31 Dec

It’s that end of the yearly tradition again.

Blog stats. Nothing but blog stats.

I can safely say with great confidence that this year’s blog has had a better year than the guy actually doing all the posting – even though I was a few short clicks away from my ultimate goal of getting 8000 – but definitely happy that I went way and beyond of surpassing last year’s total of nearly 6000 clicks and like a albatross hanging around my neck, I can’t help but chalk it all the success of Harry Perzigian’s afterlife series of blogs. Both and the nhl/kings websites latched on Harry’s forgotten song written in honor of once upon a time LA Kings goalie Kelley Hrudey when the Kings first won the Stanley Cup back in the 1990’s.

But Harry’s afterlife success has also served as this blog’s curse as most of my year’s output on other subjects such as progressive rock, free comic book day, comic book television genre show ratings, and Star Wars took a back seat to what I’m trying to achieve with this blog. So, it’s with heavy regret that I’m not posting anymore bullshit stories about Harry Perzigian. That chapter is done. I refuse to pay any more money to the therapist and I emerge out into the clean outdoors with a clean slate and a much more better appreciation for everything Los Angeles and everything that it stands for me.

it’s a Donald Trump hating town and I’m happily swimming naked in my sanctuary and relish in the glorious sunshine that the consensus of my fellow Hollywood American that no one thinks he’s their president either.

He’s a fucking horrible excuse for a human, let alone a unqualified poser to be leading this nation and I hope that one day in 2018, if the fucking orange turnip face ever shows his face in this city, I can certainly hope that a friendly Cholo on his way of getting deported from his true national land accidently fires a GLOCK into his face and all of us Los Angelenos cheer at the Big Fat fucking Cheetos’ demise.

So next blog time, minus the Harry Perzigian dedicated blogs, more sweeps and media inspired meanderings (first post of January will be an analysis of last’s November comic book show sweep period) and Zak Alvarez will be participating in our guest star series with an essay on Scott Cooper’s riveting new film on the old wild west called Hostiles.

So, here are my year end stats.

Posts and Pages of 2017.

1. One Mourning Later in the Extraordinary Afterlife of Harry Perzigian – 2456 views

2. The Songs of Harry Perzigian – 526 views.

3. Two Mournings Later in the Extraordinary Afterlife of Harry Perzigian – 327 views

4. Yes Log 1979: You Coulda Been a Golden Age Contender – 259 views. This special Yes Log entry continues to be a perennial favorite amongst the Yes fans of the most requested album never to be mastered and instead existed in bits and pieces amongst the Yes expanded catalog. Or is the real reason for its’ everlasting success is that I was falsely accused of raping a woman during my teen age formative years?

5. Three Mournings Later in the Extraordinary Afterlife of Harry Perzigian – 247 views. The third and final chapter of my Harry Perzigian afterlife trilogy is the only entry of 2017 to crack the top ten. In this chapter, I examine the common bond that Harry and I shared – which was shacking up with deranged porn actresses.

6. Yes Log: A Happy 73rd Birthday to A 1970’s Renaissance Man – Jon Anderson of Yes!! – 228 views. I changed the title from Jon Anderson’s 70th birthday to 73 because I noticed that blog was still gathering steam.

7. The Beef Curtain Misadventures of Rikki Lixxx & The Escape From Hazeltine Hellmouth – 188 views. Almost a decade later, people are interested in reading about my near three year tumultuous affair with crazed nine black cocks in the mouth at the same time porn auteur Rikki Lixxx. She wasn’t sucking nine black dicks at the same time in her mouth at the time that I knew her – but that’s how she’s still making her living these days through the magic of youtube and a live streaming feed. That’s what friends tell me these days.

Jonny Quest: Past, Present, & Future Tense – 183 reads. A longtime cartoon comfort food staple. I never got around to updating this entry since I have finished obsessing over fulfilling my promise of watching every Jonny Quest episode ever made. I finally got around to finishing the final episode of the Real Adventures of Jonny Quest last Thanksgiving. The Hanna Barbara comic book revival of Jonny Quest and his adventure hero cohorts still continues as a anthology series, called Future Quest presents (in fact, I read the Steve Rude drawn Birdman issue just LAST NIGHT.

Yes Log 2014: IF ONLY THESE SUBWAY WALLS BETWEEN HEAVEN & EARTH COULD TALK – 103 views. This is the prelude to the Harry Perzigian Afterlife trilogy when I discovered Harry and his giant horse cock bleeding and convulsing body in his Brentwood apartment bed along with seven giant bottles of Canadian Mist and crushed bottles of Methadone sprawled all over the floor.

Of Wine, Women, and Post Progressive Sounds – A Guide To the Heroines of K-Scope Music – 82 views. This blog entry from 2016 had gathered a lot of traction this past year of which I’m extremely grateful for since hopefully these short write-ups of great female singers on the K-Scope Music roster such as the Anchoress and Anathema’s Lee Douglas will embrace a new cache of fans. It was neck and neck for a while for a another woman centric entry dedicated to Hyapathia Lee, but Hyapathia’s popularity came to a stand still during sometime last fall and the K-Scope one kept chugging along.

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A few words of personal loss.


Dan Hunt was my instrumental beacon. A beacon of someone of teaching me never to lose his way. I learned everything I could ever learn about being charitable towards my fellow man. Because of Dan, I decided to pass on the baton when it comes to helping out those in need around FREE COMIC BOOK DAY when I endeavor to hand down a few hundred dollars a year in dedication to the Hero Initiative. It was just something about him I used to observe firsthand during the time when I was his assistant in operating his comic book card shop ROOKIES & ALLSTARS with his partner John Lindsay in the 1990s’. We’d used to go downtown LA on a stocking trip for store supplies and trinkets such as framed posters and Pokémon cards and once Dan parked his car on some rat infested street near the many wholesale markets and indoor bazaars that we used to frequent, all of a sudden, from the shadows of alleyway darkness, a whole underground cabal of people who would emerge to keep eyes and ears to make sure that we came in and out off the streets with our lives and safety intact. Of course, Dan palming out twenties to downtrodden sentries to make sure our parking meter was full of change at all times was probably the underlying incentive. Of course, reminding myself of the times of him partaking in the alleyway cuisines of green pepper and onion Mexican sausage carts could’ve been a underlying theme to the reason why he’s buried in graveyard near Las Vegas’s McCarran’s Airport constantly craving a In and Out Double Double Cheeseburger. That and a pack of Misti cigarettes.

Either way, I was happy to be part of his extended family and all the opportunities it helped me to pursue with living at his house in Sherman Oaks for nearly the span of a decade and helping me getting my name out to the masses in the comic book community where it was at his house that I composed most of my essay and editorial symphonies for the Comics Buyers’ Guide until I was ready to venture out on my own when I had been hired to work at Warner Bros (but then, look at where I wound up – living next door to whacked out porn actress – Rikki Lixxx.)

We’ll be back next year.




22 Dec


Last blog of 2017.

Since last summer guest movie review of Wind River struck a chord with some of you, Zak Alvarez graces us once again with Native American insight into this year’s blockbuster science fiction extravaganza, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, the second movie in the monumental franchise to not to really have any real involvement from creator George Lucas, and according to both me and Zak, it’s probably the best step in the right direction because it’s the first movie I ever seen in the series to not really rely on ‘rhythmic patterns’ and doesn’t really have a cliffhanger for an ending to make you wait two or three years down the line yearning for the next one – although it may seem like it’s the midichlorian count calm before the storm.


I sent Zak out to cover an industry only invite screening of The Last Jedi which would feature a very riveting revealing soliloquy by the movie’s sole writer and director Rian Johnson that lasted over an hour and was even made more exciting that it was also the auteur visionary’s birthday as well. I already attended an earlier employee screening of the movie with two of my best buds from my high school days, Joe and Mark Zullo, so I was way too beat to stay another addition three and half hours to sit through the movie again (and it is AN epic length of 2 and a half hours – the longest film in the entire franchise), so I stuck around long enough to allow Zak in and I took my leave after I cleared the cosmic cobwebs right after Super Leia channeled her inner Silver Surfer, which I missed the first time around due to the refilling of my popcorn bucket and took my leave to head up home. So after the early evening screening, Zak had walked away with some pulse pounding peyote induced philosophy that he would like to share with us.


Before we give the platform away to Zak, let me point out that Zak will be back again in a month or so to present us upon his wisdom on the newly Scott Cooper directed Western, Hostiles starring Christian Bale, Rosamund Pike, and Wes Studi. Until then, have a great Christmas work break and I’ll be back on the morning of 31st to give us another yearly edition of that world renown All and Accounted For In the Craziness of Stats, In the Craziness… Bob Hope USO tour that you all enjoy so much.

So now, here is Zak’s assessment of “Star Wars: The Last Jedi”

I really noticed 4 crucial points:

One, Luke’s passing was marked by the setting of two suns. Well, Luke’s entrance into the epic story was marked by two suns setting on the surface of Tatooine,

Second, Rian Johnson introduced new never before elucidated powers that one can possess if one is strong with the Force. Total projection of one’s physical body not just as a hologram, but a complete double. Another power is full definition streaming content communication between Jedis, Siths, and sorcerers of the Force across an entire galaxy. Definitely a tech upgrade or a sign that the Force and its’ practitioners are indeed evolving.

