Category Archives: Reeeaaallly?

No, I didn’t want free checking with my metal, thank you.

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“When your Uncle John and I were small children, Mother used to give us each a quarter to ride the bus into town to see a double feature at the Ridglea Theater. One day, John and I decided to just stay on the bus to see where we’d end up. The driver eventually intervened, and we got home safely, but we didn’t make it to the movies that day. Times have changed, haven’t they?”

Indeed, Mom’s right. Life isn’t what it was in the early 1950′s, but one thing is the same: Ridglea Theater is still a great place to see a show, even several generations later.

That is, at least for now.

The Little Bell and Wesley (and Dio, duh)

Yesterday I received a disturbing email from my husband, Russell (who’s done so many shows for Fastlane Concerts at Ridglea that the theater jokingly put a sign on one of its doors which reads: “Russell’s Room”). After scoping his included link to Kevin Buchanan’s article, I flipped out. Apparently, Bank of America is considering purchasing the historic Fort Worth building and transforming it into a financial institution sans music and community fellowship and my dear old mother’s childhood memories. What an enormous slap to the face of North Texas.

For the last twelve years, Wesley Hathaway and Richard Van Zandt have leased the beautiful, old theater on Camp Bowie. The couple, who met in college and have been together for the past thirty-two years, utilized the Ridglea’s architecture and distinct artwork as a backdrop to showcase local, national, and international musical acts for the Fort Worth area. Aside from providing a unique venue for crowds of one thousand plus, Wesley and Richard’s theater is also responsible for a lot of customer traffic at surrounding restaurants, gas stations, and small businesses within the immediate block. Wesley, formerly the Assistant Science Curator to the Fort Worth Museum of Science and History, says she only learned day before yesterday of Bank of America’s intentions. “I didn’t know until a reporter from the [Fort Worth] Star Telegram called and asked me what I thought about it. That’s how I found out! We still have almost a year left on our lease, so we don’t know what’s going to happen.” She and Richard, who also previously worked in the same prestigious, north Texan museum as the Omni Theater Director, confirmed they are booked with lots of upcoming shows and have heard nothing from Bank of America at this time that would suggest cancellations of any kind. In fact, they haven’t heard from BOA about anything, and that’s unsettling for not only Wesley and Richard, but also for an estimated thirty employees who stand to lose work after the demolition.

“I understand the owners [of the building] need to make money. It’s a business,” Hathaway stated, “However, this is the last beautiful, grand building of this type in our area. You lose part of your heritage every time you tear down something historical like this. I see it happening all over the country. People are just not cherishing heritage, and it is a tragedy for the community when things like this are allowed to happen.” Van Zandt added, “Do something with the building instead of demolishing it, you know. The west side of Fort Worth really needs a Community Arts Center. The city could host all kinds of classes and events here, things that would benefit people while preserving the structure.” Richard also pointed out the Ridglea Theater was eligible to have been noted officially as an historic landmark, but the last owner failed to designate it as such.

Richard Van Zandt, photo by permission of RVZ

“Of course, we’d be sad if we couldn’t continue to do these shows,” Wesley admitted. This all comes at a time when the theater is up, yet again, for “Best Venue” in the Fort Worth Weekly. Having previously won the same award for at least eight years, Wesley and Richard have been proud local music fans have selected their venue for similar accolades throughout the years in the Dallas Observer as well as on AOL and in the Fort Worth Star Telegram. She says the two of them will miss the musicians and fans she’s come to love — the very people from all over the world whom I know herald her as the pink-haired First Lady of Texas Metal. “This building — the beautiful mosaic floors and old paintings — it feels like home to the people who come here. The bank isn’t going to care about that.” Wesley fears if BOA is allowed to take over the building, the Ridglea’s historic art and music history will be lost forever.

