When Barbara lived in LA she told me how some of the locals would “rehome” their dogs. They’d get out on the 605, punch it out to about 80, then toss the pooches out the window.

I love the conscious coupling of made-up words to soften the underlying heinous acts. This week alone saw a lot of action on the rehoming front. Bravo’s Andy Cohen had to get rid of his pet dog of seven years because it was becoming too aggressive with his little toddler C.M. (Career Move.)

In Fresno, Myka and James Stauffer decided after four years of living with an autistic experiment they couldn’t do it anymore. It was time to rehome. But not before using the adopted child to cash in on several product endorsements including Dreft Laundry Detergent for Babies. Myka adores that newborn scent.

Fragrance lovers will be happy to know that the logical successor to the hallowed Chanel no. 5 has finally been crowned. It’s the new Dreft no. 605.

There is nothing funny about the heinous murder of George Floyd. This cycle of futility seems unending. And it’s not going to end with the Trump-McConnell Republicans in charge. It’s just the way they want it. Democrats have proven they can’t do much better.

It’s encouraging that the officer has at least been charged. It’s also predictable what will happen next.

The DA will conduct an aggressive prosecution but will make one gosh-darn silly mistake and the defendant walks. On the off-chance the officer is found guilty, the piece of swiss cheese that serves as a trial record will give an appellate court ample grounds to overturn any conviction.

When has a white cop ever been imprisoned for killing a black man? Now a black cop killing a black man will probably end up being a different story.

DA’s that work closely with local police should not be allowed to then investigate and prosecute them. Their livelihoods are so intertwined, the collusion is just so obvious.

Finally,  there’s the sad summing-up of Rush Limbaugh’s career made by the matched set of viagra-filled Samsonite lover himself. Thumbellina was referring to the effects of his recent cancer treatments. His words, however, aptly apply to his life’s work as well. “I have been virtually worthless, virtually useless.”

 

 

 

Ivanka finds a home in the Fillmore.

I don’t know, you tell me.

Here’s how he chose to celebrate his induction as an original member of the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame in 1986.

One Sunday afternoon when I was a teenager my Grandparents midnight blue Buick pulled into the driveway unexpectedly. I jumped up, took the Stones off the stereo and put on a Mozart symphony.

I thought no one noticed until my Dad teased me, “you don’t think Grandmother would enjoy Get Off of My Cloud?” It’s that type of abuse I had to endure throughout my entire childhood.

Rock ‘n Roll was the music of rebellion. But what fun is rebelling if there’s no one to react to it? Dad would occasionally have a comment but Mother, who had been on to me since conception, wasn’t taking the bait. She didn’t hate it but basically she flat-lined the whole experience.

Of the hundreds of thousands of times she heard me play Stones songs I only got an unsolicited reaction on two of them.

One was a cover of Under the Boardwalk on their second album. She mentioned more than once how much she liked it without ever elaborating why.

My guess was because she was such a good musician there was perverse glee in Mick struggling with the high note: “down by the SE–ea.” A few years later when I understood the sexual connotations of the piece I was appalled. My Mother? A sexual being? No way.

The other song she liked was Dear Doctor, their country spoof on Beggars Banquet.  “Pull your sox up, put your suit on, Comb your long hair down.” It was that one phrase, “comb your long hair down,” that got to her.  I don’t know why.

That sums up the extent of Mother’s appreciation for the Rolling Stones.

So I was surprised by her excitement one Saturday morning when I went into the kitchen. She’d been out with friends from work the night before and ended up at a lounge where there was live music.

The featured act was a rock ‘n roll pianist who had an afro bouffant almost to the ceiling, wore tons of makeup, a mirrored caftan and had a pleasing squeal that punctuated his performances. He was outrageous but his piano playing was superb. She said his name was Little Richard and his best song was Lucille.

When she mentioned that name we both laughed very hard. Aunt Lucille was one of Grandmother’s sisters and a favorite relative. She was intelligent and witty but isolated in rural Indiana.