Third, Rian Johnson stated in the Question and Answer session that Luke’s double or doppelgänger was his “matrix proxy” (I’m pretty sure that is the term that he used) The use of that word is very significant to me in that it indicates that Rian Johnson seems to have been swayed by the Matrix trilogy, but I also see license taken or borrowed from the mysticism made alive in Carlos Castaneda’s books (Don Juan talked about the concept of the “double” with the exactly the same characteristics and capabilities).


Lastly, James Cameron’s Avatar without a doubt may also have a progenitor here. A definite influence for sure. If so, then the powers of the Force are only continuing to surprise in their unfolding.

I wish to also take note that the word and concept of hack and hacking is now part of the Star Wars lexicon, as it has become that of its own world of 2017. The two characters, Finn and Rose Tico embarked on an excursion to a gambling casino planet to seek the help of a master hacker and failed, although they found an equally skilled hacker in Benicio Del Toro’s DJ character who later proves to be a charlatan not hesitant in betrayal. The mercenary in this Star Wars film does not choose redemption. He gives up the rebels he initially agreed to assist, takes his reward money and splits. But how do we know he wasn’t the guy they were intended to look for in the first place?

In the Wachowski Sisters films, if you die in the Matrix, THEN YOU DIE IN REAL LIFE!! Luke was lightsabered seemingly and fatally TWICE and with valiant grace, he dematerialized mid-levitation. More significantly, THIS is telling us a final revelation: Luke’s decision to directly encounter Rylo Ken’s anger through the support of an apparition supports Buddhist, Hindu, Vedic, Castanedan Toltec suppositions of past literary works that all the universe is an illusion, all pretend, A GIGANTIC fantastic matrix. A phantasm by super collective conscience agreement. Therefore thus and so forth we realize in the end, all the Star Wars fantasy may as well have been one huge long dream by one Luke Skywalker.

Which may now come to a glorious superlative end with the appearance of the twin suns, just as it began so long before.

The Luke Skywalker dream within a dream within a dream is now a memory and the legend continues. The Force lives on in the lives of fatefully chosen others.

Zak went on to say that a birthday cake was sprung for the occasion and while some were lucky to score slices and some were not, Rian did pose for selfies with fans and industry professionals in the lobby since photos weren’t allowed to be taken during the Q & A.


For those interested, you can find Zak Alvarez on facebook, where he can tell you what movie projects he’s constantly working on as an extra, such as the upcoming 2nd season of Westworld or find out in what part of the state of California that he is conducting his many spiritual stone moving sojourns.

Happy Holidays.

That Burning Sensation You’re Feeling? It’s Simply the Firewall In Your Loins Tearing Your Cyber Masculinity Apart

15 Dec


Here’s another homemade original blog ado about nothing in the tattered tradition of the old blogspot days.

Picking up from I left off from mid November of miserably trying to convince that the events of the last Marvel Comics mega summer series, the Secret Empire in which  Captain America was manually brainwashed by a cosmic cube to worship fascism instead of the concept of freedom that this country to offer. I was trying to convince you that the series’ writer, Nick Spencer pretty much mirrored real life when we actually got  real fascism back in this county making itself an encore appearance in the form of Donald fucking douchebag Trump being selected under Russian guidance to spiral our nation into a direction that we have no business of heading towards.

I don’t think that message was going out clear enough, so I need to try a different approach.

Here’s some food for thought: If you can’t stand sexual harassment in the allure of Hollywood mysticism – THEN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA IN THE FIRST PLACE??

I ask myself that everyday.

Because literally that’s why I moved out here.

To be sexually harassed.

Well, didn’t you?

Chasing the dream of growing old in the golden state with a beautiful babe hanging on to each arm while behind the wheel of a McLaren sipping Dom Perignon and smoking the latest Blueberry Crush you picked up at whatever lowlife Van Nuys area dispensary before making your trek down to Wilshire Blvd in order to show off your stinking fucking golden bling until you realize.

…until you realize.

You crashed your fucking car right on Rodeo because then you realize the stark reality has just hit you – YOU AIN’T FUCKIN’ LiAngelo Bal AND you HATE THOSE GODDAMN FUCKING SNEAKERS but yet your mind was so fixated on the booze, the blow, and the fingers up the broads’ wazoo – THAT YOU TURNED THE WHEEL WAY TOO SOON and you swerved right into the window of the Paley Center of Media and there’s glass flying every fucking where No before you try telling yourself ‘hey, it was just an honest mistake’ – you got to come down to earth, pal – You physically had too much to handle. Too much going on.

20 years ago, 30 years ago – perhaps BACK WHEN I WAS trying to make my first stab in trying to embrace the Southern California lifestyle in 1978, THIS was the normal behavior of every hot blooded male of all ages (at least past the age of thirteen), colors, shapes, and sizes – but now in the current age of the 21st century 20 teens  – we’re all of a sudden told to CURB OUR APPETITES or to SLOW YOUR ROLL. Don’t be grabbing or reaching up that miniskirt of that first slut you see parading her wares at the Rainbow Room you see- BECAUSE NOW AFTER THIRTY SOMEWHAT YEARS OF LIVING THE LIFESTYLE it’s all magically been declared wrong.

But the girls don’t have to change. They can wear the shortest miniskirts, have thong and ass cheeks to proudly display and there’s not a blessed thing you can do about.

Look away, because that erection you’re getting just from inadvertently looking- JUST MIGHT LAND YOU IN PRISON PAL!!

And you’re just going have to adapt. Adapt to the new age of you may look and sniff, but no scratching. No touching. No matter how much you’re craving walking like a hungry wolfhound down Sunset Blvd.

But holy shit, once you turn out to be a super celebrity or SEEN ON TV – all that stuff you did back in the eighties and nineties that you once thought you didn’t need consent for and were nothing back then but regurgitated guffaws to share over and over again at company Christmas parties.

Well, that sneaking hand off of Tabasco sauce in the snatch switcheroo trick MAY have been funny to her thirty years ago, but SHE AIN’T LAUGHING NOW!!

Men whose careers flourished in the entertainment and political landscapes are now finding themselves living through the throes of double jeopardy. Meaning in SOME cases – IF you thought it wasn’t wrong in the first place, well, now in the softer gentler snowflake generation, you’re going to pay the price worse than a wounded lick Nazi  hunted to the ends of the earth for crimes committed at Auschwitz.

A month ago, I detailed my near sexual harassment death experience at Warner Bros, even before I became an official employee at the studio in a coup caused by some needy emotional mixed up girl who was trying to discredit my borderline generosity toward beautiful co=workers. Although I was no saint myself, I prevailed by getting the permanent position at the studio through her incompetence and impatience.

I thought a couple of weeks would fly by if I skipped over composing a follow up that perhaps the fervor would calm down- so you got a reprint of some Yes reviews I had posted on the band’s official website.

BUT no – the story even more intensified AND as of this writing, a giant blow has been struck on one of Los Angeles fabled local celebrity and all around nice guy- KTTV Good Morning Los Angeles host Steve Edwards. A staple tradition on mornings hosting for the past twenty two years on local television. A stand guy and in his glory day of co-hosting and being the lucky slab of meat in-between the two female personalities Dorothy Lucey and Jillian Barberie (of whom I immortalized in the beginning of my Deposit Man & the Last Great Gate of Mortality Act II issue), he was not the envy of every single guy tuning in the morning news, but one the toast of the town.

As of yesterday morning, Steve Edwards was let go for an improper behavior probably in my estimation, for possibly an occasional ass pat back when Kevin Beacon was getting his career started in Footloose.

It’s the sublime to the ridiculous, the showering of sexual oppression of late. What’s wrong with a little mouthrape between friends? Or the ones who flat out lie to the tabloids such as Brett Radner and Harvey WeinsteinWHO give mouthrape a very bad name. Yeah, those guys ARE predators – they used their businesses as whore house fronts and threatened prestige talent such as Rose McGowen, Salma Hayek, Olivia Munn, and Rosanna Arquette with their careers if they weren’t propped up as the evening chum bucket.

Here’s a definitive clue for guys when you begin to realize that mouthrape isn’t really working out for someone (and I’m speaking from experience from evenings spent with ex-porn actress Rikki Lixxx)  – if she’s not moaning and screaming loudly that she’s going to cum while AT THE SAME TIME trying to squeeze your head like a bad blackhead and then shooting her legs apart so fast while grinding her vagina lips into your face – THEN SHE’S REALLY NOT INTO YOU EATING HER OUT while she’s yelling at you to get your fat face away from in between her thighs.

Those are the hardcore offenders.

The light and airy offenders such as Al Franken and Steve Edwards, I’m sure will perpetually swept under the proverbial rug. I’m harking back to the days of my San Diego shenanigans, in my early twenties when I used to work for a health food packaging warehouse in Solana Beach, where the manager used to keep an eye out on sex charged secretaries who. after a couple of beers on Friday would guarantee us hard working boys a strip show and a little touchy feely. At a part-time job in a restaurant where I worked as a prep chef, the waitresses would come on the male kitchen help and I was no exception. HOWEVER I learned a valuable lesson and it was after this particular experience that I never touched a female co-worker again: a hot senorita warned me that she had caught the flu and knowing how grabbing buttocks of your nearest female colleague was socially exceptional and was sometimes viewed as exchange for gratuity (after all, us kitchen help slaved over the hot stove and me being the Caesar Salad and personal pizza master DIDN’T GET TIPS) that she got for serving the guests THAT it would not be a good idea for a little slap ass action – IF I didn’t want to catch what she add.

