Jay Leno, 11/29/2006

I was at this thing last night where this guy from a prominent business management company in town was talking.  He works in the entertainment industry and so it was interesting to hear some of his stories.  The amount of money that it takes to put an artist on tour--holy cow.  And, it seems that it's pretty rare for anyone to recoupe on their advances (...or is it recoop...or recoup...or recoope...whatever).  He was talking about how, almost without exception, he'll have one of his artists get a brand new #1 record and then they'll call him from the road because their debit card was rejected because they have no money.  When you look at the figures, it's just insane and you can't help but wonder why anyone does it.

 

Anyway, back to the recouping thing.  He was talking about the different things he'd seen labels/artists have in contracts as recoupable expenses.  He said, "I've seen everything from awards show gowns to boob jobs." 

 

I thought to myself: boob job=plastic surgery=lipo.

 

But I said aloud, "Are you serious?  Boob jobs?  Wow.  I need a record deal."

 

I meant lipo (refer to the above formula)...but no one knew that. 

 

Try digging out of that one...

 

-b

...so, as I said before, I was on the Redneck Riviera playing the Frank Brown International Songwriter Festival--got in last night.  I like it when songwriting gets me a free beachfront condo.  Excellent.  Thanks, Reneda, for including me this year.  I really had a great time.

 

There were songwriter shows all over the place as part of the festival each night, all kind of spread out, so I didn't get to take in a lot of shows outside of where I was playing myself.  Ironically, though, out of four shows that I did play, I crossed paths with this one little gang twice.  They have this set worked out where they all know each others songs and so they do three part harmony and play along with each other and it's all fine and lovely.  Here's the thing, though.  The chic in this set...well, she's a great singer...good credentials and all, too...but...well...okay, I'm just highly opposed to awkward body contortions when singing.  I can handle an ugly face...a look of strain is fine.  Raise your arm a little, raise your knee a little.  I'm truly not opposed.  But, when she introduced herself the first day to the crowd and told them that her songs are pretty rangy so she may have to 'strike a pose' here and there to get the notes, I had NO idea what that meant.  It was a series of uncomfortable convulsions (uncomfortable for me, at least) that served only to ensure that I can remember not a single word or melody from a single song she did.  I just remember the spasms...and the seizures...and the Solid Gold kicks...and the scary show choir arm poses...and I'm still having nightmares...

 

Now, if you know me, you know I sing a little and so I feel completely credible in offering this to everyone who feels that this hideous practice helps them sing better or hit the notes:  if you have to go through THAT to sing it, DON'T.  There is NO song that the world needs to hear THAT badly. 

 

 

Striking my own pose--

-belinda

I was especially lucky to be in an intimate setting with Dennis Matkosky last night.  Dennis wrote "Maniac," (yes, from the movie "Flashdance") as well as the Keith Urban smash, "You'll Think of Me."  ...and stuff for Diana Ross...and, yep, CeCe Winans...and Avalon...and "I Need You" that LeAnne Rimes did...and...

 

You get the picture.

 

So, he tells us about how "Maniac" evolved.  He was watching the news and there was some story about a serial killer.  He was just sitting there and wrote the following lines...a maniac moved in next door...he'll rape your mother...nail your cat to the floor...

 

He and Michael Sembello are lifelong friends--since the 6th grade--and so he took the lines over the Mike's house and they basically wrote it because it was funny and just to show their friends.  He said it took like 15 minutes or something. 

 

Of course, when another friend heard it and told them that if they rewrote it for this movie he was working on, he'd use it in the film, Dennis said it took like 2 1/2 grueling days to get it to where it is. 

 

The moral of the story:  Even serial killer songs have their place.

 

-b

...when you go to a Mexican restaurant for dinner, come out to your car and there's a full page flyer on your windshield...in Spanish. 

Here's what I can make out: 

I voted yesterday.  Stood in line for an hour listening to this woman complain about EVERYTHING.  Wanna' know how to get someone to leave you alone?  Tell them that you're not feeling well and that you really can't talk because you might throw up.  It worked like a charm.

 

So, as I stood there in my newly acquired quiet, I thought back to this one particular arguement I had with someone about politics.  I think of this arguement every time I vote.  Now, understand, I don't argue politics and I don't usually discuss them.  I take responsibility for my vote so I make my decisions based on my own research.  But, this one person person just wouldn't stop with me.  He went on and on and on and on and then, he had the audacity to tell me that I voted a particular way, then I was going to hell. 

 

I looked at him very pointedly and said this:

 

From now on, for the rest of your life, on every election day so long as we both shall live, I want you to remember that somewhere at a voting booth in our glorious country, I am there CANCELLING OUT YOUR VOTE!!!

 

That's probably been 7 years ago and I still get a beautiful sense of self-satisfaction every time I cast my vote. 

 

Shame on me--

-b

 

 

Richard Marx is a potty mouth. 

 

-b

 

(Saw him play a set at the Bluebird last week.)

The past few days have been particularly trying.  I may or may not write more about it later, but to sum it up, a dear friend of mine passed away too early in life over the weekend, my grandmother had two seizures and is now in the hospital, and my dog Pete is running a fever and yelping with pain randomly and we can't figure out why.

 

When I pulled in to the parking spot at Calypso Cafe for lunch, I considered it a treat for myself for still being able to move about the planet with a conscious mind.  There were two empty parking spots side by side and I chose the right one.

 

A few minutes later I was back at my car with my black bean salad in hand, and, I kid you not, some moron Vanderbilt student had parked in the empty spot next to me and I couldn't get in my car.  I had 9.2 inches between my driver's side door and their passenger door.  Yes, I measured.  My car door opened barely enough for me to shove my purse in. 

 

As I look back on that moment, I see so clearly now why God doesn't let baseball bats...or 9 irons...grow on trees. 

 

Have you ever had a rage so profound come over you that you need to sit down to steady yourself?  Yeah, WELL I COULDN'T SIT DOWN BECAUSE MY BUTT WAS WEDGED BETWEEN MY CAR AND THE STUPID ONE NEXT TO ME.

 

I wanted to open the door to this strangers car, take all the loose pieces of paper on the passenger seat and spread them over the parking lot, BUT I COULDN'T BECAUSE THAT PASSENGER DOOR WOULDN'T OPEN JUST LIKE MY DRIVER'S SIDE DOOR WOULDN'T OPEN.

 

I walked to the other side of my car, pulled out my trusty notebook and pen, and I wrote the following which I left on the windshield:

 

You drive a stupid car.

You are from a stupid state.

You need to learn how to park.

Have a nice day.

 

...and, no, my friends, I have no idea what that was supposed to mean.  I just know it felt good to leave it.

 

...and it makes me giggle today.

 

-b