“The Catcher In The Rye” is a resonant novel with staying power, if nothing else.
Of course, there is plenty else. The book has spoken to and for disenchanted youth for decades now, each generation since its initial publication finding voice in the lucid expression of disengagement.
J.D. Salinger went reclusive decades ago. Given his impact, we kept waiting for more. We wait no longer.
His name would come up in conversation now and again. Whether speaking with somebody of my generation, Baby Boomers, or a later one, there would always be a memory.
The more literate would quote. From “Catcher” or “Franny and Zooey.” Or, one of the “Nine Stories.”
More often, those perhaps less conversant in his canon but well aware of Salinger’s importance and impact would simply utter “A Perfect Day For Bananafish.” Whether they had read it, or understood it, or simply knew of it.
Which short story has, besides its wallop, the perfect title, easily remembered.
I read “A Perfect Day For Bananafish” in college. So, when it has been mentioned through the years, I would always nod. Knowingly, of course. Then maybe retort with “Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters,” as if to find some station among the literati.
I reread it this morning. Truth is I had no recollection of what it was about. Though I knew it wasn’t bananafish.
Same thing with “Franny and Zooey.” Which, owing to my lack of perception when in college, never made sense to me. I reread it twenty or so years ago perhaps. Experience allowed me into its world. Though, frankly, all I recall is that it takes place in a train station during a holiday from college. Or, something like that.
And, if that’s wrong, it says more about my memory than J.D. Salinger.
As for “A Perfect Day For Bananafish,” wow. I understand how that might have shaken up the literary world when it appeared in The New Yorker over a half century ago. It is stunning. That Salinger guy sure could write.
I love this sentence, the first in the story’s second paragraph: “She was a girl for who a ringing phone dropped exactly nothing.”
Salinger, as with all great writers, could fashion sentences and phrases to be savored like an exquisite chocolate truffle. Slowly. By itself. Or in context, as if dessert for a fine meal.
Now that he’s gone, the search for the origins of the demons about which Salinger wrote shall accelerate. There shall be more parsing, more conjecture, more . . .
As for me, I intend to read the writing. At a juncture in my life when I might now understand what Salinger is intent to impart. And when I can appreciate the quality of his craft.
We’ve all got that default music we need when stress hits.
The tuneage that will calm the savage beast, keep the demons at bay, soothe the soul, provide ballast, reduce the nerve shimmer to serenity level.
I’ve got a couple.
“In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” works more often than not.
But when I have a week like this one past with more stuff than the law should allow, I go to the source.
Marvin, Marvin, Marvin.
Not only is Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” better than a thorazine drip and a double Martini (dry), it is — One guy’s opinion — the best album extant. Sure, “best” is a fighting word, and you have the right to disagree. But, combine the soul, the message, the funk, the lush strings and Gaye’s amazing voice, and you got top o’ the heap.
Here’s the title tune as it sounds on the album that the usually perceptive Berry Gordy didn’t want to release.
Un-buh-leev-uh-bull.
Detroit Lions Mel Farr and Lem Barney among the backup singers. The strings. The soul. Effective descriptors fail me.
Here’s Gaye doing the title tune and another live.
Gaye’s life story is tragic. Brilliantly talented. He was a drug addict. He never recovered really from the death of Tammi Terrell. He went into seclusion. Came out. Returned.
Gaye, a world class talent ended up, addicted, living at home with his parents. His father, an alcoholic, ended up killing Gaye during an argument. Can there be a sadder end than that?
But his legacy — as we are wont to say — lives on in his recordings. None more magnificent than “What’s Going On.”
If you don’t have it, get it. Even if Berry Gordy gets a cut.
As usual I was more than a bit displeased with several of this year’s Golden Globe winners.
But I shan’t commence a rant. I’ve come to praise Jeff Bridges.
“Crazy Heart” doesn’t open here in Louisville for another ten days. But I can’t wait. Bridges is one of my favorite actors, and it really has very little to do with “The Big Lebowski.” I’m really happy the guy is finally getting his due. Let’s hope the Oscar folks give him their statuette too.
