Of course, I went to see “Nine” in the movie house, though I’d never seen the musical on stage.
And, what an odd choice of material to turn into, or try to turn into Big Broadway.
Italy’s Federico Fellini is one of cinema’s great auteurs of all time. “8 1/2″ is certainly his most famous work. And arguably his best. Though many prefer “La Strada” which proceeded it. And I love “Amarcord.”
“8 1/2″ as the basis for a musical just seems awfully odd to me.
The film is a dense psychological examination of a movie director going through creative and personal crisis. But it can’t be confused with such as Scorcese’s “Shutter Island,” which is so filled with sturm und drang. The brilliance of Fellini is that he presents the miasma that is the director Guido’s (Marcello Mastroianni) life in a palatable and visually stunning manner that is easy to digest.
Here’s the original trailer:
Forgetting the story for a moment, the incredible black and white cinematography and visual imagery are worth the price of rental alone. So a shout out to cinematographer Gianni Di Venanzo. The Film Babe and I watched this last night, and I’m thinking of doing so again . . . with the sound off. Just to allow the visuals to work their magic.
The film mixes reality and fantasy in a way that blurs the demarcations. What is really happening to Guido and what is only in his head is never clear. And really doesn’t matter. It’s simply a wonder to watch unfold.
Here’s another scene of performers at a dinner party. I marvel at the geometry of the screen.
I’m not going to prattle on about this masterpiece. If you are a student of film, you know “8 1/2.” But you might not have seen it in awhile. Do yourself a favor, rent it again.
And, if you don’t know the film, and consider yourself a cineaste, well, it’s time to fill out your resume.
I believe it was 1968 when segregationist/ pragmatist/ power seeker George Wallace held a rally at Freedom Hall. He was the American Independent Party’s candidate for POTUS.
He even toyed with tabbing Kentucky favorite son Happy Chandler to be his running mate. Until Wallace’s handlers pointed out to the Alabamian that Chandler was obviously a Commie, having, among other leftist transgressions, supported nay encouraged the desegregation of baseball by cooperating with the Dodgers when they put Jackie Robinson on the roster. Instead Wallace chose a Dr. Strangelovian military guy, Curtis LeMay.
But I digress. Wallace held a tent style revival political rally at Freedom Hall. The crowd warmed up to the partriotic sounds of Johnny Jones and His Red, White & Blue All American Band.
For a pinko poli sci major like me, just there with a date experiencing America’s political process at work, it was a scary sight. The passion and fervor of the acolytes was stunning. I was convinced that Wallace had a legit shot to become president. Fortunately, my abilities as a political prognosticator weren’t very acute.
Truth is, Wallace moderated his views as he got older, especially after being shot. But he never took to hangin’ with the Kennedys, if you get my drift.
Anyhow, after taking in the latest Tea Party shenanigans of one Sarah Palin, I’m again worried. And, given the times when media can manipulate the masses in a way never before, she’s got a significantly better chance to decorate the Oval Office with a moose head than Wallace ever had of setting a photo of Bear Bryant and him on the Lincoln desk. Lonesome Rhodes lives.
Which is to say, I am seriously scared that daffy Ms. Sarah might just wink and babble her way into the highest office in the land. You’ve got to take seriously any politico aggressive enough to use her Down’s syndrome baby as political prop.
Last week, I mentioned to some friends how I’m no longer as locked into the political process as I once was. It’s a selfish thing, I suppose. I started on Medicare the beginning of the month. I have less days ahead than I’ve experienced in the past. So there’s this pragmatic view I hold. Absent a meteor blasting its way through the atmosphere and landing in Spencer County or a terrorist attack that fells the internet and thus the world’s financial structure, not much is going to happen that is going to affect my life one way or another. Okay, maybe another bout with Big C, or a U of L national title.
But, given the stasis that now pervades Washington, not much there is going to move the meter more than a tick or two in either direction during my lifetime.
Other than if Sarah Palin, or somebody else similarly daffy bobbing in her wake, grabs the reigns of power.
