I haven’t been talking politics much over here lately. I’m doing a new blog on Tennessee politics and progressive matters with Steffens and Ross called Speak To Power for those of you who asked. We are concentrating on Western Division politics but are also spotlighting new, and older, progressive blogs around the state. Still getting it together but we have had a real good run since we started a couple of weeks ago.
You can also follow us at Facebook and at Twitter if you are inclined.
The Breakfast Club turns 25 years old today. This is the 30th year of Miracle On Ice.
After 44 years on this planet, I look at this and I guess it could give me the blues about getting older but it really doesn’t. The Breakfast Club was probably the last John Hughes film that resonated with me deeply from that era. I’ve realized recently that we live life in chapters. Every protagonist has an antagonist and not every chapter in the book has a happy ending. If we look at the book of life, the ending is always the same.
So we live life like eating a candy bar. You don’t shove an entire Snickers bar into your mouth at once, you take bite-sized chunks off of it, you swallow it and then you take another bite. Sometimes you set it down, waiting until your ready for another bite before you gnaw off another piece. Eventually you finish the damned thing, but you know, it’s each bite that tells the story and gives you the undeniable flavor that makes you want another bite.
Maybe I’m getting used to being older. Sometimes it’s perfectly fine having the gray in my hair, but there are other times that I wonder if I could do it all over again.
The snow was back on the ground. I don’t how people who live farther up north feel about living in a winter wonderland, but as a dyed-in-the-blue Southerner, I’m over it. I remember living in Montreal, and although 20+ years later I tend to romanticize it, I now remember what it was like to live with snow. I don’t believe that I enjoyed it after weeks up there either.
I think I’m going back to Memphis soon, but life right now is not knowing one day from the next. It’s a bit disconcerting at times but it is what it is.
I know one thing I do need. I need a new outfit, a new bouncy haircut and a fruffy drink with an umbrella in it. Sometimes I’m such a girl.
So, as today has been me dropping plates and glasses, spilling an entire Sprite, wistfully thinking of idealism over practicalities and, as of last night, standing at a fire, you know, the ones I used to cover when I was in print and broadcast news with a spring in my step, I’ll get a good night’s sleep and start another day.
They saved a puppy from the flames that went up 20 feet into the air in the house. I find that to be just wonderful, as I stood in the ice watching the firemen battle the flames despite the cold wet, the family apparently standing under umbrellas watching their home go up in flames with the harsh irony that the ice was coming down and could not save their home. Tongue and groove homes tend to go up fast the fire chief told me as we stood watching it burn.
No one could save it, but their dog is alive and they looked grateful.
I made a huge realization from watching this scene unfold.
Despite these gray days with frozen water beating us down, I’m still lucky because I have another day without the hardships that they are facing.
I have to remind myself of these things sometimes.
I don’t have a picture of their puppy, but I do have one of Mabel which is always of the good.
Mary Mancini got my juices flowing today over The West Wing.
This is what I’d like to see. Yeah, it’s a TV show but it’s inspiring nonetheless. I’ve had what the younguns call “a day.” Allow me to get West Wing on.
We are auspiciously off the map when it comes to certain things. Hoots is a state of mind, of course, but it’s also a hidden little treasure if you are looking. Not a lot of people seek us out, and maybe that’s why we are allowed in some ways to do our own thing.
That is the way of all the Hoots in America. We make our own way.
And we have our little inroads to different and exquisite types of music, although we will never get credit for it. We are too far north of Beale Street, too far west of Nashville and only four-lanes tie us to the Interstate. It’s not necessarily easy to get to Hoots, but it’s easy for those of us who seek it to get out. We usually come back though.
We are the land of Gordon Stoker of Jordonaires fame and Dez Dickerson has connections here. His grandfather, as the story goes, worked in the school cafeteria and is still talked about for being a kind man and for his biscuit making ability. When Prince played here two decades ago, limos parked in front of one of the college hang-outs as he, and Dez, walked around a local nightclub called Oz. People who were there, and now are in their mid-40s, talk about the day that Prince came to town in his high heels, checking out the nightlife. Little did they know that his guitarist already had connections here.
The tales we remember may not always be correct, but legends usually are never born without a bit of suspension of disbelief. But these are things that happened and although they might not seem a lot to people not from here, they are part of the legacy.
