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.

The Game - It’s The Only Place To Be

My future brother-in-law sidled up to me Christmas Eve at the family gathering. Surrounded by the detritus of wrapping paper, he looked me in the eye and accused me — good-naturedly, I think — of, well, his words: “You’re brainwashing my daughter.”

The Yearbook Photo That Still Haunts

For a moment let’s simply suppose we’ve never seen the photo before. For this exercise’s sake, let’s forget what we’ve read about Robbie Hawkins.

Erase from memory how he walked into an Omaha mall the week before last. How he took the escalator to the third floor of the tony department store Von Maur filled with holiday shoppers being serenaded by the store’s signature live pianist. How he then pulled out an AK47 and started spraying bullets around the room. How he killed eight very innocent people and then aimed the rifle’s nozzle at himself, ending the carnage and his own misery.

Mao, Dulles, Gorbachev and Louis Vuitton

The image doesn’t seem unusual at first.

A well-dressed elderly man is riding in the back of a limo. On the seat next to him is a Louis Vuitton bag, containing a newspaper and important papers. Obviously the photo is an advertisement. “Use my bags,” Louis Vuitton hints, “be a man of intellect, importance, wealth and taste.”

Upon closer inspection, one sees a birthmark in the shape of Italy on the man’s forehead. It’s a light bulb moment. The politically observant are prone to rhetorically ask, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

The Picasso Of Pizza Returns

I offer this laudation without trepidation. The gospel must be spread. Say hallelujah. Can I get a witness?

Several years back, a colleague asked what I thought was Louisville’s finest restaurant? Also, where was my favorite place to eat in town?

In total seriousness, the answer to both was the same. It was a quick response. Impellizzeri’s Pizza on Bardstown Road.

Whither New Orleans? — Update ‘07

New Orleans needs help.

There’s a small Starbucks in Canal Place, a tony shopping mall at the edge of the French Quarter. Last year during April’s JazzFest, the first after Katrina hit, the coffee shop had not reopened. Now it has.

Over the counter, hovering above a sizeable early morning line of turista in need of caffeine, is a sign that reads: “Now Hiring!!! Baristas. Flexible Hours. AM & PM. 401K. Stock Options. Health Insurance. Tuition Reimburse.”

2, 4, 6, 8 — Let’s Eviscerate!

The Mama Shrew of American punditry is back at it. Long, lean, looker Ann Coulter never met a slur she wouldn’t clutch to her breasts for flashing in her next public pontification. It’s presidential election time so the willowy, blonde, right wing hatemonger will be more than out and about. Unless, of course, she stews in her own bile. We can only wish.

The Magic Mojo Follows

Indulgence is what the doctor orders for those on the cusp of dotage.

(If you’re lucky you’ll get here too someday, so stay tuned.)

A Moment’s Pause

Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that foghorn blows I’ll be coming home
—Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic”

It is the most humbling of engagements.

It is inevitable that the grim reaper comes to call. For those whose hand he is then shaking. For those who are near and dear and will feel the loss.

Last year has turned to this one in somber fashion.

Twas A Year For The Shrink’s Couch

The Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Six is best described thusly: Cockamamie.

Yellow Dog Dems With Big Blue Dreams

The guy with the beard and the western Kentucky accent wore his Sunday best blazer.

The lapel button read “I’m a Yellow Dog Democrat.”

Asked the derivation of the term, he replied, “My daddy told me long ago. Our family would vote for a yellow dog if he’s a Democrat.”

Do We Miss Norman Rockwell?

This has evolved into an ode to Norman Rockwell. Or, at least, to an America that Rockwell famously depicted last century.

If you are of tender age and haven’t heard of the artist, that too is symptomatic of the story.

How this evolution came about is a testament to the human mind and its mysterious machinations. The process was, as Peter Falk admonished Alan Arkin in “The In Laws,” “serpentine, Shel, serpentine.”