I’m pretty settled here in Louisville. The Film Babe wants to get a place in Florida, and I’m even reluctant to consider that.
But what if our government is taken over by a know nothing Know-It-All like the former mayor of that strip mall known as Wassila, Alaska. I’m thinking someplace far far away with a moderate clime, serious broadband, access to ESPN 360 so I could follow the Card and half way decent pizza. Like, maybe, Sydney. I’ve always loved Aussie Rules footie.
These are strange times indeed. Pretty soon the star maker machinery may just rule the land.
“The Catcher In The Rye” is a resonant novel with staying power, if nothing else.
Of course, there is plenty else. The book has spoken to and for disenchanted youth for decades now, each generation since its initial publication finding voice in the lucid expression of disengagement.
J.D. Salinger went reclusive decades ago. Given his impact, we kept waiting for more. We wait no longer.
His name would come up in conversation now and again. Whether speaking with somebody of my generation, Baby Boomers, or a later one, there would always be a memory.
The more literate would quote. From “Catcher” or “Franny and Zooey.” Or, one of the “Nine Stories.”
More often, those perhaps less conversant in his canon but well aware of Salinger’s importance and impact would simply utter “A Perfect Day For Bananafish.” Whether they had read it, or understood it, or simply knew of it.
Which short story has, besides its wallop, the perfect title, easily remembered.
I read “A Perfect Day For Bananafish” in college. So, when it has been mentioned through the years, I would always nod. Knowingly, of course. Then maybe retort with “Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters,” as if to find some station among the literati.
I reread it this morning. Truth is I had no recollection of what it was about. Though I knew it wasn’t bananafish.
Same thing with “Franny and Zooey.” Which, owing to my lack of perception when in college, never made sense to me. I reread it twenty or so years ago perhaps. Experience allowed me into its world. Though, frankly, all I recall is that it takes place in a train station during a holiday from college. Or, something like that.
And, if that’s wrong, it says more about my memory than J.D. Salinger.
As for “A Perfect Day For Bananafish,” wow. I understand how that might have shaken up the literary world when it appeared in The New Yorker over a half century ago. It is stunning. That Salinger guy sure could write.
I love this sentence, the first in the story’s second paragraph: “She was a girl for who a ringing phone dropped exactly nothing.”
Salinger, as with all great writers, could fashion sentences and phrases to be savored like an exquisite chocolate truffle. Slowly. By itself. Or in context, as if dessert for a fine meal.
Now that he’s gone, the search for the origins of the demons about which Salinger wrote shall accelerate. There shall be more parsing, more conjecture, more . . .
As for me, I intend to read the writing. At a juncture in my life when I might now understand what Salinger is intent to impart. And when I can appreciate the quality of his craft.
A calendar hangs on the wall by the four repair bays at Cecil’s Chevron downtown. Notated prominently — in thick black marker — are the dates and starting times of U of L games. Other matters are in regular ink.
Johnny Cecil is a Cardinal fan.
He has season tickets. He goes to away games when possible. He’s paid tuition for his kids to attend the university.
He is invested.
The morning after Charlie Strong’s introduction as Louisville’s new football coach, Cecil was smiling once again.
“I tried to watch the press conference on my computer here,” he said. “Then I listened on the radio. I watched on TV last night.”
Asked his initial impression, Cecil didn’t mince words.
“It’s a home run.
“I like that he’s seasoned,” he continued. “I like that his recruiting strength is in Florida and areas in the South where Louisville needs to be recruiting. I never understood how we’d get kids from out West to come here.”
Then there’s the topic mentioned in nearly every conversation about Strong’s introduction as U of L’s new football coach, the 10 seconds of immediate Cardinal lore known as The Moment.
At the press conference, Strong was speechless and fought back tears when acknowledging his fears that a head coaching position he’s long craved might never have come.
He was surely remembering the jobs he interviewed for but didn’t get despite his résumé. Like Minnesota, where he was interviewed under the guise of being a candidate for a job already filled.
Strong allowed his emotions to take charge. It was a stunning, deeply human moment.
