Please, God…please make something go horribly wrong on Sunday evening. Anything will do. As long as it upsets the applecart.

Yesterday (3.9) a Los Angeles Times story by Sammy Roth explained how thoughtless white commuters and city planners of yore have casually worsened pollution of the air breathed by low-income communities of color.

Would it be be fair to use the term “intentional racist pollution of lower-income Los Angeles air“?

“Many residents of the county’s whiter, more affluent neighborhoods — who were often able to keep highways out of their own backyards — commute to work through lower-income Black and Latino neighborhoods bisected by the 10, 110 and 105 freeways and more,” the story explains.

And so residents of these neighborhoods — Baldwin Hills, Compton, Inglewood, Watts, South Gate, Paramount, Huntington Park — breathe shittier air. Because of cavalier white racist commuters who think only of themselves.

Speaking as a former resident of West Hollywood who would occasionally drive on freeways through the crappy areas of Los Angeles, I am completely ashamed of myself. I didn’t mean to cause residents of color to develop breathing problems, but that’s what I wound up doing. Because I was a deplorable white person with a car, although I mostly drove a rumblehog.

If this was a Woody Allen film made in the early ’70s, it would end with men dressed in white uniforms chasing Roth down the street with huge mosquito nets and forcing him into a straightjacket.

John Scheinfeld‘s What The Hell Happened to Blood, Sweat & Tears? (Abramorama, 3.24) is not a biography of the band, and basically has zip to do with Al Kooper‘s version of it (late ’67 to late ’68).

It’s about the David Clayton Thomas incarnation (’69 to ’71), I’m told, and more particularly about “a moment in time when BS&T found itself in the crosshairs of a polarized America, as divided then as it is now. It really is a political thriller with great music in it, not a music doc.”

Another description: A doc about how Blood, Sweat & Tears was pressured into sacrificing their cred with a sector of their audience that considered itself hip and anti-establishment.

Wiki: “In May/June ’70 the jazz-fusion band went on a United States Department of State-sponsored tour of Eastern Europe. Voluntary association with the U.S. government was highly unpopular with New Lefty-influenced fans at the time, and BS&T was criticized for this. It is now known that the State Department subtly pressured the group into the tour in exchange for a U.S. residency permit to Clayton-Thomas, who had a criminal record in Canada and had been deported from the U.S. after overstaying his visa.”

The Soviet bloc tour was compounded by BS&T accepting a lucrative gig at Caesars Palace on the Las Vegas Strip — another extremely uncool thing to do at the time.

There’s actually a section of the doc in which Kooper appears (including a rare piece of audio from back in the day), but he’d left the band more than two years before the events depicted in the film.

The fanciful bond between Robert Blake and Scott Wilson has been pretty much carved in stone for decades, hence today’s reposting of a time-worn Wilson anecdote. I last mentioned it after Wilson passed on 10.6.18 at age 76.

Initially posted on 12.22.11: In the summer of ’81 I had a special Scott Wilson moment. It happened (or more precisely didn’t happen) in a hip West Hollywood dive bar on Santa Monica Blvd. (I can’t recall the name but it was between Sweetzer and Harper, and favored by actors at the time.) I was with a lady, and the first thing I noticed after entering the main room and ordering a drink was Wilson sitting at a table with a friend.

Wilson had played murderer Dick Hickock in the 1967 film version of In Cold Blood, and this was foremost on my mind. After mulling it over I told my girlfriend that I wanted to go over and get Wilson’s autograph and (this was crucial) ask him to write “hair on the walls” below his name.

The phrase came from Truman Capote‘s nonfiction novel and the film version of same. Prior to their late-night visit to the home of Kansas farmer Herb Clutter, Hickock promised his dark-spirited accomplice Perry Smith (Robert Blake) that no matter what happens “we’re gonna blast hair all over them walls.” I thought it might be ironically cool to persuade Wilson to acknowledge that.

But I wimped out, thinking he’d probably be offended. That was probably the right thing to do, but I’ve felt badly for years about this. The things that won’t leave you alone later in life are the ones you chickened out on.