Happy Birthday Vladimir Nabokov!!!

April 10, 22/23, 1899*

All hail the power of Vladimir Nabokov!

Each creative person has their idols, including those who embody the ideal traits of their own chosen vocation—the role model who both exhilarates one with their downright awesomeness while simultaneously depressing one for that very reason. They’re too goddamn good; their talent seems almost tinged with the supernatural.

As a person who has worked with words in some capacity or another for years (from hack writer-for-hire to blue-pencil-wielding editor), Vladimir Vladimirovitch Nabokov is that divine bugbear whose work inspires ecstatic, sky-high joy within me as well as the disheartening ground-thudding conclusion that writing perfection has been achieved. Yep. It’s done. There should be no more writing, ever, because this man did it so well. No more novels. Ever. I mean, could you ask for a more enduring swan song for literature than Lolita?

It was over a decade ago that I came across an annotated volume of Lolita during a bored summer afternoon spent at the library. One page in and I was hooked, enthralled, and absolutely mesmerized. I don’t think there’s ever been a more lyrically lovely and intriguing opening to a novel.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four foot ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied.  Look at this tangle of thorns.

I read the book through once in a single day, stark raving drunk on the words and oblivious to the annotations. But as I reread the book, flipping frequently to the back to unearth the treasures promised in those little footnotes, my awe only increased. Who the hell was this man? How could anybody’s writing be so rich, so dense with allusion and dripping with obscure puns?

Mr. Nabokov’s background was the kind that few of us modern-day slobs can even imagine: born to prosperity in pre-Revolutionary Russia, little Vladimir was dropped off at school in a Rolls Royce and had unlimited access to the family library (which had its own librarian, lucky bastard). He was trilingual from birth—speaking Russian, English, and French—and a multimillionaire, through inheritance, by the age seventeen. And then… the Revolution.

With one fell swoop from the hammer and sickle, Nabokov became an exile from a country that no longer existed and a life-long nomad (he would never own a house besides the one he inherited so shortly before his childhood world turned upside down). He was educated at Cambridge, began a family and completed his greatest contributions to Russian literature while ensconced in the cozy émigré community in Berlin, gave reading tours across Europe, and finally fled to America as the Nazis situation grew out of hand.

Mr. Nabokov flourished in the United States: he achieved rock star professor status at Wellesly, Cornell, and other universities while crisscrossing the country by car, frequently stopping to chase and collect butterflies (one of his greatest passions). And he began writing his contributions to the English-language canon; rich in theme, packed solid with meaning and metaphor—especially Lolita, which despite Nabokov’s country of birth, just might be the Great American Novel.

His contributions to English literature continued in Switzerland.  It was here that he wrote Pale Fire, which is a delightfully peculiar volume. What’s not to love about a poem with a plot in the footnotes? And, Lordy, the poetry itself…

There was a sudden sunburst in my head.

And then black night. That blackness was sublime,

I felt distributed through space and time:

One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand

Under the pebbles of a panting strand,

One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain,

In caves, my blood, and in the stars, my brain.

There were dull throbs in my Triassic; green

Optical spots in Upper Pleistocene,

An icy shiver down my Age of Stone,

And all tomorrows in my funnybone.

Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle was another shining example of his Swiss period work. This was another volume I checked out of the library on a bored summer afternoon, but it wasn’t a quite as (relatively) breezy read as Lolita. It’s a complex and dream-like book; exquisitely-written and almost hypnotic in it’s effects. If Lolita is the intoxicating wine of literature for word junkies, Ada is its delicious opium. Not to mention that it contains one of the best sex scenes in literature (has surreptitious and awkward adolescent coitus ever sounded so poetic?):

For the first time in their love story, the blessing, the genius of lyrical speech descended upon the rough lad, he murmured and moaned, kissing her face with voluble tenderness, crying out in three languages—the three greatest in all the world—pet words upon which a dictionary of secret diminutives was to be based and go through many revisions till the definitive edition of 1967. When he grew too loud, she shushed, shushingly breathing into his mouth, and now her four limbs were frankly around him as if she had been love-making for years in all our dreams—but impatient young passion (brimming like Van’s overflowing bath while he is reworking this, a crotchety gray old wordman on the edge of a hotel bed) did not survive the first few blind thrusts; it burst at the lip of the orchid, and a bluebird uttered a warning warble, and the lights were now stealing back under a rugged dawn, the firefly signals were circumscribing the reservoir, the dots of the carriage lamps became stars, wheels rasped on the gravel, all the dogs returned well pleased with the night treat, the cook’s niece Blanche jumped out of a pumpkin-hued police van in her stockinged feet (long, long after midnight, alas)—and our two naked children, grabbing lap robe and nightdress, and giving the couch a parting pat, pattered back with their candlesticks to their innocent bedrooms.