Beyond the music and the magnificent mosaic flooring, losing the Ridglea Theater to something so sterile and impersonal as a bank would be, perhaps, the hardest blow of all. The Ridglea is the chassis for a slew of extremely personal memories for so many of us — not just Mom. Matt Arnold, my co-worker, was bummed to hear the news, “Are you serious? You know, I saw my first show in there.” He wouldn’t be the only one to claim that honor, of course. I’m sure all the kids who have attended Rock Camp USA during the summers at Ridglea thought it was pretty cool to say that was where they played their first show. I’ve seen a handful of couples become engaged there; Wesley says elderly people have approached her and relayed stories of when they decided to get married while at the Ridglea many years ago. When I asked which was her favorite memory of the theater so far, she paused and said, “I don’t know, Kristan. There have been weddings and so many wonderful events and music over the years. The place has a lot of history for so many people from all walks of life. I mean, it’s where Richard and I took our kids to see the very first Star Wars when it came out. I just don’t want us all to lose it.” I get that. None of us wants to walk into a bank and reminisce about . . . anything. We want to be able to stand in the entrance of the theater and relish it for what it really is: a multi-generational tribute to north Texans and the strong-willed, surviving champion of Fort Worth culture.

When my daughter graduated elementary school, Wesley and Richard gave her a beautiful piece of art, which read:

‘What do I get for this,’ I said, and the angel gave me a catalog filled with toasters and clock radios and a basketball signed by Michael Jordan, and I said, ‘But this is just stuff,’ and the angel smiled and swallowed me in her arms. ‘I’m so glad you said that,’ she whispered to me, ‘I knew you still had a chance.’

After I got off the phone with Wesley last night, I sat in Bella’s room and stared at the words in the painting. I thought about how appropriate they were now, how Wesley and Richard do what they love. Next to the graduation art, my Bella keeps a rubber band ball Wesley gave her years ago when they first met. The extra “Russell’s Room” sign is above the piano in our back room. These kind reminders amplify my sadness because they prove the Ridglea Theater isn’t just a place in Fort Worth that Bank of America wants to tear down. It’s a place in my home and in my heart, a place where my entire family has grown in both the very distant past as well as in the last few years. There is no price you can attach to a structure that serves as such a chapel of memories. The idea of passing by Where It Used To Be makes my stomach turn.

This isn’t set in stone, and there’s an opportunity to save the venue and building from the fate of Bank of America. Wesley has posted an official statement on the Ridglea’s website with information regarding where to write, etc.

City Councilman W.B. Zimmerman
, District 3 Office
, 1000 Throckmorton St., 
Fort Worth, Texas, 76102

Telephone: 817-392-8803 
Fax: 817-392-6187

E-mail:District3@fortworthgov.org

Also, there’s a hefty discussion on the “Save the Ridglea” Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=103599513025822

Cherish heritage, one and all. Save this Ridglea Theater, Home Sweet Home.

Over/Out.

Rock stars for scientists, please?

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There’s a gal named Sally Ride. She was a hero of mine. Still is, sorta.

Month before last, Russell and Bella and I attended Dr. Ride’s lecture at Texas Hall. Having thoroughly enjoyed last year’s astrophysical, mega-deluxe superstar, Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson, I just KNEW the series spotlight on Sally was going to be the scientific equivalent of getting baptized by Jesus Christ himself on Easter Sunday. After all, when I was a ten year-old girl — like every other ten year-old girl in the USA, I wanted to be Sally Ride.

The Dr. Ride whom I introduced to my middle school daughter this year was not the same woman I wanted to be in 1983. It’s not Ride’s fault I mistakenly characterized her, but my childhood dreams are definitely somewhat deflated now.

Waiting in line to get a book autographed for her science class

"She's not going to dedicate the book to my school, I don't think."

"Yeah, Mom, she just told that girl she won't personalize autographs or let her take a picture with her. Don't ask, please. Let's just go."

"There you go. Your school? No, I'm sorry, but there are people behind you."

Alright, fine. We'll go outside and take a photo without you, Sally Ride. Poor kid.

