TALKING-POINT ZORROS

  A lot of strange beliefs are in circulation these days. That’s nothing new. In my lifetime, I’ve met a Calvinist who was convinced she was a member of an elite group touched by God, and thus a sort of pre-boarder for Heaven; I’ve read the job application of a pimply teen who described himself as a guitar “virtuoso”;  I’ve spoken to an American who was under the impression that Billy Joel had been awarded the Nobel Prize. I won’t even go into the litany of half-baked things my grandmother saw as facts.  

DOCUMENT RECORDS

The Document label has a sick amount of digitized material from old 78s. They specialize in American roots music-- early blues, jazz, country and folk styles, or what used to be known as "race" and "hillbilly" music.

If you click on this link

https://thedocumentrecordsstore.com/?ref=144

and go to their site, anything you buy there will earn me some money. I'm essentially like a kid who does a little dance for tourists, tells them what restaurant or whorehouse to go to, and then gets a kickback. If you like the blog or the show, and are enjoying all the free content, why not buy an album or two from Document? If enough people do this, it will be easier for me to keep doing the blog and show for nothing. (The show ain't cheap to produce, by the way.)

I can't stress this enough-- I'd be happy to promote Document, even if I didn't get a taste. They are doing something honorable and essential to our culture. They often release chronological collections of every side an artist released, so if there's an artist you like and you want to move past the greatest hits type of collection, this is for you. Many of these artists are people you'd never have even heard of if Document hadn't done their exhaustive archival work.

I'll be writing about interesting albums you can find there, and we'll be featuring their stuff on the show from time to time. The third Hot Plate episode has a long segment about Frankie "Half-Pint" Jaxon, and Candy Berberian and I played a bunch of hot Frankie sides.

http://straubhotplate.blogspot.com/2017/06/episode-three-fabulous-career-of.html

DOWN THE MEMORY HOLE

I took down a post about a Facebook kerfuffle I fuffled myself into the other day. In a comment to the post, a  Facebook friend had provided some context for why I’d been yelled at. I still feel strongly about the situation, but the new information muddied things  just enough that I decided to take down my post. I could have rewritten it to accommodate the new information, but I didn’t think the post had enough special quality to justify putting more time into it.
  If anyone wants to read what I originally wrote, email me and I’ll send a copy. You can also look for it on Facebook. I don’t think it’s worth your time, though.

Karl

BUGGY WHIPS— AN UPDATE

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

There’s no joy in it, but I dutifully maintain a list of authors whose work I avoid daily. 

The newest addition to the cast is Jonathan Franzen, of whom I’ve heard nothing but positive things. No matter. He’s out. 

  It’s not clear to me exactly what he did to land in this bin of infamy. I sometimes try to figure out why I dislike so many living stylists of English prose, but the attempt never leads anywhere. 

  It’s not because I don’t think there is any good writing around these days. In my search for modern authors who can be elbowed into my snooty routine, I’ve discovered many prime specimens. Usually they’re of advanced age by the time I hear about them, but as long as a guy can still hold a pen without dropping it, I don’t care how close to the grave he may be. He still counts as modern. 

  I don’t make any effort to flush out any current American or British writers, as I generally find that one of my few friends who publicly admit to reading for pleasure will bug me about their discoveries sooner or later. This is how I found out about George Saunders, as well as other luminaries like David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs, Lucia Berlin (died minutes before I’d heard of her), Denis Johnson, Harry Crews, Thom Jones, Joan Didion, and probably a few others. 

  Once in a while, I flip through the NYT Book Review, with a bored air worthy of some behatted and begloved Oscar Wilde character. I’ve given up on the goal of finding current American writers this way; at this point my main objective is to find reasons to hate the authors they interview there. Usually this is because they say they didn’t like some book that I did like, but I can also sometimes work up a loathing for them because of some observation of theirs about writing or reading that strikes me as pretentious, or dubious in some way. (“Every five years I treat myself anew to the wonderful works of Josephine Blow, about whom it’s often observed yadda yadda.”) When I’m very lucky, I find out that some author harbors ludicrous superstitious beliefs. Usually this is Sally Quinn, who recently wrote a book that was fifty percent about who she had sex with, and fifty percent about people she had put curses on. Occasionally her two interests became intertwined, and she cast malefic spells on people she had had sex with. She’s published books in various sizes and shapes over the years, if you’re interested.

SPIN CLASS

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

This might strike people as odd, given my predilection for blathering, but my least favorite aspect of songwriting is the words part. 

  I hate writing lyrics. 

  Mostly this is because the formal requirements of the pop song are a giant obstacle to the things I like to do with words. Because of the way melody and rhythm operate, complicated and contradictory feelings are difficult to fit into a song. Profound ideas get reduced to inanity; irony skews glib, and storytelling where facts and revelations are carefully kept in check goes against the grain of the form. 

  So I find lyric writing endlessly frustrating and miserable, like delivering newspapers in the rain. 

  The one good thing about it is that I never get tired of my subject, which is the story of how humans think, feel, and talk. How they see the world, how they react to the hand they’re dealt, how they make choices in life, how they talk to others, how they talk to themselves, and so on. 

 I see the songwriter as an amateur sociologist, observing and cataloguing human behavior because it’s so damned interesting. Some aspects are wearyingly repetitive and predictable; I refer to the mundane tendency of humans to act in their own self-interest. 

  For me, the most interesting thing about humans is the endless energy they apply to things that are NOT in their self-interest. Tribalism, for one. 

  I suppose tribalism was the way to go when life was mostly about hunting. Survival meant banding together to kill animals that could easily tear you to shreds, and then eating them. This was a round the clock job. 

  Eventually some clumps of humans figured out that taking stuff from other humans meant you could spend less time hunting and gathering, and tribalism was good for this too. 

  But in our modern society, the practical benefits of tribalism are less clear. Whereas tribalism was once a way to leverage power so you could get food and land, it’s now largely used to keep alive ideas that have little practical benefit. 

  Homophobia is a good example. Gay men don’t roam in packs, killing your sentries and stealing your grain stores and consumer electronics.

HALF-TRUTHS— THE JOHN AND YOKO OF THE RHETORICAL WORLD

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

I wouldn’t know, but I suppose if you’re in a tournament of some sort, and you’re scheduled to face off day after day against stiff competition, it would be an experience that would affect you in various ways. On the one hand, this is what you’ve been training for, isn’t it? On the other hand, every day you’re thrown into the fire. Every minute you’re competing, it’s crunch time— one false move and you could be eliminated. But every minute you’re not competing, you’re trying to make the right choices about warming up, preparing, staying sharp but not overdoing it, etc. 

  So, the process makes you better, and maybe even gets you to heights you’d have never seen otherwise. This would be the good thing about competition. Then there’s the pass/fail aspect of it— the sense that a loss was a failure, and it invalidates all the improvement and achievement that came before. This is what I don’t like about sports, and about competition in general. The pursuit of excellence and the pursuit of wins are not the same thing, and contrary to the cherished beliefs of many, I’m not even sure they’re consistently related. 

   The Trump era, while disgusting for various reasons, feels invigorating to me. It’s like a tournament where my critical thinking, empathy, philosophy, and sense of humor are tested all day long. 

  I’ve spent my whole life trying to learn how to affect people through craft. I’ve worked hard on the skill of making people laugh, and I’ve also tried my hand at the much more quixotic mission of making them think. 

In short, I’ve tried to entertain and I’ve tried to persuade. Both of these things take a lot of practice, as well as a lot of thought and preparation. Some people focus mostly on the more sordid techniques of persuasion, where you take advantage of the less admirable parts of human psychology to win people over. This is an effective method, and often leads to money and power, but depending on the breaks, it can also lead to you sitting in a bunker with a pistol and a small coterie of lickspittle lackeys. 

  Others, like me, are fascinated by the psychology of persuasion, but also distracted by truth. I find truth to be the ace that takes every trick, the shining grail that can make a fruitless search feel like a noble pursuit.

