Now that the trial of you know who concerning her “relationship” with you know who is yesterday’s spam, let’s consider a few other things, shall we?
* * * * *
While we weren’t paying attention, and after much ado about political posturing, Elena Kagan was confirmed as Supreme Court justice.
Just as she should have been.
Just as we always knew she would be.
Of course, since ‘87, there’s the borking process that must play out.
Robert Bork was a GOP nominee for the Court. He had been the hatchet man that fired Watergate independent prosecutor Archibald Cox during the Nixon administration in what’s been dubbed the “Saturday Night Massacre.” So, if only for that, the donkeys hated Bork, a bright and qualified jurist, albeit very conservative.
Besides Bork had that scraggly beard that was off-putting and made him look like some Colonial era Puritan preacher. Then there was his imperious manner.
Anyway the Dems were able to foil his nomination. The process has been repugnantly political ever since.
You may not like the politics of Scalia or Roberts or Ginsburg or Kagan, but they’re all qualified. And the country would be a lot better off if the Senate stopped looking at nominee’s politics and just at their qualifications.
* * * * *
Is it my imagination, or are there cicadas every summer now? Not just every 17 years the way Mother Nature planned the cycle.
What happened?
Well, maybe it is nature’s way.
* * * * *
What’s up with this Kentucky dirt that’s been hauled to Indiana by the appropriately named Kentuckiana Trucking Company?
It seems there are a few petroleumish contaminants in the soil from the new arena site. And the trucking company dumped it where it wasn’t supposed to. Frankly, I’m shocked, shocked I tell you that such illegalities occur.
Wonder if they considered hauling it down to the Gulf, to maybe soak up some of that sludge? Or, Mega Caverns, where’s there is plenty of room and they invite new fill?
* * * * *
Why is Charles Moore still on the Louisville police force?
* * * * *
Speaking of governmental shenanigans and police department inefficiency, the Film Babe and I are halfway through Season #3 of our annual marathon viewing of the entirety of “The Wire.” Two and a half seasons down, two and a half to go.
Which we’ll do in, oh, the next ten days or so. Those of you familiar with the old HBO series understand why it’s so compelling. A couple episodes a night are the minimum. One night last summer, we watched five. Not that we’re obsessed or anything.
Those of you who’ve never watched it, tsk, tsk.
One guy’s opinion: It’s the best dramatic series in the history of television. Period. It is Godfather quality. Yes, yes, it is.
How much in depth rumination can an Observer of the Scene consider when, long after coming into the AC, he’s still shvitzing like a pig on a spit after a morning jog?
Let’s find out.
Toll Booths ‘R’ Us. Like most other reasoning humans, I was aghast at the first mention of possible tolls on the new bridges, which structures have been on the drawing board since, I dunno, Charlie Farnsley was mayor.
Three bucks to visit grannie in Cementville.
Three bucks to make it back home.
At first blush, and perhaps at second, it seems a heinous exaction. I know I was ready to pull out my dusty “No Taxation Without Representation” banner. Then I remembered I lent it to my Tea Party neighbor across the street.
The article in this morning’s C-J gave some perspective on the situation. I know when visiting the Bay Area last year, we stayed in Mill Valley and thought nothing of paying the toll when crossing into San Francisco. Much to our chagrin however, we got no discount for the flowers in our hair.
I have no idea how this is all going to play out. I do predict that there will be no new bridges in Louisville built in my lifetime. And I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, though my instinct tells me we’ll survive without them.
Pols ‘R’ Us. Another interesting read in this morning’s C-J was Jim Carroll’s take on our major party candidates to fill Jim Bunning’s senate seat.
Not only are Rand Paul and Jack Conway seriously serious 24/7, they are, let’s face facts, B*O*R*I*N*G.
The desk holding the computer I’m writing on has more personality than both combined. And it’s standard utilitarian office equipment company issue.
Being a good Donkey, and being more than a little scared of Paul — actually, what he stands for — I’m sure I’ll vote for Conway. Understanding he’s never going to be confused with Henry Clay or John Sherman Cooper.
Trolls ‘R’ Us. It’s Day #3 of Hullabaloo. And for the third day in a row, I’m sad to say I’m taking a Pasadena.
