It’s been a while since I blogged, but I’ve got some excuses. (Don't we always?) For one thing, I’ve been engrossed in The Voice, the singing competition on NBC, because I’m related to one of the singers who made the Elite 8. For another, I’ve been out in public, at the L.A. Times’ Festival of Books at USC, emceeing a sendoff for the president of San Francisco State University (a couple of my jokes even made the local press), and keynoting an Oakland Chinatown Chamber of Commerce dinner, on the eve of Asian Pacific American Heritage month. B.D. Wong, now being seen on the NBC series, Awake, was a late (and great) addition to the program.

I also cranked out an article for The Hollywood Reporter about Dick Clark, based on a sometimes contentious Rolling Stone interview I did with him in 1973, followed by a fun run, a couple years later, through Las Vegas. And I conducted some interviews for my Little Feat book, with Jimmy Buffett, John Sebastian and others.

But forget all that. I had a family tie to The Voice?

Yep. Lindsey Pavao, the most indie of the final bunch of singers, is, if I got it right, a second cousin of my niece Tina’s husband, Matt Pavao. He told me this over brunch at the Foreign Cinema just as the show was whittling the original 48 contestants (a dozen each for celeb “coaches” Christina Aguilera, Adam Levine, Blake Shelton and Cee-Lo Green) to eight.

I’d been watching the show (I prefer it over American Idol), and had noted Lindsey’s name, but never thought there might be a family tie. And I liked her soft, unique voice (others sounded like Adele, or an opera singer, or a generic Rob Thomas or R. Kelly type).

But Lindsey, who was on Christina’s team, didn’t survive “America’s” vote, which determined the final four. She lost to the operatic guy, who lost to the R. Kelly guy, who probably just edged Juliet Simms, a knockout rocker whose fiery version of “Freebird” coulda, shoulda made her “The Voice.” Simms, I learned after Jermaine Paul had taken the crown, is from San Francisco—my town.  So, although my second cousin-in-law didn’t win, I still can celebrate.

PS: Although I dug The Voice, the show really should consider finding a host with perhaps a thimble-full of personality. The coaches should be given strict limits on how long they can agonize over their decisions about which team member to cut. It should also ditch the language that Idol has already beaten to death, over-promoting the show as being “live,” when it isn’t, for most viewers, and beating us over the head with the idea that “America” is voting. It’s a bunch of fanatics, friends, and second cousins, OK?

As for the other things that have occupied my time: The Dick Clark piece can be found here. DC  The headline, “You’re a Liberal and I’m a F---g Whore,” says it all. It’s about Clark being brutally candid about himself, and making no apologies for being more than a TV disc jockey. He was a brilliant entrepreneur who knew show business as what it is: a business.

What else? The Los Angeles Times’ books festival, staged at USC. It was fun, being on a panel about celebrity memoirs with two actual celebs. One was Sir Michael Lindsay-Hogg, director of pioneer music videos with the Beatles, the Stones, and many others. He learned, late in his 70 year-long life, that his biological father was Orson Welles. There’s a book, right there. The other panelist was Vicky Tiel, a fashion designer who was hot, in more ways than one, in the Sixties, and had designs on numerous well-known men. From what she said on the panel, her book is a tell-all, about men (Paul Newman, Warren Beatty, Mick Jagger) and a show-all, about miniskirts, about not wearing panties when she was a cheerleader, the better to distract opposing teams’ players, and about see-through blouses. I told her, “I guess that explains the Beatles’ song, ‘I’m Looking Through You.’” 

The festival was a Bookstock; probably 150,000 visitors over the course of the weekend, with events all over the campus. It was gratifying to see so many people – and not one Kindle.

Equally fun was my MC stint at the luncheon honoring Dr. Robert Corrigan, president of SF State for 24 years, and his wife Joyce, on the eve of his retirement. This was at the St. Francis Yacht Club in San Francisco.

Since I was inducted into the university’s Alumni Hall of Fame in 2003, I’ve attended the induction ceremonies, classy productions largely orchestrated by Joyce Corrigan. In recent years, I’ve been called on to MC the events. Now, with the Corrigans about to take their leave, I agreed to host the luncheon.  The honorary chairs included Lt. Gov. Gavin Newsom, Mayor Ed Lee, and former Mayor Willie Brown. The latter is not a shy man – especially about his own stature, accomplishments, adventures and wit – and writes about them in his Sunday column in the San Francisco Chronicle. Anyway, Newsom and Lee showed up; Brown was missing. Thus, my joke, which columnist Leah Garchik repeated in the Chronicle, like this:    

Emcee Ben Fong-Torres, a member of the class of 1966, remarked upon the absence of Willie Brown (class of 1955), who was, with Lee and Newsom, an honorary chairman of the event. Brown, said Fong-Torres, "is at the computer shop getting his keyboard fixed. The letter 'I' is all worn out."

George Marcus (class of 1965) announced a gift of $1 million to create a Robert A. Corrigan Chair in American Studies. Fong-Torres said he and his wife, Dianne, would donate $100 for its cushion.

It is, no doubt, a fun life. But it’s also one loaded with challenges. And so it is that I dedicate this report to another person who was, and is, uppermost in my mind: my younger brother Burton. He is ailing, but he has the undying support of all the Fong-Torreses, the Watkins, the Berlinskys, and, yes, the Pavaos.

The story begins at Bellaken Garden, a skilled nursing care facility in East Oakland, where my mother, Connie, has been staying since August. I’ve been visiting there twice a week, crossing the Bay Bridge from San Francisco and popping in with potstickers from a nearby takeout restaurant.