There is a folk singer that comes through Hoots about twice a year from New York. He found us through another band and he drops his anchor here each year as he heads to the The International Folk Alliance Conference in Memphis each year, which is next week. His name is Richard Thorne. In some ways, I think we tickle and intrigue him because he keeps returning to play his set, heads to Memphis for the conference and to pursue his music. His songs are funny and poignant, as all good folk music has both elements and he does both well. He sings of trains and corporations taking advantage of the needy, and long ago thoughts of a simpler time.
And he wears a smashing hat.
We met him last year and he returned last night to Mabel’s favorite bar. I ran late, waiting to go with Squirrel Queen, who is in the heart of high school tournament time. Two games a night have begun with every night but Sunday and thus she will cover roughly 12 games this upcoming week alone. I tease her about the glamorous world of sports writing and she usually playfully punches me in the arm. We know it’s not.
It was time for second act, which we almost missed due to a sick dog (not Mabel) and the games. Followed by another band that really deserves more attention, and is getting it to a degree, named Old Haul, we listened to original music where the lead singer growls at you with a deep raspy voice that is full of tender outrage. The band, all seven of them, playing what they call Americana which is what it is. Their following is legendary around here and now they will play the Cove in Memphis on the 20th of this month so I believe things are looking good. There is a bigger audience outside of Hoots, which goes without saying. I talked to the bass player and we discussed the club. I told him he’d like it, that it reminded me of bars they play around here so he’d be comfortable. I think he just wants to play, no matter where it is. As I was raised by a musician, I understand this wanderlust.
The bar was packed, with Pabst Blue Ribbon and Budweiser flowing as strong as the Mississippi, and Thorne laughed at the insanely cheap cost of beer with me as we bellied up to the bar. I was late, missing most of his set, I admit, but as I said before, it’s tourney time so he was gracious and understanding. We talked about how in New York, you’d have to take out a bank note for three beers but in Hoots, a tenner will give you a nice buzz to send you on your way. He said he’d never eaten at the Rendezvous, which I recommended, but that he’d gotten to go to Sun and Staxx records on past excursions to the, as Cracker calls it, the Bluff on the Big Muddy.
“How’s the newspaper?” he asked as Old Haul was setting up for their set.
“I’m not there anymore,” I smiled. “My life-long career choice decided it didn’t need me anymore. Hell of a time to be a paid writer.”
“What are you now?” he said, concerned. I appreciated the worried look on his face more than words can say.
“Still working on that,” I laughed although there are times that it throws me into the deep end of the pool because my identity was so tied up in that, even eight months later.
He nodded and I realized that, most likely, folk artists and freelance writers have a hell of a lot more in common than you would think.
We talked more about Memphis. He asked me about Midtown, and that he’d heard of it and wondered if he should go exploring. I told him that Old Haul was playing the Cove and that he might want to go see them before he heads back to NYC. He said he might. I wrote down some of the places I’d learned about that he might like and drew him a map from the Marriot.
“Memphis is one spread out place, isn’t it?” he said looking at the short list that I’d written down on a lavender piece of paper that the bartender gave me and the crude map I’d drawn highlighting how to take Union down to Midtown and spotlighting a couple of place on Madison.
Badger Beth and Richard Thorne showing how Twitter works
As we talked, I took his picture and showed him how to put it up on Twitter. He laughed saying that it was hard enough just keeping up with his Myspace page but I told him he might want to use it for immediacy if he was so inclined. Not everyone is as big of a fan of Twitter as I am, so I tend to be an evangelist about it with people that still don’t get it.
The conversation came to a close during the opening riffs coming from the small stage that could not accommodate all the members of the band, who had spilled out onto the makeshift dance floor. He watched them and his eyes showed appreciation for Old Haul, a band that isn’t playing by the rules. I think he liked that.
Yes, we are off the beaten path. If you navigate through the rocks and winding roads that get you here, sometimes you might find a bit of paradise hidden from view.
As I was in Memphis last week experiencing some culture shock and working on about a dozen projects, I didn’t get to go back to my perky (Shut UP!) recaps of the only show I’ve ever given a commitment to which would be LOST.
I’m a commitmentphobe, I admit it. But LOST, you got me. I will send you a Valentine’s Day card because you are the only thing I’ve ever really cared about on the tube other than Battlestar Galactica and Celebrity Rehab. (And VH1, I have a beef to pick you which I will do later.)
