Friday Wednesday Frank: My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama; Dweezil & Friends

Something to cure the mid-week blues (and a serious treat for fellow guitar-heads): Frank Zappa's classic, solo-inspiring My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama, brought to you by Steve Vai, Dweezil Zappa, Eric Sardinas, Tony MacAlpine, Dave Weiner, and Billy Sheehan (on bass).

Enjoy, and Happy Wednesday.

David Bowie and The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Long-haired Men

This was a find and then some: old BBC footage of a seventeen-year-old David Bowie and his friends declaring their solidarity as long-haired men in Britain who will not stand for any more persecution and ridicule.

We're one big gathering of long-haired males (and female) in my house, so we heartily and retroactively endorse the work of this David Bowie person and hope that we'll be hearing more from the bright young man in the years to follow 1964.

(The clip has a Python-esque absurdist feel to it, no?)

I Want Angelina's Earrings: Assorted Oscar Fashion Thoughts

litbrit's favorite dress: Beyoncé Knowles' breathtakingly well-fitted black-and-gold brocade mermaid gown by House of Deron. Notice Beyoncé's gorgeous posture, simple hairdo, and minimal accessories (small earrings, actually). Really, what could one add to this? She's perfection.

While looking at last night's fashion parade (People's slide show is here--go look; we'll wait), I came to the conclusion that if I were in charge of such things, I'd institute an outright ban on the wearing of diaphanous, pale-to-colorless evening gowns by waifish, pale-to-colorless women (myself included) (*cough* Anne Hathaway, Sarah Jessica Parker, Nicole Kidman *cough*). Michelle Obama's queenly white Inaugural gown looked so fabulous precisely because she is not a waifish, pale-to-colorless woman. That said, I did love Tina Fey's slinky silver-beaded Zack Posen dress and Jennifer Aniston's strapless, white-and-silver Art Deco beaded Valentino gown.

Really, though, give me color, please! And as long you're shopping for me, you can start with this lovely shade of green, as worn last night by the incomparable actor (and SextoMom) Angelina Jolie:

These sweet little emerald baubles would set off my eyes quite nicely, and you know,
I just happen to have the perfect dress...

Friday Saturday Frank: Father O'Blivion; Stockholm, 1973

Here you go, then: one smoking solo after another, posted for your listening pleasure this chilly Saturday morning. Frank Zappa performs with his infamous 1973 lineup (and jacket), including Ruth Underwood, Jean-Luc Ponty, Tom Fowler, Ralph Humphrey, Ian Underwood, George Duke, and Bruce Fowler. Enjoy.

Bon Weekend, everyone.

Friday Frank: The Returning! Budapest; (Televised); 1991

While browsing through YouTube, looking for an interesting Frank Zappa clip to post after too many weeks of abstinence, I stumbled upon this thrilling piece, which I'd never seen before and which apparently aired on Hungarian television back in 1991. In it, a graying and clearly-unwell Zappa plays some heartbreakingly beautiful guitar--I don't recognize the composition, and I'm afraid I don't speak or read Hungarian, either; can any readers identify this piece for me? Anyway, interspersed with the music is footage of Zappa speaking with an unidentified (but English-speaking) man in what I will describe as a fascinating, classic Zappa interview brimming with timeless political observations. Below, I've transcribed the money quotes for you (emphasis mine):

FZ: "I am in the process of doing what we call a feasibility study to see if it's possible for me to run for President in the United States against George Bush*."

Interviewer: That's quite a comment--do you feel there's a chance?

FZ: "Umm, yes. Not a good one--because, you know, he has more balloons than I do. [laughs] But I certainly don't agree with his policies, and I think that the Democrats have nothing to offer. And my idea is, if I do decide to run, to run as an anti-partisan candidate. Because I believe both the political parties in the United States have let the public down, and they generate more rhetoric than results. And it's not often that a voter in the United States gets a clear-cut choice between two candidates, because they tend to resemble each other physically, rhetorically, aesthetically--every other way; it's a choice between Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. And, er, if the feasibility study works out right, I would at least be able to say, If you get tired of those other two guys, you know, take a look at me."

Interviewer: Makes a lot of sense...the next time I interview you, I may be calling you Mr. President instead of Mr. Zappa?

