Artist and gallery owner Julius Friedman swears he has no recollection of the moment.
Given that it occurred Back in the Day, that isn’t such a surprise. If you remember the ’70s, you didn’t really live them. That’s how the saying goes, right?
Then again, this happened at the counter-cultural and gustatory phenomenon known as Fun City Pizza. The joint was a cockamamie wonderland where anything and everything could and did happen, most of it elusively memorable in a way that few would believe unless they experienced it themselves.
As evenings went, this was a quiet one at Fun City, on Preston just north of Eastern Parkway across from the old St. Joe’s Infirmary. I was at one table, Julius and others at another.
There was this gaggle of twentysomething ladies, who a few years before had graduated from one of the local high schools. They’d consumed a few slices of ’za, considerably more pitchers and, from all appearances, had toked up in the parking lot. That was the Fun City way.
At some point, this crew pushed back the tables and proceeded to reenact their senior talent show. Singing. Dancing. The whole schmear.
There were giggles galore. I swear I looked over at Julius, he back at me. We agreed we’d never be able to describe the scene.
Fun City was that kind of place. The first in Louisville where you could buy New York thin-crusted pizza by the slice. Where on a daily basis, Bob, an owner from a connected family back in Sopranoland, Darrell with his eye patch, young Bennie Impellizzeri who quietly made the pies and co-owner Phil, with his mohawk, turned Fun City, with its infamous back room, into the most aptly named eatery in town.
If you were there the night the Louisville Rugby Club played nude human bowling with chairs instead of pins, you know what I mean. If you were there when a song the boys liked came on the box and they jumped on the counter and danced, you know what I mean.
If you were there on a night — always when the place was really busy — when Darrell and Phil pulled their get-in-an-argument gag with one or the other’s head ending up slammed into the counter after a growing 15-minute argument … well, I was. And I remember who I was with and the thunderstruck looks on every patron’s shocked face — the room rendered totally silent except for the jukebox. Until Darrell and Phil broke up laughing.
Fun City Phil is Phil O’Reilly, he of the wry sense of humor and one of the world of comedy’s great shrugs. He does standup now. It’s a good thing.
O’Reilly returns triumphantly to the burg of his profligate youth with two shows at Comedy Caravan on Thursday.
Trust me, there are worse ways to spend the evening.
Phil’s mohawk is gone, but not his sardonic sense of bemusement.
Phil O’Reilly
Thursday, May 28
Comedy Caravan
1250 Bardstown Road
459-0022 www.comedycaravan.com
$5-$8; 8 & 10 p.m.
Spend a weekend at home alone, with my sweetie away, and here’s where my mind wanders:
Now I guess I could riff on and on about the abject soulfullness of this incredible song — Toussaint McCall’s “Nothing Takes The Place of You.” The funereal organ, so simple but so rich. The elemental piano trills for counterpoint. The essential rhythms of the muted drums.
Or the lyrics, understated, but enough to rip your heart out.
So, after listening to McCall’s one shot classic more than a few times, I began to wonder: Is this the most soulful tune ever recorded?
I’ve been reading a lot of articles and have watched several TV exposés about Bernie Madoff.
I’m still not sure what makes this guy tick. There is an evil pathology there that still escapes me. The guy — and probably his wife and some cohorts — simply didn’t care who they messed over for their own personal financial and social aggrandizement.
And, while I can’t say that these Cordish folks, who seem hellbent on fleecing as many cities out of tax dollars as they might, can quite be branded as Madoffian, I’m beginning to wonder.
Some Louisvillians who are experiencing bad times, their businesses having been plundered asunder by the white elephant we call Fourth Street Live, along with some other inquisitive taxpayers with an affinity for local interests and taking care of our own first, as well as some just plain taxpayers wondering what da fuh? is happening with our tax dollars, are starting to look beyond the gloss at Cordish.
On a daily basis, Rick Redding’s site continually provides insight into the political and cultural goings on here in Louisville.
And it was there reported last week that Paris Hilton received a cool $150,000 to appear in town for the Derby. First of all, good for her. She’s been able to turn herself into a commodity that people pay just to appear at a party. What a gig. (By the by, you can get me for a lot less. Hell I’ll even wear a pair of Jimmy Choos if the price is right.)
Anyway, the website reports that 1/2 was paid by the Barnstable/Brown party. Which means, one would surmise, that it lessened the charitable contribution by that figure. And that the other 1/2 was paid by those wacky carpetbaggers who have deftly got their hands in the pocket of our Mayor Jerry Abramson. That’s right, those lovable Cordish folks.
Which means, if you follow the money, that city dollars paid for Paris Hilton’s visit to the Derby.
Does anybody in authority understand the concepts of “cost/ benefit analysis” or “legitimate and prudent use of taxpayer dollars”? It doesn’t appear so.
Enough is enough, I say. It’s time for the Courier-Journal or LEO or Business First or The Voice or one of our local TV news departments, somebody/anybody with the energy and doggedness, to launch a full scale investigation to reveal the sordid details of the Cordish/ City of Louisville tryst. Frankly, this love affair is starting to stink worse than the dump out on the Outer Loop. Actually that’s not true. It’s stunk for awhile.
Home owned businesses are falling by the wayside because they can’t compete with the apparent sweetheart deals our city administration keeps handing Cordish.
