($16.95 admission, 9067 International Drive, 407-351-8800) after being distracted by a couple of male models riding the mechanical bull in front of XS Orlando and attempting to hail a cab by frantically waving a yellow flag in the middle of I-Drive.

He apologized profusely for taking advantage of me, but said that the site of my giant, red-fleeced ass passed out in front of the toilet was too much for him to resist. And who says Brazilians don’t have good taste?

Dec. 22
Dear diary,
Paolo got bailed out this morning, and I’m a bit lonely. We talked all night, and he raised some really interesting questions about why I like hanging out with elves and sneaking into kids’ houses at night. And though those issues are ones that Mrs. Claus and I have had many a dust-up over, his uniquely Brazilian perspective was refreshing.

I wish I had my bag of goodies. Apex makes a DVD player ($57.98, Circuit City, four Orlando-area locations) that’s so cheap that I was gonna be giving them to people who couldn’t afford groceries. As it is, I’ve got to get by on rosy cheeks, attitude and occasional ingenuity.

But it was sheer luck that just got me out of a potentially dangerous situation. As I was headed for the showers — somewhat distraught over Paolo’s departure — I noticed that deep down in my increasingly nasty pockets I still had a Hanukkah gift given to me by that little mensch Katzenberg. Yes, the little asshole got me Hanging Chad soap on a rope ($8.95, www.soaponarope.com). Normally, that’s the kind of gift reserved for re-gifting, but hey, I’m in the big house. And a little insurance policy never hurts. Needless to say, jolly old Santa wasn’t dropping any soap in the showers, much to the chagrin of the large and obviously horny Hells Angels in there with me.

Honestly, I can’t believe I’m in jail. This season started out so well. I swear to Father Christmas that I’ll never drink again. And I swear that I’ll kill that Katzenberg the minute I get out of here.

Dec. 23
Dear diary,
Things have definitely turned around. Sure, despite two days of forced sobriety and a shower, I’m still a disheveled mess. And sure, it’s two days before Christmas and I’m out of work. But the cute little hooch from the Host Inn showed up this morning with bail money. My own Mary Magdalene to the rescue!

As I was being processed, the head screw said he lost my shoes. So the first order of business, I told my little Mary, was to get Santa some new kicks.

As we’re walking out of the jail, I start looking for a LYNX stop, but Mary interjects with, “Oh no. I’ve got us a ride.” And lo and behold, a stretch white limousine ($50 per hour and up, Limo Orlando, 800-380-5584) is waiting for us. As we climb in, I’m about to tell the driver where to go so I can get a new pair of Doc Martens classic 8-eyelet boots ($109, Journeys, 3201 E. Colonial Drive, 407-897-6281) when I notice that the backseat is occupied by my passed-out Wise Man buddy. WTF?

It turns out after they smacked the shit out of me at the Bar of Bethlehem, the three wise-asses apparently took a trip to OBT themselves. And who do they proposition? None other than my Ms. Mary Magdalene herself. Damn it, she’s mine! Santa is getting tired of having his women stolen.

Typhoid Mary takes the trio of letches on what could delicately be termed a binge of heroic proportions, during which they’re bragging about how they beat the snot out of Santa and got him tossed in jail. Mary puts two and two together (must have taken her awhile) and shouts, “I fucked that dude last night! It’s Santa, let’s bail him out!” And lickety-split, I’m riding in a damn limo. Ain’t life a pile of reindeer droppings?

Quick as a wink, I rifled through the passed-out Wise Man’s pockets. Now I’m $3,000 richer, but I still need shoes. So my lady (my lady!) and I head off in search of shoes. I crack open the limo’s last bottle of Johnnie Walker Black ($42.99 per liter, ABC Liquors, various locations) and command the driver: “On Blitzen. Let’s get some shoes for the fat man!”

Dec. 24
Dear diary,
Things definitely turned around today. So much so that this is going to be my last entry. Ever.

I’m sitting here on the Conroy Road I-4 overpass, right next to a mall that could have, should have, been mine. I’ve got my feet wrapped around the giant “A” in “Orlando” and, as I scratch this final chapter in the Kringle epic, cars are speeding past, kids waving, moms smiling … all headed for the mall. Westbound traffic on the freeway is jammed with office drones headed home for Christmas Eve. They think I’m part of a publicity stunt. Little do they know how wrong it’s all gotten.

Mary and her Libyan Lothario peeled away from the shoe store as soon they dropped me off. It was then I realized there was no hope for this man named Claus. I wandered around for awhile then stopped in at the Asian Super Market (1021 E. Colonial Drive, 407-895-8938) and discovered they were out of the one thing that could have made me happy at that moment: Strawberry Pocky (99 cents per box). They’ve always got strawberry Pocky. How much worse can it get?

I kept walking until I hit the 7-11 (83 E. Colonial Drive, 407-648-1105), ambled up to the counter with a Big Gulp (99 cents), the last doughnut left from the morning (99 cents) and a three-pack of porno mags ($9.99), ready to put the last of that Johnnie Walker to good use. Then I found a Dumpster to crawl behind.

But the cops found me (they’ve got cameras I guess.) They let me off with a warning, though: “It’s Christmas Eve, sir. Go spend it with your family.” Yeah, I wish. No family, no job, not even the ability to masturbate freely. I was nothing.

I took a cab to the Conroy Road bridge and gave the driver a $2,973 tip. “Merry Christmas, bucko,” is what I think I said.

And now, having recorded the final will and testament of one S. Thaddeus Claus, it’s time to go. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a nice fucking life.

Dec. 25
Dear diary,
Hello from 30,000 feet above the briny deep! We’re about to land, but yours truly is still on Cloud Nine. A bit of explanation? You bet your ass!