Okay, it’s not as if Sally Ride is a member of Metallica or Slayer. There were realistically about two hundred parents and kids in line, none of whom wanted their boobs signed or to give her an embarrassing demo or to cut off a lock of her hair to wear around their necks. They were straight-up, past, present, and future science nerds, barely able to get up the courage to ask for her autograph — the same people who’d faint if Steve Jobs or Bill Gates was behind them at Starbucks. After spending almost an hour delivering an account of why our children need to become scientists and mathematicians, Dr. Ride later treated her young fans as if they were a hassle. This, after Dr. Tyson solved Rubik’s Cubes, signed anything fans brought for hours and hours, and camped out into the wee hours chatting with kids whose parents let them stay up past midnight on a school night. Instead and in contrast: (a) no pictures of Sally Ride with the young girls who were interested in attending science programs and (b) pompous explanations that took forever about why books couldn’t be signed to schools and students due to the “long line” [vomit].

Sally Ride’s ass was not shot into outer space through private funding. Taxpayers like me and my parents and my parents’ parents fund(ed) NASA. An astronaut is a designated American role model, like it or not, especially if that astronaut happens to be the first American woman in space or, more importantly, the one who designed and utilized the highly publicized, revolutionary robotic arm on STS 7. Rock stars, many of whom have signed less meaningful ephemera for me than a book about saving the planet, would owe a fan far less than Ride. Still, I’d be willing to bet James Hetfield or Tom Araya would be better ambassadors of science for this next generation, given the way Ride behaved.

When you treat kids like they’re special, they remember your actions rather than your words. I wonder how many future scientists have been derailed by insensitivity? Come on, scientists. Be rock stars when the kids are looking! The young ones aren’t just fans; they’re those who are going to have to resell Mars to the American public. I’d hate to see 70 year-old physicists panhandling for the succeeding of NASA in 2030 just because none of the middle school kids wanted to grow up to be number-crunching assholes.

Breaks my heart to rant like this because — believe it or not — I’ll always love and admire THE remarkable Sally Ride. Without her, I would’ve thought we were all supposed to just be ballerinas in the eighties.

Kanye, please.

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Last night, my eleven year-old daughter frantically yelled, “Mom! MOM! Did you see what just happened on the MTV Video Music Awards?! MOOOOOOOM!!!”

In case you were also in the back of your house arranging bookshelves like I was, YouTube  captured the moment (marker :42; it’s disabled here, but clicking the link enables you to open in a different window.):

Yeah, pretty unbelievable. I had to see it twice. Then I felt really awful for Taylor Swift — something I never thought I’d say after she tortured me inadvertently through my daughter’s stereo speakers for the past year.

The drama was a total letdown for tween Bella since the incident involved three of her favorite music peeps. At their impressionable ages, pre-teens haven’t mastered the complexities of media relationships and tend to get caught up in the moment, unable to separate the artist from his/her humanity. (At least, that’s what happened to me when I first saw the weirdness that was David Bowie shaking his butt on camera in unison with Mick Jagger for [shiver] “Dancing in the Street.” )

“Bella, I know you like Kanye’s music, and that’s still cool. He’s got bad manners is all. We just won’t invite him over for dinner.” I could tell my kid was just itching to punish Kanye by deleting his entire catalog on her iTunes library.

I won’t tell Bella about the other Kanye video shot moments later backstage as he was being kicked out of the award show, though:

Yes, that is correct. He was yelling for MTV to “give a black man a chance” because he has “the number one record right now.” My god, how many chances does Kanye need for MTV to give him? Isn’t it, like, his channel already? Give a black man a chance? Here’s a short list of black men who were never given chances by MTV, cough, cough, cough: Ed Lover, Fab Five Freddy, Prince, Michael Jackson, LL Cool J, Jay-Z, Snoop Dogg, Tupac, Seal, and Kanye Friggin’ West. I said “short list” because I had to leave off about a million black men for the sake of word count. Kanye has apparently discovered a vacuum in time, and I wish he’d crawl out of that.

My kid is Kanye’s consumer. She’s also Taylor and Beyonce’s consumer. When Kanye hops on stage and flips out like some sort of black-music messiah, who does he think is listening to his point? People his age? Underground black artists the world has yet to discover because of evil MTV? Christ, no. His fan base is who’s observing Kanye’s crazy hour: kids with cable and internet access and iTunes allowance money. He’s not preaching to the ghetto, but he is alienating himself from the people who buy his music. His PR rep must have a continuous stream of panic attacks to go along with that immeasurable job security.