Far and away my favorite Bridges film, “Rancho Deluxe,” is also one of my top 5 of all time. Frankly I was stunned when I checked my list and realized I’d praised 27 other flicks before I finally got around to this one. Whatever have I been thinking?
Let me count the ways I looooooooooooove this 1975 film.
1) Bridges and Sam Waterston as a couple of scoundrel cattle rustlers in modern day Montana.
2) Iconic Slim Pickens as Henry Beige, the detective hired to find out who the culprits are.
3) Charlene Dallas as Pickens’ comely niece.
4) Clifton James as the rancher whose cattle are being stolen. Elizabeth Ashley as his horny wife. And Harry Dean Stanton and Richard Bright as Curt and Burt, the dim-witted cow hands.
5) A too cool for school screenplay by hipster novelist Tom McGuane, who was married to Ashley at the time.
6) The Oh So 70s feel of the flick. Including a bar scene with Bridges and Stanton playing Pong, while Jimmy Buffet’s on the bandstand with a group that includes Warren Oates.
“Rancho Deluxe” may in fact rival “Diva” as the hippest flick of all time.
One more scene to whet your appetite before I close shop here.
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any band worth its salt would at some point during a concert, lead into a song with something like, “Let’s do some Chuck Berry.”
Then they’d rip into “Maybelline” or, more than likely, “Johnny Be Good,” and even the few folks in the crowd still sitting would get up and dance. And sing along, because everybody knew every word.
There was a time when Bob Seger, still on his way up, would come through Louisville every few months and open a show for another act a little higher up the food chain. Or he’d play one of the clubs downtown.
It may be urban legend, but local rock & roll lore says that “Main Street” is named after, well, Main Street in Louisville where Seger often gigged. I am guilty myself of perpetrating such info. And, frankly, shall continue to do so when the subject arises. It’s too late to stop now.
When Seger was ready to pay his respects to Chuck Berry, he did his own tune. “Get Out of Denver” rips and runs with the same chords and chops (and similarly clever lyrics) as the Founding Father.
Listen for yourself:
In fact, so good is Seger’s Chuck Berry song that other icons have covered it.
Like The Boss, whose rendition you can hear here. (I’d embed it, but youtube won’t let me.)
Bruce does Bob doing Chuck. It’s a good thing.
Then there’s this other guy you might have heard somewhere along the way, who covered the tune.
Bob does Bob doing Chuck. It’s a good thing.
You want lyrics. I got lyrics.
I still remember it was autumn and the moon was shinin’
My ‘60 Cadillac was roarin’ through Nebraska, whinin’
Doin’ a hundred-twenty man the fields was spinnin’ over
Headed out for the mountain snow, and we was trailin’ further
All the pipes were blazin and the screamin wheels turnin, turnin
Had my girl beside me brother, brother she was burnin, burnin
On board the Baptist preacher, southern funky school teacher
She had a line on somethin heavy but we couldn’t reach her
We told her that we needed something that would get us going
She pulled out all she had and layed it on the counter showin
All I had to do was lay my money down and pick it up
Cops came bustin’ in and man, we lit out in a pickup truck
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go, get out of Denver, baby.
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go.
‘Cause you look just like a commie and you might just be a member, baby.
Get out of Denver.
Well, red lights were flashin’ and the sirens they were screamin’.
We had to pinch each other just to see if we was dreamin’.
Made it to London Pass in under less than half an hour.
Motor started drizzlin’ and it turned into a thunder shower
The rain kept drivin’ but the caddy kept on burnin’ rubber.
We kept on drivin’ ’til we ran into some fog cover.
We couldn’t see a thing, somehow we just kept on goin’.
We kept on drivin’ all night long and dead into the mornin’.
Forty-five and fifty when we looked to see where we were at,
We’re starrin’ at a Colorado state policeman trooper captain.
He said…
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go, get out of Denver, baby.
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go.