I didn’t heed her warning and was out sick with the flu for a few days.

All because I squeezed her ass.

I quit working the Vitamin warehouse in Solana Beach and got a job working odd shifts at local all hours convenience store. One of my managers, Blanca was built like a mother superior brick house equipped with beautiful breasts and a heartshaped ass sent from the ass heavens above and she had a great sense of humor too. She dated a local motorcycle cop in Encinitas. I ended dating a fellow female co-worker who worked the graveyard shift, BUT I also affectionately referred to my boss as TITS.

That was my pet name for her: TITS!!


And you know what she thought about me being calling her TITS???

SHE THOUGHT IT WAS FUCKING FUNNY!! And so did her motorcycle cop boyfriend. He was cool with it too.

But I’m older now. I’m in the respectable entertainment industry of where I’ve been involved since 1997 (that’s counting my short little internship with Comic Con International) and I’ve grown up since then by becoming involved with campaigning for woman’s issues. I volunteered helping the cause of getting woman more involved with reading and creating comics with the Friends of Lulu. I’ve become perceptible towards the issues and learn to be more civil towards what can upset a woman. It’s why that my two female supervisors at Warner Bros stood up for me when that harridan of hate Jennifer tried to frame me for something that I wasn’t capable of doing. If this whole shift in the paradigm of work behavior continues to evolve, I’m going to delve about my experience of refusing to work with a certain editor on my Deposit Man simply because of his mistreatment of woman and reveal a few things he told me about what he fantasized about other woman comic book creators.


So putting aside my own miniscule proclivities spent of my youth in other industries,  when I hear about whiny making a big deal out of nothing broadcaster/sports girl/game show/ Playboy model host Leeann Tweeden who co-hosts a morning show with Doug McIntyre on local AM radio leading the charge against US Senator of Minnesota Al Franken over a French kissing rehearsal and photographed fake breast grabbing, I look at this being nothing more than behaving like a tattletale in an overcrowded third grade classroom.

A nation of tattletales. That’s us.

What emotional distress did she really go through? She was single at the time and there is video documented proof that she liked to play along with the boys, as demonstrated in a few captured moments of her grabbing a guitar player’s ass while in mid-performance (although it shows he initiated it first – but she returned the gesture) at the same 2006 USO tour that Franken accompanied with her AND another video with her at another USO tour of her introducing Robin Williams to the audience attended by soldiers serving in Afghanistan by wrapping her leg around him and slapping his ass while giving the good ol’ gine gine, a good thrust into his crotch.

So why the double standard?

So when I posted a meme on facebook being all concerned by all this – I got an irritated reaction from none other than KABC’s morning host, Doug McIntyre himself clarifying that the difference between Franken’s action and Leeann action is that is being discussed before coming on stage that there would be male grabbing AS PART of the act and that consent was given – just like the good days when Bob Hope was going out on all those USO tour during World War II, the Korean War, and The Vietnam, grabbing all the ass that he could get to fill in that old Toluca Lake mansion of where he used to live. ALL CONSENSUAL.

No disrespect to Doug (in case he ever gets around to reading this – hopefully never) but this is an absolute total fail booty bump farce followed by a mutually clumsy ass grab looks kind of improvised and the idea of it comes from absolutely nowhere.

I don’t think Leeann’s word exact words before taking the stage to the band was ‘hey, I’ll be grabbing all your asses on stage. So if you feel a little pinch in your taint area, that will be me. No time for you to sign the permission slips. Let’s just go out and knock ’em dead.’

But wait a minute, there was no objection when Franken handed Leeann the script for the sketch that they were going to perform. It was read and acknowledge, but the real problem came when it was to Leeann’s point of view- YOU can’t really do the same thing in rehearsal as performing the actual sketch live on stage itself – even though the script calls for a real live actual deep kiss to be performed.

In Leeann’s mind: Al Franken, the writer of the sketch performed,  was simply trying to DOUBLE DOWN.

And in that picture:


Is he really touching her? Doesn’t look that way to me – and how much action can you truly expect when you’re practically covered in body armor from head to toe?

I really have NO sympathy for her since proof is out there that she once engaged herself in the same type of similar hijinks.

Too much big nothing burger perpetuated under the brainwashing guidance of she man Democratic hater Roger Stone – but they succeeded in taking one of the good guys down – while the rest of the REAL GROPING BOY’S CLUB such as Orangutan Trump continues to flourish under this new disgusting white supremacy that has now permeated our American institution. If Franken has to step down, then so does Dr. Donald Zaius.

If it could get any worse – you might want to take the reminder of that wreckage and pack those expensive 200 dollar plus high top sneakers and move the hell out to Lithuania where they can’t even grasp the concept of sexual harassment and where the body work is probably cheaper.

Because no one really knows your fucking name out there.

In the upcoming weeks:  stone mover spiritual advisor/movie reviewer Zak Alvarez will be back with his second review (since the first one, Wind River was such a enormous hit with Purple Pinup Guru fans) of STAR WARS: The Last Jedi. He’ll covering a Q & A with screenwriter and director Rian Johnson.

And in then in the yearly tradition: It’s all accounted for IN THE CRAZINESS OF STATS, in the craziness 2017.







YES LOG Supplemental: Old Time Yes Reviews at Universal Amphitheater Circa 2000 & 2004