MY SEXUAL HARASSMENT STORY

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

For what it’s worth, I’ve resisted posting this. For several reasons. The one that seems most admirable to me is that I don’t want to trivialize what women are talking about. Over the years,  I’ve heard stories from numerous women who’ve been raped, enough to convince me that these crimes are much more common than we want to admit. And the various campaigns encouraging women to tell their stories about rape and sexual harassment have piled up a disturbing amount of evidence. It sometimes seems as if women posting about this stuff are rushing through their lists of horrors, lest they give the impression that their lives have been filled with little but sexual assault and harassment. 

  My experience doesn’t compare to any of that. 

  And yet—two things have caused me to write this. 

  One is that my friend Layla has said that she won’t tell her stories until more men tell theirs. She feels strongly that many men have these experiences too, and are even more unlikely than women to tell them. I expect that men have confided in her because she’s a person who radiates integrity and empathy, and she makes them feel safe. She’s also a person whose disgust for injustice causes her to angrily draw lines in the sand. I’m not so much like that— people who know me, or my writing, know that my preferred tone is martini-dry sarcasm, and that doesn’t feel right to me with this topic. So saying nothing felt right. 

  But even Layla’s passionate post about this wasn’t quite enough to get me to speak. The thing that eventually became the thumb on the scale was how I felt when I started thinking about whether I should tell my story. 

  I feel a lot of things. I like to tell myself it wasn’t that big a deal, especially compared to what almost every woman in my orbit has gone through. I also like to tell myself that I’m basically over it. It was a long time ago, nothing particularly heinous happened to me, I was never physically touched, it was more annoying than scarring, etc. etc. etc. 

  At one point, I made the mistake of actually imagining what words I would literally use to talk about it, if I talked about it. This was my downfall. 

  Americans are fond of the construction “There are no words.” You’ll never hear Karl Straub say that, though.

HATE WORDS ARE NOT “INAPPROPRIATE”

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

The English language (USA edition) is like Tinkerbell.

   It’s adorable and sparkly, even sexy. It has magical wings that can take it anywhere, so it can pop up at any time and insinuate itself into any situation, but it can also hover safely around unpleasantness, using its ballerina grace to dodge any crass attempts to squash it. Paradoxically, it’s also a drama queen shot through with pettiness, and periodically puts on a big show of teetering on the brink of death, guilt-tripping people into validating it by loudly professing how much they believe in it. 

  If our language is dying, it’s because people no longer reach for it when there’s another device at hand. If reading is dying, this is because people don’t find words alone satisfying enough for entertainment, and they don’t find them sufficiently effort-free to be the best way to get information.

Words need help, if we’re going to listen to them. Give us a video of an attractive person saying the words, and we’ll consider listening to them. If we must have face-to-face interaction using words, we’re going to need to use our faces and voices and even arms and legs to help clarify our meaning. 

If it’s a road sign, we’ll need to use ancient hieroglyphics along with the words. If we must read words on social media, give us a picture of a celebrity arching his eyebrows along with the words, so we can feel something.

  I like talking about this sort of thing, because the responses to it immediately suggest that language will never die. Language is still a go-to communication tool if you want to dismiss another person’s words. When you want to quash those who disagree with you, violence isn’t always convenient, and if you go too far there’s always the danger that you’ll create a martyr.   But for a quick fix with no overhead, you can’t beat namecalling. Namecalling is quick, it’s easy, and it’s effective. 

CHARGES OF HOMOPHOBIA SHOULDN’T BE LEVIED ON A CAKE-BY-CAKE BASIS

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

I read Hugh Hewitt’s piece in today’s Post, explaining why Christians support Trump, despite what might appear to be grossly un-Christian words and deeds from the man occurring early, and often. 

  Hewitt made a point that really resonated with me, when he accused liberals of having a double standard re: religious groups and intolerance. According to him, liberals give a free pass to homophobic Muslims. 

  I want the record to show that Karl Straub, should he encounter a Muslim bakery that refuses to make a cake celebrating the union of two men, will denounce it with a non-hypocritical level of self-righteous fervor. I’m guessing that these Muslim bakeries must pretty much dot the landscape of the Midwest, and for this reason the phenomenon has hitherto eluded the gaze of the media. 

WASTIN' AWAY AGAIN IN HOOVERVILLE

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

My son was sitting with me in a diner. Pat Buchanan was on TV, looking much more grim than when I'd seen him last. I couldn't hear Buchanan because the sound was off; I couldn't hear Max because he had laryngitis. 

  A kid at a nearby table was more than audible. He had that kind of carrying voice a lot of kids have, sort of like a Fun Size Carol Channing. I knew my son wouldn't get the reference, so I went with the more accessible punchline. "You could hear that kid from space," I said. Ignoring the obvious scientific flaw in my statement, Max pantomimed a big sitcom laugh. (No doubt if I'd been talking to a detail-oriented guy like John Cook, my assertion about space would have been authoritatively parsed at some length, to determine its verisimilitude.) 

AUGUSTA 2017 HIGHLIGHT REEL

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

Here I present my list of Augusta 2017 highlights, in order to try to create an impressionistic montage of my first year at this wonderful institution. 

  There were funny moments, poignant scenes, and surreal episodes. How could it be otherwise, in a week of collective life at a place and time dedicated to the real spirit of country music? Classic Country Week, which pops up out of the mist each year like Rigadoon, is a truly magical phenomenon for a real country fan. 

My Favorite Song That I Kept Hearing In My Head After It Was Performed: "Walkin, Talkin, Cryin, Barely Beatin' Broken Heart," sung by Emily Miller. 

I tracked down the Justin Tubb original, and good and classic though it was, I actually prefer the driving way Emily does it. (Note: Emily did something that people don't do enough, in my opinion-- she brought something personal to the old material without corrupting what's essential about it. In my opinion, that's what every important country musician has always done.) 

My Favorite Vocal Performance By Someone At A Jam Session: 

  I couldn't tell you the name of the song, or the singer, but at one of the mushroomlike cajun jams that sprouted up everywhere I went (at one point I couldn't remember how to get back to my dorm, and someone said when you hear the Cajun music, turn left), a blonde girl guitarist suddenly belted out some number in Cajun French and put the last hundred singers to shame. Big Joe Turner used to sing while tending bar, no microphone needed; if this girl had been around back then, people would be saying Can you please keep it down, I can't hear Joe Turner. 

My Favorite Student Question In Class: 

  In my How To Practice class, Genie said, Karl, how come at breakfast you were wearing the same clothes you wore at the performance last night? (My answer was drowned out by general hilarity, but the reason is that if I'd taken time to freshen up after my 45 minutes of sleep, I'd have been late for breakfast, and forbidden to enter the dining room. Again.) 

HOT PLATE SUBSCRIBER DOWNLOADS

Hot Plate! download subscriptions, now free for a limited time.
  With a free download, you'll be able to scroll back and forth when your friends and neighbors talk over the show and cause you to miss a delightful bon mot, or when you want to hear some section over and over as part of some unholy ritual.

I think I have the technology here to make it downloadable in your choice of slightly compromised but lightweight MP3 or speaker-shakin', phone-chokin' WAV files.

Please email requests to karlstraub@hotmail.com, and I'll carve out time during my conscious hours to send you these magical broadcasts.

UNCLE SANTA

(For free downloads of the Hot Plate! show, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com. He'll respond pret-ty quickly, unless he's in the shower or something. Even that loophole will close soon, as he's looking into a new app that allows extreme entrepreneurs to retain full phone functionality even in the shower.) 

Every time I go to a Chinese restaurant, I drive by numerous yards with giant blow up cartoon characters. For demographic reasons, I suppose, there's a whole stretch of road where this phenomenon plays out, but there is one particular yard that never misses a holiday. If there's a cutesy mythological character associated with an American holiday, this family will have giant blow up cartoon figures that reflect that holiday, grinning colorfully and waving at motorists  

  I'm always driving when I see this stuff, and "fleeting glimpse" accurately describes what I usually get, so I can't really definitively say that what i saw today represents a tipping point of some sort, but I can say this. Today's fleeting glimpse is the first time I've ever seen a cryptic mixture of different holidays. 