The social changes of the mid-20th Century were happening in the abstract for my dear Auntie. She remained mired in the Victoriana of her youth.  That some flaming black queen used her name as the title for his hit was inconceivable in her universe.

The excitement Mother felt that morning led to an interest in Little Richard’s music that has never waned. To me it’s his up tempo. There were a few rock songs before him but none had the pounding drive his did. And few have matched it since.

Equal to his musical ability was his showmanship. His preening style goaded and challenged the crowd into a frenzy. His methods were copied by most of the successful performers who followed him, reaching an apotheosis during the Punk Era. You haven’t truly experienced “audience participation” until you’ve been stuck in the middle of a mosh pit.

Little Richard’s TV talk show appearances in the middle and late years of his career were equally as fascinating. With an unnerving ability he’d turn sharply and volley a “Shut up!” at the crowd whenever he felt like it.

You never when it was coming. Amidst rapturous applause, silly giggles, roaring laughter, boring silence–suddenly there would be a “Shut up!”

It’s easy to typify this as the reaction of a defensive queen. You know people are thinking about putting you down so co-opt the agenda by bullying them first. Welcome to 1600 Pennsylvania.

But Little Richard’s understanding of the situation ran deeper. “Shut up!” was his mechanism for maintaining control. Too much applause was as bad as too much silence.

In the business of show his job was to manipulate. He created senses of exhilaration, sadness, lust, power and made it seem like everyone was in it together. He also established a trust with the audience so they felt they knew him personally.

I’ve never understood how someone could be considered a friend if you’ve never actually met them.

But I love him still. So, SHUT UP!

 

On a beautiful May evening yesterday my career as a posterateer began. I put up 20 of my You’re Fired! and Clorox printouts.

Granted 20 doesn’t exactly blanket the City. It did a nice job in my immediate neighborhood though. I’m just getting my feet wet trying to figure out how to get away with this.

There’s a distinct feeling that I could get into trouble. There isn’t one other piece of propaganda posted anywhere. Is the Summer of Love over?

Today’s poster celebrates one of the staggering achievements of the current administration’s.

Thank you Agent Orange.

As told to me by my dear friend Mrs. Rupert Murdoch, aka Jerry Hall, aka Mrs. Mick Jagger.

I’m happy to report Jerry’s designer wardrobe is looking hotter than ever thanks to record profits from Fox News’ sure-to-be Pulitzer Prize winning coverage of the Trump Virus.

Tell me Jerry, what does one wear to a virtual funeral?

Now, about Laura.

• Jesus made her infertile saying “this one’s too sick even for me.” (Gallatians something something, I don’t have time to look it up.)
• Barely able to scrape by on her mega-million Fox contract, Laura allegedly lends her adopted children out for child pornography services saying, “hey, a bucks a buck.”
• She’s secretly been having an affair with Maria Bartiroma for years.  The pirated tape of them acheiving multiple orgasms while screaming “Main Street just doesn’t get it! Wall Street needs the bailout money now!” has been a favorite of C-suites since the W administration.

All true according to my friend’s cousin’s manicurist who also does Mrs. Jerry’s frito nails.

Don’t look now but coverage like this may just snatch that Pulitzer away from Fox.

 

 

One shudders to think. Drag numbers may be the next casualty of the Trump Virus.

Given this in-place, sequestered existence of mine it’s hard to know what to post for readers. This morning I made a short video for my friend Dale. Then I thought, “the whole world is your friend, share it with everyone.”

With no premeditation and little thought I posit this morning’s conundrum. A glimpse of life as I know it.

Click here to see my red underwear.

Before one becomes too euphoric over a potential November landslide (pending late-coming returns from Belarus, of course), remember who’s across the street from The Kangarettes  Their soul brothers in the Supreme Court Chambers.

The finest Constitutional minds that The John Birch Society and Wall Street can produce are poised to strike down anything that is not pursuant to the Republican agenda.

Hopefully a new Congress will have the wisdom to impeach Kavanaugh for lying under oath during his Confirmation Hearings. And/or Clarence Thomas takes the paws that refreshes and retires.