That's tough titty, kid.

Levi Stubbs, lead singer of the Four Tops, dead at 72.

There is no way to underestimate the power and influence of the music of the Four Tops, which is phenomenal. But, as Monty mentioned elsewhere, Levi Stubbs' performance as Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors may be the work for which I best know and admire him.

Little Shop is one of my favorite musicals, endlessly entertaining, with Stubbs' incredible voice perhaps the single most important element of the film -- a film which boasts not only Rick Moranis' finest performance, and Frank Oz's best directorial effort, but which features brilliant smaller roles from Christopher Guest, John Candy, Bill Murray, and of course Steve Martin as well.

In memoriam, here is the original ending of Little Shop, which I believe still has never been officially released in any form, cobbled together into three parts on You Tube. This is the dark, test audience-unapproved ending, aka the "Everybody Dies" ending. It's in black and white, with much of the sound unfinished, but it's worth watching if you're a fan of the film, or if you're a fan of film in general: take a look at that blockbuster finale in part three, and tell me if you think there's ever been more money and effort spent on a final sequence which was cut entirely from a motion picture. (Probably yes, but I can't think of one off the top of my head.)

Fragment: Minute-by-minute at the 2008 Emmys Ceremony

For the sake of posterity, or something, here is the fragment of my Emmys recap that survived Blogger's massive fuck-up last night.

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Hello and welcome to the most irrelevant and untimely "liveblogging" of any event ever! Or, as Richard Marcej suggests I call this recap of an event three days past, "TiVoblogging." Enjoy.

7:00 -- The show begins with a taped bit in which contemporary TV stars recite classic TV catchphrases. It's dreadful (except possibly for the bit with the two Baldwins -- Alec: "Mom always did like you best." William: "She also liked Daniel and Stephen better than you"). I open my first beer, despite the fact that I'm actually on lunch break from work right now. Hey, some traditions you don't fuck with.

Also, I realize my DVR, which is not technically a TiVo, doesn't have a timestamp on recordings like TiVo does, so I can't go strictly minute-by-minute as I prefer to do. Aside from noting the show's 7:00 start time, all my other gems will simply be bullet points. Sad.

--Oprah Winfrey opens the live ceremony. Her forehead is nearly as huge as her cleavage. She is tremendously aristocratic in her delivery, as well as self-congratulatory, both specifically of her own program (and its ability to influence book sales) and of TV in general. Why do people like her?

--She introduces the five (!) hosts for the evening, the five nominees for Outstanding Host for Reality or Reality Competition Programming: Tom Bergeron, Heidi Klum, Howie Mandel, Jeff Probst, and Ryan Seacrest. Ugh.

--Seacrest is instant death. Mandel, ad-libbing on the significance of the Emmys' nod to reality programming, is even worse, and Probst is visibly, amusingly, genuinely upset with him for interrupting. All the hosts wear matching suits and ties, even Klum (who is stunning), who towers above all four men. Only Probst is tieless, oddly.

--While Probst, Mandel, and Seacrest all try to hog the spotlight, talking over one another in obnoxious fashion, Bergeron and Klum appear to be equally mortified. They even appear to share a moment: just as the camera cuts away from the five-shot, I see Bergeron leaning in toward Klum, possibly to say, "Can you believe these pricks?" I imagine Klum might respond: "I am maybe the most attractive woman on the planet -- top five, easy. My beauty elevates me above this. There is no reason I should have to tolerate these hammy turds."

--They riff for an infinity on how they have nothing written. Bergeron now appears openly hostile, which is possibly an act, possibly not. The three hams finally exit, leaving Bergeron and Klum on damage control.

--William Shatner gets called up from the audience in one of the weirdest, most awkward staged bits ever: Bergeron and Shatner yank off Klum's suit, revealing a sparkly hot pants number underneath. I mean, I'm all for more skin from Heidi Klum, but this is creeping me out. Every single second of this ceremony thus far has been agonizingly awful.

--Tina Fey and Amy Poehler! Thank fucking god.

--Fey to a very pregnant Poehler: "When are you due?" Poehler: "How dare you! I've gained weight for a role."

--Supporting Actor in a Comedy goes to Jeremy Piven, again. Three in a row, Emmys? I mean, I like him, but come on. At least Rainn Wilson and Neil Patrick Harris were nominated; perhaps next year, when people begin realizing how done Entourage is, one of them will get the win they deserve.

--Piven rips on the hosts: "What if I just kept talking, for 12 minutes? That was the opening."

--Beer #2. Hey, at least I'm off work now.

--Bergeron and Seacrest are sitting in a replica of Seinfeld's cafe set. Perhaps they think if they pretend to be part of a great show, we will stop noticing how bad this show is. They are wrong.