For months, I’d seen this thin, white-haired Asian woman seated in the lobby area, across from one of the dining rooms.  After a while, we’d exchange smiles and hellos. I’d noticed her mainly because she always had a transistor radio with her.  Being a radio columnist and occasional DJ, I asked what she was listening to. “Baseball,” she said. She was an avid San Francisco Giants fan, kept notes on their games, and kept their radio schedule close to her, all on a shelf of her walker. Her son, Jonathan, I would learn, works as a concessions cashier for both the Giants and the 49ers, so she was a football fan, too. We could talk.

I decided to do a little shout-out to her in my Radio Waves column in the San Francisco Chronicle, learned her name – June Kwei – and told her to watch for the mention. She appeared delighted, although I never properly introduced myself. Bad manners. (In Cantonese, “bad” is pronounced “kwei.”) Anyway, on December 11, the item ran, ending with “Holiday cheers to June Kwei.”

That evening, I received an email from a “Dede.” It was Mrs. Kwei’s daughter. I couldn’t believe it. Here’s most of what she wrote:

What a delight to see the mention of my mom, June Kwei, in your column today.  I just wanted to let you know that we are huge fans of yours, and have been faithfully following you in print and radio, since the ‘70s!

About two weeks ago, my mom called to say that "I am going to be in the paper." This event in itself was amazing, since being the typical Chinese mom, she only calls me after earthquakes and when she needs me to bring her more batteries for her little transistor radio. Since her memory is a bit sketchy these days, I thought I got the salient facts: that somehow you were visiting Bellaken and that you chatted about something -- she couldn't remember why, though.

I asked her if she told you that I, her 50-year-old Chinese American Bay Area native baby boomer daughter, had listened to the old KSAN for years, and you on Sundays, while I did my homework, since I was in 7th grade, growing up on the Peninsula. My exposure to you on KSAN was what got me started reading Rolling Stone, too. I cannot tell you how much my exposure to both of these media has shaped my life.

I had to move my mom to Bellaken a few years ago … Bellaken has been a godsend. The staff is wonderful, friendly, always positive and caring! Putting one's loved one in a well-caring nursing home can be a huge, unexpected (healing) blessing for everyone involved.

My mom has been reading (the Chronicle) faithfully, from cover to cover, for at least 60 years. When I called her today, she told me specifically not to make a special trip to buy one. She already had figured out how to get a copy of the article today, LOL.

Again, I just wanted to let you know how much I have appreciated your influence in my pop culture life and I hope to run into you at Bellaken someday soon. I have gotten to meet many other dutiful Chinese children there.  

Dede added a note about her brother, Jonathan:  “Today is his birthday. What a great present for our family: mom and my brother are in the paper ;-).”

What a present for all of us. I’ve shared Dede’s email, and an ensuing exchange, with my own family members. Suddenly, Bellaken Garden is more than a visit to Room 214 and chats with nurses, staffers and therapists.

I spoke with Dede for the first time a few days ago. Her mom is 85, she said. So she was in her mid-forties when she listened to my Sunday afternoon show on KSAN, the pioneer free-form rock station. Dede was maybe 12. “She loved it when you started saying a few words in Chinese,” she said.

So now I have a new project: To bring June a few air checks from those shows of long ago, when, unbeknownst to us, we made our first connection.

Meantime, June and her daughter shared a photo of the young June Kwei, in 1944, posing for a newspaper ad for Klein Jewelers in Chinatown, where she worked.

RANDOM NOTES: Speaking of radio connections, I’m doing a stint on a show called “My Turn,” an hour-long program in which a celebrity (and, sometimes, people like me) gets to spin favorite tunes, with no format rules. This is for KPRI in San Diego, and sister station “100.3 and The Sound” in Los Angeles. It airs on Sunday, Jan. 8 on both stations. They stream online; just Google one of them at the appointed time and hit “Listen Live.” Artists on my hour include Al Green, Chris Isaak, Amy Winehouse, the Eagles, Mayer Hawthorne and Shelby Lynne. Good stuff … If you’re looking for a beautiful, interesting, yet low-priced book of photography, check out San Francisco and the Bay Area: The Haight-Ashbury Edition, by Dick Evans. Dazzling shots of people, places and things. He asked me to write the foreword and a couple of chapter intros, and it was a pleasure just going over the photos. Available at his daughter’s bookstore, The Booksmith on Haight Street (Booksmith.com), or on his photography site, Intransitimages.com. A bargain at $29.95 …

It’s short shrift time.

I have a life that’s ripe (and slightly wrinkled) for blogs and tweeting; for facebooking and updating.

I’m just no good at it. My last column on AsianConnections was about the memorial in late July for my sister Shirley. My last posting on the authors’ site, Redroom, was about a radio promo tour I did (20 stops, all on the phone in my home office) for my Eagles book. On my own home page, the last thing was about hanging with Johnny Depp at UC Berkley – in mid-October.That was for a Q&A after a screening of his movie, The Rum Diary.

Pathetic. But hey, when you’re busy having a life, it’s not easy stopping and writing about it -- although hundreds of thousands of people apparently do. I hear Steve Martin is an inveterate Tweeter, and he’s kind of a busy guy. But I can’t do it. Backstage with Depp, I realized that it was the perfect time to post on Twitter: “We’re about to go on stage; students are screaming already”—something like that. But Johnny and director Bruce Robinson were chatting; I had to pay attention.  So, no tweets from this twit.

Bottom line: It’s time to catch up and, with apologies, to give the following events & incidents short shrift.

