|
|
|
| ALL OVER THE MAP - Archived Rob Grace Dec. 3, 2003 If the Metrosexual column wasn't bad enough, then sit back and enjoy as I yet again reveal another horrifying secret about me. Are you ready? Can I embarrass myself even more? OK – here goes: In 1984, I actually paid money to see Michael Jackson. Yes – Michael Jackson -- in concert with Tito, Jermaine and the rest of the brothers Jackson. I even bought a Jacksons t-shirt. One for me, and one for a girl I was dating at the time (high school). I bought a Jacksons t-shirt, actually thinking: Wow, this is cool, and my girlfriend is going to think I'm cool because I bought her a Jacksons t-shirt, as well! A Jacksons t-shirt! Before I go any further, let me clarify one detail: my parents actually paid money for this stuff. But of course, I eagerly went along to Dallas for the show. Michael Jackson in person! Whoo-hoo!! Now, let's keep in mind that in 1984 Michael Jackson actually released an album that everyone and their grandmother bought, Thriller. Eddie Van Halen had contributed a guitar solo to the thing. And Mick Jagger, one of my rock and roll heroes, even performed a duet with Michael on a then-new Jacksons song called "State of Shock." So back then, in my very impressionable days, Michael Jackson carried a slight bit of semi-coolness. But this was pre-Webster. Pre-Bubbles. Pre-Where the hell is this man's nose? Pre-Is it me, or is Michael starting to look strangely like Joan Crawford? Pre-Don't drop the baby! Pre-Am I drunk or did he just say he likes to have boys spend the night in his bed with him? Pre-Breakdown in the Nevada skies. Pre-See, he does look like Joan Crawford – just look at this mugshot! So, please, give me a break. Mr. Jackson was yet to be the plastic freakguy who liked to dress up like Mega Safety Patrol Man and hold slumber parties with pre-pubescent boys. And yet, I once paid money to see this guy. And, yes, I tell you this in shame and horror and embarrassment. In our youth, we do stupid things, and this was one of them. So, thank you for allowing me to get this off my chest. (Of course, we also do stupid things in adulthood. Like steal from your daughter's lemonade stand revenue. Or take the new puppy that's tearing up all your stuff and release him in a soybean field 94 miles from home, and then blame the puppy's mysterious absence on a broken leash. But, those are other columns.) * * * By now, you've likely heard that the latest celebrity run-in with the law involved Arkansas's Glen Campbell. After an alleged hit and run fender bender in Phoenix, where Campbell lives, police took a belligerent Campbell into custody. Charges include hit and run, and extreme drunken driving. Campbell is an admitted alcoholic who had been on the wagon for a long time. As Campbell's son told reporters at the time of the arrest, addiction is a horrible thing. We're all human, and the demons can come knocking anytime. But, think about this: Campbell's Phoenix neighbor is the longtime shock rocker Alice Cooper, and Glen and Alice are buds. It's well known that the two frequently golf together, and each attend the same Sunday school. (Which is harder to believe? That Alice Cooper is a Christian and regularly attends Sunday school? That Glen Campbell and Alice Cooper are buddies? Or, that Alice Cooper golfs? All three are true.) So, theoretically, Alice Cooper could stage an intervention for Glen Campbell. Which, on the face of it, is comparable to something like Courtney Love helping Kathie Lee Gifford kick OxyCotin? Oh, I'm reaching here. And I'm not trying to making light of Mr. Campbell's (or Ms. Love's) problems. Human frailty is nothing to joke about. But in 1983, or thereabouts, it would have been ludicrous to think that in twenty years time, Alice Cooper would be on the straight and narrow while a 67-year-old Glen Campbell would be busted and thrown in jail. Of course, in 1983, if you would have told me that in twenty years time Michael Jackson would be the spitting image of a thin, noseless Liz Taylor, I would have thought you insane. * * * I hate movies in which a couple kisses passionately at the end in some public place, and all the folks surrounding them stand up and cheer in delight. (Example: the end of An Officer and a Gentleman.) I also hate movies where one of the characters dances and lip-syncs to some old `70s or `80s song for our amusement. (Examples: The First Wives Club, Stepmom, The Big Chill.) In the new British comedy, Love Actually, both of these clich�s pop up. In fact, the kissing and cheering scene occurs not once, but three different times. Yet, why in the world did I enjoy this movie? It's a sugary, syrupy concoction, but the film overflows with charm, comedy, surprising amounts of gentle drama, and wonderful acting from an ensemble cast featuring Liam Neeson, Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, Alan Rickman, Laura Linney, Rowan Atkinson, and in a funny cameo, Billy Bob Thornton. Looking at a number of different relationships in present-day London, Love Actually is not a flawless movie. It does feature some tired clich�s such as the ones listed above, and some of the plots could have been jettisoned. (One plot thread featuring a couple whose courtship is followed through their various jobs as nude body doubles for the movies is semi-funny, yet the film would have been fine without it.) But Love Actually is a sweet little flick. It will likely miss Batesville, but seek it out in Little Rock or Jonesboro. It's nothing earth-shattering, but for a pleasant time at the movies, this is one to recommend. * * * Now, here's a love story that will be selling out cinemas upon its release. The New York Post reported last week that Ang Lee, the director behind Hulk and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, is all set to begin production on a gay romantic western entitled Brokeback Mountain. According to the Post, the film is based on a story by Pulitzer Prize-winning author E. Annie Proulx, and follows a ranch hand and a rodeo cowboy who unexpectedly fall in love on the plains of Wyoming and Texas. Which goes to show you how Hollywood thinks: a gay romance + the western genre = box office gold! Or, for the financiers of this movie: a gay romance + the western genre = tax write-off! * * * Finally, one of the best westerns ever made recently arrived on DVD. A new restored version of Once Upon a Time in the West, a brilliant, bleak and visually amazing epic from the great Italian director Sergio Leone, is now available in a two-disc set with loads of extras, documentaries and a pristine video transfer. Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson, Jason Robards, Claudia Cardinale, Jack Elam, Woody Strode, and Keenan Wynn all star in this 1968 tale of murder and revenge in the Old West. Fonda is the revelation here, playing extremely against type as an evil assassin who has no qualms in killing an entire family. But the star of this classic is Leone. Long known as the man behind Clint Eastwood's spaghetti-western trilogy – A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More and The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Leone infuses this tale with a visual majesty at which his earlier three westerns only hinted. This would make a wonderful Christmas gift for the western buff in the family, and if you've never seen the movie, this is the version to get. Unless, of course, you get a chance to view it on a big screen. Nov. 5, 2003 Our kids went to the dentist this past week. No cavities – the tiny pearly whites were looking good, the doc said. Of course, the excellent condition of their teeth could be due, in part, to such passionate dental-care statements like the following that took place the other night at bedtime: At the sink, our 5-year-old little boy informed me and wondered at the same time: "Where's my Kid's Crest? It has 'cavity protection!'" A little later, our 8-year-old daughter – who had not heard her brother's statement – told me, without prompting: "You know Dad, I like Crest. It has 'whitening power.'" And then, last night, this conversation between the two occurred in our son's bedroom: Our daughter, irritated and impatient as she opened the door from the bathroom, holding a tube of Barbie Colgate: "Where is the Kid's Crest?" Being a big sis, she always assumes that her little bro has a hand in any little thing that bothers her. A little later, our 8-year-old daughter – who had not heard her brother's statement – told me, without prompting: "You know Dad, I like Crest. It has 'whitening power.'" And then, last night, this conversation between the two occurred in our son's bedroom: Our daughter, irritated and impatient as she opened the door from the bathroom, holding a tube of Barbie Colgate: "Where is the Kid's Crest?" Being a big sis, she always assumes that her little bro has a hand in any little thing that bothers her. Our son, very enthusiastically and helpfully, told him: "Use the Barbie Colgate. It has 'cavity protection' too!" His sister theatrically sighed and held up the Colgate. "Uh – no, it doesn't! This is Barbie Bubble Gum flavor! Bubble Gum. Hello?" * * * Switching gears, last week's front page editorial in which Arkansas Weekly endorsed passage of the half-cent sales tax prompted this e-mail complaint: "I just would like to say that I thought this article very offensive and in bad taste. I resent being called silly and childish simply because I do not hap>Our son, very enthusiastically and helpfully, told him: "Use the Barbie Colgate. It has 'cavity protection' too!" His sister theatrically sighed and held up the Colgate. "Uh – no, it doesn't! This is Barbie Bubble Gum flavor! Bubble Gum. Hello?" * * * Switching gears, last week's front page editorial in which Arkansas Weekly endorsed passage of the half-cent sales tax prompted this e-mail complaint: "I just would like to say that I thought this article very offensive and in bad taste. I resent being called silly and childish simply because I do not happen to agree with you on this issue. I am not silly or childish because I choose how to spend my money. I do not choose to spend on more unnecessary taxes nor do I believe more taxes is the answer to the problem. I could say some things about people who write articles such as this but I choose not to do that. But you know who you are and how I, and many others, feel about this tax. If not, you probably will after Nov. 11." First, I co-wrote the front page editorial last week, and I was the one who included the phrase "silly and childish" in the following sentence: "Progress will not happen if this community continues tappen to agree with you on this issue. I am not silly or childish because I choose how to spend my money. I do not choose to spend on more unnecessary taxes nor do I believe more taxes is the answer to the problem. I could say some things about people who write articles such as this but I choose not to do that. But you know who you are and how I, and many others, feel about this tax. If not, you probably will after Nov. 11." First, I co-wrote the front page editorial last week, and I was the one who included the phrase "silly and childish" in the following sentence: "Progress will not happen if this community continues to be stuck in silly and childish divisions." By this, I certainly did not mean to imply that only the anti-tax side was "silly and childish." Some individuals on both sides of, not only this issue, but other polarizing issues that have taken hold in Independence County over the past decade or two have said and done things one could take to be silly and childish. Any kind of issue that deals with change will always bring out some questionable comments or actions from those on each side of the particular issue. My intention was to say that we all, as a community and county, have to move past such divisions and attitudes if weto be stuck in silly and childish divisions." By this, I certainly did not mean to imply that only the anti-tax side was "silly and childish." Some individuals on both sides of, not only this issue, but other polarizing issues that have taken hold in Independence County over the past decade or two have said and done things one could take to be silly and childish. Any kind of issue that deals with change will always bring out some questionable comments or actions from those on each side of the particular issue. My intention was to say that we all, as a community and county, have to move past such divisions and attitudes if we are to keep this area thriving and vital for the next generations. I'm thankful for all of those individuals – pro and con – who have eloquently and reasonably presented their side. Forgive the clich�, but that's what this country is all about: the freedom and right to disagree, and to, ultimately, let the people decide. Whether the sales tax passes or fails on Nov. 11, this issue has been a wonderful example of democracy. And both the Citizens for Tax Control and the Citizens for Progress should be proud of the work their respective groups accomplished in this privileged process freedom provides. I'm thankful for all of those individuals – pro and con – who have eloquently
and reasonably presented their side. Forgive the clich�, but that's what this country is
all about: the freedom and right to disagree, and to, ultimately, let the people decide. Whether the sales tax passes or fails on Nov. 11, this issue has been a wonderful
example of democracy. And both the Citizens for Tax Control and the Citizens for Progress
should be proud of the work their respective groups accomplished in this privileged
process freedom provides. Oct. 29, 2003 There is a tendency, I think, by some to believe that if you happen to be for
the proposed half-cent sales tax in Independence County then you are either a) one of a
lucky few likely to financially gain in some sense by the extra levy, or b) overly
confident that the sales tax will magically bring industry and jobs to the area overnight. Here's where I stand, and please, read this with an open, blinders-off mind: I'm
whole-heartedly, enthusiastically, rabidly for the sales tax, but a) I don't, for a
moment, believe that only a lucky few will benefit from this proposal, and b) I know that
progress will not hang>Oct. 29, 2003 There is a tendency, I think, by some to believe that if you happen to be for
the proposed half-cent sales tax in Independence County then you are either a) one of a
lucky few likely to financially gain in some sense by the extra levy, or b) overly
confident that the sales tax will magically bring industry and jobs to the area overnight. Here's where I stand, and please, read this with an open, blinders-off mind: I'm
whole-heartedly, enthusiastically, rabidly for the sales tax, but a) I don't, for a
moment, believe that only a lucky few will benefit from this proposal, and b) I know that
progress will not happen overnight and will not happen with as little effort as possible. For one, if the sales tax is passed, there isn't some mysterious cabal of big-wig
county residents waiting to sell land for another industrial park or industry location.
The Independence County Quorum Court will be in charge of doling out all of the tax
proceeds – not some group of citizens with inside interests. For example, tax
proponents are recommending some type of bidding process be enacted if land for another
industrial park or large industry is needed. Thus, the lowest and fairest
offer wins. Of course, it is hoped that every citizen in the county will gain from the sales
tax proceeds. More jobs means more wages means more money flowing throughout the area. And
a better, state of the art infrastructure will help support new and existing industry and
businesses, as well as current and new citizens that such businesses will likely bring. The money will be allocated, not by the Batesville Area Chamber of Commerce and not by
that mysterious big-wig cabal I keep hearing about – it will be allocated through the
elected representatives of the Independence County Quorum Court. Of course, the Chamber
can go before the Court and request specific funds for economic development, but the use
in the county will gain from the sales
tax proceeds. More jobs means more wages means more money flowing throughout the area. And
a better, state of the art infrastructure will help support new and existing industry and
businesses, as well as current and new citizens that such businesses will likely bring. The money will be allocated, not by the Batesville Area Chamber of Commerce and not by
that mysterious big-wig cabal I keep hearing about – it will be allocated through the
elected representatives of the Independence County Quorum Court. Of course, the Chamber
can go before the Court and request specific funds for economic development, but the use
of such funds will come with a stipulation that they be utilized for economic development
in a responsible and justifiable manner. Area fire departments and other county and city
offices will also request funds in the same manner. In fact, the majority of the sales tax
– 75 percent – is to be utilized for such local agencies. So, there is no hidden agenda by anyone on the Citizens for Progress committee or any
other supporters. When the sales tax goes into effect, 450 (a wild card number I simply picked out of
thin air) new jobs from a variety of industry will not appear in a few months time. This
is a long-term effort. The tax has a 1 of such funds will come with a stipulation that they be utilized for economic development
in a responsible and justifiable manner. Area fire departments and other county and city
offices will also request funds in the same manner. In fact, the majority of the sales tax
– 75 percent – is to be utilized for such local agencies. So, there is no hidden agenda by anyone on the Citizens for Progress committee or any
other supporters. When the sales tax goes into effect, 450 (a wild card number I simply picked out of
thin air) new jobs from a variety of industry will not appear in a few months time. This
is a long-term effort. The tax has a 10-year lifespan – a sunset clause with a
specific end date. And, if this wonderful community of people can work together and end
some petty bickering among a few, then this area has such potential for being an even
better place for all of us, and much more importantly, our future generations. Early voting is open, and by the time you read this, I will have already marked my
ballot "Yes." This is too important a vote to miss. * * * The Top Five 1. Comic Bliss. In high school and college, my day was ruined if I didn't start
out with Bloom County and The Far Side – the two best comic strips ever
put to print. Sadly, both panels ended too soon, and they were gone forever. Yet come November, Bloom
County will be resurrected by its whacked-out creator, Berkeley Breathed, in a
Sunday-only strip entitled Opus (the name of the chubby, sad-eyed penguin who was
always in the center of Bloom County misadventures). There's no word yet if the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette will carry this strip, but
no matter, I will track down a Sunday paper that does, and start my weeks off on the right
foot. As for the return of The Far Side, well – no such luck. The Far Side – the two best comic strips ever
put to print. Sadly, both panels ended too soon, and they were gone forever. Yet come November, Bloom
County will be resurrected by its whacked-out creator, Berkeley Breathed, in a
Sunday-only strip entitled Opus (the name of the chubby, sad-eyed penguin who was
always in the center of Bloom County misadventures). There's no word yet if the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette will carry this strip, but
no matter, I will track down a Sunday paper that does, and start my weeks off on the right
foot. As for the return of The Far Side, well – no such luck. Creator Gary Larson
is as elusive as ever. However, in stores now, is a 2-volume set of every Far Side
cartoon to be nationally syndicated during its life-span. Every. Single. One. It's called, naturally, The Complete Far Side. It'll set one back $130, and
lifting the damn thing might cause herniated disks in some poor souls. But, this sucker is
at the top of my Christmas list. It would be a fine addition to any household, don't you think? 2. iTunes for Windows. Apple Computer's highly popular music download site is
now open for the millions of Windows users, and it was worth the wait. While I still enjoy
Rhapsody's download store, iTunes seems to have a better variety of exclusives – rare
cuts by the Stones, R.E.M., U2 – plus it also featured the brand new CD by The
Strokes two weeks before it hit stores. And fans of audiobooks will be in heaven with
iTunes – thousands of recent bestsellers are available, as well as classic lit. But be careful – the site is addictive, and before you know it, 30 or 40 of your
bucks are gone. 3. Mr. Dexter Returns. My favorite author has emerged from a long absence. Pete
Dexter's first novel in almost a decade, Train, is in stores and receiving raves.
And he also has a s enjoy
Rhapsody's download store, iTunes seems to have a better variety of exclusives – rare
cuts by the Stones, R.E.M., U2 – plus it also featured the brand new CD by The
Strokes two weeks before it hit stores. And fans of audiobooks will be in heaven with
iTunes – thousands of recent bestsellers are available, as well as classic lit. But be careful – the site is addictive, and before you know it, 30 or 40 of your
bucks are gone. 3. Mr. Dexter Returns. My favorite author has emerged from a long absence. Pete
Dexter's first novel in almost a decade, Train, is in stores and receiving raves.
And he also has a short story in the latest issue of Playboy (see some men do read
it for the articles). I have both the novel and the short story on my bedside table, ready
for my attention. (First, though, I have to finish Green Eggs and Ham – I
never got around to that fine piece of literature.) If you have never had the opportunity to read Pete Dexter, I recommend his novels
without hesitation. 4. Speaking of … And speaking of Playboy, there's word that Meredeth
Vieira of ABC-TV's The View will appear naked in the February issue. Interesting.
I've always thought she was gorgeous. What's puzzling, though, is a middle aged news
personality appearing in a magazine devoted to bleached blond plastic 19-year-olds. The
magazine must be going for a more mature demographic. What's next? Wolf Blitzer in Playgirl. 5. The Dylan Remasters. If you're a fan of Bob Dylan, throw away his CDs. Chunk
'em. Use 'em for coasters, Frisbees, whatever. Always audibly lifeless, his library has
been in dire need of renovation. Finally, Columbia Records has re-released a good chunk of his albums on compact disc,
and the results are astonishing. I've never heard a sonic upgrade like these. Slipping in
the new version of Highway 61 Revisited in my vehicle CD player,e aged news
personality appearing in a magazine devoted to bleached blond plastic 19-year-olds. The
magazine must be going for a more mature demographic. What's next? Wolf Blitzer in Playgirl. 5. The Dylan Remasters. If you're a fan of Bob Dylan, throw away his CDs. Chunk
'em. Use 'em for coasters, Frisbees, whatever. Always audibly lifeless, his library has
been in dire need of renovation. Finally, Columbia Records has re-released a good chunk of his albums on compact disc,
and the results are astonishing. I've never heard a sonic upgrade like these. Slipping in
the new version of Highway 61 Revisited in my vehicle CD player, "Like a
Rolling Stone" kicked in, and I immediately thought, I have never heard this classic
so crisp and, more importantly, so full. I also picked up Blonde on Blonde,
Bringing It All Back Home, Blood on the Tracks and his first foray into Gospel, Slow
Train Coming. All sound unbelievable. Not every Dylan album is ready. More are on the way next year, so be on the lookout. In
the meantime, rediscover these gems from America's scruffy and mysterious poet.. Oct. 15, 2003 Now and then, during a meeting, or when my wife is showing me "cute" items in
a catalog, my eyes glaze over, my bottom jaw hangs slack and a bit of drool puddles up in
the corner of my mouth. Of course, that usually means I'm daydreaming When, in those rare instances I am daydreaming, I might be thinking about what I would
be like if I were president of these United States of America. And let's just say, my
tenure would be a lively and talked-about presidency. Look, for example, at things that
might be said by my team or me if I were elected. "Mr. President, Vice President Springsteen is on line two." * * * "I said I wanted my bacon draped below my two over- a catalog, my eyes glaze over, my bottom jaw hangs slack and a bit of drool puddles up in
the corner of my mouth. Of course, that usually means I'm daydreaming When, in those rare instances I am daydreaming, I might be thinking about what I would
be like if I were president of these United States of America. And let's just say, my
tenure would be a lively and talked-about presidency. Look, for example, at things that
might be said by my team or me if I were elected. "Mr. President, Vice President Springsteen is on line two." * * * "I said I wanted my bacon draped below my two over-easy eggs like
a smiley face! I'm the leader of the free world, darn it, and I need a smiley face to
inspire me each morning!" * * * "Prime Minister Blair, have you met my personal assistants, the
Olsen twins?" * * * "It's with great pleasure that I sign this bill. Banning American
Idol finalist Clay Aiken from ever appearing in public again will save the country
from unwanted misery, and, I hope, will convince grown men that they should never use flat
irons." * * * "Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, Prime Minister
Koizumi, thank you so much for attending my first state dinner. I hope you enjoyed the
chili dogs. Now, for tonight's entertainment, everyone, let's give it up for George
Clinton and FUNKADELIC!!!!" * * * "It's with great pleasure I announce that Mr. Hefner has
graciously allowed the Playboy Mansion to be renamed The Western White House during my
term. Hugh's decision will not only save taxpayers millions of dollars in hotel expenses
during my vacations, but also lots of money spent on suntan oil. Now, where's the hot
tub?!?&qu">"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, Prime Minister
Koizumi, thank you so much for attending my first state dinner. I hope you enjoyed the
chili dogs. Now, for tonight's entertainment, everyone, let's give it up for George
Clinton and FUNKADELIC!!!!" * * * "It's with great pleasure I announce that Mr. Hefner has
graciously allowed the Playboy Mansion to be renamed The Western White House during my
term. Hugh's decision will not only save taxpayers millions of dollars in hotel expenses
during my vacations, but also lots of money spent on suntan oil. Now, where's the hot
tub?!?" * * * "Mr. President, Secretary of State Bono is on line four." * * * "Mr. President, as head of the Secret Service, I must say that
a low-rider 1974 Cadillac El Dorado that formerly belonged to a Detroit pimp is not the
safest presidential vehicle." "Oh, all right. But can we at least put the pink shag seat covering in the back
seat of my limo?" * * * "It's with great pleasure that I sign this executive order to
deport John Stamos to an uninhabited island somewhere in the Pacific. Like many Americans,
I too have always hated those annoying long distance phone ads he does. Oh, and by the
way, have I introduced my new executive personal assistant, superstar actress and model,
Rebecca Romijn-Stamos?" * * * "Thank you for visiting, Your Highness. I've always been
impressed with England's royal family. Oh, by the way, would you like a Bud or Bud Light
to go with your Corn Nuts?" * * * "Honey, I know you've never been happy with this Western White
House thing, but I swear, Ms. Andersosland somewhere in the Pacific. Like many Americans,
I too have always hated those annoying long distance phone ads he does. Oh, and by the
way, have I introduced my new executive personal assistant, superstar actress and model,
Rebecca Romijn-Stamos?" * * * "Thank you for visiting, Your Highness. I've always been
impressed with England's royal family. Oh, by the way, would you like a Bud or Bud Light
to go with your Corn Nuts?" * * * "Honey, I know you've never been happy with this Western White
House thing, but I swear, Ms. Anderson's bikini top accidentally snapped off right when
you walked in!" * * * "It's with great regret that I announce the firing of the Olsen
twins as my personal assistants. There was just one catfight too many between Mary-Kate,
Ashley and Ms. Romijn. However, I would like to announce that you can now order by mail a
new video I've produced entitled Celebrity Catfights, featuring newly discovered
footage of the Olsen twins and Ms. Romijn captured by hidden cameras placed throughout the
White House and the Western White House. It's only $19.95, but if you order now, I'll
throw in two packs of Cool Ranch Corn Nuts, autographed by me, the president of the United
States." * * * "Mr. President, I really don't think Willie Nelson would be an
appropriate choice for drug czar." * * * "Honey, I know you've never been happy with this Western White
House thing, but I swear it was Putin you saw in the sauna with Miss August, not me. I'm
telling you, Putin can't keep his hands off these women!" "President Putin left two days ago! This was two hours ago!" "Did I say Putin? I meant Koizumi!" * * * "Mr. President, I really don't think Willie Nelson would be an appropriate choice for drug czar." * * * "Honey, I know you've never been happy with this Western White House thing, but I swear it was Putin you saw in the sauna with Miss August, not me. I'm telling you, Putin can't keep his hands off these women!" "President Putin left two days ago! This was two hours ago!" "Did I say Putin? I meant Koizumi!" "You are not Japanese!" "Did I say Koizumi? I meant Mandela. Yeah, Nelson Mandela was in town, and … where are you going? Honey? Wait. Did I say Mandela?" Oct. 8, 2003 I'm beginning to realize that the most tiring part of my day is when we put the kids to bed. I used to assume the opposite – that night-night time is supposed to be a quiet and gentle period, where tired little feet stop scampering and little heads rest on fluffy pillows until Mr. Sandman floats in on clouds and takes them to Dreamland for a few hours. This only proves, yet again, that I am an idiot. Let's start at 8:30. The kids are either at the kitchen table, finishing up dinner, watching the Disney Channel, or they're tormenting the new puppy with some stuffed animal. We bark the familiar order: "Upstairs. Teeth brushed. Pajamas on. We'll be up in a minute." My wife and I will then clear the table, wash off some plates – the usual post-dinner routine. At 8:45, we'll turn around and find that the kids are either at the kitchen table or tormenting the puppy, still in their clothes, teeth untouched. What a surprise. "Hey," one of us will say, "upstairs! Let's go!" that I am an idiot. Let's start at 8:30. The kids are either at the kitchen table, finishing up dinner, watching the Disney Channel, or they're tormenting the new puppy with some stuffed animal. We bark the familiar order: "Upstairs. Teeth brushed. Pajamas on. We'll be up in a minute." My wife and I will then clear the table, wash off some plates – the usual post-dinner routine. At 8:45, we'll turn around and find that the kids are either at the kitchen table or tormenting the puppy, still in their clothes, teeth untouched. What a surprise. "Hey," one of us will say, "upstairs! Let's go!" And then I begin counting: "One … two … three …" The strategy being that, once Dad gets to five, two little runts better be upstairs with a toothbrush in their mouths. When I hit "Five!" the kids are still either at the kitchen table or tormenting the puppy. If one were to take my blood pressure at this particular moment of the evening, one would likely find that I'm hitting, roughly, 245 over 200. Finally, after some type of bribe, the kids are upstairs. I usually lie down with our 5-year-old son. We'll read a book, turn off the light, get tucked in and say our prayers. About 15 to 20 seconds after "Amen" comes, I get comfortable, and I usually hear this: "Daddy. I'm hungry." I sigh. "Why didn't you eat your supper?" "I didn't like it." Second sigh. "Come on." We head downstairs, grab some peanut butter crackers, sit down and finish those off. We trudge back upstairs, brush the teeth again, turn off the light and crawl back under the covers. Sweet sleep awaits. Forty-five seconds later. "Daddy, would you turn on my Hulk night light?" Third sigh of the night. I get out of bed, flick on the Hulk night light and to 20 seconds after "Amen" comes, I get comfortable, and I usually hear this: "Daddy. I'm hungry." I sigh. "Why didn't you eat your supper?" "I didn't like it." Second sigh. "Come on." We head downstairs, grab some peanut butter crackers, sit down and finish those off. We trudge back upstairs, brush the teeth again, turn off the light and crawl back under the covers. Sweet sleep awaits. Forty-five seconds later. "Daddy, would you turn on my Hulk night light?" Third sigh of the night. I get out of bed, flick on the Hulk night light and slip back into bed again. "Night son," I whisper. "Night." A minute or two later, right when my lids are getting heavy, I hear: "Daddy, I forgot to tell Mommy something." It's about here where my blood pressure peaks for the day. "Son," I'll say. "I know what you're going to do. You're going to go get Mama, you're going to tell her you want her to lay down with you – not me, and you're going to whine and cry if I don't let you. Well, not tonight. Mom's with your sister, and it's almost 10, and we are going to bed. That's all there is to it, so go to bed. Now." About 10 minutes later, Mommy and Daddy have switched places. I'm now in our daughter's bed, under the covers, lights out, feeling my lids slowly close. And just as Mr. Sandman is coming to fetch me, I hear my little girl: "Daddy. I'm hungry." * * * Some of you have noticed that my Top Five now appears on a completely inconsistent basis. And for that, I'm sorry. I've just been busy, and space has been very limited for the past few weeks. So, from now on, the Top Five will appear on an irregular basis – or, basically, when I feel like compiling one. I know this isn'tot; About 10 minutes later, Mommy and Daddy have switched places. I'm now in our daughter's bed, under the covers, lights out, feeling my lids slowly close. And just as Mr. Sandman is coming to fetch me, I hear my little girl: "Daddy. I'm hungry." * * * Some of you have noticed that my Top Five now appears on a completely inconsistent basis. And for that, I'm sorry. I've just been busy, and space has been very limited for the past few weeks. So, from now on, the Top Five will appear on an irregular basis – or, basically, when I feel like compiling one. I know this isn't the most earth-shattering revelation in the world, but I really do have some folks ask me when the list is going to start consistently appearing again. Now, if you'll excuse me, the kids are fast asleep with full bellies, and I'm going to bed. Night-night Oct. 1, 2003 Take back Vanessa Redgrave. Take back Joe Piscopo. Take back Eddie Murphy. Give 'em all some place to go. – Tom Petty, "Jammin' Me." And with apologies to Mr. Petty … Take back Madonna. Take back Britney Spears. Take back that overblown kiss between the two on the MTV Video Music Awards the other night. Get a life, women. No one cares. Take back our continual dependence on oil and the greedy oil companies that consistently scoff at the development of alternative energy sources. And while we're at it, take back the sanctimonious tree huggers that resort to burning car dealerships to protest SUVs and other gas guzzlers. (And, yeah, I drive an SUV. But, I plan on scaling back in a year or two just because I'm tired of feeling as though I'm driving a barge.) Take back suicide bombers. Take back Osama. Take back Saddam. Take back anyone who doesn't understand the meaning of peace and the defense of peace. Take back poverAwards the other night. Get a life, women. No one cares. Take back our continual dependence on oil and the greedy oil companies that consistently scoff at the development of alternative energy sources. And while we're at it, take back the sanctimonious tree huggers that resort to burning car dealerships to protest SUVs and other gas guzzlers. (And, yeah, I drive an SUV. But, I plan on scaling back in a year or two just because I'm tired of feeling as though I'm driving a barge.) Take back suicide bombers. Take back Osama. Take back Saddam. Take back anyone who doesn't understand the meaning of peace and the defense of peace. Take back poverty. Take back hungry children. Take back irresponsible and selfish parents. Send 'em to Siberia with nothing but a couple of packets of beef jerky and swimsuits. Take back meth. Take back any dependence that causes people to hurt others, particularly family. As Bruce Springsteen says in "Highway Patrolman," "Man turns his back on his family, well he just ain't no good." Take back American Idol. Take back Paula Abdul. Take back Seacrest, Simon and that other guy. And please, take back American Juniors, and give it a rest. Take back Kenny G. Take back Celine. Take back Dr. Phil and Oprah and Friends and any Rod Stewart album since 1983. Take back all those pretentious rock critics who think Eminem is God and any Rolling Stones album since Some Girls is junk. (And again, while we're at it, take back anyone – critics included – who simply don't get or want to get Springsteen.) Take back punk kids with their snotty attitude and complete lack of work ethic. (When I was your age … well … I was just like you. Never mind.) Take back pop-up ads. Take back spam. Take back those e-mails that promise to increase your manhood. That stuff doesn't work. Take it from someone … oh, never mind. Take back Cher. Take and any Rod Stewart album since 1983. Take back all those pretentious rock critics who think Eminem is God and any Rolling Stones album since Some Girls is junk. (And again, while we're at it, take back anyone – critics included – who simply don't get or want to get Springsteen.) Take back punk kids with their snotty attitude and complete lack of work ethic. (When I was your age … well … I was just like you. Never mind.) Take back pop-up ads. Take back spam. Take back those e-mails that promise to increase your manhood. That stuff doesn't work. Take it from someone … oh, never mind. Take back Cher. Take back her farewell tour. Take back her first farewell greatest hits CD. Take back her second farewell greatest hits CD, which was the first greatest hits CD, but with some other stuff added. Take back her third farewell greatest hits CD, which was the second greatest hits CD, but again, with some other stuff added. Take back her farewell concert DVD. And take back those folks who gladly plunked down money for all of those items. You need help. Your friends and family need to plan a Cher intervention for you. Pronto. Take back politics. Take back George W. in that Top Gun uniform. Take back Karl Rove. Take back Sean Hannity. Take back John Kerrey and John Edwards and any other presidential candidate that has the originality and personality and sincerity of a two by four. Take back Sting's new Abe Lincoln beard. Take back Rosie O'Donnell. Take back J. Lo. Take back Ben Affleck. Take back The Bachelor. Take back Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. And take back those friggin' John Stamos long distance phone ads. They're about as genuine as Meg Ryan's new lips. Take back Howard Stern and his shameless parade of naked porn stars on E! every night. Take back Girls Gone Wild. In fact, take back anything that does nothing but present women as sex objects. Except t and John Edwards and any other presidential candidate that has the originality and personality and sincerity of a two by four. Take back Sting's new Abe Lincoln beard. Take back Rosie O'Donnell. Take back J. Lo. Take back Ben Affleck. Take back The Bachelor. Take back Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. And take back those friggin' John Stamos long distance phone ads. They're about as genuine as Meg Ryan's new lips. Take back Howard Stern and his shameless parade of naked porn stars on E! every night. Take back Girls Gone Wild. In fact, take back anything that does nothing but present women as sex objects. Except the new Playboy with the Daryl Hannah pictorial. That, um, is "art." Right? Finally, take back those columnists that feel as if they know everything and feel like they're hip by recommending music by artists you've never heard of and refer to movies as "films." Smug wannabes. Wait a minute … The Top Five will be back next week. Sept. 24, 2003 My granddaddy used to sing Johnny Cash to me. "Folsom Prison Blues." I was about six or seven years old, and sometimes, while we sat at his breakfast table, he'd start up, "I hear that train a-comin', comin' round the bend…" I'd smile with the familiarity and his voice and at that stark vision in my head of a big steam engine roaring down the tracks. Once, my granddad finally showed me what Mr. Cash looked like, on a black and white television in his home office, when The Johnny Cash Show was broadcast. The camera swished around, caught this fella -- a craggy looking man with a wicked grin wearing nothing but black -- and fixed on him as he said in that beautiful deep twang, "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash." And a breakfast table, he'd start up, "I hear that train a-comin', comin' round the bend…" I'd smile with the familiarity and his voice and at that stark vision in my head of a big steam engine roaring down the tracks. Once, my granddad finally showed me what Mr. Cash looked like, on a black and white television in his home office, when The Johnny Cash Show was broadcast. The camera swished around, caught this fella -- a craggy looking man with a wicked grin wearing nothing but black -- and fixed on him as he said in that beautiful deep twang, "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash." And an Icon was born in my head. * * * Damn, I loved Johnny Cash. I could listen to his world forever -- a world crammed with violence, heartbreak, crime, unconditional love and sweet Jesus redemption. The connection felt obviously stemmed from my grandfather's appreciation, but also from Mr. Cash's Arkansas roots. At a young age, I remember seeing a picture of the Man in Black standing on the railroad bridge connecting Arkansas and Tennessee. He was the first Arkansas celebrity for me – a guy who could touch the world with his art, born and molded here in this state of ours. It was something that stuck with me. I felt as if I knew where he was coming from. Rock and roll was always my first love: the swagger and bash of the Stones, the eloquent artistry of the Beatles and, of course, the grand and wild brazenness of Elvis. And it was the Elvis connection that melded me to Mr. Cash. Both prot�g�es of Sam Phillips, both thrust on America via Sun Records, both children of the Delta, both tied to me through my blood – Mr. Cash through my granddad's appreciation, Mr. Presley through my father's. This was the music handed to me, the music by which I would be schooled, and withostate of ours. It was something that stuck with me. I felt as if I knew where he was coming from. Rock and roll was always my first love: the swagger and bash of the Stones, the eloquent artistry of the Beatles and, of course, the grand and wild brazenness of Elvis. And it was the Elvis connection that melded me to Mr. Cash. Both prot�g�es of Sam Phillips, both thrust on America via Sun Records, both children of the Delta, both tied to me through my blood – Mr. Cash through my granddad's appreciation, Mr. Presley through my father's. This was the music handed to me, the music by which I would be schooled, and without a doubt, it was an education well appreciated. Of course, fate and addiction spoiled the possibility of latter-year Elvis. But Mr. Cash kept swinging: against the radio programmers that deserted him and against the illnesses that plagued him. In the mid-`90s, a rock and roll millionaire took up Mr. Cash's flag. Rick Rubin, a guy who made his millions off rap and death-metal, went to Mr. Cash and presented his varied and talented resources at the Man in Black's feet. Four albums resulted. Four albums that revived Mr. Cash's career. Four albums that tore apart any notion that Mr. Cash was a forgotten relic: American Reout a doubt, it was an education well appreciated. Of course, fate and addiction spoiled the possibility of latter-year Elvis. But Mr. Cash kept swinging: against the radio programmers that deserted him and against the illnesses that plagued him. In the mid-`90s, a rock and roll millionaire took up Mr. Cash's flag. Rick Rubin, a guy who made his millions off rap and death-metal, went to Mr. Cash and presented his varied and talented resources at the Man in Black's feet. Four albums resulted. Four albums that revived Mr. Cash's career. Four albums that tore apart any notion that Mr. Cash was a forgotten relic: American Recordings, Unchained, American III: Solitary Man and American Recordings IV: The Man Comes Around. The results were astounding and worthy to stand alongside his classic past efforts. There are reportedly hundreds, likely thousands, of Johnny Cash songs sitting on various studio shelves and hard drives throughout the world that have yet to be released. A box set of unreleased Rubin productions, including a duet with Mr. Cash and the late Joe Strummer of The Clash on Bob Marley's "Redemption Song," is rumored to be released before the end of the year. And Mr. Cash apparently recorded some 30-more songs over this summer. That said, his musical legacy will be enormous: the classic library he released over the years and the treasures yet to see the light of day. Of course, his legacy as a decent man, father, husband, friend and American is unquestioned and obvious. That's why I'm not sad at his passing. In the postscript to the paperback edition of his marvelous 1997 autobiography, Cash, he wrote: "…whatever (remaining time) God gives me, I glory in it. I just hope I can spend it never making another enemy, and bringing happiness to the people around me. I have no regrets, I have no guilt, and I carry no ill will toward anybody." &nbsd, his musical legacy will be enormous: the classic library he released over the years and the treasures yet to see the light of day. Of course, his legacy as a decent man, father, husband, friend and American is unquestioned and obvious. That's why I'm not sad at his passing. In the postscript to the paperback edition of his marvelous 1997 autobiography, Cash, he wrote: "…whatever (remaining time) God gives me, I glory in it. I just hope I can spend it never making another enemy, and bringing happiness to the people around me. I have no regrets, I have no guilt, and I carry no ill will toward anybody." That we could all go home with such peace. * * * Throughout his life, it might be said that Warren Zevon never carried much serenity. Sometimes viewed as a cranky musical genius, Zevon sang about greedy bastards, human idiocy, born losers, heartbroken loners, and most famously, werewolves eating poor elderly women in London. You had to love him. Even though he lived his life full of p-ss and vinegar and jet black wit, he passed peacefully, within the most common of American comforts: a Sunday afternoon nap. All who followed Warren Zevon and his final months with terminal cancer knew the day was beckoning, the day when the body would give in and yield to that dark sleep. He stuck around, though. He stuck around to see his grandchildren's births. He stuck around to bask in the joy of his own two kids, one of whom helped him through the pain to complete a great album, The Wind. He stuck around for his friends, many of whom contributed their talents to The Wind. He stuck around to see the album released, just a few weeks ago, to critical adulation and good sales. It was as if he was waiting for his last testament to drop and reveal itself. And when it did, it was time to let go. Warren Zev terminal cancer knew the day was beckoning, the day when the body would give in and yield to that dark sleep. He stuck around, though. He stuck around to see his grandchildren's births. He stuck around to bask in the joy of his own two kids, one of whom helped him through the pain to complete a great album, The Wind. He stuck around for his friends, many of whom contributed their talents to The Wind. He stuck around to see the album released, just a few weeks ago, to critical adulation and good sales. It was as if he was waiting for his last testament to drop and reveal itself. And when it did, it was time to let go. Warren Zevon flipped the bird to convention and rock star posing and other ridiculous aspects of life on Earth. All of this seeped into his songs like a sponge sucking up dirty water. And those of us who listened, all smiled and nodded our heads and realized we weren't the only ones who thought the world was crammed with nonsense and heartbreak. And not in some type of arrogant, snobbish exclusivity – common sense dictated our dismay with silly convention, blind followers of fashion and the never-ending silliness we can find in this world. At the end, though, Zevon seemed to put all of this aside. Time was bleeding, and he felt the urge to let go of the pettiness and soak up every little thing that would soon fade to black. So, at the end, that might have been some sense of serenity and light for this guy who had so reveled in bleak days. David Letterman devoted an entire Late Show to Zevon a few weeks after the announcement of his fate. When the television host asked Zevon if he had learned anything meaningful about life through his diagnosis, Zevon said: "(I learned) how much you're supposed to enjoy every sandwich." Sept. 10, 2003 I have a correction to make. Last week's issue of Arkansas Weekly David Letterman devoted an entire Late Show to Zevon a few weeks after the announcement of his fate. When the television host asked Zevon if he had learned anything meaningful about life through his diagnosis, Zevon said: "(I learned) how much you're supposed to enjoy every sandwich." Sept. 10, 2003 I have a correction to make. Last week's issue of Arkansas Weekly featured a front page article noted my brother, Chippy (seen below in a recent photo taken in my office), was the owner of W.R.D. Entertainment – the company that owns and operates Arkansas Weekly. I happened to be out of town the day last week's issue went to press, and as such, I was unable to catch the error. Chippy, opportunist that he is, has since deftly exploited the error and increased his visits to the offices, spouting inane orders and insisting on demented demands, such as requiring all employees (including me) to never look him in the eye, and to only refer to him as either Media King or Rupert Murdoch Jr. To clarify: W.R.D. Entertainment is owned and operated not by my brother, but, by a Brazilian family of albino circus midgets with a long history of obesity and halitosis. (But they're really nice, believe me.) The family's American representative is T. Blanston Jr., the noted writer and businessman from Greers Ferry. Mr. Blanston helps ensure W.R.D. Entertainment is managed in a professional and productive manner, and in fact, has recently requested a restraining order against my brother after an unfortunate incident involving Chippy, a Louisville Slugger, my vehicle's windshield and myself. It should be noted that in most instances Chippy is an easy-going 48-year-old W.R.D. Entertainment is owned and operated not by my brother, but, by a Brazilian family of albino circus midgets with a long history of obesity and halitosis. (But they're really nice, believe me.) The family's American representative is T. Blanston Jr., the noted writer and businessman from Greers Ferry. Mr. Blanston helps ensure W.R.D. Entertainment is managed in a professional and productive manner, and in fact, has recently requested a restraining order against my brother after an unfortunate incident involving Chippy, a Louisville Slugger, my vehicle's windshield and myself. It should be noted that in most instances Chippy is an easy-going 48-year-old father of two, and he is doing a fine job in his other ventures. However, his jealousy of his 32-year-old little brother's good looks and success as an international male model sometimes gets the best of him. Your prayers are requested for my delusional big bro. * * * Top Five 1. I Need $600,000. That's all. Just $600,000. See, Little Rock's UA Cinema 150 – which, as you likely know, closed in May of this year – is on the market for ONLY $450,000! So, I figure I could buy the theatre, use the extra $150,000 to freshen it up, and re-open the wonderful Cinema 150, showing both classic movies and artsy fartsy films. One night, I'd show a classic double feature of The Wild Bunch and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia to celebrate the violent majesty of Warren Oates and Sam Peckinpah. Then, the next night, I'd show the controversial new film Thirteen, or perhaps the sexy new thriller, Swimming Pool. There is one problem with my request: the $600,000 would be, like, a gift, not a loan. Just wanted to make that clear on the front end because I can guarantee you I wouldn't make a dime. It would be somewhat like a love offering. So … who's with me?!? 2. Pacino Rules showing both classic movies and artsy fartsy films. One night, I'd show a classic double feature of The Wild Bunch and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia to celebrate the violent majesty of Warren Oates and Sam Peckinpah. Then, the next night, I'd show the controversial new film Thirteen, or perhaps the sexy new thriller, Swimming Pool. There is one problem with my request: the $600,000 would be, like, a gift, not a loan. Just wanted to make that clear on the front end because I can guarantee you I wouldn't make a dime. It would be somewhat like a love offering. So … who's with me?!? 2. Pacino Rules! Al Pacino is, hands down, my favorite actor. (Gene Hackman, Robert Duvall and Morgan Freeman come close, but I'll see anything with Pacino.) And September sees two classic Al Pacino/Brian DePalma productions revived. Carlito's Way, the vastly underrated 1993 crime thriller, gets a new transfer on DVD, and the most famous Pacino/DePalma collaboration – Scarface, not only gets deluxe treatment on a new Anniversary Edition DVD, but will also be re-released in some theatres. See, if someone gave me $600,000, I could have a double feature on the enormous Cinema 150 screen of Carlito's Way and Scarface. So … again, who's with me?!? 3. Carmike Frustration. Look, I don't mean to beat a dead horse here – well, actually, I do. I have one simple question for Carmike Cinemas (Grandmother Louise, please excuse the profanity): Why in the HELL are you still showing the flop Uptown Girls and the month-old S.W.A.T. at the Oaks 7 Cinema when Open Range, recently noted by internet columnist Jeffrey Wells as the best Western since Unforgiven and currently the fifth most popular film at the box office, has yet to open? Do you folks even pay attention to what you book (or in the Oaks 7 case, don't book)? Pathetic. Pathetic. P; again, who's with me?!? 3. Carmike Frustration. Look, I don't mean to beat a dead horse here – well, actually, I do. I have one simple question for Carmike Cinemas (Grandmother Louise, please excuse the profanity): Why in the HELL are you still showing the flop Uptown Girls and the month-old S.W.A.T. at the Oaks 7 Cinema when Open Range, recently noted by internet columnist Jeffrey Wells as the best Western since Unforgiven and currently the fifth most popular film at the box office, has yet to open? Do you folks even pay attention to what you book (or in the Oaks 7 case, don't book)? Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. Now … I feel better. 4. Finally, Someone in the Record Industry Has Some Sense. Universal Records, the largest record company in the world, recently announced that it was slashing compact disc prices from roughly $17.98 to $12.98 – a major concession for the struggling record industry. The other record companies will likely follow suit in a move that could bring CD prices down to as low as $8.98 at some retailers. Doug Morris, the head of Universal Records, noted in an interview with the New York Times that the price slash was mainly due to people "stealing" through illegal downloads. The theory being that lower prices will entice people to start spending money again on CDs. He's partially right: illegal downloading has obviously affected record sales, but CDs have been overpriced from their inception. Ten or nine bucks for a new album seems fair to me versus spending almost 20 bucks for one. But the long-term future is downloading. Once all the artists come to that conclusion and allow their music to be legally downloaded (as the Rolling Stones recently did) through reputable sites such as Rhapsody.net or iTunes.com, then the industry will really see an economic rebirth that will rival the CD revolution of the late '80s. eory being that lower prices will entice people to start spending money again on CDs. He's partially right: illegal downloading has obviously affected record sales, but CDs have been overpriced from their inception. Ten or nine bucks for a new album seems fair to me versus spending almost 20 bucks for one. But the long-term future is downloading. Once all the artists come to that conclusion and allow their music to be legally downloaded (as the Rolling Stones recently did) through reputable sites such as Rhapsody.net or iTunes.com, then the industry will really see an economic rebirth that will rival the CD revolution of the late '80s. 5. A Reminder. Did I mention I need $600,000? Sept. 3, 2003 So I'm in the middle of an insomnia fit around 2 the other morning when I decide to blow about a hundred bucks on magazine subscriptions. Like I need to be spending a hundred dollars on magazine subscriptions. I don't, of course. I need to be saving it. But I do strange things in the middle of the night when I can't sleep. So I think about all of the magazines I like, but do not currently receive. There's Newsweek for all of the weekly news analysis. There's New York and Time Out New York, so I can keep up with the news and gossip from one of my favorite cities in the world. There's Premiere to inform me about the behind-the-scenes tales of some of my preferred filmmakers. There's Blender – a new music magazine that is stuffed with inane yet fun stories about rock and roll. And finally there's GQ, a magazine that's currently undergoing a facelift, content-wise, and as a result, has turned into an amusing and enjoyable read (based on the latest issue, at least). Add up all these magazines that will now be stuffing our mailbox to those I currently receive, and one can safely assume that Rob Grace is responsible for the death an keep up with the news and gossip from one of my favorite cities in the world. There's Premiere to inform me about the behind-the-scenes tales of some of my preferred filmmakers. There's Blender – a new music magazine that is stuffed with inane yet fun stories about rock and roll. And finally there's GQ, a magazine that's currently undergoing a facelift, content-wise, and as a result, has turned into an amusing and enjoyable read (based on the latest issue, at least). Add up all these magazines that will now be stuffing our mailbox to those I currently receive, and one can safely assume that Rob Grace is responsible for the death of about 223 trees per month. Now, what I have yet to understand is this: It takes me a good while to get through a normal book. Of course, this is a fact that I probably should not mention. I know many people who read two to three books a week. If I manage to slog through one, I've usually watched a new governor inaugurated by the time I'm finished. Yet I can go through an issue of The New Yorker or a Rolling Stone during one soak in the tub. Of course, I don't read every article in every magazine that comes to my house, but I'm usually through with a magazine by the night's end. Example: I started George Orwell's 1984 about a month ago. I'm currently on page 7. Yet, I've already been through the new issues of GQ and Details. I bought these yesterday. (And please: refrain from the predictable and immature jokes one could make about the fact I even read GQ and Details magazine. Real men are supposed to like Lynyrd Skynyrd and hunting. Real men read Field and Stream or Sports Illustrated. Sissies and guys who watch the Bravo channel read friggin' GQ and Details. Well, I happen to enjoy GQ and Details. And, yes, I occasionally watch the Bravo channel – I enjoy that Lipton about a month ago. I'm currently on page 7. Yet, I've already been through the new issues of GQ and Details. I bought these yesterday. (And please: refrain from the predictable and immature jokes one could make about the fact I even read GQ and Details magazine. Real men are supposed to like Lynyrd Skynyrd and hunting. Real men read Field and Stream or Sports Illustrated. Sissies and guys who watch the Bravo channel read friggin' GQ and Details. Well, I happen to enjoy GQ and Details. And, yes, I occasionally watch the Bravo channel – I enjoy that Lipton guy with the stack of blue cards who interviews all of the actors, and I'm glad Bravo regularly airs Coen Brothers movies.) So I can't get through a classic piece of lit, but by golly, I can read articles about the up and coming rockers Kings of Leon, the Kobe Bryant trial (both in the September GQ), drug legalization, and profiles of men who've run away from modern day life and material possessions to live off the land (the September Details). Does this mean I'm somewhat shallow? An avid spectator, consuming all the pop culture gunk that clogs up any possibility of intellectual stimulus that other forms of reading might provide? Probably. Aw well, for all you smarty pants intellects out there who'd rather read Shakespeeeeeeare or Faaaaaaulkner, I will have the pleasure of knowing that Blender magazine thinks Insane Clown Posse is the Worst Band Ever (according to the September issue) and that author Rick Moody thinks Ed Bradley, Sting and Harrison Ford have lost any shred of dignity they might have possessed because each wears an earring, a fashion statement Moody believes is better suited for 17-year-old boys (September Details). So, powdy dow! * * * Top Five (Top Four This Week – space conside/p> Probably. Aw well, for all you smarty pants intellects out there who'd rather read Shakespeeeeeeare or Faaaaaaulkner, I will have the pleasure of knowing that Blender magazine thinks Insane Clown Posse is the Worst Band Ever (according to the September issue) and that author Rick Moody thinks Ed Bradley, Sting and Harrison Ford have lost any shred of dignity they might have possessed because each wears an earring, a fashion statement Moody believes is better suited for 17-year-old boys (September Details). So, powdy dow! * * * Top Five (Top Four This Week – space considerations, again.) 1. So... So, how many times can I begin a sentence with the aforementioned adverb in this week's column? 2. Corresponding With An Old Friend. Former Independence County Tax Collector George Kimmer recently dropped me a letter. Kimmer and his lovely wife moved to Bentonville to be closer to family, and he wanted to let everyone know that both he and Jean are doing well. A few years ago, George was diagnosed with cancer, but things are looking up and he writes that he's gained back the 46 pounds he lost during his illness. When George retired from his longtime position as this county's collector, he went to work hauling Arkansas Weekly issues each week. His humor and genuine interest in everyone here was always welcome and appreciated. It was good to see he's enjoying life in the northwest part of the state. 3. Looking Forward. Three movies coming out this fall look superb. First, Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation with Bill Murray and Scarlet Johannsen looks as if it will be a sweet glimpse at unrequited love against the night life of Tokyo. 21 Grams, a Memphis-shot drama with Sean Penn and Benicio Del Toro is reportedly devastating. And Quentin Tarantino's first film in years, Kill Bill Volume One, looks to be an ins work hauling Arkansas Weekly issues each week. His humor and genuine interest in everyone here was always welcome and appreciated. It was good to see he's enjoying life in the northwest part of the state. 3. Looking Forward. Three movies coming out this fall look superb. First, Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation with Bill Murray and Scarlet Johannsen looks as if it will be a sweet glimpse at unrequited love against the night life of Tokyo. 21 Grams, a Memphis-shot drama with Sean Penn and Benicio Del Toro is reportedly devastating. And Quentin Tarantino's first film in years, Kill Bill Volume One, looks to be an insane and blood-splattering revenge flick with Uma Thurman doing some kick-booty kung fu. 4. Finally. If you did not know, (and if you care), Seabiscuit finally opened in Batesville over the weekend. Now if we can get Open Range ... (And I would bet money that the movies – except for Kill Bill – in item 3 will not make it to Batesville based on Carmike's history.) Still, it's nice they brought Seabiscuit to town. Aug. 27, 2003 It's been my position that the world would be much better off if all poodles were shipped to a central, remote location … say, Siberia. You see, my experiences with poodles, it's safe to say, have been negative. My wife grew up with the little canine/rodents, and while dating her, my patience and love was mightily tested by her two poodles, Prissy and Whitney. These were the kind of varmints taken to the stereotypical poodle extremes: bows in the hair, painted paws (!) and a pampered prima donna lifestyle. Whitney was semi-tolerable, but Prissy, I'm convinced, was the spawn of Satan. Mean and evil, a day wouldn't go by when this little runt wouldn't bare her fangs at me as if I were her archenemy. (Which I was. Let's just say if I had ever had the opportunity to be alone iiberia. You see, my experiences with poodles, it's safe to say, have been negative. My wife grew up with the little canine/rodents, and while dating her, my patience and love was mightily tested by her two poodles, Prissy and Whitney. These were the kind of varmints taken to the stereotypical poodle extremes: bows in the hair, painted paws (!) and a pampered prima donna lifestyle. Whitney was semi-tolerable, but Prissy, I'm convinced, was the spawn of Satan. Mean and evil, a day wouldn't go by when this little runt wouldn't bare her fangs at me as if I were her archenemy. (Which I was. Let's just say if I had ever had the opportunity to be alone in the same room with Prissy and a large boa constrictor, Prissy would've been that day's Blue Plate Special.) Needless to say, I've had a slight aversion to poodles for a long, long time. Why, then, have I now fallen in love with one of these suckers? Sparky, our new puppy, is technically not a poodle. He's a peekapoo – which is something of a glorified mutt: half-Pekinese, half-poodle. And, thank goodness, he doesn't have that perm-like fuzzy hair with which poodles are cursed, so he's not going to be, like, the Liberace of dogs – gawdy and sissy – that most male poodles turn out to be. So, I'm sure the non-poodle physical attributes are key to my love for this little sucker. Life is good for Sparky. He's almost two months old, and bounces around the house looking for all sorts of things to chew, or folks with which to play. He has plenty of laps on which he can rest, or if he feels like hanging out on the sofa, he'll whimper a bit to have someone plop his little self up there for a nap. I've been a bit surprised at his housebreaking skills – catching on to the front yard being a toilet was a breeze for Sparky. In fact, the boy is quite, um, regular. Of course, there are some surprises left on the carpet now and then, but for a pup, I'm sure that's to be l attributes are key to my love for this little sucker. Life is good for Sparky. He's almost two months old, and bounces around the house looking for all sorts of things to chew, or folks with which to play. He has plenty of laps on which he can rest, or if he feels like hanging out on the sofa, he'll whimper a bit to have someone plop his little self up there for a nap. I've been a bit surprised at his housebreaking skills – catching on to the front yard being a toilet was a breeze for Sparky. In fact, the boy is quite, um, regular. Of course, there are some surprises left on the carpet now and then, but for a pup, I'm sure that's to be expected. So, even though there's poodle blood in our new dog, I'm still glad we have him. I'm looking forward to watching him grow with the kids. I'll enjoying snapping a leash on him and taking him for a walk. And, of course, I can't wait to train him to bring me a cold beer if my wife is ailing. Well, I take that back. There's just some things women are supposed to do, sick or healthy, and waitin' on the Man is one of 'em. Right? Hello? * * * Top Three This Week – Running Short of Space! 1. Franken Vs. O'Reilly. I may have been a bit too harsh on Bill O'Reilly last week regarding his well-publicized debate with political humorist Al Franken at a recent book forum. After watching the C-SPAN broadcast over the Web the other day, Franken did somewhat ambush the Fox News star, and when Franken started into his "We on the Left aren't gonna take it anymore!" rant, I could swear it sounded as if Franken was going to cry. Oh well, regardless, I still enjoy Franken's work even if I don't agree with some of his views, and the Fox News lawsuit against him for using the term "fair and balanced" in the title of his new book that criticizes the Right, is silly, silly. 2. WayloBill O'Reilly last week regarding his well-publicized debate with political humorist Al Franken at a recent book forum. After watching the C-SPAN broadcast over the Web the other day, Franken did somewhat ambush the Fox News star, and when Franken started into his "We on the Left aren't gonna take it anymore!" rant, I could swear it sounded as if Franken was going to cry. Oh well, regardless, I still enjoy Franken's work even if I don't agree with some of his views, and the Fox News lawsuit against him for using the term "fair and balanced" in the title of his new book that criticizes the Right, is silly, silly. 2. Waylon Lives. There's a new Waylon Jennings tribute album in stores called I've Always Been Crazy, and if you were a fan of the Outlaw, then pick it up. A wide array of artists from John Mellencamp to Dwight Yoakam to Ben Harper to Brooks & Dunn to Metallica's James Hetfield (!) all contribute their own versions of some Waylon classics. Mellencamp's take on "Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?" finds the singer sounding more vibrant and fun than he has in years. And the fitting final cut, "The Dream," a song Jennings recorded before his untimely death, is the cherry on top of this lively collection. 3. The Return of the Funniest Show on Television. In the early '80s, SCTV, which kick-started the careers of superb comic actors such as Eugene Levy, John Candy, Rick Moranis, Dave Thomas, Catherine O'Hara and Martin Short to name a few, struggled to survive a Friday night slot on NBC after Letterman despite being the funniest and smartest program on the tube at the time. After two or three years, the network finally cancelled it, and all of the reruns disappeared into oblivion. But according to a recent article in Video Store magazine, many of the shows are heading back to DVD. Revisiting such characters as Count Floyd, Harry ("Hey! I'm Harry! The Me Funniest Show on Television. In the early '80s, SCTV, which kick-started the careers of superb comic actors such as Eugene Levy, John Candy, Rick Moranis, Dave Thomas, Catherine O'Hara and Martin Short to name a few, struggled to survive a Friday night slot on NBC after Letterman despite being the funniest and smartest program on the tube at the time. After two or three years, the network finally cancelled it, and all of the reruns disappeared into oblivion. But according to a recent article in Video Store magazine, many of the shows are heading back to DVD. Revisiting such characters as Count Floyd, Harry ("Hey! I'm Harry! The Man With the Snake on His Face!"), Sammy Maudlin, the Shmenge brothers, Gerry Todd, Jackie Rogers Jr., and of course, Bob and Doug McKenzie, will be a treat. Aug. 20, 2003 While the rest of the country gorges on music from bland and generic chart-toppers like Justin Timberlake, 50-Cent, Linkin Park, Norah Jones (sorry – she puts me to sleep, plus she beat Bruce out for the Best Album Grammy), John Mayer, and – please, just kill me now – T.A.T.U., other folks are discovering some musical gems that put the majority of popular artists to well-deserved shame. The New York-based band Fountains of Wayne is currently one act that is stirring some interest outside their large cultish base of fans (of which I am a longstanding member). FOW founders Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood released their band's self-titled debut in 1996 and had a minor hit with "Radiation Vibe." This was followed by a critically successful album three years later, Utopia Parkway, but both CDs failed to ignite a barrage of sales, and Fountains of Wayne was subsequently dropped by their label. (It must be noted that my daughter loves a song from the first FOW album, "Leave the Biker." We used to dance to it when she was a year old, anuntains of Wayne is currently one act that is stirring some interest outside their large cultish base of fans (of which I am a longstanding member). FOW founders Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood released their band's self-titled debut in 1996 and had a minor hit with "Radiation Vibe." This was followed by a critically successful album three years later, Utopia Parkway, but both CDs failed to ignite a barrage of sales, and Fountains of Wayne was subsequently dropped by their label. (It must be noted that my daughter loves a song from the first FOW album, "Leave the Biker." We used to dance to it when she was a year old, and she still remembers it every time I play it.) After a hiatus that found Collingwood going back to his previous 9 to 5 job, interest in the band re-surfaced. They recorded the theme song to Comedy Central's sick and merrily twisted puppet show Crank Yankers, and this year finally released the follow up to Utopia – Welcome Interstate Managers, which is, without a doubt, their best album. A collection of power pop character studies, Managers is full of hook-heavy glimpses into the lives of such folks as an alcoholic sales executive ("Bright Future in Sales"); optimistic losers ("Mexican Wine"); a high-school kid infatuated with his girlfriend's mom (the hit "Stacy's Mom"); and a hometown guy crushing on a former high school girl who hit the big-time (the wonderful "Hackensack"). It looks as if Welcome Interstate Managers will be the album to solidify FOW and keep 'em around for a while. As of today (Aug. 13), it's the number one-selling pop rock album on Amazon.com, and the video for "Stacy's Mom" is getting some good airplay on MTV and VH1. * * * Let me also sing some praises for a bunch of shaggy-looking sons of a defrocked Tennessee Pentecostal pr; a high-school kid infatuated with his girlfriend's mom (the hit "Stacy's Mom"); and a hometown guy crushing on a former high school girl who hit the big-time (the wonderful "Hackensack"). It looks as if Welcome Interstate Managers will be the album to solidify FOW and keep 'em around for a while. As of today (Aug. 13), it's the number one-selling pop rock album on Amazon.com, and the video for "Stacy's Mom" is getting some good airplay on MTV and VH1. * * * Let me also sing some praises for a bunch of shaggy-looking sons of a defrocked Tennessee Pentecostal preacher who go by the name of Kings of Leon. With an 18-year old cousin on bass (Matthew Followill), brothers Caleb, Nathan and Jared Followill cram some wonderful rawness on their debut full-length album, Youth & Young Manhood, which hit the stores yesterday. Influenced by The Rolling Stones, Tom Petty and Neil Young, the quartet kicks some life into the ailing hard rock genre with stomping, guitar-driven songs such as "Molly's Chambers," "Wasted Time," "California Waiting," the album's opener "Red Morning Light," and the highlight of the CD, "Holy Roller Novocaine." The last song, a tale of a preacher's seductive ways, was also the title of the band's February 5-song EP. That CD, which is also available, features some radically different versions of tunes from the new album. Both Youth & Young Manhood and Holy Roller Novocaine would be fine additions to the library of any rock fan. They both remind me of beer-soaked shag carpets and worn secondhand sofas thick with cigarette stench – which, for a rock album, is a good thing. * * * And now we go from Southern-fried Stones worshippers to a romantic Irish folkie named Damien Rice. Rice's debut album, O, is a stunner. Thic a preacher's seductive ways, was also the title of the band's February 5-song EP. That CD, which is also available, features some radically different versions of tunes from the new album. Both Youth & Young Manhood and Holy Roller Novocaine would be fine additions to the library of any rock fan. They both remind me of beer-soaked shag carpets and worn secondhand sofas thick with cigarette stench – which, for a rock album, is a good thing. * * * And now we go from Southern-fried Stones worshippers to a romantic Irish folkie named Damien Rice. Rice's debut album, O, is a stunner. Thick with a dreamy acoustic atmosphere somewhat reminiscent of early Indigo Girls (but better), the CD is 10 songs worth of gorgeous meditations on heartbreak and love. Most begin with simple unplugged melodies that then soar into affecting pieces of work powered with mournful strings and terrific backup from singer Lisa Hannigan. If it sounds a bit too maudlin, it's not. O is really some stirring stuff by an artist from which we'll be hearing much more. It's a gorgeous album. * * * And finally, let me introduce you to the most deranged (and fun) group of flourishing rock and roll artists out there today: Electric Six. Their debut album, Fire, is an insane mix of AC/DC, The Gap Band, Judas Priest and The Cars that, pardon the cheesy phrase, rocks out. I mean, when you have rockers with titles like "Dance Commander," "Nuclear War (On the Dance Floor)," "Getting Into the Jam," and "Electric Demons in Love," and all performed with a hint of irony, you know that you're in for a ride. This is an album that has to be heard to be believed, and if you don't pound your feet to the album's highlight track, "Naked Pictures (of Your Mother)," while also laughing your head off, then bat there today: Electric Six. Their debut album, Fire, is an insane mix of AC/DC, The Gap Band, Judas Priest and The Cars that, pardon the cheesy phrase, rocks out. I mean, when you have rockers with titles like "Dance Commander," "Nuclear War (On the Dance Floor)," "Getting Into the Jam," and "Electric Demons in Love," and all performed with a hint of irony, you know that you're in for a ride. This is an album that has to be heard to be believed, and if you don't pound your feet to the album's highlight track, "Naked Pictures (of Your Mother)," while also laughing your head off, then baby, you need to get into the jam with a little help from the Dance Commander! * * * Top Five 1. More Music. In addition to the albums listed above, I also highly recommend Canadian alt-rockers, The New Pornographers and their latest album, Electric Version, as well as what will likely be the final album the terminally ill Warren Zevon, entitled The Wind. Zevon's album hits stores next Tuesday, and it'll move you – particularly the final cut, "Keep Me in Your Heart." 2. Path to War. This recent HBO movie about LBJ's march to Vietnam slipped by me when it first aired a year or so ago, but it is a very involving and well-made flick that could have made it in theatres. A fine final film from the great director, John Frankenheimer, (Seven Days in May, The Manchurian Candidate) who passed away right after completing the production. Seek it out on DVD. 3. Boo-Hoo. I'm sorry, but I have to laugh at the ridiculous lawsuit Fox News has brought against humorist and SNL-vet Al Franken. Franken has a new book coming out entitled Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right. But the famously conservative Fox News is suing Franken, statined by me when it first aired a year or so ago, but it is a very involving and well-made flick that could have made it in theatres. A fine final film from the great director, John Frankenheimer, (Seven Days in May, The Manchurian Candidate) who passed away right after completing the production. Seek it out on DVD. 3. Boo-Hoo. I'm sorry, but I have to laugh at the ridiculous lawsuit Fox News has brought against humorist and SNL-vet Al Franken. Franken has a new book coming out entitled Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right. But the famously conservative Fox News is suing Franken, stating that the term "fair and balanced" is a term they have trademarked. Surely this lawsuit could not have anything to do with the fact that Franken recently and hilariously ruffled the feathers of Fox News star Bill O'Reilly on a live C-SPAN broadcast. The normally self-important and "tough as nails" O'Reilly persona crumbled into a yelling and agitated fit as Franken kept digging the broadcaster. O'Reilly finally began to scream "Shut up!" to the comic – who had pushed all of the right buttons. The lawsuit is a stupid move that seems to show that Fox can't take any bit of criticism. Besides, the suit is giving a happy Franken all the free publicity he wants: the book shot to number one on Amazon.com's pre-order list after the suit was filed. It will be in stores Sept. 22. 4. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Please. Go away. Go very far away. 5. "Hey, It's Lorenzo Lamas, and I Need to Feed My Kids!" If you haven't heard, there is a new Web site, Hollywoodiscalling.com, on which you can pay $19.95 and have a bona-fide celebrity call you at home! WOW! Are you as excited as I am?!? Not only can you have former Falcon Crest hunk Lorenzo Lamas call you at home for a personal conversation, but you can also choose from ing a happy Franken all the free publicity he wants: the book shot to number one on Amazon.com's pre-order list after the suit was filed. It will be in stores Sept. 22. 4. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Please. Go away. Go very far away. 5. "Hey, It's Lorenzo Lamas, and I Need to Feed My Kids!" If you haven't heard, there is a new Web site, Hollywoodiscalling.com, on which you can pay $19.95 and have a bona-fide celebrity call you at home! WOW! Are you as excited as I am?!? Not only can you have former Falcon Crest hunk Lorenzo Lamas call you at home for a personal conversation, but you can also choose from such superstars as Todd Bridges from Diff'rent Strokes; Fred "Rerun" Berry from What's Happening?; the guy who played Epstein from Welcome Back Kotter; Lou "The Incredible Hulk" Ferrigno; the naked fat guy from the first Survivor; and sit down ladies, Christopher Atkins from The Blue Lagoon! You know, this really adds a new level to stardom. There's the Hollywoodiscalling.com level, which is right below the "Yes, I used to be on television, but tonight, I'd really like to talk to you about aluminum siding," level, but above the "Welcome to Jack in the Box, may I take your order?" level. Aug. 6, 2003 The back and forth banter concerning the proposed Independence County sales tax and possible special election has been on my mind as of late. Our recent front page editorial highlighting the issue as well as the three quorum court members who voted against holding the special election prompted a lot of comment to me from those both for and against the tax. Alice Wolford of Batesville wrote: "Hats off to Hatfield, Phillips and Cuzzort for being responsible men of integrity. I believe they are speaking for the majority of the voters. Bless them for er?" level. Aug. 6, 2003 The back and forth banter concerning the proposed Independence County sales tax and possible special election has been on my mind as of late. Our recent front page editorial highlighting the issue as well as the three quorum court members who voted against holding the special election prompted a lot of comment to me from those both for and against the tax. Alice Wolford of Batesville wrote: "Hats off to Hatfield, Phillips and Cuzzort for being responsible men of integrity. I believe they are speaking for the majority of the voters. Bless them for speaking out." One man phoned me and noted that the issue should not be buried in a special election and suggested that local industry leaders should be instrumental in recruiting new industry and not, perhaps, the local chamber of commerce. (This man also noted that one quick way to boost potential industry recruitment is to make Independence County wet. That, of course, is another column.) I also received plenty of positive feedback. Readers were glad the issue was getting deserved attention, and many hoped the piece would shine a light on the need to fund Independence County's future. As one woman noted, "There is no incentive now for our children to stay in this county. With new industry and business and opportunities, then maybe they (our children) will stay." Since the July 14 Independence County Quorum Court meeting at which the issue was introduced, it could be fairly said that both sides have had their points thoroughly presented and discussed, and that the Citizens for Progress committee is actively and positively responding to concerns from the other side. In other words, it looks as if everyone is working together, and that can only be a good thing. It's no secret that we here at W.R.D. Entertainment are strongly in favor of the ne no incentive now for our children to stay in this county. With new industry and business and opportunities, then maybe they (our children) will stay." Since the July 14 Independence County Quorum Court meeting at which the issue was introduced, it could be fairly said that both sides have had their points thoroughly presented and discussed, and that the Citizens for Progress committee is actively and positively responding to concerns from the other side. In other words, it looks as if everyone is working together, and that can only be a good thing. It's no secret that we here at W.R.D. Entertainment are strongly in favor of the new sales tax – this area needs the funding to actively maintain our current industry and infrastructure, and the tools to competitively recruit new industry and business. The lively discourse on the subject in recent weeks, as well as the apparent willingness of both sides to work together is encouraging. To me, it means that there are people who care about their role in the county and the county's future. * * * Top Five (well, uh, Four) 1. They Are. They Aren't. Wait, They Are, Right? Some of us here at the office have been having fun with a persistent rumor that Wal-Mart will be relocating north of Batesville and that a Sam's Club will occupy the current Supercenter on Harrison Street. The rumor spread like wildfire last week, and at least three different (and trustworthy) sources insisted the gossip was true. But the area Wal-Mart manager told the W.R.D. Entertainment news department last Tuesday that it looks as if Wal-Mart is staying put at its current location. Time will tell. 2. Goodbye Pizza Inn. Hello Long John. Keeping with the local business angle this week, it should be noted that the local Pizza Inn, in the Market Place Center, closed its doors last week. It might be interesting to see what will go into the se relocating north of Batesville and that a Sam's Club will occupy the current Supercenter on Harrison Street. The rumor spread like wildfire last week, and at least three different (and trustworthy) sources insisted the gossip was true. But the area Wal-Mart manager told the W.R.D. Entertainment news department last Tuesday that it looks as if Wal-Mart is staying put at its current location. Time will tell. 2. Goodbye Pizza Inn. Hello Long John. Keeping with the local business angle this week, it should be noted that the local Pizza Inn, in the Market Place Center, closed its doors last week. It might be interesting to see what will go into the space that will be vacated. And I am assuming that the construction work at Batesville's KFC is for the long-rumored addition of Long John Silver's to that KFC location. So, one eatery closes, another one prepares to open. I'm hoping that a Quizno's for Batesville is still in the works, as well. That franchise would be a nice addition to the variety of restaurants we have to choose from. And, it's safe to say that if a Waffle House or IHOP opened in the area, I would likely balloon to roughly 450 pounds and go broke in the process. 3. Cancel My Reservation. Well, heck. Word from Las Vegas is that the business that was offering "Bambi Hunts," where men "hunt" nude women with paint ball guns was all a hoax. Of course, I find this out after my cancellation period for my airline reservations passed. Add those fees to my new paint ball gun, paint ball training, and camo suits and well, I would have been better off just burning that money! Darn it all! 4. Johnny Cash, Part 32. MTV recently announced that the gripping video for Johnny Cash's song, "Hurt," was nominated for six Video Music Awards. I've written countless times in these pages about Mr. Cash, the video for "Hurt," and the song itself, so it's a charge to see the piece appreciated. ambi Hunts," where men "hunt" nude women with paint ball guns was all a hoax. Of course, I find this out after my cancellation period for my airline reservations passed. Add those fees to my new paint ball gun, paint ball training, and camo suits and well, I would have been better off just burning that money! Darn it all! 4. Johnny Cash, Part 32. MTV recently announced that the gripping video for Johnny Cash's song, "Hurt," was nominated for six Video Music Awards. I've written countless times in these pages about Mr. Cash, the video for "Hurt," and the song itself, so it's a charge to see the piece appreciated. If one would have told me five years ago that The Man in Black would have a multi-nominated video alongside artists like Eminem and N-Sync pretty boy Justin Timberlake, I would have said, "Thank the Lord. At least, someone at MTV recognizes true talent." July 30, 2003 It's late, I'm alone in the house, and I'm hearing noises. As I write the words for this space, my family is off in Branson tonight. Work has brought me back home while they spend time with cousins amid Mayberry's answer to Las Vegas. (I don't know exactly what that means, but it's not meant as a swipe.) So, here I am, down in the kitchen, typing away, and now and then, I hear a pop, or a creak. I'm usually not too timid when I'm alone in the house. I mean, we live in a lively area full of watchful and active neighbors, so I'm normally confident that the boogeyman won't barge in and suck my brains out. But, tonight ... well, there are too many noises for me to be comfortable. I've already walked around the house, barely breathing, waiting to see a moth hit the window or hear the icemaker clunk. But, every time I sit back down to the computer, I hear something like a shuffle or a pop from far in the house, and my heart stops. BefoSo, here I am, down in the kitchen, typing away, and now and then, I hear a pop, or a creak. I'm usually not too timid when I'm alone in the house. I mean, we live in a lively area full of watchful and active neighbors, so I'm normally confident that the boogeyman won't barge in and suck my brains out. But, tonight ... well, there are too many noises for me to be comfortable. I've already walked around the house, barely breathing, waiting to see a moth hit the window or hear the icemaker clunk. But, every time I sit back down to the computer, I hear something like a shuffle or a pop from far in the house, and my heart stops. Before I started hearing things, it did not help that I watched the coming attractions trailer for the new remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre that will be hitting cinemas this Halloween. Horror movies don't really scare me that much, but the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre disturbed me to no end. And, the remake – while it may prove to be horrendous moviemaking – still has a trailer that gives me the willies. Take my advice: Do NOT watch the trailer for the remake while you are in the house alone late at night. I can remember – and I'm not exaggerating – crouching beneath the seats at the Melba Theatre when the trailer for the original Chainsaw ran before some movie back in 1974. I would have been around eight, and the sight of Leatherface – the ghoulish chainsaw-wielding madman – running through the thorny bushes of backwoods Texas in the preview spooked me like no other cinematic fiend before. Take your Dracula, Wolfman and Frankenstein – Leatherface managed to creep into more of my childhood nightmares than any of those other sinister wimps. When I finally saw the original Chainsaw, I could not have seen it at a more appropriate place: the White River Drive-In, in an old pick-up with my best friend and his older brother. There, under the n trailer for the original Chainsaw ran before some movie back in 1974. I would have been around eight, and the sight of Leatherface – the ghoulish chainsaw-wielding madman – running through the thorny bushes of backwoods Texas in the preview spooked me like no other cinematic fiend before. Take your Dracula, Wolfman and Frankenstein – Leatherface managed to creep into more of my childhood nightmares than any of those other sinister wimps. When I finally saw the original Chainsaw, I could not have seen it at a more appropriate place: the White River Drive-In, in an old pick-up with my best friend and his older brother. There, under the night sky, somewhat out in the country, I experienced the full gothic horror of the cannibalistic family that preyed on young hitchhikers in the darkness. Surprisingly, there wasn't much gore in the movie, only an air of dread and freakish evil that was harrowing. A few years later, when a bunch of high school friends rented a video of the movie, I lasted the first five minutes, and I was out of there. It's the only movie that really left me somewhat distressed and anxious after I had seen it. And so, here I am, alone at night, sufficiently spooked having watched a trailer for the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Why in the world could I not have left well enough alone? Oh well, I'm getting ready to e-mail this column to the office. If, by some horrific chance, I happen to have disappeared by the time this reaches the pages of Arkansas Weekly, please go looking for a man named Leatherface. Shouldn't be hard to find. Might be wearing a blood-splattered apron and a mask made of human flesh. And, for goodness sake, don't eat any sausage purchased from strangers. * * * Top Five 1. A $4 million apology. Los Angeles Lakers star Kobe Bryant, who as most know is charged with rape in Colorado, recentlin the world could I not have left well enough alone? Oh well, I'm getting ready to e-mail this column to the office. If, by some horrific chance, I happen to have disappeared by the time this reaches the pages of Arkansas Weekly, please go looking for a man named Leatherface. Shouldn't be hard to find. Might be wearing a blood-splattered apron and a mask made of human flesh. And, for goodness sake, don't eat any sausage purchased from strangers. * * * Top Five 1. A $4 million apology. Los Angeles Lakers star Kobe Bryant, who as most know is charged with rape in Colorado, recently purchased a $4 million ring for his wife, Vanessa. I suppose this would be for his admission that while he did not rape his accuser, he did have consensual sex with her. Why does the gift of this expensive ring seem cheap, a vulgar penance for the worst betrayal in matrimony? In a perfect world, of course, all of this is none of our business. But when the media salivates and obsesses over the tawdry fall of a man once thought to be a perfect representation of decency, stories like these can't help but appeal to our hidden ugly sides. 2. The Rolling Stones Killed My Computer. My computer at work bit the dust this week. Apparently, my, um, "research" into the music download site, KaZaa, resulted in a chunk of bug-infested files. Would these downloaded files be from the music industry? Some recent articles have noted that record companies might be releasing corrupted song files to crash computers and, theoretically, dissuade illegal song swappers from using sites like KaZaa, though the record companies deny this. Regardless, my computer is dead, and some of the problems can be traced to some of the songs I downloaded for, um, "research." 3. The Rolling Stones Killed My Computer Part 2. One of the insane realities of computers is the rate at which they become obsolete.t;research" into the music download site, KaZaa, resulted in a chunk of bug-infested files. Would these downloaded files be from the music industry? Some recent articles have noted that record companies might be releasing corrupted song files to crash computers and, theoretically, dissuade illegal song swappers from using sites like KaZaa, though the record companies deny this. Regardless, my computer is dead, and some of the problems can be traced to some of the songs I downloaded for, um, "research." 3. The Rolling Stones Killed My Computer Part 2. One of the insane realities of computers is the rate at which they become obsolete. We bought my now-departed computer four years ago, and when W.R.D. Entertainment's office manager tried to rebuild its guts, she found most of the drivers (software) that supported the hardware were no longer to be found anywhere. Practically everything was out of date. This, of course, is a conspiracy by all of the major computer manufacturers to ensure one buys new computers on a consistent basis! Somewhere, in the computer industry, there's an Oliver Stone movie waiting to happen. 4. The Curse of Quixote. A wonderful DVD one might want to rent is Lost in La Mancha, the documentary about the making of a Johnny Depp movie called The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, directed by famed filmmaker Terry Gilliam (Brazil, Time Bandits, Twelve Monkeys). Actually, it's a documentary about the un-making of the movie. Everything that could go wrong during a film production went wrong during the filming of the now-abandoned movie, and a video crew was there to capture every breakdown. While one feels awful for Gilliam and company watching the movie, you still can't help but laugh at each successive dilemma that strikes the crew. At the end, even Gilliam is reduced to a frazzled, laughing daze from the horrendous luck that had befallen his project. 5. The Hussein Brothers. It's Man Who Killed Don Quixote, directed by famed filmmaker Terry Gilliam (Brazil, Time Bandits, Twelve Monkeys). Actually, it's a documentary about the un-making of the movie. Everything that could go wrong during a film production went wrong during the filming of the now-abandoned movie, and a video crew was there to capture every breakdown. While one feels awful for Gilliam and company watching the movie, you still can't help but laugh at each successive dilemma that strikes the crew. At the end, even Gilliam is reduced to a frazzled, laughing daze from the horrendous luck that had befallen his project. 5. The Hussein Brothers. It's still somewhat hard to fathom that people criticized the move by the Pentagon to release photos of the bodies of the deceased sons of Saddam. The Iraqi people are already paranoid that the former regime will return, so what better way would there be to help convince them that some of their former oppressors are now ugly, bloated cadavers? July 16, 2003 I am in the midst of painful realization – a realization that completely crushes my sense of self-esteem while also setting the stage of what lies ahead. Try as I might, I cannot escape the fact that gravity always comes out ahead. Let us, if you please, go back to last week's issue of Arkansas Weekly, specifically the front page. There, you will find a photo collage of moments from the first Southern Rock Throwdown, the concert featuring Jackyl, Georgia Satellites and other rock acts that was at the Batesville Speedway a few weeks ago. In the upper left corner of the collage, you will find a picture of me standing with fellow Max announcer, Gardner. I am standing to the right, my cheap sunglasses perched atop my big basketball-sized head. For the benefit of those unwilling to search for last week's paper, you will find the