30 Nov
This past week I’ve been prepping up my follow up to my entry of two weeks ago of “When Captain America Throws His Mighty Panty Shield” of sexual harassment in the work place including my near miss at getting booted out of Warner Bros Studios before I was even officially hired. But the notes I was gathering wasn’t beginning to make sense as the news cycle keeps constantly shifting and I was starting to meander in a whole different direction which would probably hinge on something not really work safe to work on and I really don’t want to risk any of my co-workers passing by glancing at what I’m doing on company property, so I think I’m going to curb it to the draft pile until the middle of next month.
Since I haven’t done anything really Yes Log related this year, I just happen to stumble across some mini-reviews in my Yahoo draft file that I wrote that got posted on pertaining to two concerts I attended at the now long lamented Universal Amphitheater that got bulldozed over for the new Harry Potter ride.
I also offer condolences to the Howe family on the mysterious circumstance that took away the life of Steve Howe’s youngest son, Virgil.   
In the meanwhile, enjoy these diminutive trips back on down high the memory lane.
Give up?
With that being said, I spent last Friday evening attending the thirty plus year old purveyors of progrockers show at the Universal Amphitheater for the first time in three years.
In addition to just having released a spectacular 5 CD box set spanning the width of their thirty plus career called Yes- In a Word 1969– (which has a humdinger of a list price of $79.99 although, when it first came out I got mine at $49.99 over at Best Buy), the current line up consisting of Jon Anderson– vocals, Steve Howe– guitars, Chris Squire-bass (one of the best and innovative bass players ever in existence), and Alan White on drums have managed to ensnare keyboard wizard Rick Wakeman back behind the electronic ivorys once again. As Jon Anderson would put it: “We have secretly referred to this tour as the Coming to Full Circle tour”.
I wholeheartedly to the sunrise agree.
For when I was a spry young lad, I remember going against my parents wishes to get abroad a bus to New York’s Madison Square Garden to see Yes perform when I was just fourteen years old.
This was the exact same line up when I first saw them play. So it brought back many pleasant memories and I still haven’t regretted it since.
Anyway, let me state one thing before I get into the review:
Universal Amphitheater sucks and smells like ass.
Thank you for letting me get that off my chest.
Why the band persists on playing at this venue is beyond AND before me.
Before the band begins to walk on the stage- they play a little excerpt from classical composer Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. It’s the same exact piece they play in the last animated sequence of Fantasia 2000.
You see, not only is Disney ripping off residuals from Winnie the Pooh, but they are also pillaging Yes.
Yes should sue Disney. I bet Yes fans would find that very entertaining.
As the suite reaches its’ crescendo, the members of Yes each take their place behind their respectful instruments (Anderson has an arsenal of percussive gadgets he can play with when he gets bored during his playmates’ solo spots or has an acoustic guitar close by so he can strum along with off in the corner near White’s drumkit).
And then they launched into a fiery frenzy 40 canon salute of superb musicianship starting with “Siberian Khatru
(Don’t ask me what that last title means, I haven’t understood it myself for the past thirty years.)
They then followed with a rousing cover version of Paul Simon’s “America”. Which by this time, all the wandering stoners finally found their seats and my view was no longer obscured by baffling helpless ushers stumbling in the dark to find these hapless stoners’ seats.
After polite applause, the band recited one of their latest efforts off of last year’s Magnification album called “In the Presence Of.” It was an album recorded with a full symphony orchestra and their first without a keyboard player- so Rick had to fill in with sounds of a full orchestra generated off his keyboards. Stripped down, so to speak. And since I skipped out on the last two tours- to me, this was the official tour behind the album. (I wished Wakeman would’ve tackled the track, Dreamtime).
Then it was on to a couple of songs of which had never been performed for close to thirty years. From the Fragile album: “We Have Heaven” which segued into a song about a group of lost explorers trying to find warmth in the Arctic Circle- “South Side of the Sky.”
Hearing this performed certainly made my night and completely paid for my admission.
Each of those songs I listed above were generally in the eight to ten minute range. Now they were about to embark on a twenty two minute musical venture.
This one was called “The Revealing Science of G O D” A song loosely based on Hindu philosophy and yogi teachings.
At this point, I could smell something stronger in the air other than incense by the time the opening Dance of the Dawn chant was in full swing. How they got that in past security is beyond and before me(sic).
Now let me add that this opening chant of RSOG is quite a mouthful- but yet they pull it off within the first minute and a half of the song both intricately and delicately for the simple reason that they are….well, Yes.
Lots of people were pleased to hear Wakeman play this in concert- because it was the musical direction of this song and others that follow on the Tales from Topographic Oceans album caused him to first leave the band.
But I guess Rick finally got over it.
Next we were treated to the masterful guitar stylings of Mr. Steve Howe of whose appearance nowadays flabbergasted me. I mean, I have memories of this guy being on the cover of my sister’s Teen Beat magazine circa twenty years ago when he was doing pop oriented material for ASIA. Now in his mid-fifties, with granny glasses and just a little more hair than either Ron and Clint Howard put together; putting it mildly- he looks decrepit. Does he have cancer of something? Or is this the folly of choosing to be a vegetarian for the whole of your life?
But what the hell, he sure knows how to play the guitar and in this small delightful acoustic set we walked down memory lane to a little ditty called “Mood For a Day” with thrown in bits of soft Yes melodies  in most particular, the ending to a song called “The Ancient” that was also on the Tales album (I believe some refer to it as “Leaves of Green”).
Steve finished and said it was time for a short fifteen minute intermission.
Then I found out, I needed slightly more than fifteen minutes because when I got back, elfish singer, Jon Anderson had already launched into a new song called “Show Me a Child”
Then Rick took center stage. The crowd cheered as he tore into his wizened solo based on The Six Wives of Henry the VIII. Rick was garbed in his classic shiny silver spaceman suit with detachable cape accessory. It was at this point when the monitors on each side of the stage showed a close up of Rick. Upon seeing what was on the screens instantly horrified me.
Oh shit, was that…Edgar Winter on stage?
The guy who’s suing DC Comics for likeness infringement in Jonah Hex comic books?
But once Rick’s speedy fingers touched the electrifying keys, my fears were quelled when I realized that Rick just simply shaved his beard off. Please Rick, if you’re reading this: GROW IT BACK. It’s scaring the bejeebees out of me.
After Rick had finished, the band then unified themselves to present a rousing rendition of another Fragile classic, “Heart of the Sunrise
Then the title track from the latest album, “Magnification” was performed which segued into another favorite of mine- 1978’s “Don’t Kill the Whale,” that had Chris Squire all a bass pounding and a thumpity.
After that bit was done, Chris Squire took the mike and announced; “We just did a song about mammals, now we’re going to do a song about…FISH.”
Then Chris and Alan propelled themselves into orbit with Chris’s world renowned bass solo with a smattering of other Yes basslines that were known to the audience like Sound Chaser, Tempus Fugit, and On the Silent Wings of Freedom.
After that was over, a harp was brought on stage by a roadie, which is for singer, Jon Anderson to strut his angel strumming skills during the fifteen minute opus, Awaken from the 1977 Rick Wakeman come back album, Going For the One. During the middle of the song- everything all of a sudden got all religious like when Anderson traded his harp licks with Rick’s sampled church organ sound.
Upon retaking the vocals it looked as if Jon Anderson was having another one of those Jesus Christ flashbacks as he stood in silent prayer at the foot of the stage. Or maybe perhaps, it was Deepra Choka?
Wakeman has been quoted in the press as saying this about Anderson before rejoining the band: “ Jon Anderson is the only person in the world who is trying to save the planet by living on another one.”
Makes perfect sense to me.
Then the band left the stage and came back for a double song encore, “Yours Is No Disgrace” and their first world wide hit; an abridged version of the Fragile hit, “Roundabout” at which point towards the end, some strange woman was seen dancing at the edge of the stage with Anderson. I couldn’t figure out who it was. Could have been his daughter, Jade- as I had heard that she recently put an album out on Columbia Records and was probably there to cheerlead for her dad.
Then it was all over…..for now.
You know, I’m going to have start seeing Yes in different venues other than what is offered in LA.
If I recall in my last review back on The Ladder tour, I didn’t like the House of Blues because it was too cramped for my taste with a few individuals here and there breaking out in fisticuffs and drunks throwing up all over the place. Here, the number of seats and people are right, but the place sounds like a freakin’ s*** echoed tunnel. The house amplification just doesn’t do it for me. The show wasn’t too loud or not loud- it was just a muddy and distorted mess. For example: I remember Jon playing with some windchimes during the course of RSOG just for a sweetening effect, but yet you can hear Jon’s windchimes louder that either Steve’s guitar or Rick’s keyboard put together.
Keep star trooping on,
Cary Coatney
Hey, does anyone remember who Marv Albert’s favorite rock band is?
And so here I am just a few years older since I’ve seen the last Yes concert at the Universal amphitheatre (not one of my favorite venues in the whole world, but easily accessible from my house). although what I got was the abridged version, so to speak.
Earlier in the year, another important Yes event was celebrated in my neck of the San Fernando Valley and that was the in-store signing release party of the U.S version of Rhino’s Ultimate Yes collection and the Yesspeak DVD at the Sherman Oaks Galleria’s Tower Record– a store that was literally 3 short blocks from my house. That was a fun experience, getting up at 4 AM in the morning just to wait in line for a wristband and chat it up with Valley locals about Yes music.
Hmmm, these septuagenarian old rockers are getting closer and closer to where I live, I wonder if I just invite them over for a barbecue or something.
 But that was a full on assault of acoustic serendipity and a fun evening of meet and greet – one of which I will always cherish for my remaining years. I wanted so much to check out the Anaheim show, but for one who doesn’t get around in a SUV and relies on public transport, that is one gig that might as well be as far out of reach as the south side of the sky- so I guess this show I saw Sunday would just as well have been my dog’s Saturday night’s dinner scraps.
  First, I’m grateful that the tour merchandise’s prices weren’t out in the stratosphere. I found a good $15.00 priced t-shirt (probably the lowest I’ve paid at a concert in years – maybe since when I was a snotty nosed 15 year old at the Tormato tour), although I’m kicking myself for not picking up the 35 dollar long sleeved Relayer one (didn’t see it until I left the concert) and the program book was a steal for $10 with a tribute to bootlegged concerts. Surly some appetizer to what will whet our full course of the proposed 3 disc live set that Rhino has scheduled for release in the near future.
   Security precautions made a good portion of the ticket holders late for Dream Theater, as evident by the cattle prodded march to the major pat ‘ho’ down provided by Uni staff members. When I got inside, Dream Theater as just ending a song from one of their older albums before launching into one of their most brilliant instrumental pieces, ‘Stream of Consciousness’ from their latest studio effort, Train of Thought. Haven’t seen the band since the 2000 Metropolis tour ( and there was a lot of stuff from the previous two albums that I haven’t heard live before ), so it was kinda of awkward to see DT occupy such a large stage- I’m so used to seeing them perform at smaller venues such as the House of Blues that they looked as if they were too small to be up there. Mike Portnoy is still, as usual, the star of the show just bitchslappin’ that drum kit away like a galactic warrior roaring to jettison into hyperdrive. The stuff he does to those skins really make my toes curl. And I think Jordan Rudess was purposely in a Yes homage mode that night- some of the timbres coming from his keyboard was sort of Wakemaneques, especially when they went into toe tapping territory on  ‘Solitary Shell’. Damn, I really dig that twirl-a- whirl keyboard stand that Rudess sports on stage. That could be really useful in any keyboard player’s arsenal. Also I’ve noticed that guitar god John P is starting to sprout a bald spot.
   And then it was on to the Steve Howe hair club for men.
   So it was here that I caught my first glimpse of the new designs for Roger Dean Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Varilites, camera, action. And if you squint closely, you’ll spot Keanu Reeves popping out of one of Alan White’s  robot bass drum pods like he did in ‘the Matrix’.
   The short abbreviated set opened beautifully with two songs I’ve never heard seen performed live before, ‘Going for the One’ and ‘Sweet Dreams’. Anderson’s voice cracking under the pressure of the high notes- but not by much- just a little tweaking in the Frodo vocal infrastructure, but nothing to be concerned about. There was the first of three guitar/keyboard solo duel frolicking between Wakeman and Howe during the end of “Sweet Dream”. I don’t know who really won but Howe and Wakeman would butt  heads again at the conclusion of South Side of the Sky and Starship Trooper.
   Unfortunately the two opening numbers would be the only highlight of the show for me. The rest of the show with the exception of the acoustic interlude, was just a ho hum, been there, done that kind of extravaganza for me. And the reason why  this obtuse dread of melancholy washes over me is because I look at most of the set list and it’s BEEN THERE, DONE THAT. I’ve already heard Yours is No Disgrace dozens of times. The same with Awaken and heck, I don’t even no longer want to go to places where And You and I have been – that was my cue for a ciggie break.
   It would be nice if the band could take a year or two off from touring – even though the twilight years are beckoning over the horizon and the risk of Steve Howe kneeling over any day now becoming more inevitable ( but it was a relief to know that the Geritol was giving him more pep than usual that night) just to sit back and record one new last record with Wakeman- even if it was to say good-bye and disappear into the sunset- it would be the honorable way – with Rick on board the sailing ship to nowhere leaving at any place.
   Please guys, new some new material to tour behind- or the franchise is going to wind up as bad as the Moody Blues where you will no longer need a scorecard to predict the set list. I gave up on that band when Hayward and Lodge gave poor Patrick Moraz the heave ho.
  I wouldn’t want the same to happen to my favorite minstrels in the world.