Mr. Nabokov may have shuffled off his mortal coil on July 2, 1977, but thanks to his work he is forever one of the immortals. He will continue to be the delight and despair of many a word-loving dilettante like myself; he will continue to guide us to Zembla and Terra and other realms beyond our imaginations. And, beneath the breathtaking prose and idiosyncratic vocabulary and the stratum of meaning, there is a very simple lesson to be learned from his work. Once, when Mr. Nabokov was about to set off on a lepidopterological excursion, a distraught student accosted him over some issue with her exams. Visions of the butterflies to be caught no doubt fluttering in his mind’s eye, he stopped her short by saying, “Life is beautiful. Life is sad. That’s all you need to know.”

Happy birthday, Mr. Nabokov. And thank you for showing us those unique and beautiful shades of happiness and sadness through your work.

Click here for Hux’s favorite Nabokov resources.

* Yes, there is a reason there are three dates listed as his birthday. It has to do with calendars and such; find out more here. I have posted this piece on the date Nabokov preferred.

TO READ

Lolita: The Great American Novel. Touching, beautiful, and sinister; the story of Humbert Humbert and his elusive nymphet is quite possibly my favorite novel ever. The annotated editions seem to be out of print, but try to hunt one down if you can.

Pale Fire: A unique and fascinating volume. Read the poem. Read the footnotes. Read both simultaneously. Anyway you read it, it is lovely.

Speak, Memory: Mr. Nabokov’s memoirs, mostly concerning his childhood in Russia. Need I say more?

TO WATCH

A delightful interview with Mr. Nabokov about Lolita, and other subjects:

A fun clip of Mr. Nabokov browsing the covers of various editions of Lolita:

Skip to the 1:00 mark to hear Mr. Nabokov read the opening passage of Lolita:

A wonderful recording of Mr. Nabokov reading in English and Russian:

TO BROWSE

Zembla: Home of the International Vladimir Nabokov Society. A great resource for dedicated Nabokovians or those wanting to learn a little more about this great author.

Ada online: The entire annotated text of Ada! The site recommends you read a hard copy of the novel first, as it is entirely possible that the sheer amount of notes will blow your mind to bits.

Nabolog: A charming and quirky little blog cataloging Nabokov sightings in literature and pop culture. If you’ve ever wanted to know what Mr. Nabokov thought of Dickens, or which Hollywood starlets profess to be fans of his work, this is the site for you.

Bridges to Antiterra: A list of literature referenced in Ada, as well as various Nabokov resources.

Happy Birthday

April 9, 1898

It frightens me that I only learned of one of America’s greatest Renaissance men and social activists by pure chance.

Paul LeRoy Bustill Robeson has one of those resumes that should be memorized and recited by schoolchildren as evidence of the American Dream in action: the son of an escaped slave, he was a scholar, an athlete, a lawyer, an orator, an actor, a linguist, a singer, and a dedicated advocate for his race and working people the world over.

He was also uncomfortably progressive in his political leanings in a time when that was utterly unacceptable, which is why I had to casually stumble across a reference to him in a Jessica Mitford autobiography. You see, after World War II—at the pinnacle of his fame and success—our country of opportunity labeled him a damn filthy communist and an instigator and proceeded to successfully and neatly wipe Mr. Robeson clean out of the record of the 20^th century.

From an early age, Paul Robeson displayed oratory skill, academic aptitude, and athletic prowess beyond the norm and developed them in the faces of overwhelming obstacles. He won a scholarship to Rutgers University despite the manipulative machinations of his racist high school principal. He became an All-American football player despite the brutal injuries inflicted by both his own teammates and unfriendly opponents who objected to playing on the same field (and getting their ass whooped) by an African American (he was also on the baseball, basketball, and track teams during his Rutgers years).  He was the valedictorian of the class that shunned him socially; and he might just be the only graduate of Colombia Law School to have to “fall back” on acting as a career. He walked out of his first and only legal job after a white secretary refused to take his dictation.