picture in question below. There, you will find a photo collage of moments from the first Southern Rock Throwdown, the concert featuring Jackyl, Georgia Satellites and other rock acts that was at the Batesville Speedway a few weeks ago. In the upper left corner of the collage, you will find a picture of me standing with fellow Max announcer, Gardner. I am standing to the right, my cheap sunglasses perched atop my big basketball-sized head. For the benefit of those unwilling to search for last week's paper, you will find the
picture in question below. Well, this picture has effectively blown to smithereens my carefully cultivated and maintained image of myself as a thin, stunning-looking young man with the all-important washboard abdomen and striking features. If I were a celebrity and employed an expensive public relations agency, a picture such as this would have never made the papers. Why, I would not have approved of its release! For, as one can plainly see, I am beginning to look like an average middle aged man, complete with horrible posture and a well-rounded gut. (Note, if you will, my plaid shirt, picked for its youthful and baggy "skateboard" look, clearly clinging to my protruded stomach. Horrifying!) Now, it should be said that, when in the company of others, I try to mask my large stomach by standing ramrod straight and sucking it in tight. It goes without saying that, personally, I'd like to think of my "look" as comparable to say … Brad Pitt, or perhaps, Sting. It is painfully clear, however, that I am slowly morphing into Art Carney. Oh, well. Vanity, besides being a shallow thing, is for those years younger than me. I am happily married and in no need to please anyone. So, let the belly exlaid shirt, picked for its youthful and baggy "skateboard" look, clearly clinging to my protruded stomach. Horrifying!) Now, it should be said that, when in the company of others, I try to mask my large stomach by standing ramrod straight and sucking it in tight. It goes without saying that, personally, I'd like to think of my "look" as comparable to say … Brad Pitt, or perhaps, Sting. It is painfully clear, however, that I am slowly morphing into Art Carney. Oh, well. Vanity, besides being a shallow thing, is for those years younger than me. I am happily married and in no need to please anyone. So, let the belly expand. Let the chin swell. Let the hair turn to white. Let… Oh wait a minute … not the hair. Anyway, I shall remain comfortable in my physical self, as it slowly ages and yields to gravity. And, if I ever feel the need to look "pumped" in front of others, I will suck it up and smile. (Suck up my chin and suck in my belly, that is.) Top Five 1. Yip-freakin-ee. Simon Cowell, that obnoxious British fake, who happens to be one of the obnoxious fake judges on that obnoxious and fake and vapid and rancid and vile and inane and stupid and just plain pathetic show, American Idol, has signed a contract for three more years on the (PLACE OBSCENE WORD ENDING IN "ING" HERE) series. This, of course, means two things: 1) That we have to put up with seeing that smug mug of his on checkout aisle magazines for the next three years, and 2) That we also have to put up with hearing about American Idol for the next three years. 2. You're Kidding Me! I was shocked – shocked – to find out that Britney Spears is no longer a virgin! Surely this is an elaborate hoax. Sweet, innocent Britney is no longer a virgin? C'mon! The next thing someone will probably try to tell me is that Richard Chamberlain is gay. a contract for three more years on the (PLACE OBSCENE WORD ENDING IN "ING" HERE) series. This, of course, means two things: 1) That we have to put up with seeing that smug mug of his on checkout aisle magazines for the next three years, and 2) That we also have to put up with hearing about American Idol for the next three years. 2. You're Kidding Me! I was shocked – shocked – to find out that Britney Spears is no longer a virgin! Surely this is an elaborate hoax. Sweet, innocent Britney is no longer a virgin? C'mon! The next thing someone will probably try to tell me is that Richard Chamberlain is gay. 3. Richard Chamberlain, Um, Is Gay. Oh. 4. Who Cares? Yes, Britney recently told some interviewer that she lost her virginity to Justin Timberlake, and Richard Chamberlain has revealed in his new autobiography that he's gay. I mean, really, who cares? When celebrities start to reveal "shocking" or "surprising" things about themselves that are, in the grand scheme, completely insignificant, it's usually a sign that they are close to falling off the cultural radar – if they haven't already. Britney's had sex, Chamberlain's gay, and Demi Moore likes young studs. Big whoop. Pop culture vultures feed off this stuff, and in the process, plant the faces of b-list stars all over the place to sell their magazines and gain big ratings. Meanwhile, these personalities creep back in the spotlight, if only for a moment, before they fade away and become the latest "Celebrity Guest Judge" on American Idol, or pop up in some infomercial at 3 a.m. 5. Sausage Abuse. What in the heck is this world coming to when sausage people are attacked by major league baseball players? Look, we all know that sausage people are individuals with a severe handicap to overcome – the elongated bodies, the inability to fit into normal automobiles, and of course, the fact nd in the process, plant the faces of b-list stars all over the place to sell their magazines and gain big ratings. Meanwhile, these personalities creep back in the spotlight, if only for a moment, before they fade away and become the latest "Celebrity Guest Judge" on American Idol, or pop up in some infomercial at 3 a.m. 5. Sausage Abuse. What in the heck is this world coming to when sausage people are attacked by major league baseball players? Look, we all know that sausage people are individuals with a severe handicap to overcome – the elongated bodies, the inability to fit into normal automobiles, and of course, the fact that they are edible, but what sane soul can justify Pittsburgh Pirates first baseman Randall Simon's unprovoked attack on that poor sausage person at last week's Brewers game? I'm sure, by now, that most of you have seen the horrifying video of Simon swinging the bat at the back of one sausage, causing the poor thing to stumble to her knees. It's an image seared into my psyche. And, it's also a sick example of those who continue to see sausage people as freaks that also happen to be tasty with scrambled eggs. July 9, 2003 I'm certainly no expert … but: we all know by now that, back in May, President Bush declared Operation Iraqi Freedom officially over. Never mind the fact that, as of this writing (July 1, 2003), Allied troops are still being sent home in body bags, and no weapons of mass destruction have been found, yet the president is still insistent that the United States operations in Iraq are going well. I was reluctantly for the war. I was convinced that WMDs were in Iraqi hands and, more than that, I was convinced that ridding the world of an oppressive dictator that slaughters his own people was a good thing. Of course, there are other madmen in power (Omar Hassan Ahmed al-Bashir in Sudan immediately comes to mind) that would be better off Bush declared Operation Iraqi Freedom officially over. Never mind the fact that, as of this writing (July 1, 2003), Allied troops are still being sent home in body bags, and no weapons of mass destruction have been found, yet the president is still insistent that the United States operations in Iraq are going well. I was reluctantly for the war. I was convinced that WMDs were in Iraqi hands and, more than that, I was convinced that ridding the world of an oppressive dictator that slaughters his own people was a good thing. Of course, there are other madmen in power (Omar Hassan Ahmed al-Bashir in Sudan immediately comes to mind) that would be better off deposed or in a ditch somewhere with a bullet in their head, but a major military operation in such countries will likely never happen. Saddam, though, had been a thorn in the side of the free world for many a year. Plus, his overthrow would have shown other thug-led countries that the Allies (basically the U.S., Spain, Australia, and our good friends, the Brits) were serious about fighting terrorism, particularly those in the so-called "Axis of Evil." Of course, with Operation Iraqi Freedom there were horrifying instances of civilian casualties. No war, with all of the state of the art technology, can avoid such bloodletting. On both sides, children lost their parents, parents lost their children, and suffering reigned. War sucks and should be damned from the human experience. Yet the balance between letting a madman continue to reign with torture and deaths of innocents and the appalling violence on the front end with a reasonable peace on the back end is delicate and painful to consider. So, having Saddam dead or ripped of his leadership is, I still think, a good thing for the Iraqi people in the long haul. However, the inability of the Allies to find WMDs is another, more troubling, effect of this war. If no WMDs are found, then we will find ourselves up a type of creek that res, children lost their parents, parents lost their children, and suffering reigned. War sucks and should be damned from the human experience. Yet the balance between letting a madman continue to reign with torture and deaths of innocents and the appalling violence on the front end with a reasonable peace on the back end is delicate and painful to consider. So, having Saddam dead or ripped of his leadership is, I still think, a good thing for the Iraqi people in the long haul. However, the inability of the Allies to find WMDs is another, more troubling, effect of this war. If no WMDs are found, then we will find ourselves up a type of creek that rhymes with slit and up that creek without a paddle. Our credibility will be bankrupt, and our president might be another single term Bush. Not finding any WMDs, after we utilized their supposed existence for a credible and strong argument for the war, will be a stain that will take years, if not decades, to fade from our history. The optimist in me says they'll turn up. The realist in me is beginning to think the opposite. *** Top Five. 1.The Not-So Jolly Green Giant. Last week in my Movies and DVDs column, I noted there were some folks on the Web raving that the new film adaptation of the Hulk comic book series was likely the best comic book flick ever. Well, after seeing Ang Lee's Hulk, I can say that those folks are severely misguided. It's simply a two and a half hour movie with about 20 minutes of wonderfully filmed Hulk action sandwiched between a really lame and slow story. After The Matrix Reloaded, X-Men 2, and Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, Hulk is just another mega-budget flick that will struggle to make its money back. With a string of costly flops this summer, perhaps the idiots that run the Hollywood studios will wise up and invest in quality and originality. (Nick Nolte's performance ion of the Hulk comic book series was likely the best comic book flick ever. Well, after seeing Ang Lee's Hulk, I can say that those folks are severely misguided. It's simply a two and a half hour movie with about 20 minutes of wonderfully filmed Hulk action sandwiched between a really lame and slow story. After The Matrix Reloaded, X-Men 2, and Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, Hulk is just another mega-budget flick that will struggle to make its money back. With a string of costly flops this summer, perhaps the idiots that run the Hollywood studios will wise up and invest in quality and originality. (Nick Nolte's performance in Hulk is fun, though.) 2. Makes Me Wanna Holler. Look, I know I'm not a teenager any more, and most pop music is not aimed at folks my age, but I must say that the hit song "Get Busy" by Sean Paul is the most irritating hit record since "Puttin' on the Ritz" by some guy named Taco. I've only heard the "Get Busy" song twice, and each time I'm convinced that playing this song loudly and continuously in the Guantanamo Bay prison camp would be the most effective means of torture. 3. Number One. It's official. Little Rock's own Evanescence has a bona-fide Number One on the Billboard Top 40 charts. "Bring Me to Life," the band's debut single, has been at the top of the charts for, at least, the past two weeks. And to think their first Arkansas concert since their success was right here in little 'ol Batesville. 4. Stop, Look and Listen, Baby. That's My Philosophy. The estate of Elvis Presley and RCA Records are preparing another Elvis anthology to follow up last year's hugely successful collection of The King's No. One hits. The sequel, to be titled Elvis 2nd to None, will hit stores Oct. 8, and the highlight of the CD will be a remixed version of my all-time favorite Elvis B-side, "Rubberneckin'." I still have my "Bring Me to Life," the band's debut single, has been at the top of the charts for, at least, the past two weeks. And to think their first Arkansas concert since their success was right here in little 'ol Batesville. 4. Stop, Look and Listen, Baby. That's My Philosophy. The estate of Elvis Presley and RCA Records are preparing another Elvis anthology to follow up last year's hugely successful collection of The King's No. One hits. The sequel, to be titled Elvis 2nd to None, will hit stores Oct. 8, and the highlight of the CD will be a remixed version of my all-time favorite Elvis B-side, "Rubberneckin'." I still have my orange RCA 45-rpm single of "Rubberneckin'," the flip side of "Don't Cry Daddy." It's a funked-up rocker that found the King back on top of his game after a string of horrendous singles called from some of his movies. I'm looking forward to this baby being released. Thank you, RCA. 5. Speaking of "Rubberneckin'." "Rubberneckin'" comes from the 1968 film, Change of Habit, which featured Mary Tyler Moore as an inner-city nun who is tempted by studly doctor John Carpenter, played, of course, by Elvis. I remember seeing this movie at the Melba when I was a kid, and there are two interesting bits of trivia regarding the movie. First, the Rev. Billy Graham was actually going to direct this movie, but pulled out at the last moment. Second, Elvis turned down a starring role in another movie to make Change of Habit. The other movie? 1969's Academy Award winner for Best Picture and the only X-rated flick to ever win that award, Midnight Cowboy. July 2, 2003 Vacations are rarely vacations these days, particularly when you have young ones along for the ride. Relaxation, rest and a complete sense of being care-free should be the norm when one hits the road. But, when one is awakened at the ivia regarding the movie. First, the Rev. Billy Graham was actually going to direct this movie, but pulled out at the last moment. Second, Elvis turned down a starring role in another movie to make Change of Habit. The other movie? 1969's Academy Award winner for Best Picture and the only X-rated flick to ever win that award, Midnight Cowboy. July 2, 2003 Vacations are rarely vacations these days, particularly when you have young ones along for the ride. Relaxation, rest and a complete sense of being care-free should be the norm when one hits the road. But, when one is awakened at the break of day by a grinning 5-year-old runt saying, "You wanna piece of me?" and who then proceeds to jump on top of you, ready to wrestle – well, then, one's definition of vacation exists only in dictionaries. Of course, I'm not complaining. In fact, this vacation had to have been the most enjoyable in terms of simply sitting back and watching our two kids enjoy themselves to no end. Endless bike journeys, mornings at the beach, long afternoons at the pool – the children had no problem cramming the days full with kid stuff. What kills me, though, is the drive. Now, of course, most who know me know that I set the standard for general wimpiness. Some folks make 12-hour drives every week and don't complain. I, on the other hand, consider the drive to Memphis to be as grueling as the Shackleton expedition. So, a trip to the Florida panhandle is something I look to with the same excitement as a wisdom tooth extraction. We usually drive to Birmingham the first day, spend the night, and then head on the next day. Each trip, I've downloaded directions from Microsoft Expedia, and each trip we get lost. But, I'm not sure it's Microsoft's fault, as it is Birmingham's. Put it this way: If you journey to Birmingham, Ala., without any type of map, you, my friend, are a moron. Birm general wimpiness. Some folks make 12-hour drives every week and don't complain. I, on the other hand, consider the drive to Memphis to be as grueling as the Shackleton expedition. So, a trip to the Florida panhandle is something I look to with the same excitement as a wisdom tooth extraction. We usually drive to Birmingham the first day, spend the night, and then head on the next day. Each trip, I've downloaded directions from Microsoft Expedia, and each trip we get lost. But, I'm not sure it's Microsoft's fault, as it is Birmingham's. Put it this way: If you journey to Birmingham, Ala., without any type of map, you, my friend, are a moron. Birmingham is a maze of interstates designed by engineers who are now, I'm confident, somewhere in Hell – banished there for completely incoherent highway traffic plans and patterns. I won't go into what exactly is wrong with the Birmingham freeways, but it's safe to say that, when you think you are close to your destination, you are most likely about 23 miles away on the other side of town. (Sure, there are some of you who think I might be exaggerating a bit, who think I might be the one to blame, that the traffic infrastructure in Birmingham is perfectly coherent. I would counter with the simple fact that there are, per capita, more traffic accidents from median crossings and U-turns in Birmingham than in any other city in any continental state that begins with the two letters, "A" and "L." So, there.) Other than that, though, Birmingham is a beautiful town. I love it. A big chunk of it sits in a valley while other sections are scattered across the lush, green hillsides. There's also a new shopping complex called The Summit that is full of wonderful shops and tasty restaurants. A trip to Birmingham alone would be a nice vacation. Anyway, back to the drive. On our way home, we thought we would take a detour through northern Alabama to visit Tuscumbia, a little town about 30 m from median crossings and U-turns in Birmingham than in any other city in any continental state that begins with the two letters, "A" and "L." So, there.) Other than that, though, Birmingham is a beautiful town. I love it. A big chunk of it sits in a valley while other sections are scattered across the lush, green hillsides. There's also a new shopping complex called The Summit that is full of wonderful shops and tasty restaurants. A trip to Birmingham alone would be a nice vacation. Anyway, back to the drive. On our way home, we thought we would take a detour through northern Alabama to visit Tuscumbia, a little town about 30 miles from the Mississippi border. Tuscumbia is the birthplace of Helen Keller, and our 7-year-old daughter is currently very interested in the life of that miraculous figure. At Tuscumbia, the childhood home of Ms. Keller, Ivy Green, is open for tours, and it is reportedly a sight to see – beautifully maintained and full of historical items regarding the life of Ms. Keller and her "miracle worker" teacher, Anne Sullivan. It even has the original water pump in the backyard at which the young Helen first truly communicated with Anne. In Birmingham, we called the Tuscumbia Chamber of Commerce and were told that Ivy Green closes the doors at 4. It was around noon, and Tuscumbia would be about a 2-hour drive. Plenty of time. We thought. About an hour outside of Birmingham, zooming up a crowded state highway, my wife and I, at the same time, noticed how rough this particular stretch of road was. "Why don't you see if the other lane is smoother," my wife said. I merged, and the ride became noticeably rougher and the steering wheel began to tremble. We both turned to each other with a weary, yet resigned, look: a flat. I pulled over on the shoulder as far as I could, hopped out, and found the front passenger tire crumpled. The prospect of me, a mars at 4. It was around noon, and Tuscumbia would be about a 2-hour drive. Plenty of time. We thought. About an hour outside of Birmingham, zooming up a crowded state highway, my wife and I, at the same time, noticed how rough this particular stretch of road was. "Why don't you see if the other lane is smoother," my wife said. I merged, and the ride became noticeably rougher and the steering wheel began to tremble. We both turned to each other with a weary, yet resigned, look: a flat. I pulled over on the shoulder as far as I could, hopped out, and found the front passenger tire crumpled. The prospect of me, a man fooled by the notion that there are such things as $150 muffler stabilizers, changing a flat is similar to the notion of someone such as, say, RuPaul, changing a flat. Needless to say, a nice fellow from AAA pulled up about 45 minutes after our cell phone call, and changed the sucker for us in 10 minutes. We were back on the road, cruising toward Tuscumbia. But, nature called. We pulled into a gas station, and I took the opportunity to top off the gas tank. For some reason, my wife had to get something out of the back of our SUV, where all the accumulated luggage, food, packages, cooler and other junk from the journey was stored. She found what she was searching for, pulled it out and noticed it was soaking wet. It then hit me: the cooler. I dug my hand between some suitcases and dirty clothes, and finally found the ice chest. I reached for the drain nozzle. Ice cold water freely flowed out over my fingers. The floor of the back was soaked – along with much of our stuff. Could this journey get any worse? Is the Pope Catholic? After breaking every speed limit along the way, we pulled into Tuscumiba at 4:15. The Ivy Green gates were locked. Disappointed, my wife and I looked through to the gorgeous and painstakingly restored birthplace of Helen Keller and turned to our dwas searching for, pulled it out and noticed it was soaking wet. It then hit me: the cooler. I dug my hand between some suitcases and dirty clothes, and finally found the ice chest. I reached for the drain nozzle. Ice cold water freely flowed out over my fingers. The floor of the back was soaked – along with much of our stuff. Could this journey get any worse? Is the Pope Catholic? After breaking every speed limit along the way, we pulled into Tuscumiba at 4:15. The Ivy Green gates were locked. Disappointed, my wife and I looked through to the gorgeous and painstakingly restored birthplace of Helen Keller and turned to our daughter in the back seat. "I am so sorry, Sweetie," I said. "I promise Daddy will take you back here later this summer. I promise." She glanced to me with a bemused, indifferent look. "Oh, that's OK, Daddy," she said. "I never really cared about seeing it, anyway. Thanks, though." June 11, 2003 I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the sharpest tack on the bulletin board when it comes to auto maintenance. In high school, it amazed me that my best friend could get up under his Toyota Celica and actually change his own oil. Heck, back then, I didn't even know that the oil had to be changed – which would explain that constant "burnt" smell under the hood of my beloved 1984 Pontiac Firebird. Anyway, the other day, I took my vehicle to Wholesale Tire Outlet to get the oil changed. It was the first time I had used Wholesale for a service, and everyone said they do top-notch work. Plus, they advertise with us, and I always like to do business with folks who do business with us. Thirty minutes after I had dropped it off, Jeff from Wholesale called me at the office. "Rob," he said. "The guys put your vehicle up on the rack and noticed yo, back then, I didn't even know that the oil had to be changed – which would explain that constant "burnt" smell under the hood of my beloved 1984 Pontiac Firebird. Anyway, the other day, I took my vehicle to Wholesale Tire Outlet to get the oil changed. It was the first time I had used Wholesale for a service, and everyone said they do top-notch work. Plus, they advertise with us, and I always like to do business with folks who do business with us. Thirty minutes after I had dropped it off, Jeff from Wholesale called me at the office. "Rob," he said. "The guys put your vehicle up on the rack and noticed your muffler stabilizers were worn out and needed replacing." "Oh," I said. "How much are we talking about?" "Well, there's four of 'em at $124 each, and then with the labor, it'll come to about $784.84." "Whooah. Now … uh … what do these thing s… these …" "Muffler stabilizers," Jeff said. "Yeah, muffler stabilizers. What do they do?" "Well, if you're driving down the road, and they're worn out, your muffler could fall off." Considering that I was getting ready to drive to Little Rock, and considering that Wholesale Tire's reputation for honesty was second to none, I reluctantly told Jeff to replace my muffler stabilizers. At least I wouldn't have to worry about my muffler falling off when I drove to Little Rock. I'd have brand new muffler stabilizers. But $784.84 sounded steep. I asked Matt Johnson, the W.R.D. Entertainment sales director, if he had ever heard of a muffler stabilizer replacement running so high. "Oh yeah," he said. "Well, what do they do?" "Stabilize the muffler," he said, like I was a moron to ask. "Federal law from 1998 said all vehicles need them. Something aboutesale Tire's reputation for honesty was second to none, I reluctantly told Jeff to replace my muffler stabilizers. At least I wouldn't have to worry about my muffler falling off when I drove to Little Rock. I'd have brand new muffler stabilizers. But $784.84 sounded steep. I asked Matt Johnson, the W.R.D. Entertainment sales director, if he had ever heard of a muffler stabilizer replacement running so high. "Oh yeah," he said. "Well, what do they do?" "Stabilize the muffler," he said, like I was a moron to ask. "Federal law from 1998 said all vehicles need them. Something about emissions." Not satisfied, I hit the Web. I did a search on "muffler stabilizers," and only came up with three references from the Internet. One of the references stated that muffler stabilizers were $1.50 each. $1.50 – not $124. Reluctantly, I went to allexperts.com, a site where one can ask auto mechanics about certain types of repair. I asked if $780 was in the ballpark for muffler stabilizer replacement. By then, I was wondering if Wholesale Tire's reputation was really as squeaky clean as it had been made out to be. But I kept coming back to the fact that muffler stabilizers were $1.50 each. I thought for a second. Practical jokes are the norm around the office, and Lisa Smith, a longtime victim of jokes perpetrated by yours truly, knew I had taken my vehicle in for a service. I called her. She fessed up. I called Wholesale. They fessed up. Matt was in on it, too. Muffler stabilizers. What an idiot. But to all those who might work on a vehicle of mine in the coming months and years, be warned. I'm taking an Auto 101 class through the Internet. And I'm still waiting on a reply from the mechanic at allexperts.com. He's probably still laughing50 each. I thought for a second. Practical jokes are the norm around the office, and Lisa Smith, a longtime victim of jokes perpetrated by yours truly, knew I had taken my vehicle in for a service. I called her. She fessed up. I called Wholesale. They fessed up. Matt was in on it, too. Muffler stabilizers. What an idiot. But to all those who might work on a vehicle of mine in the coming months and years, be warned. I'm taking an Auto 101 class through the Internet. And I'm still waiting on a reply from the mechanic at allexperts.com. He's probably still laughing too hard to answer. * * * Our little boy has had a cold, and each night when he goes to bed, he always fights a runny nose. He's not yet to the point where he can adequately blow his nose, and he hates the cold medicine, so he gets a bit upset when the sniffles appear. The other night, he whined and whined about his nose, when finally he said: "Oh, God – why did you make boogers?!?" It's a good question, I suppose. But at least He wasn't responsible for faulty muffler stabilizers. * * * I'm taking a week or three off in this space. I hope to be back by the end of June. Happy summer. June 4, 2003 Sometimes it stinks when the "bottom line" leads to unfortunate and unwanted goodbyes. Plant closings, job layoffs, reduced opportunities – all of these things are regrettable byproducts of Business 101. Which brings us to the corner of Asher and University in Little Rock. There, catty-cornered from a strip center long past its prime, is the odd-looking domed building sitting in front of a huge, narrow steel marquee that towers above the parking lot. The sign reads UA Cinema 150, and below, in coff in this space. I hope to be back by the end of June. Happy summer. June 4, 2003 Sometimes it stinks when the "bottom line" leads to unfortunate and unwanted goodbyes. Plant closings, job layoffs, reduced opportunities – all of these things are regrettable byproducts of Business 101. Which brings us to the corner of Asher and University in Little Rock. There, catty-cornered from a strip center long past its prime, is the odd-looking domed building sitting in front of a huge, narrow steel marquee that towers above the parking lot. The sign reads UA Cinema 150, and below, in crooked plastic letters: THANKS FOR 35 YEARS. The Cinema 150 was a landmark from my youth. I was a movie-hungry kid who always jumped at the chance to see big wide-screen epics on that vast curved screen. If the movies were huge, I likely saw them at the Cinema 150: The Towering Inferno, Superman, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Raiders of the Lost Ark, The Empire Strikes Back, Alien, The Untouchables, Lawrence of Arabia. And they were usually presented in 70MM – a stunning way to view movies that, for some reason, has disappeared with time. (The probable reason 70MM has all but disappeared likely has to do with the popularity of the IMAX format, as well as – again – the bottom line. The cost of striking 70MM prints is costly – when Paramount studios would not budget for commercial 70MM prints of Titanic, that film's director, James Cameron, decided to pay for them out of his own pocket. But this is another column.) Seeing a movie at the 150 usually meant that film was an event. Heading up one of the long sloped walkways to the actual stadium cinema, there was always a tingle of anticipation. The majority of the time, the 150 was the only theatre in town playing a particular movie, and if it was opening weekend, the lines would be long and the crowds excited.< IMAX format, as well as – again – the bottom line. The cost of striking 70MM prints is costly – when Paramount studios would not budget for commercial 70MM prints of Titanic, that film's director, James Cameron, decided to pay for them out of his own pocket. But this is another column.) Seeing a movie at the 150 usually meant that film was an event. Heading up one of the long sloped walkways to the actual stadium cinema, there was always a tingle of anticipation. The majority of the time, the 150 was the only theatre in town playing a particular movie, and if it was opening weekend, the lines would be long and the crowds excited. As the 1990s rolled around, theatre competition changed. Stadium seats and big screens became the standard for most modern day multiplexes, while single screen cinemas like the 150 shuttered across the country. In the early part of the last decade, some major money was invested to re-model the 150, and the theatre almost looked as if it was a brand new facility. But the location of the Cinema 150 was not the best. The crowds began to dwindle, and when the spectacular new movie complex, The Rave, opened a few miles away, the end was near. A week or two ago, the projectors quietly stopped, and the doors were locked. Let me tell you how much the Cinema 150 is ingrained in my self. For the past few years, I've had recurring dreams that I'm at the 150. About two other people are there watching a movie with me, and as we watch, workers are slowly dismantling the building. As the walls are removed and the daylight filters inside, I'm sitting there trying figure out some way to make them stop – to put back the walls, to stabilize the structure, to let it be. Becoming sentimental about an old movie house seems silly. But one really didn't see a movie at the 150, one experienced it. And those experiences, highlights of my youth, are now long gone. In a perfect world, so much the Cinema 150 is ingrained in my self. For the past few years, I've had recurring dreams that I'm at the 150. About two other people are there watching a movie with me, and as we watch, workers are slowly dismantling the building. As the walls are removed and the daylight filters inside, I'm sitting there trying figure out some way to make them stop – to put back the walls, to stabilize the structure, to let it be. Becoming sentimental about an old movie house seems silly. But one really didn't see a movie at the 150, one experienced it. And those experiences, highlights of my youth, are now long gone. In a perfect world, some generous millionaire might come along, buy the 150, and restore it to show classic movies from the theatre's heyday, somewhat like Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen did with Seattle's Cinerama theatre, or Warren Stephens is currently doing with the old Center theatre in downtown Little Rock. But the pessimistic side of me says the building will be rubble before we know it. The last movie I viewed at the 150 was the re-release of one of my all time favorite films, Apocalypse Now. It was a charge to see that cerebral war epic in the perfect dark and cavernous atmosphere of the Cinema 150. At the end of that 1979 movie, Marlon Brando's compound is burned and blasted to the ground to the accompaniment of eerie electronic music. It's a stunning sequence of destruction that goes on for minutes and minutes without a single word, as trees, statues, and empty ancient dwellings fall, crumble and burn away. And then, while the screen is filled with vibrant colors and images of destruction, the film quietly and peacefully fades to black. * * * The Top Five is on hiatus. It's becoming somewhat of a chore to come up with silly mundane things from my week. (Yeah, I know how pathetic that sounds, but give me a break.) Let me lay off it for a o's compound is burned and blasted to the ground to the accompaniment of eerie electronic music. It's a stunning sequence of destruction that goes on for minutes and minutes without a single word, as trees, statues, and empty ancient dwellings fall, crumble and burn away. And then, while the screen is filled with vibrant colors and images of destruction, the film quietly and peacefully fades to black. * * * The Top Five is on hiatus. It's becoming somewhat of a chore to come up with silly mundane things from my week. (Yeah, I know how pathetic that sounds, but give me a break.) Let me lay off it for a bit, and allow my batteries to recharge through the summer. It will appear whenever I get the hankering. * * * A footnote to the Cinema 150 story: After I had written the piece, I ran across a story in the May 23 edition of Arkansas Times which stated that renovation on the Center theatre has come to a standstill. The presence of a homeless shelter across the street from the Center, the paper noted, might be one reason. Developer Warren Stephens told the Times that, while the homeless shelter might not be the most real estate-friendly neighbor in terms of property values, its presence was not the reason for the halt. Stephens says they're only trying to figure out what the focus of the Center should be once it is opened. An open note to Warren Stephens: Boy, Mr. Stephens, doesn't that empty dome-shaped theatre at Asher and University look like a fun investment?!? Classic movies in a great theatre? Of course, you would likely not make any money, but hey…that's what tax write-offs are for. May 28, 2003 When the storms of May 16 zipped through town, I was sitting at my desk enjoying a cup of fresh hot coffee, getting ready for a productive day. My "to-do" list was lengthy, a reason for the halt. Stephens says they're only trying to figure out what the focus of the Center should be once it is opened. An open note to Warren Stephens: Boy, Mr. Stephens, doesn't that empty dome-shaped theatre at Asher and University look like a fun investment?!? Classic movies in a great theatre? Of course, you would likely not make any money, but hey…that's what tax write-offs are for. May 28, 2003 When the storms of May 16 zipped through town, I was sitting at my desk enjoying a cup of fresh hot coffee, getting ready for a productive day. My "to-do" list was lengthy, and I was itching to start going. But, as most of you know, the lightning that Friday morning was fierce and constant, seemingly shooting down from the dark clouds every five seconds or so. Gary Bridgman, the general manager, and I were visiting about some radio technical stuff when a quick flash flickered outside my office window. I had just finished taking a swig of coffee when the sound of a loud explosion roared through the building – BAMMMMM! Then, a split-split second later, my television popped like a cherry bomb. I've tried to remember if it was the initial boom, or the firecracker pop of the television set that caused my body to levitate from the chair and my coffee to rain across my desktop that was, as usual, scattered with papers, tablets and pens. Whichever colossal bang it was, there's a good chance that if I happened to be with a full bladder at that moment – well, you know the rest. The strike positively mucked up the day. Most of you know that, in addition to publishing Arkansas Weekly, we here at W.R.D. Entertainment also operate five area radio stations. So, needless to say, there's a lot of sensitive electrical equipment around. Despite the fact that we've gone above and beyond in trying to protect the facility from lightning strikes, if a massive bolt hits vitate from the chair and my coffee to rain across my desktop that was, as usual, scattered with papers, tablets and pens. Whichever colossal bang it was, there's a good chance that if I happened to be with a full bladder at that moment – well, you know the rest. The strike positively mucked up the day. Most of you know that, in addition to publishing Arkansas Weekly, we here at W.R.D. Entertainment also operate five area radio stations. So, needless to say, there's a lot of sensitive electrical equipment around. Despite the fact that we've gone above and beyond in trying to protect the facility from lightning strikes, if a massive bolt hits at the right place, there's nothing one can do about it. And, that's what happened that Friday. Televisions, satellite receivers, our phone system, amplifiers, computers and electronic chips galore – all fried with the strike. Every radio station was zapped off the air, and most of the programming equipment stopped properly functioning. We were dead as a doornail. At moments like these, I would usually curl up into a little ball under my desk with my SpongeBob dolly and call for my mommy. But being a 36-year-old father of two, I realized that doing something like that would likely cause a visit from the men in the white coats. Plus – I had to keep up my carefully cultivated and maintained image of a being a steely cool, tough as nails, no B-S individual in the office. (I've tried to get the folks around here to address me by my preferred nickname, "Patton," but it has yet to catch on.) A group of us gathered in the equipment room to assess the problems and see what we could to do patch together some way of getting all of the stations back on the air as soon as humanly possible. Luckily, within an hour or so, most of the stations were back on, programming intact but with a mess of technical Band-Aids slapped together until the replacement parts arrived.lus – I had to keep up my carefully cultivated and maintained image of a being a steely cool, tough as nails, no B-S individual in the office. (I've tried to get the folks around here to address me by my preferred nickname, "Patton," but it has yet to catch on.) A group of us gathered in the equipment room to assess the problems and see what we could to do patch together some way of getting all of the stations back on the air as soon as humanly possible. Luckily, within an hour or so, most of the stations were back on, programming intact but with a mess of technical Band-Aids slapped together until the replacement parts arrived. Another station had to be powered and broadcast by having The Max personality, Lisa Smith, pedaling on a stationary bike hooked up to a generator. Needless to say, by the next morning, she was exhausted. In all seriousness, it was somewhat cool to see how everyone here banded together to make sure we were back on the air in a flash. Gary, Michael Gardner, Jack Hill, Ben Johnson, Ginger Johnson, Karin Mohlke Nick Knight and the aforementioned Ms. Smith all greatly contributed to the process, and Chief Engineer Dale Johnson also deserves a standing ovation. I will never forget the look on his face as he was surveying the damage Friday afternoon. "Ooooohhhh, this is bad. This is bad," he kept repeating as he walked through each studio. I halfway wanted to hand him my SpongeBob dolly. * * * Top Five. Sort of. 1. Alfred E. Newman Vs. The Refrigerator. Despite my pride, I watched the last 30 minutes of, um, American Idol. Not to be a big fat snob, but what in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks do people find so remarkable about this show? It oozes cheese – artery-clogging, trans-fatty, Velveeta-thick cheese. It's like some horrible spawn of Up With People and Survivor. Remember Up With People? They're still around Ooooohhhh, this is bad. This is bad," he kept repeating as he walked through each studio. I halfway wanted to hand him my SpongeBob dolly. * * * Top Five. Sort of. 1. Alfred E. Newman Vs. The Refrigerator. Despite my pride, I watched the last 30 minutes of, um, American Idol. Not to be a big fat snob, but what in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks do people find so remarkable about this show? It oozes cheese – artery-clogging, trans-fatty, Velveeta-thick cheese. It's like some horrible spawn of Up With People and Survivor. Remember Up With People? They're still around – a big group of young faces with frozen smiles, dancing around in Brady Bunch unison, singing awful versions of horrendous, syrupy, nails-scratching-across-the-blackboard pop songs, like "Feeling Groovy" and "The Wind Beneath My Wings." That's what American Idol reminds me of. And, when did Paula Abdul turn into Prince? She's looking more and more like the Purple Freak. And, where did they find that Alfred E. Newman twin, Clay? And do we need to test William "The Refrigerator" Perry to see if he's the daddy of AI winner, Ruben? That guy's not a refrigerator; he's a damn walk-in freezer. 2. No More Cleavage. I'm still trying to figure out Wal-Mart's decision to not carry the men's magazines, Maxim, FHM and Stuff. Sure, they're full of barely clad women, but it's no worse than the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. As my brother said when he recently bought a copy of Stuff, "Well, gaw-dang it, there ain't no gaw-dang nekkid women in heres," or something to that effect. And, of course, one still can't find CDs with the Parental Advisory stickers at Wal-Mart. But, one can easily pick up a copy of a Stephen King book full of killings, blood and gory deaths. One can easily pick up a DVD copy of 2. No More Cleavage. I'm still trying to figure out Wal-Mart's decision to not carry the men's magazines, Maxim, FHM and Stuff. Sure, they're full of barely clad women, but it's no worse than the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. As my brother said when he recently bought a copy of Stuff, "Well, gaw-dang it, there ain't no gaw-dang nekkid women in heres," or something to that effect. And, of course, one still can't find CDs with the Parental Advisory stickers at Wal-Mart. But, one can easily pick up a copy of a Stephen King book full of killings, blood and gory deaths. One can easily pick up a DVD copy of The Exorcist, a film full of blasphemous images involving a little girl. And if you want a copy of Pulp Fiction, a movie that has an infamous scene of a man being brutally raped, well – by golly – it's there at Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart can put whatever they want on their shelves. I don't have a problem with the fact that they pulled some magazines aimed squarely at horny high-school boys. All of the stuff they choose to pull off their shelves is readily available elsewhere, anyway. It only seems there's no clear-cut reasoning behind their in-store censoring. You can buy a book or movie that features a killer who eats the brains out>The Exorcist, a film full of blasphemous images involving a little girl. And if you want a copy of Pulp Fiction, a movie that has an infamous scene of a man being brutally raped, well – by golly – it's there at Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart can put whatever they want on their shelves. I don't have a problem with the fact that they pulled some magazines aimed squarely at horny high-school boys. All of the stuff they choose to pull off their shelves is readily available elsewhere, anyway. It only seems there's no clear-cut reasoning behind their in-store censoring. You can buy a book or movie that features a killer who eats the brains out of his still-living victim (Hannibal), but a magazine that features some cleavage is a no-no. 3. Huh? I caught The Matrix Reloaded in Little Rock the other day, and though it has a load of problems, I still enjoyed myself. No other Hollywood flick in recent years has been stuffed full of insane action and innovation as this one. Of course, I didn't understand a lick of it, and the hyped scene of Neo battling the Agent Smith clones looked like a PS2 video game. But the car chase – man, it was the mother of all car chases. It really doesn't kick in until the restaurant scene with Monica Bellucci; the early Zion scenes were too much like a standard George Lucas sci-fi letdown. And, like I noted, it's full of problems and questions. Example: Why doesn't Neo simply fly away during the battle with Agent Smith? If the albino twins are ghosts, how did Morpheus get rid of them with his machine-gun induced truck explosion? And what was the deal with the well-filmed, but "what the hey?" rave sequence in Zion? (I didn't realize Ecstasy was readily available at the Earth's core.) Still – it's a fun night at the movies, and not as bad as some of the critics have made it out to be. But, be warned, if you go without seeing the original, you'll be as lost as a gooses were too much like a standard George Lucas sci-fi letdown. And, like I noted, it's full of problems and questions. Example: Why doesn't Neo simply fly away during the battle with Agent Smith? If the albino twins are ghosts, how did Morpheus get rid of them with his machine-gun induced truck explosion? And what was the deal with the well-filmed, but "what the hey?" rave sequence in Zion? (I didn't realize Ecstasy was readily available at the Earth's core.) Still – it's a fun night at the movies, and not as bad as some of the critics have made it out to be. But, be warned, if you go without seeing the original, you'll be as lost as a goose. * * * Phew … that's it for me. My space is limited this week, so I'll head to the house. E-mail me if you have any comments. May 21, 2003 The genres of science fiction and fantasy have never been my thing. I do have fond places in my heart from some sci-fi films of my youth: Blade Runner, 2001: A Space Odyssey, most of the Planet of the Apes movies, The Empire Strikes Back, and two cheesy but effective Charlton Heston classics: The Omega Man and Soylent Green. But overall, it takes a lot to get me to see most sci-fi/fantasy movies. However, 1999's The Matrix was a different animal altogether. One could tell by the trailer alone – a hyper-edited piece of art itself, full of shotgun-blasting, machine gun-blazing, martial arts madness – that this sucker was going to scramble some heads upon its release. Of course, The Matrix exploded the realm of science fiction cinema by mixing all sorts of film genres (science fiction, fantasy, action-adventure, Hong Kong kung-fu classics), philosophy, cutting edge special effects, Eastern Mysticism, cyber-punk attitude, and, for good measure, a chunk of Christianity, into a cohesive and simpost sci-fi/fantasy movies. However, 1999's The Matrix was a different animal altogether. One could tell by the trailer alone – a hyper-edited piece of art itself, full of shotgun-blasting, machine gun-blazing, martial arts madness – that this sucker was going to scramble some heads upon its release. Of course, The Matrix exploded the realm of science fiction cinema by mixing all sorts of film genres (science fiction, fantasy, action-adventure, Hong Kong kung-fu classics), philosophy, cutting edge special effects, Eastern Mysticism, cyber-punk attitude, and, for good measure, a chunk of Christianity, into a cohesive and simply gripping piece of movie-making. Not to be too silly or juvenile in my description, but when I walked out of the theatre, I was pumped. It had been a long time since I had experienced such a vibrant and spectacular time at the movies. Watching The Matrix reminded me of the way I felt watching The Empire Strikes Back or Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time. That is, you knew you were watching a cultural milestone for the movies. It was, at its core, a shameless popcorn flick, but still, it was a groundbreaking and original popcorn flick. Again, not to be too trendy with my thoughts, but The Matrix rocked. I had not re-visited The Matrix since that first night I saw it on the big screen. I somewhat held off taking another look until the inevitable sequel was released. So, with the heavily promoted The Matrix Reloaded open and in theatres, I slipped The Matrix DVD into the player the other night to see if the original held up. The story, when one strips it down to its bare bones, is something like this: A computer hacker named Neo (Keanu Reeves) is contacted by a mysterious man named Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) who tells him that the world as we know it is simply a computer program called The Matrix – a falsex rocked. I had not re-visited The Matrix since that first night I saw it on the big screen. I somewhat held off taking another look until the inevitable sequel was released. So, with the heavily promoted The Matrix Reloaded open and in theatres, I slipped The Matrix DVD into the player the other night to see if the original held up. The story, when one strips it down to its bare bones, is something like this: A computer hacker named Neo (Keanu Reeves) is contacted by a mysterious man named Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) who tells him that the world as we know it is simply a computer program called The Matrix – a false life created by machines after the world was apocalyptically wiped out. Our real bodies, our real minds, are actually being harvested and cocooned by the machines to generate energy to run the machine world. But a group of humans somehow rebelled and have started a search for The One – a mystical figure believed by the rebels to be their savior, one who can defeat the machines and free the humans. Morpheus believes Neo is The One. Of course, it's hard to take such stuff seriously, and there are some holes in the set-up, but the story is simply the catalyst to provide cinema with some of the most stunning action and special effect sequences ever. In other words, the plot allows the rulebook to be thrown out the window. The human rebels can hack into the "real world" and wreak havoc with the Matrix. Since it is a computer program, the rebels can bend the rules: They defy gravity, stop bullets and pull other people out of the Matrix, or our "reality," to recruit and help fight for their cause. And when such rules are bent, some amazing sequences of adventure can be pulled off with believability. Watching The Matrix for the second time did leave me wanting more, so I'm excited to see The Matrix Reloaded. The initial reviews have been a tad mixed, but all In other words, the plot allows the rulebook to be thrown out the window. The human rebels can hack into the "real world" and wreak havoc with the Matrix. Since it is a computer program, the rebels can bend the rules: They defy gravity, stop bullets and pull other people out of the Matrix, or our "reality," to recruit and help fight for their cause. And when such rules are bent, some amazing sequences of adventure can be pulled off with believability. Watching The Matrix for the second time did leave me wanting more, so I'm excited to see The Matrix Reloaded. The initial reviews have been a tad mixed, but all agree the action sequences are breathtaking. I'll stand in line, eager to be enveloped by what will likely be a wild ride – perhaps another example to the rest of Hollywood showing them that this is how to make a superb popcorn flick. * * * Top Five 1. Correction of a correction. OK, OK, let me get this straight: It's tow-head, not toe-head. Are we happy now? 2. The Pop-Up Ad Creator is Bound for Hell. And the jerk who created spam, too. I have had problems galore with our home computer. Pop-up ads spouting gambling and adult Web sites have been surprising our little girl when she's trying to find out news about Lizzie McGuire. One in particular almost had me so frustrated that I wanted to toss my hard drive off the White River bridge – the ad would pop up constantly, and every remedy I tried failed. It was as if the pop-up was taunting me. Finally, after working for about three hours one night, I came across a simple remedy in the form of a System Restore program on Windows XP. Everything's rosy now – except for the damn spam. If had a nickel for every junk e-mail I've received that promised to increase my, um, manhood, I would be able buy Wal-Mart Stores Inc. 3. The New Apple iTunes Music Stour little girl when she's trying to find out news about Lizzie McGuire. One in particular almost had me so frustrated that I wanted to toss my hard drive off the White River bridge – the ad would pop up constantly, and every remedy I tried failed. It was as if the pop-up was taunting me. Finally, after working for about three hours one night, I came across a simple remedy in the form of a System Restore program on Windows XP. Everything's rosy now – except for the damn spam. If had a nickel for every junk e-mail I've received that promised to increase my, um, manhood, I would be able buy Wal-Mart Stores Inc. 3. The New Apple iTunes Music Store. Look, for all of you PC-fanatics, here's a secret: Apple has made better and more innovative computers since Day One. Because of some bad corporate decisions, they will always be the underdog to Bill Gates and company. But Apple has raised the bar again with their new iTunes Music Store. Legal downloads for only 99 cents. The iTunes model will revolutionize the music industry. Other companies will follow Apple's lead, and as I much as I hate to say it, the compact disc might become a thing of the past. 4. But... The One Thing Apple Missed is what another online music service has been doing for months. Rhapsody (www.rhapsody.net) does almost the exact same thing as iTunes: 99 cent downloads. But with the wonderful Rhapsody service, one can listen to entire albums and songs in CD-quality sound before you decide to purchase a download. I've listened to new albums in their entirety while I work on the computer, and if I like them, I then go to the store to buy the CD. I've also downloaded many songs from albums I don't want to buy, and burn those songs to CD. It's the best of both worlds, and it spurs me to spend money at a local merchant. (I'm not yet to the point where I want to download complete albums – I like having the real thing in my hands.) Plus, I don't have to buy an entire album most the exact same thing as iTunes: 99 cent downloads. But with the wonderful Rhapsody service, one can listen to entire albums and songs in CD-quality sound before you decide to purchase a download. I've listened to new albums in their entirety while I work on the computer, and if I like them, I then go to the store to buy the CD. I've also downloaded many songs from albums I don't want to buy, and burn those songs to CD. It's the best of both worlds, and it spurs me to spend money at a local merchant. (I'm not yet to the point where I want to download complete albums – I like having the real thing in my hands.) Plus, I don't have to buy an entire album filled with mostly junk to hear the one song I like. The iTunes store doesn't offer this feature. There is, of course, a catch. There is a $10 monthly subscription fee in addition to the 99 cent per download charge. But in my case, I usually come out ahead. I've listened to many full-length CDs through Rhapsody and decided to save my $16.99 on the stinkers I usually would have purchased. 5. Dear Ndugu – Part Two. A few folks have asked me when About Schmidt will hit video stores. This great Jack Nicholson film will be released Tuesday, June 3. Rent it and let me know what you think. May 14, 2003 The snakes are here. Lots of them. It's as if they did some major procreation during hibernation and now they're slithering around everywhere. In an apparent play on the recent Drug Awareness Day, the sign for the chiropractic clinic on Harrison Street in Batesville reads: MAY 3 WAS ALSO COPPERHEAD AWARENESS DAY. Amen to that. Copperheads seem to be the popular snake around town. A buddy of mine successfully removed the head of a copperhead the other day with the help of a bullet. His little girl had found the reptile in their backyard right before Pop played Dirty Harry. Another co 14, 2003 The snakes are here. Lots of them. It's as if they did some major procreation during hibernation and now they're slithering around everywhere. In an apparent play on the recent Drug Awareness Day, the sign for the chiropractic clinic on Harrison Street in Batesville reads: MAY 3 WAS ALSO COPPERHEAD AWARENESS DAY. Amen to that. Copperheads seem to be the popular snake around town. A buddy of mine successfully removed the head of a copperhead the other day with the help of a bullet. His little girl had found the reptile in their backyard right before Pop played Dirty Harry. Another copperhead recently made a surprise appearance in the backyard of my sister, and still another one, almost three feet in length, was found next to the back door of my parents' home. That snake was killed and thrown into the bed of a pick up. Or, it was thought to be killed. It did a Frankenstein and slithered under a tool box in the bed. Suffice to say, the serpent is now dismembered and, without a doubt, deceased. I've carried a fear of snakes for most of my life. That fear was slightly eased last year when I finally found the courage to hold a tame garden snake, but trust me, I still would not want to come across one anytime soon. * * * I thought I had told this story before, but people tell me otherwise. About three years ago, my wife and our little boy were patiently waiting in the car for his 4-year-old sister. We were getting ready to go out to eat, and Sissy was using the potty. She had been taking an unusually long time, so finally, I got out and went to go see what the problem was. She ended up meeting me at the door with an excited look on her face. "Daddy!" "Hon, we're getting ready to go," I interrupted her. "What was taking so long?" "Daddy!" * * * I thought I had told this story before, but people tell me otherwise. About three years ago, my wife and our little boy were patiently waiting in the car for his 4-year-old sister. We were getting ready to go out to eat, and Sissy was using the potty. She had been taking an unusually long time, so finally, I got out and went to go see what the problem was. She ended up meeting me at the door with an excited look on her face. "Daddy!" "Hon, we're getting ready to go," I interrupted her. "What was taking so long?" "Daddy!" she said. "There's a big worm in the potty!" "Yeah, great – Hon, let's go. We're running late." "No," she said. "A worm is in the potty. You need to go see it." It then hit me. "Wait a minute, Sweetie," I said. "A worm?" She nodded happily. "Yeah," she said. "And it was all curled up under the rim thingy." A "worm." "Curled up." In the potty. I gulped and told our daughter to hop in the car. That walk to the potty was one of the longest walks I've ever made. Snakes in the toilets were urban legends, I told myself. Maybe our little girl was a tad confused, maybe she dropped a toy in the toilet. I slowly made my way into the bathroom, and in an instant, an urban legend turned into a fact: I could hear something swirling around in the water. I gulped once more and peeped in the toilet. A small copperhead was swimming around, trying to slither out onto our bathroom floor. Moving like lightning, I slammed the toilet lid shut and instantly flushed the potty. Somewhere between the "moving like lightning" and the slamming of the toilet lid, I screamed like a little girl. I flushed the toilet about 64 egends, I told myself. Maybe our little girl was a tad confused, maybe she dropped a toy in the toilet. I slowly made my way into the bathroom, and in an instant, an urban legend turned into a fact: I could hear something swirling around in the water. I gulped once more and peeped in the toilet. A small copperhead was swimming around, trying to slither out onto our bathroom floor. Moving like lightning, I slammed the toilet lid shut and instantly flushed the potty. Somewhere between the "moving like lightning" and the slamming of the toilet lid, I screamed like a little girl. I flushed the toilet about 64 more times that evening. A plumber came and checked our lines and couldn't find a thing. But he did note that since our next door neighbor was building a swimming pool and excavating earlier that day, the resulting chaotic groundwork might have somehow driven the baby snake into the lines. Who knows? What I do know is that to this day, I always look before I sit. I later asked our daughter if she went to the bathroom after she saw the snake and before she came to get me. "Yeah," she said, completely innocent of the potential bite she could have had on her bottom. "I looked down to the worm. He was smiling at me." * * * Correction: I know, I know – It's "toe-head," not "tow-head." The Top Five will return next week. May 7, 2003 A tad over 13 years ago at this time, I was sitting in a chair somewhere on the floor of Barnhill Arena in Fayetteville. I was wearing my graduation cap and gown, dazed and bored, staring off into space as some speaker droned on about learning from failure, seizing the day, and all of the other standard sketches of life in commencement addresses. * * * Correction: I know, I know – It's "toe-head," not "tow-head." The Top Five will return next week. May 7, 2003 A tad over 13 years ago at this time, I was sitting in a chair somewhere on the floor of Barnhill Arena in Fayetteville. I was wearing my graduation cap and gown, dazed and bored, staring off into space as some speaker droned on about learning from failure, seizing the day, and all of the other standard sketches of life in commencement addresses. My fulfillment of the always popular 5-year plan at the University of Arkansas was ending, and Life waited at the end of the ceremony – responsibility, a probable mortgage, and an abrupt halt to things such as staying up until 3 a.m. with friends and 4-hour naps in the mid-afternoon. Ugh. Sometime during the address, I started to think about an upcoming event, just days away, that did happen to be encouraging. My brother and his wife were expecting a child – the first niece or nephew from my immediate family. None of my sisters or my brother had been around a baby or kids since, well, we were babies and kids – so all of us were counting down to the due date. I vividly remember thinking during that
boring ceremony, “What’s this baby going to be like?” and “It will be
such an amazing thing to watch as the child grows.” A new member of an already-close knit of folks – a welcome intruder. I vividly remember thinking during that
boring ceremony, “What’s this baby going to be like?” and “It will be
such an amazing thing to watch as the child grows.” A new member of an already-close knit of folks – a welcome intruder. A few days later, Will burst onto the scene. Predictably toe-headed and somewhat unpredictably quiet, the boy unknowingly swept aside everything trivial in our families’ lives and led our collective focus into his world and his discovery of our world. Two years later, his little sister, Carly, showed up and did the exact same thing to us all – except, this time with a completely different vantage point – a female side. Carly only added to the experience of watching first-hand the development and growth of Will. While their lives were prepping the other aunts and uncles for a family world, the firstborn nephew and niece were also enveloping us into their own universe. The clich�, “It seems like it was only yesterday,” is bittersweet. Will is a teenager now, a smart kid in a tall skinny body slowly morphing into adulthood. The voice is, if only for a short time, drifting unsteadily between squeakiness and a deep bass. He’s sharp as a tack, sensitive, cool, and I’m sure he sometimes wonders from what planet his doofus uncle hails. The clich�, “It seems like it was only yesterday,” is bittersweet. Will is a teenager now, a smart kid in a tall skinny body slowly morphing into adulthood. The voice is, if only for a short time, drifting unsteadily between squeakiness and a deep bass. He’s sharp as a tack, sensitive, cool, and I’m sure he sometimes wonders from what planet his doofus uncle hails. I did plenty of dumb things when I was his age – things I look back upon and wonder what the heck I was thinking. Somehow, I don’t think Will’s going to make those same decisions. He’s the type of kid I would have wanted to be if I was his age again. I write all of this not just to celebrate and begrudgingly accept Will moving along into adulthood, but also because the memory of his youth is so fresh, and our two children are where Will and Carly were only a few years back. It’s of no use trying to explain the love one feels for their children. Most parents know it to be a feeling so indescribable and strong that it almost literally hurts. I recently returned from St. Louis – a guy trip – Cardinals, lots of food. The first night away, I called home late at night, and my wife told me our youngest son, who’s 5, had been crying for me before his bedtime. When I came home, he ran to my arms with a big toothy grin and said over and over, “I’m so glad you’re home. I’m It’s of no use trying to explain the love one feels for their children. Most parents know it to be a feeling so indescribable and strong that it almost literally hurts. I recently returned from St. Louis – a guy trip – Cardinals, lots of food. The first night away, I called home late at night, and my wife told me our youngest son, who’s 5, had been crying for me before his bedtime. When I came home, he ran to my arms with
a big toothy grin and said over and over, “I’m so glad you’re home.
I’m so glad you’re home, Daddy.” Man. It seems like it was only yesterday when Will was this age, this size. The swiftness of time, the act of appreciation, the little hugs – they are all so vastly, vastly underrated. * * * The Top Five. 1. “Dear Ndugu…” I finally caught up with last year’s About Schmidt with Jack Nicholson. It’s a keeper – a sad, slightly comic look at a retired widower who realizes the waste of his life. Some folks might argue that not much happens in the movie, but I’d argue that is somewhat the point of the entire enterprise. Nicholson has never been so far removed from his devilish persona he has developed over his career. Schmidt’s horrible emptiness and sadness is so well personified by Nicholson, it’s somewhat tempting to forget you’re watching one of the greatest actors of his generation – which is, of course, superb acting. About Schmidt with Jack Nicholson. It’s a keeper – a sad, slightly comic look at a retired widower who realizes the waste of his life. Some folks might argue that not much happens in the movie, but I’d argue that is somewhat the point of the entire enterprise. Nicholson has never been so far removed from his devilish persona he has developed over his career. Schmidt’s horrible emptiness and sadness is so well personified by Nicholson, it’s somewhat tempting to forget you’re watching one of the greatest actors of his generation – which is, of course, superb acting. This is a special movie, likely the best one from 2002. It hits DVD in a few weeks, and don’t hesitate to rent it. The simple and quiet final scene moved me like no other movie has in the last few years. Call me a pushover, but About Schmidt is near the top of Nicholson’s career.2. Taters and Mustard. The cable channel, Bravo (channel 41 on Batesville Cable), has recently been showing Sling Blade, the 1996 film written, directed, and starring Billy Bob Thornton. It’s been about five years since I’ve seen Sling Blade, and revisiting it has been a joy. Thornton deserved the Oscar he won for Best Screenplay and should have picked up the award for Best Actor as well. Most people who have seen Sling Blade know it’s a great film, but I would go further and say it’s going to be remembered as a classic slice of Southern Gothic and cinema in the years to come. It’s truly a wonderful movie – and Arkansas-made to boot.Sling Blade, and revisiting it has been a joy. Thornton deserved the Oscar he
won for Best Screenplay and should have picked up the award for Best Actor as well.
Most people who have seen Sling Blade know it’s a great film, but I would go further and say it’s going
to be remembered as a classic slice of Southern Gothic and cinema in the years to come.
It’s truly a wonderful movie – and Arkansas-made to boot.
3. Billy Bob and Lisa Blount. Speaking of Malvern-bred Billy Bob, he’s getting ready to return to the state in late May to begin filming Chrystal, a film written and directed by Ray McKinnon, the Oscar-winning husband of Lisa Blount. Blount, for those of you with short-term memory loss, recently spent a weekend in Batesville as the guest of honor of the Ozark Foothills FilmFest. Blount will be portraying the title role of Chrystal, a woman who faces some serious conflicts when her husband (Thornton) is released from prison. Production begins May 28 in Eureka Springs, according to the Hollywood Reporter.4. Dylan in L.R. Bob Dylan is heading to Little Rock, May 18. Love him or hate him, Dylan is nevertheless a legend. He’s made it to Little Rock three or four times before, but I’ve missed every one of those shows for some reason or another. I don’t plan on letting this one slip by.(With my luck, the promoters will likely cancel for some reason.) Hollywood Reporter.4. Dylan in L.R. Bob Dylan is heading to Little Rock, May 18. Love him or hate him, Dylan is nevertheless a legend. He’s made it to Little Rock three or four times before, but I’ve missed every one of those shows for some reason or another. I don’t plan on letting this one slip by.(With my luck, the promoters will likely cancel for some reason.) 5. Just Call Me Picasso, Jr. Don’t ask me why, but for some inane reason, I’ve decided to try my hand at painting. I have my beret, smock and mandatory goatee on order from some online art store to go with my beginner’s art kit.I think I’m going for the Pablo Picasso or Jackson Pollock kind of thing. Them New Yorkers call it “modern art,” or some other fancy phrase. I’ll keep you posted on my progress. Who knows? Maybe in about 100 years one of my paintings will sell for, like, $100 million at some auction. (Actually, instead of Pollock or Picasso, I may try the “dogs playing poker” style. What’cha think?) CORRECTION. In a previous column, I referred to the new Madonna song as “American Girl.” The correct title is “American Life,” and regardless of the title, it still sucks rotten eggs.April 30, 2003 I may have gone a bit overboard in last week's Top Five concerni like, $100 million at some auction. (Actually, instead of Pollock or Picasso, I may try the “dogs playing poker” style. What’cha think?) CORRECTION. In a previous column, I referred to the new Madonna song as “American Girl.” The correct title is “American Life,” and regardless of the title, it still sucks rotten eggs.April 30, 2003 I may have gone a bit overboard in last week's Top Five concerning the far left and their seeming ignorance of the positive outcomes of Operation Iraqi Freedom. As many Iraqis kissed coalition soldiers entering Baghdad, I noted with unveiled contempt that many anti-war protesters were still slamming the war hawks and President Bush in general. In silly, heat of the moment, words, I wrote that these folks still had "their collective heads" embedded in their hind ends. Classy of me, huh? But the fact is that voices of opposition also validate the liberty with which we're privileged and blessed to possess – something the Iraqi people never had in the past few decades and beyond. Painting protestors with a broad anti-American stroke might be too easy and unfair. Responsibly questioning the government can be a healthy and needed aspect of a mature democracy, and, over the past few months, many of the anti-war voices did just that, although some were more obnoxious than others. But those who were against this action for reasons rooted in simple morality – the thought hundred of thousands, perhaps millions, of innocent lives would be lost – should not be dismissed so quickly as wacko or anti-American. I've noted in an almost mantra-like succession over the weeks, morality at its core calls for exhausting eyond. Painting protestors with a broad anti-American stroke might be too easy and unfair. Responsibly questioning the government can be a healthy and needed aspect of a mature democracy, and, over the past few months, many of the anti-war voices did just that, although some were more obnoxious than others. But those who were against this action for reasons rooted in simple morality – the thought hundred of thousands, perhaps millions, of innocent lives would be lost – should not be dismissed so quickly as wacko or anti-American. I've noted in an almost mantra-like succession over the weeks, morality at its core calls for exhausting every avenue in the search for peace before any blood is shed in a war. My gut told me that ridding Iraq of the horrific Hussein regime would, in the long run, save countless lives and perhaps inject a healthy dose of good will in a region saturated with hostility toward the West, saving perhaps even more lives. * * * But for me, morality goes out the door when describing those folks like that arrogant and hypocritical tub of lard, Michael Moore. For people like him who crassly demonstrate purely for political and selfish means, well, I do stand behind the hind end statements. You know the type: weenies who seize every opportunity – whether it is rooted in truth or not – to trounce any product of what they perceive to be "American imperialism" or "American fascism" or "the American imperialistic and fascist capitalistic machine." Moore makes a healthy living pushing semi-truths (certain scenes in his documentaries have been known to be staged) in films like Roger & Me and Bowling for Columbine, and also in his best-selling book, Stupid White Men (a book, by the way, that was allegedly ghost-written – that is, written by someone else with probably more literary talent than the listed author, ze every opportunity – whether it is rooted in truth or not – to trounce any product of what they perceive to be "American imperialism" or "American fascism" or "the American imperialistic and fascist capitalistic machine." Moore makes a healthy living pushing semi-truths (certain scenes in his documentaries have been known to be staged) in films like Roger & Me and Bowling for Columbine, and also in his best-selling book, Stupid White Men (a book, by the way, that was allegedly ghost-written – that is, written by someone else with probably more literary talent than the listed author, in this case Moore). While Moore portrays himself as a man of the common folk, he still rides in limos (even when he insists he doesn't), lives in a $1.7 million pad in Manhattan, discourages his staff from joining their particular union, and has crossed a picket line in the past to get to work. (Read all about Moore and his ugly ways in the premiere issue of Radar, a fun and intelligent magazine focused on the media and pop culture.) * * * Top Five 1. Required Reading for Film Geeks. Movie buffs should track down two fairly new books about the celluloid art: David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film and The Conversations: Walter Murch and the Art of Editing Film by Michael Ondaatje. Thomson's brick thick book is a highly readable resource to film buffs. It's an update of a reference book he originally published in `80s, and contains hundreds of his wonderful essays on noted actors, writers, directors and landmark films throughout the last 100 years. Sometimes he veers into pretension and other entries are open to a healthy argument, but the book is a valuable and addictive read for anyone who loves the movies. Plus, he's a fan of P.T. Anderson, the writer and director of Magnolia. Thaon's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film and The Conversations: Walter Murch and the Art of Editing Film by Michael Ondaatje. Thomson's brick thick book is a highly readable resource to film buffs. It's an update of a reference book he originally published in `80s, and contains hundreds of his wonderful essays on noted actors, writers, directors and landmark films throughout the last 100 years. Sometimes he veers into pretension and other entries are open to a healthy argument, but the book is a valuable and addictive read for anyone who loves the movies. Plus, he's a fan of P.T. Anderson, the writer and director of Magnolia. That alone is reason enough for me to appreciate Mr. Thomson. I don't know how Ondaatje, the author of The English Patient, feels about Magnolia, but I do know his book successfully peels back the intricate layers of editing a movie by transcribing insightful and fun conversations he had with the legendary film editor, Walter Murch. Murch, who edited the film version of The English Patient along with other classics such as The Godfather, Chinatown and Apocalypse Now, is widely considered the granddaddy of premier film editing. His talks with Ondaatje, filled with inside stories about classic works of cinema, ultimately reveal the importance of a well-edited film. Even the tiniest cut in a frame of film can turn a good motion picture into a classic or a dud, and Murch provides such examples in enlightening and fun talks. 2. Evanescence. Despite some silly comments by guitarist Ben Moody in a recent issue of Entertainment Weekly that only highlighted their young age and inexperience, the Arkansas-rooted group Evanescence is likely in it for the long haul. And they're coming to Batesville next week for their first Arkansas concert since hitting one out of the park with their debut CD, Fallen. Batesville Promotions pulled a rabbit out of themately reveal the importance of a well-edited film. Even the tiniest cut in a frame of film can turn a good motion picture into a classic or a dud, and Murch provides such examples in enlightening and fun talks. 2. Evanescence. Despite some silly comments by guitarist Ben Moody in a recent issue of Entertainment Weekly that only highlighted their young age and inexperience, the Arkansas-rooted group Evanescence is likely in it for the long haul. And they're coming to Batesville next week for their first Arkansas concert since hitting one out of the park with their debut CD, Fallen. Batesville Promotions pulled a rabbit out of the hat with this show. Fallen has been camped inside the top ten album chart for the past few weeks, and national media exposure has the band all over entertainment television and inside pop magazines. It's a big show for little 'ole Batesville, and it should be a load of fun. 3. Why Hasn't Anyone Asked This Question Before? Well, maybe they have, but I've never heard an answer. In a dry county like Independence, why in the world can't the local grocery stores stock non-alcoholic beer? Near beer used to taste like watered down real beer, but over the last few years, the taste has vastly improved. So why can't we find any on the area shelves? 4. Rent This Movie! A movie that completely (and shamefully) slipped under the radar in 2002, The Man From Elysian Fields, should satisfy anyone thirsty for a well-done and moving film. Andy Garcia stars as a writer with a stalled career trying to care for his adoring and loving wife (ER's Juliana Margulies) and their 3-year old son. When his second novel fails to attract a publisher, he falls under the spell of the mysterious Luther Fox (Mick Jagger), an elegant man promising steady income to the writer. The career: a male escort. Roger Ebert turned out to be the one of the few champions of this movie that was barels? 4. Rent This Movie! A movie that completely (and shamefully) slipped under the radar in 2002, The Man From Elysian Fields, should satisfy anyone thirsty for a well-done and moving film. Andy Garcia stars as a writer with a stalled career trying to care for his adoring and loving wife (ER's Juliana Margulies) and their 3-year old son. When his second novel fails to attract a publisher, he falls under the spell of the mysterious Luther Fox (Mick Jagger), an elegant man promising steady income to the writer. The career: a male escort. Roger Ebert turned out to be the one of the few champions of this movie that was barely released last year. Check it out on video, and give it the appreciation it so deserves. 5. Madonna's New Song. Sure, there's been the predictable and tired controversy over the ridiculous video for the Material Girl's latest song, "American Girl," but what's been lost among the fuss is the simple fact that the single is truly, shamefully and embarrassingly awful. Plus, the second version of the video (Madonna pulled the original video) is as bad as the song. Could it be time for Madonna to just simply hang up the pop star shoes? She's getting too old for such nonsense. Trying to act and look like you're 24 when you're actually 44 is only embarrassing. Though, of course, when I turn 44, I'm sure I'll be as stunningly handsome as I was when I was 24. Right? Right? Hello…anyone out there? April 16, 2003 Tell me if this sounds like a decent night at the movies: Two guys decide to take a hike along a nature trail in some unnamed southwest desert. The two, young guys somewhere between 25 and 30 or 35, walk along, don't say much to one another, then veer off the trail to go look for "the thing." They walk some more. To pass the time, one tells a semi-coherent story about a funy 44 is only embarrassing. Though, of course, when I turn 44, I'm sure I'll be as stunningly handsome as I was when I was 24. Right? Right? Hello…anyone out there? April 16, 2003 Tell me if this sounds like a decent night at the movies: Two guys decide to take a hike along a nature trail in some unnamed southwest desert. The two, young guys somewhere between 25 and 30 or 35, walk along, don't say much to one another, then veer off the trail to go look for "the thing." They walk some more. To pass the time, one tells a semi-coherent story about a funny Wheel of Fortune episode, then after a playful race through the scrub and bushes, they decide to quit looking for "the thing" and head back to the car. It's then that the two realize they're lost. They take a moment to stop, refocus and then walk for awhile in the direction of where they believe the car is located. Instead, they find themselves surrounded by barren horizons, sometimes lined with brown mountains, some speckled with rock formations, some with desert brush. So they walk some more. They stop to build a fire, shoot the bull and sleep. Then they're walking again. They walk. They climb some hills to gauge their location. One gets stuck on a cliff for a while. Mostly, though, they just walk. Talk is spare, sometimes for minutes the only sound one hears is the constant crunch of the desert rocks beneath their feet. Finally, the desert heat and the hopelessness of their situation begin to take their toll, both mentally and physically, as they slowly fall apart. And that's the movie. Lights up, exit theatre. You've basically sat through 103 minutes of two guys named Gerry walking through the desert. Did I mention the two guys lost are both named Gerry? Many of you might be asking yourself how a movie like the one I deseir location. One gets stuck on a cliff for a while. Mostly, though, they just walk. Talk is spare, sometimes for minutes the only sound one hears is the constant crunch of the desert rocks beneath their feet. Finally, the desert heat and the hopelessness of their situation begin to take their toll, both mentally and physically, as they slowly fall apart. And that's the movie. Lights up, exit theatre. You've basically sat through 103 minutes of two guys named Gerry walking through the desert. Did I mention the two guys lost are both named Gerry? Many of you might be asking yourself how a movie like the one I described actually got made. And, also, what type of person would enjoy a movie of two guys named Gerry walking and walking and walking? By now, you most likely know the answer to the latter question. The same kind of person whose all-time favorite movie is an otherwise normal film about life in the San Fernando Valley that happens to end with a literal rain of frogs (1999's Magnolia). Yours truly. And to answer how the movie with two Gerrys could get made, you would have to look at the folks behind it: Oscar winner Matt Damon, Casey Affleck (Ben's brother) and acclaimed director Gus Van Sant (Good Will Hunting, Drugstore Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho). The movie, by the way, is titled Gerry, and it's the above trio who helped raise the funds to write and shoot the film. Damon, Affleck and Van Sant wrote the script, Damon and Affleck play the unfortunate two hikers named Gerry, and Van Sant directed. Without those talents, there's a decent chance Gerry might not have been made. Certainly the idea of sitting through a movie that simply focuses on two guys walking through the desert seems boring. When I saw Gerry in Dallas, one couple walked out after 20 minutes, and until they were nicely told to shut up by another viewer, tDrugstore Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho). The movie, by the way, is titled Gerry, and it's the above trio who helped raise the funds to write and shoot the film. Damon, Affleck and Van Sant wrote the script, Damon and Affleck play the unfortunate two hikers named Gerry, and Van Sant directed. Without those talents, there's a decent chance Gerry might not have been made. Certainly the idea of sitting through a movie that simply focuses on two guys walking through the desert seems boring. When I saw Gerry in Dallas, one couple walked out after 20 minutes, and until they were nicely told to shut up by another viewer, three other women chattered through a good portion of it. It's not everybody's idea of an exciting night at the movies. Gerry, however, stuck with me. The wide-screen desert vistas enthralled me, and they envelop the viewer in the vast wasteland along with the lost duo. And at certain points, when the camera never strays from Damon and Affleck, even if they are doing something as mundane as walking, Gerry still projects a somewhat hypnotic spell. One such scene focuses only on the actors as they walk along in an extended unbroken extreme close-up, their profiles first bouncing in unison, then up and down like pistons, then back to a unified cadence. I found myself simply becoming mesmerized in scenes such as this, rolling along like a weary traveler with Affleck, Damon and Van Sant. So, what's the point? What's the point of spending over 100 minutes in a darkened theatre watching two guys walk around in the desert? What was "the thing" they were looking for anyway? Why are they both named Gerry? Why do they have odd conversations as they trudge through the heat? The answer can be found in the questions. Why. What's the point. Exactly. I'd rather be captivated with a skewed, unique story, sometimes scratching my head, wondering where we are henified cadence. I found myself simply becoming mesmerized in scenes such as this, rolling along like a weary traveler with Affleck, Damon and Van Sant. So, what's the point? What's the point of spending over 100 minutes in a darkened theatre watching two guys walk around in the desert? What was "the thing" they were looking for anyway? Why are they both named Gerry? Why do they have odd conversations as they trudge through the heat? The answer can be found in the questions. Why. What's the point. Exactly. I'd rather be captivated with a skewed, unique story, sometimes scratching my head, wondering where we are heading, than sit staring at the screen and predicting every move. * * * Top Five. 1. The End of the Beginning. Baghdad falls. Thousands of Iraqis cheer the coalition. The first post-Saddam Baghdad baby is named George. Images of Saddam burn and topple. Children are freed from brutal prisons. And the extreme left still has their collective heads up their collective ... 