Taylor Swift is a pop artist. She’s the ultimate white girl. So what? As a parent, it’s nearly impossible to find modern music for your child to listen to that doesn’t include heavy sexual overtones and primitive language skills. Even with a Cosby Show rap artist like Kanye, I have to compromise my parental skepticism in exchange for giving my kid music she’s chosen for herself. It’s irritating to constantly tell your kid “no” when all the other children seem to be listening to straight out gangsta rap and songs about getting blowjobs at a club, drinking booze, and overt materialism — all using terms that make me feel like an antique, running to Urban Dictionary right and left. The culture needs to check itself. For that one reason alone, I appreciate sweet, little Taylor Swift.

Ugh. Kanye? Pleez.

Dan Deacon and the Temple of Dayum

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Dan Deacon (on screen) with Teeth Mountain

Dan Deacon (on screen) with Teeth Mountain

This is about Dan Deacon. But, first, you have to meet my friend Sam Ward.

About Sam:

  • used terms like “sustainable” before concerned and emaciated Emo kids were here to save us from ourselves;
  • crafts objects from wood —  like complete drum kits;
  • responsible for any mixtapes I own from 1988 featuring both Slayer AND Laurie Anderson;
  • grandson of heavily quoted American writer William Arthur Ward;
  • has dated Virgos almost exclusively for over twenty years.
Yes, he really made these.

Yes, he really made these.

Ok, now I can begin.

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up my quirky, drummer pal, Sam, with important news: “Hey.”

[clunk, clunk, clunk] “hey.” (Nothing in Sam’s life includes capital letters or exclamation marks or urgency.)

“Something is happening at The Modern Art Museum next week. You probably have to go.”

silence. Sam detests large museums because “they never hang art by regular people.” I love the irony of this because Sam and The Modern have pieces of art by the same artists.

“Sam, seriously.”

“okay. what’s happening?”

“Dan Deacon is playing there after hours. Russell will be out-of-town with some band, and I really want you to go with me because you’ll dig it, plus I don’t want to see it by myself because [running out of air] that’d be like witnessing a UFO alone even though I’ll have my camera — it’s just not the same. Have you heard any of the Dan Deacon stuff?”

“no. what’s it like?”

I scrambled for a relevant descriptive that might pull Sam out of his cave.

“It’s Flaming Lips — like Flaming Lips-15-years-ago-Flaming Lips — and Tortoise and Crash Worship.”

pause. “the cool flaming lips?”

“Yes.”

“i opened up for tortoise once.”

He was gonna do it. I could tell. 

“it’s at the modern?”

“Yeah. It’ll be real…percussive.”

“okay. if i’m not in austin. fun, yeah.” The part about Austin was unnecessary as it’s always an implied stipulation with Sam: Austin first, puppet show last. The end.

Sam, rambler of random facts about Nikola Tesla and general badass

Sam, rambler of random facts about Nikola Tesla and general badass

So Dan Deacon is an electronic music nerd from Baltimore. This is a compliment. Right now, with backing help from fellow Maryland musicians Teeth Mountain, he’s touring the sort of show you’d pay to see twice — on consecutive nights, even. 

img_3697

Lost shoe by the Warhol self-portrait sums the evening up.

Within the span of one hour, Dan Deacon and TM managed to turn the west lawn of The Modern into an unexpected abyss of unity for the complete gamut of total strangers. It was like being in a cult for people who hate cults. Except for a few nanoseconds here and there, Dan played the entire show enveloped by the crowd while Teeth Mountain, wearing Dharma Initiative-esque jumpsuits, plowed through the set on a stage rigged with epilepsy-inducing lights. Dan might be the best new-music Jesus I’ve seen in forever, dividing the fans as well as the haphazard, gallery stragglers into groups, who eagerly ran relay races and formed human tunnels. My face hurt from laughing so hard.

With people I’d never met before.

Out of joy. Real, total, absolute joy. I know “joy” is silly, but, man, that is the right word for it.

(At about 5:20 or so I get dragged into the relay, cackling like a friggin’ loon.)