SANTANA: On Oct. 21, four days after the on-stager with Depp, at Cal, I was at Mission High School, where Carlos Santana was a student in the late Sixties, soon after arriving from the streets of Tijuana. That, he once told me, was where he learned about music and life. But, at Mission High, joined by members of his band and special guests, including the great Edward James Olmos (whose stint as one of the villains on Dexter had just begun), Santana and Olmos imparted words of wisdom and inspiration to the assembled student body. Carlos advised that they find their passion. “We talk about jobs,” he said. “I never worked a day in my life, because I love what I do.” He jammed with members of Mission High’s guitar club on “Oye Como Va,” giving eight young men the thrill of their lives; then, with Olmos helping out on percussion, and with wife Cindy Blackman on fierce drums, he performed a mini-concert. He also visited classrooms, spoke with the school’s media students, and sat for a video interview with me, for his Milagro Foundation and for BAMmagazine.com to use.

Check out the BAM site; a clip of our session should be up there soon.

TAJ MAHAL: Another day, another interview: For a new series of onstage chats with musicians, the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco paired me with the great Taj Mahal, a pioneer of world music (before it got that tag): a blues player who also did doo-wop, folk, Delta blues, jazz, Caribbean, Hawaiian,  and reggae, and, why not, even a Monkees song. One of his first albums in the early 70’s was called Take a Giant Step, and the title tune, which we DJ’s on KSAN played a lot, turned out to be a Carole King-Gerry Goffin song first cut by the Monkees.  Taj, of course, made it his own. Although the event was advertised as an interview, he brought along a gleaming National guitar, a banjo and a mini-banjo and performed maybe five songs.  The audience, including David Rubinson, producer of his seminal first albums, lapped it up, and laughed at my one stab at a joke: I was so impressed by Henry Fredericks taking on the name Taj Mahal, I said, that for a short time in the ‘70s, I changed my name to Stone Henge. Big laugh, I swear…

BLUE CHRISTMASES:  On KSAN on Sundays (which is what I did when I wasn’t at Rolling Stone or on the road), I used to do this stupid DJ trick in December. I’d say I wanted to sing Elvis’ “Blue Christmas,” and, just like Presley did, kicked off the song a cappella.  A line in, I’d stop and say I’d screwed up, and could we start again? And then I’d spin the record, and thousands of listeners would think (if they weren’t really thinking) that I sounded just like Presley.

That was in the ‘70s. In more recent decades, with thanks to karaoke, I’ve done “Blue Christmas” off the air, and in public. Maybe once a year, until this year. It got ridiculous. I did it at Book Passage in Corte Madera with Kurt Huget on guitar after a reading of my Eagles book. Two days later, Dec. 6, I performed it at the holiday luncheon of the Broadcast Legends in Berkeley – my third time doing Elvis for the social group of veteran radio & TV pros. In the audience, Stan Bunger, KCBS morning co-anchor and guitarist for the the Eyewitness Blues Band, decided I should join his group of CBS staffers the next morning in front of Macy’s downtown. They were part of a four-hour music show to raise money for the Salvation Army. With DJ Don Bleu emceeing, I wished everyone a “blue, blue Don Bleu Christmas.”  A few days later, same song, different band—this time on Radio Valencia, a not exactly legal station in the Mission. DJ Quarterman Jack produces a Hillbilly Hoot, live audience and all, on the very local air and online (radiovalencia.fm). Last time out, I did Johnny Cash. This time, what else but Elvis? I also did it at a wine tasting party with friends, and, finally, on the 13^th, did my annual holiday appearance for the seniors gathered for lunch and song at the Berkeley Chinese Community Church. Kurt Huget, again, on guitar; George Yamasaki on piano for maybe eight tunes, including “Silver Bells” (“as shoplifters rush home with their treasures…”) and “Blue Christmas.” Done? Not quite yet. After lunch, with George in tow, I visited my mother at Bellaken Garden, a skilled nursing facility in Oakland, and we wound up doing an improv mini-show, with my Mom in the front row.  And, on the eve of Christmas Eve, at Kathi Goldmark & Sam Barry’s foodfest and singalong, one last round of those blue memories.

That’s eight times. Boy, do I feel blue!

RANDOM NOTES: Thanks to the Broadcast Legends and the California Historical Radio Society. In December, I got the Legends’ “Broadcast Legend of the Year” Award, and CHRS’s “Charles D. ‘Doc’ Herrold Award,” named after the inventor of radio. Not for any particular achievement, I don’t think, but maybe because I love radio and have enjoyed writing about it in the SF Chronicle, and elsewhere, for three decades … The Roxie Theater, an indie movie house in the Mission District, invited me to introduce its screening of the Paul McCartney doc, The Love We Make, as a fundraiser for MusiCares, the Grammy people’s charity organization. It was fun, flashing a photo of Paul and me, looking bored (or feigning nonchalance) in an office – probably in a stadium somewhere along Wings’ 1976 itinerary. The film – of McCartney in New York after Sept. 11, 2001, preparing for The Concert for New York and meeting people in Manhattan – captured the Paul I knew: always perfectly at ease, whether with Bill Clinton or raving strangers on the streets. Nonchalant – and not faking it … And speaking of strangers, I was driving up Market Street and stopped at a light when a young man rushed up, waving a CD and indicating that he wanted to give it to me. Why not? I’ve checked out several tracks and may well play one on my show on WTF, a  radio station I can’t say much about, because it’s not licensed. But it’ll be on the air somewhere in Michigan. And that's how music promotion works. Sometimes …

FINALLY: Thanks to Lidia Bastianich and the producers of her holiday special on PBS, Lidia Celebrates America.  Early in 2011, she visited San Francisco for one of the four segments that made up her show, about how different cultures celebrate holidays: Jewish, Mexican, Italian and Chinese. My sister Shirley served as her guide through Chinatown. Bastianich, well known New York restaurateur, chef and cookbook author, dedicated the program to Shirley, who passed away in June.  It was very difficult to watch. But it also was good to see her again.