2. As I Was Saying. Big-time left wingers still moan and complain about the war and the Bush administration. As Baghdad residents danced on the streets, shouting "U.S.A.," very public nay-sayers such as Rosie O'Donnell, Susan Sarandon, Michael Moore, and Heaven help us, George Michael are still ranting. I'm beginning to sound redundant: who isn't for peace? Any sane person wants peace. But one has to wonder how the rabid section of the far left reacted to the scenes of liberation as well as the jubilant faces of the formerly oppressed. Oh wait – that's right – their heads are up their collective ... 3. BUT, Let's Slow Down Bubba. Most of you know I write this piece a week behind the date of publication. Things can change in seven days. The fall of Baghdad is an extremely significant and positive event, but a lyers such as Rosie O'Donnell, Susan Sarandon, Michael Moore, and Heaven help us, George Michael are still ranting. I'm beginning to sound redundant: who isn't for peace? Any sane person wants peace. But one has to wonder how the rabid section of the far left reacted to the scenes of liberation as well as the jubilant faces of the formerly oppressed. Oh wait – that's right – their heads are up their collective ... 3. BUT, Let's Slow Down Bubba. Most of you know I write this piece a week behind the date of publication. Things can change in seven days. The fall of Baghdad is an extremely significant and positive event, but a long and potentially dangerous road is still in front of the coalition and the Iraqi people. 4. Looting 101. If I had lived under the repressive and bloody regime of Saddam, I'd want to take from and destroy every government building and palace in sight. The horrors under which these people lived are such that we cannot conceive. Yet when the looting turns lethal and against the innocent (as it already has) – that's when the line's crossed. Chaos has to be controlled, or any progress made in Iraq could be smothered and hampered – possibly beyond repair. 5. And Finally – Great News! This is such an exciting announcement, I'm going ALL CAPS BABY!! MICHAEL JACKSON HAS ANOTHER TELEVISION SPECIAL COMING UP!! FOX IS GOING TO AIR HIS HOME MOVIES!! WHOO-HOO!! MORE MICHAEL – JUST WHAT THIS WORLD NEEDS!! I'M SO EXCITED – I COULD JUST SCREAM!! (Editor's Note: It's that cold medicine again, folks.) April 9, 2003 I'm somewhat depressed today. Not so much depressed about the war, just down about some sad things going on in America. For instance, the other morning, after I jogged my usual 12 miles and then did my usual 50 pull-ups with 8-pound weights attached to my ankles and then toouncement, I'm going ALL CAPS BABY!! MICHAEL JACKSON HAS ANOTHER TELEVISION SPECIAL COMING UP!! FOX IS GOING TO AIR HIS HOME MOVIES!! WHOO-HOO!! MORE MICHAEL – JUST WHAT THIS WORLD NEEDS!! I'M SO EXCITED – I COULD JUST SCREAM!! (Editor's Note: It's that cold medicine again, folks.) April 9, 2003 I'm somewhat depressed today. Not so much depressed about the war, just down about some sad things going on in America. For instance, the other morning, after I jogged my usual 12 miles and then did my usual 50 pull-ups with 8-pound weights attached to my ankles and then took off my shirt and admired my chest for about 20 minutes in the mirror, I picked up my morning paper and learned that, not only was dashing and daring broadcast journalist Peter Arnett let go by cable news outlet MSNBC, but Fox News Channel's dashing and daring broadcast journalist extraordinaire, Geraldo Rivera, was expelled from Iraq altogether! What in the heck is going on in this world when two of the finest journalists this country has ever produced are denied the right to report from the front lines?!? Well, I'll tell you what's going on – in one word. Conspiracy. How else could you explain it? And also, dig this: How can one rationally explain the "decision" by Madonna to pull her "controversial" video for her new smash hit, "American Life?" Oh yeah, some folks have criticized the Material Girl for having anti-war imagery in the new video – scenes that feature transvestites as soldiers, or the one that shows sobbing Iraqi children, or the final scene where Madonna tosses a live grenade into George W. Bush's lap. Now, how in the world does that stuff seem "controversial?" In my view, enormous pressure was likely placed on Madonna to pull the video last week. In a statement, Madonna said that it was "inapHow can one rationally explain the "decision" by Madonna to pull her "controversial" video for her new smash hit, "American Life?" Oh yeah, some folks have criticized the Material Girl for having anti-war imagery in the new video – scenes that feature transvestites as soldiers, or the one that shows sobbing Iraqi children, or the final scene where Madonna tosses a live grenade into George W. Bush's lap. Now, how in the world does that stuff seem "controversial?" In my view, enormous pressure was likely placed on Madonna to pull the video last week. In a statement, Madonna said that it was "inappropriate to air the video because of the state of the world and out of sensitivity and respect for the troops." Of course, no one could argue with the sensitivity aspect of her statement, but, people, WAKE UP! Madonna is an artistic and intellectual giant, and I think we can all agree that she's a tough cookie. She's not the type that's easily pushed around – I mean, look, she dumped Warren Beatty, for Heaven's sake! No one dumps Warren Beatty! So it's quite obvious that someone with true Power got to her and made her pull her latest work of art! Then, check this out, cats – this may be the surest sign that some type of evil conspiracy against our way of life is slowly developing. You might want to sit down before you read this. Twentieth Century Fox, the studio producing one of the most anticipated films of all time, recently "delayed" this particular film's opening. The title of this groundbreaking film? Yep – that's right. You guessed it. THE NEW AMERICAN IDOL MOVIE!!!!!!!!!!! Friends, what is this world coming to when a cinematic jewel such as, From Justin to Kelly: The American Idol Movie, is delayed?!? The movie, which features everybody's favorite up-and-coming pop stars, Kelly Clarksonpe of evil conspiracy against our way of life is slowly developing. You might want to sit down before you read this. Twentieth Century Fox, the studio producing one of the most anticipated films of all time, recently "delayed" this particular film's opening. The title of this groundbreaking film? Yep – that's right. You guessed it. THE NEW AMERICAN IDOL MOVIE!!!!!!!!!!! Friends, what is this world coming to when a cinematic jewel such as, From Justin to Kelly: The American Idol Movie, is delayed?!? The movie, which features everybody's favorite up-and-coming pop stars, Kelly Clarkson and Justin Guarini, was scheduled to open at the end of this month. But last week, under mysterious circumstances (if you ask me), the release date was moved to June! What in the world is happening?!? Is someone or some group trying to crumble this country's morale by depriving us of that cute mop-topped Justin and cuddly yet vivacious Kelly? Is there some evil scheme afoot that denies us another video masterpiece from the Alan Colmes of pop culture, Madonna? (Really, she does remind me of the liberal Fox News Channel host – except she doesn't have one eye that floats around on its own all the time.) Is there some sinister reason that the two most respected journalists in the history of the world, Geraldo and Peter, have had their credibility smeared and tarnished? And, not to change the subject, but doesn't Peter Arnett have the most stunning comb-over of all time? Fellow countrymen, who could be denying our good people the genuine and important talents of the entertainment and news world in this time we so desperately need them?!? The Freemasons? The Bildenburgs? Paula Abdul? (Don't laugh – she has valid reasons: the fact that she's playing second fiddle to Simon on American Idol, and because she's long been jealous of Madonna's iconic popularity.) All I can tellst respected journalists in the history of the world, Geraldo and Peter, have had their credibility smeared and tarnished? And, not to change the subject, but doesn't Peter Arnett have the most stunning comb-over of all time? Fellow countrymen, who could be denying our good people the genuine and important talents of the entertainment and news world in this time we so desperately need them?!? The Freemasons? The Bildenburgs? Paula Abdul? (Don't laugh – she has valid reasons: the fact that she's playing second fiddle to Simon on American Idol, and because she's long been jealous of Madonna's iconic popularity.) All I can tell you is this: We are Americans! We will overcome these three horrible incidents, and show the world that we are cultural dynamos! Some day, when Peter Arnett is President – oh wait, he's from New Zealand – forget that. Some day, when Madonna is President, perhaps this censorship epidemic will be quashed. Perhaps the quality of life for all Americans will improve with President Madonna's administration. Think about it: we could have Kelly Roland as her running mate! Geraldo could be the chief of staff! Arnett could be the Secretary of State! And Justin could be Madonna's personal boy-toy! (Every president needs some type of extramarital affair – it's tradition, darn it!) Think of how the world would love us. Oppressors everywhere would throw down their guns, and hold hands, and happily bounce along to our President as she sings "Holiday"to nations across this great world we call home. One can dream, can't they? So, Paula Abdul, if you're reading this, know one thing: I've got your number, woman! Don't try to tear this country apart because of your lust for power. We will live through this. We will prevail. And finally, I have one more statement. I think this cold medication I'm taking is really messing with my head. The Top fair – it's tradition, darn it!) Think of how the world would love us. Oppressors everywhere would throw down their guns, and hold hands, and happily bounce along to our President as she sings "Holiday"to nations across this great world we call home. One can dream, can't they? So, Paula Abdul, if you're reading this, know one thing: I've got your number, woman! Don't try to tear this country apart because of your lust for power. We will live through this. We will prevail. And finally, I have one more statement. I think this cold medication I'm taking is really messing with my head. The Top Five returns next week. E-mail Rob: [email protected]. April 2, 2003 Note: This column was written on March 21. For this space, I would usually write something in the first few days of the week before publication (in this instance, the week of the 24th), but my family and I are hitting the road on the 23rd for spring break. So, what you are reading now is almost two weeks old. With the world stage ever changing, some of these words might be outdated. * * * BATESVILLE, March 21, 2003. And so it begins. Endless rows of American armor surging over the dead ground of Iraq. State of the art missiles zipping through the night sky, slamming into supposedly precise and civilian-free targets, and the resulting explosions thundering and devastating and relentless. The power of all this 21st century warfare is humbling, horrifying and spectacular to say the least. There is not a shred of doubt in my head that the bloody rule of Saddam would have ultimately bred terrorists bent on killing more innocents, if it hasn't already. But, even if I believe the Iraqi regime is a cesspool and a supporter of terrorism, in my head I flip-flopped over thns. Endless rows of American armor surging over the dead ground of Iraq. State of the art missiles zipping through the night sky, slamming into supposedly precise and civilian-free targets, and the resulting explosions thundering and devastating and relentless. The power of all this 21st century warfare is humbling, horrifying and spectacular to say the least. There is not a shred of doubt in my head that the bloody rule of Saddam would have ultimately bred terrorists bent on killing more innocents, if it hasn't already. But, even if I believe the Iraqi regime is a cesspool and a supporter of terrorism, in my head I flip-flopped over the war's necessity in the final weeks before its outbreak. The seemingly endless barrage of international opposition, the worry that more terrorism would run rampant, the sometimes uncomfortable bull-headed attitude our government utilized against those who dared question a topple of the Saddam empire, and mainly, the likely deaths and horror that would be inflicted on the innocents as well as our soldiers during a war – all of this weighed heavy in the days before the battle began. But then, I knew. I knew it had to happen. I knew that this was just, and despite the watershed of protests, needed. Respected and validated reports have been presented on the heartbreak of the Iraqi people: the tortures, rapes, murders, kidnappings – all endorsed by this thug and his merry band of cretins. An example: The eldest son of Hussein enjoyed placing certain Iraqis in an enormous shredder, built for plastics. If an offending Iraqi was nabbed for something the son deemed almost inconsequential, the victim would be placed in the shredder head first. The death would be quick. If the son thought an offending Iraqi was someone of which an example should be made, the victim's legs would be placed in the shredder first – his flesh and bone mutilated to the knee, and then the shredder would stop to allow the victim t the heartbreak of the Iraqi people: the tortures, rapes, murders, kidnappings – all endorsed by this thug and his merry band of cretins. An example: The eldest son of Hussein enjoyed placing certain Iraqis in an enormous shredder, built for plastics. If an offending Iraqi was nabbed for something the son deemed almost inconsequential, the victim would be placed in the shredder head first. The death would be quick. If the son thought an offending Iraqi was someone of which an example should be made, the victim's legs would be placed in the shredder first – his flesh and bone mutilated to the knee, and then the shredder would stop to allow the victim to wallow in his or her agony for a few more moments. The atrocities of this insane dictatorship are abundant and well documented. Forgetting the terrorism aspect of this needed regime change, stopping this reign of terror would, alone, seem to validate our invasion. The continued outrage against the allied governments sometimes boggles the mind. Sure, I pray that this battle doesn't escalate into something more terrifying, and yes, there are other regimes in the world in which atrocities occur to a seemingly blind United States eye. But the rules of the post 9/11 game have changed, and this action is a needed and resolved result. It is now a gray world – the resolute idea of black and white faded in the billowing smoke of the World Trade Center towers. More conflicts might evolve against similar countries. But perhaps if this war is a resounding success, other former allies will sign on to help topple other deadly regimes – one would hope by pure political pressure alone. Think of a solidified alliance – repaired and strengthened by winning the streets, the land, the hearts, the minds of the Iraqi people – inflicting an iron fist over a country like North Korea and demanding the rule of the people instead of the brutal reign of a dictator. Something that seems ia gray world – the resolute idea of black and white faded in the billowing smoke of the World Trade Center towers. More conflicts might evolve against similar countries. But perhaps if this war is a resounding success, other former allies will sign on to help topple other deadly regimes – one would hope by pure political pressure alone. Think of a solidified alliance – repaired and strengthened by winning the streets, the land, the hearts, the minds of the Iraqi people – inflicting an iron fist over a country like North Korea and demanding the rule of the people instead of the brutal reign of a dictator. Something that seems inconceivable now could be realized in the future. Who would have believed something like 9/11 would have occurred 10 years ago? Is it mad wishful thinking to pray and believe that something on the opposite end of the spectrum – peace through pressure and solidarity – could occur 10 years from now? No one knows. It is a vision clouded by the realities and threats of these uncertain days, but it's a vision I cling to with hope and faith. * * * Top Five This Week Jaw-dropping silence. That is the only way to describe my reaction to the stunning war coverage by the major news organizations. The Bush team seems to be driven to show the world first-hand what this battle entails, how it evolves and how the Iraqi people react. And the pictures and sounds of the battlefield, beamed live and vivid, are nothing short of heart-stopping. Hope. In these first few days of war, I feel a tentative reassurance that some of the state of the art weaponry are actually hitting their military targets and reducing collateral damage by the hundreds, and that through the live broadcasts, the nay-sayers will see how the military leaders are going out of their way to conduct a battle as, for lack of a better word, responsibly the major news organizations. The Bush team seems to be driven to show the world first-hand what this battle entails, how it evolves and how the Iraqi people react. And the pictures and sounds of the battlefield, beamed live and vivid, are nothing short of heart-stopping. Hope. In these first few days of war, I feel a tentative reassurance that some of the state of the art weaponry are actually hitting their military targets and reducing collateral damage by the hundreds, and that through the live broadcasts, the nay-sayers will see how the military leaders are going out of their way to conduct a battle as, for lack of a better word, responsibly as possible. Go away. Any respectability the peace movement has built is eroding by the idiocy of some of its methods. Today there were reports that protesters were defecating and vomiting in the streets of some United States cities in protest against the war. Huh? I've never been the sharpest tack on the board, but what in the bloody hell am I missing here? Look, no one in his or her right mind wants war. But as I noted above, since 9/11, it's a whole new ballgame. And if the anti-war movement wants to have any kind of legitimacy, it should do its best to contain these imbeciles who feel their human waste is a valid tool to sway opposing opinions. Nag, Nag, Nag. I've said before, I'm an avid reader of Salon, the struggling ultra-leftie Web site. I try to get all viewpoints on issues of interest (which is why I also hit AndrewSullivan.com each day), but Salon has gone overboard in finding every conceivable journalistic avenue to protest the war and the Bush administration. A wonderful and grumpy posterboy of their proud liberal viewpoint is Joe Conanson, a writer who has most likely never said anything remotely positive about any aspect of the conservative, or should I say, non-liberal movement. You've most likely seen him on one of the television news prway opposing opinions. Nag, Nag, Nag. I've said before, I'm an avid reader of Salon, the struggling ultra-leftie Web site. I try to get all viewpoints on issues of interest (which is why I also hit AndrewSullivan.com each day), but Salon has gone overboard in finding every conceivable journalistic avenue to protest the war and the Bush administration. A wonderful and grumpy posterboy of their proud liberal viewpoint is Joe Conanson, a writer who has most likely never said anything remotely positive about any aspect of the conservative, or should I say, non-liberal movement. You've most likely seen him on one of the television news programs: the personification of pure, unadulterated contempt for anything remotely non-liberal. In his Salon postings, he grumbles about the illegitimacy of this administration and anything connected to it. George W. Bush could turn into Mother Teresa and feed and care for every individual on the face of this planet, and Conanson would still find faults in the man. It's getting to where I actually enjoy seeing what he has come up with to complain about on a given day – the predictability of his gripes has become unintentionally hilarious. More Tasty Artery Clogging Goodies. Hallelujah! Kroger's now carrying Entenmann's pastries. I first had the pleasure of an Entenmann's chocolate donut about 10 years ago in Florida. Then, about five years ago, Entenmann's started popping up in Arkansas grocery isles, but not in this area until now. My wife had a box of a dozen Entenmann's Rich Frosted Devil's Food Donuts waiting on me when I arrived home from work today. Soak these babies in some milk and then savor the glory. And at 310 calories per donut with 19 grams of fat, these snack delights are simply fantastically healthy! Er...well, maybe not "fantastically" healthy. March 19, 2003 Time is approaching for the second annual Ozarrst had the pleasure of an Entenmann's chocolate donut about 10 years ago in Florida. Then, about five years ago, Entenmann's started popping up in Arkansas grocery isles, but not in this area until now. My wife had a box of a dozen Entenmann's Rich Frosted Devil's Food Donuts waiting on me when I arrived home from work today. Soak these babies in some milk and then savor the glory. And at 310 calories per donut with 19 grams of fat, these snack delights are simply fantastically healthy! Er...well, maybe not "fantastically" healthy. March 19, 2003 Time is approaching for the second annual Ozark Foothills FilmFest, an event that will welcome many out-of-town and out-of-state visitors to the area to catch superb movies, enjoy our wonderful community and, of course, spend some money at our local merchants. Last year's inaugural festival was stuffed with fun events, cool screenings and a sold-out performance from Arkansas musician and actor, Levon Helm, at the wonderful Melba Theatre. This year, the fest will be even better. First, the FilmFest has expanded to the Carmike Oaks 7 Cinema on Harrison Street in Batesville. This opens the door for more movies to be screened, so be sure to check out the enclosed schedule for titles, times and other information about the films showing at the Oaks 7 throughout the festival. The historic Melba Theatre will host a number of exciting events, including a James Dean tribute which will include rare Dean memorabilia from the James Dean Memorial Gallery in his hometown of Fairmount, Ind.; a Cinemascope presentation of the Dean classic, Rebel Without a Cause, on the enormous Melba screen; and a very rare screening of September 30, 1955, a film made in Conway dealing with the effects of Dean's death on some Arkansas college kids. September 30 stars Richard Thomas, Thomas Hulce (from Amadeus and Animal House) and Dennis other information about the films showing at the Oaks 7 throughout the festival. The historic Melba Theatre will host a number of exciting events, including a James Dean tribute which will include rare Dean memorabilia from the James Dean Memorial Gallery in his hometown of Fairmount, Ind.; a Cinemascope presentation of the Dean classic, Rebel Without a Cause, on the enormous Melba screen; and a very rare screening of September 30, 1955, a film made in Conway dealing with the effects of Dean's death on some Arkansas college kids. September 30 stars Richard Thomas, Thomas Hulce (from Amadeus and Animal House) and Dennis Quaid. (And if you look close enough, you'll find former KARK-TV weatherman Tom Bonner and Batesville's own Freeman Mobley in small roles.) September 30, 1955 is currently unavailable on video or DVD, and securing a print for the festival was a chore for the FilmFest organizers, Bob and Judy Pest. The late Arkansan, director James Bridges, wrote and directed the film in the mid '70s, and he went on to direct the major hits, The China Syndrome and Urban Cowboy. Try to make a point to catch this and the other Dean stuff at the Melba during the FilmFest. It'll be a treat. One other major highlight of this year's edition of the Ozark Foothills FilmFest is the special tribute and appearance of actress Lisa Blount. Blount, who also appears in September 30, 1955, made her name in the Richard Gere/Debra Winger hit, An Officer and a Gentleman. That film will be screened at the Melba as well as The Accountant, a short film directed by her husband, Ray McKinnon. The Accountant received an Oscar last year for Best Live Action Short Film, and Ms. Blount was the executive producer on the project. Read all about Blount, her wonderful career, and how you can meet her at a special reception in the enclosed Ozark Foothills FilmFest Program Guide. And e Ozark Foothills FilmFest is the special tribute and appearance of actress Lisa Blount. Blount, who also appears in September 30, 1955, made her name in the Richard Gere/Debra Winger hit, An Officer and a Gentleman. That film will be screened at the Melba as well as The Accountant, a short film directed by her husband, Ray McKinnon. The Accountant received an Oscar last year for Best Live Action Short Film, and Ms. Blount was the executive producer on the project. Read all about Blount, her wonderful career, and how you can meet her at a special reception in the enclosed Ozark Foothills FilmFest Program Guide. And when you see her picture in the program guide, make sure you look at it closely. I mean, I understand Ms. Blount is happily married, but is it just me or does it seem as though her look in the photo is simply screaming, "Rob ... Rob ... Rob ..." I don't know – might just be my imagination. Anyway, be sure to browse the Program Guide for the FilmFest. Stacy Fields, our graphics manager, did a fantastic job laying out the guide, with some needed and appreciated assistance from Karin Mohlke, Julie Fidler and, of course, the industrious Judy Pest. Excellent job, gang! As for me, I plan on hitting a showing of the David Bowie concert film, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars; the Dean stuff; the classic Japanese film, The Seven Samurai; the supposedly fascinating 2001 film, The Fast Runner; the Jean Luc Godard crime thriller, Band of Outsiders; last year's critically acclaimed Sunshine State with Edie Falco, Timothy Hutton and Mary Steenburgen; and all of the Lisa Blount festivities. Again: Check out the enclosed guide, and by all means, hit the fantastic FilmFest Web site at www.ozarkfoothillsfilmfest.org. And make every effort to support this extraordinary local event. * * * Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars; the Dean stuff; the classic Japanese film, The Seven Samurai; the supposedly fascinating 2001 film, The Fast Runner; the Jean Luc Godard crime thriller, Band of Outsiders; last year's critically acclaimed Sunshine State with Edie Falco, Timothy Hutton and Mary Steenburgen; and all of the Lisa Blount festivities. Again: Check out the enclosed guide, and by all means, hit the fantastic FilmFest Web site at www.ozarkfoothillsfilmfest.org. And make every effort to support this extraordinary local event. * * * Top Five This Week 1. "Miracles do exist." Such a valid and affirming assessment from the uncle of Elizabeth Smart after she was found by a police officer a week ago today. The events of her kidnapping and the stunning news of her discovery will have surely trickled out by the time this issue is in your hands, but now – I'm writing this only a few hours after her reunion with her family – the prayers of thanks coming from her family and friends are most likely continuous and immeasurable. 2. Required reading. Kudos to the Batesville Daily Guard's Angelia Roberts. Her column, printed in the March 12 edition, regarding the need for the passage of the proposed Independence County sales tax, wonderfully articulated why it is essential it should be approved. I'll have much more on this topic in the next few issues, but everyone should track down a copy of Ms. Roberts' piece and read it. This is a truly serious issue – one that we should aggressively support for the betterment of every single citizen in this county. Again, more on the sales tax in upcoming issues. 3. Ben Harper. Harper, a virtuoso guitarist and singer, just released his fifth album, Diamonds on the Inside. It's the first truly great CD of the year. ch 12 edition, regarding the need for the passage of the proposed Independence County sales tax, wonderfully articulated why it is essential it should be approved. I'll have much more on this topic in the next few issues, but everyone should track down a copy of Ms. Roberts' piece and read it. This is a truly serious issue – one that we should aggressively support for the betterment of every single citizen in this county. Again, more on the sales tax in upcoming issues. 3. Ben Harper. Harper, a virtuoso guitarist and singer, just released his fifth album, Diamonds on the Inside. It's the first truly great CD of the year. From reggae to funk to blistering rock to soft, passionate hymns, Harper covers all the bases with seeming ease and fervent zeal. Diamonds is a worthy addition to Harper's unique and solid body of work. 4. A Movie Lover's Dream. If you're a cinema buff, pick up the latest issue of Vanity Fair. Beneath the cream puff photos and salutes, you'll find a fun article on the life of producer Sam Spiegel, the man behind Lawrence of Arabia, On the Waterfront, and other classic films; a fascinating glimpse into the lurid tabloid world of Confidential, a gossip rag from the '50s; a long look at the friendship between James Stewart and Cary Grant; and long-overdue praise for my pick for the best film of the last decade, Michael Mann's Heat. Oh, and you also get that creepy and controversial Michael Jackson expose as well. On newsstands now. 5. How About Those Shaved Eyebrows? I mentioned earlier that the Ozark Foothills FilmFest is screening the David Bowie classic, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, and the latest issue of the British magazine, Uncut, features a lengthy look at Bowie's Ziggy phase. The music, let's face it, is phenomenal rock and roll. But the Ziggy "look" is, frankly, frightening. Spiked orangebetween James Stewart and Cary Grant; and long-overdue praise for my pick for the best film of the last decade, Michael Mann's Heat. Oh, and you also get that creepy and controversial Michael Jackson expose as well. On newsstands now. 5. How About Those Shaved Eyebrows? I mentioned earlier that the Ozark Foothills FilmFest is screening the David Bowie classic, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, and the latest issue of the British magazine, Uncut, features a lengthy look at Bowie's Ziggy phase. The music, let's face it, is phenomenal rock and roll. But the Ziggy "look" is, frankly, frightening. Spiked orange hair, shaved eyebrows, a leotard, shaved skinny bare legs and, of course, clunky heels basically made up the Ziggy costume during most of the shows, and all of that glam horror will be centerstage in the movie, screening April 4. (Tickets are on sale at Blue Meannie Music on Harrison Street.) Let's face it: If I showed up at the grocery store on a late Saturday night in that get-up, you'll know I've gone off the deep end. March 12, 2003 It's March 6th as I write. About 4:00 in the afternoon. By Wednesday, when this issue hits the streets and mailboxes, we might be at war, or close to it – a London paper reported that the bombing campaign might begin around Friday the 14th. One other story swirling around the globe as I write this afternoon is this: rumors running rampant that Osama Bin Laden has been captured, and President Bush will announce this tonight during a press conference (again – this is 3/6/03 as I write). The British Broadcasting Company has posted a story on the Internet saying this rumor is being denied by the White House, but there are numerous other stories stating that the United States is this close to nabbing the thug. Whatever happens, by the time you read this, we'll know. Today, it seit – a London paper reported that the bombing campaign might begin around Friday the 14th. One other story swirling around the globe as I write this afternoon is this: rumors running rampant that Osama Bin Laden has been captured, and President Bush will announce this tonight during a press conference (again – this is 3/6/03 as I write). The British Broadcasting Company has posted a story on the Internet saying this rumor is being denied by the White House, but there are numerous other stories stating that the United States is this close to nabbing the thug. Whatever happens, by the time you read this, we'll know. Today, it seems as if war is inevitable. I've been somewhat surprised by the military analysts scattered across the networks and news publications who've all been telling us that any war with Iraq will be swift and over in a few weeks, with few American and civilian casualties. This is, of course, barring any surprise weapon of mass destruction being set off by either side. Skimming through various articles by the analysts, one easily finds that the weaponry, heavily rooted in the latest technology, is stunning. One expert noted that, while the number of bombs that will be unleashed on Iraq in the opening hours of the war will be almost 10 times more than those dropped in Gulf War I, the weaponry should inflect less casualties because of the accuracy. The technology of such "smart bombs" has been drastically updated to ensure such accuracy, say those in the know. So they say, while the casualties should be less than 1991's battle, the firepower that will rain down on Baghdad with the start of Gulf War II will be terrifying. And of course, that's the point. Most believe that this will be the most psychological battle ever fought. A blizzard of accurate firepower will most likely decimate Saddam's mansions, factories and bases, as well as the palatial properties of various Saddam thugs and supporters thrropped in Gulf War I, the weaponry should inflect less casualties because of the accuracy. The technology of such "smart bombs" has been drastically updated to ensure such accuracy, say those in the know. So they say, while the casualties should be less than 1991's battle, the firepower that will rain down on Baghdad with the start of Gulf War II will be terrifying. And of course, that's the point. Most believe that this will be the most psychological battle ever fought. A blizzard of accurate firepower will most likely decimate Saddam's mansions, factories and bases, as well as the palatial properties of various Saddam thugs and supporters throughout Iraq which will – it's hoped – cause hysterics, mass defections, and perhaps, some type of rushed overthrow from those affected by such violence. Then there is the publicized propaganda saturation campaign currently ongoing against the inner circle of Saddam's military planners. Their cell phone numbers and e-mail in-boxes are being flooded by our government with doom-laden messages of what will happen if they don't defect now. MSNBC is also reporting that the U.S. will drop one big mama of a bomb outside some populated areas that will produce not only an enormous mushroom cloud, but it's hoped a mass wetting of pants in the Iraqi army, as well. Of course, this bomb isn't atomic; we simply want the bad guys to think it is. On the Bin Laden front – if they do nab Osama, one has to wonder what the first picture of the captured monster will be like. Keep in mind that there really hasn't been any type of visual proof of Bin Laden since 9/11 – furthering the speculation that he's gravely ill, and his appearance is most likely drastically different from those videos from before. A post-capture photo of Bin Laden might be more humiliating than the recent photo of his number three guy, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Disheveled, drowsy and resigned to defeat, the supposed 9/11 mastermind my, as well. Of course, this bomb isn't atomic; we simply want the bad guys to think it is. On the Bin Laden front – if they do nab Osama, one has to wonder what the first picture of the captured monster will be like. Keep in mind that there really hasn't been any type of visual proof of Bin Laden since 9/11 – furthering the speculation that he's gravely ill, and his appearance is most likely drastically different from those videos from before. A post-capture photo of Bin Laden might be more humiliating than the recent photo of his number three guy, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Disheveled, drowsy and resigned to defeat, the supposed 9/11 mastermind looked like a pudgy hairball of a man who would normally be found on a couch with a bag of Cheetos to one side, a 6-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the other, and Baywatch on the tube. And I'm sure the possible Bin Laden photo would feature someone with even less stature than the reputation that proceeded him – bug-eyed, sunken face, and that ever-present turban absent to reveal a shockingly bald head. (Not that a bald head is characteristic of someone without stature – but seeing someone who has built himself up to be such a holy warrior in a manner that is wholly different from the evil persona he's created would be, simply, a shock.) Of course, some of this may never happen. War is a horrible thing – no rational human would want war of any kind. But I think it's obvious that if America blinks, the potential for Saddam to develop and sell weapons of mass destruction to more of our rogue enemies will be drastically increased. * * * Top Five This Week (Abbreviated Version -- Only Three This Week, Kids) 1. Reason #239 That Michael Jackson Is Nuts. The new issue of Vanity Fair reports that Jackson hired a witch doctor to put a hex on Hollywood bigwigs David Geffen and Steven Spielberg. "Geffen will be dead within aOf course, some of this may never happen. War is a horrible thing – no rational human would want war of any kind. But I think it's obvious that if America blinks, the potential for Saddam to develop and sell weapons of mass destruction to more of our rogue enemies will be drastically increased. * * * Top Five This Week (Abbreviated Version -- Only Three This Week, Kids) 1. Reason #239 That Michael Jackson Is Nuts. The new issue of Vanity Fair reports that Jackson hired a witch doctor to put a hex on Hollywood bigwigs David Geffen and Steven Spielberg. "Geffen will be dead within a week," the voodoo doc reportedly told Jackson. Of course, Geffen is still counting his billions in some California mansion, Spielberg is still making blockbusters, and with creditors breathing down his neck, Jackson is nevertheless still in possession of his precious Neverland – but only by a nose. Oh, wait a minute…. 2. Yeah, But Have I Mentioned the Video? Arkansas 103 KWOZ is currently spinning the new Johnny Cash song, "Hurt." A listener recently left this message on the KWOZ answering machine: "Please stop playing that new Johnny Cash song. It's too depressing, and besides, I've already read enough about it in Rob Grace's column." 3. They're Looking for a Ned Beatty-Type to Host. A recent e-mail sent my way contained this proposal for a new reality TV series based in Arkansas. Arkansas Survivor would have the contestants travel from Conway all over the Natural State in shocking pink Volvos, each vehicle plastered with the following bumper stickers: "Deer Hunting is Murder," "Hillary in 2004," "The Arkansas Razorbacks Suck," "Beer is Harmful to Your Health," "I'm a Vegetarian," and "I'm Here to Confiscate Your Guns!" The first one who makes it back to Conway wins. about it in Rob Grace's column." 3. They're Looking for a Ned Beatty-Type to Host. A recent e-mail sent my way contained this proposal for a new reality TV series based in Arkansas. Arkansas Survivor would have the contestants travel from Conway all over the Natural State in shocking pink Volvos, each vehicle plastered with the following bumper stickers: "Deer Hunting is Murder," "Hillary in 2004," "The Arkansas Razorbacks Suck," "Beer is Harmful to Your Health," "I'm a Vegetarian," and "I'm Here to Confiscate Your Guns!" The first one who makes it back to Conway wins. March 5, 2003 The other day, I was talking with someone regarding the unstable state of the world, and my preference to try and ignore the news. In fact, I told this person, instead of automatically switching on Fox News Channel or CNN when I pop on the television, I now instantly tune the tube to either Comedy Central or Nickelodeon. I appreciate laughter a lot more these days. There are three personalities currently making names for themselves that have true comedic talent and, on some occasions, have tested the durability of my bladder. In other words, these guys make me smile yet their styles are very different. Lewis Black, a comedian with whom I became familiar through Comedy Central's The Daily Show, is a stand up who revels in the stupidity of the world. You may have seen him on The Daily Show, a middle-aged grump with a pot belly and a permanent scowl, gloriously screaming about the state of the nation all while poking his finger at the camera, stabbing at the air with each furious point he makes. His rants usually begin calmly enough – he might casually mention something that, say, he happened to see as he waited to pass through security at some airport, or something he may have noticed in the net their styles are very different. Lewis Black, a comedian with whom I became familiar through Comedy Central's The Daily Show, is a stand up who revels in the stupidity of the world. You may have seen him on The Daily Show, a middle-aged grump with a pot belly and a permanent scowl, gloriously screaming about the state of the nation all while poking his finger at the camera, stabbing at the air with each furious point he makes. His rants usually begin calmly enough – he might casually mention something that, say, he happened to see as he waited to pass through security at some airport, or something he may have noticed in the newspaper. But, as the absurdity of a situation unravels and reveals itself in his stories, his voice gradually rises, the finger starts jabbing and soon he's screaming through his teeth at the idiocy of the particular story. Of course in describing comedy of any type, it can be difficult to translate the humor. You know, "Well, you had to be there…" But Lewis Black is funny, articulate and usually dead-on in his views. Trust me. Watch for him on Comedy Central, or invest in one of his two excellent compact discs, The White Album and The End of the Universe, the latter of which offers a twisted, and unfortunately, accurate view of the post 9/11 world. Hit www.lewisblack.net for more info on this talented artist. Most folks know the name of Will Ferrell. Formerly a Saturday Night Live regular, it looks as if Ferrell is making the successful transition from SNL to movies with the success of Old School, a throwback to Animal House and Caddyshack. I've always loved Ferrell and his deadpan, overly confident but completely clueless group of characters from SNL. On SNL, Ferrell could almost guarantee the success of a particular skit simply by his inclusion. Perhaps his most notable character on the variety show was Sp of the post 9/11 world. Hit www.lewisblack.net for more info on this talented artist. Most folks know the name of Will Ferrell. Formerly a Saturday Night Live regular, it looks as if Ferrell is making the successful transition from SNL to movies with the success of Old School, a throwback to Animal House and Caddyshack. I've always loved Ferrell and his deadpan, overly confident but completely clueless group of characters from SNL. On SNL, Ferrell could almost guarantee the success of a particular skit simply by his inclusion. Perhaps his most notable character on the variety show was Spartan Spirit cheerleader, Craig – a dunce who was a little more intense about his team spirit than most. But my favorite Ferrell creation was Marty Culp, a dorky middle school music teacher, who with his equally dorky wife, Bobbi, could be found as the entertainment at various wedding receptions, conventions and reunions. With his bald head, Lincoln beard and a stiff gung-ho enthusiasm, Marty would charge through awful versions of current hit songs with Bobbi singing gleefully along. Again, my lame written description doesn't do justice to the talent of Ferrell, but the guy never fails to entertain. Old School, by the way, is far from the funniest movie ever made, but Ferrell steals every scene. He has no shame and will do anything for a laugh – even if it includes a scene with his character streaking down a street in a drunken daze or screaming like a madman clad only in a pair of underwear briefs about two sizes too small. The other comic that has been entertaining me of late is a true innovator. His name is Phil Hendrie, and he's the host of a nightly nationally syndicated radio show based out of Los Angeles. For those unfamiliar with Hendrie, his show might initially sound like every other talk radio show on the dial – occasional rants about the day's headlines and phone intfunniest movie ever made, but Ferrell steals every scene. He has no shame and will do anything for a laugh – even if it includes a scene with his character streaking down a street in a drunken daze or screaming like a madman clad only in a pair of underwear briefs about two sizes too small. The other comic that has been entertaining me of late is a true innovator. His name is Phil Hendrie, and he's the host of a nightly nationally syndicated radio show based out of Los Angeles. For those unfamiliar with Hendrie, his show might initially sound like every other talk radio show on the dial – occasional rants about the day's headlines and phone interviews with various individuals. But it's the phone interviews that hold the key to Hendrie's genius. I first came across Hendrie by accident on a Dallas station. I tuned in to an interview conducted by Hendrie with a depressed-sounding man who was concerned with his sexuality. Apparently, the man had thought he might be gay because another guy at a bar had said the man looked good in a pair of jeans. Callers were phoning in trying to tell the distraught guest, who eventually broke down and sobbed, that just because he received a compliment from another man did not mean that he was gay. Listening to the interview, I thought this guy (the caller) was breaking down live on the air over a completely misinterpreted remark. In fact, I was laughing in disbelief at the guy's utterly clueless condition. It wasn't until later on in the show that Hendrie casually mentioned that he was the depressed guy on the other end of the line. Hendrie was the host and the guest, but the callers into the show were real – innocent listeners, like me, duped by a fake. I started listening to Hendrie whenever I was in range of a station that carried the show, and I became hooked. Now, through his Web site – www.philhendrieshow.com – I can listen to the previous night's shows on my computer. The sir) was breaking down live on the air over a completely misinterpreted remark. In fact, I was laughing in disbelief at the guy's utterly clueless condition. It wasn't until later on in the show that Hendrie casually mentioned that he was the depressed guy on the other end of the line. Hendrie was the host and the guest, but the callers into the show were real – innocent listeners, like me, duped by a fake. I started listening to Hendrie whenever I was in range of a station that carried the show, and I became hooked. Now, through his Web site – www.philhendrieshow.com – I can listen to the previous night's shows on my computer. The site is a thorough introduction to Hendrie's cast of characters. One night he can be Bobbie Dooley, a pompous and clueless housewife, who gets on the air to talk about hot American Taliban John Walker Lindh is, or why she is upset because her 13-year-old son won't let her bathe him anymore. Or he's Ted Bell, an idiotic Beverly Hills restaurant owner who's angry that other restaurants across the country stole his idea of putting baked potatoes in aluminum foil. Or Dean Wheeler, another Hendrie moron who believes President Bush could be a better leader if he regularly had coffee enemas. Hendrie has many more folks in his toy box, and the reactions he receives from callers clueless to the joke are hilarious. Most of them eventually degenerate into a screaming rage at the stupidity of Hendrie's particular "guest," while all of us who are in on the joke can revel in the meltdowns. Hendrie's radio show is not available on the local airwaves because we'd (W.R.D. Entertainment) be shut down if we carried it – it can get extremely risqu�. But, if you're game, check out his Web site and subscribe to receive his show. He's currently preparing to shoot a television pilot for NBC that will somehow feature some of his characters from the radio show. I don't know if it's a good idea or not – Hendrie's from callers clueless to the joke are hilarious. Most of them eventually degenerate into a screaming rage at the stupidity of Hendrie's particular "guest," while all of us who are in on the joke can revel in the meltdowns. Hendrie's radio show is not available on the local airwaves because we'd (W.R.D. Entertainment) be shut down if we carried it – it can get extremely risqu�. But, if you're game, check out his Web site and subscribe to receive his show. He's currently preparing to shoot a television pilot for NBC that will somehow feature some of his characters from the radio show. I don't know if it's a good idea or not – Hendrie's comedy is perfect for radio, but I'm curious to see how it turns out. The Top Five 1. Mr. Rogers Has Left the Neighborhood. What a shock. I vividly remember watching the neighborhood activities each morning along with The Electric Company and Sesame Street on our huge Magnavox set in our den, and for some odd reason, being fascinated that Mr. Rogers would always change from a blazer and dress shoes into a cardigan and sneakers for just 30 minutes. And why, exactly, did he show up at the house for only half an hour? I mean, was that his regular home, or simply some place where he just chilled for 30 minutes every weekday? Answers we'll never know. 2. Britney Spears. You know, I've been wrong to single out J. Lo and Ben all these weeks as examples of primo celebrity doofuses. I mean, can we all agree that Britney is the Queen of Celebrity Doofuses? Example: After walking out of a movie at the recent Sundance Film Festival, she said: "The movies (at Sundance) are weird – you actually have to think about them when you watch them." 3. Girl Scout Cookies. The lbs. should be showing by the time this paper hits the mailboxes and news racks. Since we now have a Brownie in the house, I blew over 40 bucks on all sor 30 minutes every weekday? Answers we'll never know. 2. Britney Spears. You know, I've been wrong to single out J. Lo and Ben all these weeks as examples of primo celebrity doofuses. I mean, can we all agree that Britney is the Queen of Celebrity Doofuses? Example: After walking out of a movie at the recent Sundance Film Festival, she said: "The movies (at Sundance) are weird – you actually have to think about them when you watch them." 3. Girl Scout Cookies. The lbs. should be showing by the time this paper hits the mailboxes and news racks. Since we now have a Brownie in the house, I blew over 40 bucks on all sorts of Girl Scout Cookies. Thin mints, Tagalongs, Do-si-dos – you name it, I bought it. And I have rivaled the Cookie Monster in their consumption over the past week. Why, oh, why can't these suckers be available all the time? Another answer we'll never know. 4. ABC's Robert Blake Interview. Oooooooookkkkkkkkay. Robert's gone a little kooky on us. As Woody Allen told the odd-ball Christopher Walken in Annie Hall, "Um, excuse me but, um, I think, uh, I'll be getting back to planet Earth now." 5. Fred Durst. Mr. Affleck's successor to King of the Celebrity Doofuses. At the Grammys the other night, the front-man for the rap-metal band Limp Bizkit gave an eloquent plea for peace: "I hope we're all in agreeance that this war should go away as soon as possible." Agreeance. It should be noted that Mr. Durst and the aforementioned Ms. Spears recently broke up. I think we're all in agreeance that they seemed such the perfect couple. A hodge-podge of stuff this week ... A potpourri, if you will... My brother calls me this afternoon. "Hey," he says, "Have you heard this new Johnny Cash album?" "Uh," n for the rap-metal band Limp Bizkit gave an eloquent plea for peace: "I hope we're all in agreeance that this war should go away as soon as possible." Agreeance. It should be noted that Mr. Durst and the aforementioned Ms. Spears recently broke up. I think we're all in agreeance that they seemed such the perfect couple. Feb. 26, 2003 A hodge-podge of stuff this week ... A potpourri, if you will... My brother calls me this afternoon. "Hey," he says, "Have you heard this new Johnny Cash album?" "Uh," I say, "I've written about it two or three times in my column." "Huh?" He says. "Oh. Well, have you seen that new video he's filmed? It's awesome." "Uh," I say, "I've written about it as well." "Huh?" So, it's good to see my brother is an avid reader of this space. It's also good to know that the Johnny Cash CD in question, American IV: The Man Comes Around, is doing very well. As I noted above, I've been praising and recommending this album since its November release, and the video "Hurt" is an unbelievable and moving piece of work that you need to try and catch on CMT or VH1. Good stuff. Mr. Cash has produced a classic album that will be a worthy testament to his craft and talent in the years to come. * * * OK – it's official: I have become Mr. Ostrich. I'm sick of war talk and terrorist warnings. CNN and Fox News are banned from my television. Newspapers with nothing but grim headlines are now kindling for my fireplace. Don't ask me how I feel about war, possible war, anti-war, duct tape, French weenies, Martin Sheen, Donald Rumsfeld, United Nations weenies, etc., etc., etc. It's no secret that 9/11 completely turneu need to try and catch on CMT or VH1. Good stuff. Mr. Cash has produced a classic album that will be a worthy testament to his craft and talent in the years to come. * * * OK – it's official: I have become Mr. Ostrich. I'm sick of war talk and terrorist warnings. CNN and Fox News are banned from my television. Newspapers with nothing but grim headlines are now kindling for my fireplace. Don't ask me how I feel about war, possible war, anti-war, duct tape, French weenies, Martin Sheen, Donald Rumsfeld, United Nations weenies, etc., etc., etc. It's no secret that 9/11 completely turned our world inside out. But to continue to cower under seemingly endless threats and bleak forecasts of terror seems almost surreal and a complete surrender to pessimism. I mean, how can I fully enjoy the complete disintegration of Michael Jackson's career if I'm worried about how much plastic sheeting I have on hand? How can I appreciate a foot-long chili dog covered in onions if we're at threat level orange? How can I fully follow the topsy-turvy world of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston if our borders are not secure? And, how in the world can I be grateful for that glorious new tattoo on the face of Mike Tyson if there is not a level of perfect agreement on the part of the United Nations Security Council? Of course for the most part, I'm being extremely facetious. The state of the world is in a serious state, and I appreciate that. But in an odd and selfish way, it can be refreshing to stick your head in the sand now and then, and turn off the bloody cable news. Just tap me on the shoulder if I need to reach for the duct tape anytime soon. * * * The Top Five will be back next week. Feb. 12, 2003 I think I've noted before that I am a media junkie. By that I mean I consume magazment on the part of the United Nations Security Council? Of course for the most part, I'm being extremely facetious. The state of the world is in a serious state, and I appreciate that. But in an odd and selfish way, it can be refreshing to stick your head in the sand now and then, and turn off the bloody cable news. Just tap me on the shoulder if I need to reach for the duct tape anytime soon. * * * The Top Five will be back next week. Feb. 12, 2003 I think I've noted before that I am a media junkie. By that I mean I consume magazines, articles, certain news shows and various books as if I were some type of drug addict. If I'm away from the Web for too long, the twitches and cold sweats kick in. If I don't have a magazine or paper to read while I'm waiting for something - an appointment, the car being serviced - agitation brews. It's silly and somewhat selfish particularly when I'm with a group of folks and there I am engrossed in a magazine article detailing the Russian Mafia but it's a vice, and I'm its slave. There's no political slant, no high-minded intentions to the stuff I read; the topics are, pardon the pun, all over the map. Whether it's the ultra-left content of most Salon.com articles, or the snooty, unintentionally hilarious journals of Dominick Dunne in Vanity Fair, or the postings of conservative writer Andrew Sullivan on his website, or gleefully studying the Page Six gossip in the New York Post-my tastes fall everywhere. Stuffing my big empty head with all of this junk can also be depressing, particularly in these unsteady days of war and tragedy, but there are endless volumes of news and opinion out there that can sometimes spark some light upstairs. In that vein, I'd like to share various thoughts and quotes I've come across in the past few days. Some are old. Most are current. Some will left content of most Salon.com articles, or the snooty, unintentionally hilarious journals of Dominick Dunne in Vanity Fair, or the postings of conservative writer Andrew Sullivan on his website, or gleefully studying the Page Six gossip in the New York Post-my tastes fall everywhere. Stuffing my big empty head with all of this junk can also be depressing, particularly in these unsteady days of war and tragedy, but there are endless volumes of news and opinion out there that can sometimes spark some light upstairs. In that vein, I'd like to share various thoughts and quotes I've come across in the past few days. Some are old. Most are current. Some will make you angry. Some will cause a few to say "Amen!" And I do not agree with every quote listed. But they all flicked a spark. Enjoy... From a recent Thomas Friedman New York Times column, in which he quotes the editor of a German newspaper, Die Zeit, on the subject of European resistance to the likely war with Iraq - a quote within a quote, if you will: "Power corrupts, but so does weakness. And absolute weakness corrupts absolutely. We are now living through the most critical watershed of the postwar period, with enormous moral and strategic issues at stake, and the only answer many Europeans offer is to constrain and contain American power. So by default they end up on the side of Saddam, in an intellectually corrupt position." On war with Iraq, activist/musician Tom Morello recently told Rolling Stone magazine this: "The Bush administration is looking for a pretext, any pretext, to invade Iraq, in the name of controlling oil reserves and concealing Bush's horrendous domestic record. Forty million Americans live below the poverty line; 50 million are without health care, a lot of them are children; corporate crime is at an all-time high - this is the Enron presidency." Same subject, only this time from right wing quarterly Doublethconstrain and contain American power. So by default they end up on the side of Saddam, in an intellectually corrupt position." On war with Iraq, activist/musician Tom Morello recently told Rolling Stone magazine this: "The Bush administration is looking for a pretext, any pretext, to invade Iraq, in the name of controlling oil reserves and concealing Bush's horrendous domestic record. Forty million Americans live below the poverty line; 50 million are without health care, a lot of them are children; corporate crime is at an all-time high - this is the Enron presidency." Same subject, only this time from right wing quarterly Doublethink as longtime liberal writer Christopher Hitchens continues his transformation into a stalwart conservative: "...I'd vote for Bush. The important thing is this: Is a (2004 presidential) candidate completely serious about prosecuting the war on theocratic terrorism to the fullest extent? Only Bush is." In the same quarterly, Hitchens offers this goody about Bill Clinton's late 1960s days at Oxford: "Somebody was giving information to the CIA about the anti-war draft resisters, and I think it was probably him. We [Clinton and Hitchens] had a girlfriend in common - I didn't know then - who's since become a very famous radical lesbian." Ooooo-kay... And, from Salon.com, here's what singer/songwriter/activist Steve Earle has to say about the slow but steady political morphing of Christopher Hitchens: "What's happening with Christopher Hitchens, who I think is a brilliant cat, is that his drinking has finally gotten the best of him." From the New York Post, Republican pundit/peroxide haired vixen Ann Coulter on Hollywood's opposition to the war in Iraq: "What has Hollywood got against big oil? That's what fuels their private jets and brings them their cocaine." From the same New York Post, longtime radical journalist and self-proclaimed ot; Ooooo-kay... And, from Salon.com, here's what singer/songwriter/activist Steve Earle has to say about the slow but steady political morphing of Christopher Hitchens: "What's happening with Christopher Hitchens, who I think is a brilliant cat, is that his drinking has finally gotten the best of him." From the New York Post, Republican pundit/peroxide haired vixen Ann Coulter on Hollywood's opposition to the war in Iraq: "What has Hollywood got against big oil? That's what fuels their private jets and brings them their cocaine." From the same New York Post, longtime radical journalist and self-proclaimed "elderly drug fiend" Hunter S. Thompson gives his thoughts on President Bush: "In two years, this dunce, this yo-yo from Texas, has taken us from a prosperous nation at peace to a broke nation at war." At CNN.com, I found a transcript of shoe-bomber Richard Reid's sentencing by Judge William Young. After Reid had gone through his allegiances to Allah, Osama, and Islam, Judge Young told Reid: "You are not an enemy combatant. You are a terrorist. You are not a soldier in any war. You are a terrorist. To give you that reference, to call you a soldier gives you far too much stature." Christianity Today recently profiled the sometimes controversial evangelist Tony Campolo in a cover story. According to CT, Campolo, who visited Batesville a few years ago and gave a rousing talk at Lyon College, would sometimes begin his speeches with these words "First, while you were sleeping last night, 30,000 kids died of starvation or diseases related to malnutrition. Second, most of you don't give a sh**. What's worse is that you're more upset with the fact that I said sh** than the fact that 30,000 kids died last night." And then there is this: "According to the computers, as long as you can bring the shuttle back into the atmosphere, you can fly it to ted the sometimes controversial evangelist Tony Campolo in a cover story. According to CT, Campolo, who visited Batesville a few years ago and gave a rousing talk at Lyon College, would sometimes begin his speeches with these words "First, while you were sleeping last night, 30,000 kids died of starvation or diseases related to malnutrition. Second, most of you don't give a sh**. What's worse is that you're more upset with the fact that I said sh** than the fact that 30,000 kids died last night." And then there is this: "According to the computers, as long as you can bring the shuttle back into the atmosphere, you can fly it to the airfield even if the tiles are damaged...[But] computers have never flown with the unpredictable combination of damaged tiles that a shuttle may experience. They've never been whacked by a sudden, nonprogrammed gust of jet stream wind. They've never flounced like a twig on the crazy rapids of 'bias' - the bland physics term for unexplained variations in the earth's gravitational and magnetic fields. These are the wild, uncharted rivers of space." That's from a 1980 article in The Washington Monthly by Gregg Easterbrook criticizing the supposed safety of the then-brand-new space shuttle Columbia. In a recent post-Columbia tragedy issue of Time, Easterbrook again argued against the shuttle program. Finally: "Thanks to many of you who have supported me and my adventures throughout the years. This was definitely one to beat all. I hope you could feel the positive energy that beamed to the whole planet as we glided over our shared planet." This was the final e-mail from astronaut Laurel Clark, sent from space in the shuttle Columbia, on Friday, January 31, 2003. * * * Top Five 1.Benicio Del Toro is One Odd Individual. Just check out the profile of the Oscar winner as he saunters down Beale Street in the Marc Easterbrook again argued against the shuttle program. Finally: "Thanks to many of you who have supported me and my adventures throughout the years. This was definitely one to beat all. I hope you could feel the positive energy that beamed to the whole planet as we glided over our shared planet." This was the final e-mail from astronaut Laurel Clark, sent from space in the shuttle Columbia, on Friday, January 31, 2003. * * * Top Five 1.Benicio Del Toro is One Odd Individual. Just check out the profile of the Oscar winner as he saunters down Beale Street in the March issue of Esquire. He's not really "odd" per se; it's only that when one pictures Del Toro strutting down Beale with his "...red Puma sweatpants tucked into his black moon boots, with his blue zippered sweatshirt under a brown leather bomber jacket that's got a banging fur collar, and his big mop of gray hair is smushed under a tall, ugly green trucker hat that he swears is hip in L.A...." and then the actor later complains about attracting attention from a bunch of overeager obnoxious stargazers that same night...well, then it's hard to find any sympathy for the guy. Particularly when he's dressed like a white trash pimp. Oh well, at least the article notes Benicio likes the new Johnny Cash album. I'll cut the guy some slack for that encouraging revelation. 2.Questioning the Sanity of Ben Affleck, Part One. In the new issue of Vanity Fair, which I haven't read, Affleck apparently claims that the public's infatuation with his relationship with J. Lo is because she's Puerto Rican and he's white. And that, shocks and disturbs many people. Huh? Ben, let's clue you in: the only people who are infatuated with your love affair with Ms. Lopez are a) most 12-year old girls who have yet to read a book all the way through, b) those who view you with a mixtu Oh well, at least the article notes Benicio likes the new Johnny Cash album. I'll cut the guy some slack for that encouraging revelation. 2.Questioning the Sanity of Ben Affleck, Part One. In the new issue of Vanity Fair, which I haven't read, Affleck apparently claims that the public's infatuation with his relationship with J. Lo is because she's Puerto Rican and he's white. And that, shocks and disturbs many people. Huh? Ben, let's clue you in: the only people who are infatuated with your love affair with Ms. Lopez are a) most 12-year old girls who have yet to read a book all the way through, b) those who view you with a mixture of contempt and humor, and c) you. And without stating the obvious: who gives a bleep if Ms. Lopez is Puerto Rican? 3.Where's Chicago? As of this writing (February 5), Chicago, the new musical I wrote about last issue, has not opened in Batesville even though there had been two weekends of sneak previews at the Carmike Cinemas Oaks 7. Also, the new Al Pacino thriller, The Recruit, has not opened at the Oaks. What gives? According to a Carmike Cinemas rep I e-mailed, he noted that Miramax, the Disney-owned company that produced and distributes Chicago, oddly pulled it from the Oaks 7 schedule at the last minute, even after the "successful" sneaks that were held. In fact, the rep noted that Miramax pulled it from some other previously scheduled U.S. screens as well. It is now - again this is February 5 as I write this - scheduled to open Friday. If you're in the mood for a fun musical, see it when it eventually arrives. As for The Recruit, the rep said Disney - the company that produced and distributes the film, elected to not open it in Batesville. Carmike says they do hope to get a print of The Recruit soon. 4.Questioning the Sanity of Ben Affleck, Part Two. In the same Vanity Fair article, he notes he wouldn't mind running fte, even after the "successful" sneaks that were held. In fact, the rep noted that Miramax pulled it from some other previously scheduled U.S. screens as well. It is now - again this is February 5 as I write this - scheduled to open Friday. If you're in the mood for a fun musical, see it when it eventually arrives. As for The Recruit, the rep said Disney - the company that produced and distributes the film, elected to not open it in Batesville. Carmike says they do hope to get a print of The Recruit soon. 4.Questioning the Sanity of Ben Affleck, Part Two. In the same Vanity Fair article, he notes he wouldn't mind running for Congress some day. Yet, he still has not registered to vote. 5.Friday Night, February 28, 2003. This will be a date I expect all you to remember. CBS-TV, on this day, will air the following program: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. The hour-long special will be broadcast with limited commercial interruption and will feature footage from a recent concert in Barcelona. If you are a regular reader of this column, you are required to view this program. There will be a pop quiz after its' broadcast. Class dismissed. * * * One final note. To all of the readers who voted this column their favorite in Arkansas Weekly through our recent Readers Choice Poll - thanks. There are some really talented writers here, and to be in running with Julie, Gary B., Duffie and the others is a blessing. In fact, writing these sometimes silly, trivial and inane glimpses into my little world is a blessing. When I started, I didn't think many folks would give two hoots about what I thought, yet it's always surprising when readers write or approach me about a past column. So, to those of you who voted for me, I thank you again. However, your vote for this column does not mean you are free to skip the Springsteen this column their favorite in Arkansas Weekly through our recent Readers Choice Poll - thanks. There are some really talented writers here, and to be in running with Julie, Gary B., Duffie and the others is a blessing. In fact, writing these sometimes silly, trivial and inane glimpses into my little world is a blessing. When I started, I didn't think many folks would give two hoots about what I thought, yet it's always surprising when readers write or approach me about a past column. So, to those of you who voted for me, I thank you again. However, your vote for this column does not mean you are free to skip the Springsteen special - Friday night, Feb. 28, 2003, at 8 p.m. The special is required viewing. Thank you. Jan. 22, 2003 I love crow. The texture is always soft, yet still meaty with a nice smooth taste – much like chicken. I hadn't eaten crow lately, so it was a delight the other afternoon when I came across a large steaming plate. A few weeks back, in my trivial year-end wrap up of 2002 movies, I noted that I had no desire to see Chicago, the new film based on the hit Broadway revival of the Bob Fosse musical. I had caught the play three years ago, and it did zilch for me. Seeing a movie version of a musical that never lit my fire didn't seem like much fun. Silly me. I must have been in a foul mood the night I saw the play because the film version of Chicago is a bona-fide knockout. In fact, if you're into this sort of thing, a safe bet could be made for Chicago nabbing the Best Picture Oscar come March. (I'm not into the Oscars that much, and I'm not saying it's the best movie from last year – I haven't seen all of them – but it is the kind of film the traditionally conservative Academy loves.) And it's nothing more than a genuine old-fashioned musical. I mean, it d zilch for me. Seeing a movie version of a musical that never lit my fire didn't seem like much fun. Silly me. I must have been in a foul mood the night I saw the play because the film version of Chicago is a bona-fide knockout. In fact, if you're into this sort of thing, a safe bet could be made for Chicago nabbing the Best Picture Oscar come March. (I'm not into the Oscars that much, and I'm not saying it's the best movie from last year – I haven't seen all of them – but it is the kind of film the traditionally conservative Academy loves.) And it's nothing more than a genuine old-fashioned musical. I mean, it would not have been out of place had Gene Kelly, Ann Miller and Cyd Charisse been in the lead roles instead of Richard Gere, Renee Zellweger and Catherine Zeta-Jones. When someone says, "They don't make movies like they did in the old days," they need to see Chicago. (Of course, let's be clear: it's not a jolly Music Man/Singin' in the Rain kind of thing. Not many old-time musicals dealt with murders, prison and all types of selfish, duplicitous individuals.) A late-1920s tale of lust for celebrity, Chicago follows Roxie Hart (Zellweger), a scheming vixen with stars in her eyes who heads to the county lock-up after plugging a slime-ball who promised her a shot at stardom. In jail, she has to compete with showgirl turned double-murderess Velma Kelly (Zeta-Jones) for the attention of not only the successful and flamboyant lawyer who specializes in getting his clients off the hook, Billy Flynn (Gere), but also the Chicago press machine that, just like today, drools over any sensational copy. The musical numbers, seen mostly through the eyes of Roxie while deftly cutting back and forth to the real world, are stunning. Director Rob Marshall, who also directed the very fine television version of Annie a few years back, infuses the numbers with truock-up after plugging a slime-ball who promised her a shot at stardom. In jail, she has to compete with showgirl turned double-murderess Velma Kelly (Zeta-Jones) for the attention of not only the successful and flamboyant lawyer who specializes in getting his clients off the hook, Billy Flynn (Gere), but also the Chicago press machine that, just like today, drools over any sensational copy. The musical numbers, seen mostly through the eyes of Roxie while deftly cutting back and forth to the real world, are stunning. Director Rob Marshall, who also directed the very fine television version of Annie a few years back, infuses the numbers with true spectacle and vibrant energy, and the performers – particularly Zellweger – simply storm through their numbers with authentic, unadulterated talent. Sitting through Chicago, I kept wondering why Hollywood had stopped making big-time musicals like this. It's raking in cash at the box office, and the accolades have been mostly euphoric. There are so many Broadway shows out there dying for a big-screen adaptation, so I hope some enterprising producers start digging through their old Playbills for ideas. (Well, let's hope that they pass on a movie version of Cats. My idea of Hell would include mandatory attendance at a daily matinee of Cats, for eternity. Yeesh.) I, for one, would love to see an enormous wide-screen epic version of the musical, Les Miserables. In the right hands, that could become a classic. In the meantime, if you're a fan of the musical genre, don't miss Chicago. The seemingly universal accolades this sucker is receiving are more than justified. * * * Another remarkable film that recently hit town is the dark salute to 1950s melodramatic cinema, Far From Heaven. The superb Julianne Moore, Dennis Quaid and Dennis Haysbert (from television's 24) star inatinee of Cats, for eternity. Yeesh.) I, for one, would love to see an enormous wide-screen epic version of the musical, Les Miserables. In the right hands, that could become a classic. In the meantime, if you're a fan of the musical genre, don't miss Chicago. The seemingly universal accolades this sucker is receiving are more than justified. * * * Another remarkable film that recently hit town is the dark salute to 1950s melodramatic cinema, Far From Heaven. The superb Julianne Moore, Dennis Quaid and Dennis Haysbert (from television's 24) star in this gorgeously shot tale of a seemingly perfect family that crumbles when the husband comes out of the closet and the defeated wife befriends her black gardener in the days of Faubus and rampant racism. I have never been a fan of director Todd Haynes, the critically acclaimed filmmaker who has, up to this point, specialized in off-beat little movies, but Far From Heaven completely took me by surprise. It is unashamedly soap opera in its performances and twists and turns, but that's the point – it lovingly captures the overwrought melodramatics of films from that era. And that's what ultimately redeems the movie from becoming nothing but a tribute novelty. The sincerity of the performances as well as the drama of the ultimate truths in the story still move despite the artificial theatrics of the whole piece. While probably not a movie for all tastes, Far From Heaven is nonetheless a masterful film – one of my favorites from last year. * * * It must be noted that the folks at Carmike Cinemas have provided the area with some quality titles in the past few weeks. Far From Heaven, the sneak of Chicago and Confessions of a Dangerous Mind were all welcome movies for little old Batesville, Arkansas. Granted,a tribute novelty. The sincerity of the performances as well as the drama of the ultimate truths in the story still move despite the artificial theatrics of the whole piece. While probably not a movie for all tastes, Far From Heaven is nonetheless a masterful film – one of my favorites from last year. * * * It must be noted that the folks at Carmike Cinemas have provided the area with some quality titles in the past few weeks. Far From Heaven, the sneak of Chicago and Confessions of a Dangerous Mind were all welcome movies for little old Batesville, Arkansas. Granted, Heaven only lasted a week, but at least Carmike provided some folks with a mature, thoughtful alternative from the standard mediocre muck Hollywood tries to pass off as movies. Let's hope they continue to pepper their selection of films with quality titles like these for time to come. * * * Top Five 1. Kangaroo Jack. And speaking of standard mediocre muck from Hollywood … Heavily advertised on Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network and other television outlets aimed at kids, this PG-rated "comedy" about two goobs who lose some mob money in the outback thanks to a kangaroo is about as kid-friendly as a Marilyn Manson concert. Of course, after seeing the ads on Nick seemingly non-stop, we thought it would be fine for a family matinee. Instead, well, let's see, we had jokes about testicles, and one scene where a character fondles a woman's breasts. Charming stuff for our children, no? (Although the great Christopher Walken makes an appearance for about two minutes and puts the rest of the action to shame.) 2. Old Arkansas Gazette issues. This isn't that big of a deal, but anybody out there who has some complete issues of the Arkansas Gazette from 1970 to 1976, and they want to get ri kangaroo is about as kid-friendly as a Marilyn Manson concert. Of course, after seeing the ads on Nick seemingly non-stop, we thought it would be fine for a family matinee. Instead, well, let's see, we had jokes about testicles, and one scene where a character fondles a woman's breasts. Charming stuff for our children, no? (Although the great Christopher Walken makes an appearance for about two minutes and puts the rest of the action to shame.) 2. Old Arkansas Gazette issues. This isn't that big of a deal, but anybody out there who has some complete issues of the Arkansas Gazette from 1970 to 1976, and they want to get rid of some of them, I'd be happy to take a few off their hands. Just give me a call at 793-4196, extension 13, or e-mail me at [email protected]. 3. Brian Andrews. Co-host of the "Ben and Brian" morning show on Arkansas 103 KWOZ, Brian is leaving W.R.D. Entertainment to concentrate on his insurance career. A lively character to say the least, Brian will be missed by everyone here at the office. Good luck, Brian. 4. Julie Fidler Hits the Big Time. In her off hours, the editor of this publication runs a Web site devoted to 1970s pop culture called www.stuckinthe70s.com. Recently, USA Today ran an article recommending Ms. Fidler's site along with her picture. To say she was excited would be a profound understatement. Not only did she show every W.R.D. Entertainment employee the article, but now she stops visitors and delivery folks in our entryway to the office to show them as well. Julie, the FedEx guy wanted me to tell you he's seen the article 12 times already. Please, leave him alone! Seriously, congrats go out to Julie for this nationwide recognition. 5. Another Movie Column. When fellow co-worker Ben Johnson got wind of my column this week, he noted with mock surprise: "Wow. Rob's writing a column about movies. Isn't that a shock?" Fidler's site along with her picture. To say she was excited would be a profound understatement. Not only did she show every W.R.D. Entertainment employee the article, but now she stops visitors and delivery folks in our entryway to the office to show them as well. Julie, the FedEx guy wanted me to tell you he's seen the article 12 times already. Please, leave him alone! Seriously, congrats go out to Julie for this nationwide recognition. 5. Another Movie Column. When fellow co-worker Ben Johnson got wind of my column this week, he noted with mock surprise: "Wow. Rob's writing a column about movies. Isn't that a shock?" OK. OK. I'll stop writing about movies for awhile. I promise. It can be a crutch, I suppose. Well, look on the bright side. At least, I'm not ranting and raving about some idiotic adventure with Marlon Brando like T. Blanston does every time he appears in these pages. How we ever found that guy, I'll never know. Political pundit and possessor of one thick accent, Arianna Huffington, is spearheading the anti-Sport Utility Vehicle campaign that's recently been all over the news. The argument Ms. Huffington and other high profile folks on her team make is that by driving S.U.V.s – which, for the most part, guzzle gas faster than J. Lo trades husbands – one is indirectly supporting terrorism. With the mammoth vehicles sucking up loads of fuel, and in turn, more Saudi Arabian oil, Huffington argues a large chunk of the money spent at the pump eventually ends up in the bank accounts of a regime that has funded anti-American groups. It's basically the same argument that says, by buying a joint, one helps fund a drug trade that claims innocents in the crimes associated with illegal narcotics. Of course, the difference is most S.U.V. owners are reputable, law-abiding citizens. (Since I drive an S.U.V., some might quibble with the word &qu most part, guzzle gas faster than J. Lo trades husbands – one is indirectly supporting terrorism. With the mammoth vehicles sucking up loads of fuel, and in turn, more Saudi Arabian oil, Huffington argues a large chunk of the money spent at the pump eventually ends up in the bank accounts of a regime that has funded anti-American groups. It's basically the same argument that says, by buying a joint, one helps fund a drug trade that claims innocents in the crimes associated with illegal narcotics. Of course, the difference is most S.U.V. owners are reputable, law-abiding citizens. (Since I drive an S.U.V., some might quibble with the word "reputable.") Is there any validity in the Huffington argument? First, gleefully playing devil's advocate against Huffington, let's look at the hypocrisy of the anti-S.U.V. stance. It's been reported that a number of celebrities – never a group of folks one should take seriously – are on the Huffington bandwagon. Yet, the New York Post recently reported some of the celebrities involved in the anti-S.U.V. campaign drive S.U.V.s themselves – namely Gwyneth Paltrow, Chevy Chase and Barbra Striesand with her hubby, James Brolin. So what's the point in taking advice from some pampered, seriously out-of-touch citizens who don't practice what they preach? (Granted, not every celebrity is a total numbskull. Look at J. Lo. She's managed to convince millions that she has talent.) Ms. Huffington herself probably contributes a hefty pocket of change to the terror movement by zipping all over the country in jets to further her career. It wouldn't be stretching it to think that if CNN chartered a private Lear to fly her to Washington for an appearance on Larry King Live, she would be buckled in on a moment's notice. But Ms. Huffington's motive is to highlight that we, as a country, are dependent on oil to a point that it is a deadly addiction. A dtouch citizens who don't practice what they preach? (Granted, not every celebrity is a total numbskull. Look at J. Lo. She's managed to convince millions that she has talent.) Ms. Huffington herself probably contributes a hefty pocket of change to the terror movement by zipping all over the country in jets to further her career. It wouldn't be stretching it to think that if CNN chartered a private Lear to fly her to Washington for an appearance on Larry King Live, she would be buckled in on a moment's notice. But Ms. Huffington's motive is to highlight that we, as a country, are dependent on oil to a point that it is a deadly addiction. A drastic decrease in oil availability would cripple this nation. And it's no secret that the Saudi rulers have contributed to the accounts of some questionable characters. It might be safe to say that we are, in some form, in bed with the Devil. The dependence of our country on a resource that is not only limited, but controlled by a group of suspect countries, is troubling. So why do we continue to blindly suck up oil from a group of folks who may be sharpening their collective knifes for the (our) kill? Well, excuse me as I slip on my Ralph Nader hat (made, by the way, of recycled hemp – no animal by-products), but would it not be a stretch to believe that the big oil companies, the Saudis and the Powers That Be don't want their cash flow to dwindle to a trickle if alternative-fuel powered vehicles become affordable, popular and, more importantly, efficient? And seriously, it's hard to believe that the technology is not out there to power S.U.V.s, trucks, sedans, etc. with some sort of alternative-fuel system at an affordable price. I mean, we've been sending people to space for over 35 years; surely the intelligence is there to shift the system to accept something different than, or at the most, complement an oil-based transportation system. Well, wait. Let's re-thibe a stretch to believe that the big oil companies, the Saudis and the Powers That Be don't want their cash flow to dwindle to a trickle if alternative-fuel powered vehicles become affordable, popular and, more importantly, efficient? And seriously, it's hard to believe that the technology is not out there to power S.U.V.s, trucks, sedans, etc. with some sort of alternative-fuel system at an affordable price. I mean, we've been sending people to space for over 35 years; surely the intelligence is there to shift the system to accept something different than, or at the most, complement an oil-based transportation system. Well, wait. Let's re-think that last sentence about intelligence. We are a society that has allowed an individual like Anna Nicole Smith to earn millions of dollars. Shoot. That fact just blew my entire argument. Maybe we aren't as advanced as I thought. * * * Top Five This Week 1. John Le Carre and Andrew Sullivan. Drastically differing opinions on the Iraqi conflict and George W. in general were published recently by these two talented British writers. International spy novelist Le Carre wrote a scathing attack on Bush in the Times of London last week entitled "The United States of America Has Gone Mad." The author's contempt for America's current administration brought a mental picture to my mind of the elderly literary gent and ex-spy literally foaming at the mouth as he madly scribbled this piece. Yikes. Strong, bitter stuff. Meanwhile, conservative British expat Sullivan, on the other end of the political spectrum, posted a biting and hilarious piece of criticism leveled at celebrity left-wingers, most notably against pop star Sheryl Crow and her anti-war statements at the recent American Music Awards ceremony. Very funny and sharp. Both pieces can be accessed through Sullivan's Web site, America Has Gone Mad." The author's contempt for America's current administration brought a mental picture to my mind of the elderly literary gent and ex-spy literally foaming at the mouth as he madly scribbled this piece. Yikes. Strong, bitter stuff. Meanwhile, conservative British expat Sullivan, on the other end of the political spectrum, posted a biting and hilarious piece of criticism leveled at celebrity left-wingers, most notably against pop star Sheryl Crow and her anti-war statements at the recent American Music Awards ceremony. Very funny and sharp. Both pieces can be accessed through Sullivan's Web site, www.andrewsullivan.com, which – to show you how dissimilar both of these countrymen's views are – headlines the Le Carre link as, "John Le Carre Has Gone Mad." 2. Britney and Justin. I can't take these see-sawing emotions! Either the pop-tart princess is with Justin or she's not! Britney, stop playing with Justin's heart! First, the New York Post reports the two of you shared a passionate kiss a few days ago, and now it's being reported that you're seeing that tattooed knuckle-dragger, Fred Durst from Limp Bizkit! Make up your mind, woman! You're killing me! We all know you and Justin were meant to be! Just stop this game and bring your heart back to Justin! 3. The Open Letter to the Batesville Planning Commission. You will find an advertisement in this issue with the above heading. Please note: I had nothing to do with this. (But I did laugh when I read it.) 4. The 2004 Ford Mustang Concept Car. If Ford goes with the stunning new design of the Mustang, which was recently showcased at the Detroit Auto Show, then I shall begin saving my pennies now. 5. The Bachelorette. Please, in the name of all that is sacred, stop. Stop, now!
Jan. 15, 2003 A few weeks ago, I ste and bring your heart back to Justin! 3. The Open Letter to the Batesville Planning Commission. You will find an advertisement in this issue with the above heading. Please note: I had nothing to do with this. (But I did laugh when I read it.) 4. The 2004 Ford Mustang Concept Car. If Ford goes with the stunning new design of the Mustang, which was recently showcased at the Detroit Auto Show, then I shall begin saving my pennies now. 5. The Bachelorette. Please, in the name of all that is sacred, stop. Stop, now!