All impressive enough, no doubt, but the pièce de résistance of the awesomeness that was Paul Robeson was undoubtedly his voice… That voice! It was rich and mellifluous and powerful enough to rocket him to super-stardom in the 1920s and 30s.  On the radio, in a film, on the stage, in a concert hall—Mr. Robeson was one of the first Black celebrities and he was everywhere.

He had a particularly important role in popularizing and preserving the “Negro” spirituals of his ancestors, which were in great danger of falling by the cultural wayside. He argued for their importance as American folk music and performed them in London, Vienna, and any number of humbler venues in between.

He also combined his love of folk music with his love of languages (he was fluent in several languages and studied African dialects, among others) by adding international tunes to his repertoire.

Russian National Anthem

Indeed, it was this touring that led to his larger political awakening. Always an outspoken proponent of his race and their liberation, he began to expand his political horizons during the 1930s when the entire world was beginning to take sides in the long run-up to World War II. He happened upon a group of demonstrating Welsh miners and marched with them, eventually sending them home with a train car full of supplies for their families and laying the foundation for a long and loving relationship. He became active in the labor movement. He visited the Soviet Union and was so enchanted with the lack of racism that he sent his son to school there for a year. He visited the front lines of the conflict in Spain and sang songs in many languages to the hodge-podge of nationalities that made up the International Brigade. He began to understand the brotherhood of all oppressed men. He came to believe in the compassionate power of socialism and, most urgently, the need to squash fascism in all of its brutal, ugly incarnations. He spoke with increasing vehemence about the need to end colonialism in Africa.

The political climate shifted rapidly after World War II. America was getting into a chilly, pseudo-war and suddenly Mr. Robeson’s expressions of friendship for the Soviet Union, his Communist friends, his socialist leanings, his unnatural interest in the labor movement, and the fact that he was turning more and more concerts halls into soapboxes from which to preach his doctrine of liberation for the oppressed seemed extremely suspicious to the US government. And thus began the tragic process of erasing Paul Robeson from the American mainstream.

He was dragged before the House on Un-American Activities Committee. His All-American football status disappeared. His passport was removed and he was banned from leaving the US. Work offers dried up. Paul Robeson went from being a beloved film star and singer to one of the most hated men in America.

But even though he was reviled by the powers that be, he was even more beloved by those he had sacrificed everything to defend. He was an honorary member of many unions and continued to fight avidly for their rights; in 1949, they got to return the favor. Mr. Robeson was to appear at a concert to benefit the Civil Rights Congress. Threats of violence ensued almost immediately—before the day was through cars were smashed, people were beaten, foul and vicious epithets were hurled while the police watched. Yet on September 4, 1949, Paul Robeson performed his program, surrounded by a human shield of longshoremen and electrical workers and various other burly union men who locked arms and sang “We Shall Not be Moved.”

Paul Robeson continued to preach his gospel against oppression until his retirement due to poor health in 1963 (an event that many—including myself and his son Paul Robeson, Jr.—believe the US Government was behind. Click here to read about his son’s charges that MK Ultra was behind his father’s collapse). But he had the satisfaction, before his death in 1976, of seeing a few things change in this country. The Civil Rights movement filled him with joy, and the anti-Red hysteria had abated enough by his 75th birthday for a star-studded tribute at Carnegie Hall.

There is no doubt that the golden voice was silenced before its time. But Paul Robeson’s message lives on for those who choose to listen. There is still grave injustice in our own country and abroad, and I wish I could hear the powerful indictments and encouragements he would doubtlessly have delivered on a spectrum of issues from Hurricane Katrina and Abu Ghraib to the current economic shitstorm brought about by greed and carelessness.

I can think of nothing better to close with than a snippet from his testimony before HUAC. When confronted with his love of Russia, and asked why he didn’t just move there already (HUAC questioning was notoriously petty, I’m amazed they didn’t ask him why he didn’t marry Russia if he loved it so much), he responded:

“Because my father was a slave, and my people died to build this country, and I’m going to stay right here and have a part of it, just like you. And no fascist-minded people like you will drive me from it. Is that clear?”

Loud and clear, Mr. Robeson. And thank you for sticking to it.

Click here for more of Hux’s favorite Robeson resources.