When Captain America Throws His Mighty Panty Shield

15 Nov


America – it sucks.

And believe it or not, you only have Captain America to blame.

You have him to blame for Donald Jackass Trump. Colin Kaepernick taking a knee. The Mandalay Bay shooter.  Kim Jong Un’s tinkertoy pea shooters. Russia collusion. Big fat fucking hairy slob Harvey Weinstein going down on you to lick your pussy and Kevin Spacey sneakingly manuevering himself in a crowded Shakespearean theater to grab your genitals.

All of it.


Fucking. Captain. America’s. Fault!!

Some of you reading who mostly are here for the Harry Perzigian or the Yes Logs may or may not be familiar with the plot lines of the latest big mega event crossover that Marvel concocted in order to bring in new readers and to jack up the prices of all their titles while insulting the integrity and the wallets of die-hards long time fans who just happen to be fascist supporters of Trump.

The premise of the perplexing, but yet best selling mini-series is, to borrow a sentence or two from the Wikipedia’s entry:

The storyline deals with Hydra’s takeover of the Marvel Universe after Captain America is revealed to be one of their agents ever since the sentient Cosmic Cube Kobik affected his memories upon Red Skull ‘s clone using her powers on him. This causes the rest of the superheroes to join forces and rebel against their former leader and friend to prevent the world from falling under Hydra’s control.”

As the mini-series was getting underway, certain unruly people were going fucking ballistic on website comment sections while social media was having a meltdown going so far as to be calling for writer (and at one time, a city of Cincinnati councilman) Nick Spencer’s ballsack to be dangling off a lance, because the similarities of prominent Nazism making their longtime encore performance in the USA since the mid 1940’s was becoming all undeniable substantial in today’s ugly side of everyday existence all because of the inexperienced orangutan was a ‘breath of fresh air’ to the political establishment.

That is, if you enjoy the aroma of monkey shit in the morning.

Why do these totalitarian cattle have anything to fear when a mirror is held to their faces? Was it because they had their little feelings hurt when a black guy finally had a swing at bat of running our country  – THAT only pleasant alternative left to quell that near decade of racist thinking was to put a 70 year old babyman with no political demeanor or experience to be put in charge?

Whatever the fucking reason – NOBODY wants tradition messed with, nor allusions that a beloved hero of comics and movies to be depicted as a dirty dealing double agent standing at the beck and call of some foreign government barking orders for him to commit treason against his home country.

But that’s exactly what we have today IN REALITY: jerk-offs, including the 70 year old reality television show guy with ZERO POLITICAL EXPERIENCE and three fucking business bankruptcies to his fake name getting spiffs from foreign enablers to hoist his own business interests.

But how can you condense it all down to a mini time out?

280 character Twitter rants? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

The reason why I don’t have a twitter account to my name is because I require UNLIMITED CHARACTER rants.

However the slime trail of social incorrectness is increasingly exponentially. People with no knowledge of fucking anything consider themselves to be experts of EVERYTHING. All of a sudden, your certificate of brain surgery rewarded to you from Phoenix University gives you immediate carte blanche to tell someone who’s worked probably a decade or so in achieving a master’s degree from a higher university of that self same  caliber to tell SOMEONE TO GO FUCK THEMSELVES ON A FACEBOOK POST over how their stupid gorilla of a candidate who couldn’t fucking peel a banana or throw shit without help of his own kids, let alone understand a goddamn single thing about the Bill of Rights or the US Constitution has to relearn the alphabet in order to spell his own signature on a new law to be passed.


And the merriness seems to have spread to other industries as well, including my own industry which is the entertainment industry.  I constantly monitor a website called for updated entertainment news. I have it up all the time at work while I’m prepping up residual checks for entertainment professionals constantly being refreshing it. Regardless of whether or not, we have a pretend awful reality show personality pretending to be siting on the throne, there’s really no reason for journalists and columnists that dominate the website to keep feeding us junk on politics when all you want to know what is the latest multimillion dollar movie deal is being made with major comic book properties being turned to life  – but they keep getting posted and thus it opens the floodgates of the comments section being monitored and ambushed by Drudge Report denizens knee deep in Flyoverville shit while throwing a Papa John Pizza party airstream trailer parks who think they know more about the entertainment industry than a actual someone who’s been working in it for the past fucking twenty years bitching and whining over why Tim Allen didn’t get invited.

That’s the clown mentality of this nation, folks. All of sudden, everyone’s a fucking expert except for the guy who puts himself through the actual 8 – 12 hour workday experience. You could go as far as Harry Knowles, the creator of Ain’t It Cool News, when shitheads from rural Texas once gather around  to dictate to you what is or what not should be a trendy Hollywood genre picture and make unsubstantiated threats to studio executives  if their dream production doesn’t stop from suffering in development hell for another day.

But I’m going all in different directions, why waste any more breath on another orange hairy pawed crotch grabbing sexual harasser?

I’ve been through the wringer. More than a decade or so I almost nearly had my entertainment industry career cut short back while I was temping for Warner Bros when a female ‘rival temp colleague’ also competing for my job to become permanent thought of a clever scheme of cheating her way to the finish line.

Her name was Jennifer Somebody. She came highly recommended to my department – IF my rival was sent over from a employment agency that was running a strip joint on the side. From day one when she first arrived, roughly a few months after I’d already been briefed and situated of what my job in the MIS – Script Services job would entail ( I was placed in charge of taking care of invoices for studio services and travel & expenses), she came roaring in cracking wise of sexual innuendos towards me probably because she believed that I was the youngest guy in the department who could probably withstand a few major blue ball false alarms.

Since she lived somewhere in Canoga Park and my house in Sherman Oaks was on her way, she offered me a lift home in her car and throughout the trip, she did nothing but whine about how it was her birthday the next day and nobody cared. Being nice about it and telling her that I was moonlighting as a independent comic book writer and publisher on the side  (having just published my first real professional looking product, The Deposit Man & the Great Gate of Mortality Act 1 through Brenner Printing out in Texas), I volunteered to make sure I got her a gift for tomorrow to help celebrate..

Until she quickly darted her face in my direction and said remotely, “Yeah? Are you going to give me sex?

I couldn’t believe that I just heard that.

I looked at her shocked and really tried to downplay my game face going all red  (because she was a hot looking blonde. NOT that I wouldn’t have minded), ‘no of course not. I just met you today. I MEANT I’ve got a new book printed and I was going to sign a copy for you.’

So I brought into work, my three warped wares that were so far done in collaboration with artist Larry Nadolsky to give her and soon enough, she became my lunch partner at work and usually during our trips down to the local Del Taco, she would indulge me with stories and pieces of her past which usually ended up with the happily ever after ending of her waking up in a jail cell from blacking out the night before: which translated to this: she used to work at strip joints to make ends meet by sucking dick and getting fucked up the ass – BUT on the plus side, she made sure her data entry and Excel skills remained satisfactory in all the office pools that she had thrown her name in.

HOWEVER tit for tat, my gentlemanly approach to savior-faire was really no different than hers. I admitted to her of places that I’d like go test my G string bang theory.  I once lived in a gorgeous house in Sherman Oaks owned by a cast member from the original Wizard of Oz film and I lived to flaunt it by inviting one night stands and girls off the internet to that house, and I guess what she was slowly getting pissed off with me about was my asking her opinion on what certain call girls to recommend looking for in the back pages of the LA Weekly (that’s a weekly alternative newspaper distributed free in the city of Los Angeles).

I don’t know if I insulted her by telling her flat out that ‘you’re my work colleague, so there’s no way I would want to get together with you socially- because – (to drive in the nail of the final coffin of our working relationship) that’s how my stepdad and mother met – AT work. And I grew up hating that motherfucker who came in and married my mother who thought he earned the right to order me around and tell me what to do.’

So after I told her my personal vehemence towards office romances, those lunch outings we took together came to an immediate halt.

One day, we were both called in by my boss and were told to go down to the main lot and take a series of assessments that they needed in case we were lucky enough to obtain permanent employment. We were selected to join a few other candidates who were also applying at various departments

I don’t know where it all went wrong. Even though there were eight of us cramped in that one tiny room at a warehouse building sequestered a few blocks from the Burbank Airport, we sat on opposite sides of the room barely talking to each other until the boss asked if it was ok if I rode down with her.  All I said to her as I got in the passenger side of her car was (I’ve should’ve just taken the local bus down to the lot) this compliment, ‘hey you look as if you’ve been working out. Your thighs look real muscular.’  She just gave me that sneer again.