Jan. 15, 2003 A few weeks ago, I stole a page from the Julie Fidler book of columns and reminisced about the glory days of my youth at the Melba and Landers theatres. More than a few folks approached me with similar memories, and after a while, we would start talking about other haunts of our youth around Batesville. Spending time thinking about the past can be a waste. I mean, the here and now is more important than being sentimental about one's youth (unless, like Ms. Fidler, one operates a Web site devoted to being sentimental about one's youth.) But let's face it, Batesville has drastically changed in the last 20 to 30 years, and sometimes I wish there were some places from my youth still standing that could offer my kids similar memories decades later. So, here are other fond, silly recollections of mine that pop up now and then … I remember eating Magic Meals from Minute Man in a building which, if I remember correctly, later exploded from a gas leak. I remember when Harrison Street only had two lanes all the way past White-Rodgers, and Wal-Mart operated across from the White River Medical Center. I remember Mr. Christopher's, a short-lived hamburger joint in the shopping center that was built when Wal-Mart came to town. I remember Coleman's Bar-B-Q, and I remember devouring "Thick 'n' Chewy "pizzas from Pih still standing that could offer my kids similar memories decades later. So, here are other fond, silly recollections of mine that pop up now and then … I remember eating Magic Meals from Minute Man in a building which, if I remember correctly, later exploded from a gas leak. I remember when Harrison Street only had two lanes all the way past White-Rodgers, and Wal-Mart operated across from the White River Medical Center. I remember Mr. Christopher's, a short-lived hamburger joint in the shopping center that was built when Wal-Mart came to town. I remember Coleman's Bar-B-Q, and I remember devouring "Thick 'n' Chewy "pizzas from Pizza Hut next door in one of the two cramped and coveted corner booths. And I remember when Tommy's Kingburger (which, thankfully, is still around) had an arcade and a car wash. I remember Mr. N.H. Strong's pleasant smile at the Phillips 66 on Main Street and savoring a cold Dr Pepper from the old, almost antique, Dr Pepper machine outside the filling station building. I remember Dr. Ketz's office next door, and the lime green walls and high ceiling of his waiting room. I remember when Gray's Hospital was the destination if an emergency popped up, and when my little sister drank a bottle of Triaminic cold medicine when she was a toddler, they pumped her stomach at Gray's. (That incident, by the way, is a column waiting to be written. Let's just say yours truly was supposed to be watching my sis when she gulped down the stuff.) I remember the rich smell of baked cakes, donuts and other goodies at the bakery where Sonic Drive-In sits on St. Louis Street, and the little grocery store that was next door, where the new Dairy Queen now operates. I remember loading up on Double Bubble bubble gum while waiting on my hamburger at the Dairy Dee up the street and trying to sneak a peek at some naughty magazines on hand at the long gone Simpson's Grocery Store on Porter Street. And, speaking of pumped her stomach at Gray's. (That incident, by the way, is a column waiting to be written. Let's just say yours truly was supposed to be watching my sis when she gulped down the stuff.) I remember the rich smell of baked cakes, donuts and other goodies at the bakery where Sonic Drive-In sits on St. Louis Street, and the little grocery store that was next door, where the new Dairy Queen now operates. I remember loading up on Double Bubble bubble gum while waiting on my hamburger at the Dairy Dee up the street and trying to sneak a peek at some naughty magazines on hand at the long gone Simpson's Grocery Store on Porter Street. And, speaking of grocery stores, I hold a special place in my heart for the late, lamented East Side Grocery, once tucked away on a side street near Lyon College. I would often ride my bike through the old "College Trail" from my neighborhood over to East Side Grocery, and walk to the meat section at the back to order a delicious stacked ham sandwich. I remember when Kroger was where Fred's is now, and Safeway was right across the street in a unique circular-roofed building. I remember the old Barnett Grocery Store where Schwegman's now operates and the enormous Barnett Brothers department store across the corner. I remember the old Clinic Medical Center on Broad Street, and when it went out of business, how it was changed into Cooper's Mini-Mall. I remember eating Saturday lunches with my buddies at Nedra's Racquet inside the mini-mall, then heading over to Crosby's Drug Store for a milkshake. After that, we'd walk up to Platter Inn and check out the records and cassettes, hoping to find a cool album. I remember walking to Pizza Hut or Pizza P.M. after a Friday night movie, then walking across the White River bridge to Playful Quarters, the immensely popular video arcade that was THE hangout for a few years. In fact, when I think about Playful Quarters and Friday and Saturday nights at th Center on Broad Street, and when it went out of business, how it was changed into Cooper's Mini-Mall. I remember eating Saturday lunches with my buddies at Nedra's Racquet inside the mini-mall, then heading over to Crosby's Drug Store for a milkshake. After that, we'd walk up to Platter Inn and check out the records and cassettes, hoping to find a cool album. I remember walking to Pizza Hut or Pizza P.M. after a Friday night movie, then walking across the White River bridge to Playful Quarters, the immensely popular video arcade that was THE hangout for a few years. In fact, when I think about Playful Quarters and Friday and Saturday nights at the Melba or Landers, I vividly remember enormous crowds of youths having a fun time. Batesville may have more things to choose from now, but in terms of activities for kids, something seems to be lacking. Steve Thomas, from Batesville Promotions, can vouch for this. His company has been operating the ice skating rink down by the river this month to big crowds. It's evident from the comments he hears from kids that they're searching for spots to hang out and have some fun and do so in a positive and safe manner. Oh well, I'm a sentimental old fool now, I suppose. Today's youth is a different animal. While we were listening to Rick bleeping Springfield and Loverboy for Heaven's sake, they're listening to Slipknot and Eminem. Who knows how a community can effectively and productively entertain the kids of today. Maybe Playful Quarters needs to make a return. # # # Forgive me for this quick and sloppy remembrance. Columns such as these can sometimes be crutches on weeks when deadlines loom and ideas are few. * * * The Top Five 1. The "Forgotten Sign" Enforcement Issue. Some folks on the Batesville Planning Commission are apparently concerned about signs sringfield and Loverboy for Heaven's sake, they're listening to Slipknot and Eminem. Who knows how a community can effectively and productively entertain the kids of today. Maybe Playful Quarters needs to make a return. # # # Forgive me for this quick and sloppy remembrance. Columns such as these can sometimes be crutches on weeks when deadlines loom and ideas are few. * * * The Top Five 1. The "Forgotten Sign" Enforcement Issue. Some folks on the Batesville Planning Commission are apparently concerned about signs still standing for area businesses that have either moved or gone out of business. No offense to those involved, but I'm more concerned about attracting new businesses and industries to Batesville than worrying about signs. I'm just being a grump, I suppose. I'm sure the Planning Commission, the Batesville City Council and other city and county groups spend more time on developing ways to properly grow and positively nurture our community than worrying about old signs. 2. Growing Our Communities. And on a similar note … I may harp on this a bit much, but I think it is essential, particularly in these economically uncertain days, that we all do what we can to push growth and stability in our communities. Of course, this is easier said than done, but from my comfortable recliner it looks as if we need to be aggressively pursuing every available avenue to develop and recruit new businesses and industries. And at the same time, we should ensure our existing companies and stores are solid and flourishing. My point is, I suppose, we don't need to lose focus on the well-being of this gorgeous piece of land we've claimed, an area full of talent and potential. 3. Harry Potter. I've never been remotely interested in all things Harry Potter. So, when my daughter and niece wanted to all do what we can to push growth and stability in our communities. Of course, this is easier said than done, but from my comfortable recliner it looks as if we need to be aggressively pursuing every available avenue to develop and recruit new businesses and industries. And at the same time, we should ensure our existing companies and stores are solid and flourishing. My point is, I suppose, we don't need to lose focus on the well-being of this gorgeous piece of land we've claimed, an area full of talent and potential. 3. Harry Potter. I've never been remotely interested in all things Harry Potter. So, when my daughter and niece wanted to go see the latest Harry Potter movie (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets) over the holidays, I grudgingly accepted to take them. When it started, I was looking for a point to shut my eyes and take little nap. Yet, to my surprise, I ended up loving the darn thing. What an entertaining and well-made movie. I'm not exactly going to go read all of J.K. Rowlings' books, but I was very pleasantly surprised by the sheer fun of this movie. (And, pshaw to the notion the Harry Potter phenomenon is "satanic." Harry Potter is simply innocent fun and no more "evil" than Snow White or The Wizard of Oz.) 4. Lovely & Amazing. This little indie film, just out on DVD, made many Top Ten lists across the country at the end of the year. Curious at the acclaim, I rented it recently and thoroughly enjoyed it. Lovely & Amazing is a simple little movie about three sisters, their mom and all of their collective insecurities, relationships and troubles. Funny, touching and well-worth a look if you're searching for something smart and sweet on a movie night. 5. Deadline. Stacy, our Arkansas Weekly graphics manager, is literally standing outside my office as I type. It's an hour before we go to press, and I'm late. So … to please Stacy & Amazing. This little indie film, just out on DVD, made many Top Ten lists across the country at the end of the year. Curious at the acclaim, I rented it recently and thoroughly enjoyed it. Lovely & Amazing is a simple little movie about three sisters, their mom and all of their collective insecurities, relationships and troubles. Funny, touching and well-worth a look if you're searching for something smart and sweet on a movie night. 5. Deadline. Stacy, our Arkansas Weekly graphics manager, is literally standing outside my office as I type. It's an hour before we go to press, and I'm late. So … to please Stacy: See you next week. Jan. 8, 2003 I know I'm a week late, but a list of resolutions for the New Year is in order. It's safe to say that my success rate at fulfilling my yearly resolutions is about as high as Anna Nicole Smith's success rate at forming semi-coherent thoughts and sentences. Which is to say this: I've never fulfilled any of my yearly resolutions. One thing I did accomplish this year was to successfully give up sodas of all sorts for Lent. I've only done that one other time. In college, I gave up pizza for Lent, which was, and most likely is, still a huge sacrifice for any college student, particularly one with ghastly eating habits. I have no discipline. Well, I should say, I have no redeeming discipline. For example, I can always make a point to consume more than I need to during meals, or I can always make sure to take a nap when I need to, but I can't make myself get up and go for a jog when it's 45 degrees outside. Or eat broccoli. Or floss. Also take, for example, my cholesterol. I think I mentioned a few weeks back that it's high – very high. High enough that medication is now in order. So, I started a healthy diet – lots of baked fish and chicken, veggies, and a serious cutback on bread. I alsocollege student, particularly one with ghastly eating habits. I have no discipline. Well, I should say, I have no redeeming discipline. For example, I can always make a point to consume more than I need to during meals, or I can always make sure to take a nap when I need to, but I can't make myself get up and go for a jog when it's 45 degrees outside. Or eat broccoli. Or floss. Also take, for example, my cholesterol. I think I mentioned a few weeks back that it's high – very high. High enough that medication is now in order. So, I started a healthy diet – lots of baked fish and chicken, veggies, and a serious cutback on bread. I also started back jogging – which, for me, was an enormous step forward. Then, beginning Thanksgiving, my cholesterol-fighting intentions disappeared as fast as Whitney Houston's common sense vanished during that Diane Sawyer interview a month or two ago. Let's put it this way: picture my diet and exercise routine as an 18-wheel fuel transport truck. Then picture that truck soaring off a high cliff somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. And now picture the truck crashing and exploding into enormous flames onto the jagged sharp rocks below. That pretty much reflects the current state of my diet and exercise routine. When you put together homemade rolls, lots of pies, mountains of mashed potatoes, then toss in an ice storm a few days later that makes jogging outside dangerous, well – this baby is then on the couch inside the warm house with a spoon in one hand and a half-consumed pecan pie in the other. Rob's Cholesterol: welcome back your pals Sloth and Gluttony. They weren't gone for long. And, before you know it, it's Christmas. The Thanksgiving leftovers are long gone, and fresh scraps are wrapped and waiting in the fridge. You still can't jog because, you know, the city is apparently waiting for the Rapture to pick up the piles and piles of discarded trees andgether homemade rolls, lots of pies, mountains of mashed potatoes, then toss in an ice storm a few days later that makes jogging outside dangerous, well – this baby is then on the couch inside the warm house with a spoon in one hand and a half-consumed pecan pie in the other. Rob's Cholesterol: welcome back your pals Sloth and Gluttony. They weren't gone for long. And, before you know it, it's Christmas. The Thanksgiving leftovers are long gone, and fresh scraps are wrapped and waiting in the fridge. You still can't jog because, you know, the city is apparently waiting for the Rapture to pick up the piles and piles of discarded trees and branches from the ice storm, and if you're jogging down the road and happen to trip over a branch that's slightly extended over the pavement, well then, you'd be in bad shape, right? So the belly expands, your clothes mysteriously shrink, the cholesterol inches back up, and all good intentions end up rotting away like Michael Jackson's nose. But I make the resolutions anyway. Perhaps by doing so it allows us to detail and inventory all of the bad habits in one's life. Once you see the list, you might realize, Jeepers – I need to make some changes. And even if you fail at the resolutions, you can at least have an accurate representation of your weaknesses. I mean, for example, you can finally accept the fact that you will never look good in, say, a Speedo, and you will then have the good sense not to wear the thing. That's more than I can say for some unfortunate folks I know. * * * In 2003, I resolve to have a better outlook on life. Despite the popularity of Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Jennifer Lopez, The Bachelor, and most of today's country and western artists, there are still many other things in life that can make one content and happy with the Universe. Like the fact that Cher is retiring. your weaknesses. I mean, for example, you can finally accept the fact that you will never look good in, say, a Speedo, and you will then have the good sense not to wear the thing. That's more than I can say for some unfortunate folks I know. * * * In 2003, I resolve to have a better outlook on life. Despite the popularity of Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Jennifer Lopez, The Bachelor, and most of today's country and western artists, there are still many other things in life that can make one content and happy with the Universe. Like the fact that Cher is retiring. And, up close, Brad Pitt has really, really bad skin. And despite the above paragraph, I resolve to be more loving and accepting of the popular artists of our day. I mean, J. Lo is most likely a caring and gentle soul – she is from "the block" after all. And Britney is probably an innocent, angelic woman who cares about the influence she has on the young girls of today. And if you truly believe that paragraph, then you would most likely believe that Anna Nicole Smith is a graduate of M.I.T. I resolve to do at least 30 sit-ups each night before bed instead of watching those Girls Gone Wild infomercials until I pass out in the recliner. I also resolve to stop asking my wife if she would mind if I purchased one of those Girls Gone Wild videos. For some reason, I believe the excuse, "It's just research for a future column, Honey," is not cutting it. I resolve to begin jogging once again on a more consistent basis. I resolve to stop sitting on my front porch with a gallon of Blue Bell and heckling the more disciplined joggers passing by the house. I resolve to stop telling myself that fried chicken or fish is good for you because it's, you know, chicken and fish. I also resolve to stop believing myself when it comes to my fried chtil I pass out in the recliner. I also resolve to stop asking my wife if she would mind if I purchased one of those Girls Gone Wild videos. For some reason, I believe the excuse, "It's just research for a future column, Honey," is not cutting it. I resolve to begin jogging once again on a more consistent basis. I resolve to stop sitting on my front porch with a gallon of Blue Bell and heckling the more disciplined joggers passing by the house. I resolve to stop telling myself that fried chicken or fish is good for you because it's, you know, chicken and fish. I also resolve to stop believing myself when it comes to my fried chicken and fish theory. I resolve to never again say that I am interested in any project that involves Eminem. If you remember, I noted I wanted to see 8 Mile, because the rapper looked as if he had genuine screen presence. The man, as he is now, is a troubled individual and is too self-absorbed to realize it. Remember again: this is a punk who picked a fight with a puppet on live television and loves terrorizing meek little techno-artist Moby. Moby is a Christian/vegan/peace-is-love fellow who is about as physically threatening as the aforementioned puppet. If Eminem wants to act tough, let him pick a fight with someone like James Gandolfini from The Sopranos or the great actor, Ving Rhames from Pulp Fiction. They'd mop the floor with Slim Shady. I resolve to treat phone calls in a more positive manner. I hate the phone. I HATE the phone. Don't ask me why – it's nothing against anyone in particular. I simply loathe making or taking phone calls because I'm always in the middle of something. Always. If I'm writing, I'm in the middle of writing. If I'm talking to another employee at work, I'm in the middle of talking to another employee at work. If I'm walking down the hall, I'm in the middle of walking down the hall. If I'm in the recliner, watching SpongeBob, then dernom The Sopranos or the great actor, Ving Rhames from Pulp Fiction. They'd mop the floor with Slim Shady. I resolve to treat phone calls in a more positive manner. I hate the phone. I HATE the phone. Don't ask me why – it's nothing against anyone in particular. I simply loathe making or taking phone calls because I'm always in the middle of something. Always. If I'm writing, I'm in the middle of writing. If I'm talking to another employee at work, I'm in the middle of talking to another employee at work. If I'm walking down the hall, I'm in the middle of walking down the hall. If I'm in the recliner, watching SpongeBob, then dern it!, I'm in the middle of being in the recliner, watching SpongeBob! I'm always in the middle of something when the phone rings or when I'm supposed to return a call. BUT: if I call you, rest assured it will be the most important and entertaining phone call of your life. Please accept it with that kind of attitude and a smile. I may need something. Finally, I resolve to do my best to be a better person. I'm more than a bit selfish and always in my own little world. It's rude. I need to be more open-minded and outgoing when it comes to interacting with and helping others in whatever little way I can. If more of us in this world would make that resolution and keep it, it would be a better place. Oh, and if Shania Twain would stop stalking me, then yeah, that would make the world a better place too. * * * The top five returns when I do. Rob can be reached at [email protected]. Contrary to his comments about the phone, he loves e-mail. Also: the crack about Shania Twain stalking Rob was a joke. Please, Ms. Twain, don't sue. Jan. 1, 2003 It's Christmas Eve morning as I write this. A chilly drizzle continuously sprays from above, andis world would make that resolution and keep it, it would be a better place. Oh, and if Shania Twain would stop stalking me, then yeah, that would make the world a better place too. * * * The top five returns when I do. Rob can be reached at [email protected]. Contrary to his comments about the phone, he loves e-mail. Also: the crack about Shania Twain stalking Rob was a joke. Please, Ms. Twain, don't sue. Jan. 1, 2003 It's Christmas Eve morning as I write this. A chilly drizzle continuously sprays from above, and all around the office, folks are either trading past Christmas stories, wrapping up some year-end chores or simply sipping hot coffee and hanging out since most other businesses are closed early. After a few weeks of pure hustle and bustle preparation, Christmas Eve and Day always seem to be somewhat anti-climactic. Not a letdown, I should point out, but simply a quiet ending from a frantic build up. For me, this year zipped by. They all do as we get older, they say. Of course, 2002 also seemed to be measured in a series of apprehensions and warnings. Since 9/11, we've all been expecting some other type of horrific tragedy, and as each national holiday or anniversary approached in 2002, there seemed to be a dread simmering beneath the surfaces of our everyday lives as we tried to move on and live as best we could with some sense of normalcy. And this new life we lead continues, as it will for the years to come. Waking up to the Drudge Report Web site this morning, disheartening headlines crammed the front page: The Washington Post reporting that U.S. officials expect another devastating terrorist attack on American soil, perhaps nuclear; North Korea insisting that it would "destroy the world" if they were attacked because of their growing nuclear program; and the F.B.I. stating thatl holiday or anniversary approached in 2002, there seemed to be a dread simmering beneath the surfaces of our everyday lives as we tried to move on and live as best we could with some sense of normalcy. And this new life we lead continues, as it will for the years to come. Waking up to the Drudge Report Web site this morning, disheartening headlines crammed the front page: The Washington Post reporting that U.S. officials expect another devastating terrorist attack on American soil, perhaps nuclear; North Korea insisting that it would "destroy the world" if they were attacked because of their growing nuclear program; and the F.B.I. stating that a successful shoe-bomb attack might happen in the upcoming months and/or years. Could the state of our world be any more discouraging? I've almost come to the point that I shall soon take the ostrich route and completely disconnect myself from the news, burying my big old head in the proverbial sand. Of course, it's not my intention to discourage you, dear reader. I heard someone recently say that we should always doubt our doubts and believe our beliefs – not the other way around. Giving up faith is an easy thing to do, and we must all do our part to solidify our hope, whether you're a believer in God or not. And, if you're not, pray for peace anyway. It won't hurt. Heading into another year, always keep a sliver of faith for peace and hope. Peace and hope. * * * Now, let's move away from the gloom and wrap up 2002 with my completely useless list of favorite things of the year. It should be noted that, despite what people think, I actually don't go to the movies that much. Ten years ago, that wasn't the case. I was a movie junkie, checking out seemingly every flick and video released. Now, it's rare I have the time or, in many instances, the interest to watch a DVD or see a movie on the big screen. That said, I hav peace anyway. It won't hurt. Heading into another year, always keep a sliver of faith for peace and hope. Peace and hope. * * * Now, let's move away from the gloom and wrap up 2002 with my completely useless list of favorite things of the year. It should be noted that, despite what people think, I actually don't go to the movies that much. Ten years ago, that wasn't the case. I was a movie junkie, checking out seemingly every flick and video released. Now, it's rare I have the time or, in many instances, the interest to watch a DVD or see a movie on the big screen. That said, I have no opinion on big flicks like Spiderman, Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers or Men in Black II simply because I didn't see them. Besides, if I was going to invest the time, I usually utilized it seeing stuff I really wanted to see – like Punch-Drunk Love or Insomnia. (Which makes sense, doesn't it?) Also, it's obvious that there are many titles from 2002 that I have yet to see – particularly About Schmidt, Talk to Her, About a Boy, Adaptation, Catch Me If You Can, Far From Heaven, The Hours, Y Tu Mama Tambien and The Quiet American. Add to that list the little seen Andy Garcia/Mick Jagger film, The Man from Elysian Fields – three people whose opinions I trust each told me that it is a wonderful movie. I also haven't seen Chicago, a likely front-runner for this year's Best Picture, simply because I have zero desire. I saw the play about three years ago, and I am proud to say that I am one of the 12 people on the planet who disliked it. My Favorite Films of 2002 (in alphabetical order):
|
||
| November 27, 2002 I'm sure after my hearty recommendations for Magnolia and The Royal Tenenbaums, there are some folks out there who now steer clear of any movie I might encourage them to see. Magnolia, which many of you know ia happy Steven Wright. Look for him on Letterman or Comedy Central, or hit his Web site www.mitchhedberg.net and order his CD, Strategic Grill Locations. Strange and dumb – just like I like it. |
||
| November 27, 2002 I'm sure after my hearty recommendations for Magnolia and The Royal Tenenbaums, there are some folks out there who now steer clear of any movie I might encourage them to see. Magnolia, which many of you know is my favorite movie – and I declare that without an ounce of shame – bored some people and puzzled others (consistent question I am asked about Magnolia: "Rob, what was the deal with the frogs?") while Tenenbaums left a lot of folks cold.Oh, well. Such is life. Opinions are all personal – our love of certain music, movies, art and books are based on intimate and mysterious variables of who we are and the lives we have lived. And, for the most part, the rest of my all-time favorite movies pretty much jibe with the tastes of the "majority," if you will: The Godfather Trilogy, The Third Man, Sling Blade, The Wild Bunch, Blazing Saddles, The Conversation, North Dallas Forty, Pulp Fiction, The Graduate, Touch of Evil, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Sunset Boulevard, All the President's Men, Raging Bull, Manhattan, Apocalypse Now, Rear Window, The Bridge on River Kwai, Dr. Strangelove, Robert Duvall's The Apostle, Jaws, Remains of the Day, Michael Mann's Heat, Paths of Glory, Fargo, GoodFellas, Lawrence of Arabia, Giant, Raiders of the Lost Ark and countless others. (Of course, there are a number of somewhat obscure titles that are on my favorites list: the Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami's A Taste of Cherry; Johogy, The Third Man, Sling Blade, The Wild Bunch, Blazing Saddles, The Conversation, North Dallas Forty, Pulp Fiction, The Graduate, Touch of Evil, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Sunset Boulevard, All the President's Men, Raging Bull, Manhattan, Apocalypse Now, Rear Window, The Bridge on River Kwai, Dr. Strangelove, Robert Duvall's The Apostle, Jaws, Remains of the Day, Michael Mann's Heat, Paths of Glory, Fargo, GoodFellas, Lawrence of Arabia, Giant, Raiders of the Lost Ark and countless others. (Of course, there are a number of somewhat obscure titles that are on my favorites list: the Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami's A Taste of Cherry; John Woo's ultra-violent, turbo-charged hit-man tale The Killer; the magnificent Carl Dreyer silent film, The Passion of Joan of Arc; Last Year at Marienbad; Cinema Paradiso; Alan Parker's Shoot the Moon; Sam Peckinpah's Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia; and the Coen Brothers' underrated Miller's Crossing.) But about 95 percent of the people who saw Magnolia and Tenenbaums based on my rabid enthusiasm later told me I had problems. So, knowing all of that, I'd like to say that the best film I've seen this year is Punch-Drunk Love, the new movie starring Adam Sandler and British actress Emily Watson. Now, the mere mention of the name "Adam Sandler" in the credits of a film might indicate to some that the particular movie will most likely be a big 'ole turkey. The man has made his share: Little Nicky, Mr. Deeds, and The Waterboy. These were not Merchant/Ivory productions. And, if one would have told me this time last year, that I would soon type the words "Academy Award" and "Adam Sandler" in the same sentence, I would have thought them completely nuts. But here goes: Adam Sandler deserves an Academy Award nominatthe new movie starring Adam Sandler and British actress Emily Watson. Now, the mere mention of the name "Adam Sandler" in the credits of a film might indicate to some that the particular movie will most likely be a big 'ole turkey. The man has made his share: Little Nicky, Mr. Deeds, and The Waterboy. These were not Merchant/Ivory productions. And, if one would have told me this time last year, that I would soon type the words "Academy Award" and "Adam Sandler" in the same sentence, I would have thought them completely nuts. But here goes: Adam Sandler deserves an Academy Award nomination for his performance in Punch-Drunk Love. He won't get one – the film's too quirky for Academy voters, but Sandler is riveting and a true revelation in this flick. Sandler plays depressed and shy Barry Egan, a sad-sack owner of a novelty toilet accessory business in the San Fernando Valley. Egan's only excitement in life stems from his discovery of a loophole in the contest rules of a frequent flyer mileage contest. By purchasing large amounts of pudding at a low cost, Barry discovers he could have frequent flyer miles for life. This revelation and the apparently spontaneous decision to buy a neon blue business suit, seem to be the only highlights in Barry's hum-drum, lonely life. Yet, now and then, his rage and despair at himself and his life detonates and startles all around him. (There's a great scene where Barry quietly pleads with his brother-in-law for help in finding a therapist after he has shattered his sister's plate-glass windows at an otherwise normal family dinner party.) One early morning, sitting at his desk in the dumpy warehouse of his business, Barry hears a slight noise and walks outside just in time to see a spectacular car accident, directly followed by an unseen passenger in a cab dropping off an old harmonium on suit, seem to be the only highlights in Barry's hum-drum, lonely life. Yet, now and then, his rage and despair at himself and his life detonates and startles all around him. (There's a great scene where Barry quietly pleads with his brother-in-law for help in finding a therapist after he has shattered his sister's plate-glass windows at an otherwise normal family dinner party.) One early morning, sitting at his desk in the dumpy warehouse of his business, Barry hears a slight noise and walks outside just in time to see a spectacular car accident, directly followed by an unseen passenger in a cab dropping off an old harmonium on the side of the street. Then as sudden and as puzzling as the crash and the harmonium delivery, a lovely woman, Lena (Watson), walks into his life, and completely throws the man for a loop. Disturbed, yet intrigued, Egan can't decide what to do with the harmonium and with Lena's obvious interest in him. In one superbly executed scene at his business, Barry uncomfortably juggles Lena; his nosy sister; a dangerous harasser on the phone; constant interruptions from his employees; a forklift accident; and persistent inquisitions about the stacks of pudding building up in his office. On top of all of this, a sleazy dirt-wad from Utah (the always great Philip Seymour Hoffman) has targeted Barry for extortion – an incident that helps to ultimately transform Barry and solidify his love for Lena. Punch-Drunk Love is about the transformation love provides a lonely man, and Sandler completely nails Barry's sad existence and ultimate rebirth through Lena. Watching the insecurity vanish and love blossom in Egan is nothing but sweet and affirming. When Barry travels to Utah to confront Hoffman's sleaze ball, he explodes with a newfound aggressive confidence that only his love for Lena could fuel. As cornball as it sou of this, a sleazy dirt-wad from Utah (the always great Philip Seymour Hoffman) has targeted Barry for extortion – an incident that helps to ultimately transform Barry and solidify his love for Lena. Punch-Drunk Love is about the transformation love provides a lonely man, and Sandler completely nails Barry's sad existence and ultimate rebirth through Lena. Watching the insecurity vanish and love blossom in Egan is nothing but sweet and affirming. When Barry travels to Utah to confront Hoffman's sleaze ball, he explodes with a newfound aggressive confidence that only his love for Lena could fuel. As cornball as it sounds, love had crashed into Barry's life and slowly harmonized and confirmed his existence. Just like the crash and harmonium delivery in the beginning. I reveled in the cinema of Punch-Drunk Love and immediately wanted to see it again when I walked out of the theatre. In fact, I hadn't felt this way about a film since I walked out of Magnolia. Punch-Drunk held me in its sway from beginning to end, and I suppose that's appropriate since Paul Thomas Anderson, the writer and director, also wrote and directed my beloved Magnolia. Anderson is the real deal. Punch-Drunk Love is so immaculately and carefully structured that it shocks. Anderson's previous two films, Boogie Nights and Magnolia, overflowed with joyful and energetic cinematic excess: overlapping storylines, scenes of true frantic mania, epic lengths of three hours and wonderful soundtracks that carried the films along as if the songs were gasoline. With Punch-Drunk, the filmmaker completely withdraws into a shell and slowly, wisely and judiciously reveals efficient little glimpses of Barry's tender little world until his rebirth is complete. It's wonderful moviemaking. Splendion is the real deal. Punch-Drunk Love is so immaculately and carefully structured that it shocks. Anderson's previous two films, Boogie Nights and Magnolia, overflowed with joyful and energetic cinematic excess: overlapping storylines, scenes of true frantic mania, epic lengths of three hours and wonderful soundtracks that carried the films along as if the songs were gasoline. With Punch-Drunk, the filmmaker completely withdraws into a shell and slowly, wisely and judiciously reveals efficient little glimpses of Barry's tender little world until his rebirth is complete. It's wonderful moviemaking. Splendid widescreen photography, the carefully composed framing, and the naturalness of the actors infuse the film with class, realism and quality. It's a shame that the film has met with a somewhat tepid response from viewers and a few critics, but I've always fallen for the underdog movies. In fact, a few paragraphs up, where I write about my favorite movies, plug Punch-Drunk Love in there somewhere. It's a deserving addition, in my opinion. * * * It's doubtful that Punch-Drunk Love will ever make it to Batesville. It looks as if it has wound up its Little Rock run (I caught it in Fayetteville), and as I noted in last week's column, it hasn't been bringing in loads of cash at the box office. So, you may have to wait until it is released on DVD. If you have seen it, or when you do see it, I welcome your comments and opinions about it. * * * Punch-Drunk Love might not be at the top of my 2002 favorites list after I see the rest of the encouraging crop of films coming out this holiday season. There are a number of titles I'm extremely interested in catching, iille. It looks as if it has wound up its Little Rock run (I caught it in Fayetteville), and as I noted in last week's column, it hasn't been bringing in loads of cash at the box office. So, you may have to wait until it is released on DVD. If you have seen it, or when you do see it, I welcome your comments and opinions about it. * * * Punch-Drunk Love might not be at the top of my 2002 favorites list after I see the rest of the encouraging crop of films coming out this holiday season. There are a number of titles I'm extremely interested in catching, including The Hours with Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore and Nicole Kidman; Scorsese's Gangs of New York, which reportedly has a powerhouse performance from Daniel Day-Lewis; Denzel Washington's directorial debut, Antwone Fisher; Moore and Dennis Quaid in Far From Heaven; Spanish director Pedro Almodovar's Talk to Her; Nicolas Cage's latest, Adaptation, which co-stars Streep; George Clooney's sci-fi romance Solaris; The Quiet American, which features what some say is Michael Caine's best performance; Love, Liza – a film starring Philip Seymour Hoffman; Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt; the Ray Liotta/Jason Patric cop thriller Narc (Harrison Ford reportedly said it was the best film he had ever seen); the musical adaptation Chicago; and the new Spike Lee film, The 25th Hour with Edward Norton and Hoffman. * * * You know, in the grand scheme of things, recommending movies is a trivial business. I can say without hesitation that my interest in all things related to cinema dramatically decreased when I hit my mid-20s, or should I say, when I started to "mature." More important priorities abound, and when one is help Liotta/Jason Patric cop thriller Narc (Harrison Ford reportedly said it was the best film he had ever seen); the musical adaptation Chicago; and the new Spike Lee film, The 25th Hour with Edward Norton and Hoffman. * * * You know, in the grand scheme of things, recommending movies is a trivial business. I can say without hesitation that my interest in all things related to cinema dramatically decreased when I hit my mid-20s, or should I say, when I started to "mature." More important priorities abound, and when one is helping to raise a family, spare time is a luxury better spent on other things. I have to admit, though, sitting through a movie like Punch-Drunk Love, and enjoying it as I did, is still a boat load of fun. So, if one can still appreciate the joy of a good flick, give Punch-Drunk a shot. Throughout the week, I'll fire up the computer and write some
thoughts for my Top Five section of an upcoming column. Well, this week, when I sat down
to write a column, I found I had accumulated more items than usual. Because of his violent and provocative lyrics, the man has his passionate detractors, and he plays his cocky thug role to a sometimes ridiculous hilt – witness the silly attitude he took with the meek little techno-star Moby and a puppet (!) on this year's MTV Video Music Awards. (It's hard to take someone seriously when they want to pick a fight with a puppet, no matter how obnoxious the little object is.) Yet, the staggering sales of his albums, as well as the critical and popular success of 8 Mile have solidified the man's status. No other musical act, except perhaps Elvis, has crossed over this successfully.cause of his violent and provocative lyrics, the man has his passionate detractors, and he plays his cocky thug role to a sometimes ridiculous hilt – witness the silly attitude he took with the meek little techno-star Moby and a puppet (!) on this year's MTV Video Music Awards. (It's hard to take someone seriously when they want to pick a fight with a puppet, no matter how obnoxious the little object is.) Yet, the staggering sales of his albums, as well as the critical and popular success of 8 Mile have solidified the man's status. No other musical act, except perhaps Elvis, has crossed over this successfully. I don't own an Eminem album, and truth be told, I've only listened to two Eminem songs in their entirety ("Without Me" and the catchy, almost rock-like new track, "Lose Yourself."). So, it would be silly of me to criticize a body of work I haven't heard. But, I do want to see 8 Mile because its effective trailer proves Eminem does have genuine screen presence, and most of all, because it's a quality product – Curtis Hanson, the talented filmmaker behind L.A. Confidential and Wonder Boys, two of the best movies from the past few years, directed the film. Of course, Batesville audiences will have to wait to see 8 Mile. The bookers from Carmike Cinemas in Georgia (the owners and operators of the Oaks 7 Cinema) have elected to provide us with such exciting and esteemed screen fare as the horror flop, Ghost Ship; the latest Steven Segal junk, Half Past Dead; the recent Eddie Murphy dud, I Spy; and 34 weeks of Sweet Home Alabama instead of films like 8 Mile; the acclaimed new Adam Sandler movie, Punch-Drunk Love; and the latest Brian DePalma thriller, Femme Fatale. The latter two movies, granted, haven't brought in millions of bucks like 8 Mile, but aArial">Of course, Batesville audiences will have to wait to see 8 Mile. The bookers from Carmike Cinemas in Georgia (the owners and operators of the Oaks 7 Cinema) have elected to provide us with such exciting and esteemed screen fare as the horror flop, Ghost Ship; the latest Steven Segal junk, Half Past Dead; the recent Eddie Murphy dud, I Spy; and 34 weeks of Sweet Home Alabama instead of films like 8 Mile; the acclaimed new Adam Sandler movie, Punch-Drunk Love; and the latest Brian DePalma thriller, Femme Fatale. The latter two movies, granted, haven't brought in millions of bucks like 8 Mile, but a little more movie variety would be appreciated at the Oaks. And, just so you know, the local manager at the Oaks has nothing to do with the selection of movies being shown. He's at the mercy of his parent company, Carmike. So, if you want, you can complain to them by hitting their Web site: www.carmike.com. 6. Happy 5th Anniversary! Five years ago, we started cranking out this little publication that we thought would inform and entertain, as well as be a free avenue for folks to hawk some goods. An enormous thank you goes out to all of our staff (past and present), every advertiser who has chosen these pages to get their message to the masses and, most of all, each and every reader. Your support is priceless and treasured. Thank you – here's to five more! Rob may be reached via e-mail at [email protected] Nov. 13, 2002 For a Saturday lunch, the couple arrived impeccably dressed. The gentleman, likely around 75 or 80, wore a tailored blazer, a tie with a crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed slacks. His guest, an elegant woman around the same age, ca who has chosen these pages to get their message to the masses and, most of all, each and every reader. Your support is priceless and treasured. Thank you – here's to five more! Rob may be reached via e-mail at [email protected] Nov. 13, 2002 For a Saturday lunch, the couple arrived impeccably dressed. The gentleman, likely around 75 or 80, wore a tailored blazer, a tie with a crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed slacks. His guest, an elegant woman around the same age, came attired in a lovely skirt and turtleneck. Both thin and fit-looking with their hair styled perfectly, they maintained an elegant calm in the loud, cavernous restaurant as they both sipped late-morning martinis in their booth before their meal. Across the aisle, our table full of kids seemed scruffy by comparison: jeans and khakis, tennis shoes, casual sweaters and mostly unkempt hair all around. Toys scattered across the marble table top as we settled in with the menus. Loud requests and laughter from our children seemed to go unnoticed by the couple as they conversed and sipped, the woman leaning in from time to time to listen to the gentleman and the gentleman always sitting ramrod straight, nodding now and again toward her as she talked. During lunch, our party would occasionally glance over to the couple, observe their stateliness and manners, and then we would focus back to our wild table, shushing the kids and trying to finish lunch without a major catastrophe. I think my wife or sister-in-law whispered a comment like, "Don't they look wonderful?" "I wonder if we'll be so eager to get dressed up for a lunch when we hit that age," I told my wife. "Theyn to the gentleman and the gentleman always sitting ramrod straight, nodding now and again toward her as she talked. During lunch, our party would occasionally glance over to the couple, observe their stateliness and manners, and then we would focus back to our wild table, shushing the kids and trying to finish lunch without a major catastrophe. I think my wife or sister-in-law whispered a comment like, "Don't they look wonderful?" "I wonder if we'll be so eager to get dressed up for a lunch when we hit that age," I told my wife. "They're not married," my sister-in-law said. "Oh, yeah," I said, "I noticed the woman didn't have a ring on her finger. Is that what you mean?" "No," she said. "Look at them. They're having an interesting conversation with each other. Married couples don't talk that much to each other after a year, much less 50." A sharp observation, don't you think? * * * I didn't intend to write about the lunchtime martini couple we saw the other afternoon in Dallas, but I kept thinking back to them throughout the rest of the weekend. I find it curious to see how our later generations take to old age. We all know people who, around 65 or 70, begin to weaken, not just physically, but spiritually as well. And by that, I do not mean spiritually in a religious sense, but instead the spirit of a person seems to decay or deflate. It's as if they have surrendered to the frailty and negativity some associate with aging. Now, don't get me wrong or think me cold-hearted. Aging, of course, increases the chances of physical ailments that can bring down and weaken the s we saw the other afternoon in Dallas, but I kept thinking back to them throughout the rest of the weekend. I find it curious to see how our later generations take to old age. We all know people who, around 65 or 70, begin to weaken, not just physically, but spiritually as well. And by that, I do not mean spiritually in a religious sense, but instead the spirit of a person seems to decay or deflate. It's as if they have surrendered to the frailty and negativity some associate with aging. Now, don't get me wrong or think me cold-hearted. Aging, of course, increases the chances of physical ailments that can bring down and weaken the strongest. But I also happen to think that possessing a depressive spirit can aggravate illness, so taking old age as a prison sentence, if you will, could encourage all types of ailments, both minor and major. Then, there's the other side of the coin. The Dallas martini couple reminded me of countless other people their age and older. My great uncle, who recently passed away in his 90s, was always on the go. Driving, eating out, holding a sharp interest in everything going on in the world – he actively participated in life well into his final weeks. I know of a local businessman, 80 years young, who is up at the crack of dawn each morning, overseeing his properties and sometimes even hopping in a bulldozer to help clear some of his land. My maternal grandmother, who had open heart surgery at the age of 78, still drives everywhere and fixes enormous Sunday lunches for the family. And, there is one man I don't know personally, but he owns a chain of area retail stores and still hits the office every day to make sure all is running smooth. He's only in his 90s. I know of these and many other examples. Illnesses usually associated with those in the same age frame have stricken some of these people, yet they keep moving on, as if their sickness k of dawn each morning, overseeing his properties and sometimes even hopping in a bulldozer to help clear some of his land. My maternal grandmother, who had open heart surgery at the age of 78, still drives everywhere and fixes enormous Sunday lunches for the family. And, there is one man I don't know personally, but he owns a chain of area retail stores and still hits the office every day to make sure all is running smooth. He's only in his 90s. I know of these and many other examples. Illnesses usually associated with those in the same age frame have stricken some of these people, yet they keep moving on, as if their sickness was only a bump in the road. I only hope that I have an energetic and hopeful attitude when, and if, I hit my 70s. I hope my wife and I still want to get fancy and sip martinis at a nice restaurant when we're in our 80s. And, I certainly hope that when I hit 95, I'll be able to get on the dance floor and bust some moves with a circle of young women standing around me in complete awe of my disco dancing and fit physique while my wife looks on proudly. One can dream, can't they? * * * Top Five This Week 1. A Low-Fat Diet. I recently discovered my total cholesterol is hovering somewhere above 9,000. That's bad, right? Actually, it's around 300 – still a horrible place for it to be, especially when you're only 24 like me. So, I've tackled a low-fat diet that I'm proud to say I've stuck to for two weeks running now. (Trust me – for yours truly, that's like winning a triathlon.) Nothing but turkey sandwiches, grilled chicken, steamed veggies and lots of baked or grilled fish for this boy. And, the surprising thing is most of this stuff is yummy. Now, if I can just stop eating those four chili-cheese dogs a day, I'll be in business!1. A Low-Fat Diet. I recently discovered my total cholesterol is hovering somewhere above 9,000. That's bad, right? Actually, it's around 300 – still a horrible place for it to be, especially when you're only 24 like me. So, I've tackled a low-fat diet that I'm proud to say I've stuck to for two weeks running now. (Trust me – for yours truly, that's like winning a triathlon.) Nothing but turkey sandwiches, grilled chicken, steamed veggies and lots of baked or grilled fish for this boy. And, the surprising thing is most of this stuff is yummy. Now, if I can just stop eating those four chili-cheese dogs a day, I'll be in business! 2. Guilty Pleasures. You wanna know some things I really love that most normal folks would never admit to enjoying? The Human League's greatest hits – all three of them. Interviews with David Lee Roth. The movie, Gator, with Burt Reynolds. Non-fiction books about conspiracies. Fiction books about conspiracies. The Hee-Haw girls. Zombie movies (luuuuv those zombie movies). The opinions of Roger Ebert. The films of Sam Peckinpah. The gospel recordings of Elvis Presley. The work of Hunter S. Thompson. The entire collection of albums released in the '80s from, yes, Hall and Oates. CDs with prank phone calls. The movie adaptation of Catch-22. The entire collection of albums released post-Some Girls from The Rolling Stones. Garry Shandling. Woody Allen. Matt Helm movies. And, any film with the late, great Warren Oates. 3. Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce! Sorry – had to do it. I put The Rising on the bottom of the CD stack after wearing it out a month or two ago. But, I started listening to it again this week, and damn – this is a great album. As the British magazine, Uncut, so eloquently put it in a recent issue: The Rising is "… a brave and beautiful album of humanity, hurt and hope.&qumovie adaptation of Catch-22. The entire collection of albums released post-Some Girls from The Rolling Stones. Garry Shandling. Woody Allen. Matt Helm movies. And, any film with the late, great Warren Oates. 3. Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce! Sorry – had to do it. I put The Rising on the bottom of the CD stack after wearing it out a month or two ago. But, I started listening to it again this week, and damn – this is a great album. As the British magazine, Uncut, so eloquently put it in a recent issue: The Rising is "… a brave and beautiful album of humanity, hurt and hope." 4. Karin Mohlke. Our new talent on The Max and Sky 99.5, Ms. Mohlke brings a funky sense of fun to the air. Tune into the morning show with Gary B. on Sky, and the lunch break on The Max. 5. Kelli Keathley. And with Karin coming on board, a longtime talent is going away. Kelli Keathley has decided to leave the W.R.D. Entertainment family for some exciting opportunities and to spend more time with her family. She will be missed. Kelli always supplied the office with much fun and laughs. She was also the target of much teasing, all of which will now be directed toward Karin. Good luck, Ms. Keathley, and keep in touch. (And, you still owe me $47.37 for that bottle of hair color you had me pick up that one time I had to head to the store. Remember, that was the time when everyone here discovered that you had been dying your hair, and we were all shocked -- SHOCKED! -- to learn that.) Rob may be reached via e-mail at [email protected].
November 6, 2002 Last Sunday afternoon, I took my son to catcrd Karin. Good luck, Ms. Keathley, and keep in touch. (And, you still owe me $47.37 for that bottle of hair color you had me pick up that one time I had to head to the store. Remember, that was the time when everyone here discovered that you had been dying your hair, and we were all shocked -- SHOCKED! -- to learn that.)Rob may be reached via e-mail at [email protected].
November 6, 2002 Last Sunday afternoon, I took my son to catch a matinee of Hey Arnold! The Movie at the Melba theatre. Hutton's four now, and he's starting to sit through entire movies without a hint of restlessness — that is to say certain flicks now hold his attention. Now and then I would look over to him, sitting next to me with his legs curled up in the seat as he munched on popcorn, completely engaged in the movie, and I would remember being his age, in the same theatre, watching some movie on that enormous screen.So, indulge me as I slip into Julie Fidler mode and ponder somewhat sentimental memories about the Melba, as well as the late, lamented Landers and the White River Drive-In. See, as silly as it sounds, to a certain extent those three venues shaped my youth and helped fashion me into the incredibly intelligent, charming and angelic young man I am now. Did I mention I was also humble? Anyway, the first movie I remember seeing happened to be at the Melba: The Ten Commandments. To an extremely impressionable child of 3 or 4, seeing the Red Sea part and staffs turn into snakes instantly hooked me onto the magic of film. Then, at the end of the movie, actually seeing God burn the Commandments into the mountain, well … the power of images on River Drive-In. See, as silly as it sounds, to a certain extent those three venues shaped my youth and helped fashion me into the incredibly intelligent, charming and angelic young man I am now. Did I mention I was also humble? Anyway, the first movie I remember seeing happened to be at the Melba: The Ten Commandments. To an extremely impressionable child of 3 or 4, seeing the Red Sea part and staffs turn into snakes instantly hooked me onto the magic of film. Then, at the end of the movie, actually seeing God burn the Commandments into the mountain, well … the power of images on the Melba screen overwhelmed me. I mean, I saw God up on that screen. At least, at that age I thought it was God. I didn't know some guy named DeMille was actually responsible. Other movies at the Melba followed: Evel Knievel, with a young George Hamilton taking on the role of the daredevil; 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea; and Diamonds Are Forever, which had me impersonating Sean Connery as 007 for months to come. (A 5-year-old towhead in his Sunday school-best pretending to be a dashing and debonair British ladies man must have been a sight to behold.) I remember seeing, or rather, listening to the preview for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at the Melba while I hid, petrified, behind the seat. I remember George Van Cleave, the usher, and his wandering eye, chewing on old cigars and yelling "Shuuuuut up!" to the kids making a racket during a show. I remember my grandfather Leonard driving me by the Melba late one night in my pajamas so I could look in awe at the poster for a Bruce Lee movie. I remember that same grandfather Leonard almost pulling my brother, sister and me out of Woody Allen's Bananas because it was a bit raunchy for kids our age even though it was rated GP. (Reme face="Arial">I remember seeing, or rather, listening to the preview for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at the Melba while I hid, petrified, behind the seat. I remember George Van Cleave, the usher, and his wandering eye, chewing on old cigars and yelling "Shuuuuut up!" to the kids making a racket during a show. I remember my grandfather Leonard driving me by the Melba late one night in my pajamas so I could look in awe at the poster for a Bruce Lee movie. I remember that same grandfather Leonard almost pulling my brother, sister and me out of Woody Allen's Bananas because it was a bit raunchy for kids our age even though it was rated GP. (Remember when movies were rated GP and M?) I remember my dad taking me to my first R-rated movie, The Laughing Policeman with Walter Matthau, at the Landers and being astonished that a second-grader could see an R-rated movie. (Now, as a dad, I won't even consider taking my kids to an R-rated movie. What in the world was my dad thinking?) I remember my dad taking me a few months later to my second R-rated movie, The Parallax View with Warren Beatty, and thinking my dad was the coolest dad ever. (Oh, maybe that's what he was he thinking. So he'd be cool in my eyes. On second thought, maybe I should reconsider Hutton's request to see Jackass The Movie.) I remember my Grandfather Grace, a diehard Nixon supporter, taking me to see Steelyard Blues at the White River Drive-In, a left-wing comedy starring Jane Fonda. (Back then, I wanted to see every movie that came to town, even if it went over my head.) I remember my Grandfather Grace tearing out of the drive-in after about 20 minutes of Steelyard Blues. I remember both the Melba and the Landers holding "Owl Shows," late-night showings of movies that usually featured all sorts of women in various stages of undress. I can remembton's request to see Jackass The Movie.) I remember my Grandfather Grace, a diehard Nixon supporter, taking me to see Steelyard Blues at the White River Drive-In, a left-wing comedy starring Jane Fonda. (Back then, I wanted to see every movie that came to town, even if it went over my head.) I remember my Grandfather Grace tearing out of the drive-in after about 20 minutes of Steelyard Blues. I remember both the Melba and the Landers holding "Owl Shows," late-night showings of movies that usually featured all sorts of women in various stages of undress. I can remember the titles of some of those Owl Shows: Ginger, Night Call Nurses, The Swinging Cheerleaders, Too Hot to Handle. I remember thinking how I couldn't wait to turn 17. I remember when my brother got his driver's license, he would drive his little brother (yours truly) out by the White River Drive-In and park across the highway as the R-rated version of Cinderella un-spooled on the giant screen under the stars. (By now, it would be safe to say that, at my young age back then, I was somewhat fixated on movies that are now commonly called "T & A" flicks. It would also be safe to say that I have since matured and recognize such films as what they were and are: filthy trash. It would also be safe to say that I would never, ever, ever watch one of those movies if I happened upon them late one night on cable. And, finally, it would also be safe to say that two of the three sentences above are outright lies.) I remember sitting through a Planet of the Apes marathon at the Landers and thinking that it couldn't get any better than this. I remember watching the car chase classics Vanishing Point and Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry at a double feature and thinking that it could get better than a Planet ofI have since matured and recognize such films as what they were and are: filthy trash. It would also be safe to say that I would never, ever, ever watch one of those movies if I happened upon them late one night on cable. And, finally, it would also be safe to say that two of the three sentences above are outright lies.) I remember sitting through a Planet of the Apes marathon at the Landers and thinking that it couldn't get any better than this. I remember watching the car chase classics Vanishing Point and Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry at a double feature and thinking that it could get better than a Planet of the Apes marathon. And, I remember seeing the trashy double-bill of Vice Squad (Action! Violence! Car chases!) and The Seduction (Morgan Fairchild!) at the White River Drive-In when I was finally old enough to drive with a bunch of buddies and thinking that this was better than a Planet of the Apes/Car Chase movie marathon combined. I remember watching Blade Runner, the Harrison Ford classic, at the Melba, and thinking, for the first time, that movies could be more than just brain candy. I remember being extremely excited about seeing The Cannonball Run, and after watching it, thinking I was getting too old for such nonsense. I was about 15. I remember watching a little James Caan movie called Thief at the Landers that same year, and truly appreciating what was unfolding on the screen and realizing that some films could be considered art. They go on. Memories of flicks like Infra-Man; The Winds of Autumn; Bootleggers; Mother, Juggs and Speed; The Gumball Rally; The Reincarnation of Peter Proud; Old Dracula; and The Trial of Billy Jack. Hundreds of movies, viewed on a Friday or Saturday night, in an old cavernous movie theatre or under the dark ArkaI was getting too old for such nonsense. I was about 15. I remember watching a little James Caan movie called Thief at the Landers that same year, and truly appreciating what was unfolding on the screen and realizing that some films could be considered art. They go on. Memories of flicks like Infra-Man; The Winds of Autumn; Bootleggers; Mother, Juggs and Speed; The Gumball Rally; The Reincarnation of Peter Proud; Old Dracula; and The Trial of Billy Jack. Hundreds of movies, viewed on a Friday or Saturday night, in an old cavernous movie theatre or under the dark Arkansas sky, surrounded by friends, the world out in front of us. So, the Landers sits, roofless on Main Street, trees growing amid the rotten blue seats. Terry Chandler, who rescued the Melba, thankfully plans some similar restoration to the Landers, and we can look forward to walking through those doors some day soon. The White River Drive-In, though, is long gone, the enormous screen demolished and no more, the snack bar boarded up and empty. I hope Hutton and his sister will be able to experience the fun at the movies as I did, but I'm just being corny. One day, they might get all maudlin over the Oaks 7, or they might not even be hooked by movies like I was. I do know this: as I end this piece, I realize that I may have written this exact same column before. So, forgive me if I have repeated myself. I always liked to go to some flicks more than once anyway. * * * Top Five This Week. 1) HEADLINE: "VH1 Pulls Plug on Liza and David Show". The most welcome headline I have seen in weeks. A reality show, in the same vein as Tr the Oaks 7, or they might not even be hooked by movies like I was. I do know this: as I end this piece, I realize that I may have written this exact same column before. So, forgive me if I have repeated myself. I always liked to go to some flicks more than once anyway. * * * Top Five This Week. 1) HEADLINE: "VH1 Pulls Plug on Liza and David Show". The most welcome headline I have seen in weeks. A reality show, in the same vein as The Osbournes as well as that Anna Nicole slab of excrement, this program would have had cameras follow Liza Minnelli and her freaky hubby, David Gest, during their days and nights in Manhattan. (Had the program been produced, one episode might have had this exchange: "Honey, have you seen my eyeliner?" "Oh, yes. It's next to your porcelain doll collection, Davy.") Thankfully, saner heads prevailed, and the project was dropped. Proof, yet again, that God does exist. 2) "I Hung My Head" by Johnny Cash. In last week's column on the brand new Johnny Cash album, I neglected to say that this Sting-penned tune is one of the best things The Man in Black has ever done. It's almost worth the entire sticker price for the compact disc. 3) Bob and Judy Pest. The founders of the Ozark Foothills FilmFest, the Pests have consistently succeeded in bringing quality cinema-related events to the area. The recent visit by documentary filmmaker Les Blank is only another example of how prestigious this little-festival-that-could really is. (And by the way, to put it into perspective, Les Blank is like the Emmitt Smith of documentary filmmakers: respected, talented and productive. His appearance was a coup for the Fest.) Make surng-penned tune is one of the best things The Man in Black has ever done. It's almost worth the entire sticker price for the compact disc. 3) Bob and Judy Pest. The founders of the Ozark Foothills FilmFest, the Pests have consistently succeeded in bringing quality cinema-related events to the area. The recent visit by documentary filmmaker Les Blank is only another example of how prestigious this little-festival-that-could really is. (And by the way, to put it into perspective, Les Blank is like the Emmitt Smith of documentary filmmakers: respected, talented and productive. His appearance was a coup for the Fest.) Make sure you clear your calendar for next year's festival in the spring: it will be full of surprises. 4) Steve Thomas. Another local who helps provide our area with top-notch entertainment. Through his Batesville Promotions business, Thomas has been the main man behind such fun music events as the Edgar Winter/Rick Derringer show, the Foghat/Blue Oyster Cult/Mountain concert, and some wonderful performances at the Melba. He was also one of the folks responsible for the successful haunted house out at the North Complex in Batesville through Halloween. When you hear of a Batesville Promotions event, it's pretty much guaranteed to be a worthy production that deserves area support. 5) Kenny Chesney, Darryl Worley and Other Country Artists Who Drive Me Up The Freaking Wall. What is it with these people? Every time I come across one of their videos, I want to kick in the screen. (Well, that's a little drastic, but surely you get my drift.) Do country music fans actually take these overwrought posers seriously? Doesn't Kenny Chesney realize he looks like a complete dope, dirty dancing solo with that goofy grin on his face? Can we please wipe the syrup off the screen from the over-earnest Darryl Worley video where he's crooning some sappy slop to his so to be a worthy production that deserves area support. 5) Kenny Chesney, Darryl Worley and Other Country Artists Who Drive Me Up The Freaking Wall. What is it with these people? Every time I come across one of their videos, I want to kick in the screen. (Well, that's a little drastic, but surely you get my drift.) Do country music fans actually take these overwrought posers seriously? Doesn't Kenny Chesney realize he looks like a complete dope, dirty dancing solo with that goofy grin on his face? Can we please wipe the syrup off the screen from the over-earnest Darryl Worley video where he's crooning some sappy slop to his sobbing girlfriend? And judging from the wardrobe of Trick-Donkey, or Pony, or whatever that group is called, it looks as if they hit the jackpot at a Loverboy garage sale. Is it just me, or do all country artists and their videos look like VH1-rejects from the late 1980s? Come back George Jones. Rescue us Merle Haggard. Buck Owens, where are you? It's a good thing Waylon ain't around to see and hear this junk. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2002 BATESVILLE, ARKANSAS 3:40 P.M October 30, 2002  His cheeks hang like
those of an old farm hound. His once famous pompadour of tar black is now gray and
scruffy. And the voice, that unmistakable deep rumble that sounds as if God hailed from
Depression-era backwoods Arkansas, is now frail and shaky. Yet, as age grinds down The Man
in Black, it does nothing but contribute to the power of Johnny Cash's artistry and
impact.
At 70, Cash is getting ready to release a newly recorded album enctober 30, 2002 His cheeks hang like
those of an old farm hound. His once famous pompadour of tar black is now gray and
scruffy. And the voice, that unmistakable deep rumble that sounds as if God hailed from
Depression-era backwoods Arkansas, is now frail and shaky. Yet, as age grinds down The Man
in Black, it does nothing but contribute to the power of Johnny Cash's artistry and
impact.
At 70, Cash is getting ready to release a newly recorded album entitled American IV: The Man Comes Around on American Recordings/Lost Highway Records. This is the fourth collaboration Cash has produced with famed rock and rap pioneer Rick Rubin. At first glance, the pairing might seem somewhat cockeyed: Cash, the elder statesman, a country and western legend now firmly rooted in Christian dignity and purpose while Rubin, a guy who looks like an aging surfer pothead, has helped usher rap into the mainstream through his partnership in Def Jam records and has produced albums from punk/funk pioneers the Red Hot Chili Peppers to the thrash-metal band, Slayer. (Slayer's latest album is titled God Hates Us All – isn't that pleasant?). Cash's earlier renegade image has always seemed to prevail over the upright Biblical Rock he became in his later years. (My favorite photo of Cash is the classic image of the middle-aged musician slinging a guitar and flipping the bird directly to the camera lens. It's an image that seemed to capture Cash's wild sense of the world at the time.) When the first album from these two was released, Cash: American Recordings (1994), the reason for their pairing became obvious. The kickoff cut said it all: "Delia's Gone," the tale of a frustrated lover who mows down his woman with a sub-machine gusn't that pleasant?). Cash's earlier renegade image has always seemed to prevail over the upright Biblical Rock he became in his later years. (My favorite photo of Cash is the classic image of the middle-aged musician slinging a guitar and flipping the bird directly to the camera lens. It's an image that seemed to capture Cash's wild sense of the world at the time.) When the first album from these two was released, Cash: American Recordings (1994), the reason for their pairing became obvious. The kickoff cut said it all: "Delia's Gone," the tale of a frustrated lover who mows down his woman with a sub-machine gun. It was a spare acoustic recording that highlighted the dark, apocalyptic outlaw side of Cash. (Remember, Cash is the guy who wrote the infamous line, "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.") Yet, the songs from Cash: American Recordings also fused the redemption available to those who followed the Heavenly Father with the dark tales of Cash's anti-heroes. One wouldn't be wrong, I believe, to think that Rubin provided the darkness that saturated some parts of the album, while Cash provided the Light. And, of course, it was this fusion that gave the project a pure and stark magic. On the first listen, I distinctly remember thinking that this sucker was as heavy as Springsteen's masterpiece, Nebraska. Of course, Rubin also provided and continues to provide a fresh, vibrant pulse to Cash's work. In addition to feeding Cash appropriate songs from such contemporary artists as Tom Petty, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Sting, Soundgarden (!), Glenn Danzig (!!), Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor (!!!) Paul Simon, U2 and Beck over the course of the albums, Rubin has also enlisted the work of top-notch and youthful musicians. On Unchained (1996), Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were basically the main back-up band for Cash. Their version of the Soundgarden piece, &this sucker was as heavy as Springsteen's masterpiece, Nebraska. Of course, Rubin also provided and continues to provide a fresh, vibrant pulse to Cash's work. In addition to feeding Cash appropriate songs from such contemporary artists as Tom Petty, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Sting, Soundgarden (!), Glenn Danzig (!!), Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor (!!!) Paul Simon, U2 and Beck over the course of the albums, Rubin has also enlisted the work of top-notch and youthful musicians. On Unchained (1996), Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were basically the main back-up band for Cash. Their version of the Soundgarden piece, "Unchained," planted Cash firmly in a thick mix of feedback-drenched guitar. The new collection finds a diverse group of folks backing Cash: John Frusciante from the Red Hot Chili Peppers; country and western star Marty Stuart; famous studio keyboardist Billy Preston; Randy Scruggs; and Heartbreakers Benmont Tench and Mike Campbell, who return for most of the album's 15 cuts. And, on vocals, Fiona Apple helps out on Cash's version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," while Don Henley is on hand to contribute on a new rendering of "Desperado." But it's the mournful duet Cash performs with British artist Nick Cave on the Hank Williams classic "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" that is the finest collaboration on the new disc. Other remarkable remakes appear on American IV: The Man Comes Around. The always pleasurable "In My Life" from the Beatles is re-imagined and revitalized with the baggage of years and experience Cash has accumulated. Roberta Flack's standard "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" still moves with its simplicity as the aged voice of Cash looks back to the love of his life, adding to the poignancy. And hearing The Man in Black easily journey through Reznor's bleak landscape in &qut Nick Cave on the Hank Williams classic "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" that is the finest collaboration on the new disc. Other remarkable remakes appear on American IV: The Man Comes Around. The always pleasurable "In My Life" from the Beatles is re-imagined and revitalized with the baggage of years and experience Cash has accumulated. Roberta Flack's standard "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" still moves with its simplicity as the aged voice of Cash looks back to the love of his life, adding to the poignancy. And hearing The Man in Black easily journey through Reznor's bleak landscape in "Hurt" makes you realize that, if Cash was born about 30 years later, he might have been an artist similar to the pained leader of Nine Inch Nails -- in a lyrical sense. (Maybe. Maybe not. I don't think Cash, at any age, would have ever written something as nasty as "Closer," the f-word happy Nails song from a few years back.) Finally, the opening cut of American IV, a recent composition by Cash, is a lively fire and brimstone sermon. According to Cash's liner notes, the song "The Man Comes Around," was inspired by his dreams and the book of Revelations. Backed by a bouncy acoustic riff, this piece finds Cash happily anticipating the Rapture while sending out a warning to all of those anti-heroes of which he has chronicled through the decades. It's obvious this album is not for everyone, and it is by no means perfect. (Do we really need another remake of "Desperado" and "Danny Boy?") For some folks, the weary and sometimes weak voice might be rough going. But for those who have treasured the ragged artistry of this man over the years, it's a wonderful addition to his impressive legacy. The impact the years have had on Johnny Cash only increase the potency of these songs. It's obvious this album is not for everyone, and it is by no means perfect. (Do we really need another remake of "Desperado" and "Danny Boy?") For some folks, the weary and sometimes weak voice might be rough going. But for those who have treasured the ragged artistry of this man over the years, it's a wonderful addition to his impressive legacy. The impact the years have had on Johnny Cash only increase the potency of these songs. American IV: The Man Comes Around hits the stores Nov. 5. October 23, 2002 I'm not much of a handyman around the house or the garage.When it comes to fixing a noisy toilet or figuring out how to put together a large toy with the words "Assembly Required" in small print across the bottom of the box, then, well, you might as well count me out. I'm a home improvement dunce. Take, for example, the noisy toilet. For the past few months, the kids have had a toilet that constantly runs after a flush. Every now and then, I'd lift the lid on the back, tighten the screw on the end of that rod thingamajig with the big floating ball on the end – you know what thingamajig I'm talking about? – and, then the water running would stop. For about two minutes. Then, it'd start back again. This toilet dance went on for about six or eight weeks until I
finally called a plumber and asked him how our water bill could be so high. Could a
constantly run Take, for example, the noisy toilet. For the past few months, the
kids have had a toilet that constantly runs after a flush. Every now and then, I'd lift
the lid on the back, tighten the screw on the end of that rod thingamajig with the big
floating ball on the end – you know what thingamajig I'm talking about? – and,
then the water running would stop. For about two minutes. Then, it'd start back again. This toilet dance went on for about six or eight weeks until I
finally called a plumber and asked him how our water bill could be so high. Could a
constantly running toilet be the cause of two $250 water bills in a row? The laugh on the other end of the phone line was deafening. The laugh on the other end of the phone line was implying:
"Well, duh, you moron." Needless to say, the plumber fixed the thing. With two little kids, the need to have some type of home improvement
skills is like water to fish. Every year, without a doubt, my wife can find some large
toy-thing for a birthday or Christmas that requires an engineering doctorate to assemble.
Last year, it was a trampoline. This year, it was a sandbox. And, trust me on this, please: this was no ordinary plastic sandbox
that one could simply toss in the back of a truck, dump in the backyard and fill with
sand. No, this was the Taj Mahal of sandboxes: treated wood that had to be
screwed together with a vinyl roof on top – a roof! – that could be
raised or lowered and extended or drawn back with a cord. The only thing missing was a heating and air unit. Needless to say, the Trump Sandbox stayed unassembled in the garage
for mpoline. This year, it was a sandbox. And, trust me on this, please: this was no ordinary plastic sandbox
that one could simply toss in the back of a truck, dump in the backyard and fill with
sand. No, this was the Taj Mahal of sandboxes: treated wood that had to be
screwed together with a vinyl roof on top – a roof! – that could be
raised or lowered and extended or drawn back with a cord. The only thing missing was a heating and air unit. Needless to say, the Trump Sandbox stayed unassembled in the garage
for a few months. If I can't figure out a noisy toilet, then I sure couldn't figure out
how to put together a sandbox that arrived with blueprints in a tube for directions. That is, until the father-in-law arrived for a visit. Oh … the good ol' father-in-law. The good ol' father-in-law who
also happens to be a retired engineer. Yes, God knew what He was doing when He hooked me up with my lovely
wife. Without an engineer for a father-in-law, I would have most likely been found some
day on some metropolitan street corner, homeless and alone, babbling like a madman with a
set of worn and crumpled assembly instructions in my clenched fist. Let's look, for example, at what kind of father-in-law I have: for
the past few visits to Batesville, he has put together a swing set, a trampoline (with
some help), two or three tricycles and all types of tot-mobiles that are fueled by tiny
feet. This is not to mention the countless times he has been drafted to hang curtains or
put together a bed frame. I've only recently realized that one reason my in-laws don't spend
the night when they drive up for a visit is because my father-in-law would probably wind
up readman with a
set of worn and crumpled assembly instructions in my clenched fist. Let's look, for example, at what kind of father-in-law I have: for
the past few visits to Batesville, he has put together a swing set, a trampoline (with
some help), two or three tricycles and all types of tot-mobiles that are fueled by tiny
feet. This is not to mention the countless times he has been drafted to hang curtains or
put together a bed frame. I've only recently realized that one reason my in-laws don't spend
the night when they drive up for a visit is because my father-in-law would probably wind
up recruited by my wife to re-roof our house or add an extra garage before he left. This is, of course, humbling and embarrassing for me. When my
in-laws were up for the weekend recently, I had forgotten all about the sandbox Xanadu
that had been boxed up and collecting dust in the garage until I walked outside and found
my father-in-law hunched over a pile of wood and plastic, screwing together a couple of
planks. And, of course, when I made an appearance, I had to offer to help.
Thankfully, though, I think my father-in-law (he does have a name, by the way – it's
Bill) has learned by now that the best kind of help I can offer is simply staying out of
the way. Bill finally had the thing together by the end of the day, and
before my wife could show him the broken kitchen cabinet door, he and the mom-in-law were
on the road. Another trip to Batesville, another household chore complete. I will, however, proudly note two household accomplishments I made
over the weekend. Our doors inside the house have always squeaked at levels so
high-pitched and loud, dogs across the neighborhood scream and howl whenever one is being
opened or shut. Thankfully, I've the best kind of help I can offer is simply staying out of
the way. Bill finally had the thing together by the end of the day, and
before my wife could show him the broken kitchen cabinet door, he and the mom-in-law were
on the road. Another trip to Batesville, another household chore complete. I will, however, proudly note two household accomplishments I made
over the weekend. Our doors inside the house have always squeaked at levels so
high-pitched and loud, dogs across the neighborhood scream and howl whenever one is being
opened or shut. Thankfully, I've discovered the astonishing benefits of WD-40. Now, I know
I may be late in the game here, but this stuff is a miracle cure for household repairs. A
couple of squirts on all of our hinges, and I'm happy to say, this house is squeak free. A
couple of the neighborhood dogs have even called me to say thanks. If I would have known about the wonders of this WD-40 stuff before
the plumber fixed the leaky toilet, I might have sprayed some in the back of the offending
tank. You never know. The other household chore I did over the weekend was to put a new
license plate on the back of my wife's vehicle. Yes, I realize this might sound trivial
and ridiculous to most of you, but for a home improvement imbecile like me, it was as if a
monkey had assembled a car engine by hand, blindfolded. That is to say, affixing the plate was a miraculous feat of skill
and detail for a chump like me. Until I realized one actually screws license plates onto
vehicles. One does not nail them. * * * Top 5 Things That Have Been On My Mind Thte on the back of my wife's vehicle. Yes, I realize this might sound trivial
and ridiculous to most of you, but for a home improvement imbecile like me, it was as if a
monkey had assembled a car engine by hand, blindfolded. That is to say, affixing the plate was a miraculous feat of skill
and detail for a chump like me. Until I realized one actually screws license plates onto
vehicles. One does not nail them. * * * Top 5 Things That Have Been On My Mind This Week. 1. The Arkansas Governor's Race As is usually the norm, there's
not a candidate that really impresses me. I'm leaning toward Jimmie Lou simply because, to
me, Gov. Huck acts as if anyone who would even think about voting for her is a moron. On
his television ads, he's talking to us as if we're all toddlers. I'm halfway expecting a
commercial from the Gov. any time now that says saying something like: "Can you
believe what my mean opponent is saying about me this time boys and girls? She is really a
bad, bad person and will most likely go to a bad, bad place when she dies,
right kids? Now, who wants a chili dog?" 2. My Upcoming Announcement That I Will Be Running for Governor.
Yes, I've decided that instead of voting for either Jimmie Lou or Gov. Huck, that I'll be
jumping into the race as a write-in candidate. My platform issues: required after-lunch
naps for all employees; the re-instatement of Vic Schedler to the weather desk at KATV;
all state dinners will be held at local Hooters; Bruce Springsteen will be the poet
laureate even though he lives in New Jersey; and Faith Hill will be my Chief of Staff. 3. The New Elvis Costello album. I like Elvis Costello. Have
siants a chili dog?" 2. My Upcoming Announcement That I Will Be Running for Governor.
Yes, I've decided that instead of voting for either Jimmie Lou or Gov. Huck, that I'll be
jumping into the race as a write-in candidate. My platform issues: required after-lunch
naps for all employees; the re-instatement of Vic Schedler to the weather desk at KATV;
all state dinners will be held at local Hooters; Bruce Springsteen will be the poet
laureate even though he lives in New Jersey; and Faith Hill will be my Chief of Staff. 3. The New Elvis Costello album. I like Elvis Costello. Have
since I was in junior high. But his new CD, Cruel Smile, is pure crud. My 17 bucks
went – poof – up in smoke when I bought this piece of muck. Buy the new
Elvis Presley No. 1 CD collection or any of the new Rolling Stones remasters instead.
It'll be money better spent. 4. The Beltway Shooter. He/she/they is/are still at it as of
this writing. I received an e-mail from a former Batesville resident and friend who
recently moved to the D.C. area, and he wrote: "Silly me, I got gas Sat. right
after one of the shootings. I was just grooving, listening to some vintage Stones on the
radio, got out … pumped gas … noticed that I was the only dumba** standing.
Everyone else was either couched down low or in their cars." My wife and brother are convinced it's the work of terrorists. I'm
leaning toward the notion that it's a couple of American psychopaths. Who knows? I thought
this rampage would have been over by this time. Something has to pop up that will
eventually lead the authorities to nail this/these loser killer(s). 5. That Keith Richards Photo on the Recent Cover of Rolling
Stone Magazine. Sorry. I know this was on the list last week. That should tell yout … pumped gas … noticed that I was the only dumba** standing.
Everyone else was either couched down low or in their cars." My wife and brother are convinced it's the work of terrorists. I'm
leaning toward the notion that it's a couple of American psychopaths. Who knows? I thought
this rampage would have been over by this time. Something has to pop up that will
eventually lead the authorities to nail this/these loser killer(s). 5. That Keith Richards Photo on the Recent Cover of Rolling
Stone Magazine. Sorry. I know this was on the list last week. That should tell you
how disturbing the image truly is: it's seared into my mind. * * * Finally, full disclosure: not that you care, but I
got the idea of the Top 5 list from the writer Greil Marcus at Salon.com. He does a
similar column called the Real Life Rock 10 about every two weeks on that ultra-lefty Web
site. The only differences between my stuff and his are these: 1) My list has five items
while he has, yes, 10 items; and 2) he's a better writer than me -- even though he's
probably one of those damn Communists! THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17, 2002 October 16, 2002 My brother and I recently sped up to St. Louis to catch a Saturday night playoff game between the Cardinals and Arizona Diamondbacks, and I learned a few things along the way.First: there are roughly 73 different routes to St. Louis from
Batesville. As a kid, I always remember my parents driving up through West Plains to get
to the Gateway to the West. The past few years, I found the quickest 02 October 16, 2002 My brother and I recently sped up to St. Louis to catch a Saturday night playoff game between the Cardinals and Arizona Diamondbacks, and I learned a few things along the way.First: there are roughly 73 different routes to St. Louis from Batesville. As a kid, I always remember my parents driving up through West Plains to get to the Gateway to the West. The past few years, I found the quickest way to get there was to head to Cave City, cut over to Imboden, then over to Pocahontas, up to Corning, through Poplar Bluff, and then hit four lanes around Fredrickstown, Mo. The travel time would usually average from five to six hours. That Saturday, we tried a new route. We drove through Tuckerman, over to Walnut Ridge, and then hit Pocahontas and continued on our standard way. Length of travel time for that journey: a quick four and a half hours. Needless to say, that's the St. Louis route I'll be taking until a quicker one is found. Another interesting item I learned that weekend is the fact that my stomach is as expandable as a full-size hot air balloon. Hitting Busch Stadium, I immediately found the Best kosher hot dog stand and ordered a well-done weenie smothered in grilled onions. Best kosher dogs are, without a doubt, the tastiest links around, particularly when they are scorched black and crusty. And then, when you add the onions…well, let's simply say it's as if the hand of the Wiener Gods had anointed that particular hot dog as the most scrumptious item to ever hit your taste buds. So, you can see why I ordered another one around the fourth inning. After the seventhact that my stomach is as expandable as a full-size hot air balloon. Hitting Busch Stadium, I immediately found the Best kosher hot dog stand and ordered a well-done weenie smothered in grilled onions. Best kosher dogs are, without a doubt, the tastiest links around, particularly when they are scorched black and crusty. And then, when you add the onions…well, let's simply say it's as if the hand of the Wiener Gods had anointed that particular hot dog as the most scrumptious item to ever hit your taste buds. So, you can see why I ordered another one around the fourth inning. After the seventh inning, I journeyed back to the snack bar and ordered one of those doughy big-mama pretzels, smothered in yellow mustard. Yummmmmm… Then, when the Diamondbacks finished the final inning and the Cardinal fans celebrated their clean sweep of Randy Johnson and crew, Chip and I walked back to the hotel and flipped on the Tennessee-Arkansas game in his room. Apparently, the excitement and its resulting energy from watching the football game made me realize that I was still hungry. So, we ordered a large pizza from some joint called Imo's Pizza. In a flash, the pie arrived and I ended up devouring about…oh…nine or 10 pieces. Restraint, it should be noted, is an unfamiliar word to me – particularly when it comes to food. Another interesting, perhaps troubling, item I learned over that weekend had to do with my brother. On the way home, we stopped at a Poplar Bluff gas station. I picked up a soda while my brother bought a vacuum-packed dill pickle. I'm sure you know the type of pickle: one of those big neon green babies that used to be stuffed in big glass jars at movie theatre snack bars from the good old days. In fact, as he was trying to tear open the pickle package, Chip reminisced about the big pickles eces. Restraint, it should be noted, is an unfamiliar word to me – particularly when it comes to food. Another interesting, perhaps troubling, item I learned over that weekend had to do with my brother. On the way home, we stopped at a Poplar Bluff gas station. I picked up a soda while my brother bought a vacuum-packed dill pickle. I'm sure you know the type of pickle: one of those big neon green babies that used to be stuffed in big glass jars at movie theatre snack bars from the good old days. In fact, as he was trying to tear open the pickle package, Chip reminisced about the big pickles at the old Landers Theatre in downtown Batesville. "Man, on Friday nights, we'd get one of these babies at the movie," he said, "and then we'd get a cup of crushed ice, and we'd have 'em pour a bunch of pickle juice in the cup and drink that too!" And then, after he tells me this revolting story, he finally rips open the plastic and starts sucking the pickle juice out of the package. Now, I don't know how you feel about the prospect of a cup of pickle juice on the rocks, but to me, that's pretty dern sick. But then, seeing and hearing the man suck and slurp up the juice, well…that's just yuck. I know I may be a pig by some standards, but drinking straight pickle juice like water is not only sick, but also somewhat demented. * * * I don't know why I stopped doing this, but about two months ago, I said I was going to now and then feature the Top Five Things That Have Occupied My Mind for the Previous Week – a useless list of stuff that has been of interest in my small world for a few days before…usually books, movies, news items, etc. the man suck and slurp up the juice, well…that's just yuck.I know I may be a pig by some standards, but drinking straight pickle juice like water is not only sick, but also somewhat demented. * * * I don't know why I stopped doing this, but about two months ago, I said I was going to now and then feature the Top Five Things That Have Occupied My Mind for the Previous Week – a useless list of stuff that has been of interest in my small world for a few days before…usually books, movies, news items, etc. I compiled a list for two or three columns, then simply forgot about it until now. So, for your reading pleasure, here's a return of the Top Five Things That Have Occupied My Mind for the Previous Week…If You Care. 1. The D.C. Sniper. As of this writing, the Maryland and D.C. police are still hunting for the maniac who has been randomly picking off innocents in that area of the country. It would seem that luck and attentive citizens would be the only way to nab this killer. The seemingly indiscriminate method the sniper is using is not only chilling, but also, I'm sure, frustrating for the authorities. Hope and pray this seemingly intelligent sociopath slips up and exposes his hand before any more blood is shed. 2. The St. Louis Cardinals. And, by the time this issue hits your hands, I hope we'll know if the Redbirds are going to the World Series. The Big Dance. The Mother of All Baseball Tournaments. And, despite the tragic year the Cards have experienced with the loss of Jack Buck and Darryl Kile, would not a World Championship be a sweet victory? 3. Sweet Smell of Success. I had never seen this classic 1957 Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis film until the othehorities. Hope and pray this seemingly intelligent sociopath slips up and exposes his hand before any more blood is shed. 2. The St. Louis Cardinals. And, by the time this issue hits your hands, I hope we'll know if the Redbirds are going to the World Series. The Big Dance. The Mother of All Baseball Tournaments. And, despite the tragic year the Cards have experienced with the loss of Jack Buck and Darryl Kile, would not a World Championship be a sweet victory? 3. Sweet Smell of Success. I had never seen this classic 1957 Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis film until the other night. What a fun and dark slice of 1950s NYC nostalgia. Lancaster plays a ruthless and egotistical gossip columnist while Curtis is a hungry public relations flack eager to be on Lancaster's good side, no matter what the cost. The striking black and white photography is gorgeous, as are the numerous Manhattan locations that hark back to a day when long coats and fedoras were as common as cigarette girls and slick suits. Success features fantastic acting in a movie that couldn't be made today – no heroes, a downbeat ending and a finger pointing at the gossipy and poisonous celebrity system that still thrives today. 4. Jerusalem by Steve Earle. Forget the silly argument that Earle seems somewhat sympathetic to American Taliban John Walker Lindh in the song, "John Walker's Blues." That's false P.R. hype most likely encouraged by Earle's own record company for attention. (It wouldn't surprise me, particularly after watching Success.) The song is excellent, as are the majority of the other pieces on this record Earle has repeatedly referred to as his "most political." Never mind that the best songs on the album have nothing to do with politics, while the political ones, while well-intentioned, seem somewhat simplistic in their ideas anal">4. Jerusalem by Steve Earle. Forget the silly argument that Earle seems somewhat sympathetic to American Taliban John Walker Lindh in the song, "John Walker's Blues." That's false P.R. hype most likely encouraged by Earle's own record company for attention. (It wouldn't surprise me, particularly after watching Success.) The song is excellent, as are the majority of the other pieces on this record Earle has repeatedly referred to as his "most political." Never mind that the best songs on the album have nothing to do with politics, while the political ones, while well-intentioned, seem somewhat simplistic in their ideas and notions about America today. It's still another good album by one of my favorites, a no-nonsense guy who consistently puts out quality product. Best cut: the stunning "I Remember You," a duet with the lovely Emmylou Harris. 5. The Keith Richards cover of the new issue of Rolling Stone. Unfortunately bare-chested and scraggly beyond belief, the cover photo of the Rolling Stones guitarist proves once and for all that zombies do exist. Richards looks like an extra from one of George Romero's walking dead movies. A photo more disturbing than drinking pickle juice. You can reach Rob via e-mail, at [email protected]. Thanks to Barb Kimble for the "Get Well" card! The pinky toe is healing quite nicely. October 2, 2002 I keep telling myself everything will be all right. I keep telling myself that, soon, time will tenderly heal both my physical pain, as well as my mental. The human body and spirit are marvels of self-restoration. It's hard to write about this. My wife pleaded with me not to do You can reach Rob via e-mail, at [email protected]. Thanks to Barb Kimble for the "Get Well" card! The pinky toe is healing quite nicely. October 2, 2002 I keep telling myself everything will be all right. I keep telling myself that, soon, time will tenderly heal both my physical pain, as well as my mental. The human body and spirit are marvels of self-restoration. It's hard to write about this. My wife pleaded with me not to do this column … she said people would never look at me in the same way again. But I can't lead my faithful readers down a road of self-denial, lulling them into a sense of false pretense that everything is all rainbows and sunshine in my world beyond this weekly space. I won't do that to you. I can't be someone I am not. Don't let me alarm you. I will be fine. I only want you to know that if you see me out in public, moving a tad slower and with some difficulty, do not pity me. As I said, time will heal. An accident has recently left me in a state that some might call horrendous. A week ago last night, my wife asked me to take a full bag of trash out to the garage. Being the kind of guy who will do anything for the woman he loves, I put down my beer after she had asked me for the third time and I rose from my recliner. (To get a further sense of the loving sacrifice I made, I was right in the middle of watching the hilarious "Chocolate Bar" episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.) I blew my darling a loving kiss as she prepared supper, and I picked up the overflowing bag. I opened the door and stepped barefoot out onto the freezing concently left me in a state that some might call horrendous. A week ago last night, my wife asked me to take a full bag of trash out to the garage. Being the kind of guy who will do anything for the woman he loves, I put down my beer after she had asked me for the third time and I rose from my recliner. (To get a further sense of the loving sacrifice I made, I was right in the middle of watching the hilarious "Chocolate Bar" episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.) I blew my darling a loving kiss as she prepared supper, and I picked up the overflowing bag. I opened the door and stepped barefoot out onto the freezing concrete floor of our garage. (A warning: What follows might be too disturbing and graphic for the more sensitive readers.) The sheer cold of the hard ground must have thrown my sense of balance off, and with a slight cry, I stumbled a bit. Trying to steady myself, I reflexively shot my right foot out, and it was then that I felt a sharp, stinging burst of a hot, miserable, excruciating bolt of pure, unfiltered, no-holds-barred pain with a large, screaming, capital, italicized P. It was my pinky toe. My pure, innocent pinky toe. The one that always ran wee, wee, wee … all the way home. I had stubbed it on the front tire of my wife's van. Immediately, as I lost control of my senses, my left hand dropped the bag of trash – directly on top of my left big toe. A scream of agony exploded from my lungs. Not only was my right pinky toe in the midst of burning torture – the kind of pain that deceased unrepentant sinners and tele-marketers are most likely experiencing right now in Hell. But to add to it, a large and fat garbage bag had now crushed my big toe on the other foot. (In the midst of the piercing scream, I deduced that the edge of a crushed soda or beer can had nai">I had stubbed it on the front tire of my wife's van. Immediately, as I lost control of my senses, my left hand dropped the bag of trash – directly on top of my left big toe. A scream of agony exploded from my lungs. Not only was my right pinky toe in the midst of burning torture – the kind of pain that deceased unrepentant sinners and tele-marketers are most likely experiencing right now in Hell. But to add to it, a large and fat garbage bag had now crushed my big toe on the other foot. (In the midst of the piercing scream, I deduced that the edge of a crushed soda or beer can had nailed the big toe precisely at a sensitive spot. I also quickly determined that I should have followed my dear wife's advice and put the offending can in the recycling tub instead of the trash bag.) After my scream, I dropped on my bottom to the brick steps that lead into the house. I squeezed my eyes shut, damming a torrent of spontaneous tears, and gently fell back to the floor, extending my hand inside the doorway to grab the comforting hand of my wife who had instinctively run to my side at the sound of my scream. Well, at least I thought she had instinctively run to my side. "Did you guys hear something?" my wife's calm voice asked our kids, who were perched in front of the television. "It was SpongeBob, Mommy," our daughter said. "Oh … OK. Dinner's ready in five minutes." * * * I later deduced that perhaps my wife knew that if she had come running to my side in pure panic, she might have scared the kids and thrown me into clinical shock. It was a smooth move to play it "dumb," as if nothing had happened."Did you guys hear something?" my wife's calm voice asked our kids, who were perched in front of the television. "It was SpongeBob, Mommy," our daughter said. "Oh … OK. Dinner's ready in five minutes." * * * I later deduced that perhaps my wife knew that if she had come running to my side in pure panic, she might have scared the kids and thrown me into clinical shock. It was a smooth move to play it "dumb," as if nothing had happened. I love her so. Inside, she convinced me that an emergency room visit was not needed. I questioned her decision, knowing that the bone of each toe was most likely shattered and also remembering the time we took our little boy to the E.R. for a cut, the nurse gave him a teddy bear to take home. I thought it'd be cool to get a teddy bear, but my wife said that the teddy bears were for the kids, not 35-year-old men. (I must say that even though all of her actions leading up to the accident were angelic, her decision to not take me to the E.R. was somewhat cold-hearted. Oh, that and the fact that her stupid van was in my toe's way.) I hardly slept that night. The damage to my big toe was, thankfully, minimal. It turned out that the garbage bag was actually full of those little white Styrofoam packing peanuts and a couple of loaves of stale bread. The pinky toe, however, had turned black. Visions of major surgery saturated my mind. I mentally tried to work out where to build the wheelchair ramp at our home; staying off the foot because of the exterior metal halo pins they would most likely have to install on the toe was going to be a necessity. Thankhearted. Oh, that and the fact that her stupid van was in my toe's way.) I hardly slept that night. The damage to my big toe was, thankfully, minimal. It turned out that the garbage bag was actually full of those little white Styrofoam packing peanuts and a couple of loaves of stale bread. The pinky toe, however, had turned black. Visions of major surgery saturated my mind. I mentally tried to work out where to build the wheelchair ramp at our home; staying off the foot because of the exterior metal halo pins they would most likely have to install on the toe was going to be a necessity. Thankfully, a local orthopedic surgeon who, for some reason, couldn't stop laughing during our visit, later ruled out such corrective surgery. I attempted to purchase some crutches or, at least, a cane, but my wife convinced me such helpful tools were not needed. "You're going to be fine," she said with an irritated-sounding sigh in the kitchen after my doctor's appointment. Yet, I know that it was not irritation rising from my wife's lungs. It was only weary desperation. Perhaps the pressure of my injury had made her solid demeanor crack, however slight. In fact, right after she told me I was going to be all right, she asked me to take out the trash. It was, as if, she knew that the only way for me to properly heal was to act as if our lives had not even been altered. We had to go about our normal everyday lives. I smiled at her, brushed her hair behind her ears and slowly limped toward another stuffed garbage bag sitting in the kitchen floor. And damn it if I didn't stub my other pinky toe on a stupid stool! In fact, right after she told me I was going to be all right, she asked me to take out the trash. It was, as if, she knew that the only way for me to properly heal was to act as if our lives had not even been altered. We had to go about our normal everyday lives. I smiled at her, brushed her hair behind her ears and slowly limped toward another stuffed garbage bag sitting in the kitchen floor. And damn it if I didn't stub my other pinky toe on a stupid stool! Rob can be reached at [email protected]. He asks that all "Get Well" cards be sent in care of the paper. September 25, 2002 The new Robin Williams film, One Hour Photo, a creepy and effective little thriller, has yet to make it to Batesville. It is, however, sitting on my hard drive here in my office. What I mean is, by simple chance, I found a digital copy of One Hour Photo on the Internet. It took about three hours to download, and though it's a tad fuzzy on my computer monitor, one can still watch it and enjoy. The story behind this hit film ending up on the Web is one that might become common in the months to come. When a film is made, the majority of them are now edited (put together) on computers, whereas in the past, movies were basically edited with a strip of actual film and razor cutter. The film was locked up in an editor's office until it was finished and ready to screen for the brass at the studios. Now, with digital editing, recently completed movies float between studio hard drives for Hollywood executives to view and critique. The potential for someone a tad fuzzy on my computer monitor, one can still watch it and enjoy. The story behind this hit film ending up on the Web is one that might become common in the months to come. When a film is made, the majority of them are now edited (put together) on computers, whereas in the past, movies were basically edited with a strip of actual film and razor cutter. The film was locked up in an editor's office until it was finished and ready to screen for the brass at the studios. Now, with digital editing, recently completed movies float between studio hard drives for Hollywood executives to view and critique. The potential for someone at the studio to leak a copy on the Web is now enormous, and this is apparently what happened with One Hour Photo. Someone associated with Fox, the studio that produced One Hour Photo, had a digital copy of an early version of the movie on his or her hard drive, and for whatever reason, let that copy slip into the unrestricted world of the Internet. Once that happens, there's no turning back. It's gone. When I read an online article about the movie the other day, an off-hand reference was made about this version floating around on the Web. One search on the Kazaa Web site, and presto, about 10 copies of the pirated One Hour Photo were revealed. I first saw the movie a few weeks ago at a theatre in St. Louis, and then, three days later I'm watching it again in my office. While some folks might not give a darn about the fact that a film currently in theatres across the country can be found and downloaded for free onto thousands of hard drives throughout the world, others – particularly Fox – take this matter very seriously. With all things going digital, this is another twist in the endless argument concerning performance copyrights, seemingly boundless Internet access and the rights of regular Joe Blow having the ability to download stuff for free. Andvealed. I first saw the movie a few weeks ago at a theatre in St. Louis, and then, three days later I'm watching it again in my office. While some folks might not give a darn about the fact that a film currently in theatres across the country can be found and downloaded for free onto thousands of hard drives throughout the world, others – particularly Fox – take this matter very seriously. With all things going digital, this is another twist in the endless argument concerning performance copyrights, seemingly boundless Internet access and the rights of regular Joe Blow having the ability to download stuff for free. And, if you purchase compact discs and DVDs from time to time, these kinds of matters will affect you and others. Just ask anyone who sells records for a living. They will tell you that the ability to download songs and albums off the Internet has tremendously and negatively affected their sales. Many kids these days download entire CDs from their favorite artists and digitally share them among friends. Allowance bucks are saved, and personal CD libraries grow to no end. Other enterprising downloaders often burn (record) hundreds of popular CDs and sell them for five bucks on a street corner or in a school hallway. The record store, the record company and, ultimately, the artist are all hit in the pocketbook. There is a somewhat sinister way to actually justify downloads. Taking the unfortunate independent record store owner out of the equation, there is an element of consumer rebellion in downloading. For years, record companies, never the most upstanding and moral group of folks, have made piles and piles of cash off of overpriced compact discs. And, of course, every day in the world of celebrity, one hears stories of recording artists like P. Diddy spending millions of dollars on a single party, or Madonna buying a castle in Europe. Meanwhile, Joe Blow has to fork over $20 for their laly, the artist are all hit in the pocketbook. There is a somewhat sinister way to actually justify downloads. Taking the unfortunate independent record store owner out of the equation, there is an element of consumer rebellion in downloading. For years, record companies, never the most upstanding and moral group of folks, have made piles and piles of cash off of overpriced compact discs. And, of course, every day in the world of celebrity, one hears stories of recording artists like P. Diddy spending millions of dollars on a single party, or Madonna buying a castle in Europe. Meanwhile, Joe Blow has to fork over $20 for their latest CD. The temptation to download and stick it to those parties is simply too inviting to pass up. And, if more examples of the One Hour Photo bootleg pop up, we can now stick it to Ben Affleck and Vin Diesel as well. Of course, there are completely innocent reasons to download. I like to download songs to see if I want to go out and buy the album. I test drive a CD, so to speak. I have, to be honest, downloaded one full-length CD within the past few months, but I personally like having the actual compact disc. I like browsing through the booklets, and sometimes, the sound seems a little better than a downloaded version. It's obvious entertainment companies are going to be dealing with this problem for years. For now, record labels are pitching hissy fits left and right while refusing to acknowledge that ridiculous CD prices are at the root of the problem. It's likely that movie studios will follow suit with demands to somehow regulate the Web. The only winner in all of this will most likely be Mr. and Ms. Blow. More and more music will be exposed, discovered and appreciated through mp3 downloads, CD prices will probably start to fall when the labels come to their senses and, maybe – just maybe, cash flow problems might have Madonna asion. It's obvious entertainment companies are going to be dealing with this problem for years. For now, record labels are pitching hissy fits left and right while refusing to acknowledge that ridiculous CD prices are at the root of the problem. It's likely that movie studios will follow suit with demands to somehow regulate the Web. The only winner in all of this will most likely be Mr. and Ms. Blow. More and more music will be exposed, discovered and appreciated through mp3 downloads, CD prices will probably start to fall when the labels come to their senses and, maybe – just maybe, cash flow problems might have Madonna asking you one day, "Would you like fries with that?" One can dream, can't they? September 18, 2002 When I moved back to Batesville in 1993, there weren't many good friends from my childhood still hanging around. Don't get me wrong; there were a few, and I enjoyed getting back together with them from time to time. Still do, in fact. But, for the most part, my return home found me in the position of getting to know some individuals that had moved here in the time I had been gone. And, finding new friends is much like dating: in those initial times together, you try to gauge whether or not a potential new buddy shares a lot of the same interests, doesn't carry a sour attitude, and most importantly, has the ability to put smile on your face.Jay Hayes put a smile on my face, many times. Through my big brother, I met Jay almost as soon as I moved back to town. Back then, Chip would invite a regular crew of his buddies to his cabin out in the country. We would usually grill some chicken and steak, drink a beer or three, fish a little, and in season, watch som that had moved here in the time I had been gone. And, finding new friends is much like dating: in those initial times together, you try to gauge whether or not a potential new buddy shares a lot of the same interests, doesn't carry a sour attitude, and most importantly, has the ability to put smile on your face. Jay Hayes put a smile on my face, many times. Through my big brother, I met Jay almost as soon as I moved back to town. Back then, Chip would invite a regular crew of his buddies to his cabin out in the country. We would usually grill some chicken and steak, drink a beer or three, fish a little, and in season, watch some Razorback basketball games. The night I met Jay out at my brother's place, I knew this guy with a thick Southern accent was my kind of fella. He was, without a doubt, one of the goofiest men I had ever met, and anyone who knows me, knows that I have an extreme appreciation for all things goofy. If I remember correctly, he immediately started to mess with me – saying something like, "Well, I guess Chip was the one who got all the looks in the family." Then, right after a crack like this, he would always bark that loud manic laugh of his. And anyone who knew Jay knows what I'm talking about – the laugh was infectious and disarming. He put you at ease after a good-natured slam, making sure you knew he was all talk, all smiles. In time, the journeys to the cabin would always be a slight let-down if Jay wasn't able to make it. Jay drove grain trucks for his company. He'd rise around four in the morning, hit the road all day, and many times, would have to forsake a cabin trip for simple, needed rest. But, some nights, after the grilling had started and the sun had set, we'd hear the gravel crunch outside and then the footsteps stomp across the deck, and we'd know that Jay had managed to muster up some energy to come and liven up the infectious and disarming. He put you at ease after a good-natured slam, making sure you knew he was all talk, all smiles. In time, the journeys to the cabin would always be a slight let-down if Jay wasn't able to make it. Jay drove grain trucks for his company. He'd rise around four in the morning, hit the road all day, and many times, would have to forsake a cabin trip for simple, needed rest. But, some nights, after the grilling had started and the sun had set, we'd hear the gravel crunch outside and then the footsteps stomp across the deck, and we'd know that Jay had managed to muster up some energy to come and liven up the evening. And Jay, very much, livened up many evenings for many folks. My wife told me the other night how she always loved it when Jay would arrive in the middle of a party. His constant smile and that silly laugh always infected any gathering with a unique sense of hearty liveliness that was all Jay. It's hard to think of times when a smile was absent from Jay. Even a few weeks ago, when I briefly sat down with Jay and his now-grown and treasured teenage son, Josh, at a local restaurant, the smile reigned. (I vividly remember late summer afternoons at the cabin when Jay would be out on the boat dock with an 11-year-old Josh, both with fishing poles dangling from their hands, and the father gently telling the son where to cast, or how to bait his hook.) Yet, it was known by all of his friends and loved ones, that there were many moments when a smile was distant in Jay's world. As in any life, interior struggles would develop, and sometimes these battles muted his vibrant light. But, occasionally, the anguish would blessedly cede to his carefree radiance, and Jay seemed Jay. When I last spoke to Jay a couple of weeks ago, he made some remarks about my short-lived Mohawk, then ce boat dock with an 11-year-old Josh, both with fishing poles dangling from their hands, and the father gently telling the son where to cast, or how to bait his hook.) Yet, it was known by all of his friends and loved ones, that there were many moments when a smile was distant in Jay's world. As in any life, interior struggles would develop, and sometimes these battles muted his vibrant light. But, occasionally, the anguish would blessedly cede to his carefree radiance, and Jay seemed Jay. When I last spoke to Jay a couple of weeks ago, he made some remarks about my short-lived Mohawk, then came the Laugh. "Now, I guess I'm gonna have to shave my head to one-up you," he said. That weekend, I went ahead and shaved completely bald. I was going to beat the man to the punch, and I was eager to show him. But then, he was gone. Looking back, knowing what we all know, these moments of humor and hopefulness in his desolate times might have been attempts to lighten his load in some small way. Perhaps, he was trying to shed light in his world and illuminate the fog that had somehow clouded his way. He was good at shining for others, but perhaps these were little moments where he was trying to shine for himself. The pastor at his service told us Jay wasn't a perfect man. Well, who is? No one; and maybe some of us needed to stress that to Jay a little more. The passing of Jay Hayes has left me with a mixture of raw emotions: shock, anger, bewilderment, and most of all, a hurtful emptiness. I miss Jay, but if anything comes from all of this, I know without a doubt that Jay Hayes was a priceless blessing in my life and the lives of countless others. And, I also know he is resting in blessed peace. se were little moments where he was trying to shine for himself.The pastor at his service told us Jay wasn't a perfect man. Well, who is? No one; and maybe some of us needed to stress that to Jay a little more. The passing of Jay Hayes has left me with a mixture of raw emotions: shock, anger, bewilderment, and most of all, a hurtful emptiness. I miss Jay, but if anything comes from all of this, I know without a doubt that Jay Hayes was a priceless blessing in my life and the lives of countless others. And, I also know he is resting in blessed peace. September 4, 2002 Well, I got a Mohawk today.Yes – you correctly read the first sentence. A Mohawk. You know? Shaved head save for one strip right down the middle. It's widely assumed that most folks who get a Mohawk are either a) Native Americans, b) crazed punk rockers under the age of 21, c) unfortunate souls who lost some sort of bet, or d) individuals with some type of serious chemical imbalance.