‘Cause you look just like a commie and you might just be a member, baby.
Get out of Denver.
It’s a great tune. Satisfies all the major food groups: Sex, Drugs and Rawk & Row.
My buddy Bill says it’s the best guy film ever made. Who am I to disagree?
What especially resonates every single time I experience it is Shrevie’s (Daniel Stern) rant about the importance of his record collection. I’ve been known myself to keep my music cataloged in alphabetical order. And to relish the arcane factoids that embellish the experience for all of us prisoners.
To refresh your memory, here’s what Shrevie laid down to his wife Beth (Ellen Barkin) when she put one of his LPs back on the shelf out of order: “Every one of my records means something! The label, the producer, the year it was made. Who was copying whose style… who’s expanding on that, don’t you understand? When I listen to my records they take me back to certain points in my life, OK? Just don’t touch my records, ever! You! The first time I met you? Modell’s sister’s high school graduation party, right? 1955. And Ain’t That A Shame was playing when I walked into the door!”
I’m especially taken with songs that acknowledge the history of rock & roll and exalt it. I loves me that allegiance.
Perhaps my favorite is “Written On A Subway Wall” by Dion. No last name necessary. “Those Oldies But Goodies (Remind Me of You)” by Little Caesar & The Romans is a solid second.
The New Yorker is smooth and reverent. Midway through, he works in some “Little Star,” a classic by The Elegants. That Paul Simon sings that part makes it even better.
It’s simply a great rock & roll tune by a legit Hall of Famer.
As the new year approaches, there seem to be two topics toward which all conversations gravitate.
Actually three. But I have no intention of weighing in on the whole Tiger Woods weltschmerz.
But the other two matters are disconcerting.
One is the extent to how seemingly everybody I know is really looking forward to 2010. To the new decade. This has been a taxing 365 on just about everyone. And it’s not simply the economy, but that has a lot to do with it. While the clock’s tick to 12:01 on 1/01 is an artificial demarcation, it can bring about new attitudes. And hope for better days.
And a lot of folks are ready, really ready.
Issue #2 is the loss of faith in Barack Obama. So many Democrats have turned on the president that the GOP, which was flopping about, looking for some place to land, merely has to sit back smug and smiling and watch.
I am stunned that reasonable, intelligent, perceptive citizens are aghast that not a lot has changed since W was sent out to pasture. I’m not sure what people expected. Obama grew up in Chicago politics. He was a ward healer for heavens’ sakes. His acumen was the ability to compromise, to assess the landscape, find the spots where consensus could be found and to put himself there for the bounty. He’s never walked on water that I know of. At least, there’s no youtube footage.
He is not a messiah. He never held himself out to be a messiah. Yet that mantle was foisted upon him by supporters so disenchanted by what the Bush administration wrought, that they were looking for a Moses to lead them to a promised land. What those who have turned on Obama have forgotten in how bad a situation he faced when taking office.
Yet we are so used to instant gratification these days, that we — or certainly some of we — expected him to immediately right the economy, right the Middle East, right the environment, right everything as soon as he took the oath of office. Like he had a magic wand and could make it all the bad stuff disappear with a wave of his hand.
That’s simply not how things work. Life — politics — is much more complicated than that.
Health care reform is a no brainer. Yet there special interests and politicos and some really stupid people that have gone biblical in their damning of any change whatsoever, or the changes about to be enacted.
I’m not going to talk specifics about that. Or Afghanistan. Or the closing of Guantanamo. Or the bank bailout. Or the unemployment problem. Mostly because I don’t feel I know enough facts to provide any cogent observations. But what I know is that there is a lot to be done to attack all those issues and many others.
I’m glad there’s an intelligent thoughtful listener like Barack Obama who is going to be leading the way.
I understand it’s going to take awhile — a lot longer that it takes Google to find answers — for resolution.
Those who have turned on Obama like spurned lovers need to examine their own beliefs and unrealistic expectations. It is time to give the fellow some slack, to have faith that those traits of his we cherished before he was elected remain. That they will eventually right the ship that still lists because of the Bush administration’s malfeasance.