  They had Uncle Sam, but also Santa Claus. 

DOWNLOADS NOW AVAILABLE (OR ALMOST NOW, ANYWAY)

I'm offering free downloads of the show to anyone who posts about it on Facebook and tags me. Note- the tagging is crucial, because that's how come I'll know you posted about it.

Pret-ty exciting features of the downloaded episodes include--

Rewind and fast forward functionality. Did you miss a witty line because your girlfriend or boyfriend was trying to talk to you? This is now easily solvable.

Car listening made easier, less dependent on wi-fi, etc. This means that commuting can be much less unpleasant.

Less carnivorous tendencies regarding your device data.

SONIC YOUTH VS. GRATEFUL DEAD

I'm doing research for a Hot Plate episode where I'd like a little input from friends. I'm planning a Grateful Dead vs. Sonic Youth episode. My premise, at least right now, is that both bands 
1. are dedicated to rock improvisation, even though they both have some standout compositions 
2. expanded the instrumental and ensemble language of rock, but for those who don't care for the results of their experiments, they're more likely to be described as crap. In other words, they're wildly overrated by their partisan fans, but unfairly dismissed by people that hate them. If you'd like to weigh in, please PLEASE follow my directions.

SOMETIMES THE CHILDREN HAVE TO REMIND US THAT HATRED DOESN'T HAVE TO BE ABOUT RACE, SEX, OR POLITICS

  I'm at a diner with my son, eating grits. I'm reading the opinion pieces, and I notice that George Will is writing about baseball, rather than his usual topic, which is how painful it is for him when young leftists don't love free speech the way conservatives do. 

  Despite being exposed to baseball more than I'm exposed to sunlight, I still don't really feel comfortable weighing in on the Great American Pastime. So I figure I'll just tell my son to read the Will piece. And I'm about to tell him about it, prefacing my remarks with a little background on George Will. Then it occurs to me: not only is it not really fair to Mr. Will to prejudice my son against him right off the bat, so to speak, it's actually more interesting if I don't open with "here's what this erudite douchebag has to say," and instead allow Max to make up his own mind. Besides, George Will knows a lot about baseball, and how could his political leanings even be relevant here? Jesus, maybe I'll even learn something. So I read a few excerpts out loud with no preamble. 

  Max thought for a second, and then said, "Basically, George Will can go fuck himself." 

  

EPISODE THREE, THE FABULOUS CAREER OF FRANKIE "HALF-PINT" JAXON

EPISODE THREE, FRANKIE "HALF-PINT" JAXON

(For a free download, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com.)

In this, the third episode of Hot Plate! The 120 Minute Radio Hour, we "rub up against the mores of modern mores," as America's Announcer Damon Hildebrandt puts it in his introduction. 

 SWINGING FEMALE IMPERSONATOR

The bulk of the episode follows Karl and sassy co-host Candy Berberian as they assess the storied cIn this, the third episode of Hot Plate! The 120 Minute Radio Hour, we "rub up against the mores of modern mores," as America's Announcer Damon Hildebrandt puts it in his introduction. 

  

 THE MYSTERIOUS FAROFF LAND OF SCRATCHY OLD 78s

Karl and Candy will attempt to decipher the scratchy old 78s unearthed by the beloved Document record label. Hot Plate encourages you, as always, to buy some of this marvelous music so you can hear it without Karl and Candy yammering over it. 

(Click here to go to Document. They toss Karl Straub a bit of the money if you buy stuff from them, helping to offset the vast expenses incurred by Hot Plate. 
 https://thedocumentrecordsstore.com/?ref=144)


That message is always implied, but this time it's more explicit, because the Document label has performed a monumental public service for people who care about American music, and moreover they got screwed recently by a distributor in a set of circumstances we won't get into here. They can use all the help they can get, and they richly deserve it. Sometimes the Hot Plate Archive appears to be about 90% Sun Ra and Document reissues, and there's so much good stuff on Document that it's fair to say if you don't own any of their releases, your understanding of American cultural history has some gaps. Their stockpile includes lesser known work by important artists, and virtually unknown work by artists who made important contributions but are largely forgotten. 

  If you already are a fan of early jazz, you'll be happy to hear the music on this episode has some hot trumpet work from Henry "Red" Allen, some of Barney Bigard's best non-Ellington recordings, some of Lil Hardin Armstrong's best piano playing anywhere, and Big Sid Catlett behind the drums, which is always good news. 

  

  DAGNY COLEMAN, KID TERMINATOR, etc. 

You'll also hear News Reader Dagny Coleman's ads for Sandwich Coven (featuring Denise's Shimmying Ritual of Purification)

I SAW LON CHANEY WALKING WITH EARL SCRUGGS

  I heard my son singing "I saw Lon Chaney (slight pause) walking with the queen--" and I thought, what the hell is that? Is he trying to sing "Werewolves of London"? But the rhythms and accents are off. I asked him about it, and he said he was trying to mix "Werewolves of London" with Bill Monroe's "Heavy Traffic Ahead." 

    Ladies and gentlemen, I give you-- 2017.

TO SIR, MITT GLOVE

  You may believe this is Summer we're in right now, but at my house it's Glove Season; this means round-the-clock baseball glove activity. Mostly the action takes the form of an ongoing glove-smacking parade, which you can catch from many vantage points. There's almost no bad place from which to view it. 

  Some like to watch from a couch, or a chair, but my favorite spot for parade viewing is the kitchen counter, the same place where I used to read the newspaper each morning. I still like to stand with the paper open under me, but it's just for old times' sake. From this spot the visuals really pop; you can easily see the tween pacing around the room, regularly pounding the glove with a baseball that's been duct-taped onto a bat. And you really feel like you're part of the action, too; because of the room's famous acoustics, you can hear the contact of ball and leather as if it's right next to your head. 

  And by the way, if you decide to drop by during Glove Season, don't make the mistake of using the word "mitt" out loud. You're likely to trigger a longish lecture from the Parade Master about the difference between a mitt and a glove. In my younger days, I once made this mistake myself. Ah, youth! I often chuckle to myself at how naive I was back then. 

  The mitt lecture I received was notable for its impatience, but also for a kind of deliberate gritted-teeth quality one might adopt when explaining what stop signs mean to a village idiot. While that wasn't exactly enjoyable for me to experience, it was like conversing with a Wal-Mart greeter compared to the wall of hostility I encountered a few years back, when I mistakenly referred to a soldier's helmet as a "war hat."

DON'T TAKE ADVICE FROM A SONGWRITER

The following (no, not "flowing," damnable autocorrect) is a comment I typed in response to a colleague's plea for advice from other artists. Others gave advice that struck me as nurturing the ego rather than the artist, the very sort of advice that I hold to be contraindicated. 

  When you're an artist, "getting back to work" is often taken to mean getting back to creating. And I'm well aware that "write write write" as the way to learn to write is generally the best advice. 

However-- 

This business of ego taking a bruising following criticism complicates matters. I write material all the time for my hot plate voice-over staff to read, and it's consistently brilliant (in my mind). But a process has emerged where my minions are pretty relaxed about constructively criticizing the material. I'm talking about during recording sessions. This means that I have to think quickly, as we are on the clock; I have to evaluate their criticism, and either reject it, or rewrite on the spot while they sit there chatting, or worse. Sometimes they are literally calling out suggestions while I'm trying to think. It's not always fun for me, but I know several things. 