So, why in the world would I get a Mohawk? Let's look at some recent events in my life. I recently purchased a
motorcycle. (OK – it's a scooter, but still …) I became good friends with a
snake. And although I haven't shared this with you, dear reader, I recently s
So, why in the world would I get a Mohawk? Let's look at some recent events in my life. I recently purchased a
motorcycle. (OK – it's a scooter, but still …) I became good friends with a
snake. And although I haven't shared this with you, dear reader, I recently started
jogging on a regular basis. This might not be too shocking to most of you, but believe me,
I am the world's laziest man, and for me to take up jogging again after a 6-year hiatus is
something truly remarkable. Many people have said that a 35-year-old husband and father of two
getting a Mohawk haircut for the heck of it is a truly remarkable thing to do. (Oh, did I
also mention that I am a deacon in our church? I'm scheduled to greet the congregation at
the door this Sunday. Do you think I might startle some folks with my new style?) Others have said that getting a Mohawk is a bona-fide signal that
I've finally gone off the deep end. For instance, when my father saw me, I saw a look of
utter disgust and desperation. I had not seen that look since high school. (By the way, he
has informed me that I am now officially out of the will.) My little boy's reaction was one of complete fright. "No … no … no, Daddy," he said as he buried his
head into my wife's lap. "Go get back your hair." My uncle, who was in town for a visit, had a simple bemused look
that said: "I knew the kid was nuts all along." My little boy's reaction was one of complete fright. "No … no … no, Daddy," he said as he buried his head into my wife's lap. "Go get back your hair." My uncle, who was in town for a visit, had a simple bemused look that said: "I knew the kid was nuts all along." And fellow worker Kelli Keathley seriously looked as if she was going to cry when she saw the do. Other folks were impressed. Stacy, the graphics guru at this paper, applauded the cut. She took it for what it was: a joke that was intended to shake some folks up. As she said, I definitely showed some cajones by getting the Mohawk. And my wife got the joke as well, surprisingly. I say surprisingly because her tastes are very, very conservative. Except when it comes to husbands. So, for those of you who want to be a little silly and spontaneous, give Kim Wagster a call at The Studio Salon. She's the person to blame for my new look. Actually, I goaded her into doing it, and she had a blast with that electric razor. The Mohawk only lasted an afternoon. I went back and told her to shave the rest. You only live once, and what the hey, it'll grow back. I hope. August 28, 2002 Actually, I goaded her into doing it, and she had a blast with that electric razor. The Mohawk only lasted an afternoon. I went back and told her to shave the rest. You only live once, and what the hey, it'll grow back. I hope. August 28, 2002 True story.First day of pre-school, our 4-year-old son, Hutton, sits down for a recess conversation with a fellow classmate. "So," Hutton asks the other boy, "What does your daddy do?" "Oh, my daddy's a doctor." "Oh," Hutton says with a nod, "A doctor. Cool." (It might be best to read this story knowing that these are 4-year-old kids talking, so they're still trying to develop their speech patterns. Thus, when Hutton says "doctor," it probably sounds like "doc-tour.") "So," Hutton asks, "What all does he do?" (It also might be good to know that when Hutton asks a question, he exaggerates his hand movements. Thus, when he poses a question, he probably turns his palm up with an inquisitive, eyebrows-raised look.) "Oh," said the boy, "He fixes people. You know, makes 'em feel better, puts big band aids on 'em, makes sure they don't die. You know, stuff like that." The boy then asks Hutton: "So, whtor," it probably sounds like "doc-tour.") "So," Hutton asks, "What all does he do?" (It also might be good to know that when Hutton asks a question, he exaggerates his hand movements. Thus, when he poses a question, he probably turns his palm up with an inquisitive, eyebrows-raised look.) "Oh," said the boy, "He fixes people. You know, makes 'em feel better, puts big band aids on 'em, makes sure they don't die. You know, stuff like that." The boy then asks Hutton: "So, what does your daddy do?" "Oh, he goes to the radio station every morning. Just sits around." * * * Ahhhh, it's wonderful to know I make such a strong impression on my son. So, I'd like to counter Hutton's statement that I "just sit around," and expose everyone to an average day in my life. 5 a.m.: Get up, do regular 3-mile run. Come home, shower, make breakfast for the family, then head to work. 6 a.m. to 10 a.m.: Do radio show with a co-host whose name escapes me right now. While microphone is off, I sign 100 8 x 10 glossy photos of me for Rob Grace Fan Club; belittle co-host's inability to correctly pronounce common words; consult President before his daily cabinet meeting; talk to my personal assistant, make sure caterer includes foot-long chili dogs for our party in the Hamptons this weekend, also tell assistant to make sure Martha Stewart is NOT on the guest list. 10 a.m.: Massage from personal masseuse. Take call from Al Pacino, wish him best for his new movie, Simone, decline his invitation to meet in N6 a.m. to 10 a.m.: Do radio show with a co-host whose name escapes me right now. While microphone is off, I sign 100 8 x 10 glossy photos of me for Rob Grace Fan Club; belittle co-host's inability to correctly pronounce common words; consult President before his daily cabinet meeting; talk to my personal assistant, make sure caterer includes foot-long chili dogs for our party in the Hamptons this weekend, also tell assistant to make sure Martha Stewart is NOT on the guest list. 10 a.m.: Massage from personal masseuse. Take call from Al Pacino, wish him best for his new movie, Simone, decline his invitation to meet in NYC for lunch at Bennigan's on 41st Street this weekend, bad experience with potato logs at Little Rock Bennigan's last year keeps me from accepting. 10:45 a.m.: Consult with stockbroker, tell him to buy lots of AOL/Time Warner stock – something tells me this AOL thing is going to be HUGE. 11:00 a.m.: Go to bathroom mirror. Look at how devastatingly handsome I am. 11:30 a.m.: Still at bathroom mirror, admiring myself. 12:00 p.m.: Stand in front of local Hastings with a bull horn and sign that reads: WHY DOES HASTINGS HATE SPRINGSTEEN? 12:03 p.m.: Am escorted from Hastings property by security. 12:25 p.m.: I phone Springsteen, tell him of incident. "Don't give up, brother," The Boss tells me, "We gotta break 'em." The Boss then asks me if they still are selling the Bryan Adams greatest hits CD at Hastings, and if so, would I buy one for him. Am crushed. Contemplate suicide. 12:45 p.m.: Lunch. Foot-long chili dog, onion rings, bucket of the Colonel's fried chicken; and six bottles of cherry cough syrup. Oh, I also have two slices of veggie pizza. (I have to be nE SPRINGSTEEN? 12:03 p.m.: Am escorted from Hastings property by security. 12:25 p.m.: I phone Springsteen, tell him of incident. "Don't give up, brother," The Boss tells me, "We gotta break 'em." The Boss then asks me if they still are selling the Bryan Adams greatest hits CD at Hastings, and if so, would I buy one for him. Am crushed. Contemplate suicide. 12:45 p.m.: Lunch. Foot-long chili dog, onion rings, bucket of the Colonel's fried chicken; and six bottles of cherry cough syrup. Oh, I also have two slices of veggie pizza. (I have to be nutritious, you know?) 1:45 p.m.: Stumble back into the office. Begin 15-minute argument with my shoes, convinced they're spying on me for Hastings. 2:00 p.m.: Take phone call from the President, he's been hearing stories about my "strange actin'," wants to make sure I'm OK. 3:00 p.m.: Time to write "All Over the Map" column. Can't decide if I should do another piece on The Rising, The Royal Tenenbaums, Magnolia or SpongeBob Squarepants. I really don't think I've even touched the surface of the importance of these masterworks! 5:00 p.m.: Head to Wal-Mart for two hours of duty as "greeter," explain to manager that the blue vest really isn't my style. 5:30 p.m.: Scuffle with woman on one of those scooter things at Wal-Mart entrance for not letting me have a turn driving it. 5:32 p.m.: Am escorted from Wal-Mart property by security. 6:00 p.m.: Dinner with my family. For some reason, my wife keeps suggesting I should take a month or two off and "take a rest" by myself. She keeps talking about a nice "facility" she kmasterworks! 5:00 p.m.: Head to Wal-Mart for two hours of duty as "greeter," explain to manager that the blue vest really isn't my style. 5:30 p.m.: Scuffle with woman on one of those scooter things at Wal-Mart entrance for not letting me have a turn driving it. 5:32 p.m.: Am escorted from Wal-Mart property by security. 6:00 p.m.: Dinner with my family. For some reason, my wife keeps suggesting I should take a month or two off and "take a rest" by myself. She keeps talking about a nice "facility" she knows of that is "really, really nice and would be really, really helpful." Hands me a brochure at one point for the facility. Looks halfway decent – lots of trees, green grass, men in long white coats. 7:30 p.m.: Time for bed. My wife tucks me and Teddy in, kisses me on the cheek. I ask her to read to me. Hand her my book of Springsteen lyrics. She sighs. "Again?""she asks, "Why don't we read something else tonight?" "OK," I say and hand her a book of all of my columns. "Read the one about the scooter. It makes me giggle." Rob can be contacted via e-mail at [email protected] August 21, 2002 Another potpourri of topics this week… And another apology is in order. The other week I ranted about folks who don't wave at me when I wave at them. And, I feel certain the day I wrote that particular piece, I must have missed a dose. Boo-hoo! The mean people won't wave at poor little Robby. After my Rob can be contacted via e-mail at [email protected] August 21, 2002 Another potpourri of topics this week… And another apology is in order. The other week I ranted about folks who don't wave at me when I wave at them. And, I feel certain the day I wrote that particular piece, I must have missed a dose. Boo-hoo! The mean people won't wave at poor little Robby. After my wife read the column, she calmly picked her jaw up off the floor and asked me what in the world was I thinking. If anyone had a bug up their hind end, it was me. Sorry. * * * Forget what I said in the last issue about finding the new Bruce Springsteen album at OnCue in the Eagle Mountain Shopping Center. I made a trip out to OnCue the other day, and just like my previous journey to Hastings, this national chain store didn't have a single copy of the #1 album in the country either. Another reader also pointed out to me that they too went to OnCue and couldn't find The Rising, as well. Of course, both Hastings and OnCue might have copies on hand by the time this issue is released, but I would bet both stores have more copies of the cheesy new Bryan Adams greatest hits collection than the new Springsteen. (Does anyone think I have it out for Bryan Adams? Well, I do. He's a pretty boy poser.) As I noted last week, this isn't an earth-shattering dilemma. But as a guy who thinks Springsteen is a completely unappreciated artist in this neck of the wo also pointed out to me that they too went to OnCue and couldn't find The Rising, as well. Of course, both Hastings and OnCue might have copies on hand by the time this issue is released, but I would bet both stores have more copies of the cheesy new Bryan Adams greatest hits collection than the new Springsteen. (Does anyone think I have it out for Bryan Adams? Well, I do. He's a pretty boy poser.) As I noted last week, this isn't an earth-shattering dilemma. But as a guy who thinks Springsteen is a completely unappreciated artist in this neck of the woods, it rubs me wrong to see stacks of other mediocre CDs readily available, yet the #1 CD in the country – and a major work from a legendary musician – is nowhere to be found. (UPDATE: The day after I wrote this column I called OnCue and Hastings to see if they had received any copies of The Rising to stock, and lo and behold, they did. And of course, the great folks at Blue Meanie Music had copies, as well. Glory hallelujah!) * * * All right, pay attention: I did a truly amazing thing the other day at the office. I hate, I loathe, I despise snakes. And everyone at the station knows this. Particularly fellow employees Lisa Smith and Kelli Keathley. As a vicious joke on yours truly, they asked David Jamieson from Arkansas State University and a snake enthusiast extraordinaire, if they could borrow a non-venomous, but healthy-looking snake to shove in my face one morning. So, I walk into work that fateful day and see Lisa waiting in the corridor with a long black snake wrapped around her wrist and a wicked smile on her face. ice.I hate, I loathe, I despise snakes. And everyone at the station knows this. Particularly fellow employees Lisa Smith and Kelli Keathley. As a vicious joke on yours truly, they asked David Jamieson from Arkansas State University and a snake enthusiast extraordinaire, if they could borrow a non-venomous, but healthy-looking snake to shove in my face one morning. So, I walk into work that fateful day and see Lisa waiting in the corridor with a long black snake wrapped around her wrist and a wicked smile on her face. After successfully holding back the sudden urge to wet my pants, I slowly and carefully moved closer. The reptile wiggled and slithered around Lisa's hand, and then Kelli took it from her and let it slide up her arm toward her neck.
So, going against all of my lifelong fears, I picked up the reptile. And Robby made a new friend. I loved this thing! It was gentle and tame, and it seemed comfortable just gliding up my arm, wrapping itself around my wrist and at one point, clinging tightly around my neck. Of course, I realize when the snake was wrapped tight around my neck, the thing was probably trying to kill the white-headed buffoon that wouldn't put him down, but I was still shocked and happy that I w the years – could play with a snake, surely I could. So, going against all of my lifelong fears, I picked up the reptile. And Robby made a new friend. I loved this thing! It was gentle and tame, and it seemed comfortable just gliding up my arm, wrapping itself around my wrist and at one point, clinging tightly around my neck. Of course, I realize when the snake was wrapped tight around my neck, the thing was probably trying to kill the white-headed buffoon that wouldn't put him down, but I was still shocked and happy that I was actually letting a snake – a snake – squeeze my neck. This was like Saddam Hussein and George W. going out for an ice cream sundae together, for crying out loud. Now, the majority of the folks at the office were not too happy I was walking around with a snake wrapped around me most of the day. In fact, one fellow employee, who shall remain nameless, could not successfully control the bladder like I did. (Yes, I know this column could have done without that disturbing truth, but not many folks have scared the tinkle out of anyone. It's a badge of honor for practical jokers. And, by the way, for a small monetary fee, I'll gladly print the name and photo of the unfortunate soul.) I was surprised that I took such a liking to a snake (a speckled king snake, to be precise), and I even was a bit disappointed when Mr. Jamieson came to pick up the reptile. But, I have to say, snakes still spook me. This past Sunday, walking on a dirt road behind our house, I came upon a baby rattler. And, even though I had let a snake crawl all over my neck and arms three days before, I still jumped out of my skin when I saw this little sucker in my path. I'm pleased to report, however, that my bladder was empty at that tary fee, I'll gladly print the name and photo of the unfortunate soul.) I was surprised that I took such a liking to a snake (a speckled king snake, to be precise), and I even was a bit disappointed when Mr. Jamieson came to pick up the reptile. But, I have to say, snakes still spook me. This past Sunday, walking on a dirt road behind our house, I came upon a baby rattler. And, even though I had let a snake crawl all over my neck and arms three days before, I still jumped out of my skin when I saw this little sucker in my path. I'm pleased to report, however, that my bladder was empty at that moment. Thank goodness. Top Five Things That Have Occupied My Feeble Mind This Week (in no particular order): 1) Signs. How often do you find a somewhat serious meditation on faith in God wrapped up in a semi-cheesy, yet well-made, sci-fi/horror film? This, apparently, is turning out to be one of those "love it or hate it" movies, and I have to say, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Some pretty funny scenes pop up in it, as well. 2) Quizno's. You know on The Simpsons, when Homer sort of gets a glazed look over his eyes and drool seeps out of the corner of his slack mouth? This usually happens when he's thinking about donuts or beer. For me, I get this look when I think about Quizno's. Quizno's is a fast-growing sub sandwich chain (the nearest one is in Searcy), and I have to say, their Sierra Smoked Turkey is one of the best meals I've had for a quick lunch in a while. Lightly toasted with lettuce, tomato, red onion, spices and a delicious Raspberry Chipotle sauce on Italian Ciabatta bread, this sandwich is perfect. Plus, it's only three grams of fat. Ahhh…Quizno's…excuse my drool. 3) SNL re-runs on E! I knowyes and drool seeps out of the corner of his slack mouth? This usually happens when he's thinking about donuts or beer. For me, I get this look when I think about Quizno's. Quizno's is a fast-growing sub sandwich chain (the nearest one is in Searcy), and I have to say, their Sierra Smoked Turkey is one of the best meals I've had for a quick lunch in a while. Lightly toasted with lettuce, tomato, red onion, spices and a delicious Raspberry Chipotle sauce on Italian Ciabatta bread, this sandwich is perfect. Plus, it's only three grams of fat. Ahhh…Quizno's…excuse my drool. 3) SNL re-runs on E! I know, I know – last week I was chastising the E! channel for junk like The Anna Nicole Show. But, I think I can forgive them since they do broadcast the early days of Saturday Night Live. Belushi, Murray, Steve Martin – all of these classic shows are a huge treat to watch. And seeing the controversial Elvis Costello appearance again made me realize that nothing on television today comes close to this groundbreaking show. Except SpongeBob, of course. 4) The Elvis 1968 Comeback Special. Another classic piece of television – particularly when The King, clad in nothing but black leather, sits around and jams with his longtime buddies. Most likely, it was the best performance the man ever gave. No one comes close to having such genuine presence and raw talent these days. Except Springsteen, of course. 5) The H2 Hummer. Remember what I was saying about Homer Simpson? I also get this way when I see these sweet, truly obscene machines. The ultimate macho SUV, Richard Simmons could even feel like a real man if he drove one of these suckers. Just wondering, but does anyone have $55,000 to $60,000 they could loan me to buy a silver H2? Anyone? Anyone? 5) The H2 Hummer. Remember what I was saying about Homer Simpson? I also get this way when I see these sweet, truly obscene machines. The ultimate macho SUV, Richard Simmons could even feel like a real man if he drove one of these suckers. Just wondering, but does anyone have $55,000 to $60,000 they could loan me to buy a silver H2? Anyone? Anyone? August 14, 2002 It's pretty safe to say that most people who know me know that I think Bruce Springsteen is simply monumental. Those albums and songs hit me harder than "Dancing in the Dark," "Born in the U.S.A." or dare I say it, "Thunden my view. Sure, they're superb albums, but when I think of Springsteen, it's the lesser-known work that rattles and hits me between the eyes: the entire Nebraska and The Ghost of Tom Joad discs, and the songs such as "American Skin (41 Shots)," "Land of Hope and Dreams" "Light of Day" and "Shut Out the Lights" that never made it on any official studio album. (The former three songs are available in live versions on various CDs.) Those albums and songs hit me harder than "Dancing in the Dark," "Born in the U.S.A." or dare I say it, "Thunder Road." I've always said Springsteen is one of our country's greatest storytellers, and when his rock/folk music merges with his stories in an almost spiritual combination, the results are, for me, thrilling. Take "Straight Time" or "Balboa Park" off of Joad; anything off of Nebraska; or sit back and crank up "Light of Day," and perhaps you could appreciate what I mean. The man is to me what Elvis was to my pop. And so, Springsteen and the E Street Band have reunited for their first studio album since 1984 – it's called The Rising. Many of you already know this: Springsteen has saturated the media with television appearances and interviews for the past two weeks. He's also been on the cover of recent issues of Time and Rolling Stone, and he opened a U.S. tour last week in East Rutherford, N.J. The blitz paid off big-time. The Rising entered the Billboard charts at #1, selling over 525,000 copies its first week of release – the biggest first-week seller of his career. It also hit #1 in 10 other countries. I wrote last week The Rising is a great albulled The Rising. Many of you already know this: Springsteen has saturated the media with television appearances and interviews for the past two weeks. He's also been on the cover of recent issues of Time and Rolling Stone, and he opened a U.S. tour last week in East Rutherford, N.J. The blitz paid off big-time. The Rising entered the Billboard charts at #1, selling over 525,000 copies its first week of release – the biggest first-week seller of his career. It also hit #1 in 10 other countries. I wrote last week The Rising is a great album, and of course, one would expect me to say that. It does have a couple of clunkers, but overall, it lays waste to the largest chunk of popular music out there today. Springsteen has noted many times in the new interviews that much of this music was influenced by 9/11, and listening to, for example, "Into the Fire," "Empty Sky," "Lonesome Day," "Nothing Man" or, at the moment, my favorite from the album, "You're Missing," you can't help but rekindle some of your own emotions from that horrible day. And that's not a bad thing. Some songs from this album could be called heartbreaking and troubling, but overall, The Rising is healing and truly inspirational. I can't say it enough: buy the damn album, and appreciate a musical and American treasure. * * * A warning: I went to Hastings in Batesville the other day, and there was not a copy of The Rising to be found. The helpful clerk noted that, according to their computer, two copies were in the store somewhere, but we couldn't find them. (And, yes, we looked in t thing. Some songs from this album could be called heartbreaking and troubling, but overall, The Rising is healing and truly inspirational. I can't say it enough: buy the damn album, and appreciate a musical and American treasure. * * * A warning: I went to Hastings in Batesville the other day, and there was not a copy of The Rising to be found. The helpful clerk noted that, according to their computer, two copies were in the store somewhere, but we couldn't find them. (And, yes, we looked in the "S" section.) Which begs the question: why in the world would a major CD store only have two copies of a #1-selling album from a major artist to begin with? Sure, they had a huge batch of copies of has-been Bryan Adams' latest CD and racks of thug-head Eminem's disc, but the new Springsteen was nowhere. When I was at the Fayetteville Hastings the other weekend, there were loads of copies of The Rising, prominently displayed. I like the new Hastings store. I'm pleased as pickles to have them in town, and I hope they're here for a long time to come, but man, not having a decent amount of the new Springsteen is ridiculous. Well, there's always OnCue, and of course, the very cool Blue Meannie. You know they'll have the disc if you're looking for it. (And, while I'm complaining about Hastings, they don't carry the Sunday edition of The New York Times, either. You can purchase the Sunday edition of The New York Times in Marshall, Arkansas, for crying out loud! Oh well, there are more important things to worry about, right?) Well, there's always OnCue, and of course, the very cool Blue Meannie. You know they'll have the disc if you're looking for it. (And, while I'm complaining about Hastings, they don't carry the Sunday edition of The New York Times, either. You can purchase the Sunday edition of The New York Times in Marshall, Arkansas, for crying out loud! Oh well, there are more important things to worry about, right?) * * * Please. Someone just shoot the E! channel and put it out of its misery. Or maybe I should say, our misery. I mean, the airhead perverts of The Howard Stern Show and the useless entertainment b.s. blabber of E! News Daily are bad enough, yet now there is, perhaps, the worst television show in the history of the world: the heavily hyped Anna Nicole Show. Yes, now Americans can follow the so-called life and times of Golithon freak Anna Nicole Smith as she waddles in a completely clueless daze, trying to figure out exactly where she is at that particular moment. Apparently, the programming geniuses at E! think that the comedy of the show comes from Ms. Smith's lack of useful brain cells. But, they're wrong. The problem with The Anna Nicole Show is the simple fact that Anna Nicole Smith is so stupid that it's not funny. She reminds me of a female Baby Huey. (And, trust me, when I was a kid, I hated – HATED -- Baby Huey.) Smith is nothing but a big peroxide-drenched infant -- bellyaching when she doesn't get thon freak Anna Nicole Smith as she waddles in a completely clueless daze, trying to figure out exactly where she is at that particular moment. Apparently, the programming geniuses at E! think that the comedy of the show comes from Ms. Smith's lack of useful brain cells. But, they're wrong. The problem with The Anna Nicole Show is the simple fact that Anna Nicole Smith is so stupid that it's not funny. She reminds me of a female Baby Huey. (And, trust me, when I was a kid, I hated – HATED -- Baby Huey.) Smith is nothing but a big peroxide-drenched infant -- bellyaching when she doesn't get her way and completely ungrateful to those around her. Her udder – excuse me – utter lack of intelligence and simple humanity is only pitiful, and ultimately, loathsome. I kid you not: I lasted 10 minutes with this dim-witted, inane show. I can appreciate the silliness and fun of another similar program, The Osbournes, simply because everyone on that show has some sense of intelligence and wit. (I know, with Ozzy, some might argue with the intelligence part, but you know what I mean.) The Anna Nicole Show is just a big stinking pile of, well, crap. How's that for articulate criticism. Do yourself a favor – do something more productive with your life than waste time with The Anna Nicole Show. Play with the kids. Read a book. Listen to The Rising. Clip your nails. Or, simply pray for humanity. If we call this crud entertainment, then the future ain't looking too bright. * * * The Max 93One FM recently opened a can of worms. , crap.How's that for articulate criticism. Do yourself a favor – do something more productive with your life than waste time with The Anna Nicole Show. Play with the kids. Read a book. Listen to The Rising. Clip your nails. Or, simply pray for humanity. If we call this crud entertainment, then the future ain't looking too bright. * * * The Max 93One FM recently opened a can of worms. Last Tuesday, after the Arkansas Beverage Control raid on the B.U.B.B.A (Butt-Ugly Bikers of Batesville, Arkansas) Hut, we asked this question on the air: Should Independence County be wet or dry? Wet, of course, meaning that it would be legal to sell liquor in the county. The phone response was unbelievable. For over three hours, the lines were clogged with callers eager to voice their opinion. To say that The Max hit a nerve is an understatement. The majority of the callers indicated Independence County should be allowed to sell liquor. Now, of course, one might say listeners of a rock station would be overwhelmingly in support of Independence being a wet county. Rock and rollers are a bunch of stoner party folks, right? Wrong. Any person with a particle of intelligence can tell you that rock and roll appeals to just as many folks who appreciate a music format such as country. And, I know from our e-mails, letters and phone calls to KZLE that all ages and all types of folks listen to The Max: physicians, farmers, factory workers, lawyers, high sch The majority of the callers indicated Independence County should be allowed to sell liquor. Now, of course, one might say listeners of a rock station would be overwhelmingly in support of Independence being a wet county. Rock and rollers are a bunch of stoner party folks, right? Wrong. Any person with a particle of intelligence can tell you that rock and roll appeals to just as many folks who appreciate a music format such as country. And, I know from our e-mails, letters and phone calls to KZLE that all ages and all types of folks listen to The Max: physicians, farmers, factory workers, lawyers, high school students, bank presidents, grandparents – on and on. And, the majority of those phone calls last Tuesday – both supporting a wet county and against – were articulate and intelligent. Callers favoring a wet status for the county noted that not having the opportunity to have a beer or wine, for example, at dinner was simply antiquated in this day and age. The callers who wanted to keep the county dry noted that selling liquor would only increase crime and other incidents such as drunken driving. Another interesting point that surfaced during the calls was the fact that Independence County should be more concerned with the horrible crystal meth problem than the prospect of having a wet county. Your thoughts on this controversial subject are welcome. Feel free to send in your letters and e-mails, and we'll print as many as we can, as long as they adhere to our "Letters to the Editor" policy. * * * I screwed up in the issue from two weeks ago. When I was writing about my physical condition, I noted that "The ng point that surfaced during the calls was the fact that Independence County should be more concerned with the horrible crystal meth problem than the prospect of having a wet county. Your thoughts on this controversial subject are welcome. Feel free to send in your letters and e-mails, and we'll print as many as we can, as long as they adhere to our "Letters to the Editor" policy. * * * I screwed up in the issue from two weeks ago. When I was writing about my physical condition, I noted that "The enemy of my physical decline is me." That doesn't make sense. What I meant to say was "The reason for my physical decline is me." Which still isn't a decent sentence, but what the hey. August 7, 2002 I think I need to print an apology to my wife's side of the family. The other week I wrote a piece about hog killings, and the fact that my father-in-law and my wife's brother-in-law had each been to some really grotesque swine slaughters. The implication I made was that some of my wife's kin had some questionable bloodlines if they had, in fact, attended some of these backwood hog killings. I mean, how would they find themselves at such horrific events? Well, I'd like to clarify that my implication was only meant to be humorous, and it was all done in good fun. So, I would like to state very clearly that everyone in my wife's family is special, much loved and a treasure to me. &nlaw and my wife's brother-in-law had each been to some really grotesque swine slaughters. The implication I made was that some of my wife's kin had some questionable bloodlines if they had, in fact, attended some of these backwood hog killings. I mean, how would they find themselves at such horrific events? Well, I'd like to clarify that my implication was only meant to be humorous, and it was all done in good fun. So, I would like to state very clearly that everyone in my wife's family is special, much loved and a treasure to me. I love you all very much. Well, wait. Let me clarify something else. There are my wife's two sisters. Jeepers — those two can really put a strain on a man's patience. I mean – you remember the two sisters of Cinderella? Well, put my wife in Cinderella's place, and you can figure where the other two will land. For instance, when my wife's older sisters were both released from prison last year — wait a minute…perhaps I should stop. I do attend a lot of family functions with those two. Wouldn't want a drop of rat poison in my chicken and dressing, you know? So, clarification #3: I love my in-laws. Please don't hurt me. I'm glad to be part of the family. See you Thanksgiving. And, um, don't mind the bullet-proof vest I'll be modeling. It's actually to help support my bad back. * * * Here's something extremely trivial that bugs me. If I'm driving down the road in Batesvilmily functions with those two. Wouldn't want a drop of rat poison in my chicken and dressing, you know? So, clarification #3: I love my in-laws. Please don't hurt me. I'm glad to be part of the family. See you Thanksgiving. And, um, don't mind the bullet-proof vest I'll be modeling. It's actually to help support my bad back. * * * Here's something extremely trivial that bugs me. If I'm driving down the road in Batesville, many times, I'll wave to the person passing me on the opposite side. Doesn't matter if I know the driver of the passing car or not, I usually wave, mainly out of habit. In our neighborhood, as well, I'll raise a finger or two to my other neighbors in their cars or trucks, including those who might be outside, working in their yards. I'm not trying to be Mr. Friendly. It's just a habit I have. What pees me off, though, is this: It seems that, recently, a lot of the folks I've been waving to don't wave back. It seems that nine out of 10 times, some people will look you steady in the eye as you pass and can't even muster up the energy or courtesy to return a simple wave or nod. And, in most cases, it's the folks that you don't know. Now, I realize this isn't an earth-shattering problem. In fact, to some it might sound quite idiotic or immature that I bring this up. But, you know what? It simply seems rude. And, it bugs me to think that there a lot of rude folks in Batesville. I understand some fo I've been waving to don't wave back. It seems that nine out of 10 times, some people will look you steady in the eye as you pass and can't even muster up the energy or courtesy to return a simple wave or nod. And, in most cases, it's the folks that you don't know. Now, I realize this isn't an earth-shattering problem. In fact, to some it might sound quite idiotic or immature that I bring this up. But, you know what? It simply seems rude. And, it bugs me to think that there a lot of rude folks in Batesville. I understand some folks might simply be shy, or taken aback by a stranger acknowledging their presence, but after a couple of times, when people look you in the eye as you pass and ignore a simple gesture of friendliness, one can't help but think that a lot of folks on the street out there have a bug up their hind end. * * * Here's something new I want to start. I'm going to try every week, or every other week, to list the Top Five Things that have, lately, occupied my mind. These would be trivial things that mainly have to deal with pop culture, news or events that have somewhat caught my attention each, or every other, week. (And, when I mean "affected," I don't mean "affected" in any earth-shattering sense. I simply mean that these five items have dominated my recent world to an extent that I thought it would be fun to share them with you. Is that clear as dirt? Good. Let's move on.) Top Five Events to Share This Week. 1) The Rising. Bruce Springsteen's new compact disc. It lives up to the hype. A major work by one of America's poets. Buy it, listen tmewhat caught my attention each, or every other, week. (And, when I mean "affected," I don't mean "affected" in any earth-shattering sense. I simply mean that these five items have dominated my recent world to an extent that I thought it would be fun to share them with you. Is that clear as dirt? Good. Let's move on.) Top Five Events to Share This Week. 1) The Rising. Bruce Springsteen's new compact disc. It lives up to the hype. A major work by one of America's poets. Buy it, listen to it about three times, and thank me later. 2) By The Way from Red Hot Chili Peppers. The best album yet from the California punkfunk pioneers. The first seven songs are priceless, as well as the best work the band has ever produced. 3) Bello the clown from Ringling Bros. and Barnum Bailey Circus. My wife and I took the kids and a young cousin to the Ringling Bros. Circus in Dallas last week, and the only time this Vegas-style sorry event came to life was when the high-haired clown, named Bello, took the spotlight. If you have not heard about this wonderful clown with the towering hair, then simply know that Time magazine named him the "Smartest Clown" in a recent issue, and the honor was justified. His daredevil and hilarious antics during the show will thrill and fill you with chuckles. 4) Austin Powers in Goldmember. Easily the weakest of the trilogy, Goldmember delivers a chunk of jokes that fall flat and a chunk of jokes that are still worth the price of admission. Dr. Evil still reigns supreme. 5) Cox Communications. Just sort of randomly choosing some s this wonderful clown with the towering hair, then simply know that Time magazine named him the "Smartest Clown" in a recent issue, and the honor was justified. His daredevil and hilarious antics during the show will thrill and fill you with chuckles. 4) Austin Powers in Goldmember. Easily the weakest of the trilogy, Goldmember delivers a chunk of jokes that fall flat and a chunk of jokes that are still worth the price of admission. Dr. Evil still reigns supreme. 5) Cox Communications. Just sort of randomly choosing some stocks a few weeks ago, I bought a few shares of our local cable operators parent company's stock. This past week, according the Wall Street Journal, Bill Gates bought a big batch of the same stock as well. Do great minds think alike, or what? July 31, 2002 There is a point in every man's life where youth becomes a memory. In the teen years, mortality is a foreign word. Aging is a thing one longs for, a thing one believes will never occur. Twenty-one could not come soon enough. In the twenties, there's a sense of thankfulness that the thirties and forties are still a few years away. Poking fun at a relative or friend approaching 40 or 50 is still considered a joyous, gleeful pastime, and with the exception of seriously beginning a career or family, responsibility is still a rarely used word. Then, when a man passes age 30, the realization of just how short life is begins to knick away at that concrete feeling of immortality that went unappreciated all the years before. For not come soon enough. In the twenties, there's a sense of thankfulness that the thirties and forties are still a few years away. Poking fun at a relative or friend approaching 40 or 50 is still considered a joyous, gleeful pastime, and with the exception of seriously beginning a career or family, responsibility is still a rarely used word. Then, when a man passes age 30, the realization of just how short life is begins to knick away at that concrete feeling of immortality that went unappreciated all the years before. For me, the realization was subtle. I'd find a movie on television, and while watching it, I would think: wow, this came out in 1992…oh, wow…that was 10 years ago when I was…25…wait…that can't be…that was not that long ago…and if that did not seem that long ago…then…10 years from NOW will not seem that long…and in 10 years, I'll be…45…and then, in another 10 years, I'll be 55! So, if you realize that in ten short years that you'll be 45, then you will start to notice other things, like crow's feet, white hair, saggy breasts (I'm talking about men, not women), pains in your shoulder or chest, and a sudden and newfound appreciation of Frank Sinatra. And, of course, all of this is happening to me at a rapid rate. (Well, I'd like to think my chest is not sagging too much — I try to do at least 20 push ups a day…or, well, maybe…20 push ups a week to help with that part of the body.) Then, there's the matter of my weight. Or, my seemingly non-stop accumulation of weight. Now, I can safely say I've been wearing pants women), pains in your shoulder or chest, and a sudden and newfound appreciation of Frank Sinatra. And, of course, all of this is happening to me at a rapid rate. (Well, I'd like to think my chest is not sagging too much — I try to do at least 20 push ups a day…or, well, maybe…20 push ups a week to help with that part of the body.) Then, there's the matter of my weight. Or, my seemingly non-stop accumulation of weight. Now, I can safely say I've been wearing pants with a 34-inch waistline for about the past five years, and that's something of which a guy my age and size can be proud. But, my problem is the fact that the 20 to 30 pounds I've gained since college have all settled in the section of my belly that fits over the waistline. A few pounds have also slipped into my cheeks and chin. I used to vainly treasure my thin face and prominent cheekbones, yet now, my weight has only inflated my head to resemble the circumference of a large round melon. All of this has done nothing but squash what little ego I possessed like a swollen tick. And, you know things are really bad when you are consistently mistaken for your father. I can not remember how many times this has happened, but I don't exaggerate when I say it's been regularly occurring about once or twice a month for the past year. My father is 30 years older than me. Thirty…years…older. Of course, my father regularly exercises, and I do not. I stopped cold when our first child was born. Before the birth of our daughter, I was joggke a swollen tick. And, you know things are really bad when you are consistently mistaken for your father. I can not remember how many times this has happened, but I don't exaggerate when I say it's been regularly occurring about once or twice a month for the past year. My father is 30 years older than me. Thirty…years…older. Of course, my father regularly exercises, and I do not. I stopped cold when our first child was born. Before the birth of our daughter, I was jogging two to three miles about every afternoon. I quickly relieved myself of that habit when the combination of work and chasing kids drove me to the couch at the end of every night. Let's add to the lethargy the fact that I love food — mainly fatty foods that do nothing but clog and line my arteries with gunk. And so, what am I at the age of 35? A chubby, lazy white-headed chump often mistaken for a senior citizen. So, if I currently look 30 years older than my actual age, will this mean that I'll look 95 when I hit 65? Turning all of this over in my head has left me with the feeling that time really isn't the enemy I should be cursing. The main enemy of my physical decline is me. * * * There are countless stories of men who do nutty things when they hit middle age. I don't count myself as middle aged because if I did, my check-out time would be around 70. So, a good middle age target, for me, is 45 or 50. Regardless, about a month ago, I did som Turning all of this over in my head has left me with the
feeling that time really isn't the enemy I should be cursing. The main enemy of my physical decline is me. * * * There are countless stories of men who do
nutty things when they hit middle age. I don't count myself as middle aged because if I
did, my check-out time would be around 70. So, a good middle age target, for me, is 45 or
50. Regardless, about a month ago, I did something that
reeks of middle age crazy. I bought a motorcycle. Well, actually, that's not exactly true. I bought the
motorcycle at the suggestion of my wife. And, that's not exactly true either. It's not really a
motorcycle – although it is a cycle, and it has a motor. But, it's more commonly referred to as a…motor
scooter. Yes, I know, most middle age men buy souped-up Harleys
with bazooka mufflers when they hit middle age. But I have a gentle spirit, and the 40 m.p.h. offered by
my motor scooter gives me all the taste of the wild life I need. Besides, if I ever straddled a Harley, I would probably
drive out of control off the White River bridge in a textbook example of why
silver-haired, pot-bellied geeks should never buy a motorcycle. So, I buy a motor scooter. A blue and white
retro-looking Honda Metropolitan. And, it's a lot of fun. Yes, perhaps you've seen me on the streets of
Batesville. age. But I have a gentle spirit, and the 40 m.p.h. offered by
my motor scooter gives me all the taste of the wild life I need. Besides, if I ever straddled a Harley, I would probably
drive out of control off the White River bridge in a textbook example of why
silver-haired, pot-bellied geeks should never buy a motorcycle. So, I buy a motor scooter. A blue and white
retro-looking Honda Metropolitan. And, it's a lot of fun. Yes, perhaps you've seen me on the streets of
Batesville. Sometimes when I cruise the road on this finely-tuned mother of all motor
scooters, I'll have my do-rag tight around my head, my reflective sunglasses covering my
steely glare, and my black leather chaps fastened snugly around my taut 501s. Well, again, that's not exactly true. I really look like a camel on the thing with my long,
spindly legs perched underneath the handlebars while I stoop over the gauges, my second
chin flapping in the wind. But, let me say something brothers and sisters, when that
needle hits 40 m.p.h., the only thing on my mind is the total domination I have of the
road. I am so in awe of the sheer force and power of this
machine that I'm thinking of joining the B.U.B.B.A.s – the Butt-Ugly Bikers of
Batesville, Arkansas. Oh, sure – these grizzled veterans of the road
might laugh when I pull in front of the B.U.B.B.A. Hut, their hangout toward Cushman. But, if Pork-Chop, T-Bone, or any of the other bikers
that make up this club, ever straddled my Metropolitan and felt the dangerous purr of its
engine, I would have a newfound respect that would instantly place me I have of the
road. I am so in awe of the sheer force and power of this
machine that I'm thinking of joining the B.U.B.B.A.s – the Butt-Ugly Bikers of
Batesville, Arkansas. Oh, sure – these grizzled veterans of the road
might laugh when I pull in front of the B.U.B.B.A. Hut, their hangout toward Cushman. But, if Pork-Chop, T-Bone, or any of the other bikers
that make up this club, ever straddled my Metropolitan and felt the dangerous purr of its
engine, I would have a newfound respect that would instantly place me alongside these
brothers of the road. Middle age crazy? I think not. How about middle age cool? July 24, 2002 A few weeks ago I brought up the lovely subject of hog killings in my column. You might remember the occasion: co-worker Ben Johnson was listing different requirements of being a true Southerner. Attending a genuine hog killing and pulling the clumps of hair off the hide after a hog boil were two such requirements. I have not, unfortunately, had the pleasure of attending a hog killing and pulling the clumps of hair off the carcass, so I fall short of Mr. Johnson's definition of a true Southerner. However, the other afternoon over a family lunch, my wife's brother-in-law, Brother Stan, told me about the hog killings he's had the pleasure to attend, deep in the Southern woods around his hometown of Hope, Arkansas. I have not, unfortunately, had the pleasure of attending a hog killing and pulling the clumps of hair off the carcass, so I fall short of Mr. Johnson's definition of a true Southerner. However, the other afternoon over a family lunch, my wife's brother-in-law, Brother Stan, told me about the hog killings he's had the pleasure to attend, deep in the Southern woods around his hometown of Hope, Arkansas. And, I was so happy to hear more vivid details of a hog killing. For instance, Brother Stan (he's a Baptist preacher –I sometimes feel obliged to call him Brother) said that the moment the knife slides across the swine, and the blood spurts out, some folks at the killing stick their cups underneath the flow and drink the warm gunk. Wow. Isn't that lovely? I laughed when Brother Stan told me this, thinking he was simply making a sick joke. But, when my father-in-law vouched for it, I realized the preacher was telling the truth. He's a Baptist after all. Why would he lie? He also noted that one should never kill a hog during a full moon. Killing a hog during a full moon, apparently, ruins the meat. In fact, Brother Stan's wife, Sister Charlotte, said she picked up some bacon the other afternoon at the grocery store, and the taste was horrible. "Slaughtered during a full moon," Brother Stan said. Sister Charlotte, my wife's sister, nodded. Sister Charlotte, of he preacher was telling the truth. He's a Baptist after all. Why would he lie? He also noted that one should never kill a hog during a full moon. Killing a hog during a full moon, apparently, ruins the meat. In fact, Brother Stan's wife, Sister Charlotte, said she picked up some bacon the other afternoon at the grocery store, and the taste was horrible. "Slaughtered during a full moon," Brother Stan said. Sister Charlotte, my wife's sister, nodded. Sister Charlotte, of course, is a Baptist as well. Why would she lie? All of this sounded somewhat twisted in a Southern Gothic sort of way, so I phoned Arkansas Weekly's resident outdoorsman, The Roving Fisherman himself, Duffie Bryant. "Have you ever heard that slaughtering a hog during a full moon ruins the meat?" I asked. "No," Duffie chuckled, "I've never heard of that." "Well, have you ever been to a hog killing where folks drink the blood after the throat's been cut?" "I've heard of that," he noted, chuckling again as if he's thinking, "Who in the world attends a hog killing where they drink the blood these days?" "I've never been to one of those," he said. "We always used to shoot 'em between the eyes with a .22." Killing the hogs with a .22 seems the most humane way to do the job. In fact, I did a little digging on the Internet, and most hog killings are kicked off with a bullet between the eyes of the swine, not a khe throat's been cut?" "I've heard of that," he noted, chuckling again as if he's thinking, "Who in the world attends a hog killing where they drink the blood these days?" "I've never been to one of those," he said. "We always used to shoot 'em between the eyes with a .22." Killing the hogs with a .22 seems the most humane way to do the job. In fact, I did a little digging on the Internet, and most hog killings are kicked off with a bullet between the eyes of the swine, not a knife across the throat. And, I couldn't find anything about the effects of killing a hog during a full moon. So, what does all of this say about my wife's side of the family? Well, let's see — this tells me that Brother Stan comes from an ancient, creepy backwoods world if he goes to hog killings where a bunch of folks drink the blood of the hog. My father in law, too. This is some place where the makers of Deliverance went to recruit extras or do some research. Some place where plumbing is a state of the art invention. Some place where toothbrushes don't exist. Some place where fried squirrel is fine cuisine. This also tells me that I never want to go on a float trip with these two in-laws. And if I did, I would definitely be in the Jon Voight role, not the Ned Beatty role. * * * Thanks to all of the folks who responded to my Tony Bennett trivia question last week. Unfortome place where plumbing is a state of the art invention. Some place where toothbrushes don't exist. Some place where fried squirrel is fine cuisine. This also tells me that I never want to go on a float trip with these two in-laws. And if I did, I would definitely be in the Jon Voight role, not the Ned Beatty role. * * * Thanks to all of the folks who responded to my Tony Bennett trivia question last week. Unfortunately, the only reader who knew the answer was 'Easy' Ed Ellison, a part-time radio guru who works with us here at W.R.D. Entertainment. So, he wasn't eligible. So, here's the answer – believe it or not. Tony Bennett first publicly sang his signature song, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco" at…the Vapors nightclub in Hot Springs, Arkansas. And, the story goes, the bartender told Bennett, "I'd buy that record." July 17, 2002
Boomtown has a small cult of admirers. On its page at amazon.com, longtime fans of the album praise it as if it was the breakthrough album it deserved to be. But when Baerwald and the other David, David Ricketts, went to the studio to record the follow-up, the relationship imploded and David + David dissolved. Baerwald went on to record two follow-up albums, Bedtime Stories (1990), and the stunning paranoid American epic, Triage (1992). Both CDs were ignored by the public, and eventually (and shamefully) fell out of print. Baerwald did help mastermind Sheryl Crow's debut CD, Tuesday Night Music Club, but for the rest of the decade, he remained somewhat of an artistic hermit, popping up now and then with original compositions on the soundtracks of a few of Sean Penn's films (they've apparently been longtime pals). In 1998, devastated about the death of a friend's child, Baerwald felt the urge to return to the studio where he recorded the two-CD set, A Fine Mess. But, without a label, Baerwald only produced a few hundred copies of the album and sold them to diehard fans. Hard to find, A Fine MessTuesday Night Music Club, but for the rest of the decade, he remained somewhat of an artistic hermit, popping up now and then with original compositions on the soundtracks of a few of Sean Penn's films (they've apparently been longtime pals). In 1998, devastated about the death of a friend's child, Baerwald felt the urge to return to the studio where he recorded the two-CD set, A Fine Mess. But, without a label, Baerwald only produced a few hundred copies of the album and sold them to diehard fans. Hard to find, A Fine Mess has gone for around $200 on e-bay. For rabid Baerwald fans like myself, who had no idea about the limited availability of A Fine Mess and have spent years spinning worn out copies of Boomtown, Bedtime Stories and Triage for a fix of this underrated artist, good news arrived in record stores yesterday. Here Comes the New Folk Underground, Baerwald's first album on a major label in ten years, is another first-rate storybook that will be spinning on my CD player for weeks to come. Baerwald's gift, besides the top-notch musicianship, is that of a being a good musical storyteller — a wordsmith who, like my heroes Bruce Springsteen, Steve Earle and new kid Ryan Adams, can also craft descriptive characters stories out of a well-constructed song that, musically, tugs and sucks you inside their world. On Bedtime Stories, songs such as "Hello Mary," which allows us to listen in to a phone conversation between a seemingly remorseful man and his ex-lover, and "Young Anymore," a heartbreaking elegy from a sad father about the dissolution of his family, Baerwald creates such vivid moments, yet keeps the music alive and vis that of a being a good musical storyteller — a wordsmith who, like my heroes Bruce Springsteen, Steve Earle and new kid Ryan Adams, can also craft descriptive characters stories out of a well-constructed song that, musically, tugs and sucks you inside their world. On Bedtime Stories, songs such as "Hello Mary," which allows us to listen in to a phone conversation between a seemingly remorseful man and his ex-lover, and "Young Anymore," a heartbreaking elegy from a sad father about the dissolution of his family, Baerwald creates such vivid moments, yet keeps the music alive and vibrant. Re-listening to Bedtime Stories this week did highlight some cuts that haven't aged too well, but the majority of the album stands tall over most mediocre stuff the record companies crank out these days. Triage, a much darker ode about the fall of America, is full of angry, resentful songs that Baerwald practically spits out. I remember that it was released during a tough spot in my life, and the pent-up madness the album delivered hit me bulls-eye. Traveling through the sludge of political and corporate immorality and the likelihood of a bleak hopeless future, Triage actually ends on a somewhat bright note, but before that, Baerwald introduces you to characters and images that are seared into your head, unlikely to fade anytime soon. Underground, however, is a refreshing blast of Baerwald compositions that find him in a much more hopeful spirit than the murky days of Triage. The first single, "Compassion," is an enthusiastic burst of positive expectations punctuated by a batch of "sha-la-las" in the chorus. "Nothing's Gonna Bring Me Down," a soulful, horn-infused piece, also continues Baerwald's seemingly-newfound attitude toward hope. Other standouts inclu somewhat bright note, but before that, Baerwald introduces you to characters and images that are seared into your head, unlikely to fade anytime soon. Underground, however, is a refreshing blast of Baerwald compositions that find him in a much more hopeful spirit than the murky days of Triage. The first single, "Compassion," is an enthusiastic burst of positive expectations punctuated by a batch of "sha-la-las" in the chorus. "Nothing's Gonna Bring Me Down," a soulful, horn-infused piece, also continues Baerwald's seemingly-newfound attitude toward hope. Other standouts include "Love #29," a funky r and b song that would be at home on any Al Green album, and my favorite cut at the moment, "The Crash," one of the few tunes that barely touches the darkness prevalent in some of Baerwald's past songs. Pick up Here Comes the New Folk Underground. It's quality adult rock that will surprise a lot of folks, as well as introduce this fine talent to a whole new audience. Highly recommended. * * * Legacy Recordings, an outlet of Sony Records, has been pumping out superb reissues and rare albums for a while now, and this summer, they seem to be on a roll. In addition to the fine Uncle Tupelo anthology that I wrote about a few issues back, they've also gone to the vaults and issued some interesting collections that will hit the stores this month. In addition to the fine Uncle Tupelo anthology that I wrote about a few issues back, they've also gone to the vaults and issued some interesting collections that will hit the stores this month. Finally, if you're longing for the days of `70s classic rock, Legacy has unleashed some compilations that would be perfect for bell bottom reminiscing. No Stranger to the Dark: The Best of Gregg Allman, The Ultimate Kansas (a double-CD set) and The Best of Edgar Winter have all been recently released and are ready to take you back to the days of pop-a-top beer cans ajust about every Bennett classic, all the way up to his wonderful MTV Unplugged set. Each song has been remastered and sounds better than ever, so if you appreciate the art of Mr. Bennett, you might want to put this set on your list. Finally, if you're longing for the days of `70s classic rock, Legacy has unleashed some compilations that would be perfect for bell bottom reminiscing. No Stranger to the Dark: The Best of Gregg Allman, The Ultimate Kansas (a double-CD set) and The Best of Edgar Winter have all been recently released and are ready to take you back to the days of pop-a-top beer cans and El Caminos. And, of course, the Edgar Winter collection can get you ready for his August 3 performance at the White River Water Carnival. Legacy does a wonderful job of restoring these past treasures, and they have a fun slate to which you can look forward. Remasters of Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis discs are being readied for release, as well as an unrelased Johnny Cash concert and some new editions of his past albums. * * * Finally, some Tony Bennett trivia. Can you name the first city in which Tony Bennett performed his signature song, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco?" If you're the first one to e-mail me with the correct answer, I'll pass along a copy of The Essential Tony Bennett from Legacy Recordings to you. My e-mail address is [email protected]. Good luck. I'll give the answer and the winner's name in next week's issue. Can you name the first city in which Tony Bennett performed his signature song, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco?" If you're the first one to e-mail me with the correct answer, I'll pass along a copy of The Essential Tony Bennett from Legacy Recordings to you. My e-mail address is [email protected]. Good luck. I'll give the answer and the winner's name in next week's issue. July 3, 2002 I've had a few interesting reactions to my "Southerner" column two weeks back. Most of them agree with my thought that not knowing the definition of boiled peanuts does not classify you as a non-Southerner. In fact, many folks had no idea what boiled peanuts were, but they were still Southern to the core. One reader told me that if boiled peanuts were supposedly so popular in the South, why aren't they as readily available as Moon Pies. Another reader who had eaten boiled peanuts in the past told me they're horrible. Apparently, after the peanuts are boiled, the texture and taste change, but only slightly – not enough, in fact, to proclaim them the delicacy and pride of the Southern palate. So, to my friend at Durbin Farms in Clanton, Alabama, we Arkies respectfully disagree with your definition of a Southerner. Keep your boiled peanuts; we'll survive on fried catfish and Moon Pies. * * * Ben Johnson, my co-worker here at W.R.D. Entertainment, did disagree with my definitions of a true Southerner. He claims I'm nowhere near as Southern as I ts are boiled, the texture and taste change, but only slightly – not enough, in fact, to proclaim them the delicacy and pride of the Southern palate. So, to my friend at Durbin Farms in Clanton, Alabama, we Arkies respectfully disagree with your definition of a Southerner. Keep your boiled peanuts; we'll survive on fried catfish and Moon Pies. * * * Ben Johnson, my co-worker here at W.R.D. Entertainment, did disagree with my definitions of a true Southerner. He claims I'm nowhere near as Southern as I think. If I were a true Southerner, I would have, at some point in my life: Eaten a fried slab of salt meat and sopped up the gravy with a cat head biscuit (not a ROLL!). Had my dad say to me, "Son, hand me my teeth." Sold the hides of coons, possum or squirrels to pay the electric bill. Been to the drive-in in an old pickup truck with a mattress in the back and felt like I was living high on the hog if I went with a girl. Had frog races with my neighbors. Caught a Junebug and tied a string around his leg, let him go, then held on to the string while he flew around and around in a circle. Been to a hog killin' and pulled hog hair after boiling their dead bodies to clean 'em before cuttin' 'em up. Swatted 'skeeters on a hot summer's night during a fire and brimstone sermon, asking the Lord for rain…all the time knowin' that Hell is 100 times hotter, and then quit bothering God because I was sweatin' a little. Caught a Junebug and tied a string around his leg, let him go, then held on to the string while he flew around and around in a circle. Been to a hog killin' and pulled hog hair after boiling their dead bodies to clean 'em before cuttin' 'em up. Swatted 'skeeters on a hot summer's night during a fire and brimstone sermon, asking the Lord for rain…all the time knowin' that Hell is 100 times hotter, and then quit bothering God because I was sweatin' a little. Fallen down and cried cause I felt every word that Hank was singing on that record player. Made a promise that I follow John Wayne straight into Hell. Well, I must say I haven't done any of these, particularly pulling hog hair from the hide of a dead pig. Yeech. So, if that prevents me from being a true Southerner, then so be it. Ben Johnson swears he's done all of the above, so pat him on the back next time you see him. But, falling down and crying over a Hank Williams, Sr. song, well – that's a bit dramatic, don't you think? Besides, I've always questioned Ben's allegiance to Hank, Sr. I mean, it's odd – Ben has posters of R and B star Prince all over his office, but yet, he also listens to Hank, Sr.? I've heard of folks who have a variety of musical tastes, but that seems a little extreme. Here's what I think: Ben is the announcer on Arkansas 103, right? Well, he has to put across the image that he's a down home Southerner since he's on a country station, so that's why he talks with the twang, pretends he's sold possum hides to pay the electricity bill and gets all misty-eyed over a Hank, Sr. tune. Besides, I've always questioned Ben's allegiance to Hank, Sr. I mean, it's odd – Ben has posters of R and B star Prince all over his office, but yet, he also listens to Hank, Sr.? I've heard of folks who have a variety of musical tastes, but that seems a little extreme. Here's what I think: Ben is the announcer on Arkansas 103, right? Well, he has to put across the image that he's a down home Southerner since he's on a country station, so that's why he talks with the twang, pretends he's sold possum hides to pay the electricity bill and gets all misty-eyed over a Hank, Sr. tune. But, in reality, Ben is the local president of the Prince fan club. Isn't that a bit odd? I mean, the man just gets all pretentious when he starts talking about the "contribution Prince has made to music." One morning, Ben bored me to tears when he discussed the cultural significance of the Prince tune, "We Can Funk," and how the world would be a better place if all international political leaders were required to listen to "Purple Rain" every morning. I don't know. I think when you put together his obsession with Prince and the fact that he once wanted to be Broadway choreographer, the true Southernality, if you will, of Ben Johnson is something that should be called into question. So, let's take his requirements of being a true Southerner with a grain of salt and a cat head biscuit, OK? JUNE 26, 2002 I fancy myself as a Southerner. I love the South. I love the country. I love the people.Fried chicken and cherry cobbleranted to be Broadway choreographer, the true Southernality, if you will, of Ben Johnson is something that should be called into question. So, let's take his requirements of being a true Southerner with a grain of salt and a cat head biscuit, OK? JUNE 26, 2002 I fancy myself as a Southerner. I love the South. I love the country. I love the people.Fried chicken and cherry cobbler with a heap of vanilla ice cream beat a Philly cheese steak sandwich and a slice of cheesecake any day of the week. (I don't know why I associate cheesecake with other parts of the country, but I do. Lots of Southerners like cheesecake, of course, but I'd bet a Dr Pepper and a moon pie that most would take a helping of cobbler over cheesecake.) The lush green hills and valleys of Arkansas, Tennessee and Alabama strike me as gorgeous while the boring flatlands of the Midwest, the rust brown Hell-like vistas of the desert Southwest and the smoggy, crowded cities of New York, Cincinnati, Detroit, Chicago, L.A., etc., do nothing but make me homesick and feel pity for the Yankees and Californians and all other unfortunate aliens of the South. Of course, there are some breathtaking parts of the country: Yellowstone, northern California, the jagged peaks of Colorado and Utah. And, the metro areas offer culture galore. Yet, home is home, and no part of the country exemplifies home like the seemingly innocent and character-rich landscape of the South. Now, let's all recognize that some fairly nasty demons are .A., etc., do nothing but make me homesick and feel pity for the Yankees and Californians and all other unfortunate aliens of the South. Of course, there are some breathtaking parts of the country: Yellowstone, northern California, the jagged peaks of Colorado and Utah. And, the metro areas offer culture galore. Yet, home is home, and no part of the country exemplifies home like the seemingly innocent and character-rich landscape of the South. Now, let's all recognize that some fairly nasty demons are stuffed in the closet of the South, and some still burst out now and then, but time slowly heals and it's hoped that most decent people, unknowingly or not, work for some type of maturity, forgiveness and redemption. So why, may you ask, am I getting all misty-eyed and philosophical over my marked piece of land? Two reasons. One: I recently took my wife and kids on a vacation road trip to the Florida panhandle, a journey that did nothing but boost my appreciation and love of this part of the country. I mean, I even enjoyed driving through Mississippi. The people of Alabama were as gracious as could be, and the Redneck Rivera (the snow white beaches of Ft. Walton Beach, Destin, Sandestin, etc.), while overdeveloped, is still home to the most spectacular coastline on the Gulf. Two: While stopping at a wonderful produce market in Clanton, Alabama (Durbin Farms – highly recommended if you're traveling from Birmingham to Destin on I-65), I asked the proprietor what in the heck were boiled peanuts. Boiled peanut stands are everywhere from Alabama to Florida. You can't go 10 miles without passing a ramsh. I mean, I even enjoyed driving through Mississippi. The people of Alabama were as gracious as could be, and the Redneck Rivera (the snow white beaches of Ft. Walton Beach, Destin, Sandestin, etc.), while overdeveloped, is still home to the most spectacular coastline on the Gulf. Two: While stopping at a wonderful produce market in Clanton, Alabama (Durbin Farms – highly recommended if you're traveling from Birmingham to Destin on I-65), I asked the proprietor what in the heck were boiled peanuts. Boiled peanut stands are everywhere from Alabama to Florida. You can't go 10 miles without passing a ramshackle boiled peanut stand sitting on the side of the highway. I love peanuts, so I asked the Durbin Farms gentleman the boiled peanuts question, and he immediately asked from where my wife and I hail. "Arkansas," I said. "You see," the man said, "your question is a prime example of why Arkansas is not considered part of the South. Every person from the South knows exactly what boiled peanuts are." Not from the South? Excuse me? My wife had the same reaction. Back in the car, she said: "Not from the South? Well, we'll see if we ever stop at Durbin Farms again." She was joking, of course. Durbin Farms is a neat little oasis off the pavement full of fresh tasty fruit, but I'll be damned if I'm going surrender my status as a proud Southern gentleman just because I'm ignorant of the Alabama/Florida infatuation with boiled freaking peanuts. By golly. Grumbl My wife had the same reaction. Back in the car, she said: "Not from the South? Well, we'll see if we ever stop at Durbin Farms again." She was joking, of course. Durbin Farms is a neat little oasis off the pavement full of fresh tasty fruit, but I'll be damned if I'm going surrender my status as a proud Southern gentleman just because I'm ignorant of the Alabama/Florida infatuation with boiled freaking peanuts. By golly. Grumble. Grumble. I'm Southern. I think George Jones and Charlie Rich rule. I will proudly eat fried bologna sandwiches and fried pork chops and cream gravy covered homemade rolls and fried green tomaters and a messy slab of barbeque ribs and fried catfish and cole slaw and pickled tomaters. I like to read Larry Brown and Flannery O'Connor. Dwight Yoakam and Buck Owens may testify to the hamlet of Bakersfield, California, but I know they're as Southern as me. Brother Al Green preaches my kind of salvation and sings my kind of music. If I wasn't afraid of mouth cancer, I'd dip Skoal. Despite their post-1990 pretentious output and behavior, R.E.M. is still the best rock band to ever emerge from the South. Arkansas' Billy Bob Thornton and Mississippi's Morgan Freeman are two of the most interesting actors working today. They may be from the Mid-South, but the St. Louis Cardinals is the South's team. I can still sing, lyric for lyric, the "Where, oh, where are you tonight…" ditty from Hee-Haw. And, I can say for certain, that the second Johnny Cash goes to see the Lord, the world will feel a void, heavy with sorrow and loneliness. So, boiled peanuts or not, I'm Southern. We're not perfect, but weentious output and behavior, R.E.M. is still the best rock band to ever emerge from the South. Arkansas' Billy Bob Thornton and Mississippi's Morgan Freeman are two of the most interesting actors working today. They may be from the Mid-South, but the St. Louis Cardinals is the South's team. I can still sing, lyric for lyric, the "Where, oh, where are you tonight…" ditty from Hee-Haw. And, I can say for certain, that the second Johnny Cash goes to see the Lord, the world will feel a void, heavy with sorrow and loneliness. So, boiled peanuts or not, I'm Southern. We're not perfect, but we have the best country, the best food, the most beautiful women and, with the exception of Australians, we have the best accent in the world. Plus, Madonna ain't no Southerner, and that alone is reason enough for boastful pride. In the first two sentences of the first paragraph of the last column I wrote, I used the term "these days." To most folks who read the column (which dealt with alt.country bands Uncle Tupelo and Wilco), the term "these days" utilized twice in consecutive sentences might have zipped by without notice. To others, particularly grammar and prose watchdogs, it might have indicated that the author (yours truly, of course in this case) wasn't paying close attention to what he (or she) was writing. Utilizing the term twice in successive sentences could be considered sloppy and/or lazy writing. And, I wouldn't argue. It is sloppy and lazy writing. And, in a perfect world, a copy editor would have caught my mistake, crossed out the term "these days" in one of the sentences and moved on to correct other errors" utilized twice in consecutive sentences might have zipped by without notice. To others, particularly grammar and prose watchdogs, it might have indicated that the author (yours truly, of course in this case) wasn't paying close attention to what he (or she) was writing. Utilizing the term twice in successive sentences could be considered sloppy and/or lazy writing. And, I wouldn't argue. It is sloppy and lazy writing. And, in a perfect world, a copy editor would have caught my mistake, crossed out the term "these days" in one of the sentences and moved on to correct other errors in that column. The point is this: every time I read a column of mine after it has been published, I usually find mistakes that make me cringe. Arkansas Weekly is somewhat sort of a threadbare operation. The major chunk of our budget goes into distributing the paper through direct mail. We're the only local publication that distributes in such an effective manner, but it costs lots of bucks in postage and handling. A full-time copy editor, someone who is responsible for ensuring the text you are reading is grammatically correct and properly constructed, is an item that is, as yet, not rs in that column. The point is this: every time I read a column of mine after it has been published, I usually find mistakes that make me cringe. Arkansas Weekly is somewhat sort of a threadbare operation. The major chunk of our budget goes into distributing the paper through direct mail. We're the only local publication that distributes in such an effective manner, but it costs lots of bucks in postage and handling. A full-time copy editor, someone who is responsible for ensuring the text you are reading is grammatically correct and properly constructed, is an item that is, as yet, not in the budget. So, most weeks, I'm going to find errors in my copy that will make me slap my forehead in frustration. "How could I have missed that mistake?" I'll usually say to myself. And, I'll be embarrassed of the error for a few days, thinking that some folks might take me for a dunce. Well, most folks do take me for a dunce anyway, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. I simply want the rest of you who catch mistakes in my text to understand I really is a goood righter. * * * "How could I have missed that mistake?" I'll usually say to myself. And, I'll be embarrassed of the error for a few days, thinking that some folks might take me for a dunce. Well, most folks do take me for a dunce anyway, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. I simply want the rest of you who catch mistakes in my text to understand I really is a goood righter. * * * I recently returned from a whirlwind trip through St. Louis and back down through Fayetteville. And, I have a confession to make: I greatly sinned through this journey. Let's start with a television program I watched early one morning at the St. Louis hotel. Regular readers of this column know that I suffer from insomnia. So, of course, my first night in St. Louis found me wide-awake in the hotel room at 3 a.m. Not having the patience to stare at the ceiling in the dark, I flicked on the lights, popped on the television, and channel-surfed. Around 4:00, I found a movie on Home Box Office about two physicians who invented a revolutionary cosmetic surgical procedure. The two men, one a respected surgeon and the other a resident, fought against the Baylor Medical Center faculty to perform this surgery, then branched off to offer the procedure on their own, risking potential ridicule from their colleagues and family. After successfully establishing their practice and pe wide-awake in the hotel room at 3 a.m. Not having the patience to stare at the ceiling in the dark, I flicked on the lights, popped on the television, and channel-surfed. Around 4:00, I found a movie on Home Box Office about two physicians who invented a revolutionary cosmetic surgical procedure. The two men, one a respected surgeon and the other a resident, fought against the Baylor Medical Center faculty to perform this surgery, then branched off to offer the procedure on their own, risking potential ridicule from their colleagues and family. After successfully establishing their practice and perfecting the cosmetic surgery, each man then had to deal with the rapid riches they reaped, a number of conflicts that drove them apart, and a potentially devastating after-effect of the procedure that struck some patients years later. It was a well-made, engrossing and somewhat comical film that held my attention until dawn. I was happy I came across it. Yet, after I clicked off the remote and started to fall back to sleep around 5:45, a little guilt started to seep into my head. It was a well-made, engrossing and somewhat comical film that held my attention until dawn. I was happy I came across it. Yet, after I clicked off the remote and started to fall back to sleep around 5:45, a little guilt started to seep into my head. You see, the surgical procedure these two men developed and perfected was the breast implant. And, as such, this movie featured more bared chests than I have ever seen in a mainstream film. They were everywhere, all different shapes and sizes, in practically every scene. And, of course, the majority of the scenes required the nudity, since it dealt with, well, you know, making the breasts larger, so it wasn't like, you know, the movie could have done without them. But, the kicker was the film was really an interesting and absorbing little story. And, it was true. Of course, when the movie started, I should have seen where all of this was heading. I mean, with a title like Breast Men, what could an average viewer expect? A story about men who prefer their chicken to be all white meat? A sports film detailing the struggle of a bench-pressing team of weightlifters going for the gold at the Olympics? Nope. I knew what I was getting into when I settled in to watch the movie. Of course, I wouldn't recommend the film to my grandan interesting and absorbing little story. And, it was true. Of course, when the movie started, I should have seen where all of this was heading. I mean, with a title like Breast Men, what could an average viewer expect? A story about men who prefer their chicken to be all white meat? A sports film detailing the struggle of a bench-pressing team of weightlifters going for the gold at the Olympics? Nope. I knew what I was getting into when I settled in to watch the movie. Of course, I wouldn't recommend the film to my grandmother, but for most folks, it'll, uh, keep your attention. * * * Besides watching a movie loaded with, um, topless women, the other sin I committed during this trip was one of unadulterated gluttony. It started Wednesday afternoon (this would have been two weeks from today). It probably would be best if I simply listed what all I had to eat for the duration of the trip. DAY ONE. Lunch: a greasy quarter-pound burger with mayo and="Arial" size="2"> Besides watching a movie loaded with, um, topless women, the other sin I committed during this trip was one of unadulterated gluttony. It started Wednesday afternoon (this would have been two weeks from today). It probably would be best if I simply listed what all I had to eat for the duration of the trip. DAY ONE. Lunch: a greasy quarter-pound burger with mayo and onion topped off with a large chocolate malt at the Midway Drive-In, an old ramshackle piece of fast food heaven 30 minutes on the other side of Poplar Bluff. Early evening snack at the St. Louis Cardinals-Houston Astros game that night: a Best kosher hot dog, burnt black and crispy, smothered in grease-soaked onions. Quite possibly the best hot dog I have ever eaten in my life. Plus half a pretzel and a bag of peanuts. Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: a plate of lobster-filled ravioli for an appetizer and saut�ed Dover sole with creamy spinach for the main course at a fancy-schmancy place called Tony's, a block away from Busch Stadium. (And with all of that swirling in my belly, you wonder why I could not sleep that night.) DAY TWO: Lunch at the afternoon match-up of the p align="left">Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: a plate of lobster-filled ravioli for an appetizer and saut�ed Dover sole with creamy spinach for the main course at a fancy-schmancy place called Tony's, a block away from Busch Stadium. (And with all of that swirling in my belly, you wonder why I could not sleep that night.) DAY TWO: Lunch at the afternoon match-up of the Cards and Astros: a Best kosher hot dog, burnt black and crispy, smothered in grease-soaked onions. Quite possibly the second best hot dog I have ever eaten in my life. Snack at the afternoon match-up of the Cards and Astros: a large slice of cheese pizza. Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: an appetizer of tomato and mozzarella cheese smothered in balsamic vinegar and a thick filet of grilled red snapper for the main course. This was at a restaurant called Dominic's on Cards and Astros: a Best kosher hot dog, burnt black and crispy, smothered in grease-soaked onions. Quite possibly the second best hot dog I have ever eaten in my life. Snack at the afternoon match-up of the Cards and Astros: a large slice of cheese pizza. Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: an appetizer of tomato and mozzarella cheese smothered in balsamic vinegar and a thick filet of grilled red snapper for the main course. This was at a restaurant called Dominic's on The Hill, an Italian neighborhood in St. Louis that looks straight out of The Sopranos and is home to the best Italian food in the Mid-South. DAY THREE: This day makes the other two look like I had been on Weight Watchers. We leave St. Louis, heading to Fayetteville. Breakfast: Heaven. A brand new Krispy Kreme right past the mammoth Chrysler plant on I-44. I walk out of the Krispy Kreme with, I kid you not, 27 hot donuts. I know I'm pushing the cholesterol limit with this purchase, so, believe it or not, I only eat three – two chocolate and one glazed. The rest will have to wait for a possible midnight snack and breakfast the next morning. Don't want to overdo it, you know? Lunch: Delicious barbeque from a small town roadside restaurant an hour or two before Springfield. Dinner: Heaven, Part Two. Herman's in Fayetteville. Need I say more? Not wawith, I kid you not, 27 hot donuts. I know I'm pushing the cholesterol limit with this purchase, so, believe it or not, I only eat three – two chocolate and one glazed. The rest will have to wait for a possible midnight snack and breakfast the next morning. Don't want to overdo it, you know? Lunch: Delicious barbeque from a small town roadside restaurant an hour or two before Springfield. Dinner: Heaven, Part Two. Herman's in Fayetteville. Need I say more? Not wanting to appear too gluttonous, I only order two entrees: garlic chicken and the Spanish omelet. This, of course, after the standard consumption of about 159 crackers smothered in the famous Herman's salsa. Oh, and a cold beer. * * * It would be fair to say I overdid it. I have, believe it or not, been extremely health-conscious since the trip. For instance, today I had grilled salmon and a salad for lunch; two small pieces of leftover baked ham for a snack; and a peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread for dinner. That's it. Pretty disciplined of me, huh? Oh, and a cold beer. * * * It would be fair to say I overdid it. I have, believe it or not, been extremely health-conscious since the trip. For instance, today I had grilled salmon and a salad for lunch; two small pieces of leftover baked ham for a snack; and a peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread for dinner. That's it. Pretty disciplined of me, huh? And, we don't have HBO at the house, so it's safe to say I won't be finding any television program with lots of nudity for a long while. Let's keep our fingers crossed that I can keep walking that straight line from now on. Oh, there is one problem. I do have some cold beer in the fridge. Right next to that box of Krispy Kreme donuts. In the first two sentences of the first paragraph of the last column I wrote, I used the term "these days." To most folks who read the column (which dealt with alt.country bands Uncle Tupelo and Wilco), the term "these days" utilized twice in consecutive sentences might have zipped by without notice. To others, particularly grammar and prose watch; I do have some cold beer in the fridge. Right next to that box of Krispy Kreme donuts. In the first two sentences of the first paragraph of the last column I wrote, I used the term "these days." To most folks who read the column (which dealt with alt.country bands Uncle Tupelo and Wilco), the term "these days" utilized twice in consecutive sentences might have zipped by without notice. To others, particularly grammar and prose watchdogs, it might have indicated that the author (yours truly, of course in this case) wasn't paying close attention to what he (or she) was writing. Utilizing the term twice in successive sentences could be considered sloppy and/or lazy writing. And, I wouldn't argue. It is sloppy and lazy writing. And, in a perfect world, a copy editor would have caught my mistake, crossed out the term "these days" in one of the sentences and moved on to correct other errors in that column. The point is this: every time I read a column of mine after it has been published, I usually find mistakes that make me cringe. Arkansas Weekly is somewhat sort of a threadbare operation. The major chunk of our budget goes into distributing the paper through direct mail. We're the only local publication that distributes in such an effective manner, but it costs lots of bucks in postage and handling. A full-time copy editor, someone who is responsible for ensuring the text you are reading is grammatically correct and properly constructed, is an item that is, as yet, not rs in that column. The point is this: every time I read a column of mine after it has been published, I usually find mistakes that make me cringe. Arkansas Weekly is somewhat sort of a threadbare operation. The major chunk of our budget goes into distributing the paper through direct mail. We're the only local publication that distributes in such an effective manner, but it costs lots of bucks in postage and handling. A full-time copy editor, someone who is responsible for ensuring the text you are reading is grammatically correct and properly constructed, is an item that is, as yet, not in the budget. So, most weeks, I'm going to find errors in my copy that will make me slap my forehead in frustration. "How could I have missed that mistake?" I'll usually say to myself. And, I'll be embarrassed of the error for a few days, thinking that some folks might take me for a dunce. Well, most folks do take me for a dunce anyway, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. I simply want the rest of you who catch mistakes in my text to understand I really is a goood righter. * * * "How could I have missed that mistake?" I'll usually say to myself. And, I'll be embarrassed of the error for a few days, thinking that some folks might take me for a dunce. Well, most folks do take me for a dunce anyway, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. I simply want the rest of you who catch mistakes in my text to understand I really is a goood righter. * * * Besides watching a movie loaded with, um, topless women, the other sin I committed during this trip was one of unadulterated gluttony. It started Wednesday afternoon (this would have been two weeks from today). It probably would be best if I simply listed what all I had to eat for the duration of the trip. DAY ONE. Lunch: a greasy quarter-pound burger with mayo and="Arial" size="2"> Besides watching a movie loaded with, um, topless women, the other sin I committed during this trip was one of unadulterated gluttony. It started Wednesday afternoon (this would have been two weeks from today). It probably would be best if I simply listed what all I had to eat for the duration of the trip. DAY ONE. Lunch: a greasy quarter-pound burger with mayo and onion topped off with a large chocolate malt at the Midway Drive-In, an old ramshackle piece of fast food heaven 30 minutes on the other side of Poplar Bluff. Early evening snack at the St. Louis Cardinals-Houston Astros game that night: a Best kosher hot dog, burnt black and crispy, smothered in grease-soaked onions. Quite possibly the best hot dog I have ever eaten in my life. Plus half a pretzel and a bag of peanuts. Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: a plate of lobster-filled ravioli for an appetizer and saut�ed Dover sole with creamy spinach for the main course at a fancy-schmancy place called Tony's, a block away from Busch Stadium. (And with all of that swirling in my belly, you wonder why I could not sleep that night.) DAY TWO: Lunch at the afternoon match-up of the p align="left">Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: a plate of lobster-filled ravioli for an appetizer and saut�ed Dover sole with creamy spinach for the main course at a fancy-schmancy place called Tony's, a block away from Busch Stadium. (And with all of that swirling in my belly, you wonder why I could not sleep that night.) DAY TWO: Lunch at the afternoon match-up of the Cards and Astros: a Best kosher hot dog, burnt black and crispy, smothered in grease-soaked onions. Quite possibly the second best hot dog I have ever eaten in my life. Snack at the afternoon match-up of the Cards and Astros: a large slice of cheese pizza. Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: an appetizer of tomato and mozzarella cheese smothered in balsamic vinegar and a thick filet of grilled red snapper for the main course. This was at a restaurant called Dominic's on Cards and Astros: a Best kosher hot dog, burnt black and crispy, smothered in grease-soaked onions. Quite possibly the second best hot dog I have ever eaten in my life. Snack at the afternoon match-up of the Cards and Astros: a large slice of cheese pizza. Oh, and some cold beer. Dinner: an appetizer of tomato and mozzarella cheese smothered in balsamic vinegar and a thick filet of grilled red snapper for the main course. This was at a restaurant called Dominic's on The Hill, an Italian neighborhood in St. Louis that looks straight out of The Sopranos and is home to the best Italian food in the Mid-South. DAY THREE: This day makes the other two look like I had been on Weight Watchers. We leave St. Louis, heading to Fayetteville. Breakfast: Heaven. A brand new Krispy Kreme right past the mammoth Chrysler plant on I-44. I walk out of the Krispy Kreme with, I kid you not, 27 hot donuts. I know I'm pushing the cholesterol limit with this purchase, so, believe it or not, I only eat three – two chocolate and onep align="left"> DAY THREE: This day makes the other two look like I had been on Weight Watchers. We leave St. Louis, heading to Fayetteville. Breakfast: Heaven. A brand new Krispy Kreme right past the mammoth Chrysler plant on I-44. I walk out of the Krispy Kreme with, I kid you not, 27 hot donuts. I know I'm pushing the cholesterol limit with this purchase, so, believe it or not, I only eat three – two chocolate and one glazed. The rest will have to wait for a possible midnight snack and breakfast the next morning. Don't want to overdo it, you know? Lunch: Delicious barbeque from a small town roadside restaurant an hour or two before Springfield. Dinner: Heaven, Part Two. Herman's in Fayetteville. Need I say more? Not wanting to appear too gluttonous, I only order two entrees: garlic chicken and the Spanish omelet. This, of course, after the standard consumption of about 159 crackers smothered in the famous Herman's salsa. Oh, and a cold beer. * * * It would be fair to say I overdid it. I have, believe it or not, been extremely health-conscious since the trip. For instance, today I had grilled salmon and a salad for lunwanting to appear too gluttonous, I only order two entrees: garlic chicken and the Spanish omelet. This, of course, after the standard consumption of about 159 crackers smothered in the famous Herman's salsa. Oh, and a cold beer. * * * It would be fair to say I overdid it. I have, believe it or not, been extremely health-conscious since the trip. For instance, today I had grilled salmon and a salad for lunch; two small pieces of leftover baked ham for a snack; and a peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread for dinner. That's it. Pretty disciplined of me, huh? And, we don't have HBO at the house, so it's safe to say I won't be finding any television program with lots of nudity for a long while. Let's keep our fingers crossed that I can keep walking that straight line from now on. Oh, there is one problem. I do have some cold beer in the fridge. Right next to that box of Krispy Kreme donuts. And, we don't have HBO at the house, so it's safe to say I won't be finding any television program with lots of nudity for a long while. Let's keep our fingers crossed that I can keep walking that straight line from now on. Oh, there is one problem. I do have some cold beer in the fridge. Right next to that box of Krispy Kreme donuts. June 19, 2002 My mom and dad used to have a bedside clock radio manufactured by the Magnavox corporation. This was, maybe, 1973 at the earliest, and clock radios had yet to evolve into the sleek, green-blue digital readout boxes they are today.Everything was analog, and by today's standards, antiquated. You tuned the radio with a rotary tuner across the dial. The clock readout itself flicked over thick white numbers every 60 seconds like a tiny Rolodex enclosed in a heavy plastic box. This Jurassic-era Magnavox was also built like a tank – after my parents bought a new one, this antique was passed on to me where it survived rough travel over several moves through my college years. The first time I remember fully appreciating the Magnavox had to be around 1973 or 1974. Summertime boredom found me tinkering around our house one afternoon, desperate for some type of lazy activity that would hold my attention while keeping me in the cool. I drug my feet up the stairs and found the Magnavox in my parents' bedroom. The first time I remember fully appreciating the Magnavox had to be around 1973 or 1974. Summertime boredom found me tinkering around our house one afternoon, desperate for some type of lazy activity that would hold my attention while keeping me in the cool. I drug my feet up the stairs and found the Magnavox in my parents' bedroom. I flopped myself on the bed, switched on the radio and found it set to Batesville's sole radio station at the time, 1340 AM KBTA. Through the little speaker, a deep, gravel-pitched voice thundered something about "a base hit here at Busch Stadium." A Cardinals game. My family was very familiar with the Cards. Dad's first cousin, Butch Ketz, had lived in St. Louis for a bit, and now and then, we'd visit and take in a game at Busch. I was hooked by the ballpark visits at a very young age. The enormous stadium that held more people than the population of Batesville, the bright neon Anheuser-Busch eagle over right field with its animated wings seemingly swooping over right field, the "Charge! call with the booming organ, and the seemingly-constant phoosh and tinkle of a beer popped open by an aisle vendor who never picked up after himself, always letting the bottle cap bounce off the peanut shell and popcorn covered concrete below. It wasn't until my junior high days that I realized that there was also a ballgame going on in Busch Stadium. I thought about the atmosphere stirring in St. Louis that summertime afternoon. ight neon Anheuser-Busch eagle over right field with its animated wings seemingly swooping over right field, the "Charge! call with the booming organ, and the seemingly-constant phoosh and tinkle of a beer popped open by an aisle vendor who never picked up after himself, always letting the bottle cap bounce off the peanut shell and popcorn covered concrete below. It wasn't until my junior high days that I realized that there was also a ballgame going on in Busch Stadium. I thought about the atmosphere stirring in St. Louis that summertime afternoon. And, what amazed my little head, was the fact that I was on my mom and dad's bed in Batesville, Arkansas listening to the all the baseball excitement that was happening at that moment six driving hours away in beautiful St. Louis, Missouri. And, it was all being spelled out to me by that Voice coming out of the little Magnavox – Jack Buck. As I grew older, Buck instantly connected me to the Cards and the ballpark the moment I turned on the radio. In college, I could listen and not only be in Busch Stadium, but I could also be at home, knowing that Voice was keeping some happy souls in Batesville company as well. In the last few years, the Voice wavered and weakened, but here in my office on Harrison street, I'd tune to KBTA in the afternoon and keep it on in the background while I tried to make some sense of the daily grind. With the Voice from St. Louis in the background, I felt some level of gravity and contentment, knowing Jack was there, detailing the progress of my beloved Cards. Most know by now that Jack Buck passed away last week after a long illness. It wasn't sudden, but when I happened Voice was keeping some happy souls in Batesville company as well. In the last few years, the Voice wavered and weakened, but here in my office on Harrison street, I'd tune to KBTA in the afternoon and keep it on in the background while I tried to make some sense of the daily grind. With the Voice from St. Louis in the background, I felt some level of gravity and contentment, knowing Jack was there, detailing the progress of my beloved Cards. Most know by now that Jack Buck passed away last week after a long illness. It wasn't sudden, but when I happened across the headline on MSNBC.com late the other night, it still took a breath away. The evening after his death, the Cards gave Buck a loving tribute before a game against the Anaheim Angels. ESPN carried it live, and I watched it with my little boy curled up next to me. Joe Buck, Jack's son who followed his father into Cardinal broadcasting, wept as images from his dad's career were gracefully broadcast on the giant Busch Stadium screen. As silly and sentimental as it sounds, I almost started to cry. I had known Buck was in ill health, but listening to the Cardinals this season on KBTA, I kept hope that the Voice might suddenly boom from my radio. I didn't realize at the time that Buck was in such bad shape that he had not left the hospital since winter. A month ago, I made another trip to a Cardinals game with my dad, my brother, Butch and some other friends. Late one night, I was walking the empty sidewalk outside Busch Stadium and came across a bronze sculpture of the Voice behind his microphone. I stopped and admired it for a moment, and moved on to the hotel. During the tribute a day after Buck'ing to the Cardinals this season on KBTA, I kept hope that the Voice might suddenly boom from my radio. I didn't realize at the time that Buck was in such bad shape that he had not left the hospital since winter. A month ago, I made another trip to a Cardinals game with my dad, my brother, Butch and some other friends. Late one night, I was walking the empty sidewalk outside Busch Stadium and came across a bronze sculpture of the Voice behind his microphone. I stopped and admired it for a moment, and moved on to the hotel. During the tribute a day after Buck's passing, ESPN carried a shot of that same sculpture, now smothered in flowers and Cardinals memorabilia. Of course, even though the Voice is silent, Jack Buck is at peace. Regret and disappointment should yield to appreciation of the gift with which Buck blessed all Cardinals fans. But, as I sat with my little boy that night, watching the tribute, I was still sad. I was sad that my son, who has yet to attend a Cardinals game but will very soon, never had the opportunity to hear the Voice and experience the little joys a Cardinals broadcast manned by Jack Buck could bring. May 22, 2002 I've often complained about the lack of decent rock and roll these days. I can handle some of the standard stuff that passes for popular these days: Incubus, Puddle of Mudd, P.O.D., plus some of the new efforts from stalwarts such as Neil Young and Sheryl Crow. Of course, for those of you who appreciate other unique and stimulating music, I hope I've steered you in the right direction with the little nuggets that sometimes slip through manned by Jack Buck could bring. May 22, 2002 I've often complained about the lack of decent rock and roll these days. I can handle some of the standard stuff that passes for popular these days: Incubus, Puddle of Mudd, P.O.D., plus some of the new efforts from stalwarts such as Neil Young and Sheryl Crow. Of course, for those of you who appreciate other unique and stimulating music, I hope I've steered you in the right direction with the little nuggets that sometimes slip through the proverbial cracks: Steve Earle, Ryan Adams, The Strokes, Trey Anastasio. Within the past month, however, an enormous amount of quality music has been released. It's finally refreshing to have an eclectic and wide mix of CDs to choose from for road trips, late nights on the computer, or moments when the family is out of the house and you want to pretend you're a rock star and turn up the stereo real loud and dance and strut and play air guitar in front of the mirror, imagining thousands of beautiful women are screaming for you. Not that I do that. Anyway, let's begin with Wilco. If you read Rolling Stone, Spin, Maxim Blender, etc., you might know the story behind their wonderful new album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Here's the condensed version: acclaimed alt.country-rock act records moody masterpiece for longtime record label only to be dropped by their longtime record label because the CD was deemed uncommercial. Another label, Nonesuch Records, recognized the quality of the CD, signed the band, released the album, and now Yankee Hotel Foxtrot stands as Wilco's best-selling CD. font> Anyway, let's begin with Wilco. If you read Rolling Stone, Spin, Maxim Blender, etc., you might know the story behind their wonderful new album, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Here's the condensed version: acclaimed alt.country-rock act records moody masterpiece for longtime record label only to be dropped by their longtime record label because the CD was deemed uncommercial. Another label, Nonesuch Records, recognized the quality of the CD, signed the band, released the album, and now Yankee Hotel Foxtrot stands as Wilco's best-selling CD. Foxtrot opens with the moody "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," an epic piece of clattered notes and drunken lyrics ("I am an American aquarium drinker…," or "Take off your band-aids cause I don't believe in touchdowns…") that works to instill a pleasantly foggy buzz as you listen along. "Kamera" bounces along with a satisfying acoustic beat while "War on War," "Jesus, etc.," "Heavy Metal Drummer," and the rest of the work solidifies my notion that Wilco is the band that R.E.M. could have been had the Athens, Georgia group not discovered the false allure of artistic pretension after 1991's Out of Time, Michael Stipe and co.'s last great album. The new Wilco might take a while to grow on you, but the accolades for Foxtrot are deserved. Wilco was formed in the mid-90s after founder Jeff Tweedy had established himself with the band, Uncle Tupelo. Tupelo disbanded in 1994, but left a wonderful body of work behind. Columbia/Legacy recently released Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology, a blessed treasure of Uncle Tupelo recordings, including some rare and unreleased stuff. The new Wilco might take a while to grow on you, but the accolades for Foxtrot are deserved. Wilco was formed in the mid-90s after founder Jeff Tweedy had established himself with the band, Uncle Tupelo. Tupelo disbanded in 1994, but left a wonderful body of work behind. Columbia/Legacy recently released Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology, a blessed treasure of Uncle Tupelo recordings, including some rare and unreleased stuff. The collection chronicles the progression of Tupelo's initially pure countrified sound into a sturdy fusion of tight acoustic-tinged folk rock. Tweedy and Tupelo co-founder, Jay Farrar, embraced a style of music rooted in traditional folk but still strongly influenced by aggressive, yet quality rock compositions. This is a silly analogy from someone who is far from being a music expert, but listening to the disc, I thought of the early unplugged Dylan segueing into the electric phase that he eventually embraced. Stark and bare compositions such as "Screen Door" and "Whiskey Bottle" give way to rockers like "Gun" and "The Long Cut," exemplifying Tupelo's development. Picking up Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology will not only provide with you some superb alt.country rock, but will also give you a precious glimpse into the growth of Jeff Tweedy as a complex and talented artist. Pop grunge rockers Weezer have released their follow-up to their most successful album, last year's Green Album (it was untitled). Maladroit continues the example set by the earlier album that included the pop masterpieces, "Hash Piped "The Long Cut," exemplifying Tupelo's development. Picking up Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology will not only provide with you some superb alt.country rock, but will also give you a precious glimpse into the growth of Jeff Tweedy as a complex and talented artist. Pop grunge rockers Weezer have released their follow-up to their most successful album, last year's Green Album (it was untitled). Maladroit continues the example set by the earlier album that included the pop masterpieces, "Hash Pipe," "Island in the Sun," and "Photograph." Quick rock songs dominated by loud heavy guitars with catchy riffs and equally catchy hooks rule the roost, and Maladroit provides them aplenty. Tunes such as "Slave," the addictive (no pun intended) "Dope Nose," and the crushing guitar-driven "Take Control" stand out on Maladroit. I think I'm going to enjoy it even more than the Green Album. We shall see. In the meantime, pick up a copy and — please forgive me — crank it up. Other new albums vying for spins in my CD player include the new Elvis Costello, the latest techno extravaganza from Moby entitled 18 (although his sampling of old r&b and gospel records is getting a bit repetitive) and the sublime new Van Morrison disc, Down the Road. My brother and I are heading to St. Louis soon for a Cardinals game, and I plan on staging an audio coup in his car. I'll be in charge of the CD player, and he'll have to listen to all of these discs. It'll either be that or I'll threaten to sing old George Micnew Elvis Costello, the latest techno extravaganza from Moby entitled 18 (although his sampling of old r&b and gospel records is getting a bit repetitive) and the sublime new Van Morrison disc, Down the Road. My brother and I are heading to St. Louis soon for a Cardinals game, and I plan on staging an audio coup in his car. I'll be in charge of the CD player, and he'll have to listen to all of these discs. It'll either be that or I'll threaten to sing old George Michael songs all the way to Busch Stadium. If he's smart, he'll let me be the disc jockey for the trip. * * * What in the world is happening with Little Rock television news? First, KATV fires Vic Schedler (have I told you about my fondness for Vic lately?), and now KTHV has announced that longtime Travelin' Arkansas journalist Chuck Dovish has been let go. B.J. Sams, Paul Eells and Beth Ward are now the last remaining television personalities from my youth still on the air in Little Rock. Remember these names? Roy Mitchell, Bud Campbell, Gina Kurrie, Margaret Preston, Amy Oliver, Greg Hurst, Joe Quinn, Dave Woodman, Gary Hogan, Carolyn Long. Who else am I missing? All of these folks, of course, used to be on the air in Little Rock, and now they've either passed away, made a name for themselves in another market, or faded into private life. Vic, Chuck, and soon, KTHV anchor Dawn Scott will join that list. (Scott is moving to Seattle with her husband.) Maybe it's silly of me to live in the broadcast past. Maybe I should simply ac Rock. Remember these names? Roy Mitchell, Bud Campbell, Gina Kurrie, Margaret Preston, Amy Oliver, Greg Hurst, Joe Quinn, Dave Woodman, Gary Hogan, Carolyn Long. Who else am I missing? All of these folks, of course, used to be on the air in Little Rock, and now they've either passed away, made a name for themselves in another market, or faded into private life. Vic, Chuck, and soon, KTHV anchor Dawn Scott will join that list. (Scott is moving to Seattle with her husband.) Maybe it's silly of me to live in the broadcast past. Maybe I should simply accept new faces such as Denise Whitaker, Parella Lewis, Cary Martin, and Kent Bates. Or maybe, just maybe, I should simply get a life.