As I was preparing for the final plunge from the overpass by setting my diary down in a safe place, some clod tourist in a rented Ford Windstar minivan (from $530 per week, www.hertz.com) apparently ran into and KO’ed Santa. Hit and run on Christmas Eve! (Check your stocking, friend, because I think I remember your license plate.)

Anyway, I have no idea how long I was laying there. All I remember is this weird vision of Mary pouring Crown Royal into my mouth. Big gulps, too! Heaven? Must be, I thought to myself. But what’s a hooker doing up here?

She’s all cloudy and gauzy, then suddenly my vision clears, my hearing returns, and I realize: This is no dream! I’m back in the limo with my dear, sweet Mary! WTF?

I grabbed the bottle from her hand and took a long chug while she filled in the details. Apparently she dropped the comatose Wise Man Lothario off in a “secluded wooded area somewhere on Disney property,” then headed for some last minute power-shopping with his cash and his limo. Particularly proud of the Kate Spade 26-inch wheeled suitcase she picked up ($1025, Neiman Marcus, The Mall at Millenia, 4200 Conroy Road, 407-363-9000), she looked like … well, she looked like a streetwalker with expensive luggage. (She hadn’t bothered to change clothes yet.)

But she was my angel. On the way to the mall she spotted my mangy carcass on the side of the road and made the driver haul me into the back. When I came to, she uttered the words any down-on-his-luck Santa needs to hear: “Screw Christmas. Let’s go to Nassau.”

And so we are. We charted a Citation jet ($1,800 an hour, Showalter Flying Service, Orlando Executive Airport, 407-894-7331), and the two of us have been quaffing Crown Royal and nibbling each other’s ears the entire flight. (I tried to get her to nibble something else, but she reminded me that she’s the one with the money here.)

Now, with a warm, liquored-up feeling in my belly, my backside in the lap of sweet, sweet Mary and the beauty of the Atlantic spread out beneath me, all I can say is “Merry Christmas to all, and you can all kiss Santa’s snow-white ass.”

First appeared Dec. 12, 2002 in Orlando Weekly.

Guns N’ Roses tour cancelled (Orlando Weekly)

Although “doomed to fail” might have seemed strong words three months ago when referring to the return of the once-mighty Guns N’ Roses, in retrospect, the idea of Axl Rose with some hired Guns heading out to fill arenas across the U.S. seems kind of silly. And thanks to Axl’s temper tantrums and a lukewarm reception to GNR’s current “incarnation,” the tour that was supposed to herald the return of one of rock’s most legendary bands has fizzled out in a messy spectacle. The first Guns N’ Roses tour in nearly a decade has now been officially canceled (forget Friday, Dec. 13, in Tampa).

But why? Why did Clear Channel and GNR insist on booking the tour into arenas when midsize venues would have been far more appropriate and exciting? Why did the band start touring for an album that isn’t even out yet?

The answer: Axl Rose. Axl Rose is, was and always will be Guns N’ Roses. And sure, Guns N’ Roses is, was and always will be one of the best hard-rock bands around. But Axl seems positively deluded into thinking that he’s as relevant now as he was 10 years ago. But in an environment that sees the two former lead singers of Van Halen touring together and still unable to half-fill venues, the only reason for forcing this show into cavernous hockey rinks is because Axl can’t admit that times have changed.

But it all fell apart and maybe that’s what needed to happen. Even Axl has to realize that mistakes were made and most of the bad calls were his.

Here’s hoping that one of two things happens now, and both of them require a downsizing of Axl’s ego. The first would be a full-on “reunion” of the “real” Guns N’ Roses. That band — with a new, recorded-on-a-bender rawk record — could fill up arenas all over the world without a shred of critical grumbling. The other option would be for Axl to introduce — rather than force-feed — his new band and new material via moderately sized venues. After all, for an entire generation, he’s no more than a fat guy who blew on MTV’s Video Music Awards.

But neither of these will happen. Dr. Franken-Rose will go back into his lab and start tinkering with Chinese Democracy for another three or four years and the same thing will happen all over again. And that’s too bad. Because it’s only ruining a truly great rock & roll legacy.

First appeared Dec. 12, 2002 in Orlando Weekly.

The Rough Guide to the Music of Russia CD review (Orlando Weekly)

Seeing that Russia is in a permanent state of cultural upheaval, it’s somewhat difficult to get a grip on exactly what “Russian music” is at any one point in time. Yet, much like every other country in the world, American imperialism has had a profound effect on how centuries of traditional music gets updated, and this excellent 19-track collection demonstrates both that undeniable influence as well as the Russians’ steadfast pride in their country’s artistic history. If anything links these songs — besides the fact that they’re all sung in Russian — it’s an overwhelming sense of resigned melancholy. Whether it’s the lushly arranged Fairport Convention stylings of “Dikoye Pole” by folkstress Zhanna Bichevskaya or the chest-thumping “Povorot” by pop star Mashina Veremeni, the majority of the songs sound as if they were written in a 1978 bread line. Even gypsies like Gipsy Talisman can’t seem to get excited (the group’s “Britchka” is a wedding song that sounds like a funeral dirge). Some songs get the blood going like strong vodka (you knew that lame analogy had to get in, didn’t you?), and with musical styles that range from traditional folk to new wave to rock to even bluegrass, it’s certainly not a monochromatic collection. But a few listens make it clear why sunny pop is the purview of Southern California middle-class kids and not Siberian methane farmers.

First appeared in the Dec. 12, 2002 issue of Orlando Weekly.

Buy this CD at Amazon.com.