Does anyone care about Naomi Judd anymore? No, and no one should, because she is still such a stage mother after all these years, popping up intermittently to swipe some of her more successful daughters' spotlight. Look, Naomi, you used to be a star too, singing with your daughter Wynonna as The Judds. You won some Grammy awards, had a few hit records. We get it already. Now go ahead and retire like you said you were going to, like, a decade ago. Ashley's the hot Judd, Wynonna has the talent, and you're the absent one. That's the arrangement we like. If, say, one of your daughters wants to mention your name at an awards show or something like that, that's fine. But quit trying to trade on their names to get talk-show gigs and your name in the papers. Sure, you might claim you're only making the rounds to promote your books, including your first children's book, Love Can Build a Bridge. But seriously, do you really think Jay Leno wants you on The Tonight Show to talk about a children's book? Rosie O'Donnell maybe, but Leno just wants to know whom Ashley's dating or why you allowed her to wear such a revealing dress at the Oscars last year. Writing a children's book only takes you one place: Signing autographs for the Enchanted Forest at the Lakewood Theatre, 1825 Abrams Parkway, from 4:30-5:30 p.m. Thursday. Free. Call (214) 827-LAKE.
Back in the day, as a security guard at the University of Texas at Austin's Frank Erwin Center, we worked at laser shows on several occasions. Before every one of them, our boss laid down a simple set of instructions: No drinking, no smoking, and absolutely no drugs were allowed inside the building. He might as well have dumped a bucket of sand on the floor and asked us to count the grains. It would have been easier than trying to discourage people from drinking, smoking, and doing drugs while they sat in a dark room listening to Pink Floyd, especially during a half-ass laser show that would have seemed revolutionary sometime around 1978. Basically, no amount of money is worth walking around for three hours or so listening to Dark Side of the Moon without even a drop of beer in your system, trying to persuade thousands of half-there stoners to put out their, um, cigarettes. Of course, to the audience, it probably was just as good as being at a real Pink Floyd concert; no one can see the band under all the smoke and huge inflatable bunnies anyway. For the past year, Wesley Hathaway and Richard Van Zandt have been hosting laser shows at Fort Worth's Ridglea Theater, which, as Hathaway claims in the press kit she sent over last week, had always been "a dream" of theirs. Whatever. The show--featuring music by, you guessed it, Pink Floyd--begins at 9 p.m. at the Ridglea Theater, 6025 Camp Bowie Boulevard in Fort Worth. Admission $5. Call (817) 738-8500.
We'll admit it. After scanning a list of galleries involved in the 11th Annual Dallas Gallery District Association Tour, we were unaware that half of them even existed. Normally, we would blame this on someone else, possibly the galleries themselves. This time, though--and likely, only this time--we'll accept that we have no one to fault for this oversight but ourselves and our hermit-like existence. (Sunlight bad, dingy apartment good.) From now on, we're going to get out and live, damn it! Or something like that. We're probably kidding ourselves, but play along and join us this weekend as we tour more than 20 of our city's fine art establishments, including Stone by Stone Gallery, Karen Mitchell Frank Gallery, Elliot Yeary Gallery, and Empty Walls Gallery. The free tour happens 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Friday, 2-8 p.m. Saturday, and noon-5 p.m. Sunday. Check the Gallery listings on page 75 or visit www.dallasgalleries.com on the Internet.
Like most mothers, our mom always used to say, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." She couldn't have known at the time, but if we followed that advice, we wouldn't have much of a career left. But hey, today is Mother's Day, so we'll take the opportunity to make nice with the Dallas spoken-word community. After all, they have a big weekend planned, starting with the local premiere of Slam Nation, filmed at the 1996 National Poetry Slam in Portland. Showing on Friday and Saturday at the Inwood Theatre, the event will also feature a performance by the 1998 National Poetry Slam Championship Team from New York City, and the so-called father of slam poetry Marc Smith. And on Sunday, Smith will emcee The Golden Mic, a Mother's Day invitational team slam at Club Clearview that boasts 10 teams from across the country and more than $2,000 in prizes. Slam Nation screens on Friday and Saturday at midnight at the Inwood Theatre, Lovers at Inwood, and is preceded by a performance by Smith and the various slam poets both nights. Admission $10. Call (214) 352-6040. The Golden Mic begins at 6 p.m. at Club Clearview, 2803 Main. Admission $5. Call (214) 939-0077.
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Not many people know this, but we have a stuttering problem, kept in check--for the most part--for many years. It only comes out every once in a while, usually caused by severe frustration or severe inebriation; too many bourbon-and-Cokes, and we sound like Mel Tillis sitting on a washing machine. This week, the Stuttering Foundation of America is sponsoring National Stuttering Awareness Week, chaired by Annie Glenn, wife of former senator and erstwhile astronaut John Glenn. She is just one of many prominent people who have come to grips with the problem, including Carly Simon, NBA Hall of Fame center Bill Walton, and, yes, Darth Vader himself, James Earl Jones. For more information, call the Stuttering Foundation of America's toll-free hotline, (800) 992-9392. And try to watch Tillis in Cannonball Run at least once this week with a little understanding.
For some reason, during the golden years of Hollywood, most male actors were forced to shave their torsos. In more than a few cases, it was probably appropriate; after all, nothing says sexy more than a shoulder comb-over. But we've never really understood the unilateral ban on chest hair.
See what we mean at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday when 1953's From Here to Eternity--starring Frank Sinatra, Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Deborah Kerr, and Ernest Borgnine--screens at the Lakewood Theatre, 1825 Abrams Parkway. If we're lying, we'll shave our own chests. And Borgnine doesn't count. The screening of From Here to Eternity is part of the Lakewood Theatre's 15 Cent Classic series, meaning admission is 15 cents, and popcorn is a quarter. Call (214) 827-LAKE.
City of Angels, the 1998 film starring Nicolas Cage as an angel who becomes human after falling in love with Meg Ryan, is possibly one of the most depressing films extant, a weeper that redefines the term "chick flick." Not that there's anything wrong with that--we cried during last week's episode of Dawson's Creek, you know, the one where Joey's dad comes back from prison? Anyway, we wouldn't mind City of Angels so much if it weren't such a shoddily produced remake of Wim Wenders' original, 1987's Wings of Desire. If you liked City of Angels, you'll love Wings of Desire. It's like seeing a painting after looking at a Xerox of it. If you didn't like City of Angels, well, you're not alone. It's a side of Cage we thought was lost after Peggy Sue Got Married. Too bad it wasn't. Wings of Desire plays at The MAC, 3120 McKinney, at 8 p.m. as part of the Wednesday Night Film & Video Series. Admission is $3-$5. Call (214) 953-1212.