NO COMICAL TITLE THIS TIME

Years ago, I was sitting in a theater-style classroom at a sparsely-attended lecture. The kids who'd skipped the class that day were missing a lecture about the importance of going to class. As a guy who regularly showed up, I got to hear this lecture.
  This morning, I had an experience that reminded me of that.
  And yet--
  I set this piece up this way, because it's what I feel. But it's self-serving, and it's not the whole story. I thought hard (not long and hard, just hard) about whether I should say anything online about this.
Even as I'm typing this, I'm considering not posting it. I guess if you're reading this, I decided to take the stupid way out and post it.
  There is no possible way to discuss this without looking bad, so I figure the best thing is to be honest and let people make up their own minds. If the facts here are going to make anyone feel they've had enough of me, so be it. Maybe they're right.
  As I posted yesterday, my latest brilliant idea was to join a Facebook group that Facebook was nudging me to join. The group name caught my attention, as it suggested that the Left is anti-Semitic.  I assumed the group was a right wing group, and this turned out to be wrong.

SOUNDS LIKE FACEBOOK GROUPS ARE JUST DRUNK TANKS FOR DOUCHES, BUT OK

  Facebook asked me if I wanted to join a group called "Sounds like the left hates Jews, but ok." 

  Let us attempt to "unpack" my reaction to this. 

  My first and foremost thought is this-- I hate, hate, hate the "but ok." I have zero tolerance for passive-aggressive language, and we even have a rule in our home banning the use of the word "whatever." I am disgusted by the proliferation of language idioms designed to inoculate the speaker against criticism in the wake of some douchery. I say, if you're going to criticize, just own it. If you're willing to risk being called a douche, then I know you stand by whatever you're saying. (Yes, I know I just used the word "whatever." Please don't slow my roll.) 

  So, I object to the annoying language regardless of my feelings toward the group itself. 

  I posted on Facebook, mentioning this group. Ha ha. Case closed. But then-- it kept bugging me. 

  I searched to see if there were other Facebook groups with similar names-- the "sounds like the left is yadda yadda but ok." There are. I got tired of looking at these groups after I read ten or twelve group names like that. 

  Then I thought-- say, aren't you the guy who's always preaching about the hypocrisy of the left, even though you self-identify as left wing? Guilty. So I did a similar search for left wing groups with names like that. Bingo. There are tons of them. 

  In multiple cases, there are several different groups with the exact same annoying name. 

  So, I did what any red-blooded American would do in a situation like this. I joined all of the groups. 

THE GHOST OF HOT PLATE FUTURE

The Hot Plate staff got on a roll this week, laying down enough crazy material for four episodes. I'm tempted to tell you about all of it, but that would be promotional suicide, so I'll just pass along a few tantalizing highlights, all of which will appear on upcoming episodes. 

90 minutes of Karl and Candy Berberian playing (and yammering about) some of the nuttiest and sleaziest early jazz 78s. 

Karl's epic on-air reunion with a girl from his second grade class. SPOILER ALERT: in the interim, she's grown up and become a lady. 

A fuzz-drenched guitar duet with Karl and Australian Jeff Lang, crammed into the middle of a Straubinical song about suburban evil. 

(All this, plus Karl's intern Rhonda Marvell sings a poignant number about the difficulty of being a small town girl in the big city, with 147 slackjawed employees slaving away under you.) 

SHIRLEY MACLAINE: A TRIBUTE THAT ENTIRELY AVOIDS MENTIONING HER THOUGHTS ABOUT REINCARNATED EMPRESSES

  Americans are all talking about the Comey testimony. There was so much to say about it that my morning Washington Post experience became physically awkward; quote-packed stories leaked below the fold again and again, causing structural instability when I folded the paper and tried to balance it on the tippy top of a Jenga-like pile of cookie pans so I could stand up straight whilst reading it. Standing up straight is what we Americans must remember to do, now more than ever. As harrowing as that game of chicken I played with gravity was, I was generally able to keep my cool during the whole ticking-time-bomb situation. Not so with my perfunctory thumb scroll through the day's Guardian headlines. A current TV program was described ominously as "Breaking Bad meets Steel Magnolias." I tried to remain unflappable in the face of the facts on the ground, but it was a losing battle. Did we not all agree, just a few short years ago, to keep those two intellectual properties from meeting? I don't care for the term "cockblock," because of my Richter-Scale-measurable amount of good taste, but perhaps "schlockblock" will serve. I liked Breaking Bad, but Steel Magnolias was the kind of film that gives chick flicks a bad name. I thought there had been a collective agreement to give SM the Jane Eyre treatment, by which I mean locking it up in a windowless room and sliding table scraps under the door periodically, when Olympia Dukakis is overheard grumbling.

POSNIT DUNKELWATZKI'S BREADLINE REDUCTION POLICY

Dagny Coleman reads News Crunch about Posnit Dunkelwatzki's policy approaches in the benighted protectorate of Bratiswonka. From pilot episode. (for more Hot Plate audio excerpts, see TAB for HOT PLATE SHORT AUDIO CLIPS)

CANDY BERBERIAN, "HOT PLATE AFTER HOURS" (SNEAK PEEK)

This is the first appearance of late night DJ Candy Berberian's new segment, "Hot Plate After Hours." Candy reads a Takoma Park listserv post on the air as a public service. Mrs. Alfred Bumstead of Takoma Park is putting gently used crap on the sidewalk in an attempt to curtail clutter.

Please note-- this piece has not yet aired on the actual podcast. Background music is very early Stan Getz, his version of "Yesterdays." You can find this recording on the indispensable "Complete Roost Recordings" collection. 

OF DUCKS, AND MOBS, AND SUCH

It says a lot about me, I suppose, that I'm less irritated about the leftist college student anti-free speech phenomenon than I am about my music cloud app's insistence that saxophonist Red Prysock's name is actually Red Presoak. Or that New Orleans session veteran Herb Hardesty should really be named Herb Hardest. Why, why, why, this persistent overcorrection of non-mistakes? And why, why, why, am I about to pretend the two things are related? 

  The last question need not detain us, as I'm about to forge ahead as if I didn't just hear myself say that. 

WEASELLY MARKETING TECHNIQUES ARE EVIDENTLY A GREAT WAY TO GET PEOPLE TO ACTUALLY READ YOUR STUFF

WARNING-- I'M ABOUT TO START USING MARKETING TECHNIQUES

  Hello, all. I've spent the morning reading about ways to increase "traffic" to my "blog," with the eventual goal of "monetizing" it. You'll be happy to hear that I've ruled out ad click revenue, but perhaps not so psyched to find that I'm experimenting with not just headlines, but also subheads. According to the marketing guru i spent two minutes reading, subheads are a great way to keep people reading.

Y'ALL BROUGHT IT ON YOURSELVES

HOT PLATE EPISODE XIV, "THE CATERING OF THE REBELS' GETTING-TO-KNOW-YOU MEETING"

(For a free download, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com.)

Here's what you'll find on this episode.

Hot Plate Theme (©Karl Straub)

Desiree-2000, sexy robot, first Funding announcement.

News Crunch w/ Dagny Coleman (AD- Hunka Hunka Burnin' Fat Daily Mega Fat Buster Cardio Fat-destroying Workout for Busy Ladies, CRUNCH story- TontoCon)

Dave Nuttycombe interview about Danny Simon, Neil Simon's significantly less famous older brother.

FREE SKATE Johnny Thunders "You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory" (from "So Alone" album)

Nuttycombe chat cont.

APPLE VS. ORANGE fiddle drones from the mid 1960s
Velvet Underground, "Black Angel's Death Song," featuring John Cale, electric viola
Scotty Stoneman, "8th of January" traditional fiddle tune (from Mr. Country Fiddler album)

NEW STRAUBINICAL SONG, HOT PLATE EXCLUSIVE!
The mysterious Millicent Ratskiwatzki sings "Biggest Payday" (©Karl Straub 2017. Karl played guitars and toy piano and sang low backup, Jarrett Nicolay played bass and put together the drum loop, Rachel Carlson Burns sang high backup).