In last week's column, I somewhat jokingly said that there will be riots in the Little Rock streets if KATV doesn't re-hire weatherman extraordinaire Vic Schedler. My column from two weeks ago initially lamented the firing of Schedler, a longtime Little Rock television personality that obviously had many caring fans around this part of Arkansas. I say this because I am still receiving comments and e-mails from a lot of genuinely upset folks after the first Schedler column ran two weeks ago. In fact, I just got off the phone from a gentleman who was furious with the powers that be at KATV. If I were even a bit serious about actually staging a protest in front of their television studios, this man would be on the sidewalk this afternoon, megaphone in hand, directing his rage at Channel 7. It is surprising, though, how I struck a nerve with the news of Vic's disng fans around this part of Arkansas. I say this because I am still receiving comments and e-mails from a lot of genuinely upset folks after the first Schedler column ran two weeks ago. In fact, I just got off the phone from a gentleman who was furious with the powers that be at KATV. If I were even a bit serious about actually staging a protest in front of their television studios, this man would be on the sidewalk this afternoon, megaphone in hand, directing his rage at Channel 7. It is surprising, though, how I struck a nerve with the news of Vic's dismissal. Three women in church complained to me. A woman in Kroger stopped me to voice her shock. Two men in the snack bar line at my little girl's t-ball game shook their heads in disbelief. One woman even brought out an original sketch of Gusty that Vic had once sent her now-adult daughter. (Judging by the amount of complaints from females, Vic might have also been a semi-sex symbol for a lot of weather watchers. Maybe women could sense that behind his gentle down-home manner, a romantic tiger was inside waiting to explode! Maybe not.) Those are just a few of the comments I've received, but all of them come to the same disappointed, sad conclusion: Vic is gone. The low-key release of Schedler's firing would have slipped by me if I had not caught the story on the Arkansas Business website. (For the record: media sources in Little Rock reported the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette that Schedler was "officially" dismissed for missing a weather update during a commercial break. Some suggested that KATV simply utilized the incident as an opportunity to fire the broadcaster, something they had been waiting to do for a while. KATV, as far as I know, has not issued a reason for the firing, noting that ome to the same disappointed, sad conclusion: Vic is gone. The low-key release of Schedler's firing would have slipped by me if I had not caught the story on the Arkansas Business website. (For the record: media sources in Little Rock reported the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette that Schedler was "officially" dismissed for missing a weather update during a commercial break. Some suggested that KATV simply utilized the incident as an opportunity to fire the broadcaster, something they had been waiting to do for a while. KATV, as far as I know, has not issued a reason for the firing, noting that they do not comment on personnel matters.) Most of the readers who contacted me noted they had no idea Schedler had been fired until they read my initial column. The woman who stopped me in Kroger almost screamed at me for even reporting the bad news. "You made me mad with your column," she said. "I can't believe they did that to him! I mean, he's been there so long." And, that's the usual comment. People are disappointed to lose such a longtime personality who, despite his occasional on-air fumbles and flaws, still projected a likable easygoing style. Plus, as sentimental and silly as it may sound, for many, this is a fellow that's been on the tube through the years, and seeing him go somewhat closes a chapter on a past part of our lives. On a larger level, and forgive me as I compare apples and oranges, but it reminds me of when Johnny Carson signed off. For years, we all went to bed with Carson and Schedler (theoretically speaking, thank goodness), and now we have to put up with, sigh, Jay Leno and Ned Perme. Well, we don't have to put up with them. We can change the chaccasional on-air fumbles and flaws, still projected a likable easygoing style. Plus, as sentimental and silly as it may sound, for many, this is a fellow that's been on the tube through the years, and seeing him go somewhat closes a chapter on a past part of our lives. On a larger level, and forgive me as I compare apples and oranges, but it reminds me of when Johnny Carson signed off. For years, we all went to bed with Carson and Schedler (theoretically speaking, thank goodness), and now we have to put up with, sigh, Jay Leno and Ned Perme. Well, we don't have to put up with them. We can change the channel, as I did when Carson left. I'm most definitely a David Letterman and Ed Buckner type of guy (Barry Brandt's good, too). But, yes friends, Vic held a special place in my heart when it came to cold fronts and barometric readings. So, a toast: To Vic Schedler. The weatherman of our times. You informed us of tornadoes, snow and flash floods. You reminded us to cover our plants when a freeze was imminent and to check on the elderly neighbors when the heat was going to be extreme. As far as we know, you couldn't play the piano, and if you did, you spared us. And, thankfully, it looked as though you had never visited a tanning salon in your life. You looked a little dazed every now and then, but that was OK. It simply reminded us that you were human, just like us. May you find broadcast happiness. May your days be bountiful and blessed. And, may Ned Perme have some type of allergic reaction to the tanning bed. God bless and peace to you and yours. And, sniff…tell…sniff…Gusty that Rob said "Hello." * * * May you find broadcast happiness. May your days be bountiful and blessed. And, may Ned Perme have some type of allergic reaction to the tanning bed. God bless and peace to you and yours. And, sniff…tell…sniff…Gusty that Rob said "Hello." * * * All right, coincidence or not? You tell me. Last week, I wrote about the wedding of my cousin. Well, what I forgot to tell you is that former KARK weatherman, Tom Bonner, was there. Here I've been, writing about the weather personalities of my youth, when Tom Bonner shows up at my cousin's wedding. My brother in law pointed him out, and said: "Remember when he used to draw Gusty?" "No, no, no," I said. "Vic Schedler and Ron Sherman used to draw Gusty. Not Tom Bonner." "No," my brother in law said. "Tom Bonner drew Gusty." I promptly told him that he shouldn't mess with me when it came to Gusty. I know who sketched Gusty, and it was not Tom Bonner. I know my Gusty stuff. I finally said, "I'll bet you $100 that Tom Bonner never drew Gusty. Put your money where your mouth is, and let's go ask him." "No," my brother in law said. "Tom Bonner drew Gusty." I promptly told him that he shouldn't mess with me when it came to Gusty. I know who sketched Gusty, and it was not Tom Bonner. I know my Gusty stuff. I finally said, "I'll bet you $100 that Tom Bonner never drew Gusty. Put your money where your mouth is, and let's go ask him." Needless to say, my brother in law backed down. Like I said, I know my Gusty. * * * All right, I'll stop with this Vic Schelder obsession. I think it's concerning my wife. She told me the other night that I was weeping in my sleep. "You're really scaring me, Rob," she told me. "You kept crying and mumbling, 'Vic…Vic…don't leave Vic,' and then you said, 'Gusty…Gusty…hold me, Gusty…make this nightmare go away.'" I turned my head from my wife as she told me this. I couldn't let her see the tears welling up. She touched my shoulder, and I slowly moved my wet eyes to meet hers. In her arms, she clutched a teddy bear. "I got this for you," she softly said, holding it out. "I know I shouldn't have, but if it will help…" Her vleave Vic,' and then you said, 'Gusty…Gusty…hold me, Gusty…make this nightmare go away.'" I turned my head from my wife as she told me this. I couldn't let her see the tears welling up. She touched my shoulder, and I slowly moved my wet eyes to meet hers. In her arms, she clutched a teddy bear. "I got this for you," she softly said, holding it out. "I know I shouldn't have, but if it will help…" Her voice faded to a whisper as a single tear streaked down her cheek. I took the soft, fuzzy bear from her hand, and looking down, I saw she had stapled a picture of Vic over the face of the teddy bear. Man, I've got a wonderful wife. May 8, 2002 Weddings are always tiring. Case in point: my first cousin Philip surrendered his bachelorhood the other weekend. (The groom always surrenders. Ladies, this may be hard to fathom, but there are moments when the husbands crave the freedom to go out with the guys, to keep the home as filthy and cluttered as possible, and to want to take long naps while you're chasing after the toddlers. Granted, we all love our wives very much, but c'mon, we're men, and the majority of men are truly ignorant to the complexities and demands of pleasing the wife's inner-self. I mean, most of us have problems figuring out the plot of a Scooby-Doo episode, much less knowing how to correctly respond to a seemingly innocent question from our better half.) So, Philip marries a beautiful bride in a beautiful church in Littleere are moments when the husbands crave the freedom to go out with the guys, to keep the home as filthy and cluttered as possible, and to want to take long naps while you're chasing after the toddlers. Granted, we all love our wives very much, but c'mon, we're men, and the majority of men are truly ignorant to the complexities and demands of pleasing the wife's inner-self. I mean, most of us have problems figuring out the plot of a Scooby-Doo episode, much less knowing how to correctly respond to a seemingly innocent question from our better half.) So, Philip marries a beautiful bride in a beautiful church in Little Rock. And, everything came off, well, beautifully for those two — a picture perfect ceremony and a bash afterwards. You couldn't ask for more. Meanwhile, non-chronologically…I stuffed my belly at the lovely rehearsal dinner with tasty food (pasta, marinated asparagus, salad). Julie and I caught up with relatives we had not seen in a while. I stuffed my belly at a Saturday lunch at Trio's (hummus and toasted pita bread, shrimp etoufee over rice, the best strawberry shortcake I've ever eaten in my life). I took the kids to see the ducks at the stunning new Peabody Hotel. I stuffed my belly at the Peabody bar with spinach dip. I spent too much money on books I'll never read. I stuffed my belly with cold pizza in our hotel room after coming in late from the rehearsal dinner. I moaned with stinging heartburn and a massive headache the morning after the rehearsal dinner. And, oh, I stuffed my belly with the groom's chocolate cake before being wheeled out of the reception, strapped to a dolly Hannibal Lecter-style, stomach swollen from a weekend of gluttony, heartburn burning, drool dripping down my cheek. Needless to say, I've spent the past few days trying to catch up on rest and cutting back on the food. with spinach dip. I spent too much money on books I'll never read. I stuffed my belly with cold pizza in our hotel room after coming in late from the rehearsal dinner. I moaned with stinging heartburn and a massive headache the morning after the rehearsal dinner. And, oh, I stuffed my belly with the groom's chocolate cake before being wheeled out of the reception, strapped to a dolly Hannibal Lecter-style, stomach swollen from a weekend of gluttony, heartburn burning, drool dripping down my cheek. Needless to say, I've spent the past few days trying to catch up on rest and cutting back on the food. And, Philip, remember when you jokingly asked me at the rehearsal dinner if, in effect, it's all uphill from here. And, remember when I said, "Oh, no..no…You're going to love it. Best thing that'll ever happen to you" Well, I lied. Having kids is the best thing that'll ever happen to both of you. * * * Thanks to all of the Vic Schedler supporters who have contacted me about last week's article. I think we have a movement on our hands. If the, uh, three of us all band together and protest KATV's decision to fire Vic, the downtown streets of Little Rock will be savaged. We'll make the L.A. riots look like pre-schoolers at recess. VIVA LE VIC! May 1, 2002 Sometimes, when I see the recent gatherings of young hippies on television, screaming and marching in the streets of Seattle, Manhattan, or Washington D.C. protesting some sort of global/Republican/Democratic/meat-eating/pro-life/capitalist conspiracy that I have yet to figure out, I have to wonder how they muster u on our hands. If the, uh, three of us all band together and protest KATV's decision to fire Vic, the downtown streets of Little Rock will be savaged. We'll make the L.A. riots look like pre-schoolers at recess. VIVA LE VIC! May 1, 2002 Sometimes, when I see the recent gatherings of young hippies on television, screaming and marching in the streets of Seattle, Manhattan, or Washington D.C. protesting some sort of global/Republican/Democratic/meat-eating/pro-life/capitalist conspiracy that I have yet to figure out, I have to wonder how they muster up such energy and anger to emphasize their causes. Planning a disruption of a heavily-secured event like a meeting of the World Bank in a downtown metropolis has to take some major planning and cash to ensure a successful protest. I suppose that cutting back on the latte' and hits of acid probably help some of these folks build a decent stash of dollars and form a hint of coherence needed to design an anti-whatever campaign. (Of course, I shouldn't tease. I mean, these folks might actually be fighting for a cause that, in the long run, will mean something to my kids and my kids' kids. What that cause is, though, I have yet to figure. I think it's something about globalization. Or maybe utilizing shampoo. It's either that or the long, matted hair look is in these days.) Although I came close to hitting the streets with a bullhorn when I learned Sally Jesse Raphael was being forced off the air due to low ratings, I've never really had much to protest. I'm a pushover, I suppose, but to me, the idea of investing the time and energy to mount some type of protest has never entered my mind. Until now. I am now inviting those across the sta have yet to figure. I think it's something about globalization. Or maybe utilizing shampoo. It's either that or the long, matted hair look is in these days.) Although I came close to hitting the streets with a bullhorn when I learned Sally Jesse Raphael was being forced off the air due to low ratings, I've never really had much to protest. I'm a pushover, I suppose, but to me, the idea of investing the time and energy to mount some type of protest has never entered my mind. Until now. I am now inviting those across the state to join me in front of the studios of KATV, Channel 7, in Little Rock one day soon to protest the firing of longtime weatherman, Vic Schedler. That's right. Vic is no longer part of our broadcasting enjoyment. And, that is a crime. It's a crime when a guy like Ned Perme, with his spooky, unnatural tan (I have a feeling that Ned's tan is insured) and his unending piano playing around Christmas, can broadcast the weather, but Vic, with his easygoing, smiling manner, has to ungraciously fade away. Now, full disclosure: I'm not going to say anything about Barry Brandt. I have some friends in Little Rock that know him well, and he seems like a nice guy. Plus, he doesn't have a tan and has spared the audience of any musical talents he may have. But, Vic! Vic Schedler! He was the weatherman of my youth, my connection to the wonderful world of meteorology. Besides Tom Bonner, Vic was the man. Plus, Vic drew Gusty, for crying out loud! GUSTY! Remember lovable Gusty?!? That was Vic's little character that he sketched at the end of every weekend. That was Vic's bridge to the children of Arkansas!! &m not going to say anything about Barry Brandt. I have some friends in Little Rock that know him well, and he seems like a nice guy. Plus, he doesn't have a tan and has spared the audience of any musical talents he may have. But, Vic! Vic Schedler! He was the weatherman of my youth, my connection to the wonderful world of meteorology. Besides Tom Bonner, Vic was the man. Plus, Vic drew Gusty, for crying out loud! GUSTY! Remember lovable Gusty?!? That was Vic's little character that he sketched at the end of every weekend. That was Vic's bridge to the children of Arkansas!! Look, I can still draw Gusty:
But now that the upper management at KATV has fired Vic for supposedly missing a weather break, this is how Gusty feels:
Missing a weather break. C'mon! How many weather breaks has Perme missed? Oh, I'm sure if the revered Perme missed a weather break, the KATV mafia might have simply said, "Oh, Ned. Don't worry about it. You can miss all the weather breaks you want. What's that, Ned? You want a tanning booth in your dressing room? No prob, Ned – you the man!" But, when Vic – veteran weatherman and buddy of Gusty – Schedler misses a weather break, he ends up swimming with the fishes. So to speak. In fact, taking the gangster analogy a bit further, I liken the Schedler firing to something from The Godfather. Let's say that Ned Perme is Michael Corleone and Vic is Fredo. Perhaps, somewhere Vic betrayed Ned. Maout it. You can miss all the weather breaks you want. What's that, Ned? You want a tanning booth in your dressing room? No prob, Ned – you the man!" But, when Vic – veteran weatherman and buddy of Gusty – Schedler misses a weather break, he ends up swimming with the fishes. So to speak. In fact, taking the gangster analogy a bit further, I liken the Schedler firing to something from The Godfather. Let's say that Ned Perme is Michael Corleone and Vic is Fredo. Perhaps, somewhere Vic betrayed Ned. Maybe Vic and Barry were at the water cooler one day, and Vic says something like: "Have you seen Perme today?" "Nope," Barry says, taking a sip of water. Vic snorts somewhat, and then remarks: "Probably in the tanning bed." Vic and Barry share a chuckle. But, little do they know that Ned has been around the corner the entire conversation, listening with an unquenchable rage brewing in his soul. And then, the next thing you know, happy-go-lucky Vic is getting into the proverbial fishing boat with Ned's bodyguard, and BAM!!!, the vengeance is settled. No more Vic. Of course, this is mere speculation from a media
outsider. Yet, the firing of such a loved weatherman (at least on my end) has me
bumfuddled. How could any television station in their right mind release such a gentle
soul? I remember, just the other night, my wife and I were watching a weekend newscast on
KATV, with Vic handling the weather duties. There he was, with his And then, the next thing you know, happy-go-lucky Vic is
getting into the proverbial fishing boat with Ned's bodyguard, and BAM!!!, the vengeance
is settled. No more Vic. Of course, this is mere speculation from a media
outsider. Yet, the firing of such a loved weatherman (at least on my end) has me
bumfuddled. How could any television station in their right mind release such a gentle
soul? I remember, just the other night, my wife and I were watching a weekend newscast on
KATV, with Vic handling the weather duties. There he was, with his quaint smile and
demeanor - sure he was slurring a little bit, looking a tad confused sometimes, but still!
At least, he wasn't playing the piano. So, here's hoping Ed Buckner and the gang at Today's THV
will take advantage of KATV's blunder and cold-heartedness. Hire Vic, Ed! Get this man
back where he belongs! And, then maybe, just maybe, I'll call off my protest
plans. In fact, I'd bet money if Today's THV hires Vic, that Gusty will look like this: April 24, 2002 Alt-country poet rocker writer Steve Earle is back with a new album.
Earle, an aging and ornery misfit with a blessing of perfect prose and musical gifts
galore, has long been one of my favorite artists. He can't really fit into any type of
genre, musically. Most of his albums contain a couple of pure country pieces (think
Haggard, Nelson), a pinch of feedback-saturated garage grunge (think Nirvana), a tad of
heartland rock (think Springsteen, maybe Mellencamp), a nice chunk of energetic bluegrass
(think Ricky Skaggs, O ign="center"> April 24, 2002 Alt-country poet rocker writer Steve Earle is back with a new album.
Earle, an aging and ornery misfit with a blessing of perfect prose and musical gifts
galore, has long been one of my favorite artists. He can't really fit into any type of
genre, musically. Most of his albums contain a couple of pure country pieces (think
Haggard, Nelson), a pinch of feedback-saturated garage grunge (think Nirvana), a tad of
heartland rock (think Springsteen, maybe Mellencamp), a nice chunk of energetic bluegrass
(think Ricky Skaggs, O Brother) and with the past few CDs, a couple of Irish jigs
(think...um, Irish jigs). And, the lovely thing is, it all seams together
beautifully. I've praised Earle before in these pages, so I'll be
brief. Let's just say, if you love music – I mean, well-constructed pieces full of
life and images so true that most songs could be little novels and films unto themselves,
then Steve Earle is the man for you. If you've never taken the plunge with this artist,
then it's been your loss. His new album, Side Tracks, is a collection of
songs recorded by Earle for other projects (mainly movie soundtracks), as well as a few
pieces thrown in for the hell of it. If it sounds like an album tossed together simply for
the fans or maybe a quick buck, you'd be wrong. All of these songs stand by themselves. And, the variety is still strong: "Open Your
Window," from the movie, Pay It Forward, is a nice little acoustic-tinged mood
piece that again showcases Earle's gift for somewhat off-hand, yet addictive guitar licks.
His blistering cover of Nirvana's "Breed" allows the listener to wallow in the
screech and fi>, is a collection of
songs recorded by Earle for other projects (mainly movie soundtracks), as well as a few
pieces thrown in for the hell of it. If it sounds like an album tossed together simply for
the fans or maybe a quick buck, you'd be wrong. All of these songs stand by themselves. And, the variety is still strong: "Open Your
Window," from the movie, Pay It Forward, is a nice little acoustic-tinged mood
piece that again showcases Earle's gift for somewhat off-hand, yet addictive guitar licks.
His blistering cover of Nirvana's "Breed" allows the listener to wallow in the
screech and fuzz of the classic grunge tune that Earle faithfully re-interprets, with the
exception of his growling southern twang that replaces Kurt Cobain's sloppy northwestern
slur. Some other highlights include an animated acoustic
rocker, "Creepy Jackalope Eye" and a grit-tinged and appropriately dark look at
the life of a death row officer, "Ellis Unit One." The best cut on the album though comes from the
soundtrack to The Horse Whisperer, a film Earle claims in the fun liner notes as
one he has not seen. "Me and the Eagle" is simply one of the best things Earle
has done. It's a graceful, yet stark example of Earle's genius at melding his attractive
and poetic words with the simple beauty of his music. That cut alone is worth the price
tag for this new collection from one of the most under-appreciated artists of this time. * * * This year has been somewhat stale in
terms of new music. I've been spinning the worth-the-silly-hype disc, Is This It by
The Strokes and the stunning Gold by bratty alt-country rocker, Ryan Adams (both
from last year) in my CD player for months now, wf the best things Earle
has done. It's a graceful, yet stark example of Earle's genius at melding his attractive
and poetic words with the simple beauty of his music. That cut alone is worth the price
tag for this new collection from one of the most under-appreciated artists of this time. * * * This year has been somewhat stale in
terms of new music. I've been spinning the worth-the-silly-hype disc, Is This It by
The Strokes and the stunning Gold by bratty alt-country rocker, Ryan Adams (both
from last year) in my CD player for months now, waiting for some new musical jewel to drop
from the heavens. (See the last paragraph below for a strange coincidence.) A few worthy songs have surfaced through the rut.
"Alive Again" by Trey Anastasio, the leader of the Deadhead-ish band, Phish, is
a nice, jazzy tune that has me looking forward to the full CD, which hits the stores
Tuesday. I've never seriously listened to Phish, but this cut makes me want to further
investigate the band's past stuff. Other interesting songs catching my attention include
European superstar Kylie Minogue's cheesy little pop song, "Can't Get You Out of My
Head," an irritatingly catchy tune that ranks with Pink's "Don't Let Me Get
Me," as the two best guilty pleasures currently out there. (If you would've told me
two months ago I would have been in love with a song by Kylie Minogue or even Pink, I
probably would have slugged you for insulting me, Mr. Pretentious Music Dude.) Ms. Minogue's video for her song, however, is horrible.
It's like some early 1980s video by Duran Duran or Human League, only worse. Elvis Costello has released his first pure rock effort
in years, Wheg, "Can't Get You Out of My
Head," an irritatingly catchy tune that ranks with Pink's "Don't Let Me Get
Me," as the two best guilty pleasures currently out there. (If you would've told me
two months ago I would have been in love with a song by Kylie Minogue or even Pink, I
probably would have slugged you for insulting me, Mr. Pretentious Music Dude.) Ms. Minogue's video for her song, however, is horrible.
It's like some early 1980s video by Duran Duran or Human League, only worse. Elvis Costello has released his first pure rock effort
in years, When I Was Cruel. The first cut let loose to radio stations, "Tear
Off Your Own Head (It's a Doll Revolution)," is a hooky little guitar-driven rocker
that harks back to the days before Costello went artsy on us with string quartets, opera
singers and Burt Bacharach. The new issue of Rolling Stone proclaims Wilco's
new CD, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, as the first great album of the year. That album's
first cut released to radio, "Heavy Metal Drummer," is another nice gem to slip
in your head on a pleasant spring day. Both this CD and the Costello album were scheduled
to be released yesterday. Finally, I was listening to Van Morrison's excellent
1997 album, The Burning Ground, the other afternoon, when it hit me: Where is Van
these days? Oddly enough, the next day I read his new CD, Down
the Road, is hitting the stores in mid-May. "Hey, Mr. D.J.," the song
Morrison's label is pushing to radio, is an old school, sax- and string-driven cut that's
vintage Morrison. * * * As I was writing this column, I took a
break (genisterday. Finally, I was listening to Van Morrison's excellent
1997 album, The Burning Ground, the other afternoon, when it hit me: Where is Van
these days? Oddly enough, the next day I read his new CD, Down
the Road, is hitting the stores in mid-May. "Hey, Mr. D.J.," the song
Morrison's label is pushing to radio, is an old school, sax- and string-driven cut that's
vintage Morrison. * * * As I was writing this column, I took a
break (genius sometimes doesn't come all at once, you know) and read an article that noted
Ryan Adams has re-recorded the entire album Is This It, by The Strokes. According
to the article in the radio trade magazine, fmqb, Adams did it for fun and gave it
to The Strokes, who appreciated the tribute. Adams is not expected to release the disc to
the public. Drats. Little punk. The time has arrived. The first annual Ozark Foothills FilmFest officially
kicks off tomorrow with a big 1940s-style shindig in front of the historic Melba theatre,
and then everyone can appreciate a showing of the John Wayne Technicolor western, Shepherd
of the Hills, on the big Melba screen. This is only the beginning; a complete schedule of
critically-acclaimed films, along with details of family-fun events, film-lovers' talks
and workshops, as well as the big Levon Helm tribute and concert can be found in this
issue of Arkansas Weekly and the festival's official website,
www.ozarkfoothillsfilmfest.org. I also hope this is the beginning of a consistent anig 1940s-style shindig in front of the historic Melba theatre,
and then everyone can appreciate a showing of the John Wayne Technicolor western, Shepherd
of the Hills, on the big Melba screen. This is only the beginning; a complete schedule of
critically-acclaimed films, along with details of family-fun events, film-lovers' talks
and workshops, as well as the big Levon Helm tribute and concert can be found in this
issue of Arkansas Weekly and the festival's official website,
www.ozarkfoothillsfilmfest.org. I also hope this is the beginning of a consistent and
long running festival that will bring hundreds of out of town and out of state visitors to
Batesville; lots of tourist dollars to the community; and, of course, exposure to many
unique and exciting films in this area of Arkansas. I know, for a fact, that the inaugural
festival is attracting lots of folks from throughout the South, and if positive word
filters around the film buff's world about this fest and upcoming OFFF events, then it's
hoped a successful long run is guaranteed. The Batesville area will be home to a premier
festival and attendees from miles around will be able to appreciate this little valley
community by the river. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that just about
every comment regarding the potential of the Ozark Foothills FilmFest has been positive.
Only one person has asked me what the fuss is all about. Well, indulge me for a moment… The fuss is about exposing quality films many folks
would never have the opportunity to see. The fuss is about drawing tourists to this area
and exposing them to the beauty of our community. The fuss is about energizing local
citizens and involving them to help spur cultural growth, while at the same time helping
nt face="Arial"> I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that just about
every comment regarding the potential of the Ozark Foothills FilmFest has been positive.
Only one person has asked me what the fuss is all about. Well, indulge me for a moment… The fuss is about exposing quality films many folks
would never have the opportunity to see. The fuss is about drawing tourists to this area
and exposing them to the beauty of our community. The fuss is about energizing local
citizens and involving them to help spur cultural growth, while at the same time helping
to give an economic shot in the community's arm. The Ozark Foothills FilmFest could be another successful
festival that Batesville and the surrounding area could slip under its belt. With the
White River Water Carnival, Portfest, the Ozark Hawg Bar-B-Q and the Ozark Highland Games
at Lyon College, OFFF has the excellent potential of standing alongside these events and
attracting more tourists to this gorgeous region of the country. Make sure you take the time this weekend to come and
support it. * * * Many of you might not know Judy and Bob
Pest. I didn't know them this time last year, but when they came to my office months ago
to discuss the Ozark Foothills FilmFest, I immediately took a liking to their vision and
their energy. These are the two responsible for OFFF, and they deserve
a big round of applause for their work. Transplanted Yankees (we'll try not to hold that
against them), Bob and Judy fell in love with Arkansas and are excited about the potential
of the festival. This is their baby, so if you see them this weekegn="center"> Many of you might not know Judy and Bob
Pest. I didn't know them this time last year, but when they came to my office months ago
to discuss the Ozark Foothills FilmFest, I immediately took a liking to their vision and
their energy. These are the two responsible for OFFF, and they deserve
a big round of applause for their work. Transplanted Yankees (we'll try not to hold that
against them), Bob and Judy fell in love with Arkansas and are excited about the potential
of the festival. This is their baby, so if you see them this weekend,
make an effort to stop and thank them for their dedication and hard work. * * * The Levon Helm tribute and concert should
be a blast. I've always admired Levon for his rich contribution to rock and blues, but his
screen presence has also impressed me. Perhaps his most famous role is that of Loretta
Lynn's father in Coal Miner's Daughter, but he also appeared in and narrated one of
my favorite films, the astronaut epic, The Right Stuff. I remember seeing Levon and The Band perform on Saturday
Night Live on the early days of the late night staple and, even at my pre-teen age, I
instantly had an appreciation of the man for his energy and spirit he invested in "Up
on Cripple Creek" that night. Later, in college at Fayetteville, I saw The Band
(minus Robbie Robertson – spoilsport) at The Rink – a converted roller-skating
rink turned bar and concert hall. I knew then I was watching a legend in rock when Helm
belted out classics like "The Weight" and "The Night They Drove Old Dixie
Down." Later in college, I interned at a television station in
Fayetteville. urday
Night Live on the early days of the late night staple and, even at my pre-teen age, I
instantly had an appreciation of the man for his energy and spirit he invested in "Up
on Cripple Creek" that night. Later, in college at Fayetteville, I saw The Band
(minus Robbie Robertson – spoilsport) at The Rink – a converted roller-skating
rink turned bar and concert hall. I knew then I was watching a legend in rock when Helm
belted out classics like "The Weight" and "The Night They Drove Old Dixie
Down." Later in college, I interned at a television station in
Fayetteville. Sometimes late at night, when things were slow, one of the news reporters
would slip in a VHS copy of the classic concert movie, The Last Waltz – a
filmed document of The Band's farewell performance in San Francisco (they later
re-grouped, sans Robertson – did I mention he was a spoilsport?). I always got a kick
out of the interview with Levon in the movie. His irritation with director Martin
Scorsese's questions is hilarious; his Arkansas Delta twang brush offs and complaints grow
and grow during Scorsese's machine gun fast inquiries. (A remastered edition of The
Last Waltz on DVD is scheduled to hit stores next month while an enormous compact disc
box-set of the soundtrack, complete with unreleased recordings from the show, recently hit
record stores.) Helm has recently said The Band is old news; his own
group, the Barnburners with his daughter Amy on lead vocals, make up much of his focus
now. Plus, word is he wants to get back to acting in films in big way. If you don't have tickets yet (at press time, they were
very, very scarce), make plans to head to the tribute and concert Saturday. A chance to
see a music legend like Levon Helm is rare. It will be ompact disc
box-set of the soundtrack, complete with unreleased recordings from the show, recently hit
record stores.) Helm has recently said The Band is old news; his own
group, the Barnburners with his daughter Amy on lead vocals, make up much of his focus
now. Plus, word is he wants to get back to acting in films in big way. If you don't have tickets yet (at press time, they were
very, very scarce), make plans to head to the tribute and concert Saturday. A chance to
see a music legend like Levon Helm is rare. It will be a blast. * * * I received lots of phone calls and e-mails regarding
last week's column about the black stickers with the thin blue line across the middle. With the help of a few past and present law enforcement
officers, here is a rough explanation of the stickers: The stickers allegedly originated as an indication that
the person driving a vehicle with the sticker attached was somehow connected to law
enforcement. The "A" in the middle of the blue line indicated that the driver
might be armed (legally, of course). But, as time went on, distribution of the stickers
got out of hand with some family members, friends and, finally, members of the general
public abusing the original intent of the sticker. Now, according to one law enforcement officer, the
stickers have practically lost their usefulness. In fact, one officer told me that if
you're pulled over and you have one of these stickers attached to your vehicle, yet you
have no direct or close relation to an individual in law enforcement, it's a safe bet that
the officer that stopped you won't be too happy. Now, according to one law enforcement officer, the stickers have practically lost their usefulness. In fact, one officer told me that if you're pulled over and you have one of these stickers attached to your vehicle, yet you have no direct or close relation to an individual in law enforcement, it's a safe bet that the officer that stopped you won't be too happy. In other words, if you put one of these stickers on your car thinking the law will ignore you out of supposed solidarity, you're out of luck. Thanks to all of the law enforcement folks out there who responded to my column.
Forgive me while I present my thoughts on a variety of items that are thoroughly inconsequential… First impression of new Razorback head basketball coach Stan Heath: Let's rock and roll. The man carries an air of dignity and drive. I hope that his tenure is long, his athletes' graduation rate high and his wins many. And, any chump that gives him hell about his race should go jump in the river and never emerge. * * * Someone, tell me, please – what are these little stickers and license plates I've constantly been seeing on vehicles that feature a blue stripe across the middle of a black background? Some have the letter "A" in the middle of the blue stripe, some don't. I've heard that these little decals are supposedlyd drive. I hope that his tenure is long, his athletes' graduation rate high and his wins many. And, any chump that gives him hell about his race should go jump in the river and never emerge. * * * Someone, tell me, please – what are these little stickers and license plates I've constantly been seeing on vehicles that feature a blue stripe across the middle of a black background? Some have the letter "A" in the middle of the blue stripe, some don't. I've heard that these little decals are supposedly tags to keep Arkansas State Troopers off your back for some unknown reason. If so, I'm a bit concerned. Let's some drunk slug gets behind the wheel of a car with one of these tags affixed to it, zooms down the highway past a state trooper who sees the tag but does nothing, and then slams into a school bus. I have a major problem with these little blue-striped decals if this is their purpose. I don't know of any one, personally, who has one of these little decals or license plates, so I can't verify if the placement of such a thing gets one off the hook with the Arkansas State Police. This is just what I've heard. And, Lord knows, gossip does nothing but twist and pervert the actuality of something. But, if it is true, if it is true that state officers of the law might ignore you if you have some silly sticker on your car, then something ain't right. Any slime of the planet can stick this sucker on their vehicle and theoretically get away with monstrous things if this is fact. Someone, tell me what these stickers and license plates mean. I've spent countless nights pacing the kitchen floor, trying to figure the significance of these little blue-striped things, and it's drivi And, Lord knows, gossip does nothing but twist and pervert the actuality of something. But, if it is true, if it is true that state officers of the law might ignore you if you have some silly sticker on your car, then something ain't right. Any slime of the planet can stick this sucker on their vehicle and theoretically get away with monstrous things if this is fact. Someone, tell me what these stickers and license plates mean. I've spent countless nights pacing the kitchen floor, trying to figure the significance of these little blue-striped things, and it's driving me nuts. (Well, it hasn't really been keeping me up at nights, but it sounds nice and dramatic.) * * * Television is usually crammed tight with inane programming that is pandering and mediocre. I hardly watch it – preferring, instead, to hang out with my family, cruise the Internet, or read. And, please don't think that my criticism of television is something that I feel might make me look intelligent or snobby. I mean, I do think SpongeBob SquarePants is one of the finest programs TV has to offer. Yet, when you sit down and try to suffer through the majority of waste on television, one can get depressed. However, for me, a few jewels glimmer from under the dirty ground. There are the usuals: SpongeBob, Letterman, The Simpsons, Larry King Live (besides Koppel, King is the best interviewer on the tube), Nightline, Everybody Loves Raymond, Andy Griffith reruns and my two favorite new shows of the moment: Late Night With Zach on VH1 and The Osbournes on MTV.These two programs are fall on the floor, grasp your chest, bang your fist on the carpet funny. Late Night withto offer. Yet, when you sit down and try to suffer through the majority of waste on television, one can get depressed. However, for me, a few jewels glimmer from under the dirty ground. There are the usuals: SpongeBob, Letterman, The Simpsons, Larry King Live (besides Koppel, King is the best interviewer on the tube), Nightline, Everybody Loves Raymond, Andy Griffith reruns and my two favorite new shows of the moment: Late Night With Zach on VH1 and The Osbournes on MTV.These two programs are fall on the floor, grasp your chest, bang your fist on the carpet funny. Late Night with Zach, a semi-talkfest which features a troll-like little comic named Zach Galifianakis pestering stars of the moment, is refreshing in the fact that it knows celebrity is bollocks and it skewers the format it purports to be. Instead of fawning over the idiocy of celebrity, it throws lump, yet harmless, piles of sludge on the whole charade of the pop world. Good show, check it out. Late Night with Zach might not be around much longer because the ratings are horrible. The Osbournes, on the other hand, should be with us for a while. It's a hit and deservedly so. The MTV production, which follows heavy metal rocker Ozzy Osbourne and family around his palatial mansion in Los Angeles, is a glimpse inside of the absurd life of fame – where the aged and frazzled (seemingly from years of absurd drug and alcohol abuse) rock and roll artist shuffles through his home, trying in vain to make sense of his family and the world outside. It's sometimes charming to see the naivet� of a guy, who once bit off the heads of doves, struggling to communicate with his teenage kids who seemingly have no concept (or maybe they do) of the realities of everyday life. Funny stuff on which to waste youTV production, which follows heavy metal rocker Ozzy Osbourne and family around his palatial mansion in Los Angeles, is a glimpse inside of the absurd life of fame – where the aged and frazzled (seemingly from years of absurd drug and alcohol abuse) rock and roll artist shuffles through his home, trying in vain to make sense of his family and the world outside. It's sometimes charming to see the naivet� of a guy, who once bit off the heads of doves, struggling to communicate with his teenage kids who seemingly have no concept (or maybe they do) of the realities of everyday life. Funny stuff on which to waste your time. * * * Thank you to all of the folks who've sent words of sympathy regarding the loss of my grandmother. Charlotte was a true Southern lady, a unique character and a sweet spirit.
As a kid, Fridays were the best days in my little world. Waking up, I'd practically sprint down the stairs, grab the morning Arkansas Gazette and flip the pages over to the movie section. The ads for the movies opening that weekend in Little Rock always mesmerized me and, oddly, still do. The afternoons brought the Batesville Daily Guard thrown in the driveway, and usually, I'd be waiting in the yard. Outside, I'd flick the little green rubber bands off the paper and turn to see what was opening at the Landers, Melba and the late, lamented White River Drive-In. All of this was the beginning of a Friday ritual that lasted well into my early teens. Because by the time the Friday dusk settled and the newspapers were all read, it was time to head to the grandparent pages over to the movie section. The ads for the movies opening that weekend in Little Rock always mesmerized me and, oddly, still do. The afternoons brought the Batesville Daily Guard thrown in the driveway, and usually, I'd be waiting in the yard. Outside, I'd flick the little green rubber bands off the paper and turn to see what was opening at the Landers, Melba and the late, lamented White River Drive-In. All of this was the beginning of a Friday ritual that lasted well into my early teens. Because by the time the Friday dusk settled and the newspapers were all read, it was time to head to the grandparents. My father's parents lived in a house on Main Street, and every Friday, I spent the night with them. I'd take copies of the movie sections, along with about four or five of my G.I. Joes. There, my grandmother, Charlotte, would let me run wild throughout her big old home, as I imagined myself in the movies I had read about in the day's papers. G.I. Joe would be my stunt double for some scenes that would simply be too dangerous, like falling off the second story banister to the floor below, but, usually, I was the star, dashing in out of the high-ceiling rooms with a plastic machine gun in my hand, or diving from a chair onto a bed, as if I were bursting through a plate glass window after a bad guy. Steve McQueen, Jr.? Yours truly. Before bed, she and my grandfather would drive me down the street to look at the posters at the Landers and the Melba. I vividly remember the two of them driving me by the Landers one night when the movie Carnal Knowledge was playing. I can remember the poster design: spare and almost completely white with only the words "Carnal knowledge" forming a border around the one-sheet as the credits and the R-rating insignia sat at the bottom. Steve McQueen, Jr.? Yours truly. Before bed, she and my grandfather would drive me down the street to look at the posters at the Landers and the Melba. I vividly remember the two of them driving me by the Landers one night when the movie Carnal Knowledge was playing. I can remember the poster design: spare and almost completely white with only the words "Carnal knowledge" forming a border around the one-sheet as the credits and the R-rating insignia sat at the bottom. "Oh, dear," Charlotte, or Gagie (the grandkids' appointed name for her), said to me in her distinctive, sing-song Southern belle voice, "don't look! Don't look at that poster! Oh, me! They shouldn't be showing that movie! Oh, dear!" Of course, I had no idea what "carnal knowledge" meant, and I also didn't know that, at the time, the film was notorious and at the center of a landmark Supreme Court case. Gagie knew, though, and sheltering me from such filth was a priority for her. Looking after all of her grandchildren was a priority. The thing I remember most about her during my childhood was the genuine love she had for us all. Her attention to us was devoted and true. One night, I pretended to act out the entire preview for the Bruce Lee kung-fu flick, Enter the Dragon. I had seen the preview at the Melba one night, and that Friday at Gagie's, I acted it out with a crazed enthusiasm that might have concerned some parents. Gagie sat in the foyer as I bounced around, karate kicking and kung-fu chopping the invisible bad guys. She smiled, feigned amazement throughout my performance, and clapped madl all of her grandchildren was a priority. The thing I remember most about her during my childhood was the genuine love she had for us all. Her attention to us was devoted and true. One night, I pretended to act out the entire preview for the Bruce Lee kung-fu flick, Enter the Dragon. I had seen the preview at the Melba one night, and that Friday at Gagie's, I acted it out with a crazed enthusiasm that might have concerned some parents. Gagie sat in the foyer as I bounced around, karate kicking and kung-fu chopping the invisible bad guys. She smiled, feigned amazement throughout my performance, and clapped madly when I finished, out of breath and red with heat. Almost everything we did met with her vocal approval. When I entered junior high, she would pick me up once a week for lunch at her house. There, she would have either Kentucky Fried Chicken or a Big Mac and a copy of that Sunday's New York Times film section waiting on me. While she would talk and ask questions throughout my meal, I would survey the huge ads of movies playing in a city far away. She knew I still loved cinema, and she would, without fail, get the section for me from her brother-in-law every week. In college, she and my other grandmother, Louise, would drive up from Batesville to visit my sister and I about once every semester. We would take them to our favorite restaurants, maybe a movie, and catch up on things at home. One thing I remember about this time was a little confusion Gagie would sometimes have. She seemed to always have trouble figuring out how to operate the remote control, or she would move a little slow, and I would get frustrated and impatient. Of course, I would try to hide my petty feelings from her and later in the day, I would feel terrible about my reactions. It was horrible and selfish of me; here was a woman who had given me so muchp;In college, she and my other grandmother, Louise, would drive up from Batesville to visit my sister and I about once every semester. We would take them to our favorite restaurants, maybe a movie, and catch up on things at home. One thing I remember about this time was a little confusion Gagie would sometimes have. She seemed to always have trouble figuring out how to operate the remote control, or she would move a little slow, and I would get frustrated and impatient. Of course, I would try to hide my petty feelings from her and later in the day, I would feel terrible about my reactions. It was horrible and selfish of me; here was a woman who had given me so much, and I was irritated that she couldn't figure out how to turn on the television. A few years after I graduated and moved back home with my wife, Gagie developed a brain tumor. The resulting surgery was a success, but the recovery was long and hard. My father always looked after Gagie and my granddad these past few years as they stayed put in their house on Main. I would try to take our kids to see them now and then, and Gagie would tirelessly dote on them just like she did on me. "Oh, they're so beautiful, Rob," she would always tell me. "So beautiful." The only negative thing she had to say was about our son's name: Hutton. She told me she simply did not like it. She thought people would think we named him after E.F. Hutton, and we were trying to boast about our imagined riches. I'm writing this on March 21, 2002. It's about 11:00 at night, and Gagie is not well. The sadness of losing a loved one is heavy throughout the house on Main, and it all seems like we're only waiting. It's too much for me to see her in the state she is now. I stay away as much as I can, trying not to be insensitive. I only want to remember huot; The only negative thing she had to say was about our son's name: Hutton. She told me she simply did not like it. She thought people would think we named him after E.F. Hutton, and we were trying to boast about our imagined riches. I'm writing this on March 21, 2002. It's about 11:00 at night, and Gagie is not well. The sadness of losing a loved one is heavy throughout the house on Main, and it all seems like we're only waiting. It's too much for me to see her in the state she is now. I stay away as much as I can, trying not to be insensitive. I only want to remember her the way she was on those Friday nights in my youth. My focus is trained on the peace she will have. She was a devoted Christian, resolute in her faith and always trying to instill in her grandchildren the importance of a relationship with Christ. I don't think she failed in this regard whatsoever. "Just think how glorious it will be in Heaven when she gets there," my mother recently told me, and I have no doubt that this is true. Charlotte Grace loved her God, her family and her life, and she wanted everyone to know it. As a child, riding the streets of this town with her behind the wheel of one of her big old cars, she would always sing: This is the day, this is the day This is the day that the Lord hath made We will rejoice, we will rejoice We will rejoice and be glad in it. And, this is what I shall do: rejoice for my God, my life, my family, and for the life of Charlotte Grace. know it.As a child, riding the streets of this town with her behind the wheel of one of her big old cars, she would always sing: This is the day, this is the day This is the day that the Lord hath made We will rejoice, we will rejoice We will rejoice and be glad in it. And, this is what I shall do: rejoice for my God, my life, my family, and for the life of Charlotte Grace. And, I shall remember her well and with much love. * * * The other night, as I drove home from a video store with my daughter, we passed the Oaks 7 Cinema. "Daddy," she said, "pull in by the theatre." "Why, Sweetie?" I asked. "I like to look at the posters."
March 13, 2002 I'm a little late on this, but here's my take on the Nolan Richardson controversy. First, I hate that he left in a whirl of nasty comments and an atmosphere void of any true appreciation. A silly piece of paper from the athletic department and doubletalk from John White did nothing but tarnish the achievements Coach Richardson made during his career at Fayetteville. The comments from Coach Richardson that ignited this lamentable storm also tarnished the full appreciation of everything he built at the school. The"Arial">March 13, 2002 I'm a little late on this, but here's my take on the Nolan Richardson controversy. First, I hate that he left in a whirl of nasty comments and an atmosphere void of any true appreciation. A silly piece of paper from the athletic department and doubletalk from John White did nothing but tarnish the achievements Coach Richardson made during his career at Fayetteville. The comments from Coach Richardson that ignited this lamentable storm also tarnished the full appreciation of everything he built at the school. They carried that same old song and dance air that we've heard before. Richardson is known for his angry rambles and bitter diatribes, and these were just like those he's made before. In 1995, he famously noted that the school should "build a statue of me," but because of his race he noted, that would never happen. The difference in public outrage between that comment and the recent comments is, of course, the miserable season the Razorbacks have experienced this year. Richardson had just won the National Championship around the time of the statue comment. Yet, despite all of this, I agree with Gov. Mike Huckabee when he noted, in effect, that we should hold off on judging Richardson because none of us have ever "walked in his shoes." Racism still exists in 2002, and there are some miserable and pathetic people out there who've directed such hatred toward Richardson. To say that such mental violence would not and does not affect a person is ridiculous. There are two things, though, that should be recognized in all of this mess. One: despite his God-like status in the state, someone needs to take a closer look at the reign of Frank Broyles. There is no doubt thatuckabee when he noted, in effect, that we should hold off on judging Richardson because none of us have ever "walked in his shoes." Racism still exists in 2002, and there are some miserable and pathetic people out there who've directed such hatred toward Richardson. To say that such mental violence would not and does not affect a person is ridiculous. There are two things, though, that should be recognized in all of this mess. One: despite his God-like status in the state, someone needs to take a closer look at the reign of Frank Broyles. There is no doubt that Broyles has helped steer the athletic department at Fayetteville to the heights it currently occupies. Yet, there is something behind the curtains of the Broyles establishment that seems odd. When you have excellent coaches such as Lou Holtz, Eddie Sutton, Ken Hatfield, and Nolan Richardson all leaving under bad circumstances, then something smells a tad funny. I don't know…maybe it's just me. Two: despite my thoughts about Frank Broyles, perhaps it is better Nolan is gone solely because of the absolutely embarrassing graduation rates among his African-American players. As noted in an excellent column (by an African-American writer, Phil Taylor) on the CNNSI.com (CNN/Sports Illustrated) website, a NCAA 2001 study showed that none – NONE – of the African-American students that were with Nolan Richardson from 1990 through 1994 graduated from the University of Arkansas. Richardson tried to defend the record in an interview with ESPN, but his comments seemed to say that his black students are in school only as a stepping stone to some type of basketball career. As Taylor noted in his column that was posted March 4, a college basketball coach should not only follow his athletes every step of the way physically, but he should track his team's acn African-American writer, Phil Taylor) on the CNNSI.com (CNN/Sports Illustrated) website, a NCAA 2001 study showed that none – NONE – of the African-American students that were with Nolan Richardson from 1990 through 1994 graduated from the University of Arkansas. Richardson tried to defend the record in an interview with ESPN, but his comments seemed to say that his black students are in school only as a stepping stone to some type of basketball career. As Taylor noted in his column that was posted March 4, a college basketball coach should not only follow his athletes every step of the way physically, but he should track his team's academic record just as closely as their stats on the court. If Coach Richardson truly cared about the eventual outcome of all of his students, then one would think his attention to their obtainment of a degree would have been more focused. In a recent issue of Sports Illustrated, Charles Barkley touched on the subject of African-American kids pinning all of their future hopes on a career in sports: "Every black kid thinks the only way he can be successful is through athletics. That is a terrible thing…" * * * The other afternoon, my six-year-old daughter Hannah was shuffling through some old photos with my grandmother, Louise. She came across an old black and white picture of Lou's late husband, Quentin, and asked her great-grandmother whom the man in the picture was. "That's your great-grandfather," Louise told her. "He's in heaven now." Hannah studied the picture a moment. "Hmmm," she said. "He'd be cute if he wasn't dead." Don't worry. Lou goThe other afternoon, my six-year-old daughter Hannah was shuffling through some old photos with my grandmother, Louise. She came across an old black and white picture of Lou's late husband, Quentin, and asked her great-grandmother whom the man in the picture was. "That's your great-grandfather," Louise told her. "He's in heaven now." Hannah studied the picture a moment. "Hmmm," she said. "He'd be cute if he wasn't dead." Don't worry. Lou got a good laugh out of that. March 6, 2002 It's been a couple of weeks since I sat down to do this thing. My absence was not due to laziness or illness – though, roughly one half of our crew here at W.R.D. Entertainment has been hit by this flu bug thing that's been floating about. I've been lucky to miss out on the rampant sickness, but as I write, I swear I feel a sore throat coming on. Cough. Cough. Actually, the reason for my two week disappearance is quite boring: I've been a madman at work. It seems like everything is going on at once, and I'm juggling more than my arms can handle. That's fine, though — I ain't complaining. It's funny. The hours in the day seem so limited, and I'm constantly in a frenzied rush, which can sometimes be irritating. People at work tell me that they can recognize when I realize that my time is precious. They can be in deep conversation about a subject with me when suddenly my eyes somewhat glaze over and my mouth hangs half-open. Wait, two week disappearance is quite boring: I've been a madman at work. It seems like everything is going on at once, and I'm juggling more than my arms can handle. That's fine, though — I ain't complaining. It's funny. The hours in the day seem so limited, and I'm constantly in a frenzied rush, which can sometimes be irritating. People at work tell me that they can recognize when I realize that my time is precious. They can be in deep conversation about a subject with me when suddenly my eyes somewhat glaze over and my mouth hangs half-open. Wait, that's not right. I only get that face when I think about the new Stuff magazine that features Sheryl Crow wearing a come-hither look on the cover. But, you get the idea. If I've been with someone on a particular subject for a long moment, I sort of drift off into a zone when I feel that it's time to move on. It's very rude and self-centered of me, and I need to stop it. So, the long and short of it is this: I've been a busy little boy, and I've put off writing this little column, and to my longtime readers – all seven of them, including Mommy – I'm sorry. * * * Speaking of that Sheryl Crow cover on the new Stuff magazine, the accompanying article really doesn't do wonders for Ms. Crow's image. She's an incredibly intelligent and talented musician, and I'll plunk down fifteen bucks for her albums – including her upcoming CD, but in the interview she makes the following remarks about teen pop superstars Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera: "Those poor girls. They're being marketed like pornng Mommy – I'm sorry. * * * Speaking of that Sheryl Crow cover on the new Stuff magazine, the accompanying article really doesn't do wonders for Ms. Crow's image. She's an incredibly intelligent and talented musician, and I'll plunk down fifteen bucks for her albums – including her upcoming CD, but in the interview she makes the following remarks about teen pop superstars Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera: "Those poor girls. They're being marketed like porn stars. I don't mean to sound like a fuddy-duddy, but the images are pretty sleazy." And, later on the same subject: "They're baring it all like that's what has to be done to make it as a musician." Good thoughts. I completely agree with her. But, the pictures that accompany Ms. Crow's interview are not exactly sweet and pure. Let's see there's one where she's straddling an amplifier. Oh, and here's one where she's wearing a string bikini top and denim undies. And, here are a few where she models some extra tight bikini bottoms with her cheek hanging out. (And, that wouldn't be one of the cheeks above the shoulders.) Oh, well. It's somewhat disappointing. I mean, Heaven knows I've always thought Sheryl Crow was gorgeous. Still do. But, it's hard to take her thoughts on these teen superstars seriously when she's posing in similar images just like the ones she's criticizing. Well, wait a minute. What am I saying? I take all of that back. I wouldn't have given the magazine a second look if she had not been on the cover. She looks FANe she models some extra tight bikini bottoms with her cheek hanging out. (And, that wouldn't be one of the cheeks above the shoulders.) Oh, well. It's somewhat disappointing. I mean, Heaven knows I've always thought Sheryl Crow was gorgeous. Still do. But, it's hard to take her thoughts on these teen superstars seriously when she's posing in similar images just like the ones she's criticizing. Well, wait a minute. What am I saying? I take all of that back. I wouldn't have given the magazine a second look if she had not been on the cover. She looks FANTASTIC! You go, woman! (Of course, everyone knows I love my wife. As I have said before, the doghouse is a lonely place.) * * * Took in a meal at the new Italian Grill in Batesville the other day, and it was superb. I'm an Italian food freak and extremely picky, but the Manicotti I ate was tasty. I had bites of some other plates at our table, and they, too, were delicious. I'm going to step on a few dry county toes here, but the only thing missing was a glass of cabernet. All in all, a great meal, nice atmosphere and friendly service. The Italian Grill is another fine addition to a town that's quickly becoming the home to many delectable eateries. Now, if I could just get Herman's Rib House in Fayetteville to open an outlet here, I'd be set.
My father, insightful as he is, t;I'm going to step on a few dry county toes here, but the only thing missing was a glass of cabernet. All in all, a great meal, nice atmosphere and friendly service. The Italian Grill is another fine addition to a town that's quickly becoming the home to many delectable eateries. Now, if I could just get Herman's Rib House in Fayetteville to open an outlet here, I'd be set.
My father, insightful as he is, told me the other day that I've become redundant in my columns. It seems, he said, that I only write about movies, terrorism and Michael Jackson. Why I'm fixated on all three subjects is odd, I suppose. And, somehow terrorism doesn't fit with movies and Michael Jackson. Well, I take that back: The Gloved One could be considered somewhat terrifying. So, as I look back over the stuff I've written recently, I have to say I agree with Pop. I admit I've always had an interest in movies, particularly films that fly in under the popularity radar, and post Sept. 11 terror news is something I think we should all follow. As for Michael Jackson – well, I think we all realize my contempt for the man borders on the extreme, and if I keep on with my Wacko Jacko rants, psychological counseling might be in order for yours truly. The three subjects have become somewhat of a crutch for me, and I have to move on. It's tough. I follow some other columnists on the web, and I have to say, it's impd an interest in movies, particularly films that fly in under the popularity radar, and post Sept. 11 terror news is something I think we should all follow. As for Michael Jackson – well, I think we all realize my contempt for the man borders on the extreme, and if I keep on with my Wacko Jacko rants, psychological counseling might be in order for yours truly. The three subjects have become somewhat of a crutch for me, and I have to move on. It's tough. I follow some other columnists on the web, and I have to say, it's impressive to see how they come up with intelligent discourse every week. Of course, my subject base is, well, "all over the map," while their topics are usually solitary: Thomas Friedman of the New York Times (Middle Eastern relations); Maureen Dowd of the Times (national affairs); William Safire of the Times (politics); Jeffrey Wells of Reel.com (films); Andrew Sullivan of andrewsullivan.com (national affairs/politics); and Howard Kurtz of the Washington Post (media). And, everyone knows, I'm nowhere near their talent zone. Still, doing this weekly shindig can be taxing on my limited intellect. So, I have an idea. Every now and then, I'll solicit your suggestions for columns. Why don't you jot some column suggestions down on some paper and mail them to me. My address is: ROB GRACE Or, simply e-mail me: [email protected]. Put "su can be taxing on my limited intellect. So, I have an idea. Every now and then, I'll solicit your suggestions for columns. Why don't you jot some column suggestions down on some paper and mail them to me. My address is: ROB GRACE Or, simply e-mail me: [email protected]. Put "suggestions" in the subject area, so I don't mistake your note for junk mail. I'll go through them and pick a few for later columns. *** Two local folks that were much beloved by the community recently passed away. Growing up, I had the pleasure of consuming the cooking of Ms. Rosetta Petty many times. In her little white house behind Ideal Bakery, Rosetta would always have the stove and oven working overtime in her narrow, dimly-lit kitchen. There, she'd always be cooking delicious southern meals such as fried chicken, chicken pot pie, chicken spaghetti, enormous cinnamon rolls, chocolate pie, hot tamales and buttery rolls for all sorts of folks. By the time I could drive, I became designated family member to go pick up dinner from Ms. Rosetta on the nights we ordered a meal. I'd knock on the battered screen door from inside her carport, step past the cats creeping around the entrance, and go inside where she'd always greet me warmly. She would shuffle through the kitchen, stuffed with ing overtime in her narrow, dimly-lit kitchen. There, she'd always be cooking delicious southern meals such as fried chicken, chicken pot pie, chicken spaghetti, enormous cinnamon rolls, chocolate pie, hot tamales and buttery rolls for all sorts of folks. By the time I could drive, I became designated family member to go pick up dinner from Ms. Rosetta on the nights we ordered a meal. I'd knock on the battered screen door from inside her carport, step past the cats creeping around the entrance, and go inside where she'd always greet me warmly. She would shuffle through the kitchen, stuffed with pots, pans and box bottoms that would be utilized to hold the hot food for delivery and get everything ready for me. Despite her slow movement and the thick heat of the kitchen, her demeanor was always upbeat and genuine. I know she had more than a few rough spots in this life, but peace is finally with her and she is remembered with fondness and warmth. Lindsey Bridgman, the father of W.R.D. Entertainment General Manager Gary Bridgman, also recently passed away. I never had the opportunity to get to know the elder Bridgman, but all accounts paint him as a man well regarded. A life-long carpenter, Mr. Bridgman was a deacon in the Southside Church of Christ and was blessed with a long and healthy marriage, a loving family and countless grandkids. That, the minister said at his funeral, was the measure of a successful man. I do know Gary and his father had a close and special relationship, and all of our condolences here at Arkansas Weekly go out to Gary and his family. A life-long carpenter, Mr. Bridgman was a deacon in the Southside Church of Christ and was blessed with a long and healthy marriage, a loving family and countless grandkids. That, the minister said at his funeral, was the measure of a successful man. I do know Gary and his father had a close and special relationship, and all of our condolences here at Arkansas Weekly go out to Gary and his family. It's been almost six months since Sept. 11. One half of a year. A long time that's gone by in a flash. And, what have we learned? First, the bad: The possibility of future attacks is very real. The government seemingly releases terror threats on a continual basis. So-called "suitcase nukes" are a viable danger (read the latest issue of GQ for an enlightening article on this subject). Small pox and anthrax, antiquated words before Sept. 11, now pose a true hazard. And, there is absolutely no sign that our image has improved in the Middle East, where vast numbers of Islamic people truly believe that Bin Laden is innocent and thousands of Jewish citizens were warned to not go into the World Trade Center on that bloody day. Thomas Friedman, the New York Times columnist, regularly preaches the importance of aggressively reaching out to Middle Eastern countries to shake the image of the United States as the Great Satan. His column is required reading for those of you interested in the future of the war hrax, antiquated words before Sept. 11, now pose a true hazard. And, there is absolutely no sign that our image has improved in the Middle East, where vast numbers of Islamic people truly believe that Bin Laden is innocent and thousands of Jewish citizens were warned to not go into the World Trade Center on that bloody day. Thomas Friedman, the New York Times columnist, regularly preaches the importance of aggressively reaching out to Middle Eastern countries to shake the image of the United States as the Great Satan. His column is required reading for those of you interested in the future of the war on terrorism and the Middle East. I don't agree 100 percent with everything he writes, but he seems to be the most practical voice I've found on the subjects. Friedman argues, the Bush administration is doing next to nothing in the Islamic world to help polish the reputation of America. As fundamentalist Islamic schools feed their children the lie of evil Americans, America is not doing enough to counter such falsehoods. An example that Friedman suggests: any kind of practical aid to such countries should come branded with the American flag. If a Pakistani teen studies under a light bulb with a tiny American flag on it, then perhaps another sliver of the Satanic America image is chipped away. Or, what if schools built in Sudan are built with bricks imprinted with the Stars and Stripes. This, perhaps, is too simple of an analogy, but Friedman has a point. The more we exhibit a willingness to actually help, the more we personally and physically exhibit that we aren't the bad guys, then perhaps, the more our image will (one hopes) positively change. As for the current rash of terror threats, I don't have an answer. One hopes that the Bush administration and Congress will adequately provide for highly effective can flag on it, then perhaps another sliver of the Satanic America image is chipped away. Or, what if schools built in Sudan are built with bricks imprinted with the Stars and Stripes. This, perhaps, is too simple of an analogy, but Friedman has a point. The more we exhibit a willingness to actually help, the more we personally and physically exhibit that we aren't the bad guys, then perhaps, the more our image will (one hopes) positively change. As for the current rash of terror threats, I don't have an answer. One hopes that the Bush administration and Congress will adequately provide for highly effective intelligence and defense programs that will prevent any future events. I'm certainly not a political mastermind, and I don't pretend to be. Yet, in these days, simple optimism — even na�ve optimism — is one of the few things we have left to combat such times of unease and uncertainty. * * * I didn't watch President Bush's State of the Union on live television last Tuesday night. Instead, I read the text off the Washington Post's website an hour or two later. One reason I didn't watch it live is somewhat silly and indicative of the times: I was scared to watch it. After seeing the second Sept. 11 jet hit on live television, I've tried to stop watching big events broadcast in real time. I don't want to ever feel my heart stop like it did that morning. So, anytime the President is with Congress and the Vice-President in one place, I get very uneasy. The opportunity for some crazed terrorist seems ripe on such occasions. Another reason I didn't watch the event was because of all of the applause breaks. Don't getne reason I didn't watch it live is somewhat silly and indicative of the times: I was scared to watch it. After seeing the second Sept. 11 jet hit on live television, I've tried to stop watching big events broadcast in real time. I don't want to ever feel my heart stop like it did that morning. So, anytime the President is with Congress and the Vice-President in one place, I get very uneasy. The opportunity for some crazed terrorist seems ripe on such occasions. Another reason I didn't watch the event was because of all of the applause breaks. Don't get me wrong, much of what Bush said deserved all of the accolades, but after watching a replay of the address on C-SPAN, it seemed like there was an applause break after every sentence. (APPLAUSE) I mean it. There were too many applause breaks. (APPLAUSE) This speech could have been over in 15 minutes. (APPLAUSE) Instead, with all of the applause breaks, it took an hour. (APPLAUSE) * * * I finally had a chance to see The Royal Tennenbaums the other day in Little Rock. It lived up to my expectations. A dream cast (Gene Hackman, Bill Murray, Angelica Huston, Danny Glover, Gwyneth Paltrow, Luke Wilson, Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller) helps tell the tale of the Tennenbaum clan, a family of somewhat-warped individuals coming to terms with their deadbeat fbreaks, it took an hour. (APPLAUSE) * * * I finally had a chance to see The Royal Tennenbaums the other day in Little Rock. It lived up to my expectations. A dream cast (Gene Hackman, Bill Murray, Angelica Huston, Danny Glover, Gwyneth Paltrow, Luke Wilson, Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller) helps tell the tale of the Tennenbaum clan, a family of somewhat-warped individuals coming to terms with their deadbeat father's (Hackman) attempts to reconcile. Of course, the dad is broke and jealous of his wife's attraction to another man, so things aren't always rosy. Wes Anderson, the Texas-bred director, fills his widescreen full of vibrant and vivid images and characters. It's a sweet and fun movie that will probably wind up as my favorite of 2001. Just in case you cared. See you next week. I'm finished. Tis the season for awards shows. Awards shows. And, more awards shows. Let's see, we started off the year with the American Film Institute's inaugural awards show. While the A.F.I. has some prestige, America really didn't need another awards show, and Hollywood seemed to agree: hardly anyone showed up, according to the press coverage. One of the most embarrassing awards show aired a few days ago, and it's a good thing I didn't watch it. Dick Clark's American Music Awards featured the current crop of dunderhead plastic pre-fab pop stars: Britney, N'Sync, some of the Backards shows. Awards shows. And, more awards shows. Let's see, we started off the year with the American Film Institute's inaugural awards show. While the A.F.I. has some prestige, America really didn't need another awards show, and Hollywood seemed to agree: hardly anyone showed up, according to the press coverage. One of the most embarrassing awards show aired a few days ago, and it's a good thing I didn't watch it. Dick Clark's American Music Awards featured the current crop of dunderhead plastic pre-fab pop stars: Britney, N'Sync, some of the Backstreet Boys. And, as if to completely eradicate any sense of stature, the A.M.A.s had developed, they went and awarded the King of Plastic Pre-Fab Pop Stars, Michael Jackson, some thing called the "Artist of the Century" award. My admiration for Elvis not only applied to his music but also his fondness for exploding his television sets with .38-caliber bullets when a program offended him. Had I watched this show and been in possession of a .38-caliber, I would have been looking for a new T.V. set the next day. Artist of the Century? I can think of 100 artists that deserve that silly title more than freako man, Elvis being one. But, if the A.M.A. really wanted to show the world that they knew their stuff about quality music, then the obvious choice for Artist of the Century would have been, of course, David Hasselhoff. I digress. I simply don't have the time or urge to watch awards shows anymore. I watched part of the Oscars last year, but only for Steve Martin's hosting duties. Whoopi Goldberg hosts this year, and that's a simply safe, generic choice. If they really wanted to stay edgy and entertaining, they should have stuck with Martin, orhan freako man, Elvis being one. But, if the A.M.A. really wanted to show the world that they knew their stuff about quality music, then the obvious choice for Artist of the Century would have been, of course, David Hasselhoff. I digress. I simply don't have the time or urge to watch awards shows anymore. I watched part of the Oscars last year, but only for Steve Martin's hosting duties. Whoopi Goldberg hosts this year, and that's a simply safe, generic choice. If they really wanted to stay edgy and entertaining, they should have stuck with Martin, or perhaps tagged someone like Eddie Murphy. That's a guy who should be back in the spotlight, showcasing his natural comedic self from his early days that resurfaced last year in Shrek. * * * OK, I think it's pretty much official: Mike Tyson is insane. Well, maybe not official, but goodness gracious, did you see the man explode at last week's press conference announcing his match up with Lennox Lewis? Tyson rushed Lewis as soon as Lewis was introduced to the media. The tape I viewed showed a crowd of men struggling and shoving on the stage until the dread-locked head of Lewis pops up out of the crowd pointing down, apparently, to his foot – which Tyson allegedly bit in the ruckus. Tyson, on the other end of the stage, kept straining to get back to Lewis and even struck a large gentleman in the face who was holding him back. After the mess subsided, someone in the audience yelled, "Put him in a straitjacket!" Tyson then went ballistic again, screaming obscenities to the man and almost begging him to come up and fight. This comes a few weeks after Tyson hit a cameraman and threw crystal bowls toward other members of the media in Cuba. * * * I do have an idea for the man if he can't get it together. Just go into the fast food business. I can see it now: "Welcome to Tyson's Yummies, can I take your order?" "Yeah, I'll take the spicy ear burger and a medium Coke." "Would you like an order of toes with that?" * * * Of course, Tyson deserves much of the scorn. When he began his screaming and taunting act to the heckler in the crowd, you could see the wild fire in the man's eyes. He was a true thug out of control. I find Tyson's erratic and violent tantrums somewhat odd, particularly when, in the past, he has seemed to be an articulate and thoughtful guy. What has happened? This was a." "Would you like an order of toes with that?" * * * Of course, Tyson deserves much of the scorn. When he began his screaming and taunting act to the heckler in the crowd, you could see the wild fire in the man's eyes. He was a true thug out of control. I find Tyson's erratic and violent tantrums somewhat odd, particularly when, in the past, he has seemed to be an articulate and thoughtful guy. What has happened? This was a man with genuine talent and power, a man who could have been one of the greatest boxers of all time. Yet, time and again, he resorts to such extreme unmanageable anger and hate. At such moments, it's hard to defend such repugnant behavior, both in the boxing arena and off. Something is obviously not clicking upstairs, and he needs some serious help. * * * I'm not ignoring the P.T. Barnum aspect to this Lewis/Tyson melee. One would have to think that some of it was staged. But if that's true, then the image of boxing has taken another step toward the sewer. Just name Vince McMahon the commissioner and get it over with. * * * Other stuff… The British comedy troupe, Monty Python, has been popping up in my life lately. I've always been a fan of their stuff. Idiotic comedy, from Looney Tunes to early Steve Martin to Mel Brooks, has always been my favorite, and the guys in Monty Python wore the moronic if that's true, then the image of boxing has taken another step toward the sewer. Just name Vince McMahon the commissioner and get it over with. * * * Other stuff… The British comedy troupe, Monty Python, has been popping up in my life lately. I've always been a fan of their stuff. Idiotic comedy, from Looney Tunes to early Steve Martin to Mel Brooks, has always been my favorite, and the guys in Monty Python wore the moronic badge with pride. In high school, I made a girl I dated suffer through re-runs of their BBC program on AETN. She could never understand why such inane comedy could throw me in a fit of laughter. For some reason, a company has re-released what is probably the most famous work of Monty Python, the 1974 movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail. A brand-new DVD edition hit the stores a few months ago, and prints of the film have been showing in cinemas across the country. The Carmike Wynsonng 7 in Little Rock has been showing the film (as of this writing) for roughly two months – an incredibly long run for a re-release. The other day I caught a matinee just for the fun of seeing it on the big screen, and the movie still impressed and tickled. Then a couple of weeks later, in church of all places, our pastor referenced the film in a lengthy patch of his sermon. The Python game was a bit risqu� now and then, and their film Life of Brian was targeted for protest by many conservative religious groups upon its release years ago, so it was a little shock to hear their work mentioned in a sermon. But, then again, Python's work seen now seems tame and innocent compared to some comedy. Then a couple of weeks later, in church of all places, our pastor referenced the film in a lengthy patch of his sermon. The Python game was a bit risqu� now and then, and their film Life of Brian was targeted for protest by many conservative religious groups upon its release years ago, so it was a little shock to hear their work mentioned in a sermon. But, then again, Python's work seen now seems tame and innocent compared to some comedy. The group has been split for over two decades now, but about two years ago they reunited for an appearance at the American Comedy Festival in Aspen. As they sat on a stage and reminisced for an audience, they fondly recalled Graham Chapman, the only member of the troupe to have passed away. In fact, they said, they had Chapman's ashes onstage in an urn with them, just so he could be there in spirit. They, then, "accidentally" spilled the ashes in a thick gray cloud all over the stage. It was never said they were tasteful and classy. Which, I suppose, is why I love their work. January 9, 2002 I'm writing this two days before 2002, though you'll read it a week (or later) after the new year, and I feel like making some resolutions. I've rarely made New Year's resolutions, and those that I have made have rarely been kept. It's never been a practice I've taken seriously. Yet, as I age, the idey were tasteful and classy. Which, I suppose, is why I love their work. January 9, 2002 I'm writing this two days before 2002, though you'll read it a week (or later) after the new year, and I feel like making some resolutions. I've rarely made New Year's resolutions, and those that I have made have rarely been kept. It's never been a practice I've taken seriously. Yet, as I age, the idea of resolutions – things that will, ideally, make one a better person physically and mentally – seems to be more urgent and essential. You know the usual ones: eat healthy, spend more time with the family, exercise — these are my predictable resolutions to get more out of life. But, there are other small, almost gentle adjustments and tasks I need to make that would, I hope, reflect positively on my world and life. For instance, in 2002, I resolve to stop harassing my brother in print, on air, and at various public gatherings and family dinners. This would, I think, enhance our relationship as we both approach middle age. In our declining years, Chippy and I will come to depend on each other for various things and having an unhealthy relationship will do nothing but hamper such "winter of our lives" days. For instance, if we have a healthy relationship in our elder days and he happens to walk in front of a large truck one afternoon, there's a good chance I'll be in his inheritance in some form. (Maybe I'll get that nice set of golf clubs he purchased this year.) So, starting in 2002, I will stop implying that my brother wears a toupee, that his intellect is roughly comparable to that of a mule's, and that he privately questions his manp as we both approach middle age. In our declining years, Chippy and I will come to depend on each other for various things and having an unhealthy relationship will do nothing but hamper such "winter of our lives" days. For instance, if we have a healthy relationship in our elder days and he happens to walk in front of a large truck one afternoon, there's a good chance I'll be in his inheritance in some form. (Maybe I'll get that nice set of golf clubs he purchased this year.) So, starting in 2002, I will stop implying that my brother wears a toupee, that his intellect is roughly comparable to that of a mule's, and that he privately questions his manhood. Oh, sorry, that last one is supposed to be private – thus, the adverb "privately." Please disregard the reference. I also resolve to stop wasting time by watching trashy, gossipy, and repugnant television programs like VH1's Behind the Music or MTV's The Real World. Living vicariously off the miseries of others is repugnant and wrong. I will instead focus on positive and intellectually stimulating programming such as E!'s True Hollywood Story and The Howard Stern Show. Since I wrote somewhat rudely about my wife in last week's column, I resolve to never, ever, mention Julie in a column this year. The doghouse is a lonely place, the dishes are many, and naps are sorely missed. I will learn to play the electric guitar I recently bought for our son. The boy is only three, so let's be real, I purchased the thing for myself to fulfill some type of long suppressed desire to be the lead guitarist for Mr. Mister. Wouldn't it be cool if, at the age of 35, I could be onstage in front of thousands of screaming fans performing my own original material that would someday be as cherished as "Broken Wings" o wife in last week's column, I resolve to never, ever, mention Julie in a column this year. The doghouse is a lonely place, the dishes are many, and naps are sorely missed. I will learn to play the electric guitar I recently bought for our son. The boy is only three, so let's be real, I purchased the thing for myself to fulfill some type of long suppressed desire to be the lead guitarist for Mr. Mister. Wouldn't it be cool if, at the age of 35, I could be onstage in front of thousands of screaming fans performing my own original material that would someday be as cherished as "Broken Wings" or any song from the early 80s Hall and Oates canon? I will make a point to be more involved and vocal with future Arkansas Weekly editorials, particularly those that concern local animal control officers. The kids have been hinting recently that a puppy needs to be part of the household, and it might be smart to be on the dog catcher's good side. Chain schmain… I'll refrain from spending so much money on DVDs and begin renting them instead. I mean, really, how many times can I watch Show Girls? Well, wait – that's really not a good example. I mean, really, how many times can I watch Patton? I'll finally get around to reading The Corrections, the National Book Award-winning novel that's been sitting on my office bookshelf since early September. If there's anything I'm snobby about, it's literature, and The Corrections is supposedly one of the year's best. But first, I need to finish that new Danielle Steele. It is absolutely the most moving book I've read since Kathie Lee's autobiography. Oh, if I start to even think about it, I'lood example. I mean, really, how many times can I watch Patton? I'll finally get around to reading The Corrections, the National Book Award-winning novel that's been sitting on my office bookshelf since early September. If there's anything I'm snobby about, it's literature, and The Corrections is supposedly one of the year's best. But first, I need to finish that new Danielle Steele. It is absolutely the most moving book I've read since Kathie Lee's autobiography. Oh, if I start to even think about it, I'll simply tear up… So, that's it. A list of goals I think I can meet, but I'll need to be disciplined and aggressive. I'll keep you updated as the year progresses, but now the E! True Hollywood Story featuring a behind the scenes look at Happy Days is starting. I'll finally get the inside scoop on the rumored romantic tension between Anson Williams and Marion Ross. Gotta go. Get back here soon, Kelli!
