Rowlf the Raindog

I was watching The Muppet Show with Clare and Lily this evening. I'd bought Lily the season 2 DVD boxset for Christmas and we were watching the one where the special guest is Peter Sellers. I say that in such an off-hand way you might be forgiven for assuming that I've got a vast, ecyclopaedic knowledge of The Muppet Show and have regularly watched every episode on numerous occasions. The truth is, the last time I saw Peter Sellers appear in The Muppet Show was over 30 years ago and I wasn't much older than Lily is now.

It was still very funny, though.

A few weeks ago I was watching an old VHS tape of The Muppet Movie with Lily. During a scene where Kermit meets Rowlf The Dog in a bar, Lily turned to me and said: "Rowlf The Dog sounds just like Tom Waits."

Lily is five years-old, incredibly smart and a big fan of Tom Waits.

I think she's got a point:

Rowlf The Dog:



Tom Waits:

Woolies RIP

I've never been one to anthropomorphise business entities, so I don't tend to get too upset when a major High Street retailer goes out of business. Sure, I'll always sympathise with the regular people who end up losing their jobs on account of other peoples' errors of judgment and catastrophic SNAFUs, but I don't feel any great sense of personal loss when a well known retail outlet shuts its doors and goes to Jesus. When Ratners went bust, Bejams bit the dust and Rumbelows took its final dirt nap I didn't wear a black armband, close the curtains or shed any tears.

Until today, that is. While walking through Cotteridge in Birmingham I saw my first dead Woolworths store. The place was gutted, the shutters were down and a rather pathetic handwritten sign declared that the shop's safe and a few fittings and fixtures were still available for purchase. As I read the sign, I felt my default setting of disregard be thrown into disarray.

I felt rather sad.

Woolworths, you see, was the place where I bought my first 7" single. The record - for the record - was Cool For Cats by the criminally underrated Squeeze and I bought it with my pocket money from the bargain bin at the Hawthorn Road branch of Woolies in 1979. For most of my childhood, the Hawthorn Road branch of Woolies was the only place I bought records from. Long before I discovered places like Virgin or HMV - or independent outlets like Swordfish, Tempest and the late Frank's Wild Records - Woolies was my local record store.

I bet it was for lots of other people, too

The Dark Knight (Slight Return)

Thanks to my partner Clare for alerting me to the following twisted gem:

MMIX

So here we are, at the start of a bright new year; and here I am, thumping the keyboard like a sausage-fingered caveman, trying to hammer out my first blog post of 2009. It's also my first blog post in almost a month, but who's keeping track of these things, anyhow?

Something odd has recently occurred to me. Actually, it's occurred to me at regular intervals over the last eight or nine years, but now's as good a time as any to share it with others. That's probably not the best thing to do when something odd occurs to you, especially in the wee small hours of the morning, but at least this way I get to find out whether it's occurred to others, too. It may even may have occurred to you, in which case we could always pool our resources, split the counselling fees or form a Facebook group.

Anyhow, the oddity that's occurred to me is this: if, like me, your calendar of choice is the Gregorian calendar then you'll probably agree that we're fast approaching the end of the first decade of the 21st Century. Sure, depending on how much of a stickler or a party-pooper you were ten years' ago, you may have argued over whether the 21st Century kicked off in the year 2000 or 2001. You'll probably now agree, however, that we're fast approaching the Kubrick decade's closing overs and final furlongs. Isn't it odd, then - in this Year of Our Lord two thousand and nine - we've yet to agree on what this decade is actually called?

It was all so straightforward in the 20th Century. There was the Nineties, and before that, the Eighties. Prior to that we had the Seventies, Sixties, Fifties and so on. They were parcels of time, each conjuring up a specific cocktail of imagery and music and history and style. They were arbitrary labels, based on a highly capricious measurement of time that was steeped in Medieval folklore and riddled with sweeping inaccuracies and generalisations.

But at least they had names.

And these weren't names that were applied after the event. It wasn't like the way the French Revolution that became known as the French Revolution long after the Storming of the Bastille. People thought of the Nineties as the Nineties during the Nineties, and it was the same for all the other 20th Century decades. At the end of the 90s, for instance, certain musical fads could be described by media pundits as "early-90s" just as, at the end of the 80s, shoulder pads and designer stubble could be described by the fashionistas and those-what-give-a-shit as "very mid-80s."

So far as I can tell, however, we haven't settled on a name for this decade we're living in right now. I've heard a few attempts, mind you. "The Noughties" pops up now and then, but to me that sounds a bit too FHM for my tastes. "The Zeroes" is another one I've heard on occasion, but that not only contains unfortunate pessimistic conotations, but it also sounds like it should be an indie band (and a quick Google search confirms my suspicions...). For the most part, though, journalists, pundits and proper ordinary people seem to skirt around this issue like its a big temporal elephant in the room.