I strolled onto the stage at U.C. Berkeley’s Wheeler Auditorium after the screening of The Rum Diary, faced about 700 people and said, “Hello, I’m Johnny Depp.”

It was like being a Beatle. They knew full well who I am not, but unleashed a blend of screams and squeals, along with laughter. They could afford to be good-natured, because they knew that the real Johnny Depp was in the house.

Rum Diary is his latest film, and it’s based on an early novel (circa 1960) by his late buddy Hunter S. Thompson. Depp, who portrayed Dr. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, had planned to produce Rum Diary with him, but Hunter took h is own life in 2005. Depp made it a personal mission to get this film completed.

Now, he was in Berkeley. He’d chosen to screen the film for students rather than the usual mix of media and radio contest winners. Cal offered tickets to film, English and journalism majors. Apparently, the great majority of students in those fields are female and Depp devotees.

Anyway, the publicists for the film asked me to moderate the Q&A with Johnny, and, of course, I agreed. We’d never met, but we have several bonds, and he told me of a few more. There’s Hunter, of course, from Rolling Stone days in the 70’s and beyond. And there are the Doors. I wrote a book in 2006 that was meant to be partnered with a documentary. The book beat the film by about four years, but the documentary featured narration by…Johnny Depp.

Backstage, he told me that he was a fan of my book on Gram Parsons, Hickory Wind, and knew that Keith Richards (his dear old dad in the Piratesof the Caribbean movies) had wanted to produce a film about Parsons.

On stage, once the screams died down, he, along with Bruce Robinson, the Rum Diary’s writer and director, fielded a couple of questions from me, and then we invited students to take over the questioning. Most of them were good, but several coeds who’d lined up at the two microphones were there just to say they’d spoken with Depp. They didn’t really have a question. At least not one they could ask in public. Johnny was gracious about it all; he's used to this. Bruce warmed up to the crowd, too.

Then, one guy claimed that he’d seen a boom mike in one shot and asked if that was intentional. Depp and Robinson told him that it was a ceiling fan he saw, but the student persisted until Depp, who does have an edge about him, asked, “What’s your f---- point?” Later, backstage, he and Robinson got into Hunter S. Thompson Gonzo mode. ”Let’s find that kid and kick him in the nuts,” said Johnny.

Robinson, before the Q&A, had told me he hated appearing in front of college students. “They’re all smartasses,” he said.

Still, the film’s promoters invited everyone to hang out afterwards at a nearby bar, Shattuck Down Low, where Depp had a favorite band set up. Its leader was Chuck E. Weiss, the real life inspiration for Rickie Lee Jones’ hit, “Chuck E.’s in Love.” Her former boyfriend, Tom Waits, who lives in the Bay Area, showed up for dinner with Depp and popped into the club.

Oddly, there was no mob scene at the Down Low. It was all very easy going. And then we realized that the great majority of the Cal students were not old enough to get in.  

Behind VIP ropes, Depp enjoyed himself. We chatted some more, and he met Dianne and our nephew-in-law, Matt Pavao, an elementary school administrator and a long-time fan of Thompson’s writing. (He was a big hit with the kids the next day.)  I gave Johnny a copy of The Rice Room, which includes an anecdote about the time Hunter dropped in on a Rolling Stone gathering in Palm Springs and dosed the guests with some hallucinogenic drug. I also gave him copies of photos from that evening. Evidence.

By the time I got home to San Francisco, there were four or five videos of snippets of the  Q&A on YouTube, along with online reports that he jumped onstage and played with the band. By the next morning, the story was on Perez Hilton’s blog, on Hollywood Reporter, and on numerous other sites.

It’s been a long time, but it was fun hanging out with a rock star, which is what Depp is, through and through. In fact, a few days later, at the supermarket, I spotted a tabloid headline about him being seen falling-down drunk at some nightclub in Los Angeles. Fact or fiction, it’s another page in his own rum diary.

I just flew in from Canada and a few dozen other cities, and boy, are my ears tired.

Let me explain: It was a radio tour, as it’s called, for my new book, Eagles: Taking It to the Limit. The publisher, Running Press, set up 20 stops – mostly morning shows from coast to coast – from 5 to 8:20 a.m. – all from my phone at home.

            By 6:30, half way through, my left ear was feeling it. Before then, I’d also gone through a couple of technical glitches. My cordless phone ran out of juice, and I had to run (quietly) from my office to the kitchen upstairs. And my recorder malfunctioned.

But it was still better than going to 20 bookstores in 20 cities. The Canada call – from Astral Radio – reached 83 stations in 40-something cities.

            And I met a wide range of broadcasters, from DJs in smaller towns like Lima, Ohio to news talk anchors in Atlanta and St. Louis, to Philadelphia radio legend John DeBella and rock artist turned morning jock Greg Kihn, himself an author. He knows all about th is 4 a.m. wakeup routine. Only he does it five days a week. One a book is plenty enough for me.

            I had 19 chats ranging from five to ten minutes, the last being with Premiere Networks, which itself services 60 stations with show prep material. The only flake-out was a station in Norfolk, Nebraska, scheduled near the end. My ear was most grateful.

             The Eagles book is one of two I have out right now. University of California Press just published an expanded and updated version of my 1994 memoirs, The Rice Room. No radio tour, thank god. But on Friday, Oct. 28, I’m doing an event in Oakland, in Chinatown, where the story begins. Check my calendar and act fast. It’s Friday!

PS: On one of the TV shows I did for The Rice Room, the host said to come to this site to buy the. Sorry, but I haven't built a store here. Most bookstores and, of course, Amazon, has both books on their shelves. thank you.