Johnny Cecil was touched: “I could feel it.”
Football, the most popular sport in America, is also the manliest. Fans want their teams aggressive. They want their teams to play mean, to hit hard, to strike fast. They want their coaches strong and assertive.
How ironic then that the instant that has galvanized a fractured Cardinal football fan base was a tender interlude punctuated by tears of joy. Many have mentioned how Strong displayed more emotion in those dozen silent seconds than his mechanical predecessor did in three years.
The consensus from every corner is that Tom Jurich made a great choice. “Maybe a perfect fit,” says Wildcat, his online name notwithstanding, a major U of L pigskin supporter.
But, as Cecil acknowledged, “A new coach is always a crapshoot.”
Strong has never been a head coach. (Not that such a line on one’s résumé assures success, as Cardinal fans well know. Exhibit A: Ron Cooper. Exhibit B: Steve Kragthorpe.)
But Strong has had stellar mentors. Steve Spurrier, Lou Holtz and Urban Meyer all coached national champions. Seth Hancock has been an icon in the thoroughbred industry for decades.
The fellow knows how to coach ’em up on defense. In one BCS title match-up, Strong’s Gator defenders held Ohio State to 82 yards, bashing the favored Buckeyes 41-14. In last year’s title game, Charlie’s charges held Oklahoma, the most prolific offense ever in college football, to 14 points. This season, Florida was top five in four different defensive categories.
Yes, the statistics are there.
He’s coached umpteen All-Americans, even more high NFL draft picks, national defensive players of the year, big-time award winners, etc., etc.
The leadership and defensive coaching talent are there.
Strong knows the big time. Along with Florida, he’s coached at Notre Dame, South Carolina, Ole Miss and Texas A&M. Roaming sidelines around the New Year has become an annual ritual.
Experience is there.
Yet fame and fortune are fickle. Favorable outcomes are never a foregone conclusion. Strong has been left a woefully bare cupboard. The current U of L squad may be earnest, but it is thin in numbers and lacking sufficient championship talent.
In this Internet age, when the next latest and greatest is but a mouse click away, fans want microwave-fast gratification — yesterday. Adulation such as Strong is now experiencing can be fleeting. Loyalties change as quickly as some pseudonymous blowhard can make up a rumor in a chat room.
Alum and longtime fan Fred Smart observes, “We need organization and inspiration. We need to get the fans unified. And we need players.”
The fans seem united for now, and hopefully beyond next season’s inevitable setbacks.
Organization, staff selection and recruiting are among the many variables to be revealed between now and spring practice. (Early returns are positive. Strong nabbed a four-star quarterback within 24 hours of his hire.)
Former coach Howard Schnellenberger trumpeted a collision course with a national championship. Ron Cooper dazzled when he arrived in town clutching a list of 50 ambitious endeavors he wished to accomplish. John L. Smith charmed with his smirk, swagger and bowl-worthy squads. Bobby Petrino just won, baby.
Steve Kragthorpe, like a vampire, sucked the lifeblood out of the program.
If Charlie Strong repairs Louisville football as well as Johnny Cecil repairs cars, Cardinal fans are in for a grand tour.
Larry Eustachy is now the hoops coach at Southern Mississippi.
A little over a half decade ago, when he was at Iowa State, he was legitimately in the conversation about the next great hoops coach. He was already a member of the Party Boy Hall of Fame. He was hangin’ with Betty Coed. And all her sorority sisters. Always with a drink in hand.
Larry Eustachy lost his job. And found a life.
To salvage his career, Eustachy entered treatment for the deadly disease which with he is afflicted. Alcoholism. Six years later, Eustachy remains sober, and, reading between the lines of his interview with Parrish, is an active daily participant in a 12 Step recovery process.
The purpose of Gary Parrish’s interview was to provide perspective on the Billy Clyde Gillispie situation. Gillispie, recently arrested in rural Kentucky for DUI, has entered John Lucas’s rehab facility in Houston. Eustachy publicly expressed his support and willingness to share his experiences, hoping to give strength and resolve to Gillispie to stay the course.
