Two Scrooges Wanna Unplug Triangle Concerts

In a perfect world, everyone would love their neighbors and their neighborhood.

The Film Babe and I are blessed. We do.

We live in the Triangle and we can walk to the movies, walk to the best pizza joint on the planet — Impellizzeri’s — and simply walk through the lovely streets. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Oak Park has nothing on the Cherokee Triangle . . . except lots of tourists. And the neighbors that surround us are great.

Plus on Sunday nights in the summertime, we can walk a block and a half for one of the great pleasures of the year. Concerts in Triangle Park. It’s a vista beyond compare. The perfect setting for perfect moments.

Neighbors gather with picnic baskets and coolers of treats to mix, mingle, dance and generally enjoy the pleasures of the season. The gatherings are always gentle and genteel. Kids on the playground. Watchful parents right by. Teens wondering if they like their parents’ music enough to stay. Joggers slowing as they meander past the proceedings. Old farts reveling in one more Nervous Melvin cover of a Beatles tune.

It’s poesy.

And, adhering to the Grateful Dead credo about leaving only footsteps behind, you can walk through the park a half an hour after the proceedings are over and there’s rarely the first piece of trash left behind.

It’s a good thing.

Which makes me wonder why two cranks in the neighborhood have been trying for a couple years now to close down these joyous neighborhood celebrations?

Even more surprising is that one of the Scrooges lives in a manse on a little bluff overlooking the park with a grand front terrace on which he hosts a party almost every Sunday night when there’s music playing.

Irony is one word to describe his actions. Duplicitous is another.

The other naysayer lives in 1400 Willow, I believe. I’m not sure why she’s so upset. I’m told she doesn’t like the trash cans in the park. Or something like that.

Anyway, these two have taken it upon themselves to inundate the Parks Department and Mayor’s office with their continual braying complaints. One can only hope their insufferable crusade to dampen the terrific spirit force of this summertime ritual falls on deaf ears.

Yo, you two, hear this: Life’s too short. It’s time for you to step out on the concrete in front of the gazebo and dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand wavin’ free.

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Louisville Cordish ♥ Affair Continues

First of all, a message to Chad Carlton. He’s the spokesmen behind whose coattails Mayor Jerry Abramson has hidden after the non-report came back on questionable spending by Cordish after a forgiveable $950 large loan from the city.

Chad, if you and your boss can break away from the kissy kissy bumpety bump you and he have going with the Cordishes, hear me for a second. I am one of those skeptics with “less than full faith in the propriety of the expenditure.”

And, Chad, tell your boss that I and a lot of folks who have believed in him for years are not placated. If anything, Chad, we have more questions than ever about what happened to our $950 grand. We are now skeptics “with less faith than ever in the propriety of the expenditure.”

And, Chad, while you’re wandering about city hall this coming week, why don’t you stop by the offices of David Tandy, Mike Norman, Bruce Traughber, David Morris and Ellie Shipley and pass along this message from those of us who have “less than full faith in the propriety of the expenditure.” Tell them this: “You all are idiots.”

You might also get them to reimburse the city for the cost of their “official business” in Baltimore. While there, they did nothing of consequence . . . except maybe down some crabcakes on the taxpayer’s tab. Better yet, ask Cordish for a reimbursement. Or did they already agree to pay?

This Fearful Fivesome’s charge was to audit Cordish’s books to find out if the money was spent properly, then report back to the citizens of Louisville.

Instead they signed a confidentiality agreement with Cordish, agreeing not to share the info with anybody but themselves. I assume that means even Hizzoner Former Mayor For Life Abramson and Chad Whatisname aren’t even in the loop. Wouldn’t want to piss off Cordish would we? Heck, if we did, they might get soooooooo mad they wouldn’t take any further handouts from the city.

What could be worse? Oh yes, the five didn’t even complete a full and complete audit. They nibbled on the crumbs Cordish fed them, kneeled before the developer and, heads bowed, said “Thanks, Massa.”

Jerry, Chad, David, Mike, Bruce, David and Ellie — You think we’re stupid?

If Mr. Mayor thinks Louisville’s going to fall in lock step when he runs for Lieutenant Guv, he’d better come clean on Cordish. There are a lot of people asking a lot of questions. Carrying Louisville is going to be a lot more iffy if this stench isn’t abated.