TO READ

Here I Stand: Robeson’s own explanation of his background and political and social convictions. According to Amazon, it seems to be out of print, but do yourself a favor and try to find this slim volume in your local library. It’s powerful.

The Undiscovered Paul Robeson: An Artist’s Journey, 1898-1939 and The Undiscovered Paul Robeson: Quest for Freedom, 1939-1976 (Paul Robeson, Jr.): A surprisingly frank (he admits frankly to his father’s multiple infidelities) yet loving account, notable particularly for the extracts from Mrs. Robeson’s journal and the account of their unusual and important relationship.

Paul Robeson: The Years of Promise and Achievement (Sheila Tully Boyle & Andrew Bunie): A treasure-trove of information and background on a great man, his rise to fame, and his political awakenings.

TO WATCH

Paul Robeson: Renaissance Man: A solid documentary in several parts on YouTube.

It’s worth noting that Robeson himself was ambivalent about most of his films, unsure of whether the opportunity to humanize an African American character outweighed the inevitable stereotypes still inherent in the roles he was offered. Decide for yourself.

The Emperor Jones: This Eugene O’Neill play was one of Robeson’s earliest theatrical parts before he brought the role to film.

Sanders of the River: Robeson’s initial enthusiasm for the role was diminished by the pro-colonial views added in the editing process.

He was, however, enormously proud to be one of the first Black men to play the role of Othello on stage. Here’s an interview of him before his 1943 performance:

And an undated recording of a monologue from the play:

TO BROWSE

The Bay Area Paul Robeson Centennial Committee: a site dedicated to putting Mr. Robeson back in the history books, which also provides scholarships to local teens.

Princeton Public Library Robeson Collection: photographs and links a-plenty.

TO BROWSE

MyDannyKaye.com: A treasure-trove of Kaye minutae. Everything from the original Thurber Mitty story to biographies of his leading ladies. Fun stuff.

TO WATCH

Sadly, most of Mr. Kaye’s films are out of print, so you can’t just jaunt down to the local Blockbuster and pick up Wonder Man. Fortunately, this high-tech computer age means several lovely people have uploaded many of the Kaye classics to YouTube. Viva technology!

(These are all in multiple parts, but you should be able to click through to subsequent chapters at the end of the clip.)

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: Danny Kaye’s most beloved role. He is superb as the neurotic milquetoast mama’s-boy who dreams of—and stumbles upon—lurid adventures. Based on a James Thurber short story.

The Court Jester: A close second in terms of popularity, this medieval Robin-Hood-esque farce is marvelous. Mr. Kaye’s turn as a carnival entertainer-turned freedom fighter-turned undercover agent/court jester is hilarious. Not to mention it features Angela Lansbury when she was a young, delectable honey. The film in its entirety has been removed from YouTube, but is also one of the few widely available on DVD. Here’s a clip:

Knock on Wood: Danny Kaye’s favorite from amongst his films. A wacky espionage comedy that features Mr. Kaye as a ventriloquist, of all things. Excellent.

Wonder Man: Danny Kaye’s second film, and his first split-screen role as both brash nightclub entertainer Buzzy Ballew and his bookish twin. The opera scene at the end is one of the funniest scenes ever captured on film.

A Song is Born: Critics and Kaye fans alike are dismissive of this film, but as a lover of Big Band, I will always enjoy it. Kaye is lovable as a sheltered music professor exposed to the thrilling world of modern music by a gangster’s moll. Features performances by Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, and Louis Armstrong, among others.

And check out Huilifoj’s YouTube channel for a plethora of Kaye footage, including the films On the Double, Up in Arms, The Kid from Brooklyn, various television appearances, and the PBS American Masters program on Mr. Kaye.

Many Happy Returns.

January 18, 1913

Thank you AMC.

Or, rather, the AMC that once was. Don’t get me wrong, I am an admirer of the excellent original programming it produces these days but I will always fondly cherish the earlier years—when “American Movie Classics” did not, for example, include any films by Keanu Reeves (Speed? Really?). During a rather prolonged illness in my adolescent years, I’d recline on the couch and flip the television to AMC without even consulting a schedule. Part of its charm was the diversity of escapist fare it offered. A typical day’s lineup could include a glorious Busby Berkeley musical, a cast-of-thousands historical epic, Citizen Kane, a precocious Audrey Hepburn flick, any number of antiquated music videos from the Big Band era, a polite romantic comedy featuring Claudette Colbert, and some meaningless yet amusing piece of cinematic fluff from Betty Grable.