SWEET AND SOUR CHICKEN

Have you grown weary of the near-constant news reports reminding us that we've elected a guy who suffers from Frank Sinatra Personality Disorder? Here's a fun way to make your morning less grim. 

  Take a minute, as I did, and imagine what YOUR wife would say to you if you told her you were planning to sue the Hershey corporation for not putting enough candy in their boxes. 

GUTTER CLEANING DURING MONSOON-- NOT AS FUN AS IT LOOKS

Facebook dredges up these posts from years ago, and tosses them up on the beach, flopping like salmon.
(From 2015, Gutter Cleaning Season)

 REFERENCES TO VARIOUS POP CULTURE FIGURES AND MANIACS FOLLOW CRYPTICALLY

Today my son "helped" me clean out the gutters.
Even as I was getting soaked to the skin, and narrowly avoiding a broken neck, I was able to imagine various helpers who probably would have been worse.
1. The Three Stooges (inc. Shemp and Joe Besser)
2. Laurel and/or Hardy
3. Charles Manson
4. Paul Simon (acc. to Art Garfunkel)

ARSENIC AND OLD VOTERS

  My writing system is somewhat reminiscent of the cooking method I used to employ in my bachelor days, where I would throw things into my pot, or (if the pot was dirty) into my pan, and heat them up on the stove while adding other things and stirring. Eventually I would stop cooking and eat.   I often start a piece about something that catches my eye or ear, and then I'm reminded of some other aspect to it, and I mention some things that have been under my skin for a while, and finally I look at the time and I've written a huge long screed without mentioning the original theme at all.   Today I'm struck by a bunch of little things in the media.     

  TAILOR CONTACTS SATAN FOR VARIOUS REASONS

  On my phone, I get these little headlines in minuscule digest form so I can keep up between morning newspapers. I've tried to tailor this digest to my preferences, but it hasn't been an entirely successful tailoring. (On the old Thriller TV show, there was an episode where a tailor tried to bring his dead son back to life in a manner that wouldn't occur to most of us-- he made an evil suit using black magic; it involved evil thread, I think, and evil buttons, and so forth. That's the kind of tailoring I've been doing.)   Yesterday, I was about to click on a headline about the Ariana Grande bombing, when a headline about video of Melania slapping the President's hand away popped up. It took every ounce of self control I had to not click on that one. Then I looked at the two headlines, competing for my attention on my phone (or, as my mom used to call it, my "little machine") and thought about how fucked up we've become. 

THE FUNCTION OF ART

I heard an artist say that the function of art is to hold up a mirror to society. At my house, that's what mirrors are for. 

  A serious artist knows that "mirror to society" business is codswallop. The function of art is to relentlessly and ruthlessly apply a personal style to form and material. The material doesn't matter. Just pick something you won't get sick of. The form should be treated with respect, like an employee who's been working there since before your parents were born. If that employee can't do the job anymore, give him a gold watch and give his desk to a new guy. Ideally, a young go-getter who doesn't have a family because he's kind of a douchebag. 

  You need to work on your style. If you've ever seen a heist movie where a bunch of lowlifes spend weeks smoking endless cigarettes and poring over maps and timetables while planning a bank robbery, that's how hard you need to work on your style. 

PLUSH TOY JUSTICE

  When he was very young, my son put one of his stuffed animals on trial. 

  I can't recall the precise nature of the allegations against Mr. Bear, but I can tell you they were very serious. All of the other stuffed animals were on hand for the tense courtroom drama. Since he was just a little kid, the stage direction was occasionally primitive. It was difficult to tell where the jury left off and the audience began, for one thing. 

                SHORTPANTS STALINS 

There were other problems; I felt at the time that Mr. Bear's attorney, Pengy the Penguin, was pretty much phoning in the case for the defense. Early in the proceedings, the whole affair began to resemble a Moscow show trial. That shouldn't be too surprising, as children at play are like shortpants Stalins, holding the fate of their toys in their hands and demonstrating little remorse once their impulsive snap decisions are made. 

  Arguably the most disturbing aspect of "The People vs. Mr. Bear" was the blinding speed of it in its latter stages. Once the guilty verdict was read by the foreman (perhaps "foremonkey" would be the appropriate legal term), The State wasted no time in literally stringing the defendant up and hanging him from the nearby mantelpiece. None of us in the audience had realized until this moment that it was a death penalty situation, as the judge's instructions to the jury had been vague. 

SHORTEST KARL STRAUB COLUMN EVER

  This will be Twitter-pithy, for once. Last night, in an exasperated voice, my son said, "Dad, why do you always ask so many questions?" 

  I said, "Why do you always supply so few facts?" 

RELABEL, AND RESHELVE

  Is it possible for me to say something fresh about the health care vote, given my vast ignorance about the subject, and the acreage of words already planted by a host of demagogues, pundits, talk show hosts, and Facebook orators? Is it wise for me to spend my afternoon trying, given that I already ran out of time to cut guitar parts at today's Hot Plate recording session due to my excessive blathering? 

  Some of you have already surmised that I'm being rhetorical, and those of you surmising thusly are surmising wisely indeed. 

  
        TONSORIAL HOMOPHOBIA

I recently observed my son watching one of gangsta rapper Ice Cube's many Dean Jones-esque performances, in a sequel to the movie "Friday." I walked in as the final credits were rolling, and Max was saying, "Ohhhhhh, this isn't one of the Barber Shop sequels." Naturally, I hate to squander an opportunity to be an asshole, so I said, "Didn't it tip you off when there was no barber shop in the film?" In a comeback worthy of Curly Howard, he said he "just thought they'd moved." 

  I could see his point. If you watch Ice Cube (or, as the New York Times, the newspaper of record, refers to him, Mr. Cube) barbering in the movies where he barbers, it's firmly established in your mind that he's a guy who cuts hair. Were you to spot him between haircuts, you wouldn't necessarily forget about the whole hair cutting thing, even if he was engaged in a string of tragicomic set pieces, involving parties, homophobia and whatnot, none of which have much to do with the tonsorial world. The movie didn't just have  "barbershop" IN the name, it WAS the name. So you could perhaps be forgiven when Ice Cube appears, and your first thought isn't there's no way THAT guy could be a barber. 

  Likewise, you could be forgiven if a vestigial association of Congress with the word "government" is still lingering in your mind from the distant era when they used to get paid to govern.

THANK GOD I WAS LUCKY ENOUGH TO GO TO HIGH SCHOOL DURING THE BEST FOUR YEARS IN MUSIC HISTORY

This morning, I was conscripted to drive my son into school early, in order for him to get some extra help in a difficult class where note-taking and listening and thinking and so forth are required. This kind of class was always a bit of a bete noire for me, as well, so I chuckled indulgently before slapping him on the back and heading to the car. (This indulgent chuckling business is something I traffic in but rarely, as it usually results in the same kinds of questions people ask a boxer who's been knocked down.) 

  
  ALL EXISTING POP MUSIC IS PERFORMED BY DRAKE, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL

Due to a long and dull stretch of exposition, my car wasn't here, and we had to take Lisa's. To my son, who suffers from what might be termed middle school cynicism (meaning he has a sardonic and worldly response to literally everything except for the pop culture and products that target him), this is all to the good. Because of Radio. 

  My car doesn't have a working radio. Or, rather, it works, but I don't allow it to be turned on. I have a phone that has a quarter of a million tracks on it, and none of them are Drake. Drake has become my go-to modern pop artist, and in my mind, all modern pop music is written and performed by Drake. Sometimes when Drake wants to mix it up a bit, he invites a guest star or two to appear on a track, which means for me that occasionally a song has Drake with guest Drake. It all kind of runs together, and there's not more than a proton of difference between a Drake solo cut and a Drake and Drake duet. In fact, when I hear two Drakes in tandem, it's easy to picture a third Drake thumbing through a magazine in the waiting room, in case they need him to add a little more Drake to the thing. I imagine there are a couple more Drakes on standby, playing foosball and drinking whatever Drakes drink. 