Maybe she’s just having a shit day, OR she’s just repulsed for me to be all up in her personal space.  But, I thought of something that might cheer her up.

My knowledge of the studio.


So after the testing took place on the lot right in the very same building where I had my one week orientation of testing to be eligible to work for the MIS Studio and Script Service Department right before the tragic events of 9/11 happened, I remember that Laramie Street, the make shift western era town where many Warner Bros classic westerns were filmed, including the classic Maverick television series that starred James Garner was in preparation to be bulldozed down. This was technically Jennifer’s real first visit to the lot- she’s never gone past the HR building on Alameda and Olive. So I told her, ‘Jennifer, we got to check this out, this perfect replica of a wild west town. They’re going to wreck it down next week and build new office bungalows in its’ place, We gotta say goodbye to it.’

She was very reluctant to go, but I playfully tugged on her arm to motion her to follow me. So I showed her the sights, going over to a horse barn, a hotel and saloon, and a sheriff station with all the props being prepared to be packed away. Just before Jennifer came aboard, my department came down for a barbeque one afternoon. I felt bad if Jennifer didn’t get to experience a part of this studio’s history that was being wiped from existence.

But she wasn’t really impressed. So we drove back and didn’t say a word for the rest of the way.

So a week goes by and we resume our natural working colleague ways.

Then one day, I’m unexpectedly called into my boss’ office who happens to be a gorgeous blonde in her own right, and she says to me: “Jennifer says that on the way to your assessments a couple of weeks back, that you squeezed her thigh in the car.”

I defiantly flat out told her, ‘no fucking way. I don’t hit on women in the workplace. That’s not my scene. She’s making things up. If anything, when she first started here, SHE MADE passes at me and had stopped talking to me when I rebuked her advances.”

My supervisors – who were both women, backed me up. They’ve grown to known me as a respectful subordinate who respected his bounds. I was thrilled to be working for Warner Bros. It’s always been one of lifelong goals. The only time, I’ve gotten in trouble with them was when I wandered away from a lunch date with them on the Ranch to hang out on the set with the actresses of the Batman spin-off show the Birds of Prey that only lasted for a half of season and they saw me get a hug from actress Ashley Scott who played the role of The Huntress.

Not longer than a few days fly by, IT WAS exactly on a Thursday. Me and a co-worker are having a ‘death pool’ bet on what celebrity was going to croak next. We were taking bets on how long it would take Bob Hope to die. A week? A month? A half a year maybe?

Jennifer wanted to play too. She injected herself into the conversation that was occurring across the room from her. Since the whole ‘joke bet’ was my idea, I just rudely shot back at her (because I was fucking pissed that she concocted that whole ‘squeezing my thigh’ story to my boss) – “ I WASN’T TALKING TO YOU!!

Jennifer freaking snapped in front of everyone in the room and started giving me the middle finger while yelling FUCK YOU over and over to me

Me being the undisputed gift of defection. My response to that was:

Honey, don’t embarrass yourself in front of everyone in this room by showing off your IQ score, ok??’

Gorgeous blonde boss came running into the room, baffled by what had just happened and wonder WHY the reason she was rapidly charging out of the building, crying her eyes out.

My boss looks to me and says to me: “ you know, you two are like oil and water’ before she went following Jennifer.

But Jennifer never came back. She got in her car and immediately sped out of the parking lot and later that afternoon, her agency called and said that she no longer wanted to work at Warner Bros.

After a year had gone by and the dust had settled,  In February of 2003, I was hired by Warner Bros and I lasted there for another two and a half years before I was laid off and half my department was dismantled and sent to India.

But let me tell you, if my name were DC editor Eddie Berzanga and that incident occurred on my watch in this day of 2017, I would’ve been drummed out and told to pack my shit up immediately.

There will be more to discuss in a couple of weeks.


BUT know this: at the end of Secret Empire, Cap’s friends didn’t lose hope of abandoning him and helped crush the Cosmic Cube that was making Captain America getting his Hitler jollies of turning the United States into a racist fascist country – everything nearly magically turns back to the normal Marvel Universe that we usually know and love or abhor when they put loser concepts such as Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD back into television production..

However, in real life when a poser admits on tape that what women really enjoyed is to have their gine-gines grabbed and THEN is still elected president of the United States.

That’s not fucking normal.






How I Spent My Last King Crimson Summer Vacation.

30 Oct


I lost my notes on what was going to be an attempt of mine writing something of social value, like I used to do in the golden days of editorialized pages of the Comics Buyer’s Guide. It was to be my middle age viewpoint of what patriotism (or lack thereof) means to me, the anti climate of Hollywood, and so on and so forth as seen through the eyes of a recent CAPTAIN AMERICA comic book – so in the meantime, AS I ATTEMPT TO RESEMBLE THOSE SCATTERED NOTES IN THE WIND TUNNEL OF MY MIND, I think on the side, I really want the time to clear out the inventory of my old DPRP concert reviews with a little sweetening of the new hope of what’s ahead for one of my all time favorite prog heavy rock bands – or perhaps THE progenitor of my all time favorite PROG HEAVY ROCK BANDS.

For the past three times I’ve been to the Greek Theater. It’s always been Yes, Yes, more Yes + Toto, – so the fourth wall time is the charm to finally check out someone else magnificent under the stars. When I heard the announcement from Peter Tilden, a local talk show host and television writer, that King Crimson was doing a fifth anniversary retrospective tour of their entire studio discography – it was probably something that I would bite me on the wonder nads lust of my teenage upbringing if I hadn’t made the effort to see this tour.

Sadly, Roger Waters was playing his massive solo tour in support of his latest studio opus that very same night at the Los Angeles Staple Center on that early summer June evening.  I already saw Roger Waters live at the San Diego Sports Arena when he was busy touting his RADIO KAOS and he wasn’t close to filling up half that place back in 1987.

So it was very heavy regret that I  had to say – FUCK HIM. I was never a Pink Floyd loyalist like some of the kids I went to high school with. King Crimson was a unique band for me to follow back in high school BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE SEEMED TO LIKE THEM like I did. In the case of Roger ‘s  first new studio album, Is This The Life You Really Want? in nearly 25 years, give or take that crappy opera he released a decade or so back, none of his schtick seems hardly relevant these days. It’s a case of too little too late. With the exception of a few anti-Trump songs and the regurgitated Animal themes, Waters barely makes a spectacle with the same old same old Pink Floyd songs that you’ve already performed on his previous over wrought Wall soirees.

King Crimson, on the other hand brings us continuing hope for the progressive rock future. Their latest line-up, a blend of the old faces with the new faces. Robert Fripp and Tony Levin have been at the forefront of every tour I’ve attended. Their last tour was the first one I’ve ever seen without Adrian Belew being the front and center stage commander. This time leading King Crimson 7.0 is vocalist Jakko Jakszyk (The Tangent), joined by extra hands on drummer Jeremy Stacey (The Lemon Tree) playing the part of Jamie Muir, along with drummer and synthesizer/mellotron player Bill Reiflin (REM). Also newish to the fold is ex-Porcupine Tree drummer extraordinaire Gavin Harrison (my first tour seeing him in action) joining newly reappointed saxophone and flutist Mel Collins after a seriously absent forty-year plus sabbatical.

The 2017 US Radical Action tour (featuring the Double Quartet Formation) that is now winding up is the concert I’ve always dreamed about attending back in high school. It was a beginner’s guide to all the gems you’ve always wanted to hear performed live with nearly incarnation of the band represented. “Cirkus” from 1970’s Lizard album was one of the leading jawdroppers that Fripp pulled from out of his hat and the title track from the following album Islands released in 1971, was nearly enough to bring me to tears (I was thinking of an old female myspace gal pal from the U.K. by the name of Miss Lady Bee during this performance of how she wrote to me expressing Robert Fripp, can without a doubt, can exhibit a deep-rooted romantic side). Another bombastic surprise was the opening encore performance of Fripp’s very famous collaboration with David Bowie called “Heroes”. Believe me, a lot of people in the audience didn’t see that coming, but me being a hard-core follower, had purchased the live EP sampler before heading in half expected it.  Also new songs from a forthcoming album (I hope) were premiered, but silly me didn’t bring his smartphone notepad to write down the titles in fear that Fripp’s security goons would confiscate it. People who dared to take iPhone photos during the performance either got ejected from their seats (depending on how drunk or dope infused belligerent they were) or were publicly embarrassed by wandering EG Record interns. You were only allowed to take photos of  the band. after the performance was finished. The band didn’t rely on fancy pyrotechnics, laser beam light shows, or projected movie screens with the exception of the performance of “Red” which was when the stage was bathed in crimson light.

