DAN TESSITORE

My WHO fan-dom didn't begin until after Keith Moon was dead. I might have been twelve when, on Christmas morning, I found a copy of Who Are You with my name on it. I think mom just wandered into the record store and asked whatever pimply geek happened to be there what she should get for her pimply geek. Whether his recommendation was genuine or he was just trying to clear out the bargain bin I have no idea, but it wasn't long before I owned every WHO recording I could find. I'm pretty sure I owned every WHO record before I bought anything by any other band. As far as "classic rock" goes, The WHO were heavier than The Beatles and more experimental than The Stones. I'll be the first to admit they did some positively goofy shit. Who Are You has a track or two that sound like the remnants of some abandoned space opera. But until my friend Doug laid a copy of X's Under The Big Black Sun on me, The WHO were the Titans of my rock and roll pantheon. Even now, I still consider them royalty.

So I'm reluctant to criticize The Two's Superbowl performance last night. Yeah, it was less than stellar. Yeah, the set list was predictable (CBS' CSI soundtrack, basically). Yeah, there was a moment when Roger looked on the verge of a stroke before Camera Control could cut away. But how many of their generation can still take the stage at all, much less manage a few screams and windmills? Not many. But that hasn't stopped the legion of comment-thread quarterbacks from eating up bandwidth with their non-rock-god opinions. The WHO is "irrelevant?" In the middle of the most hyped, testosterone-laden media event of the year, who is?

Jersey Shore? Was Guidouche! already taken? Faux-Hawk's Landing? Bad hair-do aside, the guy on the right looks almost normal next to Gay-Rod and Oompa Lou Diamond Philips here.

I know, criticizing reality television is cliche, but then again so is reality television. Seems all you need to become a minor TV celebrity now is to have a shitty job (Ice Road Truckers), be willing to eat anything (Man vs. Food), or be fat (Biggest Loser). I'll gain a hundred pounds for 5 minutes on Letterman. Where's my show?

So-called Italian Americans hate Jersey Shore even more than they hated The Sopranos. If I hear the words "Italian American Community" one more time I'm going to take out a contract on Scott Baio. Funny how there's only a racial community when someone is pissed off about something. Michael Richards goes on a tirade, and suddenly there's a "black community." Lou Dobbs goes on a tirade, and suddenly there's a "Latino community." Justin Timberlake wins an award, and suddenly there's a "gay community." Isn't saying there is such a thing as a black or Latino community the same as saying that all blacks or all Latinos have the same politics, values, tastes, and sense of humor? Isn't that stereotyping?

Answer: YES.

People are happy to be just Americans until being a hyphenated American helps them win elections, sue someone, or get a shitty reality show. My last name, Tessitore, is Italian. Do I give a shit? Not really. Tessitore is the Italian equivalent of Weaver (tessit from the Latin for textile, but you knew that already because you're a smart bunch), so I'm probably not descended from royalty. I haven't bothered to trace my lineage back to the old country, and if I did I'd probably discover that my ancestors were just another clan of wine-swilling, olive-picking sheep fuckers. Otherwise, why would any of them have come here in the first place?

Duh.

My family always pronounced the name in three syllables: TESS-i-TOR. When I got to college, and especially grad school, many of my profs and snooty-but-lovable friends insisted on going with the four-syllable version: TESS-uh-TOR-ee. I never really cared either way, so I let it ride. But I'm going with the three-syllable, Ellis Island version from now on. Because I'm an American mutt like most everyone else and don't feel the need for any ethnic street-cred. And besides, it has the same rhythm as SAM KINISON, so what could go wrong?

The only bragging rights I have are a couple of sauce and meatball recipes that any woman in her right mind would blow me for, and that's enough. Oh, and there was a great uncle back there somewhere who stepped into the ring with Joe Louis. You probably haven't heard of him. Because he probably got his Italian-American Community ass kicked.

If you're wondering why this post doesn't have a funnier title, it's because there isn't one. And no, I'm not making this up. I couldn't. If you asked me yesterday what kind of hell I would design for my most hated enemy, I doubt I would have conceived of anything as sadistic as ABBA World. That's a level of evil genius to which mere mortals can only aspire.

But if Gene Simmons were dead, he'd be rolling in his Official KISS Coffin (R) over the fact that ABBA has a theme park and KISS does not. Not only did KISS perform at theme parks, they starred in a TV movie set in a theme park. The only other musical force from the 70's to share that distinction, to my knowledge, is The Brady Bunch.

Peyton Manning is a great quarterback. I saw the game yesterday, and he was pretty damn impressive. But I don't understand the rabid devotion and blue-faced fandom. He's not from Indianapolis, he's from New Orleans. He didn't play for Indiana University, he played for Tennessee. I don't care enough to look it up, but I'm willing to bet this is true of most star players for most teams in every sport. So if you're a Colts fan, why doesn't the back of your over-priced jersey read IRSAY, the owner who's money is the reason Manning plays for your city?

I'm not a rainmaker when it comes to the sports parade. I watch the occasional game and enjoy it. I like the NCAA basketball tournament and throw my five bucks in the pool at my local watering hole. But I don't kid myself that it's not a parade, a kind of Plato's Cave where we watch a game, and a multi-millionaire in a glass booth up top watches us watch his money.

But I have friends in Indianapolis, and so to them I say, "Congratulations." I'm happy that you're happy that your favorite team is going to the big game where, God willing, their hearts will be ripped from their chests, carried back to New Orleans, and eaten raw on Fat Tuesday.

Go Ravens.

The first half: Comedians migrate to Los Angeles, in particular the Comedy Store, in the early to mid-70's. Hilarity ensues. The second half: Everything goes to shit.

If you do comedy, you will come away from this book with a pretty good idea of how the comedy club business came into existence and why it is the way it is - good and bad. Without giving anything away, everything you like and dislike about the business of stand-up may have its origin in a comment Jay Leno made in a diner.