    WARM, SOFT, AND SALTY

My colleague Matt Cook used to say that all fast food can be boiled down to three elements-- warm, soft, and salty. (He probably still says it, for all I know. I wouldn't put it past him.) Pop music and pop production in the All-Drake world can be summed up similarly: danceable and antiseptic. And since the All-Drake pop music system combines all the commercial elements, the three allowable song themes are all included in every song at the same time. 

1. I love you and we've certainly been through a lot. 

2. I'm a girl and I don't take any shit. 

3. If I go the club tonight, I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be big asses there. 

PRINCE, THE GUITARIST

This post originally popped up after I got tired of reading think pieces about Prince being the best guitarist since Hendrix. I'd always liked Prince's playing, but this framing initially struck me as the usual rolling stone clickbait banality. I encouraged a bunch of Prince fans to badger me with live improvised guitar highlights of Prince's career so I could give the whole thing a fair shake. I resisted the temptation to list an endless string of guitarists who can do stuff Prince couldn't do. I hope I addressed that in my caveats.  

1. On Prince as "best guitarist since Hendrix," or any similar honorific-- 

With a few caveats, I can actually get behind this. But the caveats are serious and significant. 

Prince is certainly not the most adept guitarist alive on earth since Hendrix-- anyone serious about music knows that there are numerous other styles of music besides American top forty, many of which involve virtuosity and extensive musical language that might have baffled even Hendrix, wonderful musician though he was. 

I submit that we are talking about guitarists who have made virtuosic and inventive guitar a significant part of their work in the American pop music world. 

And with that criterion, I can't think of any guitarist in rock since the days of Ritchie Blackmore who's done it any better than Prince did. I'm happy to hear other names in this context, and I'm certainly not interested in debating or dismissing someone else's picks-- but I think our man set a pretty strong example of how guitar (both rhythm and lead) can play an important role in pop, r&b, funk, etc. And he did this during an era where pop music (white or black) was mostly sidelining the guitar. 

WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RIGHT-WING HUMOR AND A VEGAN CUPCAKE?

  The recent flap about Jeff Sessions's "island in the Pacific" comments is perhaps notable for the reasons everyone says it is, but his post-flap weasel response is the burr under my saddle. 

  When people objected to his implication that a Hawaii judge was somehow less legitimate than a landlocked jurist, Sessions trotted out what's become a widely popular shield against critics, the old "my critics don't have a sense of humor" gambit. I won't claim this tiresome weasel dance is an exclusively right wing phenomenon, although it's certainly been used by Trump and his apologists numerous times. Since I'm on the left, I imagine I tend to notice it more often from the right, but no doubt right wing readers have been irked by liberal use of it. 

  Accusations that others don't have a sense of humor can't be evaluated without some agreement on what humor is, what constitutes a "sense" of it, and the side issue of how the public is to understand when humor is intended. None of these things have ever inspired anything approaching a consensus in this country, and American commitment to the importance of humor in our dialogue is similar to our attitudes about free speech. Mostly we pay lip service to these two supposedly essential things, while using them to pillory our enemies and inoculate ourselves against criticism. 

As "free speech" has become a precious thing you're taking away from me when you call me on some bullshit I said, a "sense of humor" is the crucial human trait you lack when you're suggesting that a public utterance of mine reveals something unacceptable about me. 

  Humor is not always the skewering of absurd human behavior, but much of it certainly is. Thus, before we even get into the "funny" aspect of it, we find ourselves in hot water. Do we agree on what human behavior is absurd?

KARL STRAUB, FIELD TRIP CHAPERONE!

These are authentic diary entries from a field trip a few years back.

Karl Straub, Field Trip Chaperone!

7:00 AM. 

Before we even got on the bus, we'd managed to misplace one kid. Apparently keeping track of two kids is beyond me. 

7:15. On bus now. Tried to say hi to driver, then I noticed he had dead eyes like a mackerel.

9:40 AM. 
Watching the Incredibles. Jason Lee and Craig T. Nelson have been bellowing at each other for 45 minutes. Art Blakey's cymbals and Lee Morgan's trumpet are cranking in my headphones to ward off potential Thespian Fatigue. The mom next to me (name withheld) said she hoped her snoring wasn't bothering me. She's going to have to snore louder than a paper mill for me to hear it at this point.

9:53 AM. 

Pleasantly surprised to discover that this rest stop has vending machines that stock arsenic. Sweet!

Aw, dang. Waking up now-- it was just a beautiful dream. 

Phone battery slowly dying, like a character in a Thomas Mann story. Battery at 31%. (Legs and ass at 29%).

2:39 PM. 

"What language we speakin'?" --our tour guide. 

  

I learned today that Native Americans invented limericks, mullets, and blunt force trauma. They also invented corn dogs (or "maize dogs," as they referred to them). An attempt to introduce white Europeans to the custom of daily hygiene met with mixed results.

NEW HOT PLATE EPISODE PACKED WITH DRONING AND DELVING

We've been working our fingers to the bone wrapping up the next episode of Hot Plate! The 120 Minute Radio Hour. 

  I'd like to mention upfront the participation of Dave Nuttycombe. I'd hoped to have the episode broadcast in time to promote his Travesty Ltd. Retrospective that happens tonight 7:30 at AFI in Silver Spring. That deadline wasn't met, but on the other hand, once editing is done the episode will hang around into perpetuity. 

  Dave and I delved into the mysterious legend of Neil Simon's significantly less famous older brother, and as the delving continued, we delved into the process of comedy writing, and the hitherto-unrevealed connection between Danny Simon and the Travesty Show, the brilliant magnum opus of the Travesty team.  Perhaps we should have delved into more subjects, but at a certain point the cock crows three times and you realize that the day's delving is done. 

  Now that I've talked about Dave's involvement in the episode, further details will result in an inevitable letdown, but I'll soldier on blithely in spite of this. 

  Tom Alderson is back for more talk about America's culture wars. We found a recording of a very drunk John Wayne ranting in front of an ROTC audience during the Vietnam era, which fits nicely with the points Tom has been making about streaking, George Will, etc. 

  Bedtime Story features excerpts from Angelica Huston's classy Hollywood memoir, "Of Jacuzzis Thrice-Gentle," read by a Shakespearean actor with a long name. 

  Beyond all the blather, we have music by Otis Blackwell, Johnny "Guitar" Watson, Johnny Thunders, Jay Dilla, and Tom T. Hall, plus a look at droning technique as employed by the Velvet Underground and by bluegrass fiddle legend Scotty Stoneman. 

Also, a Hot Plate Exclusive-- a new song by Karl, performed by reclusive heartthrob Millicent Ratzkiwatzki. 

  All of this, and the first very brief appearance of late night DJ Candy Berberian. 

CONFIRMATION BIAS LED ME TO SKIM THIS BOOK IN ORDER TO BUILD MY CASE THAT MY ENEMIES ARE GUILTY OF CONFIRMATION BIAS

  Let me first apologize for the dryness and lack of amusing aspects to the following. After weeks of expounding on the theme of "civility," which I now find dull and many of my friends find incendiary, I gave it a rest and turned to slightly more amusing material for a spell. Now a new book appears to be using science to confirm much of what I was saying. I know this because I read part of an article about it in the New Yorker, and then immediately downloaded the book and skimmed the first third of its introduction while watching a Daffy Duck cartoon on a phone app. 

  The book is "Denying to the Grave: Why We Ignore the Facts That Will Save Us," by two separate Gormans (Sara and Jack). 

  The authors explain a few things that would provoke many leftists and liberals in my Facebook friends list if they were coming from me and not from scientists. National Review has suggested that the left's recent science-bragging is disingenuous, and phony; if you enjoy disproving NR writers as much as I do, you'll no doubt resist the temptation to cherry pick anecdotal evidence to allow you to continue with the folly of believing Karl Straub was wrong about something. 