I know, for years I’ve been ranting about the lack of a real summer music festival here in Louisville. Now that we have a legit foray toward one, I’m staying away.
Trust me, it’s not out of protest at the lineup which I find less than compelling. I intended to go out today with the Film Babe, plunk down our $150 and show our support. Terry Adams’ new band intrigues me. But he’s about to start playing as I write. Dwight Yoakam and Loretta Lynn are certainly worth hearing. Though I’ve seen the former. But, Sweet Loretta, it’s just too damn hot to stand in the sun and listen. Sorry.
It’s not gonna happen.
I hope the event is a financial success. I hope Churchill Downs figures out a way to have it when it’s less hot and steamy. I also hope they find it in their hearts to present a future lineup of acts with a bit more zest. Like, oh, say, they do at Forecastle. And New Orleans. And Nashville. And Milwaukee.
All of which is to say I’m a troglodyte for the day.
“Did you see that, man? Look! It landed all the way over there. From a sitting position.”
The kid is 13, 14 maybe, covered with tats, hanging with the outcasts on the outskirts of the gaggle of teens outside the Eastern Parkway Qdoba. His eyes betray the ragweed he’s smoked. He talks like it was real reefer.
His fellow brooders pay no attention. Except the black girl. “You can’t do that. It’s just not healthy.”
The basis for his boast is a looey he’s hocked 15 feet across the patio.
It’s the first day of vacation.
School’s out for summer/ School’s out forever
A redhead walks to the table with a purpose, tells him, “We’re movin’ on, douche bag. And you’re not invited.” She stomps away with a gang, doesn’t look back.
“You can come,” the boy in a whitey on a skateboard rumbling by yells to the hocker. “We’re doing it because we’re bored. Because we can. You might see some blood.”
The kid in the black “Keep Highland Weird” t-shirt scurries after. “A fight,” he asks?
“A rumble,” answers that redhead with the acned chest.
Is that Highland as in Highland Middle f/k/a Highland Jr. High?
Let’s give a cheer for Highland Jr. High/ In every sport we’ll do our best or die
I wonder what Mr. Sanders thinks from his viewing spot? He was principal when I went there.
Hell, I know what he thinks. Why isn’t that kid wearing a belt on his pants? That’s what he’s thinks while shaking his head at an alien world out of his time zone he can’t comprehend.
Oh dear Highland High School/ We always will love you/
No matter what happens/ We’ll always be true
The guy I’d really like to talk to at the moment is Bob Denk.
He owned the beatnik coffee shop up near where Wick’s is now. Topaz Emporium. Or was it The Zapot? Or both one after another? He was Kerouacian in a post-beatnik world.
So he was out of his time too. But not like Mr. Sanders.
What would Denk make of ever changing just the same as it ever was Bardstown Road on the first night of summer vacation 2010? The skate board shops? Packs of kids all talking on cellphones to somebodies who are somewhere else?
What would Bob Denk think of the nearly empty record shop? There was a time when all those girls just freed from the imprisonment of braces and homework, the ones now purposely tattered for their first night on the strip, would have been tie-dyed, inside the store, nodding their heads in agreement at the dude carrying on about “It’s A Beautiful Day.”
Instead there’s two guys — one white, one black and stylin’ with a toothpick and pork pie hat — in the Hip Hop section. And a fellow in a suit, trying to figure out which Jimmy Buffet album to buy?
And I’m there too. Watching all the foot traffic through the windows, tracking down Janelle Monáe, who, bless her Mr. Please Please Pleas-adoring heart, may or may not be the next big R & B thing, like my man James Bickers says. Or she may get swallowed up in all the noise.
And I grab Jeff Beck. The “Live at Ronnie Scott’s” album, where he plays with such exquisite passion and clarity it’s hard to listen and breathe at the same time. My guess is Denk would approve. Beck plays some Mingus on the disc.
And the new one from The National, which sucked me into its vortex at the listening station. They are to Cincy as My Morning Jacket is to Louisville. Except they had to move to NYC to make it happen.
It’s Bardstown Road. Tuesday night.
Summer’s here/ And the time is right/ For dancing in the street
The Spanish restaurant is empty as always. Down the street the line is long for burritos. Further down there’s a pizza war brewing.
Thin slice vs. thick.
Papalino’s vs. Impellizzeri’s.