--I still stand by my assertion that Julia Louis-Dreyfus is getting more lovely as she ages. Too bad the patter written for her here is so terrible. She presents Supporting Actress in a Comedy to Jean Smart, for Designing Women. Well, at least I imagine that's why she won, because it can't be for her weak-ass role on Samantha Who.

--Smart, on Samantha Who: "The most amazing, brilliant, hilarious cast in the world." Hyperbole at the Emmys? Never!

--People Smart thanks before her family: Christina Applegate, the cast, the producers, the writers, the executives at ABC, her show's cushy timeslot, her agency, her agent, her publicity firm, her publicist.

--After a brief moment of silence, Probst interrupts Klum just as she begins to speak to tell her it's her turn to speak. Klum, cuttingly: "Yeah, thanks."

--They introduce the cast of Desperate Housewives who appear on a Housewives set. Dana Delany -- man, she is still smokin' hot. Jeez, something happened to Marcia Clark, though. Yikes.

--Supporting Actor in a Drama goes to Ted Danson. I wrote that before they announced the winner. Looks like I was wrong. Zeljko Ivanek, Danson's castmate on Damages, actually wins, and gets the dubious honor of hearing his name massacred by Delany. I'm amazed he's never even been nominated before; he's very good. Too bad he won't be in the next season.

--Ricky Gervais! Man, he is so effortlessly charming and funny, it makes the reality show hosts look even more humor-free and inept, if that's possible.

--Speaking of his Emmy win in 2007: "The press called it a major upset. Which means they thought I shouldn't have won." This precedes a very funny routine in which he tries to get Steve Carell, who had accepted the award for him, to give it back. Carell eventually pulls an Emmy out from under his seat and reluctantly surrenders it. Awesome.

--Directing for a Variety, Music or Comedy Program goes to the guy who directed the Oscars, which it seems like always happens. Yawn. I didn't do my picks this year, so there's really no reason to go through every single award, keeping track of my record, is there?

--Conan O'Brien appears, weirdly, on a set for The Simpsons, rather than his own program. I mean, he appeared in an episode, and of course started out as a writer for the show, but it still seems kind of like a slight to Late Night, which he's been doing for 15 damn years already.

--Supporting Actress in a Drama goes to Dianne Wiest, for a show nobody I know has ever watched. At least she's not present, so we're spared one speech.

--The clips for the nominees for Writing for a Variety, Music or Comedy Program are always among the funniest bits at the Emmys, since they are created by the writers of the nominated programs. The Colbert Report writers are depicted enjoying a Christmas party, with Colbert as the shotgun-wielding, boxers-clad hillbilly who chases them out of his cabin. The Daily Show group uses clips of bozos in the audiences of the two big political conventions to represent themselves. The Late Night writers are children adopted by Angelina Jolie and Conan O'Brien. Dr. Phil diagnoses the Late Show staff: "Jeremy Weiner: enabler. Joe Grossman: delusional. Bill Sheft: messed up." And of course, David Letterman: "miserable old psychopathic wack-job." And the SNL writers use Wii Miis, which is pretty lame. The Colbert Report wins, which is sweet.

--Mandel is back. Ugh. He and Probst introduce the accountants, which is death. Steve Martin follows, which is quite a jarring contrast.

--Speaking of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Martin calls it "perspicacious, multifarious, and only sometimes placatory. And believe me, I only use those words to see how closed captioning will spell them." My closed captioning doesn't even attempt perspicacious, but the other two come out as "multifair yus" and "placetory."

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And that's it! Approximately two-and-a-half, three hours of Emmys watching and recapping after that: gone, baby, gone. Oh well, at least 30 Rock won a ton of Emmys. Although even that didn't stop Tina Fey from desperately imploring the audience to tune in. And the sad thing is, they mostly still won't watch the funniest comedy on TV. Stupid audience!

BOOKS: The Pleasure of My Company

Better late than never, yesterday's promised book review:

If pirates are the new monkeys, then mentally-challenged savants are the new pirates. Released on the heels of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, about an autistic math genius turned sleuth, Steve Martin's (yes, that Steve Martin) novella The Pleasure of My Company chronicles the life of Daniel Pecan Cambridge, pathological liar, OCD sufferer, math genius (he creates giant magic squares to help calm his nerves), and loner.

Daniel is a prisoner of his compulsions. He can scarcely leave his apartment for fear of having to cross a curb (curbs are highly illogical to him, and thus highly forbidding), and his relationships with people are nearly non-existent (he even ruins his chance at a sexual encounter with his upstairs neighbor by leaving her stranded in the bedroom while he makes sure the wattage of all the lit light bulbs in his apartment adds up to 1125). And the relationships he does have are riddled with fabrications and fantasies. He convinces himself he is in love with Zandy, the woman who fills his prescriptions at Rite-Aid; Elizabeth, the realtor handling the apartment building across the street; and Clarissa, the student therapist who visits him weekly.

