Apple Bites Man

The Film Babe and I were married a few weeks back. During the tumult and tension a few days before the ceremony, she asked — the polite verb to use — that I burn a CD of favorite love songs to give to the guests.

As if there wasn’t enough other preparation going on.

(I won’t even mention the fans with our photo on it standing with the Sydney Opera House in the background she conscripted me to make the day before the nuptials. So our guests wouldn’t swelter in the humidity of our backyard.)

So I proceeded to gather love ballads to transfer to my PC, then burn onto a master CD, from which we’d burn enough copies on a stand alone CD copier for each and every attendee.

Which process has led me to a major change. I now reside in the world of Apple. After years of fighting the urge, after months of laughing at the hugely effective advertisements in which Microsoft Vista is dutifully and deservedly skewed, it was only after I couldn’t get my boutique PC to recognize the E Drive to burn the wedding CD that I made the switch.

Movies I Love, Part VII: Woodstock

The other night out to dinner with friends we got to talking about films that changed people’s lives. Obviously the discussion was fostered by the Idea Festival’s summer endeavor, a film festival showing a number of such films submitted by the public. The chosen movies to be culled from suggestions submitted.

One of our dinner gang mentioned “The Harder They Come” and “Gandhi.” He thought both flicks taught him the same lesson about perseverance in the face of oppression. Legit topics which can be discussed at another time. That’s not my purpose here.

Another mentioned “Woodstock.”

The suggestion resonated. Since hearing of the Idea Festival’s challenge I hadn’t really come up with any movie that I could say with any legitimacy changed my life. ( I do remember being fascinated with Red Skelton in “Excuse My Dust,” saw it any number of times. But, hey, I was only six. And I don’t think it changed my life.) But the mention of Michael Wadleigh’s 1970 documentary of the seminal music festival in upstate New York the summer before struck a chord.

Home At Last

My first night in my first house was nearly my last.

Overly exhausted from the stress and excitement of the move — a house and two condos into one — I couldn’t sleep. I got up in the middle of the night and hauled empty packing boxes to the basement.

On my second or third trip, I slipped and fell down the steep flight of steps.

The back of my neck grazed a concrete abutment during the fall.

As I lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, I immediately thought of a friend of Joanie’s who had a similar accident just weeks before. His head crashed against an abutment. He went into a coma, soon to pass away.

I was grateful to be alive. And unscathed.

Has The Apocalypse Arrived At Valhalla?

Is this what the apocalypse looks like? Is Valhalla, Louisville’s premier sports venue for the autumn, finally living up to its name?

I’m compelled to ask after observing the reaction of Louisville upon receiving the news that He Who Would Be The Tiger won’t be coming to the Ryder Cup.

Movies I Love, Part VI: “Galaxy Quest”

I ran into my buddy Will Russell the other day at Heine Brothers.

You gotta love a guy who, along with a pal or two, turned obsession with the Coen brothers’ The Big Lebowski into a reasonably lucrative cottage industry. Annual festivals across the country, paraphernalia, a book for heavens’ sakes. Such Achievers, those boys.

So while we were each waiting for our actual coffee companions to arrive, we shot the shit. I asked if any actors from the film have actually showed up at any of these festivals. Yes, several. And Will explained as how Jeff Bridges, who played The Dude himself,posted at a festival in L A. Brought his band too. “Really nice guy,” advises Will.

Which conversation got me to thinking about these types of gatherings which attract myriads of obsessed aficionados from hither and yon. I guess the biggest cult of these sorts involves Star Trek. But, given that Lebowski Fests are centered on bowling and White Russians, they’re obvious looser and more fun.

JazzFest ‘08 — It’s Too Late To Stop Now

It is the quietest day of the year around here, isn’t it? The first Monday after the first Saturday in May. All the hoopla, juleps, bed races, hair coifs, visit to the milliner’s shoppe, hair appointments, celebrity sightings, last minute alterations to that apparel you must wear to the Derby or Oaks or both, discarded tickets . . . all gone to bed until we arise to Thunder again in ‘09.

Well, it’s about the same in New Orleans. JazzFest, the world’s premier music festival, always ends the day after Derby, and the tired, somewhat empty feeling in the Crescent City is similar to that here in Derbyplace USA. (Okay I know that Ash Wednesday at Mardi Gras epicenter also invokes a major sigh of relief, but work with me here. I’m trying a new segue on my annual New Orleans during JazzFest update and the metaphors aren’t coming through cleanly.)

Matzogate ‘08 — An Unleavened Conspiracy

What I am about to discuss regards a conspiracy, I am so sure, of the highest order. Egypt, ironically, isn’t the only place where the citizenry is inclined to riot over the lack of bread. That what I’m about to discuss deals with the unleavened variety makes it that much more important.

Read on.

My sweetie — you know her as The Film Babe — doesn’t panic in emergency situations. She is stalwart. So when, in a palpable tizzy, she called while out running errands last Saturday afternoon, it was obvious there was an exigency of consequence at hand.

There were but a few hours left before sundown, when Passover commenced. She was gathering the last necessary items for the Seder. Normally unflappable, she was beside herself.

“There’s no matzo to be had in this town.”

The Best Film You’ve Never Seen

I thought I read the words of my title — The Best Film You’ve Never Seen — in a review somewhere of Romance & Cigarettes.

But, after watching this incredible and incredibly unique masterpiece on DVD which the Film Babe got from NetFlix, I went back and read the reviews where I thought I’d viewed the line. Ebert perhaps. Stephen Holden in the New York Times. Salon maybe.

But no. They weren’t there. Though those salient film observers all agreed with each other. And me. That this film never got a serious studio release, that you’ve probably never heard of it, is a major travesty.

Vanilla Fudge - A Welcome Blast From The Past

The song blasted from the box in my car like a welcome punch to the solar plexus. God bless those New Albany High School deejays for continually foisting such chestnuts on us. A gem a day keeps the doc away. I couldn’t stop smiling during the entire seven-and-a-half minutes.

At the bombastic faux seriosity.

At the simplistic yet soaring riffs from the Hammond B-3. It’s rock’s greatest instrument, you know?

At the sitaresque guitar licks, Bronx Italoharmonies and Carmine Appice’s thunderdrumming.

At the stolen moments from The Supremes, Berry Gordy’s signature Motown girl group.

At the band’s telling yet effective moniker, Vanilla Fudge.

“You Keep Me Hanging On.” Indeed.

Be Wise, Cards Fans. Be Insured.

It’s season ticket insurance time for Cardinal fans.

The U of L is resurgent. Be wise. Be insured. Pay the premium now.

This perhaps confusing concept has been a running stream of consciousness for a cadre of inveterate Cards fans for decades now. It started when the program became a national player, when the school kicked it up a notch during the invigorating uptick of the 1970s.

Super Bowl Is A Chip Shot Away

We will gather. Yes, of course, we will.

It is our annual rite. Our right inalienable.

We will eat chips. Tons of chips. Corn. Potato. And dips. Guacamole, lots of guacamole. So much that one of us, the guy in the corner with green dribbles down his sweater, will mention how there’s more avocados sold this weekend than the rest of the year combined. Or something like that.

“The L Word” — Lame or Loser or Both?

It is easy to understand the popularity of “The L Word.” Theoretically, of course.

A healthy segment of the American populace adores looking at attractive women without their clothes on, watching them making love, making sex, making eyes at their girlfriends’ girlfriends and generally carrying on as people love their soap opera stars to do.