high on this tasty bud

Okay, I know I'm a bit behind the eight ball on this one, but in just 24 hours I've watched six episodes of Weeds, the Showtime dramedy starring Mary Louise Parker as Nancy Botkin, a widowed suburban mom who turns to dealing dope to maintain her upper-middle class lifestyle. By all accounts, she shouldn't be terribly sympathetic. Her two sons are in school, why can't she get a real job, ferchrisake? I guess 'cause we've all seen that show before. But who cares? It's Mary Louise Parker, and she makes me feel like piecing together my ripped up lesbian card, even if it takes several hours to do so.

Anyhow, back to the show's silly premise: You got a white suburban mom selling pot, and that's reason enough to have her interact with the tough yet ever-so-likable grandmother-to-be black dealer in the dicey part of town. In episode four (or three? I've embarrassingly binged and they're all a jumble), Nancy/MLP is visiting the house in the 'hood, restocking her supply, and the bullets start to fly. The dealer family (grandma dealer's grown kids live with her) go on auto pilot, and lunge for cover, while Nancy stands dazed and clueless until the hunky son, Conrad (Romany Malco, who seems to be dating MLP now in "real life"), pulls her down to the floor. It's a funny moment, trust me.

While Elizabeth Perkins' character on the show, Celia, initially seems as tightly wound as a Swiss clock, circumstances cause her to loosen up remarkably in the span of six episodes. Even though MLP is the dope dealer, Celia is the really whacky customer. Anyhow, suffice it to say, I'm hooked and looking forward to burning through the next six installments.

let's carp about classic rock

"Jackie Wilson said, 'I'm in heaven when you smile,'" so sang the formidable man on the stage of Berkeley's Greek Theater. That man, of course, was none other than Van Morrison, who was playing to a sold-out crowd, many of whose members had shelled out $125 to hear him sing tunes old and new. The good news is that Van is in fine voice. Morrison has gotten one of the best blues vocal instruments around. There's no disputing he's a legend. Even as a fairly recent fan, I'd heard that he is unpredictable in concert. I decided days before the show to risk it, and picked up a pair of tix for $150. You only live once, right, and here was a chance to hear one of the greatest pop/rock artists in my back yard. What the hell.

At 7:30 p.m., the sun making a hasty exit, Van's band came out to warm up the audience. They were just a tease, though, and soon enough, Mr. Morrison made his way to the stage. Van opened with a tasty mix of songs, including the title track from 1990's "Enlightenment," a couple of tunes from "Pay the Devil," including "There Stands the Glass." It was all wonderfully pleasant, though I kept wanting him to kick it up into a higher gear. His cover of "St. James Infirmary" was soulful, hot, and really lovely. Afterwards, he segued into "Moondance," "Jackie Wilson Said," "Brown-Eyed Girl," "Gloria," and that's where the trouble started.

The aforementioned songs are indubitably part of the rock 'n' roll canon, but as served up last night, their vitality was diminished, the edges were all gone. It was as if Van had turned his own songbook into Muzak. He exited after giving most of the crowd what they wanted. I just felt jaded after barely 90 minutes of entertainment. I kept thinking of the musicians whose music I love that really work hard to please their fans: Lucinda Williams, Elvis Costello, even the eccentric Rickie Lee Jones.

In the case of last night's Van Morrison show, I'm willing to cop to being a crank, a curmudgeon. But I wasn't grooving like the rest of the (mostly) boomer crowd, and felt my familiar fish-out-of-water self. Yep, it sucked. I'd like to be able to revel in such moments, instead I was outside, looking in, the disgruntled observer. As I write this, I'm listening to Van's "St. Dominic's Preview," so I guess all is not lost.