“I’m an old school guy,” I tell the girl at the nouveau yogurt shop. “Whatever happened to chocolate and vanilla?”
She doesn’t understand irony. Would I like Original Tart or Acaiberry? I want to ask when tart became a flavor?
I leave it alone, allowing her to eventually figure out I get ten cents change when I hand her three bucks, a quarter and 3 pennies for a $3.18 tab.
The coffee shops are wireless, devoid of poetry readers. Would Denk understand?
When LEO hit newsstands in the summer of 1990, college sports was not mired in the profit über alles ethos it is today.
ESPN was but a decade old and had not yet cornered the market in collegiate football, basketball and baseball. Nor in minor sports, which with the advent of ESPNU, are now in the stranglehold of the beast from Bristol.
The rah rah sis boom bah, win one for the ol’ alma mater attitude had died years before with the Gipper and Rudy Vallee. The once-legit concept of “student-athlete” — at least in major sports — had become delusion.
Not every school that eked out wins over East Nevada Tech and South Dakota A&P found a spot in a bowl game named for some upstart Silicon Valley venture. Schools that didn’t make it into the NCAA basketball tournament accepted without squawking that an 18-14 record was not post season-worthy.
The difference between University of Louisville sports then and now is just as great in some respects. Just the same as it ever was in others.
At the time, there was no women’s lacrosse at U of L, a sport that now has it’s own dedicated stadium. Nor women’s softball, which now has its own bucolic diamond. Nor women’s golf. Nor women’s rowing.
What is now a state-of-the-art athletic complex that has hosted national and conference championships was then a gravel parking lot near I-65.
Cardinal baseball — which also has its own new ballyard — was an afterthought. With a College World Series appearance now on its résumé, U of L baseball is becoming a national power.
The summer of 1990 marked the halfway point of Howard Schnellenberger’s regime as coach of Cardinal football. Hired before the 1985 schedule, the first five seasons for the former national title coach at Miami were up and down as he attempted to reinvent U of L football. Playing in ramshackle Fairgrounds Stadium, his squads suffered through three desultory seasons before going 8-3 in 1988 but without a bowl appearance. They fell to 6-5 the following year.
The Cardinals reached unprecedented heights the fall after LEO was born, tying their opener to San Jose State, losing at Southern Miss, but winning 10, including an improbable and resounding 34-7, New Year’s Day victory over Alabama in the Fiesta Bowl.
During Schnellenberger’s tenure, Louisville remained staunchly independent at a time when conference affiliation was becoming increasingly imperative. In fact, the coach cited U of L’s nascent affiliation with Conference USA as one of the reasons he jumped ship before the Cards collided with the national title he promised. As well as before completion of Papa John’s Stadium, for which he was the prime mover.
Louisville football has been a roller coaster ride ever since.
Louisville basketball also reached a cusp in 1990.
The ’89-’90 season ended 27-9 but with a disheartening loss to Ball State in the second round of the NCAA Tournament. It was the type of opponent to which Hall of Famer Denny Crum’s teams rarely lost. U of L was the team of the ’80s in college basketball. National championships were won in ’80 and ’86, with two other Final Four appearances.
It all changed during the ’90-’91 season. The Cards went 14-16, the school’s first losing campaign in a half century. Only one time after that did a Crum-coached Cardinal team make it as far as the Elite Eight. Crum resigned during a contentious scenario with Athletic Director Tom Jurich after a horrendous 12-19 record in 2000-2001.
Louisville ended its Final Four drought in 2005 under Coach Rick Pitino. Last season, the school’s final stint in Freedom Hall, ended with a resounding defeat to California in the first round of the NCAA tournament.
U of L football, hoping for yet another refurbishment, will open next season with a new coach, Charlie Strong, in an expanded stadium.
U of L basketball will open next season in a new downtown arena against national runner-up Butler. Most longtime season ticket holders are feeling left behind by the athletic department’s money-over-loyalty policy that is governing the current seat selection process for the new facility.
The stench of upcoming major conference realignment is in the air. The demise of the Big East may be a reality sooner than later.
The University of Louisville, not an obvious fit in the SEC, Big 10, ACC or Big 12, might be an odd school out.
For all the successes and expansion of the last score of years, Cardinal athletics remain in a state of flux today, just as they were in 1990.