Okay. It’s been three long months since my sister died. June 18. I couldn’t write about Shirley – younger than me by less than two years – until maybe her memorial, which was in late July. I figured I’d have to write something for that event – a private celebration of her amazing life, at one of her favorite restaurants, the Yank Sing in San Francisco. I’d just post whatever I came up with, and entitle it Remembering Shirley.

If only it were that simple. As her memorial began, we got word that our mother in Oakland, too frail, at 89, to attend, was in need of immediate medical care.

Since early August, she’s been in a nursing facility in Oakland, and, along with family members, I’ve been occupied with visits and all the stuff that goes with medical crises and elder care.

At home, meantime, we’re going through remodeling, and I’ve been uprooted from my office. My eeePad tablet is my BFFA (best friend for awhile).

So, through these last terrible months, I plod on, cranking out my Radio Waves column in the SF Chronicle, beginning research on a book about Little Feat, and fulfilling various other commitments, from officiating weddings (one in May; the other just last weekend), and starting work on Oakland High’s Class of ‘62’s 50^th reunion. (I was somehow voted permanent class president, thus responsible for reunions, but, rather wisely, I’ve appointed a wonderful committee member as chair.)

So you understand why I’ve been absent—from my own home page, from AsianConnections.com, from facebook (except to post photos from the memorial, and a few short messages), and from Twitter).

But life not only goes on; parts of it call for trying to spread the word about certain projects. That’s how it is when your work involves publishing books. So: I’ve got two books out just about now. First, my memoirs, The Rice Room, originally issued in 1992, now updated, Including two dozen photos and published by the University of California Press. I wrote the new final chapters before Shirley’s quite sudden death (just six weeks after being diagnosed with leukemia). There is irony in my remarks about how our family has suffered relatively few losses.

In October, The Eagles: Taking It to the Limit, is out, so I’ll be visiting classic rock stations, to be sure.

And so I’m out there, again, just like I’ve been for the five or six previous books.

But it’ll never be the same.

I'm crossing a street in the Upper Market area of San Fran, wondering what happened to a jacket button that had been dangling loosely for a week or so. Behind me, a man shouts, "Mr. Torres! Mr. Torres!"

I look back and a stranger is holding up an item: my button. "I saw this fall from you," he says. I thank him and silently wonder how this sharp-eyed dude knew me. Of course, he did call me by the wrong name. But, hey, I did say borderline recognizable.

Same day, or maybe the day before. Google Alert, which usually leads to stories or books of mine, alerted me to a campaign to raise money for medical expenses of a dying cat named Ben Fong-Torres.

I know what curiosity did to the cat, but I had to go to the Facebook page. Sure enough, there was the cat. He was a black and white cutie, and, according to his owners and friends, was down to his last hours. I sent in a few bucks and words of encouragement.

Days later, I got a card from Maria and Luke Montoya. In long hand (a rarity these tweety days), Maria explained the naming of their pet, who was "Mortimer" when she adopted him. He was too "cool and stylish" to be a Mortimer, she wrote. "As we are Hispanics adopting an Asian (Siamese) kitty, we playfully decided we wanted to honor his newfound 'biculturalism' with a name that reflected it. As huge music lsovers & wannabe music writers, your name was PERFECT. Illogical as it is, there's something comforting in knowing the original BFT is still around."

I am. And so is the more stylish Ben Fong-Torres, out there somewhere, doing the Stray Cat Strut.

Anyway, for Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, KQED aired the show the other day, and I mentioned it on facebook. But not everyone could catch it, so I provided a link to it, since it lives on the One on One/WGBH site. So, here's the full 25-minute segment, including me serenading Maria with a little Dean Martin. One on One

And if you're short on time, here's a 3-minute teaser that's on
YouTube

I've added a new last chapter and a couple dozen photos. Here's my page from the UCP catalog of fall releases.

Download: rice-room-ucp-page.pdf (169.1 KB)

When Dianne and I scheduled our visit to New York City for a week, beginning in late April, we weren’t planning on the predicted weather (thunderstorms) or on the killing of Osama Bin Laden. Our only sure bets were some nice restaurants.

Were we surprised!

I suppose we should’ve known that our first morning in Manhattan – Friday, April 29 – would be Kate and William’s wedding, but we didn’t. We don’t follow weddings, except on The Bachelor and the Today show. Anyway, we had a full schedule, with friends joining us for dinners almost every evening, and with me running off every afternoon to meetings with Rolling Stone buddies and various other friends and editor types.

The most momentous day came on Sunday, Dianne and my wedding anniversary. We booked dinner at one of New York City’s best and most beautiful restaurants, Del Posto, in the Meatpacking District. (We’d been there before, and said Hi to both co-owner Mario Batali and visitor Tyra Banks.)

Anyway, we were staying in my agent’s apartment, in West Village, and as we hit the lobby on the way out, we spotted Seth Meyers, head writer and fake news anchor on  Saturday Night Live. He was telling the doorman, “I am so wiped out,” or something to that effect. He’d just returned from Washington, D.C., where he’d MC’d the White House Correspondents Dinner, a light-hearted evening highlighted by President Obama doing comedy, along with other guests. Meyers did a joke about Osama Bin Laden, and the president laughed heartily. That was on Saturday, and history reveals that, by then, he’d given the order to take out U.S. Enemy Number One.

After a marvelous dinner with our good friend Paula Batson, I turned on the TV. It was 11:30, and the news was out from Pakistan. Along with many other thoughts, I wondered what Seth Meyers was thinking – and writing.

I also thought of Michael Lomonaco, a chef who’s become a friend over the years, and who had invited Dianne and me to join him and his wife for dinner on Tuesday. He was the chef at Windows on the World, atop one of the twin towers. On September 11, he lost 72  employees, and another 92 people visiting the restaurant perished. The chef escaped death because he was on the ground level, shopping when the plane hit.