A friend of my wife's complained the other day that
she can't understand my columns. She told Julie that I skip around a lot. Of course, this
friend just started reading my little column thingy I do, so she's not yet hip to my
thang, you dig? It should also be noted that this friend – I hesitate to say her
name…oh heck, it's a woman named Stacy Carrico from Little Rock. Anyway, it's well
known that Stacy is a few bricks shy of a load, so it is somewhat understandable that she
doesn't "get" my column. I'm willing to let her slide. A friend of my wife's complained the other day that she can't understand my columns. She told Julie that I skip around a lot. Of course, this friend just started reading my little column thingy I do, so she's not yet hip to my thang, you dig? It should also be noted that this friend – I hesitate to say her name…oh heck, it's a woman named Stacy Carrico from Little Rock. Anyway, it's well known that Stacy is a few bricks shy of a load, so it is somewhat understandable that she doesn't "get" my column. I'm willing to let her slide. So, Stacy, let's be clear on this week's column. I'm going to cover a variety of inane and useless topics. If this is what you call "skipping around," then hold my hand, and we'll try to do this slowly. Seriously, it's good to be criticized. Constructive criticism, taken seriously, can only help one in their endeavors. I mean, contrary to what I think, there are some folks out there who might view me as a spoiled little ninny with a terrible sense of prose and humor, as well as intellect. I'd be shocked – shocked – if someone really felt that way about me, but so it goes… * * * It seems like someone at USA Today is reading Arkansas Weekly. In the Nov. 19 issue of USA Today, a television columnist opened his column with a quote from Ted Koppel's book, Off Camera, in which the veteran newscaster wrote that 1999 might be remembered as a pre-war year. A few weeks back, in my Nov. 7 column, I included part of the exact same quote from the same book. shocked – if someone really felt that way about me, but so it goes… * * * It seems like someone at USA Today is reading Arkansas Weekly. In the Nov. 19 issue of USA Today, a television columnist opened his column with a quote from Ted Koppel's book, Off Camera, in which the veteran newscaster wrote that 1999 might be remembered as a pre-war year. A few weeks back, in my Nov. 7 column, I included part of the exact same quote from the same book. Is this plagiarism at work? Should I partake in legal action and sue Gannett (the parent company of USA Today)? Of course not. It's pure coincidence. But, after Sept. 11, I was a bit surprised no one had yet referenced the quote. * * * Horror of horrors, Details magazine reports in the December issue that Chevrolet is saying goodbye to the Camaro. This is almost blasphemy! The Camaro is a classic. It's a big, souped-up, monster of American muscle cars. I never actually had one, but I came close with my gold – yep, GOLD – Pontiac Firebird in high school. Still, I had friends with Camaros back then, and man, the rumble we felt in those suckers as we roared down the highway made me feel as if I were in hot rod heaven. (I should note that both of these friends were women. Women in muscle cars seems a bit odd, now that I think about it. Is that too un-P.C.?) Anyway, some of the auto magazines are speculating that Chevy is simply taking them off the market for the time -up, monster of American muscle cars. I never actually had one, but I came close with my gold – yep, GOLD – Pontiac Firebird in high school. Still, I had friends with Camaros back then, and man, the rumble we felt in those suckers as we roared down the highway made me feel as if I were in hot rod heaven. (I should note that both of these friends were women. Women in muscle cars seems a bit odd, now that I think about it. Is that too un-P.C.?) Anyway, some of the auto magazines are speculating that Chevy is simply taking them off the market for the time being for a major overhaul, like Ford recently did with the Thunderbird. And, speaking of the new Ford Thunderbird: are those beautiful cars or what? I saw a new black model the other day in a showroom, and drool streamed down my chin as I fell under its spell. The style of the car is sleek and breathtaking. My brother says he read where the ride of the new Thunderbird is not yet perfected, but the auto is still gorgeous. If Chevy can pull off something like that with the Camaro, then more power to 'em. * * * The great actor, Gene Hackman, is appearing in a bunch of movies over the next few weeks. (Almost as many as Billy Bob Thornton.) You have the thriller Heist (which has yet to make it to Batesville, darn it), the new military action flick, Behind Enemy Lines, and the one I'm really excited about, The Royal Tennenbaums, which should be highly entertaining. I've been a Hackman nut since I was a kid. I remember my mom and dad coming home from the Landers one evening after seeing The French Connectionalign="center">* * * The great actor, Gene Hackman, is appearing in a bunch of movies over the next few weeks. (Almost as many as Billy Bob Thornton.) You have the thriller Heist (which has yet to make it to Batesville, darn it), the new military action flick, Behind Enemy Lines, and the one I'm really excited about, The Royal Tennenbaums, which should be highly entertaining. I've been a Hackman nut since I was a kid. I remember my mom and dad coming home from the Landers one evening after seeing The French Connection, and while in my pajamas, I eagerly quizzed them about the movie. The guy has a sensitive and intelligent demeanor hidden under his tough-guy skin. The slight moves he makes in his roles such as a tilt of the head, a sharp angry glance, or an empty stare all seem genuine and free of any type of falseness. Perhaps my favorite Hackman performance is Harry Caul, the tortured wire-tapper in the excellent Francis Ford Coppola film, The Conversation. Lately, though, I've been itching to see a small film Hackman made years ago called Scarecrow. In it, he stars with another one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino. It's a simple tale of two drifters working their way through the backroads of America with dreams of opening a car wash. I remember the ending was really devastating when I saw it, and the acting combination of Pacino and Hackman lived up to its potential. Warner Bros., the company that owns the rights to the movie, needs to put this film on DVD. It's rarely seen, but who wouldn't want to catch Pacino and Hackman in the same flick together these days? November 14, 2001 I need to fiith another one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino. It's a simple tale of two drifters working their way through the backroads of America with dreams of opening a car wash. I remember the ending was really devastating when I saw it, and the acting combination of Pacino and Hackman lived up to its potential. Warner Bros., the company that owns the rights to the movie, needs to put this film on DVD. It's rarely seen, but who wouldn't want to catch Pacino and Hackman in the same flick together these days? November 14, 2001 I need to find a cure for my insomnia. Here I am again, writing in the middle of the night, because sleep is distant and I loathe turning and twisting in the sheets for an hour. Of course, you could care less, and that's fine, but I also need to come up with another column and I tend to fall back on easy things. This is about the third time I've written about my insomnia, and some of you are probably thinking, "The boy needs to give it up." And, that's fine, as well. But consider this: at least, I'm not pretentiously pontificating on the war again, or Heaven forbid, writing another article drooling over the greatness of Springsteen. That's for next week. I also need to exercise more. There's a picture on our bedside table from 1994 where I actually had thin cheeks and one chin. My features were sharp, dare I say, male model-ish. Now, in 2001, my features are, well, melon-ish. I saw some pictures of me made a few weeks ago, and my head is very similar to a large, perfectly round pumpkin. Not only that, but Leslie, who works in the graphics department of this publication, recently told me I now have breasts. This, of course, did wonders for my self-esteem. Thanks, Les. Oh well, I've aArial"> That's for next week. I also need to exercise more. There's a picture on our bedside table from 1994 where I actually had thin cheeks and one chin. My features were sharp, dare I say, male model-ish. Now, in 2001, my features are, well, melon-ish. I saw some pictures of me made a few weeks ago, and my head is very similar to a large, perfectly round pumpkin. Not only that, but Leslie, who works in the graphics department of this publication, recently told me I now have breasts. This, of course, did wonders for my self-esteem. Thanks, Les. Oh well, I've already written a column about my lack of exercise, so again, I'm falling back on the easy stuff. Simply remind me if you ever see me on the street that beer is very caloric and very bad, exercise is very healthy and very good. Maybe that'll help. Let's move on. I need to proofread in a more diligent manner. Proofreading, for those not familiar with the newspaper business, is the act of reading and re-reading articles for publication to make sure there are no mistakes. Last week's return of "One Headlight" by T. Blanston, Jr. featured an introduction by yours truly – only that was never apparent. I never mentioned the fact that I wrote the introduction and, therefore, the introduction didn't make a lot of sense. There are also countless mistakes in my own column that I always find when I'm reading the actual printed paper the next week. Add to this the fact that last week's paper featured a birthday greeting from the staff of Arkansas Weekly to me that indicated that I was 55. (I turned 25 – not 55 — over the weekend.) Keep in mind that this "greeting" was printed directly next to my column last week, and I never noticed it in the proofreading stage. My usual swiftness i truly – only that was never apparent. I never mentioned the fact that I wrote the introduction and, therefore, the introduction didn't make a lot of sense. There are also countless mistakes in my own column that I always find when I'm reading the actual printed paper the next week. Add to this the fact that last week's paper featured a birthday greeting from the staff of Arkansas Weekly to me that indicated that I was 55. (I turned 25 – not 55 — over the weekend.) Keep in mind that this "greeting" was printed directly next to my column last week, and I never noticed it in the proofreading stage. My usual swiftness is leaving me in my later years. I need to call Tim Bobrosky back. My friend from elementary through high school called me three weeks ago and left a message on our machine. I have yet to return the call – a very rude thing to do. Tim, I'll call you this week. I also need to call other friends from my younger years: Froggy, Chris B., Pete, Claire, Jennifer – I'll call you all soon. Billy and Debbie: you can forget it. You two never called me back, and it's been three miserable years. I stick out my tongue at you both. I need to apologize again to my wife for leaving her high and dry on a street corner in San Francisco while we celebrated our honeymoon. I was young, what can I say? I had been a regular visitor to the Bay Area (Froggy went to grad school at Berkeley, so I had made a number of earlier visits.), and I knew my way around. Plus, I was a newlywed – this togetherness thing had not yet clicked with me. So, our first day there, I gave her a twenty, kissed her on the cheek, and said, "Meet you in an hour at Stockton and Geary." My wife, in the biggest city she had ever visited and understandably intimidated, promptly went back up to the hotel room and wondered if an annulment or a hit man would baving her high and dry on a street corner in San Francisco while we celebrated our honeymoon. I was young, what can I say? I had been a regular visitor to the Bay Area (Froggy went to grad school at Berkeley, so I had made a number of earlier visits.), and I knew my way around. Plus, I was a newlywed – this togetherness thing had not yet clicked with me. So, our first day there, I gave her a twenty, kissed her on the cheek, and said, "Meet you in an hour at Stockton and Geary." My wife, in the biggest city she had ever visited and understandably intimidated, promptly went back up to the hotel room and wondered if an annulment or a hit man would be the best revenge. Sorry, Julie. I should have given you a map. I need to also apologize to Michael Jackson. I've been very rough on him lately, and I simply need to realize he's a human being too. Actually, I was joking. The man's a plastic freak, and he scares me. Finally, I need to wrap this up. It's 1:45 in the morning, and the lids are finally getting heavy. Sleep tight, all of you dear readers. Thanks for reading another batch of silly, insignificant thoughts. And, next time you see me, look real close. I need to know if, really, I'm getting breasts. November 7, 2001 Let's get the unpleasant stuff out of the way. Read the following comments from Ted Koppel of ABC's Nightline: "The rest of the world holds a significantly
more jaundiced view of how wonderful we are than we do. We are so busy promoting our
virtues to one another tha And, next time you see me, look real close. I need to
know if, really, I'm getting breasts. November 7, 2001 Let's get the unpleasant stuff out of the way. Read the following comments from Ted Koppel of ABC's Nightline: "The rest of the world holds a significantly
more jaundiced view of how wonderful we are than we do. We are so busy promoting our
virtues to one another that we occasionally confuse the advertisement with the product.
George Soros, who describes himself as amoral in the conduct of his business affairs,
nevertheless contributed more to Russia in at least one recent year than did the United
States of America. He, at least, recognizes that well-directed charity can have enormous
practical and positive consequences for the donor. The platform of generous foreign aid,
however, is not one on which any American politician would like to run… "Anyway, the world's in a mess, weapons of mass
destruction abound and we haven't a clue how we would respond to a chemical or biological
attack against one or more of our cities." So, Koppel believes spending more time and money
aiding other countries would not only be the right thing to do, but it would also be good
p.r., particularly since many countries view the U.S.A. as a rich, selfish bully. Further, one result of our millennium isolationism is
the proliferation of awful, destructive weapons that could, and have, ended up in the
hands of madmen. What's surprising about those remarks is that they're
ancient in this age of cyber-journaliological
attack against one or more of our cities." So, Koppel believes spending more time and money
aiding other countries would not only be the right thing to do, but it would also be good
p.r., particularly since many countries view the U.S.A. as a rich, selfish bully. Further, one result of our millennium isolationism is
the proliferation of awful, destructive weapons that could, and have, ended up in the
hands of madmen. What's surprising about those remarks is that they're
ancient in this age of cyber-journalism. Koppel wrote those words over two years ago, in
January of 1999. They're included in the publication of his journal from that year, Off
Camera, which was recently released in a trade paperback edition. (It's a wonderful
book, by the way. I've always appreciated Koppel – unlike most talking heads, he
smoothly cuts through the b.s. his politico guests sometimes spew and puts them in the
light, be it positive or negative, they deserve.) The accuracy of his foresight is eye
opening. It should also be noted that the following words
prefaced the above entry: "I have the uneasy feeling that a few decades
from now people will look back on this year and say: Oh yes, '99. That was one of the last
pre-war years." * * * Look, I'm not a pessimist. I simply thought
those words, written months back, were revealing and interesting, particularly in light of
the past two months. The attacks, the anthrax mailings, the endless and
mysterious threats, the anti-American sentiment that seems to currently reign in other
countries – all of this csp;"I have the uneasy feeling that a few decades
from now people will look back on this year and say: Oh yes, '99. That was one of the last
pre-war years." * * * Look, I'm not a pessimist. I simply thought
those words, written months back, were revealing and interesting, particularly in light of
the past two months. The attacks, the anthrax mailings, the endless and
mysterious threats, the anti-American sentiment that seems to currently reign in other
countries – all of this can overwhelm people if they allow it. I choose to think that we can ride this sucker to a
positive outcome. Have faith in God and the powers that be (and, yes, I know that having
faith in the latter can be frustrating at times), and hope that this mess will sort itself
out in the long run. The Sept. 11 attacks caught everyone off-guard. One would think that
if such a supremely negative event can happen and surprise, then surely a supremely
positive event can happen and surprise as well. It might take time and sacrifice, but good
can reign again. A radio talk show I heard the other day featured a woman
who said (paraphrasing here): "Look, hundreds of people are killed in car wrecks each
day. The anthrax threat has only claimed a few. We all should go on with our lives and
simply be much more sensitive and aware of things that could potentially harm us." Simplistic? Maybe, but so what? Faith, normalcy and
awareness are our emotional tools in these times. I choose to think those tools can defeat
the pessimism and fear terrorism so desperately wants to breed. Finally, let's end this stuff on an optimistic note. Simplistic? Maybe, but so what? Faith, normalcy and
awareness are our emotional tools in these times. I choose to think those tools can defeat
the pessimism and fear terrorism so desperately wants to breed. Finally, let's end this stuff on an optimistic note. On Larry King Live, Oct. 29, the director of the
New York State Office of Public Security, James Kallstrom, gave these thoughts: "…I'm an optimistic person, but I look at the
people that are around me. I look at all of us that are in this business that give our
life for public safety and national security, and I've never seen people as energized,
Larry. And if the country can hang together and all the politicians can hang together, we
will see this through. We'll be a stronger nation for it. And we will be just…a
better nation than we were. So I'm very confident." * * * My wife hates it when I bring her up in
these silly columns. And, trust me, she really hates it – hates it
-- when I mention my dreams about her leaving me for another man. She thinks people might
think there are problems in paradise. So, in the words of Barney the Dinosaur, let me set
everything straight: I love her. She loves me. We're a happy family. * * * My wife hates it when I bring her up in these silly columns. And, trust me, she really hates it – hates it -- when I mention my dreams about her leaving me for another man. She thinks people might think there are problems in paradise. So, in the words of Barney the Dinosaur, let me set everything straight: I love her. She loves me. We're a happy family. Now, let's get to my latest dream.The family is at a huge shopping mall in California. We're shopping, having family time, but I notice Julie is a tad distant. Suddenly, I realize that Billy Bob Thornton is now hanging all over her. They're whispering to each other and giggling as if they were in high school. The kids are playing with him, as if he were the best dad in the world. Everyone is simply in love with Billy Bob, and I'm standing there with a shocked disposition as they pay me no mind whatsoever. How could they? How could they leave me like this? And, Billy Bob, of all people. I like Billy Bob. He's one of my heroes. Sure, he spends a lot of time on the planet Zemroid, but overall he's a neat dude. Tears well up in my eyes, and I walk away, rejected all around and in complete despair. I shuffle through the mall, head down, hopelessly
crying. Once and a while, I see them in some store, and they're still laughing and
experiencing familial nirvana. Then, I realize I'm sitting next to the late Carol
O'Connor, Archie from All in the Family, as we drive down the freeway toward the
San Francisco skyline in a big brown 1972 model Chrysler. Tears well up in my eyes, and I walk away, rejected all around and in complete despair. I shuffle through the mall, head down, hopelessly crying. Once and a while, I see them in some store, and they're still laughing and experiencing familial nirvana. Then, I realize I'm sitting next to the late Carol O'Connor, Archie from All in the Family, as we drive down the freeway toward the San Francisco skyline in a big brown 1972 model Chrysler. "Rob," he's saying, "don't worry about it. Everything will work itself out. You'll come out of this a better man." I say nothing. The tears continue. I look out the window, and we're now passing a deserted old cinema that was once part of the mall. (Remember: this is a dream. Things change at moment's notice.) We slowly drive by the lobby, which is plastered with old posters from 1970s flicks. I notice Steve Martin is standing inside, calmly looking at Archie and I as we pass through the parking lot. And, then I awake. Julie is next to me. The kids are in their rooms down the hall. And Billy Bob Thornton is nowhere to be seen. I hug my wife, and tell her about my horrible dream. She shakes her head, and gives the best physical description of Billy Bob Thornton I've ever heard. "Billy Bob Thornton? Please, that boy looks like a stray dog." But, later, as I leave for work, I kiss her goodbye and she says: "Bye, Billy – I mean, Rob." And, then I awake. Julie is next to me. The kids are in their rooms down the hall. And Billy Bob Thornton is nowhere to be seen. I hug my wife, and tell her about my horrible dream. She shakes her head, and gives the best physical description of Billy Bob Thornton I've ever heard. "Billy Bob Thornton? Please, that boy looks like a stray dog." But, later, as I leave for work, I kiss her goodbye and she says: "Bye, Billy – I mean, Rob." Not a good way to start the morning. October 31, 2001 I am a moron. I know it was only a few weeks ago that, in these pages, I proclaimed I was a genius, but things change. And, here I am, a week after my vicious assault on Lisa Smith and her Rod Stewart infatuation, receiving appropriate vengeance from the gods. You see, dear reader, many of you know that I have enormous respect for Bruce Springsteen as an artist. Those of you who know Springsteen only for Born In The U.S.A. or Born To Run don't know the true depth of his artistry. His complete body of work is thick with a mature introspection on all things, life, love, pain and hope. Nebraska, The Ghost of Tom Joad and Darkness on the Edge of Town travel down paths of shadows and yet, in some cases, hopeful renewal. Or, take two of his latest compositions: the rousing affirmation of faith and life, "Land of Hope and Dreams" and the surprisingly timely and gorgeous unreleased song, "My City of Ruins." If these songs have enormous respect for Bruce Springsteen as an artist. Those of you who know Springsteen only for Born In The U.S.A. or Born To Run don't know the true depth of his artistry. His complete body of work is thick with a mature introspection on all things, life, love, pain and hope. Nebraska, The Ghost of Tom Joad and Darkness on the Edge of Town travel down paths of shadows and yet, in some cases, hopeful renewal. Or, take two of his latest compositions: the rousing affirmation of faith and life, "Land of Hope and Dreams" and the surprisingly timely and gorgeous unreleased song, "My City of Ruins." If these songs don't stir your spirit, then you need a good slap. And, let us not forget one of Springsteen's greatest gifts: the man can rock. So, we all know how I feel about Springsteen and his contribution to our world. The realization of my stupidity came this morning after I received a call from Sonny Burgess. Sonny, as many of you know, is a former Sun recording artist and one of our rock and roll pioneers. The Newport native frequently plays The Lockhouse, as well as venues all over the world. Springsteen's bass player, Garry Tallent, recently invited Burgess to play at a sold out World Trade Center benefit and Sun Records tribute in a small town in New Jersey. Burgess would be sharing the stage with such artists as Jon Bon Jovi, Joan Jett and a guy named Bruce Springsteen. My brother, also a Springsteen admirer, e-mailed me an article about the event and said we should look into going, particularly if Mr. Burgess was going to play. I had been meaning to get Sonny over to Batesville for a long-delayed radio interview, so I called him. In the meantime, my brother and I investigated the ticket rates for a flight to New York City and were sarry Tallent, recently invited Burgess to play at a sold out World Trade Center benefit and Sun Records tribute in a small town in New Jersey. Burgess would be sharing the stage with such artists as Jon Bon Jovi, Joan Jett and a guy named Bruce Springsteen. My brother, also a Springsteen admirer, e-mailed me an article about the event and said we should look into going, particularly if Mr. Burgess was going to play. I had been meaning to get Sonny over to Batesville for a long-delayed radio interview, so I called him. In the meantime, my brother and I investigated the ticket rates for a flight to New York City and were shocked at the low price: under $200 round trip. We figured we could respectfully ask Mr. Burgess if he knew of any way to get us tickets, fly to N.Y.C., and if the tribute tickets fell through, we could spend a couple of days in Manhattan, goofing off. Sonny said he would see what he could do, and we left it at that. In the next few days, I realized I most likely wouldn't be able to make it to the show due, in part, to an obligation I had made to my family. I phoned Sonny and told him. He still had not heard anything on the tickets, so it probably was a wise move not to go. Right? Wrong. Sonny just called me. "Hey," he said, in his always-sunny Southern tone, "you should've gone. They had a couple of backstage passes waiting on you." At this moment, there was a slight silence on my end. "What?" I said. Surely I had heard Mr. Burgess wrong. "Yeah," he said. "They came up to me before the show and asked where my two friends were, and I said, well, they cal"> Wrong. Sonny just called me. "Hey," he said, in his always-sunny Southern tone, "you should've gone. They had a couple of backstage passes waiting on you." At this moment, there was a slight silence on my end. "What?" I said. Surely I had heard Mr. Burgess wrong. "Yeah," he said. "They came up to me before the show and asked where my two friends were, and I said, well, they couldn't make it. The lady says, 'Well, I had two backstage passes for 'em.'" Whew. The possibilities missed. #150; I could have been backstage. I could have, you know, nodded at Springsteen. I could have, maybe, told Mr. Springsteen how his music has affected me, and he could've, possibly, said, "Well, thanks a lot, man. Why don't you stick around after the show, have some beer, and we'll talk." Or, he could have said, "Hey, thanks a lot, man. Why don't you come onstage and sing with me." Or, "Cool, thanks a lot, man. Why don't you and your family move to New Jersey, and you can come work for me for the rest of your life."Whew. The possibilities missed. Back to reality, I calmly said: "Sonny, why did you tell me this? I could've gone my entire life without knowing I could have been backstage at an intimate Bruce Springsteen show." Sonny just poured more salt into the wound. "Yeah, it was great. Man, that guy can play. It sure was a lot of fun. You really missed out." OKAY! I GET THE POINT! Seriously, it was extremely gracious of Mr. Burgess to ask for a couple of passes for a couple of goofball Springsteen fans from Arkansas. And, he did manage to bring back an autographed picture for me from Springsteen. Very nice. And, you know, despite what I wrote, I'm not into celebrity worshipping or anything. I don't think I would even want to meet Bruce Springsteen. He has enough folks hounding him for his attention, and I can get by without being another fan. Of course, if he ever needs a bright assistant, relocation wouldn't be a problem. October 24, 2001 And, you know, despite what I wrote, I'm not into celebrity worshipping or anything. I don't think I would even want to meet Bruce Springsteen. He has enough folks hounding him for his attention, and I can get by without being another fan. Of course, if he ever needs a bright assistant, relocation wouldn't be a problem. October 24, 2001 The riveting diaries detailing my insomnia last week prompted one co-worker at the office, Lisa Smith, to complain. "You know, I didn't like what you wrote about Blink 182," she told me. "You said you could care less what they had to say about the terrorist attacks. Well, did you ever think that a lot of folks could care less what you had to say?" Jeepers. On what side of the bed did she wake up? So, to all of the Blink 182 fans out there, please forgive me. *** Speaking of Lisa, those of you who know her, know that she is a rabid fan of aging rocker Rod Stewart. Lisa attended Stewart's recent concert at Alltel Arena in Little Rock and almost collapsed in a fit of ecstasy. Standing on her seat for most of the show, screaming like an N'Sync fan and irritating many in the row directly behind her, Lisa danced and held a large American flag for Rod to see. During the middle of "Maggie Mae," Stewart noticed Lisa and her patriotism and pointed to her with a smile. Suddenly, the image ofer">*** Speaking of Lisa, those of you who know her, know that she is a rabid fan of aging rocker Rod Stewart. Lisa attended Stewart's recent concert at Alltel Arena in Little Rock and almost collapsed in a fit of ecstasy. Standing on her seat for most of the show, screaming like an N'Sync fan and irritating many in the row directly behind her, Lisa danced and held a large American flag for Rod to see. During the middle of "Maggie Mae," Stewart noticed Lisa and her patriotism and pointed to her with a smile. Suddenly, the image of Lisa shot up on the large video screen above the stage for all the audience to see. Stewart then grabbed one his signature soccer balls, signed it, and reached down to give it to Lisa. Needless to say, Lisa has let everyone know that she now has a soccer ball autographed by her idol, Rod Stewart. She's been walking around the office cradling the ball as if it were a delicate newborn, and she says she's ordering a Plexiglass to house the ball for eternity. The woman obviously has some issues to work out. *** Now, don't tell Lisa, but I plan to somehow kidnap the ball in the near future. I will then blindfold the ball, send it off to various points across the country, and have snapshots snapped of the ball at national landmarks with that day's local newspaper. These snapshots will then be sent to Lisa along with ransom notes listing an assortment of demands such as a payment of $1 million to be made to me, a lifetime subscription to Maxim magazine in my name, and the stipulation that Rod Stewart will never – ever – be mentioned in my presence again. If all of th Now, don't tell Lisa, but I plan to somehow
kidnap the ball in the near future. I will then blindfold the ball, send it off to various
points across the country, and have snapshots snapped of the ball at national landmarks
with that day's local newspaper. These snapshots will then be sent to Lisa along with
ransom notes listing an assortment of demands such as a payment of $1 million to be made
to me, a lifetime subscription to Maxim magazine in my name, and the stipulation
that Rod Stewart will never – ever – be mentioned in my presence again. If all of these demands are met, then the precious
soccer ball will be returned to Ms. Smith without a scratch. Am I a genius, or what? *** Lisa's obsession with Rod Stewart really is
odd. Let's accept the fact that, in his younger days, Stewart
cranked out some excellent rock and roll. Heck, I even enjoyed his foray into disco,
"Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" Of course, that particular song struck a nerve with me
because I actually am sexy. But I digress. In the past 15 years, Stewart's product has been tepid
and boring. He sold out long ago to the corporate gods of the music industry, and he's
been loafing ever since. Of course, when you're 82 (Stewart's age), rocking and rolling
does seem a bit extreme. His stage shows have long lost their excitement, especially since
his fourth hip replacement last year. Plus, performing behind a walker is really
embarrassing. And, let's not even mention the humiliating incident that occurred during
the Alltel concert. It really isn't appropriate to discuss in these pages, but Stewart's
handlers reArial"> But I digress. In the past 15 years, Stewart's product has been tepid
and boring. He sold out long ago to the corporate gods of the music industry, and he's
been loafing ever since. Of course, when you're 82 (Stewart's age), rocking and rolling
does seem a bit extreme. His stage shows have long lost their excitement, especially since
his fourth hip replacement last year. Plus, performing behind a walker is really
embarrassing. And, let's not even mention the humiliating incident that occurred during
the Alltel concert. It really isn't appropriate to discuss in these pages, but Stewart's
handlers really need to make sure Rod is wearing his Depends before he hits the stage each
night. *** Many of you are familiar with the sometimes
odd, sometimes silly demands music stars make for their dressing rooms and backstage items
for each concert. It's legend that the band Van Halen had a stipulation in their contract
that all brown M & Ms must be removed from the regular batch backstage, or they would
not perform. The country group Alabama stipulates that no animals of any kind are
permitted backstage at their concerts. And, the techno-pop star Moby demands that the
promoter provide ten pairs of new boxer shorts before each show. Through the Internet, I found Rod Stewart's backstage
demands. You might find them interesting… MR. STEWART'S BACKSTAGE REQUIREMENTS 4 BOTTLES OF COLD SPRING WATER 6 DIET COKES 2 BOTTLES OF METAMUCIL 2 PACKETS OF EFFERDENT THE SUNDAY TIMES CROSSWORD W/ NEW MAGNIFYING GLASS Through the Internet, I found Rod Stewart's backstage
demands. You might find them interesting… MR. STEWART'S BACKSTAGE REQUIREMENTS 4 BOTTLES OF COLD SPRING WATER 6 DIET COKES 2 BOTTLES OF METAMUCIL 2 PACKETS OF EFFERDENT THE SUNDAY TIMES CROSSWORD W/ NEW MAGNIFYING GLASS 1 LAZY BOY RECLINER (LEATHER, NO CLOTH RECLINERS!) 2 TUBES OF PREPARATION H (EXTRA STRENGTH) WHEELCHAIR RAMP ACCESS TO ALL AREAS VARIOUS GAMES: DOMINOES, CHINESE CHECKERS, UNO, SCRABBLE (NO TRIVIAL
PURSUIT!) 1 ELECTRIC BLANKET (NEW) 1 HOT WATER BOTTLE (NEW) (IMPORTANT: MR. STEWART WILL NOT PERFORM IF
THERE IS NOT A HOT WATER BOTTLE BACKSTAGE!) TELEVISION TUNED TO PAX-TV 1 BOTTLE OF VIAGRA IMPORTANT: NO ONE IS TO MENTION THE NAME "RACHEL HUNTER."
NO ONE IS TO MENTION THE NAME "ELTON JOHN" OR THE WORDS "THREE
GALLONS" OR "STOMACH PUMP" IN THE SAME SENTENCE. *** All joking aside: I wish the best of luck
to all of the local men and women of our local National Guard. The sacrifices they are
making are humbling, to say the least. My prayers go out to them, as well as their loved
ones. Get back soon… IMPORTANT: NO ONE IS TO MENTION THE NAME "RACHEL HUNTER."
NO ONE IS TO MENTION THE NAME "ELTON JOHN" OR THE WORDS "THREE
GALLONS" OR "STOMACH PUMP" IN THE SAME SENTENCE. *** All joking aside: I wish the best of luck
to all of the local men and women of our local National Guard. The sacrifices they are
making are humbling, to say the least. My prayers go out to them, as well as their loved
ones. Get back soon… October 17, 2001 The Insomnia Diaries Late last week, I was visited by the flu fairy
– clogged head, fever, chills, coughing spells, aches – basically the whole
enchilada. And, as is usually the case in my book, the nights were
absent of sleep. I would toss and turn for an hour or so and finally give up. Rising from
bed, I shuffled around the house, logged on the web, ate some junk, and for the most part,
flicked the channels on the television downstairs. What follows is a diary of those two nights. It makes
for riveting reading. Enjoy. Oct. 4. Thursday morning, 12:10 a.m. Quietly, I fire up the computer and log on the Internet.
Same old bleak stuff: troops massing on the Afghan border; rumored retaliation scenarios
from both the United States and the terrorists. 1:05 a.m. I lean back in a recliner and flick on the tube. My
gracious: how late-night television has changed, and What follows is a diary of those two nights. It makes
for riveting reading. Enjoy. Oct. 4. Thursday morning, 12:10 a.m. Quietly, I fire up the computer and log on the Internet.
Same old bleak stuff: troops massing on the Afghan border; rumored retaliation scenarios
from both the United States and the terrorists. 1:05 a.m. I lean back in a recliner and flick on the tube. My
gracious: how late-night television has changed, and for the better. I find a re-run of
arguably the greatest comedy show that ever aired on television, SCTV. NBC has been
airing these repeats for the past few months after Late Night With Conan O'Brien,
and stupidly enough, I keep forgetting. Taping these classic episodes would have allowed
me to store up a bundle of classic television. In high school, my best friend and I would
make a point to be at home every Friday night to catch the skit-filled show centered
around a moronic, low-rent television network. The cast included John Candy, Martin Short,
Joe Flaherty, Dave Thomas, Catherine O'Hara, the wonderful Eugene Levy, and Rick Moranis
(where is he these days?). The highlight of tonight's episode was a variety show spoof,
featuring Jackie Rodgers – a terrible Vegas-style crooner played to idiotic
perfection by Short. The skit ended with Rodgers being viciously attacked in mid-song by a
wild cougar. Sound dumb? Of course. To me, the sight of a cheesy lounge singer being
attacked by a cougar is funny. And, anybody who knows me knows that stupid, meaningless
comedy is my love (SpongeBob, anyone?). 2:00 a.m. Batesville, at long last, has MTV. We had it for a spurt
about 13 or 14 years ago until some lo is he these days?). The highlight of tonight's episode was a variety show spoof,
featuring Jackie Rodgers – a terrible Vegas-style crooner played to idiotic
perfection by Short. The skit ended with Rodgers being viciously attacked in mid-song by a
wild cougar. Sound dumb? Of course. To me, the sight of a cheesy lounge singer being
attacked by a cougar is funny. And, anybody who knows me knows that stupid, meaningless
comedy is my love (SpongeBob, anyone?). 2:00 a.m. Batesville, at long last, has MTV. We had it for a spurt
about 13 or 14 years ago until some local parents complained it off the cable system, but
with the new digital upgrade, it's back on the air. Watching MTV for an hour, I realize a few things: 1) I'm getting old. Maybe two new videos entertained me – the
Weezer song, "Island In The Sun," and the wild P.O.D. video, "Alive,"
which features a slow motion bus-car collision that has to be seen to be believed. The two
actual songs are fun, as well. The other stuff I watched was simply putrid. N'Suck, I mean
Sync; Jennifer Lopez, looking ridiculous, in a video that is seemingly played every 15
minutes; and, Lord help us, Brittney Spears gyrating, dancing and sweating gallons while
her back-up dancers lick and grapple her. Sorry, but when it comes to video divas, give me
a simple Sheryl Crow video and I'll be a happy camper. 2) All rap videos look and sound exactly the same. They usually
consist of the lead rapper, strutting around in silly-looking clothes trying to look
"gangsta," in front of a crowd of folks and full-bodied women in bikinis.
Originality is a concept most rap artists have yet to grasp. 3) The self-importance of MTV News is simply asinine.
One teaser for a and, Lord help us, Brittney Spears gyrating, dancing and sweating gallons while
her back-up dancers lick and grapple her. Sorry, but when it comes to video divas, give me
a simple Sheryl Crow video and I'll be a happy camper. 2) All rap videos look and sound exactly the same. They usually
consist of the lead rapper, strutting around in silly-looking clothes trying to look
"gangsta," in front of a crowd of folks and full-bodied women in bikinis.
Originality is a concept most rap artists have yet to grasp. 3) The self-importance of MTV News is simply asinine.
One teaser for a news update featured the fashion model/anchor seriously intoning the
following line: "Blink 182 share their thoughts on the recent terrorist attacks,
coming up on MTV News." Now, I ask you, who in their right mind could actually give a
rotten damn about what Blink 182 – a skateboard punk band that sometimes performs in
the nude – has to say about September 11? 4) And, finally, it's official: Michael Jackson is nuts.
I know many of you think I have it out for Jackson, which I do, but I couldn't resist one
more jab. The King of Pop's new video, "You Rock My World," is over ten minutes
of nonsense as Jackson overtakes a crew of shady types in a bar. What's even more
ridiculous, the video "stars" Marlon Brando, who was reportedly paid $1 million
for two scenes that are blips on the radar. In the first, face practically unseen, Brando
sits in a chair and twirls his fedora. In the second scene, he briefly turns to the
camera, and says one word. That's it. Jackson should have saved the million and spent it
on reconstructing his ruined face. He now looks like a department store mannequin without
a nose. 3:00 a.m. Try and sleep a bit. 3:00 a.m. Try and sleep a bit. 4:00 a.m. I get back out of bed and hit the kitchen with a
disgruntled tummy. I see a box of unopened Sno-Balls on the counter. A friend gave them to
me as a gag gift, but I used to love the coconut and chocolate confections as a kid.
Thinking junk food is the last thing I need, I opt for some stale wheat crackers
instead. I log on to the web and check the East Coast papers to
see what the morning editions will hold. I e-mail work and tell them there's no way I'll
be in this morning. I eventually crawl back in bed at 5:30 and finally fall asleep,
dreaming of Sno-Balls. Oct. 5. Friday morning, 1:05 a.m. As much as I make fun of Marlon Brando, I still
think he's one of the greatest actors of our time. I'm in the middle of a new biography on
Brando by Patricia Bosworth, and the man's personal life is as interesting as his
performances. The early scenes of Brando arriving in New York City to study acting is full
of enlightening stories about Brando's awe-inspiring talent and his struggling actor
adventures in World War II-era Manhattan. t 5:30 and finally fall asleep,
dreaming of Sno-Balls. Oct. 5. Friday morning, 1:05 a.m. As much as I make fun of Marlon Brando, I still
think he's one of the greatest actors of our time. I'm in the middle of a new biography on
Brando by Patricia Bosworth, and the man's personal life is as interesting as his
performances. The early scenes of Brando arriving in New York City to study acting is full
of enlightening stories about Brando's awe-inspiring talent and his struggling actor
adventures in World War II-era Manhattan. But before long, then the food binges begin and Brando
falls into self-parody. I wonder if he ate Sno-Balls. Interesting trivial side-note: Bosworth quotes Brando's
friend, actor Karl Malden, many times in the beginning pages. I bet you didn't know that
Malden, who's probably better known to my generation as Michael Douglas's veteran partner
in the 70s TV series, The Streets of San Francisco, briefly attended Arkansas
College (now Lyon) in Batesville. And, I do mean briefly: he lasted about a day, according
to Malden's biography. It wasn't Batesville that spurned him. He apparently came to
Arkansas College on a sports scholarship, and promptly left after his arrival when he
found out that particular sport had been discontinued at the school. 2:30 a.m. Channel surfing again. A really, really old Saturday
Night Live re-run is on Comedy Central. Jennifer Lopez is on MTV again. With my luck,
the crazy Michael Jackson video will come on next. And, I'm not tired in the least. 3:00 a.m. I rip open a Sno-Ball package and tapurned him. He apparently came to
Arkansas College on a sports scholarship, and promptly left after his arrival when he
found out that particular sport had been discontinued at the school. 2:30 a.m. Channel surfing again. A really, really old Saturday
Night Live re-run is on Comedy Central. Jennifer Lopez is on MTV again. With my luck,
the crazy Michael Jackson video will come on next. And, I'm not tired in the least. 3:00 a.m. I rip open a Sno-Ball package and take a big, lusty
bite. 3:01 a.m. I spit out the Sno-Ball. How I ever ate these things
when I was a kid is beyond me. Yuck. What was I thinking, eating that junk? 3:02 a.m. I find a bag of Oreos, eat them instead. 3:06 a.m. I crawl into bed, belly full, flick on the TV. Michael
Jackson video on MTV again. Finally realize what Hell must be like. * * * Other notes... If you love movies, then do not miss Apocalypse Now
Redux on the enormous screen at the Cinema 150 in Little Rock this week. One of my
all-time favorite films, Apocalypse Now has been completely restored in sound and
Technicolor, and director Francis Ford Coppola has added almost an hour of new footage. I first saw Apocalypse Now when I was teenager at
the late, lamented Landers Theatre. Getting the chance to view a fresh new print in the
enter">* * * Other notes... If you love movies, then do not miss Apocalypse Now
Redux on the enormous screen at the Cinema 150 in Little Rock this week. One of my
all-time favorite films, Apocalypse Now has been completely restored in sound and
Technicolor, and director Francis Ford Coppola has added almost an hour of new footage. I first saw Apocalypse Now when I was teenager at
the late, lamented Landers Theatre. Getting the chance to view a fresh new print in the
wonderful Cinema 150, literally one of the finest theatres in the world, will be a treat. Catch it when you can. It might not last more than a
week. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. October 3, 2001 I am a genius. Not many people realize this — well, actually no
one realizes this, and that's okay. I mean, who could blame them for not recognizing my
genius? I mean, who would ever think that some goofy-looking guy with uncombed, messy hair
and a developing potbelly like me would be a genius? I'm just an average Joe. I am humble in my genius. Thus,
my genius is like the lamp hidden under the table in the Bible: it never glows and fills
the room with welcome light as it should. But, I've decided I can't keep it under the table
forever. I think it's time to let people bask in my knowledge. To keep it forever hidden
would be a loss. &n, who could blame them for not recognizing my
genius? I mean, who would ever think that some goofy-looking guy with uncombed, messy hair
and a developing potbelly like me would be a genius? I'm just an average Joe. I am humble in my genius. Thus,
my genius is like the lamp hidden under the table in the Bible: it never glows and fills
the room with welcome light as it should. But, I've decided I can't keep it under the table
forever. I think it's time to let people bask in my knowledge. To keep it forever hidden
would be a loss. Now, the first thing one should now about my particular
genius is that it does not manifest itself in things one usually associates with genius.
For instance, mathematics is a complete mystery to me. I have loathed any type of
arithmetic, algebra, geometry, calculus, division, blah, blah, blah squared all of my
life. In my view, mathematics, all sciences, most health care plans, and anything dealing
with Michael Jackson are of the Devil and should be avoided. No, my genius is based solely on one thing, one
discovery. Others have realized the value of this item, and they too have realized the
special gift they have uncovered puts everything into perspective. The balance of the
world becomes apparent and real. My genius is that I have discovered the meaning of life. And, the silly thing is the meaning of life has been
under our noses, literally, for most of our adult lives. The meaning of life is the gift of a child. Scoff at me with your pessimistic attitude, if you want.
Laugh at my simplistic notion, if you will. But the joy and beauty of children outweigh
all of the troubles, madness, anhave uncovered puts everything into perspective. The balance of the
world becomes apparent and real. My genius is that I have discovered the meaning of life. And, the silly thing is the meaning of life has been
under our noses, literally, for most of our adult lives. The meaning of life is the gift of a child. Scoff at me with your pessimistic attitude, if you want.
Laugh at my simplistic notion, if you will. But the joy and beauty of children outweigh
all of the troubles, madness, and ridiculousness of this world. You do not have to be a parent to realize this. In fact,
if most people in this rushed and foolish world, would only stop and appreciate everything
about a child and their innocence, love, and potential, then things would be different. Of course, being a parent can only amplify the blessing
of a child. And, in a perfect world, selfishness would die, and only then would we be able
to return our love to our kids in an equal measure. Yeah, I know the syrup is thick. But, let me tell you
this. At night, when I'm dog-tired and ready for rest, I sometimes dread putting the kids
to bed. It's a chore. Struggling with little wiggling legs as you slip on their pajamas,
brushing their teeth as they do everything in their power to stop you, and wringing every
little bit of patience out of you as you beg them to get in their beds, are all things
every normal parent experiences. It's at these times when one questions one's sanity for
having kids to begin with. And then, in a moment's rush, it all subsides. You lie
down with them, they snuggle tightly, and they talk softly about their day, about the
plans they have for tight, when I'm dog-tired and ready for rest, I sometimes dread putting the kids
to bed. It's a chore. Struggling with little wiggling legs as you slip on their pajamas,
brushing their teeth as they do everything in their power to stop you, and wringing every
little bit of patience out of you as you beg them to get in their beds, are all things
every normal parent experiences. It's at these times when one questions one's sanity for
having kids to begin with. And then, in a moment's rush, it all subsides. You lie
down with them, they snuggle tightly, and they talk softly about their day, about the
plans they have for tomorrow. Or they ask questions only a child could ponder. Or you tell
them a story, and they lie transfixed next to you, listening to you as if you were telling
them the most important secret in the world. Or sometimes they tell you the story. Like last night
with my daughter. "Tell me a story, Daddy," she said right after
I clicked off the lamp. "A Powerpuff Girls story." "Okay," I whispered. "Well, once upon a
time…" "In this one," she interrupted me, "have
a bad guy steal a diamond." "Okay. Well, once upon…" "And, have him put the diamond in a cereal
box." "A cereal box? Hmmm, okay. Well, once…" "And, um, have, um, have him choke on the diamond
because, um, he ate the cereal, and then the Powerpuff Girls come and, um, they get the
diamond out of his mouth, and, um, they take him to jail." So, one," she interrupted me, "have
a bad guy steal a diamond." "Okay. Well, once upon…" "And, have him put the diamond in a cereal
box." "A cereal box? Hmmm, okay. Well, once…" "And, um, have, um, have him choke on the diamond
because, um, he ate the cereal, and then the Powerpuff Girls come and, um, they get the
diamond out of his mouth, and, um, they take him to jail." So, I tell her the story as she requested. And, she
listened and laughed and she snuggled closely. And, then she says: "Daddy, do dreams come true?" "Well," I reply, choosing every word
carefully, as I have to do whenever one of our kids asks a loaded question like this. You
never want to dampen their spirit, but you want to also give them some sense of realism so
they won't be surprised by some disappointment. So, I think a moment, and I give her the
best answer I can: "Maybe." "What does maybe mean?" she whispers in the
dark. "Um…well, maybe means, um, maybe something
will happen." "Well, what does maybe mean?" "Um…maybe means it maybe could happen." "It means," she tells me, "it either will
happen or it won't happen." "Oh, yeah. I guess that's right." "nt face="Arial"> "What does maybe mean?" she whispers in the
dark. "Um…well, maybe means, um, maybe something
will happen." "Well, what does maybe mean?" "Um…maybe means it maybe could happen." "It means," she tells me, "it either will
happen or it won't happen." "Oh, yeah. I guess that's right." "So," she asks me again, "do dreams come
true?" "Um, sure." "So, like, I maybe will be a princess someday and
live in a castle?" "Yeah, babe." "Daddy, have any of your dreams come true?" That answer is apparent. As the two of us fell asleep, warm under the covers, I
looked over to her. Her eyes were closed, and a faint smile rested on her face. And that, my friends, is what it is all about. September 26, 2001 If the events of Tuesday, September 11, 2001 have
shown the world anything, it is that the people of America solidify and unite with
strength, honor and humility. The outpouring of help, both financial and physical, and the
presence of our flag at practically every glance are just some of the examples of such
solidarity. It someter face. And that, my friends, is what it is all about. September 26, 2001 If the events of Tuesday, September 11, 2001 have
shown the world anything, it is that the people of America solidify and unite with
strength, honor and humility. The outpouring of help, both financial and physical, and the
presence of our flag at practically every glance are just some of the examples of such
solidarity. It sometimes, unfortunately, takes a terrible tragedy to
show our nation's true colors, but the charity and comradeship this country has shown is
breathtaking. * * * The horrifying ease and surprise of the
terrorist attacks in New York and Washington have put us all on edge and filled us with a
dread of what's next. I think the best thing we can do (besides pray) is to
take each day at a time and, perhaps, contact your representatives in Washington. Tell
them to push for stronger security measures and intelligence gathering nationwide. No one wants to see a replay of September 11, 2001.
Let's hope our law enforcement and intelligence agencies will, from now on, do everything
possible to keep this country from suffering such a terrible act of violence again. * * * Bravo to ABC News. Last Tuesday (September
18), they announced that they have banned the infamous video of the two planes hitting the
World Trade Center towers. I quickly grew weary of seeing the endless replays of the
incident, from all typestelligence gathering nationwide. No one wants to see a replay of September 11, 2001.
Let's hope our law enforcement and intelligence agencies will, from now on, do everything
possible to keep this country from suffering such a terrible act of violence again. * * * Bravo to ABC News. Last Tuesday (September
18), they announced that they have banned the infamous video of the two planes hitting the
World Trade Center towers. I quickly grew weary of seeing the endless replays of the
incident, from all types of angles. CNN and Fox News seemed to be the worst offenders,
endlessly playing the footage at every possible moment. The countless surviving families and victims of the
attacks are no doubt sick of the videos. It's good that one of the networks stepped up to
the plate and exhibited some restraint. * * * As the recovery from the September 11
attacks continues, I think everyone should follow the example of Courtney Love. I know what you're thinking: Courtney Love? The same
scraggly-looking, former drug addict Courtney Love that was once married to angst
rock-icon Kurt Cobain? That's the one. The reason we should follow her example is because the
Monday the markets re-opened, Love reportedly purchased $250,000 of stocks during the
initial fall. I don't know about you, but I don't have $250,000 to
fork out at a moment's notice, but Love's confidence in the future economy should be
noted. The more we get out there and spend, and pump cash throughout the economy, the
better tey Love? The same
scraggly-looking, former drug addict Courtney Love that was once married to angst
rock-icon Kurt Cobain? That's the one. The reason we should follow her example is because the
Monday the markets re-opened, Love reportedly purchased $250,000 of stocks during the
initial fall. I don't know about you, but I don't have $250,000 to
fork out at a moment's notice, but Love's confidence in the future economy should be
noted. The more we get out there and spend, and pump cash throughout the economy, the
better the overall financial state of the country will be. So, one aspect of being patriotic is to buy something:
stocks, a new car, a new set of tires, a video, a CD, a pair of jeans, etc. (Of course, my pessimistic side reminds me that Love
might have been simply looking for a quick buck.) * * * A recent USA Today article noted
that video and DVD rentals of comedies increased during the days after the World Trade
Center attacks. One comedy that, for some odd reason, attracted a lot of attention at some
video stores across the country was the mid-`70s classic, Monty Python and The Holy
Grail. If there were ever a case for the funniest movie ever
made, Holy Grail would have a good shot. It's funny: when it comes to Monty Python, you either
love the troupe, or you loathe them. I've loved them since I discovered their re-runs on
PBS back in junior high school. I revisit Holy Grail at least once a year, and
Python purists will have even more to celebrate in October when the special edition DVD of
the fiodd reason, attracted a lot of attention at some
video stores across the country was the mid-`70s classic, Monty Python and The Holy
Grail. If there were ever a case for the funniest movie ever
made, Holy Grail would have a good shot. It's funny: when it comes to Monty Python, you either
love the troupe, or you loathe them. I've loved them since I discovered their re-runs on
PBS back in junior high school. I revisit Holy Grail at least once a year, and
Python purists will have even more to celebrate in October when the special edition DVD of
the film hits the stores. * * * I noted in last week's column that I, too,
had been watching a number of movies (more so than usual), mainly to get my mind off the
madness of the attacks. In doing so, I found some gems that might entertain some movie
fans. The Tailor Of Panama, with Pierce Brosnan and
Geoffrey Rush, is a quirky little spy caper set south of the border in post-Noreiga
Panama. Brosnan, playing an anti-James Bond, oozes slime as British spy Andy Osnard who'll
do anything to get impressive secrets, even if they're not true. Luring an impressionable
British tailor living in Panama (Rush) into his schemes, Osnard takes deceptions at face
value and runs with them, even if it means lives and the future of Panama hang in the
balance. Slipping quickly in and out of theatres earlier this
year, The Tailor Of Panama was lost in the shuffle. If you're a fan of intelligent
(and funny) spy thrillers, this would be one to rent. Another movie that entertained was the recent DVD
release of Waiting For Guffman. Fans of Monty Python and Spinal Tap shoupressive secrets, even if they're not true. Luring an impressionable
British tailor living in Panama (Rush) into his schemes, Osnard takes deceptions at face
value and runs with them, even if it means lives and the future of Panama hang in the
balance. Slipping quickly in and out of theatres earlier this
year, The Tailor Of Panama was lost in the shuffle. If you're a fan of intelligent
(and funny) spy thrillers, this would be one to rent. Another movie that entertained was the recent DVD
release of Waiting For Guffman. Fans of Monty Python and Spinal Tap shouldn't miss Guffman,
a entirely fabricated documentary about a group of aspiring actors struggling to mount a
play in a small Missouri town. Sprung from the mind of Tap co-writer Christopher
Guest and SCTV alumni Eugene Levy (he's the pop in the American Pie flicks),
Guffman follows the jaw-droppingly effeminate high school drama teacher Corky St.
Clair (Guest, in a bad toupee and large, baggy outfits that no man – gay or straight
-- should ever wear) as he pushes his no-talent small town cast for name-in-lights glory. The new DVD is packed with extras, including 30 minutes
ofuldn't miss Guffman,
a entirely fabricated documentary about a group of aspiring actors struggling to mount a
play in a small Missouri town. Sprung from the mind of Tap co-writer Christopher
Guest and SCTV alumni Eugene Levy (he's the pop in the American Pie flicks),
Guffman follows the jaw-droppingly effeminate high school drama teacher Corky St.
Clair (Guest, in a bad toupee and large, baggy outfits that no man – gay or straight
-- should ever wear) as he pushes his no-talent small town cast for name-in-lights glory. The new DVD is packed with extras, including 30 minutes
of deleted scenes, any one of which could have been included in the final cut of Guffman. Waiting For Guffman is a silly charmer, fully
capturing a bunch of star-struck nitwits in all of their glory. * * * I sometimes hate re-reading my columns,
particularly after they've been published. The editor in me always finds mistakes,
words or sentences that I should've cut, and other irritating things. For instance, in last week's column, this sentence
appeared: "Perhaps the main blessing that we can embrace from
all of this madness is that we should never again take anything for granted in our land
and in our lives again." I apparently had a fondness for the word
"again" in that particular sentence. * * * Ryan Adams, a young singer-songwriter whose
debut CD Heartbreaker was a competent piece of folk rock, completely sp; For instance, in last week's column, this sentence
appeared: "Perhaps the main blessing that we can embrace from
all of this madness is that we should never again take anything for granted in our land
and in our lives again." I apparently had a fondness for the word
"again" in that particular sentence. * * * Ryan Adams, a young singer-songwriter whose
debut CD Heartbreaker was a competent piece of folk rock, completely takes it to
another level with his new CD, Gold. Caked with bed-headed, coffee and nicotine
tinged character, Adams' batch of troubadour tales are built on some beautiful acoustic
melodies and weary hooks that make for some great alt-country and western. If you like
this kind of stuff, buy it. It was scheduled to hit stores September 25. It's odd. I received my copy of Gold
on September 12. Pulling the CD from the envelope, I instantly cringed at the cover:
Adams, standing goofily behind an upside-down American flag. It obviously didn't feel
right, and I'd be surprised if later editions of the CD will even include the original
cover. Also odd and bittersweet: the kick-off song
on Gold is a rousing celebration of a love song to the Big Apple, called "New
York, New York." September 19, 2001 Literally minutes after the second passenger jet hit the second
tower of the World Trade Center on a day that will be singed into American history, a
theatre critic with The New Yorker magazine, John Lahr, e-mailed the Pulitizer
Prize-winning playwof the CD will even include the original
cover. Also odd and bittersweet: the kick-off song
on Gold is a rousing celebration of a love song to the Big Apple, called "New
York, New York." September 19, 2001 Literally minutes after the second passenger jet hit the second
tower of the World Trade Center on a day that will be singed into American history, a
theatre critic with The New Yorker magazine, John Lahr, e-mailed the Pulitizer
Prize-winning playwright August Wilson. Lahr, shrouded with the same helpless anger and fear as
we all were on that Tuesday, wrote Wilson that life as we know it had forever changed. Wilson, utilizing the simple poetic phrasing with which
he has been blessed, quickly replied: "Yesterday was a different world and I am
mourning for it." Seeing the images of desecrated landmarks of America
ceaselessly beamed into our homes and offices, thinking of the thousands of lives lost and
the thousands of lives affected, praying for the trapped and suffering, and dreading the
potential and possibility of other horrific acts – these were only a few of the
things heavy on the country's heart on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. In my life, the madness of that day had never been
equaled, and I pray never will. Working in communication, trying to get the public every
little bit of information possible, I was bombarded with images and sounds from the
tragedy that day. When I returned home that night, I could not watch the coverage anymore.
I found a couple of old comedies on DVD, slid them in the player, and tried to erase the
pain that Tuesday bore. In my life, the madness of that day had never been equaled, and I pray never will. Working in communication, trying to get the public every little bit of information possible, I was bombarded with images and sounds from the tragedy that day. When I returned home that night, I could not watch the coverage anymore. I found a couple of old comedies on DVD, slid them in the player, and tried to erase the pain that Tuesday bore. Wednesday, some type of normalcy returned, but I preferred to stay out of the radio studio and let my office television air cartoons and Saturday Night Live re-runs all day long. I still have to turn away from the endless replay of the planes hitting the towers. I still worry what the days ahead might hold. But, with the normalcy, some gleams of light are starting to beam through the ashy remnants of the massacre. The ruthlessness and seeming ease of this act is already demanding the country to focus attention on things in which we have grown complacent and apathetic. It is hoped that the four hijackings will dramatically increase the level of safety in all aspects of public transportation and life. It is frightening to think our system was so lax to begin with as to allow such a complex operation to unfold with such chilling precision. Putting up with long waits, stringent checks, and intricate searches in luggage and on our person should be welcome if we are ever to have some sense of comfort and safety in instances where there will always be a number of people. It is hoped that our intelligence resources and law enforcement agencieont> It is hoped that the four hijackings will dramatically increase the level of safety in all aspects of public transportation and life. It is frightening to think our system was so lax to begin with as to allow such a complex operation to unfold with such chilling precision. Putting up with long waits, stringent checks, and intricate searches in luggage and on our person should be welcome if we are ever to have some sense of comfort and safety in instances where there will always be a number of people. It is hoped that our intelligence resources and law enforcement agencies will expand in positive ways that will prevent another tragedy to ever occur. No one wants extremes such as martial law and Big Brother surveillance, but some form of these measures will have to be utilized in order to fully protect our interests from the insanity of others. It is hoped that all other nations will see the brutal horror this type of fanaticism breeds and band with the United States to stop the spread and support of such movements. Figuratively cutting off the heads of those responsible and squeezing dry the resources and finances of the seemingly innumerable terrorist cells is one way. But the level of international cooperation and tolerance must be high and resolute. Directing our collective resources, both militarily and financially, in an aggressive, furious, and overwhelming force is one way to humble these madmen. The outpouring of grief and rage from the majority of other world powers is reassuring and hopeful. In order to defeat the enemy, such world solidarity must be concrete and long lasting. It is hoped that this attack, in the long run, will drive more Americans and nations to better educate themselves with the seemingly endless conflict in the Middle East, and perhaps, gain some sense of undersevel of international cooperation and tolerance must be high and resolute. Directing our collective resources, both militarily and financially, in an aggressive, furious, and overwhelming force is one way to humble these madmen. The outpouring of grief and rage from the majority of other world powers is reassuring and hopeful. In order to defeat the enemy, such world solidarity must be concrete and long lasting. It is hoped that this attack, in the long run, will drive more Americans and nations to better educate themselves with the seemingly endless conflict in the Middle East, and perhaps, gain some sense of understanding of the issues from both the Palestinian and Jewish sides. There are fanatics in all religions, and fanatics are not representative of each respective faith, however, there is no justification for innocent bloodshed from the hands of such vicious people. It is, finally, hoped that if there is any blessing, any true good thing to come from this horrible moment in our history, it is that we must recognize the beauty of our people and our country. We must recognize the sacrifice of our protectors and support the leadership of the men and women of our government. To the best of our abilities, we must not let this incident affect our way of life. We must pray, console, work, love, mourn, communicate, and laugh. To not go about our day-to-day lives and not experience the blessings of freedom is to do exactly what the terrorists crave. Think, for a moment, of what the pioneers of this country experienced as they trudged across our land. The hardships and tribulations they suffered would make most of us crumble. We have taken so much for granted. Perhaps the main blessing that we can embrace from all of this madness is that we should never again take anything for granted in our land and in our lives again. Think, for a moment, of what the pioneers of this country experienced as they trudged across our land. The hardships and tribulations they suffered would make most of us crumble. We have taken so much for granted. Perhaps the main blessing that we can embrace from all of this madness is that we should never again take anything for granted in our land and in our lives again. Pray each day. Heal each day. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. September 12, 2001 Will someone please make Michael Jackson go away? Please. Just lock him up with his chimp, his plastic surgeon, Elizabeth Taylor and all of his gazillions, and make him leave us alone. Please. I'm fairly confident not too many people will miss him. Well, I take that back. Others of his pitiful, shameless publicity-seeking ilk will miss him. In fact, people like Britney Spears, the Backstreet Boys, 'N Suck – I mean…Sync, J. Lo or whatever her name is, and God help us, Marilyn Manson – they all need to be locked away with Michael Jackson in some remote part of Georgia. Why Georgia? You've all seen Deliverance, I presume. Well, I'm not actually wishing that some backwoods t not too many people will miss him. Well, I take that back. Others of his pitiful, shameless publicity-seeking ilk will miss him. In fact, people like Britney Spears, the Backstreet Boys, 'N Suck – I mean…Sync, J. Lo or whatever her name is, and God help us, Marilyn Manson – they all need to be locked away with Michael Jackson in some remote part of Georgia. Why Georgia? You've all seen Deliverance, I presume. Well, I'm not actually wishing that some backwoods hillbilly would make this group of cretins squeal like a pig. But, it would be nice to bring these folks back down to earth in some fashion. I mean, look for instance, at Mr. Jackson. This effeminate Franken-stein freak recently made national news by ringing the opening bell of NASDAQ, and at the same time, promoting his upcoming 30th anniversary tribute concert and the release of his new album, Invincible. The concert, which will be held at Madison Square Garden this month, will feature a parade of unfortunate celebrities, who apparently owe Jackson a big favor in some form, bowing at the feet of the plastic faced gloved one. Marlon Brando will even be there, testing the strength of the Madison Square Garden stage, to offer his praise to Jackson, and this comes after Jackson's record company allegedly paid Brando $1 million for a cameo in Jackson's new video. And that comes on top of the estimated $30 million figure that has been pegged for the cost of Jackson's new CD. Unfortunately, I've heard the new single, "You Rock My World," and while it sounds vaguely like Jackson of old, it still stinks. Unfortunately, I've heard the new single, "You Rock My World," and while it sounds vaguely like Jackson of old, it still stinks. And all of this begs the question: why do the media and Sony Music and all of these other celebrities fall on their knees in giving attention and bundles of money to a man whose last album, despite millions spent on publicity, still flopped like a dead fish; a man who loves to repeatedly grab his crotch and scream like a little girl when he dances for his fans; and a man who apparently thinks nothing of spending uncomfortably long amounts of time and attention with pre-teen boys and diapered monkeys? And, we're just skimming the surface here, folks. Of course, it doesn't help my credibility too much when I tell you, dear reader, that I actually paid money to see Michael Jackson with his brothers in concert at Dallas way back in 1984. But, things were different back then. Thriller and Off The Wall were actually fairly decent albums at the time, although I never – ever – have the urge to pull them off the shelf these days. Plus, I thought that Eddie Van Halen would show up at the Jackson concert I attended to play his solo on "Beat It." He didn't. And, my excuses for having interest in Michael Jackson back when I was a tent; Of course, it doesn't help my credibility too much when I tell you, dear reader, that I actually paid money to see Michael Jackson with his brothers in concert at Dallas way back in 1984. But, things were different back then. Thriller and Off The Wall were actually fairly decent albums at the time, although I never – ever – have the urge to pull them off the shelf these days. Plus, I thought that Eddie Van Halen would show up at the Jackson concert I attended to play his solo on "Beat It." He didn't. And, my excuses for having interest in Michael Jackson back when I was a tenth grade are pretty ridiculous. Even back then, I wasn't too swift on catching onto the lameness of Michael Jackson. I distinctly remember bringing a Jacksons t-shirt back from the concert for the girl I was dating at the time. I handed it to her with a proud look on my face. She slowly took it with a puzzled face. "Oh," she said. "A Jacksons t-shirt. Ummm…great." The absence of enthusiasm was glaring, so she was obviously onto something back then. I don't know. In the grand scheme of things, the attention and money lavished on the great Freaked One doesn't really matter. There are thousands of other matters in our life that demand more attention than Michael Jackson. But, you have to admit, one could not write fiction based on the demented adventures of this man and have it taken seriously. This is the man, remember, who apparently preferred the
company of Macaulay Culkin over Brooke Shields; was best friends with Webster; allegedly
demanded that he be called the King of Pop befor>
I don't know. In the grand scheme of things, the
attention and money lavished on the great Freaked One doesn't really matter. There are
thousands of other matters in our life that demand more attention than Michael Jackson. But, you have to admit, one could not write fiction
based on the demented adventures of this man and have it taken seriously. This is the man, remember, who apparently preferred the
company of Macaulay Culkin over Brooke Shields; was best friends with Webster; allegedly
demanded that he be called the King of Pop before any public appearances; tried to buy the
bones of The Elephant Man; had to wear surgical masks in public allegedly because of germ
fears; wants to star in a movie about Edgar Allan Poe as Poe; and has a brother
named Tito. And, with the upcoming concert and CD, we're going to
get another round of this stuff. Unless we lock him up with the chimp. *** I've had two comments today alone about
the fact I let slip in my last column that I cannot drive a car with a manual
transmission. My big sister, my mom, and two former girlfriends all
tried to teach me at various times in high school, but I never could catch on. The clutch
on a hill situation always panicked me. It's sad, but true. Here I am mocking a multi-millionaire and I can't drive
a stick. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. September 5, 2001 My big sister, my mom, and two former girlfriends all tried to teach me at various times in high school, but I never could catch on. The clutch on a hill situation always panicked me. It's sad, but true. Here I am mocking a multi-millionaire and I can't drive a stick. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. September 5, 2001 I'm only 34, but I think I'm going through a mid-life crisis. Now, if this is the case, I'm concerned for two reasons. One: if this is the middle of my life, I'm going to die at age 68 – much too young, in my opinion. I still haven't met Raquel Welch and crushed her with jealousy because I'm already spoken for. I still haven't been to the Tuscan countryside and walked through the golden fields in a straw fedora and white linen suit, nursing a glass of red wine and a Cuban cigar. (Don't ask. I like Italian movies.) And, I still exactly haven't figured out the popularity of Bon Jovi. And, two: if I go through with some of the things that I've been obsessing about lately, I might not make it to 68. Now, let me state that none of these mid-life dilemmas involve any kind of illegal or immoral activity, so in fact, this may not be a mid-life crisis after all. Which is to say I have no desire to go lusting after a Pamela Anderson look-alike. What I do have a desire to do is buy a hot rod. And, two: if I go through with some of the things that I've been obsessing about lately, I might not make it to 68. Now, let me state that none of these mid-life dilemmas involve any kind of illegal or immoral activity, so in fact, this may not be a mid-life crisis after all. Which is to say I have no desire to go lusting after a Pamela Anderson look-alike. What I do have a desire to do is buy a hot rod. Well, not really a hot rod, but something that harks back to my high school days when I drove a gold Pontiac Firebird decked out with a spoiler, t-tops, and a booming Alpine AM/FM cassette deck thanks to Doug Brodie at Platter Inn. Let's just say that when I was in the Stud Machine, as I liked to call it, cruising the Batesville High campus, the jaws of the girls leaving class collectively dropped as I glided by, shades on, arm casually propped on the side of the window, my Hall and Oates cassette blaring from the Alpine, and me paying them no mind at all. Of course, that's all nonsense. Well, except for the Hall and Oates part. But, for some reason unknown, I've been craving another sports car, you know – like another Firebird, a Corvette, or a Mustang. In fact, Ford has manufactured a special Mustang based on the famous Mustang Steve McQueen drove in the 1968 detective flick, Bullitt. Forgive my cornball slang, but this puppy is bad to the bone. First, if you have ever seen Bullitt, you'll remember Steve's ride: sleek, yet muscled with"Arial"> Of course, that's all nonsense. Well, except for the Hall and Oates part. But, for some reason unknown, I've been craving another sports car, you know – like another Firebird, a Corvette, or a Mustang. In fact, Ford has manufactured a special Mustang based on the famous Mustang Steve McQueen drove in the 1968 detective flick, Bullitt. Forgive my cornball slang, but this puppy is bad to the bone. First, if you have ever seen Bullitt, you'll remember Steve's ride: sleek, yet muscled with an engine that growled like a tiger, baby. The 2001 Mustang Bullitt keeps the current body of the Mustang, but adds a few subtle touches that compare it to the original, including late 60s retro spoke wheels, cool aluminum-looking gearshift and pedals, and an instrument panel of old, complete with the thin white numbers and thin red needles that died with the flashy digital readouts of today. And, most importantly, the engine apparently growls like a tiger when you fire it up. I can see me behind the wheel, decked out in a black turtleneck, brown blazer, and McQueen attitude. But, then Bullitt didn't have two kids' car seats in the back. So, purchasing something like the 2001 Ford Mustang Bullitt wouldn't be too practical right now. Plus, it's only available with a manual transmission, and um, I can't drive stick. Can you see me in my Bullitt costume sputtering and lurching and stalling on some hill because I let out the clutch too soon? Steve would never be caught dead letting the clutch out too soon. My other mid-life lust is even more n attitude. But, then Bullitt didn't have two kids' car seats in the back. So, purchasing something like the 2001 Ford Mustang Bullitt wouldn't be too practical right now. Plus, it's only available with a manual transmission, and um, I can't drive stick. Can you see me in my Bullitt costume sputtering and lurching and stalling on some hill because I let out the clutch too soon? Steve would never be caught dead letting the clutch out too soon. My other mid-life lust is even more surprising to me. It's the new 2002 Harley-Davidson VROD motorcycle. Now, motorcycles and I do not get along. I came too close to my Maker one day after elementary school when I nearly zoomed off a bluff in my backyard on a mini-bike. Since then the closest I've ever been to driving a bona-fide motorcycle was my yellow Honda moped I drove throughout seventh grade. (Can you see Steve McQueen on a yellow moped?) But, this new Harley is…well, it's just…drool-inducing. This new Harley is…well, it's…kick butt. This new Harley is…well, it…should be mine! It's a chrome monster. It looks like the aluminum spawn of a classic Harley hawg, a BMW racing bike, and the Terminator on steroids. It looks like I should be driving one, decked out in black leather and wraparound shades, cruising the scenic highways of Arkansas with steel-plated attitude. (Why are you laughing?) Of course, I'll never havis new Harley is…well, it's…kick butt. This new Harley is…well, it…should be mine! It's a chrome monster. It looks like the aluminum spawn of a classic Harley hawg, a BMW racing bike, and the Terminator on steroids. It looks like I should be driving one, decked out in black leather and wraparound shades, cruising the scenic highways of Arkansas with steel-plated attitude. (Why are you laughing?) Of course, I'll never have one. There are more important things on which I have to concentrate: the kids' college expenses, maybe a backyard fence, and oh, my life. With my luck, If I ever straddled this puppy, I'd be in the hospital ten minutes later. I can just see the headlines: Local Moron Dead After Running New Harley Into Side Of Bowling Alley. So, I'll keep my mid-life dreams to myself. Every now and then, I'll pull up the Bullitt and VROD websites, and simply sit and drool for an hour or so. This, too, shall pass. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. August 22, 2001 I received an e-mail from a good friend who keeps up with my columns on the Arkansas Weekly website, and when she had heard that I recently visited Fayetteville for a few days, she was sure that I would write about my dining experiences during my visit. I suppose I'm getting somewhat predictable. I did visil Rob at [email protected]. August 22, 2001 I received an e-mail from a good friend who keeps up with my columns on the Arkansas Weekly website, and when she had heard that I recently visited Fayetteville for a few days, she was sure that I would write about my dining experiences during my visit. I suppose I'm getting somewhat predictable. I did visit Fayetteville a few days ago, and I did eat until my heart's content: garlic chicken and Spanish omelets from Herman's; chicken ravioli from Venetian Inn; tortellini and Tonitown spaghetti from Mary Maestri's; and so on. But, something must have infected the North West Arkansas food supply, because every night when I would fall into the night's deep sleep, I would experience the most vivid and insane dreams that I have had in a long while. Take, for instance, the dream about leading the Batesville High School Pioneer football team to the state championship. Now, one should realize that sports was not my strong point in high school. My total high school athletic experience consisted of being one of the basketball managers and holding a spot on the tennis team. While the manager position was always a big hit with the girls (joke), it should be noted that I probably still hold the record with the Batesville High School tennis team for losing every one of my matches, as well as every one of my games. A trained ape could probably beat that record with ease. Oh, and I did try out for the golf team in the tenth grade. Yet, I realized life on the greens was not to be when I tried to tee off from o the state championship. Now, one should realize that sports was not my strong point in high school. My total high school athletic experience consisted of being one of the basketball managers and holding a spot on the tennis team. While the manager position was always a big hit with the girls (joke), it should be noted that I probably still hold the record with the Batesville High School tennis team for losing every one of my matches, as well as every one of my games. A trained ape could probably beat that record with ease. Oh, and I did try out for the golf team in the tenth grade. Yet, I realized life on the greens was not to be when I tried to tee off from the fairway on the first day of practice. (The coach should have gone over the rules with me beforehand, don't you think?) So, my football dream was not rooted in any sort of reality or history. In the dream, the Pioneers were at the state finals and behind by two touchdowns. With 30 seconds on the clock, the coach calls me on the field, and I catch one long pass for a score, then I intercept another long throw for the winning run. With Queen's "We Are The Champions" blaring in the background, I'm lifted off the field by my cheering brothers in pigskin and carted off to the locker room in a rush of glory. Oh…I get goose pimples just reliving it. Of course, I have no idea how to play football, and when I watch a game, I'm usually asking questions about simple rules and procedures, like "Now, what exactly is a field goal?" I feel fairly certain that if I were ever caught on a football field with a ball in my hands and a defensive tackle storming in my direction, I would most likely lose control of my bladder and run screaming for my mommy like a little girl. Oh…I get goose pimples just reliving it. Of course, I have no idea how to play football, and when I watch a game, I'm usually asking questions about simple rules and procedures, like "Now, what exactly is a field goal?" I feel fairly certain that if I were ever caught on a football field with a ball in my hands and a defensive tackle storming in my direction, I would most likely lose control of my bladder and run screaming for my mommy like a little girl. Another Fayetteville food-induced dream involved my wife. I've recently had a spell of dreams in which my wife leaves me for another man, and this was just another entry in this series – only more twisted. You see, in the normal dreams where my wife leaves me, it's usually because she's fallen for one of her ex-boyfriends. In the Fayetteville dream, my wife fell for none other than Don Adams. You know? Maxwell Smart from the old television show, Get Smart. In fact, in the dream, it was actually the character Maxwell Smart that stole her heart. I remember because when I saw the two in my dream, they were attending a Razorback football game, and he was in his tuxedo talking on his shoe phone while she held onto his arm. Despondency reigned over me. How could she do this to me? I mean, the heartache was bad enough, but did she have to leave me for one of my childhood heroes? I grew up watching Maxwell Smart and Agent 99 every afternoon with my Coke and Reese's. Along with The Andy Griffith Show and Gilligan's Island, Get Smart was like another childhood friend. The betrayal of both Julie and Maxwell was a double blow to my heart. Despondency reigned over me. How could she do this to me? I mean, the heartache was bad enough, but did she have to leave me for one of my childhood heroes? I grew up watching Maxwell Smart and Agent 99 every afternoon with my Coke and Reese's. Along with The Andy Griffith Show and Gilligan's Island, Get Smart was like another childhood friend. The betrayal of both Julie and Maxwell was a double blow to my heart. This particular dream, however, ended somewhat bittersweet. I may have lost my wife to Don Adams, but revenge was ultimately mine. You see, I ended up with Barbara Feldon. *** A rarely seen nugget of rock history is coming to the Melba Theatre. The documentary, Message Of Love: The Isle Of Wight Festival, will screen the weekend of September 21 at the historic Melba for an exclusive Arkansas engagement. The festival, held in 1970, featured unbelievable performances from music legends such as Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, The Who and jazz legend Miles Davis – all of which are documented in Message Of Love. If you're a rock fanatic, don't miss the chance to see some incredible rock on the big Melba screen the weekend of September 21. The screenings are sponsored by the Ozark Foothills FilmFest and The Max 93One FM. The program is the first of several pre-festival events planned for the Melba in advance of next year's first five-day Ozark Foothills FilmFest in Batesville. Look for more information concerning Meegend Miles Davis – all of which are documented in Message Of Love. If you're a rock fanatic, don't miss the chance to see some incredible rock on the big Melba screen the weekend of September 21. The screenings are sponsored by the Ozark Foothills FilmFest and The Max 93One FM. The program is the first of several pre-festival events planned for the Melba in advance of next year's first five-day Ozark Foothills FilmFest in Batesville. Look for more information concerning Message Of Love in upcoming issues of Arkansas Weekly. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected] August 15, 2001 Well, I'm a little late, but congratulations goes out to the White River Water Carnival and the Batesville Area Chamber of Commerce for the big Mark Chesnutt concert. Another big crowd came out and supported a name-brand act. Kudos to Debbie Allen, Randy Palmer, Randy Cross, and our very own Kelli Keathley for pulling it all together. I think it's another indication that Batesville could support a nice and well-designed amphitheater on the banks of the White River. I could not tell you how many people came up to me that night with the same thought. What's happened to the proposed amphitheater? Maybe someone from the City Council or Mayor Biard could give us a progress report sometime soon. * * * The afternoon of the Chesnutt show, I was standing backstage talng it all together. I think it's another indication that Batesville could support a nice and well-designed amphitheater on the banks of the White River. I could not tell you how many people came up to me that night with the same thought. What's happened to the proposed amphitheater? Maybe someone from the City Council or Mayor Biard could give us a progress report sometime soon. * * * The afternoon of the Chesnutt show, I was standing backstage talking with some other radio folk when I noticed Main Street Batesville's Selena Anderson struggling with a water cooler full of beverages. Being the gentleman that I am, I went over and told her I would carry the silly thing. I ended up carrying one end and Selena picked up the other. "Where are we going with this thing?" I asked. "On Mark's bus," Selina replied. Oh cool, I thought. I had never been on a bona-fide showbiz personality's tour bus before. So, Selena opens the bus door and we climb inside. It was on the second step up that I felt ice-cold water running down over my leg and all over Mark Chesnutt's tour bus. I yelled for Selena to slow down, and I noticed the spout to the cooler was wide open, leaking melted ice everywhere. Water soaked my pant leg, making it look as though I didn't make it to the Port-a-Potty. Bending down, I plugged in the spout, and climbed on up into the bus with the cooler. Chesnutt cooling his heels watching satellite TV, got up from the sofa, too opens the bus door and we climb inside. It was on the second step up that I felt ice-cold water running down over my leg and all over Mark Chesnutt's tour bus. I yelled for Selena to slow down, and I noticed the spout to the cooler was wide open, leaking melted ice everywhere. Water soaked my pant leg, making it look as though I didn't make it to the Port-a-Potty. Bending down, I plugged in the spout, and climbed on up into the bus with the cooler. Chesnutt cooling his heels watching satellite TV, got up from the sofa, took a look at my leg, and said in his country twang: "Son, looks like you done used the bathroom all over yourself." And, that was my introduction to Mark Chesnutt. (I will note that the phrase "used the bathroom" was not the particular term used by Chesnutt. He used the more colorful, and unprintable, word.) * * * A buddy of mine called me at work the other day and wanted to meet for an afternoon matinee of Planet Of The Apes. I was hesitant at first. Critics have mainly panned the film, and I'm not a big fan of summer movies, particularly those of the sci-fi kind. I also took into account that this same friend also dragged me to Tomb Raider, a truly loud, silly, and incomprehensible movie if there ever was one. But, there is a place in my heart for the Planet Of The Apes flicks. I grew up on them at the Landers theater, and I once even went to a "Dusk Until Dawn" program of all the original Apes movies at the late, gafternoon matinee of Planet Of The Apes. I was hesitant at first. Critics have mainly panned the film, and I'm not a big fan of summer movies, particularly those of the sci-fi kind. I also took into account that this same friend also dragged me to Tomb Raider, a truly loud, silly, and incomprehensible movie if there ever was one. But, there is a place in my heart for the Planet Of The Apes flicks. I grew up on them at the Landers theater, and I once even went to a "Dusk Until Dawn" program of all the original Apes movies at the late, great White River Drive-In when I was a punk. I have always held a fondness for Cornelius, Caesar, and Charlton Heston's unfortunate astronaut, Taylor. The 2001 version of Planet Of The Apes is slightly different from the original series – the trio from above are nowhere to be found, but it does deal with a stranded astronaut (Mark Wahlberg) on a planet full of talking apes. And, Heston even makes a cameo appearance, this time as the dying ape father of a crazed chimpanzee warlord named Thade (Pulp Fiction's Tim Roth). Call me bananas (sorry -- couldn't resist), but I thoroughly enjoyed the 2001 version. Sure, it's big bloated nonsense, but it moves fast and is a lot of fun. I even bought the surprise ending that's been roundly criticized. Plus, there's a cool touch that explains the apes' origins on their home planet. Also recommended: Sexy Beast, a British crime film with a darkly funny performance by Ben Kingsley as a truly demented gangster. It's odd to see the man who played Gandhi portraying a fearsome, profane villain, but that's what makes this movie neat. It also features another creepy villain in the form of Ian McShane, who some television viewers wsist), but I thoroughly enjoyed the 2001 version. Sure, it's big bloated nonsense, but it moves fast and is a lot of fun. I even bought the surprise ending that's been roundly criticized. Plus, there's a cool touch that explains the apes' origins on their home planet. Also recommended: Sexy Beast, a British crime film with a darkly funny performance by Ben Kingsley as a truly demented gangster. It's odd to see the man who played Gandhi portraying a fearsome, profane villain, but that's what makes this movie neat. It also features another creepy villain in the form of Ian McShane, who some television viewers will recognize from the British series, Lovejoy. Character actor Ray Winstone also has some fun playing a bloated, tan ex-gangster living the high life in a Spanish villa until he is reluctantly pulled back into the business by McShane and Kingsley. Sexy Beast should open in Little Rock soon. Don't count on it ever making it to Batesville until the video is released. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. August 8, 2001 My little sister, Mollie, is a really good cook. She doesn't have us over often, which -- come to think of it – is downright rude, but when she does, the food is tasty. Well, that is except for one night... This happened not long after Mollie and her husband,
Ken, had moved into their first house. One thing about the new home that excited Mollie
was the existence of a tiny garden in the backyard. The former owner of the home had
apparently been growing a variety of spices and herbs from ros My little sister, Mollie, is a really good cook. She doesn't have us over often, which -- come to think
of it – is downright rude, but when she does, the food is tasty. Well, that is except for one night... This happened not long after Mollie and her husband,
Ken, had moved into their first house. One thing about the new home that excited Mollie
was the existence of a tiny garden in the backyard. The former owner of the home had
apparently been growing a variety of spices and herbs from rosemary to cilantro, and with
my sister's culinary talent, the garden was a little treasure. So, when she had the entire family over for dinner one
evening, she cooked a batch of pasta and mixed up some genuine homemade pesto sauce. And,
for the pesto, she used a load of fresh basil from the spice garden in her new backyard.