The whole sixty minutes was as close as I’ll ever get to being a cast member of “The Electric Company”. Sam pointed out: “yeah, russell is going to wonder what the hell he missed when he sees the pictures you took.”

“It’s like Crash Worship without the red and blue-painted naked people.”

“minus the danger.”

“Right.”

“yeah, i’m real glad i came, k.” 

 

Henry Moore is shitting bricks in the netherworld, I'm sure.

Henry Moore is shitting bricks in the netherworld, I'm sure.

Good, Sam liked it. That meant Dan and his TM orchestra weren’t pretentious. They were tight enough not to bug Sam’s pissy ears. 

Two hours later, I sat on my sofa and watched the video directly from my camera. I couldn’t even wait a few minutes to upload the movie files to my laptop, so I just sat there holding the tiny viewfinder up to my eyeballs. And I laughed all over again. 

When Bella got home the next afternoon from her overnight visit with Nana, I threw the laptop in front of her. She watched the footage — all of it — with the biggest grin on her eleven-year-old face.

“Mom, I want you to take me next time, ok?”

I promised I would.

When we got to the part of the video where I was dragged into the relay race, Bella keeled over in a fit, “PROMISE you will take me. Promise!”

“I did!”

“Promise again.”

“I promise. I promise I’ll take you the next time Dan Deacon plays nearby.”

“And can I do the part with the relay race, Mom?”

“I insist.”

So attend. Drag your wooden drum-making, curmudgeon-y friends. Take your kid. Kidnap your mother! Catch Dan Deacon while you can.

1987 Debunked by Its Own Panflute Playing Monkey

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Team Awkward

Team Awkward

 

Recently, Bella, along with every other boobie-budding tweenager, has been obsessed with Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight book series. It’s kind of like the Duran Duran of my generation in that this Twilight thing is a big gateway into much cooler stuff.

“Mom, can I download the Moose CD?”

“Moose? Really? Where did you hear about them?”

“The Twilight soundtrack. You know.”

“Muse?”

“Yeah, is that how you say it?”

I instantly okayed Muse, a vast improvement over Miley Cyrus and the rest of Bella’s musical library riddled with phase vocoder this-and-that.

A week later, The Bell was reading in her room. Brief trappings of classical composer Claude Debussy emanated through the walls.

“Russell? Do you hear that?”

“Yeah, is that from Bella’s room?”

“Yes! She’s listening to Debussy in there, and I think it’s on repeat.”

We pressed our ears to her door. Holy cow, it was really happening.

Knock, knock. “Bella?”

“Reading.”

“Hey, are you listening to Debussy?”

“Yes, I am.”

“When did you get into that?”

“Twilight soundtrack. Moooom, I’m reading right now, ok?”

“Sorry.”

Booty dance. Take THAT, Miley.

After Muse and Debussy, Bella asked for a copy of Wuthering Heights. I know the Twilight phenom isn’t real hip amongst the holier than thou Philip K. Dick set, but, hey, STEPHANIE MEYER BRAINWASHED MY KID INTO BEGGING FOR A COPY OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS. Praise her.

Yesterday, Bella made the most important discovery of her lifetime: “MOM! Uncle Dain’s old band Marjorie Fair is a huge inspiration for Stephanie Meyer. Look, she has listed them as required listening for New Moon readers.”  

Reads Philip K. Dick

Reads Philip K. Dick

 

There were about eight different layers of Excellent to this news — the best being Uncle Dain’s incredible hatred for those books. We texted him immediately. I pointed out how all of Bella’s friends were dying for an autograph and downloading music videos of his fake-playing keyboards in some faraway field. As members of the massive Stephanie Meyer Army, I’m sure eleven-year-olds everywhere are dreamily batting their eyelashes and cooing, “Oooooh, Dain.”  (Dain is super Tiger Beat at 3:09)

Going back to my earlier analogy, though, of Duran Duran and Twilight being gateway drugs into Cool, this means Dain equals Nick Rhodes. Score, that’s great. 

Nick Rhodes, move over. Dain is here.

Nick Rhodes, move over. Dain is here.

But anyway, all of this vampire stuff and the frequent trips to Hot Topic for Twilight trinket shopping has opened the door to: “Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about my goth phase.”