  Among other nuggets available to the reader willing to download a free sample of this book and glance at the foreword, we have these intriguing assertions: 

  Ignoring facts is not evidence of stupidity. It's a normal part of our cognitive behavior, selected for by evolution for complicated reasons, and we all do it. 

  It's so deeply wired into us that our bodies actually sometimes release dopamine into our systems as a reward for fact ignoring. 

  Calling people stupid because they ignore facts is ineffective and unhelpful, and may just perpetuate the problem. 

  Shaming people for selfish/immoral behavior that includes a component of fact-ignoring is ineffective and unhelpful, and may just perpetuate the problem. 

My smug conclusion is this. If you carry on with your policy of insulting and shaming people for ignoring facts and science, you will be ignoring facts and science. Feel free to find comfort in the idea that this hypocritical behavior is entirely normal for a human, which you presumably are. Also, enjoy the hit of dopamine flooding into, or perhaps from, your cortex. I suppose it's your cortex; I couldn't really say for sure. 

  Lastly, and most ominously, let me say this: it's just occurred to me that the cortex is the only part of our bodies that rhymes with Gore-Tex. I think deep down I always knew this, but I'm finally coming to grips with it now. 

THREE FEET LONG AND WRITHING

  I'm sitting in the hospital, waiting for my dad to be called in for his "procedure." They don't seem to use the word "operation" anymore, which is good because I find the word "procedure" much more calming and reassuring. (I assume Parker Brothers, or Milton Bradley, will be changing the name of the beloved child's game to Procedure.) 

  Fans of Gallows Road will be happy to know that we took Gallows Road to get here. Every appointment I take my dad to involves Gallows Road, either in the literal sense of us being physically on the damn thing, or in a less prosaic sense, as my dad points out that we should have taken Gallows Road instead of whatever "the GPS lady" said to take. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live on Gallows Road. If you are inclined to spend decades ignoring doctor's advice, leading to a protracted situation where doctors and nurses are hovering around you 24 hours a day as if you're Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz (or later in life), and arguing like magpies over which specialist's concerns take precedence ("Now I KNOW you didn't just say you're planning to go near his spleen when you're monkeying around with his pancreas!"), I suggest you move into a house on Gallows Road and be done with it. 

  The drive here was uneventful, mostly broken up by my dad's trenchant observations about traffic patterns, and the wisdom of scheduling appointments at times other than the ones at which I chose to schedule them. A welcome variation from this routine was provided when my dad noticed in the Post an article about a three foot clam. I know this because he said, "Hmmm. A three foot clam." To use Tom Alderson's phrase, I allowed as how three feet was pretty big for a clam. My dad agreed, or would have, if he'd had his hearing aids in. He bought the kind of hearing aids that are small and compact, so they conveniently fit into a charger that you keep on your dresser and they never go in your ears. This particular brand has inspired many stimulating three-way conversations amongst me, my dad, and a nurse. These discussions are sort of like Agatha Christie novels, comforting and even oddly addictive, due to their familiarity and formulaic nature. 

DUDE, THAT RING MUST HAVE SET YOU BACK A FEW RUBLES. THAT STONE IS "CHEKHOV" THE CHAIN

My son was watching Guy Fieri's Salute to Fried Baloney, or something. In the course of the episode, Fieri talked to some restaurant owner endlessly about how the owner had been with his girlfriend for five years, but had never asked her to marry him. Then they kept cutting to more and more scenes where the restaurant guy was showing the engagement ring to the camera, and they'd cut back to it later and Fieri would bring it up again, like, "Dude, when are you going to propose?" And the guy would have some sheepish response and then Fieri would say, "Dude, don't wait too long, trust me, etc."
Later in the segment, the owner got down on one knee and proposed to his lady, and Guy Fieri mugged for the camera and said something like, "I never would have seen that coming in a million years."
  It all reminded me of that Chekhov thing, where Chekhov would introduce a gun in the first act of a play, and then have 92% of the dialogue be about guns, and firing guns, and gun ownership, and how wild would it be if someone actually picked up that gun at some point and fired it, that would be CRAZY, dude, and then all the Russian characters would sit around eating little cakes shaped like guns, and use expressions like "I've really just felt under the gun lately," and if the hired hand was driving the fucking wagon too slowly on the way to pick up some more vodka, a character would tell him to "gun it!" and the characters would all have names like Gunnar, and Gunyakov Gunyakovovich, and the like. At the end, someone named Gunny would mug toward the audience and then hold up the gun and people would say Wooooooooooo like it was a Laverne and Shirley episode, and then the gun would be fired.
  I'd forgotten how much I dig Chekhov.

HOT PLATE! EPISODE FOURTEEN-- "THE CATERING OF THE REBELS' GETTING TO KNOW YOU MEETING"

Inside the carpeted corridors of the  Straubinical mind, the next episode of "Hot Plate! The 120 Minute Radio Hour" is coming together.
  The central item will be Karl's chat with funnyman Dave Nuttycombe about Neil Simon's older and considerably less famous brother Danny Simon, a comedy writer who was a huge influence on Woody Allen.
  We'll also have some new Straubinical music, but it's not clear yet which recording we'll finish in time for the episode. We are working on the first song of the new Fuzz Project, a dark number about suburban adultery with tons of fuzz guitar from Karl and Jeff Lang. Jeff's gotten himself ensnared in various other endeavors, like opening for Bonnie Raitt (apparently he couldn't get out of it), so it's hard to predict when that track will be wrapped up. In the meantime, we have a single from trending heartthrob Millicent Ratskiwatzki, a new addition to the Hot Plate team. I'm also excited to report that Karl's intern, Rhonda Marvell, broke into song during a recent recording session, so that's another contender.
  We've also got a new installment of Bedtime Story, with Shakespearean actor Sir Theophilus Bathysphere-Mayhew doing a dramatic reading from Angelica Huston's classy memoir, "Of Jacuzzis Thrice-Gentle,"

RICKLES TO SAINT PETER: "NICE SANDALS!" (ROLLS EYES)

  The good news this morning is that my new blood pressure medication is a total motherfucker.
  I remained calm through the following:

  Geraldo on Fox News beaming like a proud father following POTUS missile decision. (We are at the counter in a diner. The TV sound is off.)

  Bon Jovi playing on the diner sound system.
Post headline: Don Rickles At Pearly Gates: "Nice Sandals. Did You Buy Them At Venice Beach?" (Rolls Eyes)

  All of that happened at the same moment. A few minutes later, we went out to my car where I discovered the vehicle next to mine had overflowed its borders, requiring me to call in a Chinese acrobat to get in through the passenger side without being impaled by that stick thing that makes the car go forward.

  For those who have praised me gullibly for my "wisdom," I offer this barely useful silver lining to the whole missile situation. Last night's unwelcome news reminded me of my son's kindergarten days, when he mentioned that the principal always came on the intercom at the end of the day with a message, and she called these messages "missiles." I recall thinking that was an odd choice of words, and asked him what a typical "missile" might be. He told me the intercom would turn on, and the principal would say, "Teachers, thank you for dis missile."

POTUS AND POTENTATE PED XING

  I really do try not to endlessly talk about Trump, but I've just choked back multiple articles from the Guardian and it feels like an overview is warranted.

THE SITUATION AT THIS POINT

1. Some Chinese honcho will be arriving for meeting with POTUS

2. Normally golf with foreign potentate is the go-to icebreaker, but here we have a problem: namely, that Chairman Mao frowned on golf, typecasting it as a sport for millionaires.
Seems to me this is the typical kind of prejudice we associate with these wily Asian communists, but there it is.

3. Cutting right to the chase, a senior US official told reporters: “I think its safe to say there will be no golf.
It’s possible that they will walk around a bit as the mood strikes, but nothing formal and nothing involving golf clubs.”

