Wordy Rappinghood

No, I haven’t been engulfed by Okefenoke wildfires, or run off with the pool boy, or “followed” R.E.M. to Vancouver to take advantage of major stalking opportunities. I’ve just been swamped at work. About 70 percent of my job involves writing, and I’ve written nearly 8,000 corporate words since May 1. I just can’t muster up the energy to blog (or read blogs) when I’m home … which, in itself, is a rarity, as my dance card is filled these days.

I’ve written some great posts … in my head. Too bad y’all can’t peek beyond the wild black locks. Maybe I’ll get them down on keyboard and screen in the next week. Maybe.

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I get a kick out of Jane Fonda. Still damn sexy, and being nearly seventy hasn’t slowed down her flirty li’l self. (Have you seen either of her sizzlin' appearances on “The Colbert Report”? I'd crawl up in his lap, too, if given the opportunity.) Plus, Jane lives in Atlanta, so she gets two more points on the Cup Coolness Chart. (And isn't her haircut adorable?)

Jane hosted the world premiere of her new movie, “Georgia Rule,” in Atlanta last week to benefit her favorite charitable organization, the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention. During the benefit auction, she bid $100,000 for a weeklong trip to her “favorite ex” Ted’s Argentinean ranch. When she won the trip, she told Turner — and the rest of the crowd at Symphony Hall — “See what I’ll do to keep other people out of your bed?”

Jane’s my flirtin’ hero.

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Have you seen the commercial for some bag o’ nuts, the one that claims when you get that 3 p.m. crash, Robert Goulet comes in and messes with your stuff? Maybe my brain is drained from the recent word output, but I giggle every damn time I see the commercial. I’ve started using Goulet as my excuse at work.

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I believe a couple of you asked for five questions during my latest e-disappearance. Promise I’ll get them to you by Wednesday, if you’re still interested in an interview.

I was in Grant Miller’s dream. I feel special ... and a little dirty ... and I kind of like that feeling. For the sordid details, read the comments to the previous post.

Thanks to those who e-mailed and checked on me. You like me, you really like me!

And now I must sign off to read the backlog of your blogs …

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Thank You, Elton

Yes, it sucks being at your desk at 5 a.m., sucking down your second cup of coffee and wondering how you're going to get it all done in time ... but at least the drive in wasn't bad ... zipping through town on darkened streets ... sunroof cranked open ... "Yellow Brick Road" cranked up ... singing along at top-lung level, cracking notes Elton and Bernie never meant to be heard. That's the way to start a day.

Still, I'd rather be in bed.

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Personality Crisis

Kathy and I saw the New York Dolls Wednesday night, and … daaaaaaaamn … they put on a great show. Thrilling, really. I’d never seen the Dolls before (their last show here was in 1981, opening for Pat Benatar), and I’m so glad I went. The Northwest Doppelganger saw them in her neighborhood a couple of weeks ago and told me it was a must show, so I squealed when Kathy told me she had two tickets.

The concert was a double treat for me because I rarely get to see Kathy, and she’s one of my favorite people. Just damn cool. She spent some formative years in Manhattan (others in London and Paris, lucky girl), and has some great stories of those days. But those are Kathy’s stories to tell, not mine. However, I’m impressed by them, so you can be impressed via moi.

The show was part of Little Steven’s Underground Garage Tour. Four bands performed before the Dolls hit the stage. The Chesterfield Kings were great … The Charms were okay … Supersucker super sucked (they try too hard to be party boys; gets boring) … and we missed the first band.

Kathy and I got close to the stage, about six or seven deep from the stage. And thank God we did. David Johansen strutted and commanded the stage in full rocker glory — black leggings, tons of sparkly baubles, a vision in glam. But, damn, he’s frighteningly tiny; I want to feed him lots of grits and biscuits. He knows how to work a stage, though, and that’s why I was there. Sylvain Sylvain lives in Atlanta these days, which was news to me. He was adorable on stage, talking about how he loves his hometown (which is funny to hear in that Noo Yawk accent). Johansen and Sylvain are still the height of cool.

Yeah, so they’re missing Johnny Thunders and Arthur “Killer” Kane. I sneered about this tour — and the new album, which I plan to pick up after I get out of the office today (yes, it’s Saturday; it’s been that kind of week, kids) — but they did a good job replacing those irreplaceables on this tour.

Sleep deprivation prevents me from remembering the entire setlist, but we heard “Pills” and “Trash” and “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory.” They closed the night with “Personality Crisis”:

We’re off to Johansen’s left.

This was a crowd pleasing to those of us who love watching crowds. One of the most interesting mixes I’ve seen in a long time. You had rockabillies and punks, former fratboys on a night out from the ‘burbs, rednecks and scenesters, folks who enjoyed the Dolls the first go-round and kids who were born years after that glorious moment in time. Our fave was the tall guy in a suit, leopard fez, and spats. Some folks around us tried to get a mosh going, but they ended up just crashing into each other.

God, I love live music …

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