A couple of months ago (I think—time flies when you’re having fun, and when you’re not), another magazine, one that doesn’t routinely make its writers coax, cajole, plead, and threaten to get money they’ve been owed for months and months and months, urged me to profile Sighin’ Cy Curnin. Thus did the missus and I come to attend the Fixx’s performance at the Universal Amphitheatre. Afterwards, at the plush Sheraton

Something-or-Other, there was a great big lavish party of the sort record companies don’t throw enough of anymore, one with a well-stocked, open bar and a nearly obscenely lavish buffet, including a veritable mountain of delicately chilled fresh jumbo shrimps.

While countless thousands of Ethiopians were busy starving to death, in other words, greasy MCA promotion men

in acetate baseball jackets and greasier disc jockeys with only one large nostril put out their cigarettes in plates of barelynibbled hors d’oeuvres. Sighin’ Cy, meanwhile, presumably impressed MTV’s interviewers with how socially conscious he is.