FZ: [Shrugs and smiles] "Maybe..."

Frank Zappa died of prostate cancer in December, 1993. Given that his interest in--and involvement with--American politics was intensifying with every passing year, and knowing that he was both a fierce defender of the First Amendment and an active supporter of voting and participatory democracy, I don't doubt that, had he beaten the cancer, Zappa would have run for office at some point. And I've often wondered what he'd have to say about the nation electing the son of his then-nemesis, George Bush Sr.

Just as I've often wondered what he'd have to say about the condition of the country, the economy, and the Bill of Rights after the eight years during which Bush II lead us perilously close to becoming the "fascist theocracy" Zappa envisioned--and warned us about--during the Reagan years.

And, of course, I continue to muse about what Zappa would have to say about our new president, the unusually-named black son of a single mother. Our new president--he of the non-partisan approach to politics; he, an autodidact from a truly non-elite background. Our new president, who characterizes the philosophies of self-reliance and fiscal responsibility as being complementary to a belief in the power of union and the citizen's duty to community and nation. As did the great conservative president Abraham Lincoln; as did Zappa himself.

Our new president, a man who could hardly be described as resembling--physically, rhetorically, or aesthetically--any U.S. president elected heretofore.

* Zappa is referring to then-president George H. W. Bush, father of George W. Bush.

On Breakfast Champions and Paper Tigers

So this week, cereal giant Kellogg's pulled its endorsement of the greatest, most decorated Olympic swimmer of all time--the amazing fourteen-gold-medals-winning Michael Phelps--because he smoked pot.

Consider this: the cult film Reefer Madness was made--by a church group!--some seventy-three years ago. And so howlingly obvious was the silliness of the film's premise, even then, an exploitation film company saw fit to buy it and sensationalize it further so as to reap maximum profits during a slow economy (hmmm...). Later in the century, the film gained cult status as a comedy of sorts, as it was jam-packed with set bloopers and ridiculous, over-the-top statements ("Women cry for it; Men die for it!"). In 1973, budding rightwing strategerist and future David Gregory dance partner Karl Rove suggested screening Reefer Madness at Young Republicans' fundraisers as a way to attract the kewl kollege kids to what one can only imagine were, er, thrilling, must-attend social events. True story.

It's the year 2009, everyone. I cannot believe we're still debating this. Adults, personal time, private bodies, waste of money and law enforcement personnel, fiscal priorities, and so on and so forth. Then there is the not-insignificant issue of prison overcrowding due to mandatory minimums. Oh, and the fact that, unlike the foamy beers that bring you the Superbowl, the sparkly vodka martinis leaping from the pages of your favorite magazines, and all manner of rainbow-colored prescription pills--Tell your doctor!--the makers of which underwrite your daily televised serving of (bad) economic news, the Evil Weed has not, to date, caused a single overdose death.

Radley Balko of The Agitator wishes Michael Phelps would write this letter. So do I. An excerpt:

Here’s a crazy thought: If I can smoke a little dope and go on to win 14 Olympic gold medals, maybe pot smokers aren’t doomed to lives of couch surfing and video games, as our moronic government would have us believe. In fact, the list of successful pot smokers includes not just world class athletes like me, Howard, Williams, and others, it includes Nobel Prize winners, Pulitzer Prize winners, the last three U.S. presidents, several Supreme Court justices, and luminaries and success stories from all sectors of business and the arts, sciences, and humanities.

So go ahead. Ban me from the next Olympics. Yank my endorsement deals. Stick your collective noses in the air and get all indignant on me. While you’re at it, keep arresting cancer and AIDS patients who dare to smoke the stuff because it deadens their pain, or enables them to eat. Keep sending in goon squads to kick down doors and shoot little old ladies, maim innocent toddlers, handcuff elderly post-polio patients to their beds at gunpoint, and slaughter the family pet.

Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll apologize for smoking pot when every politician who ever did drugs and then voted to uphold or strengthen the drug laws marches his ass off to the nearest federal prison to serve out the sentence he wants to impose on everyone else for committing the same crimes he committed. I’ll apologize when the sons, daughters, and nephews of powerful politicians who get caught possessing or dealing drugs in the frat house or prep school get the same treatment as the no-name, probably black kid caught on the corner or the front stoop doing the same thing.