As for 2010 . . . I’m ready too. This has been a long, strange and stressful year. One to which I shall gladly wish a not so fond adieu.
A calendar hangs on the wall by the four repair bays at Cecil’s Chevron downtown. Notated prominently — in thick black marker — are the dates and starting times of U of L games. Other matters are in regular ink.
Johnny Cecil is a Cardinal fan.
He has season tickets. He goes to away games when possible. He’s paid tuition for his kids to attend the university.
He is invested.
The morning after Charlie Strong’s introduction as Louisville’s new football coach, Cecil was smiling once again.
“I tried to watch the press conference on my computer here,” he said. “Then I listened on the radio. I watched on TV last night.”
Asked his initial impression, Cecil didn’t mince words.
“It’s a home run.
“I like that he’s seasoned,” he continued. “I like that his recruiting strength is in Florida and areas in the South where Louisville needs to be recruiting. I never understood how we’d get kids from out West to come here.”
Then there’s the topic mentioned in nearly every conversation about Strong’s introduction as U of L’s new football coach, the 10 seconds of immediate Cardinal lore known as The Moment.
At the press conference, Strong was speechless and fought back tears when acknowledging his fears that a head coaching position he’s long craved might never have come.
He was surely remembering the jobs he interviewed for but didn’t get despite his résumé. Like Minnesota, where he was interviewed under the guise of being a candidate for a job already filled.
Strong allowed his emotions to take charge. It was a stunning, deeply human moment.
Johnny Cecil was touched: “I could feel it.”
Football, the most popular sport in America, is also the manliest. Fans want their teams aggressive. They want their teams to play mean, to hit hard, to strike fast. They want their coaches strong and assertive.
How ironic then that the instant that has galvanized a fractured Cardinal football fan base was a tender interlude punctuated by tears of joy. Many have mentioned how Strong displayed more emotion in those dozen silent seconds than his mechanical predecessor did in three years.
The consensus from every corner is that Tom Jurich made a great choice. “Maybe a perfect fit,” says Wildcat, his online name notwithstanding, a major U of L pigskin supporter.
But, as Cecil acknowledged, “A new coach is always a crapshoot.”
Strong has never been a head coach. (Not that such a line on one’s résumé assures success, as Cardinal fans well know. Exhibit A: Ron Cooper. Exhibit B: Steve Kragthorpe.)
But Strong has had stellar mentors. Steve Spurrier, Lou Holtz and Urban Meyer all coached national champions. Seth Hancock has been an icon in the thoroughbred industry for decades.
The fellow knows how to coach ’em up on defense. In one BCS title match-up, Strong’s Gator defenders held Ohio State to 82 yards, bashing the favored Buckeyes 41-14. In last year’s title game, Charlie’s charges held Oklahoma, the most prolific offense ever in college football, to 14 points. This season, Florida was top five in four different defensive categories.
Yes, the statistics are there.
He’s coached umpteen All-Americans, even more high NFL draft picks, national defensive players of the year, big-time award winners, etc., etc.
The leadership and defensive coaching talent are there.
Strong knows the big time. Along with Florida, he’s coached at Notre Dame, South Carolina, Ole Miss and Texas A&M. Roaming sidelines around the New Year has become an annual ritual.
Experience is there.
Yet fame and fortune are fickle. Favorable outcomes are never a foregone conclusion. Strong has been left a woefully bare cupboard. The current U of L squad may be earnest, but it is thin in numbers and lacking sufficient championship talent.
In this Internet age, when the next latest and greatest is but a mouse click away, fans want microwave-fast gratification — yesterday. Adulation such as Strong is now experiencing can be fleeting. Loyalties change as quickly as some pseudonymous blowhard can make up a rumor in a chat room.
Alum and longtime fan Fred Smart observes, “We need organization and inspiration. We need to get the fans unified. And we need players.”
The fans seem united for now, and hopefully beyond next season’s inevitable setbacks.
