Cactus County Custard

March 2

Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Ian, Bob, Steve L, Jeanette

Jim is busy pitching for a third volume of his definitive magnum opus on breaking wind, and the rest of us were eager to share the glory by contributing more of our own fart stories.
Lynne started, aptly enough, by repeating the IFart application on her newly acquired iPhone, and I recalled that Peter Sellers farted several times in his Pink Panther films (infinitely superior to the feeble Steve Martin version, but that's just my opinion), and Sellers's fellow Goon Harry Secombe was prone to raspberry farts on the Goon Show. However, that was on radio so it probably didn't count. Maybe that was why the Goons never transferred successfully to television.
Hitler was anoher famous farter, and we speculated that his strange bowel irruptions may have accounted for the concentration camps, the Holocaust and even the whole of World War II, which the historian Hugh Trevor-Roper may have described as the 20th century's biggest fart. Or not.
Maybe that was the giveaway line in what proved to be Hitler's fake diaries when they were published in the early 1980s: 'Must stop farting, or Jim Dawson will stick me in one of his books.'
But Jim's most sensational revelation was that Greta Garbo must have been a compulsive farter. He has spent untold hours studying Garbo's role in the film Grand Hotel where, to Prof Dawson's immense satisfaction, the sultry Scandinavian seamstress unmistakably farts in a solo bedroom scene. Maybe that silver-screen indiscretion is not so unmistakable: Bob, our resident cinematic authority, was sceptical, delivering the magisterial verdict that 'I seriously doubt they would let Garbo fart on screen,' which prompts the image of the director going up to Louis B Mayer or one of the Warner brothers and asking if he could let the grande dame break wind while the cameras were rolling. ('No, no, she has a fart-break clause in her contract, it would cost us more than the studio is worth').
Ian's current problem is less to do with breaking wind as breaking into print with his latest collection of Letters from Lotusland, for which he is employing the relatively untested technique of self-publishing (not to be confused with vanity publishing). He is employing a middle man who is supposed to be preparing the work for the printer but is falling short of Ian's exacting standards. Other would-be self-publishers are watching Ian's experience closely for hints and tips.
The latest victim of the economic collapse that day, was Virgin Megastore closing its Times Square branch in New York and considering shutting the rest - including one next to Grauman's Chinese Theater. I discovered later that the Megastores no longer have anything to do with Richard Branson, other than the Virgin name, as the shrewd Branson sold out to a couple of property guys a couple of years ago. The chain has already shrunk from eleven to six stores. The only profitable branch is the Times Square one, and they want to sell that because it is so valuable.
Bob mused over why the Megastores should be closing while Amoeba Records apparently sails on untroubled on Sunset. It's probably not a fair comparison, given the property element in the Megastores, but Amoeba may be a real estate play too, depending on the lease. Also they pack every square inch with product, and I suspect they pay the staff less than the price of a bent CD.
Discussion continues to rumble on over the merits or demerits of Slumdog Millionaire, which Bob argues is a throwback to the old Hollywood movie theme of poor kids getting rich and everyone lives happily ever after. This morphed into a debate over the lack of social glue nowadays, what with media being so fragmented and so there are very few films or TV progs that everyone watches - like Dallas or Peyton Place. Superbowl is still a magnet, but for only one day a year. Ditto the Oscars, thought its audience is shrinking as it shuns the blockbusters like Dark Knight. American Idol still draws 30 million, but it's in its eighth season and is beginning to lose momentum.
Much vitriol hurled at Leno and Letterman, seen as poor substitutes for the peerless Johnny Carson. But isn't that always the case, that past performers acquire that golden hue that overshadows today's pale imitations. I suspect, though, that Leno and Letterman will be looked back in through rose-tinted glasses.
Ian raised the perennial question of Will: the strange date of birth in his Wikipedia entry and why Will creates radio and stage personae for himself, rather than promoting himself - as Ian does, to take a totally random example.
In a delicious piece of stage business, Ian tried to embarass Will into revealing his actual age, at one point going round the table asking us all what year we were born. We all naturally replied, truthfully as far as I know, whereupon Ian turned triumphantly to Will and said: 'There! They've all said when they were born, Will - so when were YOU born?' He might as well have been talking Mandarin, for all the good it did.
But we all agreed, those of us who had seen them at least, that Will's latest series of shows as the Cactus County Cowboy have been a great success, wonderfully varied and talented ensemble, great atmosphere. At which point Will threw his eyes to heaven and said: "Well there you go, it just shows you...."

CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
You keep talking, I want to talk to Will
I like doing your show more than anyone else's
After film noir - we're going to have Obama noir!
Do people really care about Octomom?
The evangelicals are trying to shed their southern Gothic, Flannery O'Conner image
I think you will agree you are a performer of great skill but relative obscurity
Being very rich takes some of the excitement out of life
Oh god, my bloody brain
I'd have really loved to be in a western
I wanted to be Warren Beatty for a time, but the feeling passed