In the interview, Eustachy correctly parallels the diseases of alcoholism and cancer. He knew it would bring out the scoffers. Which it did. Parrish wrote a follow up column about the comments he received. It’s linked in the first story, or you can get to it here.
I’ve often said reiterated that I don’t comment at this venue on the personal lives of the sports personalities I cover, the men and women who are important to folks here in Kentuckiana. And I certainly gave Gillispie way more than my allotment of shit over his behavior while he was UK coach.
But this is no time for silence.
Of all the diseases from which people suffer, alcoholism and drug addiction might be the most misunderstood. Comments online and on the street about Gillispie’s situation indicate that.
So it is. And so it shall probably remain.
Such a pity.
I now pray for Billy Gillispie as well as for alcoholics and drug addicts who still suffer and patients battling cancer as I have during the course of my recoveries from those equally debilitating diseases.
I don’t in any way mean to condone some of Gillispie’s well chronicled life mistakes while at UK, and elsewhere for that matter. But I do understand that he has the opportunity, if he gets and stays sober, to avoid such gaffes in the future.
I hope he makes it.
And I hope Larry Eustachy’s Southern Miss Golden Eagles make it to the dance. But know that, at least for today, he’ll be okay if they don’t.
Call me old fashioned. Call me a diehard red, white and blue patriot. Call me out of touch. Whatever.
But I know it’s gotta be a good thing when the duly elected President of the United States wants to talk to the nation’s kids about staying in school, and studying and achieving and setting goals and reaching them.
But . . . Nooooooooooooooooooooo!
Seems as if some zealots whose political persuasions are different from his don’t want the President of the United States to talk to their kids or your kids in school. He might, you know, pollute their minds or something. Try to convince them about some issue of the day. You know, brainwash them into thinking universal health care for everybody is a good thing, or some such foolishness.
No matter that Bush the Elder did it when he was President of the United States. No matter than Ronnie Reagan did it when he was President of the United States. No matter that Bush the Younger appealed to the nation’s children to support his war when he was President of the United States.
We don’t want that current guy to do it. You know, the President of the United States of America.
It is the latest sign yet that America is deeply divided politically. And that there’s a lot of misinformation being disseminated and digested in this Age of Overinformation.
And, one guy’s opinion, it is yet another sign that racism is cunning, sly and continues to insinuate itself in the subtlest of ways.
You think there would be such an outcry over the President’s upcoming address to the country’s school kids, if he weren’t, you know, uh . . . different? One wag’s opinion — mine — is that this uproar wouldn’t have happened even for Bill Clinton, who was really loathed by a lot of folks. Because, you know, Bill might be a scumbag and philanderer, but, gosh, he’s . . . one of us.
The school administrators who are bowing to the outrageous demands that some people’s kids shouldn’t be forced to listen to the President of the United States ought to be fired immediately for incompetence.
What in the world have we done to ourselves? We aren’t even willing anymore to listen and hear a diversity of ideas. We aren’t willing to let the duly elected President of the United States give a fatherly pep talk to our kids in school.
I came across Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” the other night on cable. Several things struck me.
The first was that the channel showing it always — I mean always — bleeps out words in the dialog it deems objectionable. Like “fuck” and “nigger” and all the other terms of slang that make the movie so salient, so . . . right. How ironic that the method being used to ridicule hypocrisy is censored by the networks.
What then thunderstruck me was that this film — one guy’s opinion, the funniest of all time — has never been listed here in “Movies I Love.” Geesh. I went through 24 other gems before getting here. My apologies.
And, hearkening back to my first moment of clarity, the sad truth is that this marvelous gem could never be made today. I think I read somewhere that Brooks has even acknowledged that. The movie is so politically incorrect. It is so irreverent. It is so even-handed in its scathing satire.
Its type will never be seen again. As the irrepressible Lily Von Shtupp (Madeline Kahn), the Bavarian Bombshell, the Teutonic Titillow, says “It’s twu, it’s twu.”