Organization, staff selection and recruiting are among the many variables to be revealed between now and spring practice. (Early returns are positive. Strong nabbed a four-star quarterback within 24 hours of his hire.)
Former coach Howard Schnellenberger trumpeted a collision course with a national championship. Ron Cooper dazzled when he arrived in town clutching a list of 50 ambitious endeavors he wished to accomplish. John L. Smith charmed with his smirk, swagger and bowl-worthy squads. Bobby Petrino just won, baby.
Steve Kragthorpe, like a vampire, sucked the lifeblood out of the program.
If Charlie Strong repairs Louisville football as well as Johnny Cecil repairs cars, Cardinal fans are in for a grand tour.
So I was locked into Football Saturday Night. The Cats were coming back. My Oregon Ducks were going quack on Arizona.
The Film Babe announced ceremoniously, “I’m going to watch ‘The Last Waltz‘.”
It’s something she does periodically. The lady’s got taste.
I’m not sure how many times she’s watched it or how many times I’ve seen it or how many times we’ve watched it together. Several, at least. (For the record, she guesstimates she’s watched it a dozen times.)
My buddy Knuckle — Don’t ask, just understand it’s a fitting moniker — saw it 17 times when it was playing at his local theater. After ten or so viewings, the manager just waved him in.
It’s always a worthwhile endeavor. It is — and there can be no argument about this — far and away the best rock & roll concert movie of them all. Those Talking Heads fans in the “Stop Making Sense” contingent, please sit down. That one is good. Martin Scorcese’s film about The Band’s last concert is transcendent. Take a look.
You know the deal. Dylan’s buddies from Woodstock, those hippie hosers from north of the border along with that one helluva drummer and and singer from Helena, Arkansas — simply The Band — had been on the road for years and years since they started backing up Ronnie Hawkins. They finally wore out. At least that was the storyline at the time. Levon’s revisionist history is that Robbie Robertson alone wanted to park the bus. Anyway the group hung up their rock & roll shoes.
You’d never feel tension from the interviews in the movie. though they have surfaced and festered since.
So the group and Bill Graham ended it in style. In San Francisco on Thanksgiving night ‘76. $25 got you turkey dinner and arguably the greatest collection of rock royalty ever. Certainly the best music ever at one of these conglomeranzas. (Though I’m looking forward to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concert premiering on HBO this coming week.)
So, along with Levon, Robbie, Garth, Rick and Richard, you had a boffo horn section, the Staples singing backup, and Dylan, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Dr. John, Eric Clapton . . . take a breath . . . Joni Mitchell, Muddy Waters, Ronnie Hawkins, Neil Diamond and a few others whose names escape me for the moment.
The tunes in the film, as they usually were with The Band, are immaculate.
The ensemble had the facility of capturing Americana zeitgeist. Their songs were incisive and they rocked. Top score on the Dick Clark American Bandstand scale. And the fivesome lived the life, “getting laid more than Frank Sinatra,” and harvesting deserved acclaim. Even if they often blanched in the spotlight.
The interviews are intimate, and explain why the road doesn’t go on forever.
Remember The Band. But, if you can’t recall the singer, you can still recall the tune.
When you’re 13 years old and male and pubescence has grabbed you in your comfort zone, any song with sexual innuendo resonates.
So it was with this rock & roll/ R & B classic that has stood the test of time since its release in 1958. My buddies and I may have interpreted this a tune back then as one about chokin’ the chicken back, but it remains good rockin’ tonight.
“Way out Willie/ Gave ‘em all a treat/ When he did the Hand Jive/ With his feet.”
Johnny Otis is an interesting study. Born of Greek parents in California, he lived in a black section of Berkeley, where he learned to play the drums. He married an African American woman, and was perceived by many color-coded folks in the entertainment biz as being black himself. He started making rhythm & blues music when it was referred to as Race Music.
