Plastic Alto with Mark Weiss

The best line, to my virgin ears, of the new Ocean movie is when, right before their caper or maybe right after, when they were spooning, all eight of them — SPOILER ALERT, but seriously I have 50 followers so no possible harm — they admitted that besides the crime they actually, for the B Crew, comitted like five other crimes, they doubled-doubled-doubled-doubled-doubled down, and get like $30 M each and not no measly $1M each, plus of course one union service, which in San Francisco, at least, in music, is $75 per 1.5 hours, minimum. They said “What do you think we are, P——?” I laughed super out loud. I was the only guy in the theatre. It was a matinee. I dozed off not because the movie was good or bad but becasue I may have sleep apnea, sub-clinical.

Speaking of sub-clinical, here is a screen capture of movie star Nora Lum pka Awkwafina who is part Korean, from her breakout hit “My V–”

She was one of 8 Nora Lums in her class at MIT I mean Albany and then first in her class in med school, I mean she played a doctor on tv.

It’s funny that all of a sudden, even writing this from a sports bar literally at the bar — OLD PRO, on Ramona, inside the former Ramona. and that’s not a dirty joke, it sold slices. Seriously. I can say v—– or v– even, even though I am the creator of the The Harbaugina Monologues (in which Jim Harbaugh and his former center, in football, Nick Z——- have female anatomy, because that’s how North Palo Alto men or boys, “V——” rolled in those day — it’s just comedy people. Nick Z, at the height of Harbaugina Monologue-sanity, threated to have me whacked. I can also say “Eve Enslers’ Vagina Monologue”but somehow seize up, like verbal shrinkage, if I try to say “My V–“.

Anyways I went to see the movie yesterday partly (!!) to see Nora Lum pka (pussy known as) Awkwagina, who is the youngest and freshest (face) of the 8 distaffs in the Sodomberg franchise and partly (!!) or more partly to see my fellow Dartmouthian Mindy Kaling ’69, who as an undergrad was known as Mindy — and I sent this to a friend — shit, I cannot say this. Her name is something longer and more ethnic, Koletkarsamsonsingthing, so for the purposes of Hollywood and off-Broadway, became, natch, Kaling. Her real first name is Bindi not Mindy but she switched to Mindy in hopes that old school Jewish machers would think she MOT.

Here is a captcha from NYT of Nora Lum — hey, she should be doing Dashiell Hammett ripoffs:

Dartmouth was mysoginist in my day — you could literally major in mysogyny. Of course it was all male at the time, and only half percent gay. Five catchers out of 995 pitchers. Being a pitcher, natch, we were told it was only gay if you made I contact. But I dig men. But I digress, I mean.

I saw Mindy Kaling and her then writing (but probably not cunnilingus) partner Callie Withers in their first show “Matt and Ben” which was a send-up of baseball player Matt Williams (before he went bald) and fake baseball player Ben Dover. I’m not making this part (!!) up. There was an actual fake baseball player named Ben Dover that in elementary school, when I was ten or 11, which was 1975 or 1976, you could get from the Scholastic Book Service. There was a little magazine that had fake baseball cards (like Topps 1975 TK image) with fake names like “Ben Dover” it’s a pun on “bend over” which in those days was funny but not gay. And like I said I was a pitcher not a catcher, but we had to throw underhand; my Mom, bless her heart, did not let me play pitcher

edit to add: sorry, I was in the bar. Mo Salah scored. I started to sing but almost got my ass kicked (friends of Nick Z, I presume, stalking me. Oh, sit down. Oh, sit down.)