It’s at this point that I’d love to share my favorite dialog from the film And I might soon enough. But first, here is a main reason why the film works so well: Casting. It’s an often overlooked craft that can make or break a movie. Assigning the right actors for the right characters is an art. So let’s give props to Nessa Hyams who gets the credit. I’m sure Brooks himself had a major hand in it. Many of the actors are his cronies.
How brilliant is the casting? Take Burton Gilliam for example. He’s a character actor you’ve seen lots of times, plenty of them in westerns. His look is indelible, even if he’s never been a star. Here he plays Lyle, the bad guy sidekick of Taggart, who is rendered by the only actor who could carry the role, Slim Pickens. God bless his bombastic soul.
Madeline Kahn may be the great female comedic actor of film, Lily Von Shtupp her greatest role.
Cleavon Little as the sheriff, Gene Wilder as the gunslinger, Harvey Korman as Hedley Lamar, Dom DeLuise as Buddy Bizarre and Brooks himself in several roles, one an Indian chief who speaks Yiddish (The band on his headdress reads “Kosher for Passover” in Hebrew.) — they’re all brilliant choices for the roles, brilliantly portrayed. It is obvious that these people had fun making this film. The joy is palpable in every scene.
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.
Few American cities have as resonant a sense of itself as Philadelphia. Call it Philly, thank you very much.
The baseball team’s nickname — Phillies — is simply a redux of the city’s name. That’s keeping it homie.
It’s a town that was a major player in the country’s genesis. Liberty Bell, right? Ben Franklin. Even some major conventions early on. Then there’s the David Lynch connection. “Eraserhead” anyone? Not to mention the original “American Bandstand.” and the home of Legionnaire’s Disease. How’s that for some yin and yang?
It’s got the meanest fans in all of sports. Southsiders, hell, allsiders, are inveterate lovers of the town’s teams, but they’re diehards who will turn on their heroes in a nanosecond. A tough town? You betcha. Ask Donavon McNabb. Their favorite hockey teams was nicknamed the Broad Street Bullies. Oh yeah.
You gotta be Chuck Bednarik/ Rocky tough to make it in the City of Brotherly Love. One second you’re a hero, the next, the guys in the bleachers are ready to haul you off to the abattoir.
Philly is famous for cheesesteaks, but the town’s signature dish is a combination of pork scraps and cornmeal and flour and other remnants turned into a mush then fried. It’s name — scrapple — says it all. Scrapple . . . indeed.
Philly’s that kind of town. Marah is the Philly band that’s all Philly all the time.
And “Kids In Philly” is the band’s pledge of love for all they adore in their town, its follies, foibles and faux pas. You can hear and feel the city’s grime and heat, the rhythm of its streets, the personalities of its characters, the nature of its soul.
If what is often lost in rock & roll is a sense of place, Marah found it for this rockin’ statement.
The Bielanko brothers — David and Serge — are Marah, with a fluid continuum of sidemen/women. The songs on the album feature Mummers’ banjos, classic Philly deejays and enough references to the town to serve as a funky travel guide.
The album starts with a siren and banjo strum, then travels the city’s littered boulevards. “The Catfisherman” tells the tale of guys who fish in the tough parts of town. You can feel the heat. “It’s 83 degrees/ And I’m pissin’ in the river.” It features an incredibly evocative instrumental interlude.
But the pièce de résistance is “Round Eye Blues,” one of the most compelling songs in all of rock & roll.
(At this point I advise I wanted to inset a link to the album version of the song. It is stunning and anthemic. My web guru/ legal advisor warned against it. Copyright problems you know. Instead here’s a link to a page with two versions, one a live acoustic video version with some amplifier squawk, and an audio of another live version that’s pretty good. Find it here.)
Here’s a video of a more raucous version of the tune. (Marah is nothing if not a classic bar band. With a little more discipline and little less brewski, they coulda been contendas. Instead, they continue to toil the tavern circuit with various lineups when they oughta be the Stones. They traded fame and fortune for groupies and another helluva night in Steubenville. Which is why, on given nights, they’re as good a rock & roll band as plugs in. On others, they are, simply, sloppy.)