Otis never seemed to mind about how folks interpreted any of that. He was a big band leader, a rock & roller, a producer, a perceiver of talent, a disc jockey, a recording artist, an entertainer, etc, etc. At a time when interracial ensembles were still viewed with a jaundiced eye, Otis would have none of it. The world of music is much the better for it.
With a wink at the novelty of the number in an era where the next dance craze was what the record execs were looking for, Otis fashioned the tune. That the eminent Earl Palmer is on drums, and Jimmy Nolan — later with James Brown’s band — plays the famous guitar riff helped make this one a classic.
Plus the whole tale had a happy ending.
‘Willie and Millie got married last fall/ They had a little Willie Junior, and a-that ain’t all/ You know, the baby got famous in his crib, you see/ Doin’ that hand jive on TV.”
At some point during the septuagenarian’s marathon three hour concert in Nashville Thursday — two sets, multiple encores — I turned to the Film Babe and offered how glad I am that I never saw Leonard Cohen until this late stage of his career.
There is something more palatable about this satyr’s poetic sexual musings, something kind of quaint, now that he’s a bit hunched at age seventy five. And never doubt that this man is a sybarite to the core. A grand poet, genius actually, he is first and foremost a sensualist. Janis Joplin wasn’t the only one you know. Rebecca DeMornay . . . oh the list goes on and on.
Some of the songs were probably harder to swallow when Cohen was still young and on the prowl. Now presented with an abiding sense of humility for a life well lived all in all, the tunes come across with a sweetness.
But I digress.
Leonard Cohen stands tall among the great poet/lyricists of our time.
More after this little interlude of “Everybody Knows.” (The scenes from ” A Man From U.N.C.L.E.” are kind of strange. I’m not sure what they have to do with the song.)
That is one of those what I call list songs that Cohen does so well, starting or ending most lines with the same phrasing. It really works here.
“And everybody knows that it’s now or never/ Everybody knows that it’s me or you/ And everybody knows that you live forever/ Ah when you’ve done a line or two/ Everybody knows the deal is rotten/ Old Black Joe’s still pickin’ cotton/ For your ribbons and bows/ And everybody knows.”
The concert in Andy Jackson Hall at the oddly designed Tennessee Performing Arts Center was truly a cut above. Backed by implacable musicians playing impeccable arrangements and stunning back up singers, the performer didn’t disappoint on any level. I’m hard pressed to think of a song somebody might want to hear that Cohen didn’t do. His voice a foggy resonance, he was a most gracious performer.
I’d love to post a rendition here of Cohen singing “First We’ll Take Manhattan,” my favorite of his songs, but there isn’t one worth the trouble available on You Tube. Understanding that ofttimes Cohen’s tunes are best presented by others, I found this version by the Joe Cocker. Enjoy.
“They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom/ For trying to change the system from within/ I’m coming now, I’m coming to reward them/ First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.” I love that beginning.
I remember my first Leonard Cohen moment, hearing Judy Collins sing “Suzanne.” Who is this Leonard Cohen guy who wrote these lyrics, I wondered?
“There are heroes in the seaweed/ There are children in the morning/ They are leaning out for love/ And they will lean that way forever/ While Suzanne holds the mirror/ And you want to travel with her/ You want to travel blind/ And you know she’ll find you/ For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.”
The bottom line is this. Cohen’s voice has never been much, but it now soothes like a fine aged wine. He sang every song we wanted to hear. And more. The imagery, subtle, incisive, affective, filled the auditorium.
Leonard Cohen is one of the pop music giants of the last fifty years. How invigorating that he’s on his game now as never before.
“Rednecks, crackers, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, pea-pickers – everybody that’s got to jump when somebody else blows the whistle. They don’t know it yet, but they’re all gonna be ‘Fighters for Fuller’. They’re mine! I own ‘em! They think like I do. Only they’re even more stupid than I am, so I gotta think for ‘em. Marcia, you just wait and see. I’m gonna be the power behind the president – and you’ll be the power behind me!”