I got a feeling that the reason Fripp was so lenient in the elastic stretch of covering nearly all eras of past King Crimson line ups was probably the need to see the catalogue preserved for future generations to come and give it a fresh perspective. Robert Fripp is pushing 71 (for some reason I thought he was in his mid-seventies), he’s not going to be around forever so younger members such as Gavin Harrison and Jakko Jakszyk can keep the momentum going. Already in a span of a year, we lost both founding member Greg Lake and mid-seventies master of stage ceremonies John Wetton. It seems King Crimson doesn’t have much luck in the longevity of bass players with the exception of Tony Levin, Wetton and Lake also join the bass player and vocalist Boz Burrell if 1971’s Islands in the tone death department. Of course, Boz was more fondly remembered as the bass player of Bad Company.



Where I came in was when I was growing up in the New York era of the delicious hot platter trio servings of Discipline, Beat, & Three of a Perfect Pair – a rare era of a time I felt I belonged to a musical pulse not often shared or understood by fellow Parsippany High School underlings who couldn’t past an old Led Zeppelin album or the current 3 chord wonders of the latest AC/DC record. King Crimson was not exactly a household word on the West Coast – at least as far as Adrian Belew was concerned – he was mainly a guy who came and went on a few of Frank Zappa records Nope, Belew belonged to the East Coast vibe. Fellow New Yorkers and people such as me who would run to see him play mostly on those Hell Kitchen area Pier 23 nights only seem to get him. However,  Bill Bruford was the main draw that led me to this iteration of band after listening to that classic album trio of The Yes Album, Fragile, and Close to The Edge and followed his breadcrumb trail to another classic rock album of Lark’s Tongue in Aspic, Starless & Bible Black, and Red. So hearing his jazz rock roots flourish on his solo albums and his immersion into polyrhythms and electronic drums was the awakening of a new era for a hybrid reincarnated British prog/New York Alternative rock band. Knowing of Tony Levin through his work on numerous Peter Gabriel solo albums was the icing of the cake.

Those were great concerts out on the Pier shared drunkenly with the Zullo brothers were memories to be forever cherished with the outings with the boys. King Crimson is not a take a girl out to a concert band, because listening to King Crimson requires intense and direct attention paid to musicianship, plus despite Bruford’s shaking one booty’s to playing an electronic Simmons drum kit while standing with his back to the audience, there’s really nothing much for a chick to shake her ass to.

I could go on about how Steven Wilson’s phenomenal work with enhancing the first 10 King Crimson studio albums in 5.1 surround sound extravaganza mind-blowing experiences (including alternative mixes of entire track lists) and how Jakko has taken on the mantle with 1995’s THRAK with hopefully 2000.s ConstruKction of Light and 2003’s Power to Believe to follow – but I think perhaps I had that era covered in a past Steven Wilson entry, but I must be leaving to post this entry and to leave you with a review of my 2003’s Power to Believe Tour.

BUT if you reading this right now: King Crimson appears tomorrow for a special staccato stab filled spooky Halloween night performance at New Jersey Performing Arts Center, in downtown Newark NJ. Until then, I’ll see you in a matter of weeks.

Originally presented on


King Crimson
March 29th, 2003 – The Wiltern Theater, LA  California, USA
By Cary Coatney 

Rather than sitting home getting visually mauled by the pounding media coverage of Gulf War 2, I ventured outside into the real world to be sonically discharged by Trey Gunn’s fretless Warr guitar at King Crimson’s only Southern California appearance at the Los Angeles Wiltern Theatre. And all it took was a short hop and a skip via a bus and subway ride from the San Fernando Valley to be bathed in Fripptronic forgetfulness for approximately two hours. The band was on tour in support of their month-long newest release: The Power to Believe. The cover to the album lends itself to be construed as anti-war propaganda as it is adorned by two gas mask wearing soldiers positioned outside a hospital window while a nurse inside checks the vital signs of an infant sprawled out on an operating table as a regiment of troops marches outside. I’m sure it strictly wasn’t intentional on artist P.J. Cook’s part, nor the band’s decision to release the album two weeks before the madness of King George W II fully commenced, but nevertheless, its timing is strangely ominous.

Upon arriving at the majestic Wiltern, I go through the regular routine of picking out souvenir goodies such as t-shirts and program books that are offered at the usual extortionate prices. This year’s offering was an unexpected spin on the tour book trend, being that a small twenty page booklet chockful of Robert Fripp’s scintillating witticisms is accompanied with a CD chronicling excerpted interviews and press conferences (One reporter asks: Would you be willing to appear on the Howard Stern show? Fripp’s reply: I don’t think my buns are firm enough.) sprinkled with never before heard rarities from the Power to Believe sessions all neatly packaged in a DVD container all for the casual plundering of a hefty $40.00, just a little less than what I paid to get in the show.

After grabbing some wine from the bar, ushers were kindly waiting to escort me to my seat in the ‘K’ row (a bit ironic, isn’t it?), roughly thirteen rows from the orchestra pit so the seat wasn’t too shabby considering what I paid for the ticket. While being accompanied I couldn’t help notice that Robert Fripp was already on the stage setting off some ambient Roland Guitar synth-scudded soundscapes while all patrons were making themselves comfortable.

After Fripp sounded his last sustained note, there was a slight pause and then the rest of the members of the band joined on stage to launch into two opening numbers from 2000’s Construkction of Light album most notably that album’s opening track; Prozac Blues, which certainly felicitated the audience’s response.

Most of the selections this evening were culled from the last two releases, placing emphasis on the new Power to Believe release but a few gems from 1995’s Thrak managed to slip through the repertoire crack.

I couldn’t help but notice that Robert Fripp was constantly bathed in a luminous blue stagelight- I thought for a second that I made a wrong turn at the Las Vegas Luxor Hotel and was watching the Blue Man Group for the Geritol generation by mistake as Fripp hardly ever gets up from his stool when surrounded by rackmounted forts of electronic doodads.

What piqued my curiosity was Trey Gunn and this Warr guitar device that he is credited for playing. I found out on a website that the instrument was invented and named after a fireman out in California. It has 8 or 12 strings: mainly with 6 strings of the right hand part you play the melody and with the other 6 strings of the left hand part you play the bass line. When playing this instrument, you often use a tapping technique quite similar to what Tony Levin and others do with a Chapman stick. You can mute strings while playing with two hands, and muting pads or mittens are usually provided. You can add synthesizer effects and operate it on a battery pack through the control panels on the back of the body. You can do a lot of crazy stuff with the frets but hey, what do I know? I associate more with keyboard players anyway.

What really diverted my attention was Pat Mastelotto’s fluid drumming ( I mean, jeez what time signature does this guy operate on? ) especially in this evening’s rendition of Level Five during the crack of the cymbals section as he reached with his right hand to do these outrageous sneak attacks on toms, snares, and other electronic percussion doo hickeys. The other not too happy with what you have to be happy with diversion was these giant windsockets that suddenly inflated across the stage during One Time. Now, I don’t ever recall if the band signed any endorsement deals with Trojan or Lifestyles condoms or not, but there they were, foreboding and hovering menacingly throughout the remainder of the show.

And of course what is a King Crimson show without a few strict enforcement of rules? You can’t just get by without the no photography rule. I know that a friend of mine back in the land of Oz learned of this the hard way at a past King Crimson show that this is indeed a no laughing matter when he brought the show to a complete stop by snapping some personal glossies. But now in the twenty-first century, dear old Uncle Bobby has revised these rules with a new unconscionable twist: the no going to the bathroom during performance rule. If you’re feeling a little rush of the bladder floodgates coming on after a heavy consumption of Harp Lager, then my advice to you is to stand still and act like a dike. I, myself learned of this the hard way without seeing the signs posted on each aisle door telling everyone that there will be absolutely no flash cameras allowed and no ins or outs during a song’s performance. I felt a sudden need to use the restroom in the middle of Power to Believe II, so I wouldn’t be stuck in a long winding queue at the conclusion of the show. It winded up costing me the performance of my favorite track off the new album, Dangerous Curves. When the usher refused to open the door for me and some other patrons, the situation further exacerbated when Dangerous Curves segued into Lark’s Tongues in Aspic Part 4 as he still refused to open the door for us! We have to convince him that it was a new song they were starting, but I think it was a clever comment from another hardcore fan was the one that broke the ice; ‘Hey, I didn’t pay $60.00 just to sit out in the hall!’

Well, at least we got two encores for our inconvenience and it was at this point that the audience really began to cut loose after sitting adroitly for so long (there were a scattered few who sparked up and passed around their socks, telling by the aroma in the air, but unfortunately none of it made it my way) when they launched into Dinosaur. Even a male audience member stood up on his chair and loudly proclaimed his undying love for Robert Fripp that sort of got a chuckle from Adrian Belew. The second encore was one of my all time favorites of the title track from 1975’s Red.

In conclusion, I felt the musicianship was tighter than ever most than some bits and pieces registered highly on the ‘wow’ meter, but I had a sense that this elitist foray into what Fripp commonly refers to as ‘nuevo metal’ is too much pedestrian for my taste. To me, it somewhat alienates any connection to the older material something that Fripp obviously is content with. I realize that this is a different line up with a different background ( I mean, look, Pat Mastelotto ex-drummer of Mr. Mister? who would have thunk?) but with Belew still in activation, you would think Fripp would dug a few pieces out of the 81-84 trio of albums to at least satisfy some diehards. (harking back to my high school days) I remember hearing that Belew and Fripp were considering reviving Easy Money for an encore on this tour, but I guess it didn’t come to fruition.