Hear, hear.

If you're so inclined, please write a note to Kellogg's chief marketing officer, Mark Baynes, and let him know--politely, of course--how you feel about his company siding with the nonsensical so-called "War on Drugs" and against the brilliant, young, multiple, multiple (etc.) gold-medal-winning Phelps.

mark.baynes@kellogg.com

Kellogg Company
1 Kellogg Sq
Battle Creek, MI 49016-3599

(SNL clip via Sully; H/T Michael Hussey)

"The Electronic Newspaper Isn't As Spiffy-looking as the Ads Imply..."

Well, readers, I'm finally back among the living after two weeks during which every family member--male, female, upright-walking, and four-legged and fur-covered alike--fell victim to the dreadful Oh-Nine variant of the 'flu. We've been going through decongestants and aspirins like water, and buying (and using up) coffee-table-sized multi-packs of Kleenex boxes from Costco. Meanwhile, grubby jeans and school uniforms would appear to have been breeding in the dark corners of the laundry room--not exactly the cheerful get-well present I was hoping for, but hey, I'm just grateful to be breathing freely and speaking in my normal baritone, as opposed to the unintelligible frog-croaking I was doing for a while there. Poor Marley, he seemed so insulted and pissed-off at the notion of microbes invading his sovereign feline self: he'd burst into a fit of little kitty-sneezes, then shoot me this withering look, as if I had something to do with it (I didn't; it came home with one of the Offspring and spread outward and downward from there. But try telling that to a cat.)

Anyway, let's kick off my return to civilization with this little blast from the past--1981, to be specific; it comes via Wayne Garcia, my new boss at Creative Loafing, where I'll be posting my work from time to time, starting this week. (For non-Floridians, CL is an alternative weekly newspaper somewhat akin to the Village Voice. Only it's not, obviously, of that particular Village, not unless you consider the Tampa area to be an extension of New York, which is probably kind of stretching things a bit. We did come close to being, ah, cursed blessed with our very own Trump Tower at one point, though. And you can get some pretty superb pizza here, if you know the right Italians, ahem.)

First, the electronic newspaper; then, what next--a telephone with pictures? Anything seemed possible...

Dr. King's Dream is Rising

photo via Doug Mills, NYT

Come on up for the rising,
Come on up, lay your hands in mine;
Come on up for the rising,
Come on up for the rising tonight!

If you're like me, your eyes are still a bit swollen this morning after weeping with joy during the Obama Inaugural event at the Lincoln Memorial. I also watched the replay on HBO last night, exchanging emails with Lisa Simeone, who'd live-reported the event on NPR radio earlier and was now watching it at home, this time setting aside her no-tears-on-the-air professionalism and reveling in the pleasure of it, just like the rest of us. As one stunning performance followed another, I noted that this was so intense an emotion for me, I could barely find words to describe it. "My heart is exploding and bits of stardust are all over the floor," I wrote.

In one sense, I am deeply envious of my friend T, whose children go to school with mine and whose sister is a brilliant actor and very special liberal activist; accordingly, he and his lucky, lucky family are part of the exciting festivities going on in Washington right now; more saliently, they're in the middle of history as it unfolds. (Say hello to Michelle for me, T!)

In another sense, though, as I bask in our relatively tropical Florida warmth (eek, sorry, snowbound readers), I am not at all jealous of those oceans of excited, bundled-up people who were surely chilled to the bone, from the crowds who stood on the ground to the celebrities who sang onstage. I could tell that the performers, in particular, were really feeling the cold, even with layers of gorgeous scarves and coats swaddling them: if you looked at their lips, you could see that some of them were struggling mightily to keep their mouths flexible in that freezing air so they could form the words. (When I was in high school, my singing group traveled to Europe and performed outdoors in Germany; all I can say is, singing in the falling snow is beyond challenging, not to mention terrible for one's vocal cords.)

Poor Bruce Springsteen displayed, at times, the body language of someone who was looking forward to curling up in front of a warm fire after the concert. And speaking of fire, wasn't that a soul-stirring, body-invigorating rendition of The Rising? Springsteen originally wrote this to honor all the firefighters, many of whom died, for their indescribable bravery at the World Trade Center disaster on that dark and heartbreaking day. With an animated, red-robed gospel choir joining in, its 2009 incarnation was, quite literally, a moving and joyful call to service.

