Around this time every year I start to get a little itchy and watery around the eyes--it's when, like so much pollen, summer concert schedules are released to the press and my regular Bumbershoot allergy begins to act up. This year, however, I could give a rat's ass what people do for their Labor Day weekend, and I'll even go so far as to commit to printed record that, after six years, my BumberRage is at an all-time, near manageable low. As One Reel's Chris Porter can attest, I attended shows on all four days of last year's festival of art and errant strollers, and each day went by with little or no incident thanks to some timed-release morphine tablets and a couple of Vicodin. (To paraphrase Lloyd Bridges' memorable line in Airplane!, looks like I picked the wrong weekend to quit boozin'!) So I don't remember who played the KeyArena or even the Bumberclub, but this year I know for certain I'll be front, center, and sparkling for the legendary Loretta Lynn as she graces Seattle Center, along with the Black Crowes, Built to Spill, Daniel Johnston, Ween, and hundreds o' other stars.

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Touchy, touchy! Then again, no one ever said Frank Black wasn't a control freak. Despite my having defended his post-Pixies efforts numerous times in The Stranger (even after the release of 1996's Cult of Ray), Black took one look at my less-than-favorable review of his newest album, Dog in the Sand, and banned my ass from his gig at the Showbox on Thursday, May 10. (I may be a bitch, but I'm not rude--rather than talk shit about his album and then turn up cat-who-ate-canary-style at his show, I spent my night at Graceland watching Portland's up-and-coming 31 Knots.) Needlessly, but in impressive, grand hissy-fit style nonetheless, Black fumed to Showbox staff that I was to be removed from the house list, and that if I did somehow worm my way into the venue, I was to be brought to him--head on a doily-lined platter, I assume. Well, if Black someday decides to retire to our fine city, at least he'll feel right at home among the grousers and their forthcoming virtual retirement community,

sourgrapesrockstars.com.

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Also in the touchy (or touchy-feely) department: celebrity blowjobs! Placebo singer Brian Molko felt the need to unwind after his set at the Crocodile on Wednesday, May 9, but rather than cozy down with some skank in his tour bus, the androgynous frontman impatiently plunked his ass down on a toilet in the ladies' room to enjoy a blowjob--until club staff busted in, that is. I don't have to remind any woman who frequents the Crocodile that during even moderately attended shows, the loo floor becomes mired with puddles of muck and soggy tissue--so how gross is the gal who was found kneeling in there, sucking away on the diminutive Brit singer (his arse in the can), who, I might add, is sporting quite an elaborate comb-over these days?

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Fans of 764-HERO and Magic Magicians should check out another facet of singer John Atkins' glittering talent: His cool paintings are now being shown at the Alibi Room.

kathleen@thestranger.com