And, on a particularly good day, a Danny Kaye film.

There are those comedians of days gone by who have been so effectively lionized since their glory days that they remain on the contemporary cultural radar: even if you’ve never sat through a Chaplin film or watched the Marx brothers in motion, their names and faces are familiar, their genius assured. Mr. Kaye, sadly, has not been so fortunate in his legacy.

The relative obscurity of a man who was once at the very top of his game and extravagantly praised is a damn shame. But what makes the performer born as David Daniel Kaminsky so fascinating—and his work so enduring—is the unique blend of talents he possessed. This was a man of precise and powerful skills, and watching them in action is a felicitous occasion.

He could present a tongue-twister like no other.

He could make like Fred Astaire…

…and turn ballet into delicious buffoonery.

(the ballet begins at 2:51)

He could wail with Louie…

… sing opera with amazing comic timing…

…and croon children’s tunes.

He could make fencing funny.

(click through to 2:30 for a real display of virtuosity)

He could conduct an orchestra a la Bugs Bunny…

…and also impersonate one pretty damn accurately.

Rubber-faced, rapid-tongued, graceful of movement yet able to ape supreme clumsiness; Mr. Kaye invested his slapstick with an innate elegance and performed feats of verbal flexibility that have yet to be matched.  His complex, comic songs (written by his wife and lifelong collaborator Sylvia Fine) were legendary and brought him acclaim, but he considered himself a thwarted doctor at heart. He was convincing as both the idiot and the sophisticate, the brassy lunatic as well as the shy introvert (a duality that would come in handy for several of his split-screen film adventures). He created pandemonium during his live shows in London, and hostility in those of his coworkers who did not always appreciate the perfectionism and artistic moodiness of their star.

Over the course of his life, his career took him from his humble beginnings as a tummler on the Borscht Belt circuit to acting as a guest conductor for the greatest symphonies in the world and a beloved spokesman for UNICEF. His many non-performing hobbies included baseball (he was a part owner of the Seattle Mariners), Chinese cookery (he would spend days preparing elaborate meals for his friends), and flying (he had a commercial pilot’s license). He was a devoted father, though his reputation as a husband has always been a matter of great debate (he has been rumored a womanizer and Sir Laurence Olivier’s gay lover, so take your pick).

In short, he was a complex and very talented man, and his death in 1987 left a void in the world of comedy that nobody can fill, no matter how many imitators have tried to lay claim to his unique legacy of laughter. You can spot bits of Danny in everything from Steve Martin circa The Jerk to Jim Carrey’s far inferior attempts at facial contortions and silly voices in the 1990s. But Mr. Kaye was the whole package, and a true original.

Its too bad AMC isn’t still around in its previous incarnation so we could be treated to an all-day marathon of Kaye classics. But thanks to the miracles of the modern internet age, you can find a goodly sample of Danny Kaye’s work online (here are my recommendations); so take a little time out today to have a good, therapeutic laugh and pay homage to a man unparalleled in his talents.

Don’t let Mr. Kaye go unappreciated on this, his birthday. For, as he sings in one of his most enduring songs,

“a jester’s chief employment, is to kill himself for your enjoyment; and a jester unemployed is nobody’s fool.”

I know I am not alone in telling dear Danny that he will always be my favorite fool.

David Robert Jones

January 8, 1947

I can still remember the very first David Bowie song I ever heard.*

It was August in the optimistic year of our Lord 2000. I was twenty and only mildly insane, and my friend Derek and I were powering through the dull wasteland of late-summer stickiness and boredom that lay between Nashville and Memphis in a rather old Volvo.

It had been a sudden impulse, that trip to Graceland… We had been casually sweating on my apartment balcony with no particular plans in mind when it had dawned upon us that it was Elvis week and the enchanting rhinestone-heartland tackiness of it all was a mere four and a half hours away. We threw together a few necessities for the trip—mine included caffeine, snackage, and a pair of fuzzy leopard-print platform pumps. Derek’s included a vintage camera with which to take excellent pictures amongst the shag glories of the jungle room and a stash of cassettes for the rather old Volvo’s obsolete tape deck.