And I was touched and amused by the innocent excitement of Malia Obama, who repeatedly pulled out her little digital camera and snapped photos of all those famous people singing and dancing--and remembering history--just a few feet away. Um, Malia, you're the First Firstborn, darling; those celebrities are all going to want photos of you.

Despite my physical distance from it, I felt tightly bound to the history, pride, and ever-renewed American spirit underpinning the stage at the Lincoln Memorial, and I was electrified and inspired by the unprecedented length and breadth and depth of the creative talent assembled thereupon.

So, what was your favorite part?

Would That Things Were Only This Bad...

Reality is much worse than the future that SNL's writers imagined--save the Great Lakes problem--but Will Farrell's delicious, razor-sharp Dubya impersonation made me laugh out loud just the same. As Sully says, "It could stand for his farewell address as well."

School's...in...for...winter--that ecstatic tapping sound you hear is me doing a little Irish jig around my desk--and I'm back in the saddle again, to juxtapose a little Alice Cooper and Aerosmith on a cold Sunday morning (hey, why not?) Accordingly, there will be posting a-plenty going forward. Because if the tall, calm, grownup Senator President (yeah!) with the beautiful speeches and magnificent mind can't inspire this writer, I might as well hang up the Powerbook and go for an ostrich ride.

Happy Inauguration Weekend, everyone!

(H/T oddjob)

A Fundamental Clash--Not of Religions or Civilizations, but of Eras

This is Syrian-born American psychiatrist Dr. Wafa Sultan, speaking on Al-Jazeera television (English subtitles by Memritv) with Ibrahim Al-Khouli and host Faisal al-Qassem. Dr. Sultan discusses the ongoing battle between the barbarism inherent in the medieval mentality of fundamentalism and the hope and progress--both in scientific and social terms--that modern, tolerant thinking has offered, and continues to offer, humankind.

My thoughts about Dr. Sultan's words are best summed up by fellow Cogblogger Stephen, whose opinions on matters theological and historical I've long respected and to whom I sent this video earlier today. He notes:

"I could say, and have said, many of the same things about Christians that she says about Muslims. In fact, several centuries ago it was the Muslim world that practiced tolerance of other religions and saw great scientific gains; current math, physics, astronomy and medicine are all built upon what they started. The West's philosophical foundation upon Aristotelianism wouldn't have been possible without Muslims holding onto Aristotle's teachings while the Christian idiots were busily destroying anything they felt offended their Christian sensibilities. I guess the main takeaway for me is further confirmation of how similar fundamentalists from all systems of thought are to each other."

Yes.

(H/T Roberto, via Yariv)

Weekend at Bernie's

Work-weeks for the self-employed routinely stretch into seventy and even eighty-hour marathons, as Robert's continue to do these days; accordingly, he tries to ingest a decent amount of protein and vegetables, even at lunchtime, and had just bitten into his grilled chicken breast sandwich with pesto--he's the chef in these parts, not I--when news of Bernie Madoff's latest bit of sociopathic effrontery hit the airwaves.

Robert didn't choke, but I nearly did, and I wasn't even eating. And there they were, the braced-and-bespectacled CNBC crew, nattering away and wondering out loud how someone could possibly be so arrogant and unaware.

"Why are these Wall Street groupies even trying to make sense of this criminal?" I asked, resisting the strong urge to teevee-scream Take the beam out of your own motherfucking eyes first, O Masters of The Universe!

No More Teevee-screaming is my New Year's resolution. Swear.

Instead, I grumbled. "Arrogant? Aware? He's a bloody sociopath--he has no conscience."

"Maybe they feel they have to say something in order to sound smart?" Dear Husband offered.

Hey, it's bad enough that after being caught defrauding all those people, companies, and charities to the tune of many billions, Madoff packed up a million dollars or so worth of watches and jewelry and smuggled them off to the kids, claiming the items have "sentimental value". (It should be easy enough for prosecutors to debunk that one: sociopaths don't have sentiments, you see.) Now we learn he was planning to spirit away some $173 million dollars, too, confirmed by a load of signed checks investigators found during a search of his desk. And this despite being ordered to not dispose of any assets whatsoever, since said assets will, eventually, be used to partially (!) repay at least some investors.