Where’s the outrage?
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Fourth Estate . . . Which of you is up to the challenge?
Most everybody who has visited the Virgin Islands loves the place, right?
Kind of paradise and you don’t have to schlep for a day on an airplane to get there like you do to get to Hawaii.
Well, there’s another reason to praise that bucolic vista. It’s illegal to drive and hold a cellphone at the same time. Which is reason enough methinks to praise the place. And to visit on vacation.
Meanwhile, here in the continental United States, only Connecticut, New Jersey, New York, California, Washington state and the District of Columbia have enacted similar bans.
Let’s take a moment for a standing ovation, if you would, please. These state deserve a big round of applause.
There are ten states that have banned text messaging while driving. Which is forty states, more or less, too few.
Driving and talking on the phone, even if it’s one of those earpiece things, is incredibly dangerous. Driving and texting, well, only a really stupid idiot with a death wish for themselves and others driving or walking along the same route would consider doing it.
Forty five percent of Americans admit to having been hit or nearly hit by somebody driving a car while talking on a cellphone. Frankly, I don’t believe that number. I think the actual percentage is a lot higher because most folks won’t admit it happens.
Because 81% of our citizenry have admitted talking on the phone and driving at the same time.
It’s time for this to stop. There is credible research that indicates even talking on a hands-free phone while driving is more dangerous than driving while drunk.
So you won’t miss what I just said, let me repeat it: Driving while talking on a phone, even a hands-free phone, is more dangerous than driving while drunk.
So I’m down on my knees, beggin’ you please please please to stop phoning and texting while you drive. Turn the phone off when behind the wheel. Or, if it rings, don’t answer it until you can pull off the road. Don’t even look to see who the call is from until you pull off the road.
You say your allergies just seem worse this year. That you find yourself so run down in the middle of the day that you have to lay down for a short nap that ends up being a couple hours. That you feel fluish, but haven’t been to Mexico recently and don’t have a fever.
(And so I must now, if only for levity’s sake, paraphrase one of my favorite lines from “Yellow Submarine”: Funny, you don’t look fluish.)
You’re not alone. I got ‘em bad. So does the Film Babe.
And, apparently, so do a lot of Derbytowners.
The Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America has put Louisville at the top of its list, designating our burg as The Worst Allergy City in the country. For fall of 2008. For spring of 2009 (that’s right now). Maybe forever.
This is the state that elected Edwin Edwards, currently domiciled in a federal prison facility, who ran on this slogan: “Vote for the Crook.” Seems Edwards, who liked both women in abundance and to make a bet more often than not, chose a company to run a casino in New Orleans, after which he was named executor of the estate of the company”s principal. He was running against long time Klan leader, David Duke.
This is the state that elected demagogue Huey Long. That elected Huey’s brother Earl, who was cavorting about with famous stripper Blaze Starr. And chose Jimmie Davis as governor. His prime qualification for state office was that he wrote the tune, “You are My Sunshine.” Read the rest of this entry »
The 70s were the undisputed halcyon days of filmmaking, and “Car Wash” is one of the underappreciated gems of the era.
You’ve got two of the greatest comedians ever. George Carlin as a befuddled cabbie. Richard Pryor as a TV evangelist, Daddy Rich, who always travels with back up singers.
Okay, there’s also Professor Irwin Corey, one of the wack jobs of all time.
Plus the man with the ‘fro (here anyway), the irrepressible Franklin Ajaye, who just wants to win the radio jackpot. There’s the white car wash owner. And the not as pretty as she’d like to be cashier, played by Melanie Mayron, before she lost weight and turned H.O.T.. And there’s the lonely hooker who uses the facility’s restroom as a home away from home. And the son who wears his Chairman Mao t-shirt.
And the solid old fella, considered an Uncle Tom by the young car wash workers, one of which is a transvestite. And there’s the angry, militant Duane, who insists he be called Abdullah, played by Bill Duke.
It’s a Day in the Life just off Sunset Strip. The day unfolds. Stuff happens. There’s lots of comedy. A bit of drama. A whole lot of music.
These seeming stereotypes are revealed. By the end of the film, we know them. More important, we care about them.
Director Michael Schultz and writer Joel Schumacher provide each his and her dignity.
This is a wonderfully entertaining bit of cinema. And it has far more substance than one could imagine, given the premise (and my explanation).
Plus there’s lots of great music, including the title tune by Rose Royce.
You may have come across this film on late night TV. If you stayed with it, you were surprised by its substance. If you clicked away, now’s the time to rent it.
The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is now forty years on, and grooving as strong as ever. As we do, my krewe and I made it down for opening weekend. It was my 23d JazzFest, including 21 of the last 22. (For a primer on JazzFest and Quint Davis, the festival’s long-time major domo, you can read this article from the New Orleans newspaper.
It is a rite of spring. It is, as somebody far more poetic than myself once articulated, “the gravitational pull of my year.”
The first two albums I ever owned were recorded in New Orleans. “Here’s Little Richard” and a Fats Domino album, the title of which I’ve long forgotten. Fats and I share a birthday. There is something about the music of this town, and the city itself, flawed and fantastic, that cut through to my soul. I’d explain further, but I simply cannot.
Artist and gallery owner Julius Friedman swears he has no recollection of the moment. 
