Flashes

Shoot to Thrill
Sometimes a New Times piece is so engaging and provocative that it continues to grow in notoriety long after its initial publication. Even if the story is not exactly true. Or at all true. Or completely ridiculous.

Such is the case with our April Fool's "Arm the Homeless" spoof (easy, people, the tee shirts are forthcoming), which is gaining new fans and provoking new outrage online, where reality and fantasy are pretty much already intimately entwined.

Case in point: E-mail to www.armthehomeless.com continues to pour in from around the world even though we came clean about our little hoax weeks ago.

"Up here in Canada we are not allowed to own as much personal arms as you folks are," writes one reader. "What I want to see happen is an increase in weaponry available to each and every Canadian." (Hey, don't we all?)

Another netizen, this one from Illinois, wants to bring a little Phoenix-style wealth distribution to his hometown.

"I would gladly accept your sponsorship toward chartering an Illinois chapter of your program," he writes.

Not all of the fanfare is from readers. Exclusive! magazine in Casper, Wyoming, requested an interview with purported Arm the Homeless founder Pete Whippit (sorry, 60 Minutes II has exclusive rights), and the literary webzine Salon did a write-up on our stunt and Web site, saying the story is good "for a few quick chuckles."

In its scant few weeks of existence, www.armthehomeless.com has also won "Cruel Site of the Day" and "Wurst of the Web" awards. Not bad for a site whose original design we rejected for being "way too stylish and professional looking."

On Beck
The mostly graying eminences in Symphony Hall's plush seats endured collective acid flashbacks on April 13 as Jeff Beck, looking remarkably trim and hip at 54, unleashed his new fusion/electronica guitar machinations. Sure, Beck is a dinosaur. However, unlike other icons of his era, he's not content to regurgitate his old stuff.

Actually, his "era" is now. His first record of new material in nine years (the slick CD is called Who Else) is as fresh as anything on the scene. Freed up musically by the guitar/techno wizardry of Jennifer Batten--herself fresh from a tour with pop smear Michael Jackson--Beck, et al., cooked.

Beck's stuff still sounds potent enough to tax the power grid, still causes fibrillations in the sternum, still makes the head bob, the toe tap, the knee jerk, the ears numb and the nipples hard. He's still Wired.

But nothing emitted by the high-voltage Guitar God prepared the Flash for the surreal netherworld outside the friendly confines of Symphony Hall. The Beck show, you see, broke up just as America West Arena was disgorging the patrons of the sold-out 'N Sync show. In case you didn't know, 'N Sync is one of those a cappella harmony/hormone groups that was literally conceived in a Disney boardroom.

'N Sync's following is deep into the pubescent girl demographic (and, of course, their accessories: licensed drivers). Some of that very market niche congregated at the intersection of Central and Jefferson to serenade motorists with their own lusty renditions from their heartthrobs' just-concluded gig. The waft of Clearasil was in the air.

Even the panhandlers fled.
But now allow the Flash to rewind a bit and tell you that the reason he brings any of this up is to introduce you to Paul Thorn, the musician who opened for Beck. How Beck's people got hooked up with Thorn's people (assuming he has any people) would be an interesting yarn in itself.

Thorn is an original. The singer/songwriter/storyteller stood on the stage with an acoustic guitar and his Tupelo, Mississippi, twang, and quickly and absolutely converted the metalhead intelligentsia gathered to see Beck.

Part Lyle Lovett, part Warren Zevon and part Loudon Wainwright III (whose rising-star son Rufus, coincidentally, played elsewhere in the Valley that very night), Thorn should stake his claim to the title of White Trash Troubadour. His lyrics are lousy with hookers, televangelists, daytime talk-show hosts and other deviants. He sang of a Jehovah's Witness stripper.

What's more, he used to be a professional boxer who once was knocked out in the seventh round by the legendary Roberto Duran. He sang about that, too.

Before Beck took the stage, Thorn repaired to the lobby to sign copies of his latest CD Ain't Love Strange, released by the aptly named Perpetual Obscurity Records. (Up close, he does, indeed, bear the scars of a former pugilist.) The disc is simply priceless. How can America not embrace the author of the following immortal verse?

I borrowed some money & sold my car.
I put an Air Stream trailer up on blocks.
That satellite dish was my first mistake.
She started watchin' Oprah Winfrey & Ricki Lake.
She cut me down to once a week.
At supper time there was nothin' to eat.
I was paranoid and scared to death.
She came home with Aqua Velva on her breath.
(Chorus)
Burn down the trailer park.
Shoot the pink flamingoes out in the yard.
I can't live here since you broke my heart.
I'm gonna burn down the trailer park.