We had just gotten back on the road after stuffing our faces with good ole’ country buffet fare at Loretta Lynn’s Kitchen, when Derek put in THE TAPE.

“Five Years” began to play. And thus began my decade-long obsession with the works of Mr. David Robert Jones.

There are so many Bowies and I love them all—I love the curly-haired sweater-wearing young Bowie who waxes surpassingly lyrical as well as the cool, sadistic detachment and immaculate wardrobe of the Thin White Duke; I love the sleek-haired, spacey Katherine Hepburn wannabe and also the spiky, snarling intensity of Nathan Adler; I love the blank-eyed, blank-souled thoughtfulness of Bowie the Heathen and the deconstructed, dancey coolness of  Bowie the Earthling; I love the exuberant jumpsuit and jackboot-wearing glitter Ziggy who thanks his wham-bam ma’am so nicely and I love the somber, otherwordly Kabuki messiah who foretold his downfall.

This versatility is Bowie’s greatest gift, you see, and what has always set him far above other “chameleons” of the music world. He creates characters and moods even on his least theatrical albums; the dazzling wardrobe shifts that most people regard as his trademark are really only the outer manifestation of much more profound transformations.

It’s why there’s a Bowie song for every mood.

It’s what makes him so infinitely obsessable.

David Bowie turns 63 years old today. He’s been making music for 48 of those years and I, for one, would like to say THANK YOU, you freaky old bastard you. Many happy returns.

P.S. Clicky here for Hux’s favorite Bowie resources.

*I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to make it to the ripe old age of twenty without hearing “China Girl” or little-girl mooning over the Goblin King; I can only attribute it to the fact that I might as well have grown up under a rock. The zealous censorship practices of my Southern Baptist missionary parents and the island off the south coast of Brazil we lived on in the days before the internets combined to leave me so entirely innocent of 80s pop culture that I have VH1 to thank for my current knowledge of that decade’s high points. As is it, I’m glad. “Let’s Dance” is kicky, and Labyrinth is fun to watch (if not to listen to)…. But, really, there’s a lot to be said for having The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars pop your Bowie cherry.

TO READ

BowieStyle (Steve Pafford): The ultimate accessory for the true Bowie connoisseur. The pretty pictures are reason enough to posses it, but this tome is unique because it delves into the whys and wherefores of each distinct Bowie phase. Pafford examines the influences behind the transformation—what complex blend of literature, film, music, and personal influences led to each instantly identifiable Bowie persona. Profoundly interesting insight into the processes of a great creative mind and tons of eye-candy to boot.

Backstage Passes: Life on the Wild Side with David Bowie (Angela Bowie): Mr. Bowie himself would probably not be too happy with this recommendation, but it is a must read for the glam enthusiast. Angie the-ex-wife may or may not have an axe to grind, but it is delightful to read about the unbridled enthusiasm and glamour that the glitter boys and girls brought to the drug, sex, and rock and roll lifestyle. Salacious, libelous, and utterly charming in its depiction of the charismatic and volatile young man morphing into a rock god.

TO WATCH

Cracked Actor (1974): A BBC documentary filmed at the height of his 70s fame. Seriously. Look at this. Its on YouTube in several parts.

Bowie, Flight of the Conchords (2007): One of the most loving tributes to any artist I’ve ever seen that also has the benefit of being fucking hilarious.

TO BROWSE

The Ziggy Stardust Companion : The ultimate online resource for everything Ziggy. Timelines, interviews, and galleries to die for.

Bowie Wonderworld: Excellent assortment of Bowie information, from current eBay auctions to chord charts for “Ashes to Ashes.”

Many Happy Returns.

Rev. King, Kevin, and Amazon Maxx about to hit the Shakedown.

Oh, I had a grand old damn time, my darlings!

Now that I’m properly bathed, rested up, and supplied with photographs of my exploits, I’ll be posting the highlights of Roo 2009. Stay tuned this week for pics and write-ups of a Bonnaroo wedding (congrats to Cat and David), candy distribution along the shakedown, delightful run-ins with old friends, lovely introductions to new ones, and even a possible UFO sighting (for serious).

If you’re one of the many charming people I met at Bonnaroo, thank you for being awesome. We are kindred souls, and I thank you for coming to visit my humble internet home.

Keep checking back, deareys: there’s a whole lot on the way!

Love from hux