“I was stunned at the news,” he said at our dinner, at Michael White’s Osteria Morini. “I feel relief.” He told us that he’d just been on The View, at the invitation of Barbara Walters. She had interviewed him shortly after 9/11. Now, with the news of the killing of Bin Laden, she reached out again.

At right, the Lomonacos with us, the F-T's.

IN MANHATTAN, I visited Dakila Divina, my old editor at Parade magazine; he’s now at Nomad Editions, which produces top-flight magazines for mobile devices. In fact, I just did a piece for Real Eats, about a most unusual pop-up Chinese restaurant. Except the chef, who’s Korean, says it’s not Chinese. See for yourself, here: Real Eats

I also checked in with the new editors of Parade, an editor at Da Capo Press who has a book idea for me, and with Jann Wenner, publisher of Rolling Stone. It’s always fun, and a little weird, to visit my old magazine. My last byline was when Michael Jackson died, but you never know when another one might pop up. And I made time to drop in on Morrison Gallery, both in the Bowery and in Soho. The latter is the size of a walk-in closet, albeit with great, historic rock photos; the Bowery gallery is hosting a sensational exhibit of the work of Lynn Goldsmith, a photographer who clearly has All Access: The Stones, Dylan, BRUUUUCE, Madonna, Marley, The Clash and more. All stunning.

In San Francisco, I’d read a piece in the New York Times about Finnerty’s, a bar that had turned itself over to fans of the San Francisco Giants, 49ers, and the city itself. I dropped by during a lull, but it was fun to see, in the East Village, a tavern featuring the Golden Gate Bridge, memorabilia of the World Series run, and a Joe Montana jersey.

Evenings were for dinners, and highlights, besides Del Posto (elegant) and Osteria Morini (new and NOISY), were Felidia, Lidia Bastianich’s signature Italian restaurant, and the National, where Zoe Feigenbaum, daughter of a good friend, Josh, was turning out heaping plates of ribs, fish, steak and other comforting food.

Chef Zoe

No matter how massive Manhattan may be, it’s a small town. Through Facebook, a couple of friends from Marin County let us know that they were in New York, too, and were on the same flight home. They helped us while away the wait at JFK International, where the president, having visited fire and police stations, along with 9/11 victims’ families at the World Trade Center site, was departing. He needed his airspace, I guess.

Soon enough, we were up in the air ourselves, leaving a most memorable week—and city—behind.

Kurt Huget, the Marin County musician (Moonlight Rodeo & many other ensembles), just made my day. He emailed that he was reading Hot Burritos, a book about the Flying Burrito Brothers, by John Einarson and ex-Burrito (and Byrd) Chris Hillman.

“Here’s a passage I thought you’d appreciate,” Kurt wrote, regarding a discussion about the late, almost great Gram Parsons:

Of all the Parsons books on the market, Hillman still regards the first, Hiokory Wind, as the most truthful. “I think Ben Fong-Torres’s book was pretty accurate,” he says. “He got the closest to it and kept a fine line between the myth and the reality.”

Considering the books that have come out since Hickory Wind 20 years ago, that’s quite a statement, and I appreciate it. There was – and still is – a lot of mythology surrounding Gram. Which is why another book or movie or documentary comes out every couple of years. They’re still trying to figure him out.

It was Cherry Blossom Festival time here in San Francisco the other week – the 44^th such celebration in Japantown, and, once again, George Yamasaki served as the public address announcer, telling the crowds gathered along Post Street about the various contingents, floats, and dignitaries, from mayors and mayoral candidates to Hello Kitty and anime characters. After 40 years of handling commentary duties on his own, George, an attorney and a pianist who accompanies me on my occasional appearances, asked me to sidekick, read a couple of the descriptions and dash onto the street and do a couple of interviews.

Mayor Ed Lee was one of them, and I wanted to ask him for the best and worst aspects of his time in City Hall, which began in February as an interim appointment and ends when the next elected mayor takes office in January. Anyway, Mayor Lee waxed so rhapsodic about the “best” stuff -- getting to "engage everybody in this great city" -- that I gave up on the worst. Still, as we passed the VIP seats, where a bevy of beauty queens and princesses were perched, I asked, “Is the second best thing getting to walk by all these lovely women?” "Walking by them is one thing," he said. "Taking a picture with them in City Hall is even better!"

Later, State Sen. Leland Yee strode up to chat. We’d seen each other at various community events, including a Jerry Garcia Day concert, where he reminisced about the good old days in Berkeley. “Hey,” he said, “how come you keep looking younger and I keep looking older?” “It’s all the drugs you didn’t take,” I said. I’m so diplomatic, I should be in high office. But not too high …

The Doors' lead singer and rabble-rouser died in July 1971 in Paris, at age 27.

These programs, however, are being timed for the anniversary of the Doors' last album with him, L.A. Woman. At least the BBC/VH1 production is; it'll air Sept. or Oct...

Anyway, a few months before Jim's death, I'd run into him in West Hollywood -- our first meeting ever -- and a chat turned into an interview, of sorts. It's now known as his final one before going to Paris, where he sought to be a poet and filmmaker. In July, he was dead, and I wrote his obituary for Rolling Stone.

A couple of years ago, a San Francisco video producer, Steven Marra, grabbed me for a mini-doc about the incident. Now, you can beat the anniversary rush by taking a look at The Last Interview

Watching Gary Busey on Celebrity Apprentice on NBC is sometimes saddening; sometimes exhilarating, almost always mesmerizing. He’s probably coming across to the public as some kind of crazy man, the product of too many drugs over the years.