At some point, even on vacation in the Land o’ Kickin’ Out The Jams, you sit down in the morning and read the local paper. (Actually I do that wherever I go, but I’m going for the Hemingway dispatches from the war zone oeuvre here, so stick with me.)
In the Crescent City, there’s always lots of local news.
New mayor coming in next Monday. The citizens have high hopes that something might get done of substance in City Hall, unlike the administration of Ray Nagin, which devolved into the usual morass of ineptitude and corruption.
Sunday’s Times-Picayune ran a scathing assessment of his eight years in office. Which included this unbelievable photo of local ministers laying hands on Hizzoner in ‘02:
Is that some kind of Last Supperish imagery or what? Where is Leonardo when we need him to capture the image for posterity in oil for the Louvre?
The folks in this neck of the woods are legitimately concerned about the oil blowout and spill in the Gulf that could ruin the local fishing and seafood harvest industry for decades.
But garnering a top headline on the Metro page was a matter of equal concern if not more. This is a city that takes its food seriously. So you can imagine the panic when reading this headline: “LaPlace fire damages andouille smokehouse.”
The two-alarm fire at Jacob’s World Famous Andouille and Sausage Smokehouse, thank the food Gods, was brought under control in about an hour. More important is the fact that — well, the sub-headline says it all — “Most of sausage moved to safety.”
My new main man is Jonathan at the Alamo Rental Car Rental counter.
I shopped for prices renting MiniVans — I got me a big krewe — and Avis tried harder. Until I got to MSY where there was a long line at only one company’s counter. That’s right, Avis.
So I asked the Film Babe to check at the empty Alamo counter to see what they charged? $350 more than We Use To Try Harder. As we walked away, my man Jonathan saw I had a reservation in hand.
“What daya got there?”
“If you can match this number, it’s your deal.”
Not only that, he beat We Try Harder by $50, saving the Cultcha Maven Krewe four hundred.
Thanks to my new main man Jonathan, I can say without fear of contradiction: On this day in the Crescent City, Alamo Tries Harder.
Plus we got that great ride over to the lot with the ever loquacious Felisha, who regaled us with her tale of driving Art Neville to Cooter Brown’s.
While I’m handing out props, let’s hear it for Continental. No delays. No lost luggage. It’s a good thing.
None of which of course has anything whatsoever to do with JazzFest, but hey these folks deserve a shout out for a job well done.
A quick stop at Frankie & Johnny’s on Arabella uptown, let us sate ourselves just enough — Love those onion rings and oysters — to hold us until our Galatoire’s reservation, which is less than two hours away.
* * * * *
While I’ve only been here a few hours, one thing is immediately apparent about The City Time Forgot.
It is alive and kicking.
Lots more traffic than even last year. Lots more people on the streets. Just more action. Considering what this city was like after Katrina, it is the truest testament to the will of New Orleanians.
The Westin Canal Place is jammed to the gills with folks in for JazzFest, and the unfortunates who are here for a Dermatology convention and seem, for the most part, clueless as to what’s really happenin’ here for the next ten days.
So too the guys riding in the van to rental car lot, who are in town for 12 hours just to go to a Crawfish Boil of a big customer.
“Must be a really good customer,” I opined.
“Yes, yes, yes he is.”
* * * * *
Just checked in with charter Krewe member Bill, who can’t make it down this year.
“Who are your big acts tomorrow?”
Baaba Maal. Dr. John. Chocolate Milk. Steel Pulse. New Orleans Nightcrawlers. Lost Bayou Ramblers.
Maybe a little “Sea Cruise” with Frankie Ford. Some Atomic Doggy with G. Clinton & P-Funk. (Just learned on the flight here that the first appearance of the Mothership at one of their shows was here in New Orleans in ‘76.)
And I’ll have to check out some Mas Mamones.
Surely there will be a pleasant surprise or two. After all, there are fifty acts I didn’t mention.
Which is to say, rain or shine on the morrow, there will be good times rollin’.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
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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.
Now that the trial of you know who concerning her “relationship” with you know who is yesterday’s spam, let’s consider a few other things, shall we?
Dateline New Orleans 04/27/10.
Dateline New Orleans 4/22/10.
In a perfect world, everyone would love their neighbors and their neighborhood.
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.