And, if I were Mr. Tandy, I’d forget about running for mayor, and see if he can find a real job. One for an employer who will expect a task to be done properly, and for which he’ll be held accountable.

Right now, the stink around 6th & Jefferson is bad and getting worse.

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Fun City Phil is baaaaaaack!

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.

– c d k

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?Hizzoner Jer ♡s Cordish, Part Deux?

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.

It’s not just happening in our burg either.

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Hizzoner Jer ♡s Cordish – Why?

thevillevoice.com has struck again.

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?

– c d k

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We’re #1

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.

Here’s a link to a map of the bad towns at cnn.com.

Here’s a link to the AAFA web site.

Sneeze on!!!!!!

– c d k

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JazzFest at 40 — Sweet as Ever

Revised 5/02/09 11:20 a.m.

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.

JazzFest is my favorite thing to do.

What follows are some moments from this year’s festival.

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World Guy Busted

Before you get too excited, I don’t mean he was arrested or anything like that.

I’m talking about this fellow Eric Bendl, who is hard not to notice when he’s walking the streets. He’s always out and about with this big rubber globe, which he calls, not without justification, “the World.” As in “Today after work I got out the World . . . ”

Anyway, Bendl’s main goal, other than laughs and attention, is to increase awareness of Diabetes, a disease suffered by his mother, former politician of note, Gerta Bendl.

When World Guy sets out, besides “the World” he takes along his faithful canine, Nice.

So today, while out for a jog, I happened upon World Guy, “the World” and Nice in the Cherokee Triangle. They were dazzling a couple of sub teen girls who were mesmerized. Meanwhile Nice decided to relieve himself on a lawn.

Sadly Wold Guy started to walk away without cleaning up after his dog. That’s a no-no in my book. So he allegedly cares enough about world awareness to walk around with a five foot diameter globe, but doesn’t clean up after his dog. Hmmm. Is there some sort of contradiction there?

He seemed pissed when I asked, “Mr. Globe Man, you’re going to clean up after your dog, aren’t you?”

Let’s hope this was a one time omission. That’s he’s as earth concious as he would portray himself, and usually cleans up after Nice. Hey, maybe he can even start carrying around a litter bag, and really set an example by picking up cans and discarded food wrappers and cigarette packages as he walks “the World.”

It would be a good thing.

– c d k

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Is Our New Hero A Harbinger?

What strange times these are.

You don’t need me to tell you yet again how despicable the outgoing president and his let-them-eat-cake administration have been. I’m not alone. And it’s not just partisans who now realize what a revolting development W’s eight years in office turned out to be.

I shan’t dwell on it. In 48 hours, W will be free to crony up with oil buddies every day for lunch without having to worry about a country to lead. He can concentrate on spring training without silly old position papers to attempt to digest. It’ll be a good thing for him. A better thing for the rest of us.

But that’s not the only odd thing goin’ on.

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Power Off, Power On . . . Yay!

The phone message was automated.

The phone message had an odd ending.

The phone message was oh so very welcome.

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A Grand Hoops Experience: Norris is the Place

So charming is the whole experience that is Bellarmine basketball, I feel compelled to issue at least one plaint. For objectivity’s sake, mind you.

The Bellarmine Knight, the mascot I’m talking about, is butt U.G.L.Y. In an age when cute reigns so much that ESPN features college mascots in its marketing, the Bellarmine Knight stands out as something else entirely. His is a surly — not to be confused with Sirly — look. King Arthur would have kicked the guy off the Round Table simply for unacceptable negativitude.

Which is not to say that the student section didn’t have the Knight’s back, giving him a standing O when he nailed a three from mid court during pre-game shenanigans.

The point is that if that’s all I can find less than exhilarating by a Saturday night at Knights Hall, methinks it’s about as much fun as you can have at a sporting event these days.

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We’re # 1

Always willing to herald the achievments of the town which he has mayored for the last, oh, century and a half or so, HizzonerForLife Jerry Abramson, for some inexplicable reason, has chosen not to publicize the one area in which Louisville is #1 in this Googlefied, cybergalactic age.

The city whose citizens are most likely to search for obscene material on the internet.

We may be hurtin’ for certain in other areas. But, as Carl Spackler famously said, after caddying for the Dalai Lama and receiving eternal life, “So, hey, we got that goin’ for us.”

Don’t believe the ol’ Culture Maven. Read about it here.

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