But I don't this to turn into one of those rants by middle aged bloggers who moan about what's wrong with things without offering any alternatives. At least not with this post. In the interests of bringing something to the table and opening up a debate on the subject here's my suggestion for a name tag for this decade: "The Norts". It's catchy, and it's free of the aforementiontioned connotations and the fact it will resonate with fans of the character Rogue Trooper from the great British comic 2000ad is an added bonus.

Of course, these labels are all based on the Gregorian calendar, which has always been my calendar of choice (from my experience, most people don't realise there's more than one calendar to choose from). If your calendar of choice isn't the Gregorian calendar then it probably isn't the first decade of the 20th Century for you. According to the nifty calendar converter I found here, today - 3rd January, 2009 - is:

7 Teveth 5769 according to the Hebrew Calendar
6 Muharram 1430 according to the Islamic Calendar
15 Kankin or 12.19.15.17.12 according to the Mayan calendar
Duodi, 12 Nivôse 217 according to the French Republican Calendar

And my favourite:

Pungenday, Chaos 3, Year of Our Lady of Discord 3174 according to the Discordian calendar.

Maybe I should think about switching brands.

Jodorowsky's Nuts

It seems as though the legendary - and, yes, I do mean legendary - Chilean filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky has a new film in the pipeline. It's a "metaphysical spaghetti western of gangsters", it's called King Shot, it's produced by David Lynch and, true to form, it already sounds buggier-than-batshit.

Jodo says:

"I think that gangsters are the most metaphysical characters. Take a look at the presidents, they are all gangsters."

Then later he says:

"The front elevation of the casino is an Egyptian church. For the Egyptians, the beetle was the symbol of the creator who transports the world in his ball of excrement. That is why I say that this is a film of the metaphysics of the gangsters."

Alejandro Jodorowsky was the first and only famous person I ever interviewed. You can see why I've never bothered interviewing anyone else. What's the point?

Jodorowsky isn't the most prolific of directors: when it comes to output he makes Woody Allen seem like Stanley Kubrick. He has, after all, only directed seven films during his fifty - yes, fifty - year filmmaking career, and his last pic was back in 1990. For Jodorowsky fanatics like me, then, King Shot is something of a Big Deal.

Still, I've heard so many rumours over the years about Jodorowsky film projects that never actually materialised (coughcough 'Sons of El Topo' coughcough) that I'm reluctant to get too excited. If its alright with you, I'll file King Shot in my Beleieve-it-when-I-see-it file until I actually, um, see it.

I used to say the same thing about Watchmen, of course.

AWOL

In case you're wondering why I haven't posted on here for a while, let me take this opportunity to reassure you that I'm not dead.

Clare, Lily & I are currently moving house. It all happened rather quickly, and seeing as the new place is currently sans phoneline I haven't had many online opportunities to pontificate in public.

Don't worry: it won't last.

11-11-11: Handsworth

(By way of a recap: on 11th November 2008 Clare & I embarked on a public transport-based Kerouacian Carousel around the City of Birmingham. I'm writing up the journey in a series of urban travelblogs that are insterspersed with low humour and the occasional knob gag. Think Bill Bryson meets the late Reg Varney.)

As we make our way out of Winson Green along Handsworth New Road, onto Boulton Road, across Soho Road and up Rookery Road, I notice ubiquitous fly posters advertising a Public Enemy gig at the Custard Factory in December.


Three things come to mind:

1. I like Public Enemy.
2. I'd very much like to see Public Enemy at the Custard Factory in December.
3. How come I didn't know about this already?
   

I consider saying to Clare in my wheezy, Old Git Tom voice: "Public Enemy, now that was proper hip hop. Chuck D not only articulated the righteous anger of a generation with his incisive, incendiary lyrics and toe-tapping beats, but you could hear every word he was rapping. Not like this modern rubbish you hear on the radio."

I decide to keep my mouth shut after Clare shoots me one of her impeccably-timed If you're going to say what I think you're going to say then you better not say it-looks. I'm not going to risk it: she's been right more times than she's been wrong. Besides, it's never a good idea to mock your older self. You'll only end up resenting yourself later.

But still, I want to know why I didn't know that Public Enemy were playing at the Custard Factory in December. Has this got something to do with the conspicuous lack of fly posters along the route I drive to work? Should I write a letter to the council, or would it be easier to change my travel arrangements?

Maybe, and maybe not. I've got a horrible feeling, though, that there's a lesson to be a learnt from all of this. Worse, it's one of those deeply ironic lessons that I really hate:

Has it taken a journey along Birmingham's Outer Ring Road to make me realise that I'm totally out of the loop?