“Your goth phase? You’re eleven.”

“Not now, but when I’m a teenager, Mom. I’m kind of liking that.”

“The music or the image thing?”

“The music.”

Russell and I began singing Peter Murphy’s “Strange Kind of Love” to Bella as she looked back at us in disgust. In California, we used to joke about how his voice was haunted.

“You guys are weird.”

“You’re not ready for goth if you think that’s weird.”

We YouTubed Peter Murphy, and Bella was not impressed. “It’s very vampire-y, though.” Realizing I should have eased Peter Murphy into the mix by starting with Love and Rockets and working backward, I pulled up “No New Tale to Tell.” I was sure she’d dig that.

Bella was quick to identify this music as “not goth.” Clearly, I was no competition for the musical prowess of Stephanie Meyer. About two minutes and ten seconds into the video, Bella rolled her eyes, “Mom? How can you say your music is cooler than the stuff I’m listening to?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Look at that. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but that’s a monkey playing a panflute with men dancing behind him dressed like bees.”

She was right. There was nothing cool going on with the L&R video. Why did it take an eleven-year-old twenty-two years later to point this out for me? I’m going to cut her some slack for being ahead of the curve from here on out.

This whole experience has really debunked my myth that 1987 was a badass year. It’s like when I made fun of my mom for her weird, white-woman fro and bell bottoms. What happened? I thought I was gonna break that cycle. Eh, it’s like the old adage: “You cannot go against nature because when you do go against nature, that’s part of nature, too.”

Wait, nevermind.

Stephanie Meyer, you’re ok. Apparently, you’re much cooler than Duran Duran. Sorry for being snotty about that.

And…thanks for real.

Eduardo’s Bidet

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“Do you smell cat pee?” fountain1

 He paused, sniffed the air. “Yeah, I do.” 

“It seems to be coming from over here, but [sniff, sniff, sniff] I can’t find it.” 

I think we had this conversation about five trillion times before finally solving the Great Cat Pee Mystery. After spending months crawling around like a bloodhound, nose to the carpet, on hands and knees, I hoped for some kind of urinary revelation, but…nothing. Each morning, Eddie the smug cat pee bandit hopped on my side of the bed ready for breakfast, half-gloating, “You’ll never figure it out, will you, mortal?“ 

Eddie underestimated my sleuthing abilities, though. 

One morning, still kinda dreamy, I laid in bed listening to the birds and the chimes and my bedside rock fountain. Then He appeared. From past experience, I knew I could ignore his empty food dish notifications by pretending to still be asleep. Besides, I wasn’t quite yet ready to abandon those birds and the fountain and the rest of it just yet. 

Kitty whiskers brushed the tip of my nose. Is she still asleep? 

Sneaky paws backed quietly away from my side of the bed. Oh, she’s totally asleep. Alright, then. 

Back to the birds and the chimes and the fountain…wait. Why did the fountain make that weird noise? I opened my eyes — slit-format mode, like a mummy right before it jumps to life and chokes its grave robbers. That’s when I saw the little bastard. 

Perched on the edge of the fountain’s concrete basin, Eddie straddled the largest rocks and peed straight into the pool below. As if that wasn’t enough, when he finished contaminating my bedside zen-frastructure, Eduardo carefully maneuvered in a circular sidestep to the other side of the fountain where he cleaned his little cat pecker with the spigot. 

Dismounting his cat bidet, Eddie paused to violently shake each paw — obviously irritated they’d gotten slightly wet. Then, unbelievably, he looked back toward me: Wait, did she wake up? 

Crap, she’s awake. 

I jumped out of bed, shocked and a little amazed. 

An hour later, the rocks were soaking in a bleach concoction. I realized I’d not only solved the Great Cat Pee Mystery, but also the Great Absence of Urine Clumps in the Litter Pan Mystery, as well as the Great Lack of Evaporation in the Fountain Mystery. It was a three-for-one. 

Looking back, I figure he was only trying to pee like a man – a French man in knickers, at that. 

This concludes my tale, but remember: Beware of Cat Pee Fountain. 

(Bom, bom, bom!)