Last week was trippy, but I’m not going to really go into that other than to talk about this weekend’s episode. I love that Locke, and as I think Cathy called him UnLocke, are not the same people, that the smoke monster is an asshole but then again, maybe he’s not and that, as hard as I’ve studied this show, I still have no idea who the Big Bad is and who isn’t.
With that said, other than the last 15 minutes, I thought this episode called “What Kate Does” was weak when it comes to LOST episodes. Jack, who usually vexes me by his sheer stupid to be a spinal surgeon, actually showed some moxey this week with the new weird guy, Dogen, who said that Sayid didn’t pass the test. So what does Jack do, takes the poison himself. Pretty bold.
But here is my issue, why do all the people that claim to be on Jacob’s side always act the most homicidal? I don’t get it.
Thus the reason I don’t have a clue who the Big Bad is.
The obvious things we saw in the Flash Sideways was that Ethan Goodfellow (formerly villainous Ethan Rom) was a … good fellow? He didn’t want to put needles into Claire but he was all about it back in the day of CrapHole Island.
(Side note: Where was Michael and Walt on the plane?)
We saw a little bit of the old Hurley, not being the leader anymore, asking Sayid if he was a zombie.
We witnessed, lo and behold, an infested Claire, or so creepy murderous Dogen tell Jack, who is one of those guys, and you know them in your own life, that believes the truth comes from the last person he talked to.
Sawyer in his grief was sad and I’m glad they did it, but I still don’t get Kate. Never did, never will. He was grieving, Joan Hart/Kate Austin, so what did you expect. Him throwing you down for crazy monkey sex in his destroyed village and home that he once shared with Juliet. Also, I know her father was an abusive asswipe, so why doesn’t anyone believe her. I mean, she did blow him up so there is that. (This part made me stabby.)
I will say that Sawyer’s grief was believable and Josh Holloway has become a better actor during his tenure of LOST.
Jeff Kober and Jeff Fahey always remind me of each other because they are relics of my childhood. Kober’s cameo was all too tame and antiheroish. I like it when he’s a bad ass. Both of these men should really be given more credit than they get.
Claire looked a lot like crazy Rousseau, which sort of made me glad. Christian took her back when I assumed she died during her house exploding, but that funky beast of an island just doesn’t give up now, does it?
I go back to that the Smoke Monster is a sumbitch, as we say here in Hoots proper, and although he is a crazy killing machine, but why are all Jacob’s people crazy killers?
Also, more Locke, Ben, Smoke Monster and Richard Alpert please (who was eluded to in last week’s episode in chains?) I like them the best.
P.S. Creators of Lost, if you are going to make Sayid a zombie, do it up spectacularly.
Give this time, but I swear I can’t quit watching this. It’s got a Bigfoot vibe to it, but the other thing is that my first thought was did a trap get this bear and did it adapt. It takes a bit of time, and you need to see the end to when the bear is with it’s cub.
So very strange. I didn’t think it was real until the end.
I was just talking to Left Wing Cracker offline about how I am not fan of Valentine’s Day and he is a fan of the Anti-Valentine’s Day events which I find to be very groovy. My sis, Homer, and I also decided this morning as we drank coffee looking at the snow in the sun room that we think it’s a bunch of corporate hoo-haa.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a die-in-the-wool romantic. I don’t like Valentine’s Day or the movie Titanic, but I will secretly watch a rom-com when I’m in the mood. My favorite, of course, is Shaun of the Dead.
But, I do like zombies so I guess if I were going to get a Valentine’s Day card, this would be the one I would want from Io9.
I was dorking around on Facebook this morning and saw this photo from one of my uncle’s classmates. I’ve honestly been closer to family members who have moved away due to Facebook then I ever was, so I see that as a huge blessing.
This is my mother. She’s the blonde standing up. I’m assuming this is around 1960
The dresses are cracking me up because mom liked jeans more than anything. Anyway, she was the maternal parental unit.
Miss her everyday.
Thanks Mr. Dunlap. I’d never seen this photo before. Next up, I’m going to get a picture of her band to show you. Just need to find it.
too far north of Beale Street, too far west of Nashville and only four-lanes tie us to the Interstate. It’s not necessarily easy to get to Hoots, but it’s easy for those of us who seek it to get out. We usually come back though.
