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?
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 »
It might look stunning over the fireplace. You could move that new 42″ HDTV currently there into a corner of the room.
Okay, you’re sure.
Don’t care about bidding on one His Excellency’s famous sparkly gloves either?
Okay. I understand. Then I shan’t bore you with any details about the upcoming auction of Michael Jackson and Neverland parapernalia, chotchkes, bric-brac, furniture and haberdashery.
Finally after several years and a retrial, Phil Spector, the ultimate combo of musical genius and maniacal murderer, is in jail. A jury of his peers — if such a gathering is possible for a cockamamie like Spector — found him Guilty of Murder 2d.
Back when he was charged, I wrote a column which is posted here at my site. I thought I’d reprint it here, since the news is timely again. Here ’tis again in its entirety:
It is the evening of the day.
Half the Beatles are gone. Elvis is oil on velvet. The Stones are flummoxed. Deluded by dotage, they think mugging their way through “Sympathy For The Devil” is rock ’n’ roll. Mick is more than a kiss away as an over-the-hill gigolo, “The Man From Elysian Fields.”
And cute little Michael Jackson has been freakin’ in Neverland so long he’s morphed into a new species. His TV interview was a trip to the Shelby County Fair, a front row view of the Bearded Lady with three legs and the feats of legerdemain she performs with a ping pong ball.
Yet another boomer icon has turned left on red. Somebody asked me the other day if I’m surprised that Phil Spector’s been charged with murder? Read the rest of this entry »
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.”
How did I come to honor the curiosity that is the grave marker of one hit wonder Ernie K-Doe (Real name: Ernest Kador)? Listen up.
Those into Oldies but Goodies surely know without much brain racking that he sang “Mother In Law” The Top 40 song with the classic call and response. The lyrics in full:
(Mother in Law) Mother in Law/ (Mother in Law) Mother in Law
The worst person I know/ (Mother-in law, mother-in law)/ (Mother-in law, mother-in law)/ She worries me, so/ If she’d leave us alone/ We would have a happy home/ Sent from down below
Mother in Law/ Mother in Law
Satan should be her name/ To me they’re bout the same/ Every time I open my mouth/ She steps in, tries to put me out/ How could she stoop so low
I come home with my pay/ She asks me what I made/ She thinks her advice is the constitution/ But if she would leave that would be the solution/ And don’t come back no more
Always championing the individual and railing against the imposition of the government, he fell on the side of abortion rights for pregnant women. His wife strongly influenced that decsion. As she did his support for the ill-fated Equal Rights amendment. And he threw in the towel, and Tricky Dick under the bus, on Vietnam.
On most other matter, he was all GOP, all the time.
For about a week. Then I deleted myself. I’m much relieved.
Entering that world was merely a matter of curiosity. One of my friends, a middle ager as myself, joked about how another of our buddies, also a chronological contemporary, was his Facebook Friend. I wanted to see what that meant. Then realized I had to join the network if I wanted to find out. So I did.
And those guys were listed as friends on each other’s page.
Hmm.
I did nothing more. Then I got an email, saying somebody I don’t know wanted to be my Facebook Friend. I ignored it. Then I got another email advising that an old nemesis wanted to be my Facebook Friend. I ignored it.
But, realized: Enough is enough. I cancelled my registration.
So, of course, the Film Babe and I went to a party which good friends’ host annually for the Super Bowl. What, you think we’re not patriotic or something?
Lots of bon homie. Three kinds of chili. The requisite guacamole and chips. Joanie’s to die for Italian Creme Cake with strawberry cream chees icing, and some lesser desserts. Some guys watched the golf tournament on one TV before kickoff. Others talked b-ball. The women mingled mostly among themselves.
It was good friends, good feedbag, good football. And Bruce.
Love him or not, Bruce Springsteen has always been the most seminal of rock & rollers. He’s a traditionalist, his best music emanating from Jersey’s blue collar streets, the folk tradition and Top 40 radio into rollicking anthems.
I’m not hear to critique his 12 minute halftime onslaught. I’ll leave that to critics who find it a necessary task. What I know is everyone at our party gathered. And enjoyed. Hey, how about that crotch shot.
And today I went to youtube.com to see if I could find a fitting version of my pick as rock’s greatest song, the one that embodies the teenage hope, melancholy, lust and verve that are the bases of rock & roll. And I did. Let me share it with you now.
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.