The words belong to a character, Lonesome Rhodes, in a film that was way more a harbinger of things to come than we could have ever imagined when it was released in 1957. He was played by Andy Griffith in his film debut, several years before he became a beloved icon as Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry.
He was heralded as the next Brando or James Dean.
Check out the trailer.
The Elia Kazan film features some amazing performances from Patricia O’Neal and Walter Matthau and Anthony Franciosa. It’s the cinematic debut of Lee Remick. She’s the comely teenager that becomes Rhodes lust object.
More important, the film accurately portrays the future of politics and culture. More sound bites. Less substance. Charismatic Pied Pipers leading flocks of followers wherever he or she wishes. The increased use of electronic media to convey political polemics.
It is an eerie look into the future. But abundantly accurate.
Of course, Griffith didn’t morph into Brando or Dean. Thank heavens.
But, in a calmer Eisenhower America, he did a mighty prescient imitation of Glenn Beck more than a half century before that poseur came on the scene.
More exactly, Steve Kragthorpe’s situation and the downward momentum of his career at Louisville: how he replaced Bobby Petrino, how the team was immediately less good, how the fans became disgruntled, how that disenchantment has escalated to cacophony, and how those fans want him gone — yesterday, if not sooner.
But first to Susan Boyle.
You remember her, right? She was all the rage as a singing sensation on one of those British who-is-going-to-be-the-next-superstar shows. One day, nobody had ever heard of the frumpy housefrau with the amazing voice. The next day, millions were viewing a video of her stunning debut on the Web.
How long ago was that? Weeks? Months? Last year?
Then she showed up soon enough with a makeover and a record contract, at which point all those instant fans abandoned their adulation and moved on.
Within a time frame most accurately measured in hours or days, they went veni, vidi, relici. With apologies to Plutarch, they came, they saw, they moved on.
Which is when I coined the term, “Boyle point.” It’s the instant in this accelerated cybergalactic age when our latest fascination becomes what was once called “yesterday’s papers,” the moment when we’ve mouse-clicked to the next diversion, the moment when the rage’s upward arc heads south.
So, as U of L’s football season trudges inexorably to ignominy, the fascination has moved from the field to the three-ring circus that is the discussion of Kragthorpe’s future in Louisville, and who his successor might be.
And in this saga, there have been too many Boyle points to compute.
Continue reading Is Kragthorpe Almost To End Zone?
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
On the Radio
The Culture Maven reviews film weekly on WFPK 91.9. The reviews (and entertaining attendant shtick) are archived here. Hear them live Tuesdays at 8:05 a.m.
“The Catcher In The Rye” is a resonant novel with staying power, if nothing else.
We’ve all got that default music we need when stress hits.
As usual I was more than a bit displeased with several of this year’s Golden Globe winners.
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any band worth its salt would at some point during a concert, lead into a song with something like, “Let’s do some Chuck Berry.”
The Film Babe and I watched “Diner” last night.
As the new year approaches, there seem to be two topics toward which all conversations gravitate.
I am stunned that reasonable, intelligent, perceptive citizens are aghast that not a lot has changed since W was sent out to pasture. I’m not sure what people expected. Obama grew up in Chicago politics. He was a ward healer for heavens’ sakes. His acumen was the ability to compromise, to assess the landscape, find the spots where consensus could be found and to put himself there for the bounty. He’s never walked on water that I know of. At least, there’s no youtube footage.
A calendar hangs on the wall by the four repair bays at Cecil’s Chevron downtown. Notated prominently — in thick black marker — are the dates and starting times of U of L games. Other matters are in regular ink.
Revised 11/23 9:50 a.m.
When you’re 13 years old and male and pubescence has grabbed you in your comfort zone, any song with sexual innuendo resonates.
At some point during the septuagenarian’s marathon three hour concert in Nashville Thursday — two sets, multiple encores — I turned to the Film Babe and offered how glad I am that I never saw Leonard Cohen until this late stage of his career.
The following is not a quote from Rush Limbaugh.
The purpose here is to discuss Steve Kragthorpe.