His fellow contestants – and Donald Trump and his kids – seem equally puzzled by his behavior and his ramblings, and by his “Buseyisms,” his converting of words into acronyms, like “TEAM”: “Together Everyone Achieves More,” or FAITH: “Fantastic Adventures In Trusting Him.” His listeners nod, bemused.                          Gary Busey shares his drums, 1978.

On a recent show, his own teammates—and on Celebrity Apprentice, "TEAM" means “Together Everyone Argues More” – derided him as a terrible project manager, even though the team won.

They were right, though. He is not a conventional leader or a conventional anything. He’s just a nice guy hoping to earn some prize money for a good cause. Even that good cause—the Center for Head Injury Services in Maryland Heights, near St. Louis—was shocked to learn it’d been picked to receive any money Busey might win. (He just presented the center with $40,000.)

But that brings us to why Gary is the way he is. In 1988, he had a bad motorcycle accident. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, suffered a traumatic head injury and brain damage. Add to that a 1997 diagnosis of cancer and a long battle with cocaine addiction, and he reduces Apprentice teammate Richard Hatch’s status as a “Survivor” to nothing.

Said Gary: “I want to be a role model for brain injuries survivors and show them, with hard work, you can get your life back.”

Good for him. And I’m rooting for him even more because, back in 1978, when he was a rising star, playing the lead role in The Buddy Holly Story, I profiled him for Rolling Stone and had a blast of a night at a bar in Redondo Beach. Surfers and stoners packed the place, and when Busey, armed with a Fender Stratocaster, burned through “Rave On,” “Not Fade Away,” and some Chuck Berry, the crowd screamed “Masochist!” repeatedly. That was his character nickname in the surfer film, Big Wednesday. (That title resurfaced on Apprentice, this time attached to something Busey exposed after accidentally opening his bathrobe.)

Gary, on this night on the beach, wore a black T-shirt reading TEDDY JACK EDDY. That was his stage name when he toured as a drummer behind Leon Russell for awhile. At one point, he leapt atop a table, spilling customers’ beers. No matter what he did, it wasn’t enough, and he got an encore call (“Masochist!”) lasting four minutes.

In the dressing room, he turned to me and said, “I keep whipping into reality. Like, ‘What’s goin’ ON?’”

Some things never change.  

Left to right: Me, James Hattori, Wendy Tokuda, Philip Kan Gotanda, Diane Takei

In the Facebook box that asks “What’s on your mind?” I announced, the other day, “I'm supposed to be writing a book, but went & moderated a panel for the Broadcast Legends – including Hall of Famer Jon Miller. Fun. Tomorrow — Friday -- 5 to 7 pm -- I'm working the phones for KNTV (Ch. 3)'s fundraiser for the victims of the Japan earthquake. If you can, tune in, call in and ask for me. I'll do Elvis, Dino, Dylan for you. Anything to get a few more dollars for the relief effort.”

As always, I got lots of supportive comments, of which my favorite was this, from author Susanne Pari: “This is all good, Ben, but I know writing avoidance tactics when I see them.” Then Larry LeBlanc chipped in: “Yeah, we writers are like that.”

Yes, we are. But the earthquake relief fund was well worth falling behind a few pages. When I showed up at the Japanese Cultural & Community Center of Northern California’s building, where the phone bank had been set up, the tote board showed about $77,000 donated since 7 a.m. It was now almost 5, and, as I took my seat, alongside TV journalists James Hattori and Wendy Tokuda, and playwright Philip Kan Gotanda and his wife, director Diane Takei (she directs plays; not her husband), the phones went silent. It was 5 o’clock; the station hadn’t plugged the fundraiser; people were still at work or on the road.

We socialized, and some of us made calls to friends to pull in donations. We practiced looking like we were on the phone, for when NBC Bay Area/KNTV’s reporter did a live report. But the station didn’t mention the phone number, so we twiddled our thumbs again until the 6 o’clock news. The number was flashed. Suddenly, the phones began ringing and we were at it non-stop, getting people’s credit card and other info and answering questions they might have about their donations. Runners took our completed forms to add to the tote board. The room filled with visitors, including Hiroshi Inomata, the new Consul General of Japan in San Francisco, Mayor Ed Lee, supervisor Ross Mirkarimi and David Chiu, the prez of the Board of Supes. Chiu even took a brief turn on a phone.

By the time I was relieved, at 7, I was exhausted – some of the calls were difficult to hear, with the chatter from the ten or eleven other workers around me, and from the dozens of other people in the room. But I was also exhilarated. I’d handled donations ranging from $20 to $200, and one of my call-outs to friends resulted in a $500 contribution.

The tally board now showed some $330,000.  By night’s end, with a boost from the 11 o’clock news, the JCCCNC (with support from Comcast and NBC Bay Area) had collected almost $417,000, counting matching funds, donations to its Web site, and separate grants. The phone bank pulled in about $124,000. Good work, in more ways than one.

Or, as Dianne Fukami, the producer and director who invited us to the event, put it, “Not bad for a day’s work.”

Of course, the work goes on, and more is needed. You can make a donation without having to hear me on the phone asking for your credit card info. Just send a check to Northern Japan Earthquake Relief Fund, c/o JCCCNC at 1840 Sutter St., San Francisco CA 94115. 100 percent of donations go directly to relief efforts in Japan.

Also, my buddy Dale Minami, the civil rights attorney, has said that his firm will match 50 percent of any donations sent to the Japan Relief Fund, c/o Minami Tamaki LLP, 360 Post St., 8^th Floor, San Francisco CA 94108. They’ll add their match and forward all checks to the JCCCNC.

