Lining Up The Pool Queue
by Your Diva, Robin Pastorio-Newman

Thanks to your get well cards and letters, Your Darling, Your Diva, Your One True Love was up and doing the charleston in no time. Thanks ever so! The weekend was a whirwind, the sunshine glorious, the kiddie pool full of frosty bottles and cans piled high with ice. Like the sound of big drums growing ever nearer then fading in the distance means you're the target of a march-by drill-teaming, the year's longest day arrives this week and brings with it shorter days and wilder nights for you. Parties abound! Forget going home! Why not CrazyGlue clothing to your body and chill a bottle of Woollite?
 
Since no one was invited to McCartney's wedding, we were free to see Jonathan Richman at the Court Tavern, and everyone did. The place was so packed we were married by Arkansas standards. "I'm embarrassed to say I'd never heard of this guy until tonight," exclaimed a very young woman huddled next to Your Creme Brulee. Thinking only of increasing the Gross National Product, Your Baked Apple said, "You must buy all his records. They're vinyl, like your pants. But less form-fitting."
 
Jonathan Richman, whom Your Pan Dowdy twice today described as "the guy playing guitar in that desperate humiliationfest There's Something About Mary," is so uniquely himself, an artist so original that comparison fails. That fans can go to a small venue and see this genius is grand - for fans. Thirty year streaks of inspired madness ought to be rewarded with loyal audiences, lucrative contracts and the sticky devotion of kitten-piled fantasy babes, right? Maybe not: interestingly, the Court was pin-drop silent, conversations were shushed. The audience was so reverent its hero had to encourage clapping before anyone breathed a sound. For once, music fans, we were worthy.
 
Weeks ago, we discussed the trend in which we're underdressed without a due date. Your Custard Tart helped plan a soireé for a friend and imminently pregnant wife. One frets, yes? What if there's not enough beer? What if the food's too spicy? What if no one loses their pants? Fortunately, refreshing beverages were enthusiastically consumed, the barbecue was fantastic, and shortly after Paulie Gonzalez, e-crap music reporter, dove into the beer-filled baby pool, Your Genoise Cake had occasion to ask, "Hmm, dahhhhhhling, what happened to your pants?"
 
Of course, music is key to successful backyard carnage. Guests brought mix CDs, with songs collected at more or less legal mp3 sites. Delightful.
 
"My Poached Pear," you hint, "why regale me with stories of extravaganzas for which my invitation was most certainly lost in the mail?" Forgive me, My Truffle, mention of what must be compared with a Memorial Day barbecue and some peculiarly soulless satellite radio station. Honestly! Is there so much time to fill we simply must hear Sheena Easton? Legal issues aside, the biggest difference between renegade music suppliers is who chooses the songs, and radio, even better than average radio may still - bless my buttons! - suck. For Heaven's sake, it's past time to stock the Dead Pool with media executives.
 

 

©2002 Robin Pastorio-Newman