Petty Things, Lincoln (b)Logs and Jersey Sleep-Over-Time

I’m pretty sure Tom Petty just sucks.

I mean, maybe not that he “just sucks”, but that’s he’s just, well, a mediocre musician.

To call him a poor man’s Dylan feels almost insulting to Dylan, but you can’t help making the comparison given the stylized singing and the bouts with the harmonica. Sure, he’s a little more country too, just as Springsteen’s a little more rock-and-roll, but the comparison’s still there.

He’s just not very good. His lyrics are kind of vague or boring or just weird.

Like for instance “Won’t Back Down”. Alright, so we know that you “won’t back down”. You won’t be “pushed around”. You’ll “stand your ground”. And also, again, you “won’t back down”.

Well, I mean, that’s all well and good, but really, who the fuck cares?

You know when Dylan disses someone he gives them a poetic roast. In fact sometimes it feels like just about half his songs are just hater-ballads. Here you just say you won’t back down. Who the fuck is asking you to back down? Me, maybe.

We know in his songs there’s an “American Girl” who seems to be very naive, “raised on promises” who then later dumps Tom Petty (presumably because he breaks them, thus the band name–“The Heartbreakers”) which then later causes him to be “Free Falling”, thus we can assume, reneging on his promise of not “backing down”.

But for some reason when “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” (one of the most inexplicably terrible music videos I have ever seen) comes on my radio, I can’t turn it off. It’s enjoyable, even it’s about that same “American Girl”, or Weed or America generally speaking.

I have no idea. All I know is that he sucks compared to so many people I listen to. But he’s like a corn husk you can’t get rid of.

As a New Yorker, that befuddles me.


As I mentioned, I’ve started blogging for Film Society of Lincoln Center. It’s kind of like working for the man, but the New Directors/New Films festival (the one I’m covering) is a worthy cause and it gives me a chance to do little jumbles about films in a micro-easy form that I can just spout out in 15 minutes and have them ready pressed.

Here’s my newest post on their site, the first one listed if you go to their page as well. Right now, I’m trying to swing a gig interviewing iconoclastic film reviewer Armond White, who is introducing a film there. Unfortunately, my editor is at SXSW (a place I’d love to be right now) so we’ll see if she can get back to me in time. Otherwise, check out the festival (or at least my stuff).


For the next three nights after this one, I’ll be in a land where zombies walk the earth enslaving debased humans as their vassals; some for menial labor and others for nourishment, farmed for their flesh before their bones are tossed casually into lakes of chemical refuse, melting instantly as they hit the surface of the viscous pools.

This place is, of course, New Jersey.

The shoot became progressively jersey-er as I found out more about it. First the director, a friend, begged me to come on as Script Sup, which I told him I probably couldn’t. Then I said I could because I like the guy and he’s working for me later.

Then I found out he was sort-of-directing-it-sort-of-not.

Then I found out that I wouldn’t get to meet the director till set.

Then I found out we had half a crew.

Then I found out I would have to sleep during the daytime in Jersey as well.


But I hold out hope.

It’s hard to be hopeful facing 2 nights in Jersey, but I shanghai’d my friends into coming on set with me last night telling the director “get them drunk enough and they’ll come” and, luckily, my scheme was a success.

So at worst I’ll be in Hell with Friends, which is not so much of a hell at all.

But those sleep-needy daytimes in Jersey.

They’re sending shivers down my spine.


Finally, an update.

My frien Lauren Hamilton is one of the two best comedy writers of my age I’ve met and a fine-looking woman, who I was very disappointed upon meeting her to find out she was a lezzie.

“You sure?” I asked her. “You even tried? Cause, I mean. Well, you know. Might be fun.”

“Been there done that.” She told me.

End of story.

I call her Boss now, most times, since she cast me in a web pilot.

But now she’s got her own thing going on in LA, so I’m adding it to my blogroll.

Think of her as a black, hip, lesbian counterpart to my blog.

(That’s fucking impossible.)

But actually, it’s just a soul in the world trying to find love, meaning and the right “your mom” joke from time-to-time.


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