by Tim Sampson thursday, december 30 First of all, let me say that due to a hideous typographical error on this page last week, which was entirely my fault, it appeared that I was making fun of Elizabeth Taylor, which was certainly NOT the case. I would never, ever make fun of her. She is a goddess and the only living human being who can honestly be referred to as a movie star (just try to name another, and please don’t say Katherine Hepburn; her entire career doesn’t hold a candle to 30 seconds of Elizabeth Taylor on the screen in Butterfield 8 or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof). For the record, it was Liza Minelli I was writing about. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s move on to something much less important, like this damn Millennium thing being shoved down our throats. I guess since this is the last time I’ll write this column in the 20th century, some sort of wrap-up of the last thousand years or look forward at the coming thousand is in order. But the mere thought of that gives me the same kind of headache as picturing Pat Buchanan doing the naked pretzel with Walter Brennan. I don’t even know what was going on a thousand years ago, except that everybody seemed to be fighting over religion, territory, and the fact that various men thought that they should be running the world, so on that point nothing has changed at all. But how they lived without VCRs, liquor stores, air conditioning, and prescription medication is beyond me. They can have those castles. Just give me a good Tennessee Williams movie and a shaker of martinis and I don’t give a crap who runs the world. No, you’ll get no Millennium analysis from me. All I can offer is a look back at my own little chunk of this century, so if you have anything at all better to do right now, I suggest you stop reading this and go do it. I was thinking about the big picture the other day -- how I got from being a kid to a middle-aged guy who kind of writes for a living. It certainly wasn’t my original career dream. No, as a child my ultimate goal in life was to be, as we called them back then, a garbageman. I was awestruck by the possibilities of finding any manner of cool stuff other people threw away. This very likely has something to do with the fact that everything I own today, short of my car and home, was purchased at a yard sale. My mother was an important influence in this area as well. While she didn’t exactly beam with parental pride when I announced to anyone who would listen that one day I was going to be a trash collector, she did, however, keep me out of school on occasion so I could accompany her to thrift stores and junk shops -- looking for more victims to “antique.” Bless her heart, she had no idea that the medicine the doctor was giving her to lose a few post-pregnancy pounds was actually some pretty good speed, which was causing the antiquing phase to escalate into full-blown madness. There wasn’t a square inch of natural wood finish in our house by the middle 1960s. And nothing was sacred. Mahogany dining room suites were painted avocado-green and then wiped with a glaze. Cocktail tables were painted Spanish Moss, and their carved embellishments were highlighted with Liquid Gold. When the medicine was no longer prescribed, the phase ended, and for a year she had a look on her face that said, “What in the hell have I done?” The garbageman dream soon waned, and next on the list was veterinarian. We lived on a lake for a few years and the back porch overlooking the water became a makeshift clinic for injured animals. How that turtle with the BB gun wound into which I poured alcohol escaped the elaborate recovery-room barricade I designed I still can’t figure out. Then came the taxidermy phase. I took a correspondence course but never acted on it because I couldn’t kill an animal and the dead ones I found were not in really good shape for preserving and my mom wasn’t too keen on stepping over decomposing birds in the carport. There was the geologist phase, quickly forgotten after two weeks in the Boy Scouts working on the geology merit badge. And then the artist phase kicked in. The artist phase lasted the longest and had the worst ramifications, as it began with a series of “crafts” obsessions. As long as the stores sold wax, there were always candles to be made. Candles in the shape and color of cheeseburgers. Sand candles that hung from the ceiling like dusty amoebae. Appropriately colored wax was poured into empty pickle, ketchup, and jelly jars, and when cool, the jar was shattered off leaving a candle in its shape and the original soaked-off label was dried and applied. No condiment in the house was safe. The glass-cutter phase, though short-lived, produced some wonderful goblets rendered by cutting giant soda bottles in half and attaching the bottom half to the top of the neck, making it a stem. I have no idea how much finely ground glass I ingested during that time. Decoupage? You bet. How does a magazine-cover illustration of Leon Russell varnished to a trash can sound? At some point during all of this, I drew that pirate’s head shown in numerous magazines, and wound up taking yet another correspondence course -- yes, from the famed Art Institute of America. They figured if you could replicate that head, you were destined to become a great artist. They also charged my parents about a thousand bucks. But it must have had some impact, because -- with macramé inevitably looming on the horizon -- I soon abandoned the craft path, and moved on to painting. Part of the painting years involved painting pictures of mailboxes on old pieces of barn wood, and personalizing them by painting the last name of someone on the mailbox, much as it would appear on a country lane. These lovely specimens caught on rather quickly, and soon I was painting dozens of them for neighbors and members of my high school faculty. They bought them for themselves and they bought them to give as gifts. It was the stuff legend is made of. It also financed my drug habit until graduation. Later I would take up serious painting and have a couple of exhibitions, each piece an impressionist portrait of a woman who had the distinct look on her face of someone seriously contemplating suicide. Self-portraits of sorts. Then one day I went to work proofreading the little ads underneath pictures of houses in real estate tabloids and then took up writing. And here it is the last week of the 20th century and that’s all I have to say because I’ve rambled on and taken up all the space they’ll let me have. So for the last time this century, here are a few things going on around town this week. And since there’s only one day anyone really cares about, here are my picks for New Year’s Eve for those of you brave enough to hit the streets. At Cooper Street Gallery’s Last Painting of the Century Party, you can take your own paint and brushes and join the crowd in the final painting of the 20th century -- at least there. Otherwise: B.B. King and Preston Shannon at B.B. King’s; the Buonis and the Bar-Kays at the Hard Rock Cafe; Rufus Thomas with James Govan at Rum Boogie; the Sallymacs at the Blue Monkey; and the fabulous Di Anne Price & Her Boyfriends at In the Grove. Other than that, you’re on your own. As always, I really don’t care what you do, because I don’t even know you, but have a Happy New Year anyway and see you in the year 2000. Maybe.