My hope is that tasting menu will spur you to get the album and hear the recorded studio version.
Because the tune’s lyrics ring so hard, pay such endearing homage to rock & roll itself, are as true to the Vietnam experience as you can get on vinyl, and cut to the quick like few others, I’m going to share them in their entirety:
At my piano lesson yesterday, once again I got to fitfully bumble my way through Toussaint McCall’s “Nothing Takes the Place of You,” on a Hammond B-3, shivering at the tremolo and power of that oscillating Leslie.
After which, my teacher Chris Bizianes asked what I want to learn next?
We picked a Sam Cooke tune within my abilities — “Wonderful World.”
Then, with that organ turned off but still resonating within us, he suggested, “Hey, how about ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’?”
The sheet music now sits on my Young Chang upright, waiting for the student to dive in. The student also looks forward to learning this sucker and sitting down again at you know what to play it. (An FYI for you finicky sorts: The organ on the original of this song is a Hammond M-104. Or so sayeth the Wiki Wackies.)
This is another of those tunes — like my last post in this series: Love’s “7 & 7 Is” — where my first listen is indelibly etched within the smoke rings of my mind. (There aren’t but five or six such songs actually, plus an album or two.) I was first thunderstruck by the glorious classical rock pomposity of Procol Harum’s signature song while waiting to pick somebody up at Standiford Field. It was ‘67, so I’m sure it was either of the local AM stations — WAKY or WKLO, most likely the former.
Enough verbalizing for the moment, let’s take a listen:
This is back at the time when rock & roll had to some degree morphed to the more expansive genre of rock.
Gotta flute, Ian Anderson, but wanna rock, boom you’re Jethro Tull. Sitting on a park bench, eying little girls with bad intent. Gotta violin, David LaFlamme, but wanna rock, abracadabra, you’re It’s A Beautiful Day, and have an album out with one of the great rock LP covers. I’m so tired I don’t know if I can make it/ So wasted I don’t know if I can take it.
There you stood, nine feet away from eliminating every ache and pain in my rapidly aging body. You knock that putt in and I’d be able to put on my Brooks Beasts and run pain free, my pulled hammy miraculously healed. I could jump on my Trek and tackle those hills in Cherokee Park without having to click to the lowest gear. At Hogan’s Fountain, I’d still have breath. I’d arise in the morning and not have to stretch first thing before being able to trundle to take care of business in the bathroom.
You wrinkled ol’ linkster, if you had sunk that baby and won the British Open, it would be a whole new ballgame for every one of us old farts losing the smackdown with our dotage. We’d be able to get out of our recliners without having to push up with our arms.
I’d have sat down this morning at my Young Chang upright and both hands would have worked together like their supposed to, chords with the left, melody with the right in harmonious, seamless symmetry. 12/8 time would ring like 12/8 time. “Blueberry Hill” would actually sound like Fats Domino, not “What’s that song he’s playing?”
But no, Tom, bless your heart, you acted your age, our age. You were attacked by the yips and short stroked a chance at immortality.
So it’s Monday Blue Monday just like last week and next and life, as it inexorably does, is once again inching forward to its inevitable conclusion.
If nothing else, Tom Watson, your flirtation with the unthinkable underscored one of the absolutes. Don’t wager with time. Time always wins. The under always prevails.
Ask Lance Armstrong, as defiant an SOB as ever laced ‘em up for competition. On the same day, Tom Watson failed in his attempt to send the Father Time packing, the greatest cyclist ever fell prey to the same delusion on the climb to Verbier, a challenge he would have swallowed whole and spit out with disdain a half decade ago.
You know those lyrics to that song, the one the Stones stole from Irma Thomas?
Time is on my side, Yes it is.
Great song. But wrong.
There is an arc to our physicality. We can cheat it by staying in shape, eating right, finding the balance with the cosmos. But we shall succumb. There is no winning argument against it.