After constructing an elaborate relationship with Elizabeth in his head, Daniel finally arranges to meet her, but as his mental tics manifest, Elizabeth becomes disgusted. Daniel assures himself (only half-jokingly) that he can't be held responsible for his failure:

...Elizabeth was at fault here. She had destroyed whatever was between us by making a profound gaffe: She met me.

But that illusion won't hold; he later admits to himself, apropos of the distance his mental disorders force him to create: "There are few takers for the quiet heart."

The book, and his relationship with Clarissa, both take a surprising turn when she unexpectedly shows up at his apartment:

..."Could I ask you a favor?" The request held such exasperation that I worried she had used up all the reserve exasperation she might need on some other occasion.

Clarissa is having troubles with her abusive ex-husband, and needs to leave her baby son, Teddy, with Daniel while she deals with things. She instinctively knows what the reader has come to learn, that despite the lies he can't control, Daniel is a trustworthy person. And so Daniel, whose world is ruled by logic, is suddenly in charge of a highly illogical being. The neuroses which have kept him locked up are challenged by Teddy, and this first step leads him on a greater journey outside of himself.

Martin is no Hollywood opportunist, publishing a book just because his name recognition allows him the luxury to do so. He's a gifted writer, as those who have read his previous novella, Shopgirl, already know. His dialogue is humorous, sad, sweet, and real, and his descriptive prose brightens even the mundanity of Rite-Aid:

The merchandise inside broke the light like a million prisms. Candy bars, laid out like organ keys, glistened in their foil wrappers. Tiers of detergent boxes bore concentric circles of vibrating color. The tiny selection of pots and pans reflected elongated sideshow images. Green rubber gloves dangled from metal racks like a Duchamp, and behind it all was Zandy's yellow hair, which moved like a sun, rising and setting over the horizon of ointments and salves.

The Pleasure of My Company is a wonderful book, smart, subtle, funny and wise, deeply observant of human nature, its triumphs and failures.

BOOKS: I got nothing.

I think I'm going to have to rejigger my posting schedule, because I just don't read fast enough anymore to have a new book to write about every week.

This week, I could write about Captains Outrageous, which I'm almost finished with, but since I already wrote about it, that would be a tad redundant. And repetitive. And it would say the same thing over again. And it would be redundant, too.

Or I could write about the Steve Martin book I picked up at the library this week, The Pleasure of My Company, but I haven't read it yet, despite the fact it's only, like, 12 pages long. Seriously, it's short. But I can barely read six comic books in one day anymore, let alone a whole novel (like I used to).

So I can talk a little about Martin's last novel, Shopgirl, which I have read, and then I'll talk about the changes I'm thinking of making to this site.

Mostly what I remember about Shopgirl was how funny it wasn't. There were more than a few humorous lines and scenes, but the overall feeling I got from it was one of melancholy. Love didn't seem to work for any of its characters, and frankly, I felt a little concerned for Steve Martin. After all, Anne Heche dumped him for Ellen Degeneres. That's enough to destroy any man's hopes for true love.

(Tangent: I wonder if he and Ellen have ever talked about Anne. I mean, he drove her to the other team, and she drove her right back. There can't be an awful lot of people in the world who have shared an experience like that. Maybe they have meetings with Lou Diamond Phillips, whom Julie Cypher left to be with Melissa Etheridge.)

Also, I was shocked at the sexual explicitness of Shopgirl. I've grown to think of Steve Martin as an almost asexual character, like Gilligan. As disturbing as it would be to picture Gilligan having a three-way with Ginger and Mary Ann, so was it disturbing to read sex scenes written by Steve Martin. As disturbing as it was to watch him participate in a sex scene with Helena Bonham-Carter in Novocaine.

Even more disturbing: my mother wanted to borrow the book when I was done. She was thinking, "Oh, Steve Martin, he's a silly fella." Meanwhile, he had written an unexpectedly dark and sexually frank book. I don't know about your relationship with your mother, but I was not going to be responsible for giving her that book. She kept asking if I had finished it, and I kept saying, "Nope, not yet!" even though I had finished it in a day and a half. I stalled long enough that I had to return the book to the library. "Sorry, I guess you'll have to check it out yourself!" I don't know if she ever did. I kind of hope not.

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So, what to do with my blog if Wednesdays are no longer book days? It's a little early in my blog's existence to have an identity crisis, yet here we are. I think I may either open the "books" entry to comic book trade paperbacks as well, of which I have far too many for my own good. Or turn it into a grab bag kind of day -- books one week, music or art or whatever the next. Already I post a variety of different items on different days, but I wanted this blog to have an agenda of at least one lengthy post on one particular predetermined aspect of pop culture every weekday. I think I'm going to have to concede defeat on the book posts for the immediate future.

I'll sleep on it tonight. More contemplation tomorrow.