Worming Your Way Into Kicking Some Serious Arrakis In Just Six Easy Novel Steps

17 Oct


It’s a blog about Dune, in case all of you couldn’t figure it out.

Once upon a time, it was a science fiction novel I took out of the Lake Hiawatha Library back when I was in sixth grade that was written by Frank Herbert in 1965. This grand novel, considered at the time of its’ initial release took place on the desert planet of Arrakis and dealt with such complex themes such as religion, ecology, politics, and evolution before you’re eaten away by sandworms that dwell underneath the planet.. I re-read this novel and its’ two following sequels, Dune Messiah and Children of Dune in my junior year of high school and wrote a book report on it that garnered me a very impressive A in my English class. However, I lost interest in the whole shit and caboodle after the release of God Emperor of Dune in the summer of 1981. Tried reading Heretics of Dune after I moved to San Diego but it ended up being thrown in the trash. Once I mistook the release of Chapterhouse Dune as a roll of Charmin Bath tissue and that ended in my pile of ‘read and wipe’ as a companion reading to all the Jehovah Witness paraphernalia that used to be strewn across the lawn of my old place in Cardiff by the Sea, out in Northern San Diego County.


On the same bathroom token, It was also a box office bomb during the holiday season of 1984, but yet I ending up seeing it two times in one day at a Loew’s Theater off on Times Square in New York as a way of saying ‘fuck you’ to critic Rex Reed. I believe “Dune” was the very last movie I saw before saying goodbye to New Jersey forever on a cross country bus trek across the US to California.

Despite my cockamamie impetuous definition of what I considered what was or what wasn’t in good taste, at least pertaining to this movie, of what was to be my first exposure to David Lynch (it took me a while to warm up to The Elephant Man, since I initially had no interest in seeing ‘art films’ while in high school) made me a lifelong fan of his work, especially Twin Peaks and was perhaps one of my main influences towards the creation of my comic book character, The Deposit Man.


The movie also provided prominent career turns to actors such as Kyle MacLachlin as lead pending messiah and freedom fighter Paul Atreides or “Maud ‘dib” if you prefer, Future Starship Enterprise and top mutant professor Patrick Stewart as Garney Hallack, Virginia Madsen as the Princess, and a very young Alicia Witt as Paul’s sister, Alia.

Sean Young’s career? Not so much.


I still have my copy of the comic book movie adaptation that Marvel Comics put out to promote the movie.

In this day and age of my fifty plus years, Sting’s performance as the Feyd Rathua, evil cousin underling to the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen (Kenneth McMillan RIP) dancing his ballet death song like a preening carnation flower is still what flashes through my mind whenever I eat Gouda cheese mixed in with my scrambled eggs and then taking a walk out into the cool crisp autumn air, only to make it to a couple of blocks and start heaving it all back out via a throat full of phlegm onto the cracked sidewalks and streets of the San Fernando Valley.


Sy fy once revived the novel as a mini-series that proved to be more faithful to the book source, but with embellishments but cheap Italian soundstages and green screens were still no help – and to even put even further desert heat to fire – It was produced by The Hallmark Channel of all lowly people. And the combination mini-series adaptation of Dune Messiah and Children of Dune were just plain forgettable with the exception of William Hurt’s turn at bat at playing the role the Duke Leto Atreides. Although the rights were required by Sy fy to adapt all of Herbert’s six novels, the last three novel were thankfully not adapted for television,

Recently I was in a Barnes and Nobles and I happened to see a marked half down blu ray edition of Lynch’s Dune, but another item alongside it caught my mélange specked eye –



A documentary on the making of the aborted 1975 Dune movie that supposedly was to be directed by Chilean born French director Alejandro Jodorowsky before the project proved to be too costly and life threatening to film. Dino de Laurenttiis later came swooping in like a vulture and snatched the rights as if they were discarded carrion that  became the regurgitated mess that was released in time for Christmas of 1984. Jodorowsky’s version was signing up stars such as Mick Jagger, Udo Kier, Orson Wells, David Carradine, Gloria Swanson and Salvador Dali (at the salary of $100,000.00 per minute!) with Alejandro’s son Brontis in the leading role of Paul Atreides. The soundtrack was to be recorded by two bands to be determined as the side of good or evil: Pink Floyd, representing the House of Atreides and French proggers, Magma representing the House of Harkonnen.

Jodorowsky’s reputation carried a lot of clout – not only was he a fabled director and general practitioner of cinema verite (although sex with female midgets while on their periods was a little difficult for me to stomach in his latest autobiographical study of Endless Poetry ) and actor, but he is the absolute genesis behind the graphic novel series, The Incal and the creator of Metal Hurlant – which translated in American is commonly referred as Heavy Metal Magazine.

Unfortunately someone snagged it up from the rack that saddled next to the marked down Dune blu ray – but I shall resume the hunt for it at some point.


A few weeks ago, I happen to catch a screening of Blade Runner 2049 directed by Denis Villeneuve who is also French. His previous credits include last year’s complex Arrival and the drug running poetic drama Sicario. Ridley Scott, producer of the sequel made the right choice for Villeneuve to direct this mesmerizing sequel of gasp in wonderment of thought provoking futurist science fiction thriller with a breathtaking twist. I was told by a fellow co-worker before the screen grew dark that Villeneuve is the contender in developing a new series of Dune movies.

And when the lights came up and the praise came rushing to my body in determining that Blade Runner 2049 could be one of the movies this year to lead the charge to the 2018 Academy Awards,  I immediately came to the conclusion and ease within myself : if there is anyone out there who could bring justice to the original Frank Herbert novels – IT’S DEFINITELY THIS FUCKING GUY.

There will always be more ground to cover when it comes to the planet Arrakis and the call of the spice (and hey, is that the B-52’sYour Own Private Duncan Idaho” I hear you playing in the background?)- but for now, we must take our leave – BUT as a bonus surprise I found in the great Cary W. Coatney Conservatory Library – the original document of my ELEVENTH GRADE BOOK REPORT for English class on the book Dune. It’s been translated from Coatneyspeak for you below. Here are pics of the actual pages.




Frank Herbert

   Dune is a another name for the desert planet Arrakis occupied by the nomadic tribe called the Freemen who worship water as a God and roam the deserts in Stillsuits which recycles body moisture. Dune is also where huge sandworms roam and produce the planet’s only natural resource called ‘melange’. This product mainly is used as a drug for long life and some of it is used to see into the future.

   Mainly the book focuses on its’ central character Paul Atreides who is the son of the late Duke Leto Atreides who is killed by his rival the Harkonnens and the CHOAM companies who run the majority of the spice (mélange) factories. The Duke happened to be the ruler of the planet Arrakis. After war broke out, Paul was forced to flee into the desert with his pregnant mother, the Lady Jessica. She was a member of the organization of religious priestess called the Bene Gesserit which was related to the study of mental arts and mind control. Paul himself had received some of his mother’s training and became the the highest rank in producing himself to be the Kwisatz Haderach, the Messiah of the Future.

   Paul made his way into the desert to become a member of the Freman Tribe where he learns to ride sandworms and assimilate to their culture. He is nicknamed “Muad Dib”, meaning a kangaroo mouse in the desert. This pledge gives Paul time to think of a strategy against the Harkonnen nobels and their Emperor Imperial. Paul also takes part in a ritual in which he takes a massive dose of drugs which enables him to foresee the full vision of the future as well as Alia, his new born sister who knows everything about her mother while she was in her womb.

   In time Paul becomes leader of the Fremen Tribe side by side with his comrades Stilgar and Chani who later bores Paul’s first son. Paul gave his fellow tribesmen a mission of mercy: seize his palace back and the city of Anakeen from the grip of Harkonnens and rule this planet from a throne. But Paul has a need for a mission for himself: to change the climate of this planet and bring water to the land with his renown powers.

   Reunited with an old friend thought dead, Gurney Hallock joins forces with Paul and his own army. They make their onslaught against the Harkonnens and their Emperor. During the battle, Alia is captured and Paul’s infant son is slain. Paul imposes a treaty, knowing he is the rightful heir to be the Duke and the city of Anakeen is turned into a power base of a star empire and later sends the Emperor to a prison planet while he marries his daughter, the Princess Iralan, but keeps her as a consort, so he can still be loyal to Chani.

   I think this book is one of the best written in this century because mixing religion, politics, ecology with science fiction is a rare and creative subject to deal with. I like stories with struggles for power, usurping thrones, long epics, etc; (Jeez I wonder why I’m not even reading any of the Game of Thrones books these days), but mostly I like the ways that the characters are handled in the book. You can imagine movie actors playing their parts and Paul is a unique character to identify with. I reread this book because I heard it was going to be made into a movie. If it is, it should be one of the best movies ever made. Of course, with a big budget you many never know, it could also turn out to be a big flop.

Cary Coatney – April 5, 1981.

Credit Mani Yarosh for the inspiration of coming up with this blog after seeing a photo of her reading a paperback copy of Dune Messiah in a empty café on her Twitter page. It’s nice to see generations share good stories that I grew up reading. My oldest niece was once assigned to read Watchmen in her high school – perhaps a retrospective needs to be jotted down about that graphic novel as well.


” MUAD’ DIB!!”