Which isn’t to say we don’t hold our heads up high when we try. Tom Watson did. Lance Armstrong kinda did. (He’s a cranky ol’ boy, that one.)
So can we. I attacked those inclines in the park today. Breathed hard at the top of Golf Course Hill, but breathed nonetheless. Made it all the way in a higher gear too.
I thank Tom Watson for the elixir, the impetus to rejuvenate.
I saw Louisville’s First Lady this morning at the coffee shop. Surprisingly she didn’t look a bit beleaguered. Good for her. Strong woman, she.
My java mates and I conjectured she might want to be worried. Because it seems to us that something must going on with Hizzoner No Longer For Life and those bad boyz, the Cordishes. Got to be. Things are just way too cozy. Somebody’s got photos of somebody in flagrante delicto. Gotta be.
Let me see if my facts are correct?
The 16th Largest Metro Area in the nation, that would be the City of Greater Louisville Metro, or whatever unwieldy name we’ve actually got now, offered/ gave The Cordish Cos. a $1.8 million loan to lure some hot shot restaurant to the first floor of the Starks Building. One supposes in the space where Rodes resided for decades.
But Cordish didn’t do the deal. Nor, it appears, did they pay rent. They were evicted. Cute.
So they asked if they could then use this taxpayer $$$ — that’s right, kids, it’s our dollars they’re playing Monopoly with — to rehab the space that used to be Lucky Strike. May it RIP.
Jerry said “Sure.” Without, it appears, running it by the Metro Council, or whatever the Board of Alderman is called these daze.
Then, when word got out that maybe some of the moolah didn’t go to refurbish the Sports & Social Club, that maybe some of it landed in the expensive handbag of Paris Hilton, people started asking questions. Including other local retailers run out of business by the city-underwritten Cordish project. And — yes, it’s twu, it’s twu — our once great newspaper, the Courier-Journal.
So the city, attempting to prove it has a backbone despite all evidence to the contrary, mustered the courage to do the right thing. Yeah, it’s under some extreme heat here, but let’s not be cynical. They sent a letter to Cordish, asking for an accounting of the $950 large.
To which request, Cordish politely said, “No. That info is propiretary.”
Let me translate that response into simple English for you: “Fuck you. We ain’t tellin’ nothin’, capeche?”
(At this point, I must advise that I’m not reciting the plot to either “The Sopranos” or “The Wire.” The above scenario is public info, reported to be true.)
Can’t tell ya, say the Cordish folks. Ladies and gents, those folks got some cohones.
Yet, yet, yet — stay tuned for more — that’s not even the punchline.
Which is that Hizzoner No Longer For Life, Jerry Abramson — a fellow apparently shorn of his cohones — duly elected leader of our city, said yesterday (Friday) that he is satisfied with the Cordish response, that he is convinced the money was spent appropriately.
Really, Mr. Mayor, how you be knowin’ that?
And, here’s the final guffaw: There is apparently nary a provision in the loan agreement, which allows the city to demand a legal accounting of the funds.
It’s time for some fresh air in city government. And simply opening up the windows ain’t enough to clear out this stink.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
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Of course, I went to see “Nine” in the movie house, though I’d never seen the musical on stage.
I believe it was 1968 when segregationist/ pragmatist/ power seeker George Wallace held a rally at Freedom Hall. He was the American Independent Party’s candidate for POTUS.
“The Catcher In The Rye” is a resonant novel with staying power, if nothing else.
A calendar hangs on the wall by the four repair bays at Cecil’s Chevron downtown. Notated prominently — in thick black marker — are the dates and starting times of U of L games. Other matters are in regular ink.
Larry Eustachy is now the hoops coach at Southern Mississippi.
The President of the United States, that’s who.
I came across Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” the other night on cable. Several things struck me.
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.
Few American cities have as resonant a sense of itself as Philadelphia. Call it Philly, thank you very much.
Revised 7/23 4:30 pm
Damn you, Tom Watson.
I saw Louisville’s First Lady this morning at the coffee shop. Surprisingly she didn’t look a bit beleaguered. Good for her. Strong woman, she.
