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.