Suffice it to say, I don't think slapping a bit of ankle jewelry on Madoff and sending him upstairs to his Manhattan penthouse is anything close to the sort of lifestyle change he really deserves to undergo right about now.

So, I propose this: until his trial date, let Madoff live off the street--for real. Strip the man down to his Sulka briefs, give him some beaten-up sneakers and an old sweatsuit from the Salvation Army--hell, the pants don't even have to match the hoodie--and point him toward the nearest Dumpster full of cardboard boxes. We got yer penthouse right here, Mister!

Meanwhile...

It's Weekend at Bernie's! All weekend, every weekend. And weekdays too--why not? Open the ultra-luxurious Madoff house to families who've been thrown out onto the streets when their banks foreclosed on their properties. One family per long weekend, I say, and give them access to the Madoff SubZero(s) and the Madoff wine cellar. Let the kids get warm--finally!--in his 1,000-thread-count Pratesi sheets and cashmere blankets and remind the parents to grab a vicuña coat or two when they head out the door and hand the keys to the next homeless family.

As for Madoff being out and about, ah, flight risk, schmight risk. I don't think he'll get too far.

FridayTuesday Frank: Sinister Footwear (Second Movement); NYC, 1981

Inaugural planners take note: setting aside Sinister Footwear's overall musical wonderfulness (and it's not often you'll hear me say that), its title alone makes this Zappa piece the perfect music with which to bid farewell to the Inartful Dodger of Crawford Dallas.

Happy New Year, all!

I Modestly Propose That You Read This

The fabulous Jon Swift has compiled his annual Best Blog Posts of 2008, which is a holiday cornucopia of wit, wailing, and wisdom submitted by the bloggers themselves. Dear Readers, there is so much good stuff there, you might as well set aside some time, make yourself an extra-large coffee with lots of cream and sugar (you're giving all that up tomorrow, right?) and settle in with a cuddly kitteh or two.

(Speaking of cuddly kittehs, Jon has scattered various spot-on lolcats throughout the long, long post. I'd better hurry up and finish this post--if Son Three sees this, he's going to want to sit on my lap and spend the next hour scrolling through I Can Has Cheezburger, and there goes the morning.)

For my part, I submitted a short (one sentence!) post, entitled To Those Who Muse About "Spreading Democracy" on This Day of Fidel Castro's Retirement that I wrote for litbrit back in February (it includes a Pablo Neruda poem). Unbeknown to me at the time, Mr. Swift had linked to that very post in a piece that he wrote, shortly thereafter, about the ridiculous embargo on Cuba. Weird, but unsurprising, given how many similar "weird" things happen when like minds join forces in the ether and...oh, hell, I can't do self-promotion without sounding like a complete New Age ass, so just go and peruse Swift's Hall of Awesomeness, okay?

(P.S. Thank you for taking on this enormous task, Jon; cheers and kisses to you, as always, for promoting us little guys.)

And Sir C, I swiped this one for you, though I'm sincerely hoping it's not one of your '09 resolutions :

Catblogging: Here Comes Marley Claws

They dressed me up like this. And this isn't my coat--it's a false one.

We all love a figgy pudding--or at least, a pudding-shaped cat--so bring us one now.

Merry, merry everyone!

XXX
Deborah

The Rational Actor's Libertarian Fête

[In light of recent disasters stemming from under-regulation and deregulation of various market sectors--the obvious Big Disaster as well as things like Spontaneous Combustion Snow Globes and Renal Failure Seafood--I thought it would be appropriate to re-post this poem I wrote for Ezra's blog and mine last Christmas. Commenter Andrew, responding to a contentious free-market cultist, said it well:

"Pity the poor libertarian. C. Ronnie Capitalist wears his clothes during the day. When the kitchen lights are out, the lobbying and no-bid contracts make scurrying little noises. You can hear them if you listen. Those aren't libertarians."]