So I wanted to add that the movie takes place in New York which is cool because my wife and I are going to New York for our honeymoon. The movie takes place at The Met (not the Tom Seaver place). My headline here refers to fact (not fake) that Max Hollein, a German guy who works for the De Young Museum in SF is apparently leaving to go work for the Met. I hope to meet him before he goes and then maybe call on him while in New York. So the two Max’s in the headline are actually the same guy (it’s a fight club thing, or Slumdog Millionaire thing, or Borges Y Yo actually there’s also a Edgar Allen Poe thing about Will Wilson, which is same concept, as distinct from the Fitzgerald concert of being born old Benjamin Buttons and then getting small like Steve Martin. But not Dorian Gray which is the song remains the same but the needle gets less sharp and hard to find your groove. So Russia is leading Egypt 3-1 and I keep saying that if they win then the whole thing is a fix. And yes I’m afraid to say not just “v—–” but also “P—-“. I don’t want to be hacked (more). But actually P—-is a P—-, or so says Michael McFaul. The fact that he works out three hours a day (as does, by the way Jeff Bezos) does not mean that some day soon we will all have to pick up an ax and fight like a farmer in a Jimi Hendrix at Berkely Square kind of way.

The waitress I caught au natural — brushing her hair back — says she is Sabrina — I didn’t check. Or I didn’t check my check, yet. Well, just for old times sakes I will go by Walworths and besides buying my Mo Salah soccer card, I will buy some vagisil I mean Aquafina, in honor of Honey Lum. (Honey Lum exists or did and makes or made drums. I like to beat it.)

My Mom in the mail today got a copy of J the Jewish newspaper and I borrowed it because it has Harvey Milk on the cover. I wonder if Goodby Berlin and Silverstein ever thought to do a pro boner ad with Harvey Milk with a rusty trombone? No, I mean it would be interesting to compare the spin of Harvey Milk and that producer guy (who worked with Mindy Kaling) who is now in deep don’t don’t.

Speaking of rusty trombones, yesterday I bought a silver saxophone from 1929 or so from a man in Los Altos on Portola Street. I actually blew him. Or her. It. It’s an alto, like Plastic Alto, natch, but I admit I cannot hear the difference in key. If that’s all I get out of that adventure, buying a sax and playing it 100 hours in public, like at Lytton Plaza, is to learn to hear a C from a G or whatever, that’s enough. It took me what seemed like a very long 3 minutes to get a “note”. Or as Rod (!) Stewart once said: the first “phut” is the deepest.

Frisco Max

Disco Max (Disco is bad)

This is actually from the movie, or at least from the publicity still, as published in New York Times (it’s actually an 8-shot):

Nora Lum pka Awkwafina, from “Oceans8”

I simultaneously review a movie and watch soccer:

Sabrina of Old Pro expertly brushes bangs from her eyes, just as Mo Salah of Egypt scores a replay goal

speaking of cleveland: the esteemed music lawyer cleveland rocker and sports ticket hoarder Barry Simons of Sf — who I met due to our mutual stalking of Caroleen Beatty before we realized her father was in the CIA — “advertising equals desire” — bedlam rovers late 1980s early 1990s Frisco don’t call it disco stuff — Komotion and all that — wrote back to say that Callie Withers probably will not sue me here  but I should check my 6 for Ilene crazed sister of Ben Dover. Which somehow reminds me that I once took a blind date to see the Deli Creeps at the Kennel Club in 1991 or so, Maximum Bob and Buckethead who played david mayeri’s Berkeley Cubed The Sphere or whatnot just last night, while mary halvorson played Kumbwa in Santa Cruz and then sat next to the same lady just last saturday night in Palo alto the RBG joint I liekd her line about its not that I want to stand with my brethren but only that he remove his boot from my neck and her name is Weiss which sounds like something I read or heard read to me by Ionesco or something it was actually a demo from two high school classmates a lady named Cunningham I think and Jeremy Bishop. Melissa Cunningham from down the block, that’s not quite right. Like how many monkey-puppy-baby’s banging away on how many macbooks before we stumbple upon all 8 billion of us linguistically conscious apes as Cornell West once said before it was not PC. Shauna. And Sandy. I’m here all week, try the onigily.

I kinda sorta want to send this to the DeYoung.

What could they do?

I think there’s a joke by Kurt Vonnegut about cheese: what could you do to cheese that has not already been done to it?

from dynamite mag, circa 1975