So, here in earthquake country, that’s what’s on my mind.

And see? Writing this blog, I once again avoided working on my book.

                                                               Photo / Joan Marcus

Here are two things I never thought I’d do, despite my past in rock journalism:

(1)   See a live performance by Constantine Maroulis, almost-famed for his sixth-place finish in American Idol (2002, won by some girl named Carrie Underwood);

(2)   Attend a Broadway musical based on an Eighties hair band.

But I did both the other night, at the Curran Theater in San Francisco, and I’m glad I did.

The play is Rock of Ages, and Maroulis, cute as he ever was, is top-billed as Drew, a lowly janitor working at a Sunset Strip rock club who desperately wants to be … well, an American idol.

Maroulis, who earned a Tony nomination, shares the stage with several powerhouse performers, most of them capable of finding work in Poison or Van Halen tribute bands. The music is a tribute to whoever had to license it. There are songs—often just snippets—by Twisted Sister, Night Ranger, Survivor, Foreigner, Bon Jovi, REO Speedwagon, Styx, David Lee Roth, Asia, Warrant, and Whitesnake. There’s Quarterflash, Pat Benatar and Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. There is, sad to say, “We Built This City,” although the Rock of Ages rendering of it is ages from the Starship’s. Finally, there are Steve Perry, whose “Oh Sherrie” gives us the name of Constantine’s romantic co-lead, and Journey, whose “Don’t Stop Believin’” serves as the all-stops-out finale.

Journey was no hair band, but the show could not have had a better closing number --  especially in San Francisco, where that song became an anthem for the Giants’ run through the playoffs and World Series.

When the cast launched into “Don’t Stop,” the audience went nuts. You can’t have cell phones on during a performance, so you couldn’t use a flashlight app, but I saw dozens of people waving mini-flashlights in time with the music.

That was the undisputed highlight of the musical. Close behind: Right after the finale, Constantine thanked the on-stage band (using the F bomb in the process) that rocked hard  through the two-hour play, then welcomed on stage, from out of the opening night audience, Ross Valory of Journey and all of Night Ranger (Brad Gillis, Jack Blades, Joel Hoekstra and Kelly Keagy, in case you’re keeping score). Also in the audience: Billy Gould of Faith No More. On stage, a couple of the real rockers clapped along with “Don’t Stop” while others just stood and smiled.

It could be that some of them weren’t all that knocked out by Rock of Ages. Despite the music, a soundtrack for rock fans of a certain age who were not into Madonna, Lionel Richie, new wave or boy bands, the storyline was pure old school Broadway. Aspiring star; a love story almost gone awry; an us (rockers) versus them (redevelopers) subplot that weighs things down but does lead into some knockout songs and dancing. Rock of Ages, a smash on Broadway since spring of 2009 (a film version is due by the middle of 2012), follows age-old musical formulas. From Hair to Hairspray to hair bands, it’s all been staged before – only with less bluster.

Still, Rock of Ages is loaded with excellent performances and more than a few big laughs, from a set piece to the tune of “Can’t Fight This Feeling” that turns into a surprising, same-sex ballet –a pas de dudes, if you will -- to the mere sight of a bottle of Bartle & Jaymes wine cooler. There’s a zany character who doubles as a narrator who dances through the fourth wall, at one point telling Constantine/Drew that he’s a character in a play called Rock of Ages.

And then there’s that finale, leaving you humming as you leave the theater, and with no regrets at all that, on this Wednesday evening, you missed American Idol.  

[Note: The above is my latest blog for Wolfgang’s Vault’s site.]

Timing is everything. Had I known the story of Jake Lee and his lost paintings just a few weeks earlier, they would’ve made for a great feature for the telecast of the Chinese New Year Parade. This year, the broadcast (which I co-anchor) reached millions, by way of the Internet. But the story, about how, after having gone missing for more than 50 years, they were found and acquired by the Chinese Historical Society of America, broke just days before the parade, when KTVU was up to there in preparation work.

So I visited recently and was knocked out by the “Finding Jake Lee” exhibit and its almost fantastic back story. In turn, I knocked out a column about it, and it's at www.AsianConnections.com.

                                                                          --Photo by Frank Jang

It rained all day Saturday, Feb. 19th, the day of the San Francisco Chinese New Year Parade. I have a special interest in the weather on parade days, since I've been co-hosting the TV coverage of it since 1997 (year of the ox). When the rain falls, people stay home and watch us on KTVU, and the ratings soar. But I'd rather have good weather, see a great turnout on the streets, and see the floats, marching bands, and dancing, karate-kicking kids in all their costumed glory...and not under plastic raingear and tarps.

Anyway, the rain kept some people away, but we still had a great crowd around Union Square, where KTVU's broadcast tent is perched. Julie Haener, the news anchor who's been my partner for 10 parades, brought extra blankets, and we forged ahead. And guess what? About 10 minutes in -- around 6:10 p.m. -- the rain stopped, and stayed stopped. Thank you, Ma-Tsu, Buddha, or whoever.

In recent years, I've brought my Flip camcorder to catch behind-the-scenes moments. So here's a link to this year's video & photo montage. Sorry about the volume peaks & valleys; I just aimed the Flip at the TV monitor for the bits from the parade itself, and the volume is lower than the on-the-scene stuff. Enjoy, and Happy New Year! Here's the link: SF Chinese New Year Parade 2011

To promote the broadcast, Julie & I go around to a bunch of morning radio shows the day before. Here's Kevin Brown, of KBLX ...            --Photo by Mona Fox/KTVU

If you've heard about the book, or suspect that you may have been raised by a tiger mother, you might want to check out the lead item of my latest column at AsianConnections.com. Here's a link to the site: Like a Rolling Stone.