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached.
-- from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

The Rational Actor's Libertarian Fête

Come now, the ever-bitterer winter wind
Reminding one and all what season nears,
And with it come the needs and wants of friends;
The plight--the suffering!--told of distant spheres.
Ah, what is there to do but shake one's head
And wonder at the choices people make?
They knew what they were doing. He made his bed.
Some people want to live life on the take.
I suffered; there were sacrifices made.
The roads I chose have led me to this place,
And all my efforts now will be repaid;
My just deserts spread forth before my face.
Let this be, then, the year we celebrate
At the Rational Actor's Libertarian Fête!

Come in, have drinks; we've everything to please--
Our own self-interest, you'll be glad to know,
Means cocktails that are light on antifreeze
And bread with just the faintest melamine glow.
We're reasonably sure the Champagne flute
Won't leach a cloud of lead into each bubble--
Or Christmas-colored plastic cups might suit?
No need to thank the Chinese for their trouble.
It's quite a spread, when all is said and done:
There's corn--and beans--with tortured DNA;
The Monkfish, I am told, will surely stun;
There's penicillin in the shrimp souffle.
It's doubtful that the roasted pig will kill you;
Though, even then, the hospital will bill you.

Come now, the ever-bitterer winter wind,
Reminding one and all that all are one;
And so the needs and wants of nearby friends,
And suffering humans under a distant sun,
Become our needs and wants--it's all-impacting.
Each dollar saved becomes a lead-laced train
That sickens those too young for Rational Acting.
Each weakened law begets a poisoned grain.
And so the guests of honor at their Fête
May find their appetites are somewhat numb;
They'll hope the howling coming from the gate
Is not The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,
His corrupted chains of debt stretched through the air,
Borne by toxic winds of laissez-faire.

D.N.T. 11/25/07

Friday Frank: A Zappadan Catch-up Post

Wow, what a week. Okay, make that month. Methinks it's high time I posted some fabulous Frank to cap off Zappadan and kick off the pre-Christmas weekend. [ I should point out that as with much of FZ's music, the lyrics might not be especially, er, work-safe--unless, of course, your co-workers and boss are Zappaphiles too.]

Let's travel back in time, then, to 1968, and visit the Royal Festival Hall, where Frank Zappa, the Mothers, and various orchestra members are performing a neoclassical piece entitled This Town is a Sealed Tuna Sandwich, which would later be featured in the film 200 Motels.



Guitar-heads will enjoy the solo in this one, Outside Now, performed in Paris in 1980:



And finally, here's our hero playing Florentine Pogen in L.A. back in 1974:



Bon Weekend, Happy Festivus, and Merry Zappadan everyone!

Minstrel Boy on Jeopardy Today!

Set your Tivo's and DVR's, since Minstrel Boy of Group News Blog and Harp and Sword is appearing on Jeopardy today (check your local listings).

"I'll take brilliant, irreverent, truffle-making, multiple-language-speaking, massive-amounts-of-history-knowing, more-instruments-than-I've-had-hot-dinners-playing, Vietnam Veteran Irish-Apache Gentlemen and Scholars for a thousand, Alex...".

Go MB!

FridaySaturday Frank: Watermelon in Easter Hay; Barcelona, 1988

I remember reading somewhere that this was one of FZ's favorite pieces (or was it Peaches en Regalia? Hmmm...). Anyway, Watermelon is gorgeous, meditative music that's hard to categorize--so why bother? I'll simply think of it as more beauty and brilliance from an American genius.

Happy Zappadan, everyone!

Today in Very Timely Songs: David Bowie & Gail Ann Dorsey Perform Under Pressure

Two music gods on one stage. Enjoy.

"...It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming 'Let me out!'
Pray tomorrow takes me higher
People people on streets
Turned away from it all
Like a blind man
Sat on fence but it don't work
Keep coming up with love
But it's so slashed and torn
Why, why, why?
Love, love, love, love.

Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking
Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love one more chance?
Why can't we give love, give love, give love,
Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love...

'Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care
For people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves under pressure..."

Marriage Equality Rocks!

Via TRex, with whom I was speaking this morning and to whom I said, You know, I love it that our side can fight all this ignorance and bigotry with creative brilliance and joy.

"It's the only way to win, baby," he replied.

(By the way, I'm totally adding Jack Black to my list of Super Best Friends.)