4. Because of the North Korean habit of escalating, always escalating, the heat in the proverbial kitchen, it's quite important that this POTUS/potentate tete a tete go well. Kim Jong 2.0 is testing nuclear items practically every day, over there in his earthly palace, and it's apparently crucial that China help out with the job of keeping his atomic proclivities within the zone of acceptability, whatever POTUS determines those parameters to be. For these reasons, I assume Jared Kushner will help guide the decisionmaking about where POTUS and Potentate can walk, because protocol dictates that if POTUS is walking outside at all, he would normally be on a golf course of some sort, and in order to set the right tone for the facilitation of chumminess, they'll need to walk somewhere that doesn't have such a capitalistic connotation.

A GOOD HOSTESS KEEPS SOMETHING ON ICE

  Here's an item I've never had the balls to discuss in public. I've rarely mentioned it even in private, unless the people I was talking with were sleepy enough, or drunk enough, that I figured they'd probably forget I said it.
  "Entertainment" is a thing about which my feelings are decidedly mixed.
  I've been accused in plain speech of forgetting that I'm supposed to be entertaining the audience. This accusation is particularly galling to me, as it implies a kind of disrespect for the people who paid to hear my music. In fact, I have an unusually high respect for my audience, because in spite of the mountain of circumstantial evidence I've collected in bars over the years, I continue to believe that Americans can understand and even enjoy music and words that are more challenging than those of the dreary hit parade. More times than I can recall, I've spoken to people whose tastes were not so adventurous but who loved my work nonetheless. That's always more exciting to me than the praise of the highfalutin or self-congratulatory. In fact, in my experience, a lot of people who consider their pop music taste to be discerning are unmoved by my music. It could be that my music simply isn't good enough for them, and I'm in denial about that, but while I enjoy my music (mostly), I don't really believe music can be safely and responsibly evaluated in terms of goodness and badness. It's especially wrongheaded to discuss pop music in these terms, because the personality and physiques of the players and singers has such an outsized role in determining listener reaction.
  Although I maintain a low level frustration about the American need to be entertained by photogenic people, I've come to believe there's a more significant psychological factor at work than the looks and persona of the artist. I think it's more deeply rooted even then our desire to have sex with the person behind the microphone, or the typewriter.
  Charisma isn't just about physical attraction; I believe the iceberg below the water line is the feeling that you're part of something big. This is why charismatic guys and gals, whether they're rock singers, actors, or cult leaders, need not be sporting conventional looks. Charles Manson, even at his hunkiest, was no Mick Jagger. But Manson knew what every good dinner party hostess knows-- your job is to make your guests feel special.

READING IS, OR WAS, FUNDAMENTAL

I had a brief chat the other evening with my friend (name withheld), one of many friends I don't see much because of geography. Although I suppose geography can't really be blamed, as much as physics, time, and economics, but let's skip over that rabbit hole, on our way to a few others.
  We were talking about books, and (name withheld) was speaking with an air of childlike enthusiasm. I waffled internally for a while this morning about whether I should say that, as it could be interpreted as condescension. I decided to go ahead and take the risk, because in fact it's the core of my point. And to put things in perspective, (name withheld)'s arguably more adult than I am, since she's a mother of three and a former coroner. (I'm a father of one and I'll decline to mention what I have been formerly.)
  (Name withheld) wasn't gushing about Twilight, or whatever the current drivel is; we were talking about Russian fiction. She's a big Nabokov fan, and I've only read a sliver of his excellent work. Gogol also came up, and I can't recall Gogol ever "coming up" before in any conversation I've had anywhere. To use Thomas Alderson's phrase, (name withheld) "allowed as how" she preferred Dostoyevsky to the more celebrated Tolstoy. Me too, as I've made it all the way through a few Dostoevsky books, and only a short piece or two of the Count's fine war writing.
  Every once in a blue moon, I make a friend who likes to read. My usual m.o. is to immediately burn them out like a junkie's vein, until they're ducking my calls and taking jobs that require extensive travel. Even those friends, though, rarely talk the way (name withheld) does. Here on the pretentious east coast, when citizens talk about fiction, you hear a lot of critic words like "overrated" and "meta" being tossed around.

I MENTIONED IT ONCE, BUT I THINK I GOT AWAY WITH IT

"Realpolitik tended to be dismissed as unheroic cattle trading: the idea was to replace politics with a state of social intoxication."

--from "Blitzed-- Drugs in the Third Reich," by Norman Ohler.

  Trump is no Hitler (Hitler was better able to juggle public relations and administration), and the USA is not the Weimar Republic (our popular music is less good), but the above is yet another similarity.

I'm hoping the people who throw ein rod every time I bring up Hitler will read what I wrote and understand my point, rather than reminding me that I'm somehow insulting the memory of their ancestors by making this entirely reasonable comparison. (It seems to me that if  long dead ancestors are inclined to feel insulted, mine will be the first to find that their ears are burning gestorben wird immer.)

THE LIMITATIONS OF BELTS AND BONZONIS

  I'd hoped to quickly post some thoughts about Trump and the GOP ACA DMZ (endgame TBD; GOP VIPS in CYA mode), but Frankie Valli and his Four Horsemen have interfered. Lisa's satellite radio station could have benefitted from extreme vetting, because I didn't really need this ugly reminder that the Jersey boys had unaccountably continued their reign of Bubblegum Terror into the era of disco. (For the record, I like bubblegum; it's just that when I'm trying to think, that's an uphill battle to begin with, and the last thing I need is some Garden State merchant of Wonkaism blowing fairy dust into my failing ears. Accordingly, I've dialed up a Merzbow album. Ah, the hideous liquor of Japanese scrapings and post-modern treble shards! BROMMMM WADDA WADDA WADDA ARNNNNNNNN AIIIIIIIEEE etc.)
  Ok, ear worm shooed out the door, time to get back on point.
  This morning's Post brings a clarifying admixture of Trump news. For the record, my position here is not really about tweaking people for being against Obamacare. That's a typical, and understandable, tactic of my friends on the liberal spectrum, but let's say for argument's sake that at least some of the objection to ACA is due to its flaws. I'm happy to concede that much, if it means we can have a conversation about it.
  But my observation is this: Trump's eagerness to embrace the Paul Ryan solution, and the reaction to this from the right, is the most interesting part of the story. I interpret Trump's stance on this as evidence for what I've said many times, which is that our president isn't really about ideology or even idea; he's committed to getting good reviews. It really bugs him that Obama's early weeks were marked by action and achievement. Some would call it governing, I suppose, and even those who recall Obama as an evil Disney stepsister would have to concede that he got things done early on.  But Trump's salad days in the Oval Office have been chock full of bad reviews, and his various tantrums blaming this scapegoat and that for all of it, which has tended to generate still more criticism. The problem with the Trump-as-Evil-Genius model is that his default setting, the torrent of abusive logorrhea unmoored from facts and standardized spelling, plays better to a hateful mob than to the press; the primaries require primary colors in your rhetoric, while governance requires a kind of phony pastel sobriety. Most presidents, even the ones I don't care for, realize this long before they are given the keys.

HOT PLATE! 120 MINUTE RADIO HOUR, PILOT EPISODE

HOT PLATE! Pilot episode
Entertainment for the sharper folks.™

   
(
For a free download, please email karlstraub@hotmail.com.)

Pilot episode includes,but is not limited to, the following features.

Special guests:
The Amazing Bonzoni, chimp prognosticator. Interview.
Marty Beam, huge music fan.  Second Banana in rambling discussion about avant garde music.
Tom Alderson, writer and musician. Conversation with Karl about politics and streaking.

DEVIL'S MUSIC ADVOCATE. Avant garde music. Karl and Marty yammer about the music of Derek Bailey, Eugene Chadbourne, Evan Parker, Steve Lacy, and fellow travelers Min Xiao-Fen,  Tony Trischka and Dock Boggs. (More specific info below)

TORTUOUS POLITICAL BLATHER. Conversation with Karl and Tom Alderson. Please note: my neighbor strongly advised me not to include any political material, so if anyone asks, tell them that the political content is mostly about streaking.