It was about as close to authentic Italian food as one could get. Knowing that I've always been a big fan of pesto, Mollie
scooped up some pasta, smothered it in the steamy freshly made sauce, and handed me the
first plate. I remember that I was starving at the time, and I knew a heap of pesto pasta
would hit the spot. I grabbed a fork, twirled a tangled ball of pasta, and
made sure to get lots of pesto for the first bite. The fork slid in my mouth, and I began to savor the
taste. There was, though, one problem. It became apparent after
my second or third chew. The pesto tasted an awful lot like grass. Now, the majority of you have probably not had the good
fortune of tasting grass. Let me simply say that it tastes exactly living at the time, and I knew a heap of pesto pasta
would hit the spot. I grabbed a fork, twirled a tangled ball of pasta, and
made sure to get lots of pesto for the first bite. The fork slid in my mouth, and I began to savor the
taste. There was, though, one problem. It became apparent after
my second or third chew. The pesto tasted an awful lot like grass. Now, the majority of you have probably not had the good
fortune of tasting grass. Let me simply say that it tastes exactly like freshly cut grass
smells. And, it's the most bitter thing I've ever had the opportunity to consume. The impulse to gag was almost immediate, but I quickly
and thankfully realized that Mollie was staring at me with a large, expectant smile on my
face. Gagging and spitting up the "pesto" sauce all over my plate would not have
been a highlight of the evening. I semi-smiled and swallowed the stuff. "Well?" she asked. "Ummm," I said. "Is it good?" "Ummm…" "What?" she asked, the tone of her voice slightly altered. "Ummm," I repeated, "did, ummm, you say that this was fresh basil?" Everyone walked out into the backyard and headed toward the garden. "Well," Mollie said as she led us, "I think it was basil." "Is it good?" "Ummm…" "What?" she asked, the tone of her voice slightly altered. "Ummm," I repeated, "did, ummm, you say that this was fresh basil?" Everyone walked out into the backyard and headed toward the garden. "Well," Mollie said as she led us, "I think it was basil." She pointed to a patch of long, thin greenery sticking up from the dirt. I crouched down, pulled a clump from the ground. "Ummm, Mollie," I said. "Yeah. What?" "That's not basil." "What is it?" she asked. "Mollie, these are weeds." This, ladies and gentlemen, would explain the "freshly cut grass" taste. So, needless to say, Mollie's pesto pasta was a bust. Humbled and embarrassed, she served up the pasta with some tomato sauce and threw out the weed sauce. One good thing, though: I learned that weeds will really clean out your plumbing. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. July 4, 2001 So, needless to say, Mollie's pesto pasta was a bust. Humbled and embarrassed, she served up the pasta with some tomato sauce and threw out the weed sauce. One good thing, though: I learned that weeds will really clean out your plumbing. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. July 4, 2001 Let's go over what we know: I am a 34-year-old man. I consider myself somewhat mature and reasonable. I vote. I make it a priority to read and feed the mind. I attempt to eat right, and though I do not exercise, I do an occasional push up now and then. I try to be a good father and husband, and I hope someday the world will reign with peace and goodness. There is, however, one part of my life that concerns me. To some, it might seem insignificant – a quirk, if you will. But, I would tell you that this part of my life is not insignificant, and is in fact, a major factor in my happiness and well being. Some, perhaps my well-intentioned wife and my puzzled daughter, would most likely tell you that I am obsessed. This could be true. Obsessions can be dangerous, but I don't care. The test of true love can be measured by what one is willing to sacrifice for that love, and I'm willing to sacrifice, to bleed, to suffer for SpongeBob. Yes, SpongeBob Squarepants -- that innocent little yellow fella, -- um, er sponge, actually -- with cheer in his heart and optimism in his blood, always preparing for the day with a joyful chant of "factor in my happiness and well being. Some, perhaps my well-intentioned wife and my puzzled daughter, would most likely tell you that I am obsessed. This could be true. Obsessions can be dangerous, but I don't care. The test of true love can be measured by what one is willing to sacrifice for that love, and I'm willing to sacrifice, to bleed, to suffer for SpongeBob. Yes, SpongeBob Squarepants -- that innocent little yellow fella, -- um, er sponge, actually -- with cheer in his heart and optimism in his blood, always preparing for the day with a joyful chant of "I'm ready! I'm ready! I'm ready!" I've written of my admiration of SpongeBob and his buddies – the goofy and clueless Patrick the Starfish, the daredevil Sandy the Squirrel, and the gleefully bitter Squidward the Squid -- before in these pages. With my two kids, I've been watching the adventures of my little spongy friend who lives in a pineapple under the sea every Saturday and Sunday morning for about a year now on Nickelodeon. Yes, SpongeBob is a cartoon character, but really, does that make him any less special? Oh, I know what you're thinking: what kind of 34-year-old man obsesses over an animated sponge? But, I can't help it. The show is definitely on my level. I've seen every episode more than once, and I laugh at all the same stuff every time. In fact, I could quote entire scripts if given the opportunity. My favorite would have to be the one where SpongeBob and Patrick think they've accidentally killed Squidward, but it was actually a wax dummy. The real Squidward then acts like a ghost and tries to rid himself of his bothersome neighbors once and for all. I also like the one where SpongeBob orders inflatable muscle arms to impress everyone at the beach. Ored sponge? But, I can't help it. The show is definitely on my level. I've seen every episode more than once, and I laugh at all the same stuff every time. In fact, I could quote entire scripts if given the opportunity. My favorite would have to be the one where SpongeBob and Patrick think they've accidentally killed Squidward, but it was actually a wax dummy. The real Squidward then acts like a ghost and tries to rid himself of his bothersome neighbors once and for all. I also like the one where SpongeBob orders inflatable muscle arms to impress everyone at the beach. Or, how about the one where Squidward helps put on a talent show, and showcases his love for solo interpretive dance to the non-impressed locals? Of course, all of this reads like nonsense to the average adult, I'm sure. Yet, when I sit down with my kids, still bed-headed from sleep, and click on the world of SpongeBob, I know the world can be a good place. Of course, my wife is a little concerned about all of this SpongeBob mania coming from her husband. I think the breaking point came last week when I walked in the kitchen, topless, covered in removable SpongeBob tattoos I picked up in a local store. She was in the middle of fixing dinner and almost dropped the spatula in shocked horror. My little boy immediately loved the designs I had plastered all over my chest and arms, but my 5-year-old daughter stepped back from me somewhat, probably thinking, "OK. Daddy's gone off the deep end." Oh, who cares? I love SpongeBob Squarepants. Anything that can brighten this idiotic world is fine with me. And, if an adult would simply sit and watch an episode with the same bright-eyed innocence of my kids, they'd probably chuckle a time or two. Either that or they're a bona-fidee middle of fixing dinner and almost dropped the spatula in shocked horror. My little boy immediately loved the designs I had plastered all over my chest and arms, but my 5-year-old daughter stepped back from me somewhat, probably thinking, "OK. Daddy's gone off the deep end." Oh, who cares? I love SpongeBob Squarepants. Anything that can brighten this idiotic world is fine with me. And, if an adult would simply sit and watch an episode with the same bright-eyed innocence of my kids, they'd probably chuckle a time or two. Either that or they're a bona-fide grump. And, joy of joys, Nickelodeon has now added SpongeBob Squarepants to its daily prime-time schedule. Beginning Monday, the network will begin airing the show at 7 every weeknight. I'm ready! I'm ready! I'm ready! June 27, 2001 Most of you probably have heard about the fish recently caught in the White River that looked an awful lot like a piranha. It seems silly and far-fetched. How could a fish from the habitat of the Amazon suddenly appear in the White River? It's almost like saying someone once spotted a 10-foot great white shark one morning in a New Jersey creek. But, then again, someone really did spot a 10-foot great white shark one morning in a New Jersey creek. And, that shark ended up killing a skinny dipping boy, as well as a 210-pound man who jumped in the water and tried to save him. And, all of this is documented fact. It occurred in July 1916, anow could a fish from the habitat of the Amazon suddenly appear in the White River? It's almost like saying someone once spotted a 10-foot great white shark one morning in a New Jersey creek. But, then again, someone really did spot a 10-foot great white shark one morning in a New Jersey creek. And, that shark ended up killing a skinny dipping boy, as well as a 210-pound man who jumped in the water and tried to save him. And, all of this is documented fact. It occurred in July 1916, and these victims were not the only unfortunate souls attacked and killed that month by the same shark. In fact, these attacks were the first reported and documented fatal shark attacks in the United States. The bloody rampage of the juvenile great white shark in 1916 New Jersey is the basis for the new non-fiction book, Close To Shore: A True Story of Terror In An Age Of Innocence by Michael Capuzzo. It's a captivating and spooky tale that follows a young great white shark, probably sucked up north in the Gulf Stream, and in a freak, thrown out around the New Jersey shore, where it began a killing rampage around the beach resorts of the Garden State. Capuzzo gets down to the details of the shark, its biology and probable reasons for the attacks while also painting a vivid portrait of the age and the people eventually targeted by the deadly fish. And, yes, the shark did swim from the shore, into a bay, and up into a fresh water creek until it came to the town of Matawan, N.J., 14 miles from the Atlantic Ocean, and attacked a child taking an early afternoon dip in a popular swimming hole. It seems completely unbelievable, but Capuzzo, through research and interviews with todayound the beach resorts of the Garden State. Capuzzo gets down to the details of the shark, its biology and probable reasons for the attacks while also painting a vivid portrait of the age and the people eventually targeted by the deadly fish. And, yes, the shark did swim from the shore, into a bay, and up into a fresh water creek until it came to the town of Matawan, N.J., 14 miles from the Atlantic Ocean, and attacked a child taking an early afternoon dip in a popular swimming hole. It seems completely unbelievable, but Capuzzo, through research and interviews with today's top shark experts, reconstructs the shark's journey with detail and care, telling a chilling story of a crazed sea predator and its deadly tracking of its unsuspecting victims. By the way, reading this book makes me even more wary of taking a dip in a local swimming hole. Not only did this great white make it up through the fresh waters of a creek, but the book also notes that a man-eating bull shark was once found swimming in the Mississippi – all the way into Illinois. It all seems insane – just like finding a piranha in the White River. * * * Just after finishing Close To Shore, I found out that there is another recently released book on the same subject. Twelve Days Of Terror: A Definitive Investigation Of The 1916 New Jersey Shark Attacks by Dr. Richard G. Fernicola hit the bookshelves this month and has received some positive notices.
May 30, 2001 They were h align="center">* * * Just after finishing Close To Shore, I found out that there is another recently released book on the same subject. Twelve Days Of Terror: A Definitive Investigation Of The 1916 New Jersey Shark Attacks by Dr. Richard G. Fernicola hit the bookshelves this month and has received some positive notices.
May 30, 2001 They were hidden in the dark, in a white, legal-sized box smothered in the attic's dust. There were about 50 or 60 boxes just like this one, all stacked neatly on metal shelves throughout the attic space, most of them scribbled with something like "1990-93 P & Ls," or "1988-89 quotes" across the side. This particular box was stuck back in the corner, unlabeled, away from the yellowing archives of business past, sitting on the plywood covered floor. They were in literally the last box in which I told myself I was going to look. But there they were: about 20 of them — small, tattered and stuffed Mead spiral notebooks. Some were barely held together with sticky old duct tape, others were stained with spilled coffee or water. Tattered and beaten, they had seen better days. These books each had a place at one time at the round table in the old Kelley's-Wyatt's Restaurant on St. Louis Street, and as ragged and frayed as they were, they were part of Batesville's history. The round table, that big, glossy chunk of wood, was where a mess of Batesville characters would gather every day, sipping coffee, sucking cigarettes, eating plates of scrambled eggs and bacon, and gleefully trading town gossip like the scruffy kidad spiral notebooks. Some were barely held together with sticky old duct tape, others were stained with spilled coffee or water. Tattered and beaten, they had seen better days. These books each had a place at one time at the round table in the old Kelley's-Wyatt's Restaurant on St. Louis Street, and as ragged and frayed as they were, they were part of Batesville's history. The round table, that big, glossy chunk of wood, was where a mess of Batesville characters would gather every day, sipping coffee, sucking cigarettes, eating plates of scrambled eggs and bacon, and gleefully trading town gossip like the scruffy kids behind the bleachers most of them once were. The cast of characters would change throughout the day. The first crew would arrive with the dawn. This was, most likely, the busiest and liveliest shift of the round table. Many mornings in the late leftover moments of the dark, I would drive to work at the radio station across the river, and from the street, I would see them behind the restaurant glass, circled around the table, a haze of smoke lingering above them. One could only guess what the chatter was that morning. The lunch crowd would be almost as busy, and the late afternoon group would be the thinnest bunch. Yet, there were always the regulars: those few who joined just about every gathering at the round table, rain or shine, just about every day. John Purtle was one of these few. Gossip was not the only talk of the table. Politics, local and national, was another popular round table topic. Silly banter and jokes were the others. And, Purtle began to bring the cheap school notebooks to the restaurant to capture some of these thoughts. Every day, Purtle, or another round table regular, would scrawl some gossip or political opinio afternoon group would be the thinnest bunch. Yet, there were always the regulars: those few who joined just about every gathering at the round table, rain or shine, just about every day. John Purtle was one of these few. Gossip was not the only talk of the table. Politics, local and national, was another popular round table topic. Silly banter and jokes were the others. And, Purtle began to bring the cheap school notebooks to the restaurant to capture some of these thoughts. Every day, Purtle, or another round table regular, would scrawl some gossip or political opinion in these notebooks, and then slide it to the center of the table for someone else to make an entry. When one book was stuffed, it was Purtle who brought a new one. He began making more interesting contributions to the books. He would type up opinions, Batesville history, or Scotch tape old photographs he had collected and taken through the years, to the college-ruled pages. Whenever I would sit at the round table, I'd learn something of Batesville past that would fascinate or amuse me. For instance, Purtle once made a detailed map on his beloved law office Apple computer that followed the steps of an early-1900 Batesville mayor the night he murdered the alleged lover of the 60-year-old mayor's 18-year-old wife. How Purtle knew the details of this quirky and sordid Batesville event was beyond me, but I would guess he took it all in from some elderly round table diner at some point. Purtle let my grandfather, Preston Sr., another round table regular, take the old notebooks back to his office. There, Preston Sr., would shuffle in the door, and many times, plop one of these books on my desk, back when I shared an office with him. &quoomputer that followed the steps of an early-1900 Batesville mayor the night he murdered the alleged lover of the 60-year-old mayor's 18-year-old wife. How Purtle knew the details of this quirky and sordid Batesville event was beyond me, but I would guess he took it all in from some elderly round table diner at some point. Purtle let my grandfather, Preston Sr., another round table regular, take the old notebooks back to his office. There, Preston Sr., would shuffle in the door, and many times, plop one of these books on my desk, back when I shared an office with him. "Read that," he'd order. "You'll learn more in those books than you ever did in college." Over time, the books accumulated, and we would stack them in the legal-sized boxes and store them in the attic above the office. At some point years later, we thought these little notebooks might be a treasure chest for a local historian or two. When we started Arkansas Weekly, we tried to think of some area folks who might write some interesting columns. John Purtle's name was at the top of the list. He had, after all, been writing unpublished opinions for years in these little Mead notebooks. Purtle eagerly accepted our invitation and began "A Second Opinion." He wrote a column every week, without fail. Every Wednesday afternoon, I could expect to see an e-mail from him, with next week's column attached. Not everyone agreed with Purtle, this is certain. His views were adamant and many times edged with sarcasm. In last week's issue, he was at it again, criticizing President Bush's energy policy and Independence County's industrial park. It was his last column. John years in these little Mead notebooks. Purtle eagerly accepted our invitation and began "A Second Opinion." He wrote a column every week, without fail. Every Wednesday afternoon, I could expect to see an e-mail from him, with next week's column attached. Not everyone agreed with Purtle, this is certain. His views were adamant and many times edged with sarcasm. In last week's issue, he was at it again, criticizing President Bush's energy policy and Independence County's industrial park. It was his last column. John Purtle died of a massive heart attack May 26 at a local restaurant. Somewhat fitting, if you will. Purtle's haunts besides the courthouses and his law offices were the local eateries where he regularly dined. The restaurants are where many people saw John the most. After John's funeral, I went to the attic above my grandfather's old office, and I found a box full of John's round table notebooks. I thought we would share a few pages from two or three compiled in the early `90s. Only a fortunate handful at the round table ever viewed these pages, but we thought we would give you the opportunity to see just a few. May 30, 2001 It's Thursday night, May 24, as I write this. Way past deadline. Stacy and the folks in the Arkansas Weekly graphics department have deadlines for a reason, and their wrath is to be feared when one misses that deadline. But, I've been particularly busy. I had one column 95 per cent finished before I chunked it five minutes ago. Too pretentious and preachy. I'll come back to it some dayont> May 30, 2001 It's Thursday night, May 24, as I write this. Way past deadline. Stacy and the folks in the Arkansas Weekly graphics department have deadlines for a reason, and their wrath is to be feared when one misses that deadline. But, I've been particularly busy. I had one column 95 per cent finished before I chunked it five minutes ago. Too pretentious and preachy. I'll come back to it some day when I'm not so full of myself. Which could be a long time. One thing that has kept me busy is some surgery my wife experienced last week. Her eardrums had collapsed thanks to years of ear infections from her youth, so she was referred to an ear, nose and throat doctor in Little Rock for the corrective procedure. Basically, they went into her left ear and reconstructed her ear drum, and that's all I'll say about that because Julie hates it when I include her in these columns, and as most husbands know, it's preferable to be on the wife's good side. (Let's just say, the Ed Buckner column from about a month ago was not a big hit in the Grace household.) She's fine now, although she was very dizzy for a few days because inner ear surgery screws with one's equilibrium. We did have a minor problem when she returned home from the surgery. I had to rent her a walker so she could keep her balance. She was always bumping into things and falling down when I told her to go and get me a beer. The walker cured that. (That was a joke.) * * * Ed Buckner column from about a month ago was not a big hit in the Grace household.)She's fine now, although she was very dizzy for a few days because inner ear surgery screws with one's equilibrium. We did have a minor problem when she returned home from the surgery. I had to rent her a walker so she could keep her balance. She was always bumping into things and falling down when I told her to go and get me a beer. The walker cured that. (That was a joke.) * * * By now most of Batesville and, I believe, Newport have some new cable channels to choose from. While I thought I'd be glued to channels like Comedy Central, E! and MSNBC, I've found that the most entertaining and informative of the bunch is Fox News Channel. It's the first channel I click to when I turn on the tube. Now, I know, it's a tad slanted in its coverage. I mean, ultra-right winger Rupert Murdoch owns the darn thing. But, their fresh and vigorous coverage puts CNN's to shame. CNN has simply become a stale, bloated bore. I particularly enjoy Bill O'Reilly, an articulate and pompous blowhard whose program, The O'Reilly Factor, has become the highest-rated cable news show. O'Reilly, who believes he's always right (which, for me, is about 75 per cent of the time) possesses a stinging yet humorous side as he interrogates a variety of guests each weeknight. A recent program had Dan Rather vainly trying to promote his new book, but O'Reilly took the time to mercilessly grill the anchor about CBS's alleged liberal bias. Sure, it was sort of like calling the kettle black, but it was hilarious stuff as Rather hemmed and hawed. &nnbsp; I particularly enjoy Bill O'Reilly, an articulate and pompous blowhard whose program, The O'Reilly Factor, has become the highest-rated cable news show. O'Reilly, who believes he's always right (which, for me, is about 75 per cent of the time) possesses a stinging yet humorous side as he interrogates a variety of guests each weeknight. A recent program had Dan Rather vainly trying to promote his new book, but O'Reilly took the time to mercilessly grill the anchor about CBS's alleged liberal bias. Sure, it was sort of like calling the kettle black, but it was hilarious stuff as Rather hemmed and hawed. Sometimes O'Reilly is so aggressive in his interviews, I cringe that he's going to push the wrong button. I'm just waiting for someone to reach across his desk and slug him. * * * I'm reading a chilling book. It's called Seek: Reports From The Edges Of America & Beyond, and it's a collection of essays and articles from the acclaimed novelist Denis Johnson. Johnson has been all over the world posting reports from wars in foreign lands such as Afghanistan, Liberia and Somalia, and his dispatches are mostly horrifying. His sojourn through Liberia is particularly devastating. A barren brutal land at the time of his visit with starving children, decimated cities, wandering killers and dogs feeding on corpses, Johnson's detail of war-torn Liberia is ruthless and surreal. He barely made it out of the country alive. At one point at a rebel leader's headquarters, Johnson watches a video of a former Liberian president slowly being tortured to death, viewing the tape in the same room with the actual tormenters on the video. They all watch their bloody handiwork on the television with glee as they pass out beers. It's almost an unreadable passage. Most of the booeria is particularly devastating. A barren brutal land at the time of his visit with starving children, decimated cities, wandering killers and dogs feeding on corpses, Johnson's detail of war-torn Liberia is ruthless and surreal. He barely made it out of the country alive. At one point at a rebel leader's headquarters, Johnson watches a video of a former Liberian president slowly being tortured to death, viewing the tape in the same room with the actual tormenters on the video. They all watch their bloody handiwork on the television with glee as they pass out beers. It's almost an unreadable passage. Most of the book is this brutal, and this is the point. Johnson delves into unheard of countries and battles forgotten, exposing us to atrocities that are going practically unnoticed by the rest of the world. Disgust, pity and compassion are the first emotions you'll experience while you read some of Johnson's reports. Appreciation for your life and Johnson's willingness to risk his for these dispatches is the other. You can email Rob at [email protected] May 23, 2001 Time for another movie geek column. Since becoming a Pop, it's been hard to allocate time to watch movies. Before fatherhood, I managed to see three, sometimes four or five films a week. Since our daughter's birth five years ago, that number has dwindled to – maybe – one flick a month, if I'm lucky. Yet, for the past month, I've managed to squeeze a bunch of movies in my schedule, and for the most part, they've all been satisfying experiences. I caught Mementosmall> Time for another movie geek column. Since becoming a Pop, it's been hard to allocate time to watch movies. Before fatherhood, I managed to see three, sometimes four or five films a week. Since our daughter's birth five years ago, that number has dwindled to – maybe – one flick a month, if I'm lucky. Yet, for the past month, I've managed to squeeze a bunch of movies in my schedule, and for the most part, they've all been satisfying experiences. I caught Memento, a critically acclaimed film noir, a few weeks ago, and while it might be a tad over-praised, it was still a fun ride. Australian actor Guy Pearce stars as an insurance investigator on the trail of his wife's killer. The catch is he has amnesia, and this, of course, makes things a tad complicated. Furthering the complication for the audience is the fact that the movie unfolds backwards, so we're about in the same boat as the hero. It's a tricky and entertaining little movie, and I look forward to catching it again on video. I believe it's currently playing in Little Rock, and who knows, it might hit Batesville in the future. I'm an admirer of any movie made by the Coen brothers, Joel and Ethan. They're the duo responsible for Raising Arizona, Fargo, Blood Simple, The Big Lebowski, and one of the most underrated movies of the last decade, Miller's Crossing. Their new movie happens to be their biggest hit, financially speaking. O Brother, Where Art Thou? stars George Clooney as the leader of some Depression-era prison escapees in rural Mississippi. I found it hilarious for the most part and loved Clooney's portrayal of an idiotic know-it-all more obsessed with his hair than the predicaments in which he and his fellow escapees find themselves. Brotial"> I'm an admirer of any movie made by the Coen brothers, Joel and Ethan. They're the duo responsible for Raising Arizona, Fargo, Blood Simple, The Big Lebowski, and one of the most underrated movies of the last decade, Miller's Crossing. Their new movie happens to be their biggest hit, financially speaking. O Brother, Where Art Thou? stars George Clooney as the leader of some Depression-era prison escapees in rural Mississippi. I found it hilarious for the most part and loved Clooney's portrayal of an idiotic know-it-all more obsessed with his hair than the predicaments in which he and his fellow escapees find themselves. Brother is not my favorite Coen brothers flick, but it is an incredibly well-made movie that thoroughly entertains – which is much more than you can say for the majority of the crud currently in theatres. Now, if I told you one of the best movies released so far this year is a nearly three-hour film that unfolds around the bloody underworld of Mexico City dog fighting, you might call me an idiot. (Many of you call me an idiot anyway, so what the hey?) But, Amores Perros is just that: an energized and vibrant slice of film-making that pulls the viewer through three separate stories (it's structured somewhat like Pulp Fiction) all connected by a violent car accident and the depraved world of dog fights. The first story follows a dirt-poor teenager who submerges himself into the dog fighting world, all while trying to sway his sister-in-law from his abusive brother. The second involves a high-priced fashion model maimed in a car crash caused by the teenager. And the third and most entertaining section follows a destitute man with a haunted past and a part-time job as a hired killer. Amores Perros has everything one would want from the movies: drama, romance, thrills, slick editing and actors at the top of their game. Despite the downbeat nature ofsomewhat like Pulp Fiction) all connected by a violent car accident and the depraved world of dog fights. The first story follows a dirt-poor teenager who submerges himself into the dog fighting world, all while trying to sway his sister-in-law from his abusive brother. The second involves a high-priced fashion model maimed in a car crash caused by the teenager. And the third and most entertaining section follows a destitute man with a haunted past and a part-time job as a hired killer. Amores Perros has everything one would want from the movies: drama, romance, thrills, slick editing and actors at the top of their game. Despite the downbeat nature of the story, this is as good as the movies get, and if you have the chance to see this film — particularly on the big screen — take it. Another excellent movie, this one from last year, that I recently caught on DVD was The Yards. One look at the cast – Mark Wahlberg, James Caan, Joaquin Phoenix (from Gladiator), Charlize Theron, Ellen Burstyn, Faye Dunaway – and one has to wonder what happened to this movie. It was barely released at the end of 2000 and received lukewarm notices, although the New York Times named it as one of the best films of last year. The Yards is good stuff: an effective and moody portrait of crime and familial betrayals set against the world of New York City subway contractors. Wahlberg plays an ex-con striving to go straight, but corrupted by the shady dealings of his uncle's subway contracting business. Strikingly photographed and acted with ease by the powerhouse cast, The Yards is heads above the studio junk that get more publicity and attention. Why a quality movie such as this was dumped and ignored by Miramax Films is a mystery. (For interesting reading on the odd and frustrating operating ways of Miramax, check out the new book, Movie Wars by Jonathan Rosenbaum. It's slightly prs good stuff: an effective and moody portrait of crime and familial betrayals set against the world of New York City subway contractors. Wahlberg plays an ex-con striving to go straight, but corrupted by the shady dealings of his uncle's subway contracting business. Strikingly photographed and acted with ease by the powerhouse cast, The Yards is heads above the studio junk that get more publicity and attention. Why a quality movie such as this was dumped and ignored by Miramax Films is a mystery. (For interesting reading on the odd and frustrating operating ways of Miramax, check out the new book, Movie Wars by Jonathan Rosenbaum. It's slightly pretentious, yet fun reading concerning the state of current movies and their distribution.) Other interesting flicks I've seen recently include the darkly funny French thriller, With A Friend Like Harry, a movie about a family tormented by a former schoolmate of the father, and Nurse Betty, an effective, yet violent, little tale with another terrific performance by Morgan Freeman. I also managed to make it through a 5-hour (!) version of Until The End Of The World, a little known William Hurt and Sam Neill sci-fi oddity that was released in a severely cut version in the early `90s. The long version, of which there is only one print in the world, was recently screened at the USA Film Festival in Dallas, and let me tell you something, after five hours in a theatre, I felt like a zombie as I emerged from the cinema. I love movies, but five hours was a long time. * * * I've heard reports that the Melba in downtown Batesville had a good crowd the other weekend for The Maltese Falcon. Great news, particularly for movie buffs. Keep up the support, and maybe Terry and the gang at the Melba will continursion, of which there is only one print in the world, was recently screened at the USA Film Festival in Dallas, and let me tell you something, after five hours in a theatre, I felt like a zombie as I emerged from the cinema. I love movies, but five hours was a long time. * * * I've heard reports that the Melba in downtown Batesville had a good crowd the other weekend for The Maltese Falcon. Great news, particularly for movie buffs. Keep up the support, and maybe Terry and the gang at the Melba will continue to bring in some classic flicks to catch on the big Melba screen. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. May 16, 2001 Those of you who read last week's column know all about the three naked men, the box from Amazon.com, and the snake I found in that particular box. (If you missed last week's paper, find a copy to get the appropriate background, or hit the paper's Web site and check the archives for my page.) So, I ripped open the box from Amazon.com in front of a trio of co-workers oddly eager to see what I ordered from that Web site, and expecting to be embarrassed by the cover of a book I bought, I instead found a live snake. Now, before we go any further, anyone who knows me knows that despite my undeniably macho and manly demeanor, I will nevertheless scream like a little girl when confronted with a snake, dead or alive. My 4-year-old daughter found a live baby snake in our commode at home last summer, and after I flushed it in a screaming fit, my wife had to talk me down for the rest of the evening. (Thatl"> So, I ripped open the box from Amazon.com in front of a trio of co-workers oddly eager to see what I ordered from that Web site, and expecting to be embarrassed by the cover of a book I bought, I instead found a live snake. Now, before we go any further, anyone who knows me knows that despite my undeniably macho and manly demeanor, I will nevertheless scream like a little girl when confronted with a snake, dead or alive. My 4-year-old daughter found a live baby snake in our commode at home last summer, and after I flushed it in a screaming fit, my wife had to talk me down for the rest of the evening. (That story, by the way, is also true. I'll try to write about it in the future; it still haunts me almost a year later. Needless to say, I now always look and flush before I sit. Sorry…too much information, I know, but it's a fact.) So, snakes and this writer are comparable to oil and water – we don't mix. The snake in the Amazon.com box did startle me, but I did not scream. It was another baby snake, and unlike the snake in my toilet, this snake was thankfully trapped in a small clear plastic container. It was slithering and squirming, but it was still enclosed in a box. I did back against the wall after I found it, and when I did, I noticed everyone in the room was madly laughing, with these maniacal, almost satanic faces staring back at me with evil glee. The only thing missing from Ben, Lisa and Ginger at that moment was a set of horns poking out of their heads and a pitchfork in each of their hands. It then hit me that the snake had been, of course, planted by one of the demonic thugs now laughing at me. And, with this, I almost simultaneously realized three things. One: I could no longer sue Amazon.com. This live snake ed in a box. I did back against the wall after I found it, and when I did, I noticed everyone in the room was madly laughing, with these maniacal, almost satanic faces staring back at me with evil glee. The only thing missing from Ben, Lisa and Ginger at that moment was a set of horns poking out of their heads and a pitchfork in each of their hands. It then hit me that the snake had been, of course, planted by one of the demonic thugs now laughing at me. And, with this, I almost simultaneously realized three things. One: I could no longer sue Amazon.com. This live snake in the box thing had dollar signs in my eyes for a brief instant. I could have very well owned Amazon.com if the snake had originated from Seattle. Two: Lisa Smith was toast. Knowing my fear of snakes, she still plopped one in my Amazon.com box in retaliation, she says, for an earlier trick I had played on her with a dead rat. The difference was extreme, though: the rat was dead and stiff; the snake was alive and hissing. Paybacks are hell, Ms. Smith. I have an entire legion of rats breeding in my garage as we speak. Be on the defensive. And, three: If Lisa, Ben and Ginger had been behind this trick, they now all knew the original contents of the box — in particular, the book with the naked men on the cover. And, that book was nowhere to be found at that moment. (By the way: read last week's column to get a full explanation about the book with the naked guys. It's not what you think. I promise.) So, somewhere in the office, was the book I ordered with — unfortunately – naked men on the cover. I found it in Ginger's possession, and with the same satanic laugh, she informed me that everyone in the office was curious why I had purchased such a thing. So, somewhere in the office, was the book I ordered with — unfortunately – naked men on the cover. I found it in Ginger's possession, and with the same satanic laugh, she informed me that everyone in the office was curious why I had purchased such a thing. I gave the snake and the container back to Lisa, and I took my little book on the twisted movie back to my office, resigned to humiliation. I thumbed through the book, and it was full of stills from the movie that had repulsed me when I had first watched the flick 11 years ago. Why in the heck did I want to read about this sick movie? Why did I order this book? And, why did I have the shipment sent to work, where evil little cretins/co-workers could open it with their evil little claws while laughing their evil little laughs, and put evil little serpents in the book's place. Maybe God was trying to tell me something. I shouldn't have been interested in a book on a film with such objectionable content anyway. Exposing my purchase and replacing it with one of my most feared animals would have been poetic justice, I suppose. So, I dropped the book in a manila envelope and sent it back to Amazon. Without the snake. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. May 9, 2001 Maybe God was trying to tell me something. I shouldn't have been interested in a book on a film with such objectionable content anyway. Exposing my purchase and replacing it with one of my most feared animals would have been poetic justice, I suppose. So, I dropped the book in a manila envelope and sent it back to Amazon.Without the snake. You can e-mail Rob at [email protected]. May 9, 2001 I recently spent a couple of days away from the office, and the morning I returned, Ginger, our office manager here at W.R.D. Entertainment, brought me a big box stuffed with the mail and packages that had arrived during my absence. I was in the studio for The Max, one of the radio stations here in the building, talking with Lisa Smith, my on-air morning partner, and Ben Johnson, the morning guy on Arkansas 103 KWOZ. So, while I was talking to Ben and Lisa, I was tearing open my mail and sorting everything on the studio countertop. Finally, I came to a large Amazon.com box addressed to me, and I put it aside. I had been expecting an order of some goofy movie books and, not wanting to exhibit my film geek side in front of everyone, I decided to open that package when I got back into my office. But, for some reason, Lisa said: "Why aren't you going to open the Amazon box?" "Yeah," Ben chimed in, "Let's see what books you ordered." Now, Ginger was back in the picture, poking her head in the studio doorway. But, for some reason, Lisa said: "Why aren't you going to open the Amazon box?" "Yeah," Ben chimed in, "Let's see what books you ordered." Now, Ginger was back in the picture, poking her head in the studio doorway. "What's in the box, Rob?" Now, one other reason I was slightly embarrassed about opening the box was the fact that one of the books concerned a highly controversial, yet critically respected Italian movie from the 1970s, which shall remain nameless. The film was loosely based on a work by the Marquis De Sade – not a guy one would associate with family values – and assailed the memory of the Italian fascist movement of the '30s and '40s by shifting the De Sade story to that historical period. The movie is extremely graphic because the director apparently wanted to explore the inhumanity and vile nature of the fascists in an uncompromising and realistic fashion. But, one could, I think, make a semi-credible argument that the film is nothing but smut dressed up in fancy clothing. (Which is what one could easily say about the writings of De Sade, as well.) Stay with me, this is going somewhere. I had seen the movie once in my college years with a buddy of mine, and it had repulsed us so much, we stopped watching it after about 30 minutes. I was, however and for some odd reason, fascinated with the hie the director apparently wanted to explore the inhumanity and vile nature of the fascists in an uncompromising and realistic fashion. But, one could, I think, make a semi-credible argument that the film is nothing but smut dressed up in fancy clothing. (Which is what one could easily say about the writings of De Sade, as well.) Stay with me, this is going somewhere. I had seen the movie once in my college years with a buddy of mine, and it had repulsed us so much, we stopped watching it after about 30 minutes. I was, however and for some odd reason, fascinated with the history of this particular movie and the resulting international controversy after its release. So much so that, at the time, I purchased the biography of the film's director to possibly learn how a person could make such a twisted and deranged movie, and how such a movie could be perceived as art by respected scholars throughout the world. Recently, cruising through the Amazon Web site, I found a new book on the film and its resulting controversy by an author whose previous work I had read and respected. I decided to purchase the book, but with hesitancy. You see, the cover of the book featured a photo from the movie, and in that photo, there were three naked men. So, now do you fully understand my extreme reluctance in opening the Amazon package in front of my co-workers? "Open it," Ben repeated. "C'mon, open it!" Lisa said. "What kind of book do you have in there, Rob?" Ginger asked. Finally, I relented, if only to get them to shut up. "I'm a grown man," I thought. Surely I could explain why I had a book ie, and in that photo, there were three naked men. So, now do you fully understand my extreme reluctance in opening the Amazon package in front of my co-workers? "Open it," Ben repeated. "C'mon, open it!" Lisa said. "What kind of book do you have in there, Rob?" Ginger asked. Finally, I relented, if only to get them to shut up. "I'm a grown man," I thought. Surely I could explain why I had a book on a film that is actually housed in the film collections of some art museums throughout the world. (It is, by the way – not that I'm justifying the content.) Just because there are three naked guys on the cover doesn't mean I have deviant interests. Does it? Don't answer that. So, I rip open the box. And, inside the Amazon box, I immediately see that the offending book is not there, and neither are my other purchases I had made from Amazon. There is, however, in the box, and I swear this is true, a live snake. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT ISSUE April 25, 2001 This is not an easy column to write. Every week, I try to brighten a part of your world, dear reader, with silly little thoughts and stories that, I hope, might uplift your life in some small way. Of course, I know many of you think and I swear this is true, a live snake. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT ISSUE April 25, 2001 This is not an easy column to write. Every week, I try to brighten a part of your world, dear reader, with silly little thoughts and stories that, I hope, might uplift your life in some small way. Of course, I know many of you think my writings are inconsequential or trivial, and that's fine. But, this time, I can assure you, dear reader, the subject is anything but inconsequential or trivial. I rarely write about my personal life in these pages. It's simply something I have tried to keep private and special. Yet, something has happened in the relationship with my wife that I cannot hold back from you, dear reader, for I feel we have developed a special bond, and I feel that by telling you it will somehow be an outlet for my pain and my grief. You see, I believe – no, strike that – I know my wife has feelings for another man. In fact, I think she is obsessed with this particular individual, and the hurtful manner in which she parades her affection for this man in front of me is driving me to the point of desperation. She does it so callously. It is as if I am not in the room when the man's name is brought up in conversation. Her eyes brighten, the tone of her voice changes ever so slightly, but I notice. I even catch her, almost daily, making time to see this man, sometimes under my very nose. And, let me tell you, dear reader, it's a cruel and vicious t, strike that – I know my wife has feelings for another man. In fact, I think she is obsessed with this particular individual, and the hurtful manner in which she parades her affection for this man in front of me is driving me to the point of desperation. She does it so callously. It is as if I am not in the room when the man's name is brought up in conversation. Her eyes brighten, the tone of her voice changes ever so slightly, but I notice. I even catch her, almost daily, making time to see this man, sometimes under my very nose. And, let me tell you, dear reader, it's a cruel and vicious thing for the woman you love to deceive you so openly. It's as if my feelings never enter her mind. Oh, and you're probably asking yourself: Why do I let this continue? Why do I let her tread over my heart like some person wiping mud off their shoes? I'll tell you, dear reader, I'll tell you. It's love. I love her so that, if she wants to be with this man every day of the week, sometimes twice a day, I will let her if only it brings her happiness. Of course, I can have spiteful feelings toward the man of her affection, the man who holds her in his palm, and yes, I do. In fact, every time I see his face — that smiling, smug face – it's all I can do to restrain myself from spitting in his direction, and screaming as I madly shake my fist, "Damn you, Ed Buckner! Damn you!" Yes, Ed Buckner. Ed "I've stolen your wife" Buckner from KTHV, Channel 11 in Little Rock. The big shot weather guybrings her happiness. Of course, I can have spiteful feelings toward the man of her affection, the man who holds her in his palm, and yes, I do. In fact, every time I see his face — that smiling, smug face – it's all I can do to restrain myself from spitting in his direction, and screaming as I madly shake my fist, "Damn you, Ed Buckner! Damn you!" Yes, Ed Buckner. Ed "I've stolen your
wife" Buckner from KTHV, Channel 11 in Little Rock. The big shot weather guy who
thieves my wife's attention every weeknight. It never fails. For instance, tonight, I could be deep in conversation with my wife at 6:10, telling her how much I love and treasure her as I always do, and she would only interrupt me with a curt, "Wait, Ed's on." And, my heart would then sink as she would point the remote control, push the volume, and turn away from me…turn away from my heart. As soon as Ed (and if I were speaking these words, I would spit out that name- "Ed"-in a hateful, condescending manner, as if I couldn't wait to get the word out of my mouth) walks into the Weather Garden on Channel 11 each night, you can't make a move, you can't make a sound in our home. Ed Buckner has the attention of the Queen. She hangs on to every word the man says, and if anyone dares interrupting, the wrath of Julie will be swift and deadly. "Ed's on! BE QUIET!" Oh, dear reader, how long can I go on? How long can I let a big-city meteorologist swoon my wife with his sevrds, I would spit out that name- "Ed"-in a hateful, condescending manner, as if I couldn't wait to get the word out of my mouth) walks into the Weather Garden on Channel 11 each night, you can't make a move, you can't make a sound in our home. Ed Buckner has the attention of the Queen. She hangs on to every word the man says, and if anyone dares interrupting, the wrath of Julie will be swift and deadly. "Ed's on! BE QUIET!" Oh, dear reader, how long can I go on? How long can I let a big-city meteorologist swoon my wife with his seven day forcast and little juvenile banter with Andy Pearson? Yes, Andy and Ed will make some inane remark at the end of the newscast to attempt to obtain some kind of laugh, and my wife will break down into giggles and look to me and say, "Oh, did you hear what Ed and Andy just said about Dawn? They're so silly." And I will simply clench my teeth and slightly turn my head from her, only to hide my tears. Oh, maybe this will soon pass. Maybe some day Ed will move on to a larger market, or get out of television altogether, or perhaps, get hit by a large semi-truck – but until that day, I must sit quietly in my home, and simply watch Ed slowly take my wife from my heart. Of course, if my wife only knew my affection for Beth Ward, then she might feel the pain I feel, but I keep my yearnings quiet and private. I'm considerate, dear reader. * * * I have a correction. I made a dunderhead mistake when I wrote critical of Little Rock radio station, The Buzz 103.7 FM in last get hit by a large semi-truck – but until that day, I must sit quietly in my home, and simply watch Ed slowly take my wife from my heart. Of course, if my wife only knew my affection for Beth Ward, then she might feel the pain I feel, but I keep my yearnings quiet and private. I'm considerate, dear reader. * * * I have a correction. I made a dunderhead mistake when I wrote critical of Little Rock radio station, The Buzz 103.7 FM in last week's column. Their call letters are not KSYG anymore. They switched to KABZ some months ago. My mistake. Sorry. April 18, 2001 I've been in the radio business for over 20 years. And, with the exception of my jobs at some Fayetteville radio stations during college, I've been involved with the Batesville broadcast entities the entire time. Of course, since the Batesville radio stations are family owned, and I'm part of the family, my allegiance is literally in my blood. But, I love to listen to other radio stations, particularly in larger markets. On my recent trip to Dallas, I enjoyed the public radio station and its Saturday afternoon broadcast of Prairie Home Companion, and I even caught myself listening to a Hispanic rap station late one night when I was searching for some fast food. One station I enjoyed, in particular, was Talk Radio 570 KLIF. At the time of my Dallas trip, there was an interesting controversy brewing involving an African-American Dallas City Council member, John Wiley Price, and he is literally in my blood. But, I love to listen to other radio stations, particularly in larger markets. On my recent trip to Dallas, I enjoyed the public radio station and its Saturday afternoon broadcast of Prairie Home Companion, and I even caught myself listening to a Hispanic rap station late one night when I was searching for some fast food. One station I enjoyed, in particular, was Talk Radio 570 KLIF. At the time of my Dallas trip, there was an interesting controversy brewing involving an African-American Dallas City Council member, John Wiley Price, and his unorthodox protest of a fellow (white) city council member, Laura Miller. It seems Miller has been critical of the Dallas police chief, who happens to be black and vigorously supported by Price. So, Price and his supporters started protesting outside Miller's home with bullhorns and signs featuring vulgar language, trying to get Miller to lay off the police chief. The entire time I was in Dallas a few days ago, this topic was about the only subject discussed by practically every talk show host on KLIF, and it was oddly captivating radio. Most of the hosts on KLIF are loud and obnoxious, but entertaining nevertheless. Whenever a caller phoned in with a pro-Price viewpoint, the KLIF reaction was usually hilarious and biting. With the exception of the afternoon host, Tom Kamb, the other personalities were appalled at the alleged cheap shots Price and his group were throwing. Kamb, however, was supporting Price's free speech, even though he despises Price and the police chief. Of course, the race factor played into all of this and some of the calls got ugly, but overall, I was glued to KLIF. Leaving Dallas on a Wednesday morning, I carried the KLIF signal all the way past TexaF are loud and obnoxious, but entertaining nevertheless. Whenever a caller phoned in with a pro-Price viewpoint, the KLIF reaction was usually hilarious and biting. With the exception of the afternoon host, Tom Kamb, the other personalities were appalled at the alleged cheap shots Price and his group were throwing. Kamb, however, was supporting Price's free speech, even though he despises Price and the police chief. Of course, the race factor played into all of this and some of the calls got ugly, but overall, I was glued to KLIF. Leaving Dallas on a Wednesday morning, I carried the KLIF signal all the way past Texarkana listening to all of the political mayhem. I was sorry to lose the station around Hope, but when I hit work the next morning, I picked up KLIF on the net at www.klif.com. I've kept my Web radio on my desk tuned to KLIF, and the nonsense is still going on. Even as I write this, Kamb is broadcasting live from Dallas City Hall leading a protest against Price and the police chief. At some points, the broadcast just disintegrates into shouting matches between Kamb and Price supporters, but for some twisted reason, I'm stuck listening. Why is that? The mid-morning announcer at KLIF is a guy named Scott Anderson. Anderson previously worked at Little Rock's FM-talk KSYG, a station, in my view, that has descended into radio hell. I'll admit that I am no programming genius, but KSYG used to carry some decent talk shows; in particular, Don Imus's morning show from New York City. Imus is, in my view, the most talented guy in radio, and thankfully, you can now pick up the simulcast of his show on MSNBC cable. Back in late 2000, the programmers at KSYG got the bright idea that they should scrap Imus and gear the stationt face="Arial"> The mid-morning announcer at KLIF is a guy named Scott Anderson. Anderson previously worked at Little Rock's FM-talk KSYG, a station, in my view, that has descended into radio hell. I'll admit that I am no programming genius, but KSYG used to carry some decent talk shows; in particular, Don Imus's morning show from New York City. Imus is, in my view, the most talented guy in radio, and thankfully, you can now pick up the simulcast of his show on MSNBC cable. Back in late 2000, the programmers at KSYG got the bright idea that they should scrap Imus and gear the station toward a younger crowd. They even decided to dump the talk format on the weekend and instead play grungy alternative rock. The team that replaced Imus, Bruce and Melissa, can't hold a candle to their predecessor, and the silly assumption that talk radio listeners want to hear Pearl Jam on the weekend broadcasts is just that: silly. If I want Pearl Jam when I'm in Little Rock, I'll switch to Lick 106, the city's alt rock station. The only jewel KSYG has now is Pat Lynch, an entertainingly sarcastic and intelligent Little Rock radio veteran. But, at times, the KSYG folks seem to be trying to turn him into a mindless shock jock by having him invite women to come to the studio and strip for him and discuss silly subjects such as whether one should smoke pot on their lunch break. The new programming slant at KSYG, or The Buzz as they're now called, seems to be missing the opportunity for big bucks. By attempting to be edgy and controversial, KSYG apparently wants to grab a share of the youth market. But, there is a place for intelligent talk radio, and there would seem to be an advertising market in Little Rock that would support such a format. One would logically think that there would be more money from businesses such as Lexus dealers ands shock jock by having him invite women to come to the studio and strip for him and discuss silly subjects such as whether one should smoke pot on their lunch break. The new programming slant at KSYG, or The Buzz as they're now called, seems to be missing the opportunity for big bucks. By attempting to be edgy and controversial, KSYG apparently wants to grab a share of the youth market. But, there is a place for intelligent talk radio, and there would seem to be an advertising market in Little Rock that would support such a format. One would logically think that there would be more money from businesses such as Lexus dealers and financial planning advisors than the occasional tanning salon advertisement you might hear on KSYG. Aw, who cares, really? I can tape Imus on MSNBC and I can choose to listen to the other talk station when I'm in Little Rock. The Arbitron ratings will tell the ultimate tale of KSYG. If they're at the bottom of the ratings barrel next year, then surely the powers that be would make a change. And, if they rise, then I'm a small town moron and should stay away from criticizing them there big city radio stations. April 11, 2001 Dr. Rob Emery, local urologist and friend, is a major fan of the Irish rock band U2. Those of you who know my appreciation of all things Bruce Springsteen should understand that Dr. Emery's appreciation of all things U2 is about on the same level. That is to say, he's a blabbering giddy boy if the subject of the band ever arises in a conversation. One minute the man is seriously discussing the pros and cons of vasectomy, the next minute, it's "Ooooh, did I tell you about the time I saw U2 open for the J. Geils Band? Tulsa, Oklahoma, early '80s! Awesome show, dude!&quo2">April 11, 2001 Dr. Rob Emery, local urologist and friend, is a major fan of the Irish rock band U2. Those of you who know my appreciation of all things Bruce Springsteen should understand that Dr. Emery's appreciation of all things U2 is about on the same level. That is to say, he's a blabbering giddy boy if the subject of the band ever arises in a conversation. One minute the man is seriously discussing the pros and cons of vasectomy, the next minute, it's "Ooooh, did I tell you about the time I saw U2 open for the J. Geils Band? Tulsa, Oklahoma, early '80s! Awesome show, dude!" So, when Dr. Emery suggested we head to Dallas to catch U2 on their current tour, I thought it'd be a fun little trip. To kill time, we go to Tower Records. Of course, Dr. Rob purchases an obscure U2 CD with some early live recordings. Of course, on the way to eat lunch, we listen to the aforementioned obscure U2 CD while the good doctor bops his head back and forth to the beat. Of course, at lunch, the main topic is the night's show. "I think our seats are going to be awesome! The arena setting will be much more exciting than a huge stadium show! It should be much more intimate than the PopMart tour. Did I tell you I held the Irish flag at a Tows; and the aforementioned opening gig he caught when he was a teenager in Oklahoma. To kill time, we go to Tower Records. Of course, Dr. Rob purchases an obscure U2 CD with some early live recordings. Of course, on the way to eat lunch, we listen to the aforementioned obscure U2 CD while the good doctor bops his head back and forth to the beat. Of course, at lunch, the main topic is the night's show. "I think our seats are going to be awesome! The arena setting will be much more exciting than a huge stadium show! It should be much more intimate than the PopMart tour. Did I tell you I held the Irish flag at a Tulsa U2 show during the War tour? Did I tell you when I saw 'em open for J. Geils, they blew J. Geils off the stage. You want a fried ravioli?" About two hours before the show, Dr. Rob finally talks about something other than U2. "Have you ever met a celebrity?" he asks. "Not really," I reply. "I mean, I was in the same room with Burt Reynolds once, but that's about it. What about you?" "No. I did eat dinner next to Curly from the Harlem Globetrotters once, but that's about it." And, then it was back to U2. "I wonder what they're doing right now," Dr. Rob said, rubbing his chin in deep thought. So, we head downtown to the show. Our seats are perfect – second row off the floor, right next to the stage which extends out onto the middle of the floor. We happen to be sitting next to a restricted entryway, through which various stagehands, security guards, and backstage tour folks pass. Dr. Rob asks one gentleman with a U2 tour pass hangingem Globetrotters once, but that's about it." And, then it was back to U2. "I wonder what they're doing right now," Dr. Rob said, rubbing his chin in deep thought. So, we head downtown to the show. Our seats are perfect – second row off the floor, right next to the stage which extends out onto the middle of the floor. We happen to be sitting next to a restricted entryway, through which various stagehands, security guards, and backstage tour folks pass. Dr. Rob asks one gentleman with a U2 tour pass hanging around his neck if anyone in the band needs a doctor. The tour guy only laughs and shakes his head. "Didn't hurt to ask," Dr. Rob tells me. The house lights cut off, and the talented opener P.J. Harvey takes the stage. Dr. Rob's bopping his head in a half-hearted way – he's really waiting for the Main Attraction. I'm enjoying Harvey, though. Then, Dr. Rob elbows me. "Hey," he says over the music. "That guy there…" A gentleman in glasses stood in the entryway, watching Harvey. "He sort of looks like Adam Clayton." Clayton is the bassist for U2. I look to the guy. "It is Adam Clayton." At this exact moment, Dr. Rob's eyes look as though they are going to explode out of his sockets in a rush of adrenaline. He turns to Clayton. "HEY ADAM!" he yells over Harvey. Clayton's head reflexively spins around to Dr. Rob before he realizes a fan has spotted him. As soon as he realizes this, Clayton's head sort of falls. Here he was, enjoying a little s sort of looks like Adam Clayton." Clayton is the bassist for U2. I look to the guy. "It is Adam Clayton." At this exact moment, Dr. Rob's eyes look as though they are going to explode out of his sockets in a rush of adrenaline. He turns to Clayton. "HEY ADAM!" he yells over Harvey. Clayton's head reflexively spins around to Dr. Rob before he realizes a fan has spotted him. As soon as he realizes this, Clayton's head sort of falls. Here he was, enjoying a little solitude, watching the wonderful opening act, and boom, a fan recognizes him. "HOW'S IT GOING MAN?" Dr. Rob yells, excitedly sticking out his hand. For a moment, I think he'll jump over the rail and try and hug Clayton. Clayton nods and smiles, and shakes Dr. Rob's hand. And, in a flash, he moves through the black curtain and backstage. "THAT WAS ADAM CLAYTON!" Dr. Rob says. He taps the couple in front of us. "I JUST SHOOK ADAM CLAYTON'S HAND! ADAM CLAYTON! HE WAS RIGHT THERE!" Needless to say, Dr. Rob's night was made in that one quick moment. After the show, Dr. Rob would look now and then to his hand. "I shook Adam Clayton's hand," he would sort of whisper to himself as a dazed look fell across his face. And, that wasn't Dr. Rob's only brush with celebrity that night. After Harvey wrapped up her set, the lights came on, and the brothers Hanson swept through the entryway from backstage and onto the floor. Hanson, if you don't know, is a trio of teenage brothers that have quite a following with teenage girls. &nbs, Dr. Rob's night was made in that one quick moment. After the show, Dr. Rob would look now and then to his hand. "I shook Adam Clayton's hand," he would sort of whisper to himself as a dazed look fell across his face. And, that wasn't Dr. Rob's only brush with celebrity that night. After Harvey wrapped up her set, the lights came on, and the brothers Hanson swept through the entryway from backstage and onto the floor. Hanson, if you don't know, is a trio of teenage brothers that have quite a following with teenage girls. As they walked into the crowd, unnoticed by the concert-goers on the floor, Dr. Rob almost got as excited as he was when he shook Clayton's hand. "THAT WAS HANSON!" he yelled. "THAT WAS HANSON! HEY!" He tapped the couple in front of us. "THAT WAS HANSON! DID YOU SEE 'EM! THAT WAS HANSON!" From Curly to Adam Clayton and Hanson in one night. For our local urologist, it was a night to remember. Oh, the show, by the way, was superb. April 4, 2001 One recent Sunday morning, I noticed something spooky about myself and my priorities. It was early. I was groggy and bed-headed. The kids were plopped on the couch with chocolate milk, watching Spongebob Squarepants. And, the wife was still crashed in the bedroom upstairs. From time to time, I would shuffle back and forth from
the kitchen to the living room, re-filling the chocolate milk and checking the cinnamon
rolls baking in the oven. In the kitchen, the television was turne"#C0C0C0">
April 4, 2001 One recent Sunday morning, I noticed something spooky
about myself and my priorities. It was early. I was groggy and bed-headed. The kids were
plopped on the couch with chocolate milk, watching Spongebob Squarepants. And, the
wife was still crashed in the bedroom upstairs. From time to time, I would shuffle back and forth from
the kitchen to the living room, re-filling the chocolate milk and checking the cinnamon
rolls baking in the oven. In the kitchen, the television was turned to C-SPAN. Former
Clinton bigwig Robert Reich was being interviewed about his op-ed piece in that morning's
New York Times. Something about his concern that President Bush was getting too comfy
with the interests of Big Business. Interesting, partisan stuff. Meanwhile, back on the living room television set,
Spongebob and his dim buddy, Patrick the Starfish, were busy rigging Spongebob's driving
exam by implanting a walkie-talkie in Spongebob's brain so Patrick could communicate all
the right moves to Spongebob, and Spongebob would finally pass the test and get his
driver's license. So, I ask you. What show do you think I finally sat down
and committed to watch? An intelligent discourse on the current state of the nation, or
the animated adventures of a goofy, buck-toothed sponge who lives in a pineapple under the
sea? * * * Hats off to Terry and Ramona Chandler. They're the new owners of the refurbished Melba Theatre
in downtown Batesville, and the interior of the building looks amazing. It was like
walking back in time the other night when I caught a showing att face="Arial"> So, I ask you. What show do you think I finally sat down
and committed to watch? An intelligent discourse on the current state of the nation, or
the animated adventures of a goofy, buck-toothed sponge who lives in a pineapple under the
sea? * * * Hats off to Terry and Ramona Chandler. They're the new owners of the refurbished Melba Theatre
in downtown Batesville, and the interior of the building looks amazing. It was like
walking back in time the other night when I caught a showing at the Melba of one of my
all-time favorite movies, Blazing Saddles. Everything inside the Melba looks fresh and spiffy, and
the concession stand selection was top-notch (I wolfed down a Polish sausage dog, covered
in onions.). Terry even tracked down the old Thompson's Jewelry Store illuminated clock
that hangs over one of the exits at the bottom of the auditorium. Batesville needs to support the efforts and hard work of
the Chandlers. The Melba is a Batesville landmark, and the community should make an effort
to experience a flick in the grand, refurbished auditorium. Plus, the prices are more than affordable. Personally, I hope they bring more classic films to the
Melba. Viewing the wide-screen, Technicolor Blazing Saddles on the giant Melba
screen was simply a treat that I truly appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed. * * * There have been many times where I've
acted like a complete idiot. Most of those times, however, have been in private. Plus, the prices are more than affordable. Personally, I hope they bring more classic films to the
Melba. Viewing the wide-screen, Technicolor Blazing Saddles on the giant Melba
screen was simply a treat that I truly appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed. * * * There have been many times where I've
acted like a complete idiot. Most of those times, however, have been in private. One notable exception was my behavior at the Bruce
Springsteen concert last year in Alltel Arena at Little Rock. Those of you who know me know that the music of
Springsteen holds a special place in my life. The stuff is powerful, raging and dark and
joyful and energized. Those who only know of Springsteen through Born in the U.S.A. and
Born To Run don't know of the spare and beautiful artistry of Nebraska, Darkness
on the Edge of Town, and The Ghost of Tom Joad. I could go on and bore you, but the point is that, when
Springsteen came to Little Rock in 2000, I embraced the moment like a giddy fool. I had my third-row tickets and I was on my feet the
entire show, hollering and jumping around like a Spirit-filled soul at a Benny Hinn
revival. If I was a female, I would have probably thrown my bra
onstage. Well, maybe not. Anyway, I acted quite the blubbering fool at the Bruce
Springsteen show last year. All of this came back to haunt me last week when
Colum came to Little Rock in 2000, I embraced the moment like a giddy fool. I had my third-row tickets and I was on my feet the
entire show, hollering and jumping around like a Spirit-filled soul at a Benny Hinn
revival. If I was a female, I would have probably thrown my bra
onstage. Well, maybe not. Anyway, I acted quite the blubbering fool at the Bruce
Springsteen show last year. All of this came back to haunt me last week when
Columbia Records sent me an advance copy of the new Springsteen live CD, Bruce
Springsteen and the E-Street Band: Live in New York City. Needless to say, when I
peeled open the UPS packet and saw the disc in the envelope, I almost squealed like a
little girl at a Backstreet Boys concert. Key word there: almost. I still have some testosterone
in me. The album is a double-CD package highlighting the last
few shows of the tour at Madison Square Garden last summer. It contains some new stuff,
including the beautiful redemptive anthem, "Land of Hope and Dreams," and the
controversial and stirring "American Skin (41 Shots)" while also covering some
of the obscure (to fair-weather Springsteen fans) cuts like "Two Hearts" from The
River, "Youngstown" from Tom Joad, and an electric version of
"Atlantic City" from Nebraska. To the faithful, a Springsteen concert is something
close to a religious experience. The man does his best to work up his congregation into an
excited fever, and there are moments in the show where the rock and roll transcends the
moment. It sounds corand the
controversial and stirring "American Skin (41 Shots)" while also covering some
of the obscure (to fair-weather Springsteen fans) cuts like "Two Hearts" from The
River, "Youngstown" from Tom Joad, and an electric version of
"Atlantic City" from Nebraska. To the faithful, a Springsteen concert is something
close to a religious experience. The man does his best to work up his congregation into an
excited fever, and there are moments in the show where the rock and roll transcends the
moment. It sounds cornball to the unfamiliar, I know. But, if
you're a true fan of The Boss, and you've been anointed at one of these shows, you know
what I mean. Amen and amen. The new Springsteen CD was scheduled to hit the stores
yesterday. A concert special featuring Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band will air on
HBO April 7. Rob can be reached via e-mail at max @maxfm.com. March 21, 2001 Zipping through my father-in-law's satellite channels
the other weekend, I came across the Bravo channel's acclaimed Inside The Actor's
Studio series. If you've never seen the program, it's an interesting look at the art
of acting through the eyes of one particular actor's career. I've caught episodes with
Danny Glover and Paul Newman, and it can be an extremely interesting glance at the career
and insights of the chosen actor. The only negative thing one can say about the series is
that it's hosted by a pretentious and fawning geezer named James Lipton who has the worst
hair-dye job in the history of show business. (Saturt size="2"> Zipping through my father-in-law's satellite channels
the other weekend, I came across the Bravo channel's acclaimed Inside The Actor's
Studio series. If you've never seen the program, it's an interesting look at the art
of acting through the eyes of one particular actor's career. I've caught episodes with
Danny Glover and Paul Newman, and it can be an extremely interesting glance at the career
and insights of the chosen actor. The only negative thing one can say about the series is
that it's hosted by a pretentious and fawning geezer named James Lipton who has the worst
hair-dye job in the history of show business. (Saturday Night Live's Will Ferrell
periodically does a dead-on impersonation of Lipton on the late-night show.) The episode I caught the other day featured James Caan.
Caan, in my mind, has become an under-appreciated actor in his later years. He's easily
one of the most talented gentlemen working today, and he needs to be in more flicks. One
of his most recent films, The Way of the Gun, puts him up against probably the most
talented actor of my generation, Benicio Del Toro, and Caan steals every scene in which he
appears. Besides his classic turn as Sonny Corleone in The
Godfather, Caan told Lipton that his favorite performance appears in the 1981
thriller, Thief. If you have never had the opportunity to catch this movie, seek it
out. Not only is it an absorbing and intelligent thriller, but Caan's performance is
mesmerizing. He thoroughly inhabits his role as an ex-con trying to go straight. It's rare
for such a high-profile actor to possess a role so deeply that you forget you're watching
a high-profile actor, but Caan does it in Thief. If you like James Caan, and you've never seen this film,
rent it. You won't be disappointed. The
Godfather, Caan told Lipton that his favorite performance appears in the 1981
thriller, Thief. If you have never had the opportunity to catch this movie, seek it
out. Not only is it an absorbing and intelligent thriller, but Caan's performance is
mesmerizing. He thoroughly inhabits his role as an ex-con trying to go straight. It's rare
for such a high-profile actor to possess a role so deeply that you forget you're watching
a high-profile actor, but Caan does it in Thief. If you like James Caan, and you've never seen this film,
rent it. You won't be disappointed. * * * The Oscars are Sunday night, so here are
my predictions. Take them with a grain of salt. Best Picture: Probably Gladiator, but I
wouldn't be surprised if Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon takes it. Best Actor: Russell Crowe for Gladiator Best Actress: Julia Roberts for Erin
Brockovich Best Supporting Actor: Benicio Del Toro for Traffic Best Supporting Actress: Kate Hudson for Almost
Famous Best Director: Ang Lee for Crouching Tiger Whatever you do, don't bet on my predictions. I'm still
angry and amazed that Dude, Where's My Car? wasn't nominated for anything. It's a
cruel world when ground-breaking art goes unrecognized. Rob can be reached via e-mail at max @maxfm.com. Best Supporting Actress: Kate Hudson for Almost
Famous Best Director: Ang Lee for Crouching Tiger Whatever you do, don't bet on my predictions. I'm still
angry and amazed that Dude, Where's My Car? wasn't nominated for anything. It's a
cruel world when ground-breaking art goes unrecognized. Rob can be reached via e-mail at max @maxfm.com. March 14, 2001 I am an aggressive worrier. By aggressive, I mean that I actively look for things to worry about. It's not like I want to look for things to worry about. It just happens. Something deep in the chemistry of my brain is cracked and skewed, and my worry detector is always stuck on full throttle. This has been the case for as long as I remember. When I was in elementary school, I would worry myself sick over little things — in particular, any trip to the orthodontist. I knew all through third and fourth grades that I would soon have to undergo the torture I had built up in my mind of having braces strapped on my teeth. I would be having a perfectly good day, playing kickball or G.I. Joe, and suddenly it would hit me: "I'm going to have to have braces in a year or two!" Then, the day was ruined. My stomach would turn and toss, and I would try to do anything to push the image of the evil orthodontist out of my head. When it finally came time to get the sick over little things — in particular, any trip to the orthodontist. I knew all through third and fourth grades that I would soon have to undergo the torture I had built up in my mind of having braces strapped on my teeth. I would be having a perfectly good day, playing kickball or G.I. Joe, and suddenly it would hit me: "I'm going to have to have braces in a year or two!" Then, the day was ruined. My stomach would turn and toss, and I would try to do anything to push the image of the evil orthodontist out of my head. When it finally came time to get the stupid things, I was a mess. Back then, braces were the big, clunky metal rings and connected straps that could also act as a solar panel when you smiled. As such, they were a chore to put on my crooked teeth. The comfort level in the dentist chair was usually not high, and before every visit, I would carry a dread so heavy, my insides would hurt. When the visit would end, I would immediately enter a state of utter euphoria so perfect, nothing could bring me down – except the prospect of the next visit to the evil orthodontist. So, I would be back to square one, already anxious to get the next visit over. As I grew up, my worries manifested themselves in different things: final exams, playing junior high basketball, some girl on which I had a crush, and of course, eternal damnation. The girlfriend thing really drove me nuts. If I was ever "dating" or "going with" a girl I really, really liked, I would obsess over every detail about our relationship. Before dates, in fact, my worries would be so extreme, they would actually affect my physical nature. My stomach would get so tied up in knots and cramps that I lready anxious to get the next visit over. As I grew up, my worries manifested themselves in different things: final exams, playing junior high basketball, some girl on which I had a crush, and of course, eternal damnation. The girlfriend thing really drove me nuts. If I was ever "dating" or "going with" a girl I really, really liked, I would obsess over every detail about our relationship. Before dates, in fact, my worries would be so extreme, they would actually affect my physical nature. My stomach would get so tied up in knots and cramps that I would have severe gastronomical fits. For the entire date, I would struggle to make sure I wouldn't accidentally fire my engines in my date's presence and embarrass myself into oblivion. It wasn't until college that my best friend turned me on to the wonders of Rolaids, and I welcomed the discovery as if I had just discovered the wheel. But I digress. Worry still gnaws at me from time to time. Whether it be something at work, concern for other folks and family, or whether or not I'm going to miss an episode of Spongebob Squarepants on Nickelodeon (a top priority in my life) – my stomach can still churn at the drop of a hat. And, of course, it's all unnecessary. For the believer, everything will sort itself out if your faith is steady. Let go, let God, they say. Yet, for me, it's still rough sometimes. For instance, I've been worrying for the past few minutes on how to properly wrap up this column. Should I get sappy and sentimental? Should I reiterate my resolve to not let worry bother me? Or, since I'm way past deadline, should I take the wimpy and lazy way out and just end this sucker without a proper resolution? And, of course, it's all unnecessary. For the believer, everything will sort itself out if your faith is steady. Let go, let God, they say. Yet, for me, it's still rough sometimes. For instance, I've been worrying for the past few minutes on how to properly wrap up this column. Should I get sappy and sentimental? Should I reiterate my resolve to not let worry bother me? Or, since I'm way past deadline, should I take the wimpy and lazy way out and just end this sucker without a proper resolution? I think I'll go for the former. Last night I was in a state of anguished worry for a problem that shall remain nameless. I'm in the car with my family, and I'm thoroughly irritating my wife with my concerns. "Don't worry," she said. "It'll work itself out." "Yeah, but…" I wouldn't hear of it. I had to worry about this particular situation. And, it was driving me up the wall. We drove on, and I noticed we were listening to a CD full of sing-a-long gospel songs that the kids love. "When I am afraid, I will trust in Him. I will trust in Him. I will trust in Him." And while the simple meaning of this child's hymn was settling in my mind, I could barely hear the whisper of my daughter's voice from the backseat as she sang along. The easing of a troubled mind begins in moments such al"> We drove on, and I noticed we were listening to a CD full of sing-a-long gospel songs that the kids love. "When I am afraid, I will trust in Him. I will trust in Him. I will trust in Him." And while the simple meaning of this child's hymn was settling in my mind, I could barely hear the whisper of my daughter's voice from the backseat as she sang along. The easing of a troubled mind begins in moments such as this: simple truths, sweetly and unknowingly accentuated by the soft voice of my child. And, it was then, that the worry began to simply fade away. Rob can be reached via e-mail at max @maxfm.com. March 7, 2001 Our three-year-old son sounds an awful lot like Tweety Bird. I'm hopeful this will not be a permanent thing. Lord willing, his speech will develop and become quite non-Tweety and dignified by the time he's six or seven. Right now, though, it's cute. Take, for instance, a recent trip to a Fayetteville bookstore. We're in the magazine section. I'm deep in thought reading some article while he's on his elbows and knees, shuffling through a drum magazine. Hutton loves drums, guitars, pianos, etc. At home, one can usually catch him strutting through the house, with his guitar around his neck or a drumstick in one hand. (As such, I'm constantly feeding him Bruce Springsteen songs hoping, perhaps, that one dah will develop and become quite non-Tweety and dignified by the time he's six or seven. Right now, though, it's cute. Take, for instance, a recent trip to a Fayetteville bookstore. We're in the magazine section. I'm deep in thought reading some article while he's on his elbows and knees, shuffling through a drum magazine. Hutton loves drums, guitars, pianos, etc. At home, one can usually catch him strutting through the house, with his guitar around his neck or a drumstick in one hand. (As such, I'm constantly feeding him Bruce Springsteen songs hoping, perhaps, that one day my child will be as popular and talented as The Boss. So far, he idolizes 'Booce,' as he calls him in his Tweety twang.) Anyway, I'm deep into an article, and he's deep into a drum magazine. I happen to glance down at one point, and Hutton pulls out an advertisement centerfold in the magazine that pictures a massive drum kit. It instantly knocks him for a loop. He slaps his hand against his forehead, and practically yells, "Oh my gwaycious! Oh my gwaycious! Look, Daddy, look!" You would have thought the boy had just struck gold. "Noooo, Daddy! Noooo!" The child does not want to go to bed, and I'm the bad guy. Finally, he gives up and goes limp in my arms, still bawling in protest. > You would have thought the boy had just struck gold. "Noooo, Daddy! Noooo!" The child does not want to go to bed, and I'm the bad guy. Finally, he gives up and goes limp in my arms, still bawling in protest. "This is a tewwible thing, Daddy!" he cries, shaking his head. "You're doing a tewwible thing. Tewwible." One more "cute" story about my child, and I'll leave you alone. Brushing Hutt's teeth each night is a bit like the scene in Marathon Man where a nasty Laurence Olivier drills poor Dustin Hoffman's teeth without the benefit of Novocain. Well, the other night, Hutt's squirming, and I'm desperately trying to stick the brush in his mouth. "Noooo, Daddy! Noooo!" Once again, I'm the bad guy. The only thing missing from this moment is myself asking my son, "Is it safe?" See the movie. You'll understand. Anyway, my son is still struggling, and I'm becoming more determined to brush his teeth. Finally, I say: "Hutton, I am the boss!" "No, Daddy," he cries, "you're not the
boss! Booce is The Boss!&quo "Noooo, Daddy! Noooo!" Once again, I'm the bad guy. The only thing missing from
this moment is myself asking my son, "Is it safe?" See the movie. You'll understand. Anyway, my son is still struggling, and I'm becoming
more determined to brush his teeth. Finally, I say: "Hutton, I am the boss!" "No, Daddy," he cries, "you're not the
boss! Booce is The Boss!" It was hard not to laugh at a time when I should be
serious, so I bit my tongue, and continued on in my Olivier role. Needless to say, I brushed Hutt's teeth. But it was a tewwible process. * * * Hutton sliced his toe open the other
afternoon while he was in the attic exploring like three-year-olds are known to do. I was in bed, sick with this flu crud that's been making
the rounds, when my wife came in the bedroom holding Hutt, who was sobbing and obviously
in some pain. I get out of bed, woozy and achy, and we take our son to
the emergency room for the cut. By the time, we get Hutt in to see a doctor, he's
feeling much better and giggling with the nurses. The cut's cleaned, sterilized, and no
stitches were needed, thank goodness. But, right in the middle of the doctor's visit, I
feel a wave of nausea and feel as though I'm going to pass out. The doctor turns his attention from Hutton to me. < the rounds, when my wife came in the bedroom holding Hutt, who was sobbing and obviously
in some pain. I get out of bed, woozy and achy, and we take our son to
the emergency room for the cut. By the time, we get Hutt in to see a doctor, he's
feeling much better and giggling with the nurses. The cut's cleaned, sterilized, and no
stitches were needed, thank goodness. But, right in the middle of the doctor's visit, I
feel a wave of nausea and feel as though I'm going to pass out. The doctor turns his attention from Hutton to me. "You don't look so good." He calls for the nurse to put me on a stretcher. So, in the middle of my son's E.R. visit, I'm wheeled
into another room on a stretcher. I felt like a little wimp. The nurses even asked me if I
get weak d uring times like these (blood, open wounds, etc.), and I insisted I have a
strong stomach. I just was sick from the flu, I said. I caught the nurses and my wife exchanging a glance that
said, "Sure…" I finally started feeling a little better, thanks to a
cold rag and the stretcher, but for just a moment there, I felt tewwible. Tewwible. Rob can be reached via e-mail at [email protected]. February 28, 2001 Those of you who listen to Sky 99.5, our youngest
member of the W.R.D. Entertainment family of radio stations, may have noticed a difference
in the programming as of late. I finally started feeling a little better, thanks to a cold rag and the stretcher, but for just a moment there, I felt tewwible. Tewwible. Rob can be reached via e-mail at [email protected]. February 28, 2001 Those of you who listen to Sky 99.5, our youngest member of the W.R.D. Entertainment family of radio stations, may have noticed a difference in the programming as of late. Sky broadcasts an adult contemporary format, meaning the music is geared to those folks about 30 years old and above. On Sky, you'll hear a diverse group of artists such as Whitney Houston, Elton John, Billy Joel, George Michael, Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Michael Bolton, Luther Vandross, Gloria Estefan, Hall and Oates, Lionel Richie, Phil Collins, Boz Scaggs, as well as some of the new artists on the AC scene – 'N Sync, Faith Hill, Shania Twain, etc. When Sky first went on the air in May 1999, we utilized a satellite radio network, meaning that a company in another state provided the programming. There was a dee-jay sitting in a studio literally a thousand miles away who was playing music, but through computers and previously recorded bits, he sounded as though he was sitting right here on Harrison Street in Batesville. When Sky first went on the air in May 1999, we utilized a satellite radio network, meaning that a company in another state provided the programming. There was a dee-jay sitting in a studio literally a thousand miles away who was playing music, but through computers and previously recorded bits, he sounded as though he was sitting right here on Harrison Street in Batesville. Longtime listeners will remember that, during certain parts of the day, the audio would skip. In other words, you would be listening to a song, and suddenly, the audio would drop off for a second or so. This was a frustrating problem that could never be resolved either by local engineers or engineers on the other end of the line. Rather than continue with a source that was flawed, we decided to begin locally programming Sky, using local announcers and locally programmed music. We started doing this at the beginning of this month, and the results have been scattershot, at best. There have been some lrial"> Longtime listeners will remember that, during certain parts of the day, the audio would skip. In other words, you would be listening to a song, and suddenly, the audio would drop off for a second or so. This was a frustrating problem that could never be resolved either by local engineers or engineers on the other end of the line. Rather than continue with a source that was flawed, we decided to begin locally programming Sky, using local announcers and locally programmed music. We started doing this at the beginning of this month, and the results have been scattershot, at best. There have been some listeners who have complained that the music selection is not as `70s-based as it had been in the past and that there is too much new adult contemporary music. Since I'm the guy who now programs Sky, I'm the one to blame. Programming a radio station can be tricky business. Whenever a change, however so slight, is implemented at a radio station, there will be folks who notice and aren't happy. I am, however, doing my best to tweak the programming and music on Sky. The station, to some folks, may have drifted from its original mix of music in the past few weeks, but that is changing. The current programming of Sky is, in part, a work in progress. For instance, yesterday, I went into our music library and removed about 100 songs from rotation. These songs should not have been in the mix to begin with, and that is my fault. And, I am currently adding by the box load hundreds of songs from the `70s and `80s that should have been in rotatted at a radio station, there will be folks who notice and aren't happy. I am, however, doing my best to tweak the programming and music on Sky. The station, to some folks, may have drifted from its original mix of music in the past few weeks, but that is changing. The current programming of Sky is, in part, a work in progress. For instance, yesterday, I went into our music library and removed about 100 songs from rotation. These songs should not have been in the mix to begin with, and that is my fault. And, I am currently adding by the box load hundreds of songs from the `70s and `80s that should have been in rotation from the start. The CD expense account at the station is going to be over budget for the next few months, and that's fine with us. We want to be able to provide a quality source of adult pop programming through Sky 99.5, and we will do that. It's extremely difficult to program a station that will play songs that everyone will enjoy. In fact, it's impossible. But, it is possible to program a station that, a majority of the time, will play music that is pleasing and fun to a wide range of listeners. It's my hope that, soon, the station sound will surpass the programming that originated from a studio miles away. Intion from the start. The CD expense account at the station is going to be over budget for the next few months, and that's fine with us. We want to be able to provide a quality source of adult pop programming through Sky 99.5, and we will do that. It's extremely difficult to program a station that will play songs that everyone will enjoy. In fact, it's impossible. But, it is possible to program a station that, a majority of the time, will play music that is pleasing and fun to a wide range of listeners. It's my hope that, soon, the station sound will surpass the programming that originated from a studio miles away. In the meantime, if you have any comments or suggestions about Sky 99.5, or any of the other radio stations in the W.R.D. Entertainment family, do not hesitate to write me in care of Arkansas Weekly. Your comments are always valued and appreciated. * * * I don't know how long it will stick around in Batesville, but if you see a chance to catch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon at the Oaks 7 Cinema, grab it. The film, which is currently nominated for 10 Academy Awards, is a visual and thoroughly entertaining epic like none we've seen in a while. It's full of romance and martial arts battles from the choreographer of the terrific fights in The Matrix. Romance and martial arts seem an unlikely combination, but it works in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. * * * I don't know how long it will stick around in Batesville, but if you see a chance to catch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon at the Oaks 7 Cinema, grab it. The film, which is currently nominated for 10 Academy Awards, is a visual and thoroughly entertaining epic like none we've seen in a while. It's full of romance and martial arts battles from the choreographer of the terrific fights in The Matrix. Romance and martial arts seem an unlikely combination, but it works in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Inside.com, the media industry Web site, recently wrote an interesting article on the critical reception of Crouching. It seems that the movie arrived on the scene with film critics tripping all over themselves to praise it. But, when Crouching actually caught on with audiences, some critics then started to criticize the movie, as well as the reviewers who initially gave it a glowing review. That stinks of pure snobbery. When the masses support something, it must be simple-minded to be so universal. So, don't miss this terrific flick. It is extremely rare that Carmike Cinemas, the company that runs the Oaks 7, brings in a film of this caliber, so support Crouching while it's here. And, don't let the subtitles scare you. * * * In case you missedell as the reviewers who initially gave it a glowing review. That stinks of pure snobbery. When the masses support something, it must be simple-minded to be so universal. So, don't miss this terrific flick. It is extremely rare that Carmike Cinemas, the company that runs the Oaks 7, brings in a film of this caliber, so support Crouching while it's here. And, don't let the subtitles scare you. * * * In case you missed it, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette columnist Philip Martin recently wrote a Sunday column on the West Memphis Three, the trio, led by Damien Echols, convicted of murdering three little boys in a very high profile case a few years back. The column touched on the number of celebrities who have come out in support of a new trial for the WMT. Their reason being that local authorities were quick to point the finger and accuse the three, alleged, Satan-worshipping teens for the deed. Steve Earle, Tom Waits, and Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam – all artists whom I like -- have expressed their contempt for the manner in which the entire case was handled. They have also contributed songs to a recently released compact disc that benefits the convicted three in some form. Vedder, on stage at a Memphis Pearl Jam show last year, apparently went so far as to call Arkansas "Hell" for the "mishandliumn touched on the number of celebrities who have come out in support of a new trial for the WMT. Their reason being that local authorities were quick to point the finger and accuse the three, alleged, Satan-worshipping teens for the deed. Steve Earle, Tom Waits, and Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam – all artists whom I like -- have expressed their contempt for the manner in which the entire case was handled. They have also contributed songs to a recently released compact disc that benefits the convicted three in some form. Vedder, on stage at a Memphis Pearl Jam show last year, apparently went so far as to call Arkansas "Hell" for the "mishandling" of the case. Martin, a writer that some could peg pretentious and somewhat of a liberal weenie, eloquently chastised the star-studded support of the convicted murderers. The piece nailed my thoughts on the matter completely. Martin noted, that while all of this celebrity nonsense and questioning of the case will likely continue and intensify until Echols's probable execution, the fact of the matter is that three innocent children lost their lives in a brutal and hellish manner, and that is sometimes lost. I am pretty sure I'm against the death penalty, but to me, there is no justice harsh enough for what these three (now) men did. * * * By the way, Martin gave a lukewarm review of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Maybe he's one of those snobby critics who sometimes equate popularity with mediocrity. Who cares -- just go see the movie, and judge for yy continue and intensify until Echols's probable execution, the fact of the matter is that three innocent children lost their lives in a brutal and hellish manner, and that is sometimes lost. I am pretty sure I'm against the death penalty, but to me, there is no justice harsh enough for what these three (now) men did. * * * By the way, Martin gave a lukewarm review of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Maybe he's one of those snobby critics who sometimes equate popularity with mediocrity. Who cares -- just go see the movie, and judge for yourselves. February 21, 2001 Those of you who listen to Sky 99.5, our youngest member of the W.R.D. Entertainment family of radio stations, may have noticed a difference in the programming as of late. Sky broadcasts an adult contemporary format, meaning the music is geared to those folks about 30 years old and above. On Sky, you'll hear a diverse group of artists such as Whitney Houston, Elton John, Billy Joel, George Michael, Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Michael Bolton, Luther Vandross, Gloria Estefan, Hall and Oates, Lionel Richie, Phil Collins, Boz Scaggs, as well as some of the new artists on the AC scene – 'N Sync, Faith Hill, Shania Twain, etc. When Sky first went on the air in May 1999, we utilized a satellite radio network, meaning that a company in anot. Sky broadcasts an adult contemporary format, meaning the music is geared to those folks about 30 years old and above. On Sky, you'll hear a diverse group of artists such as Whitney Houston, Elton John, Billy Joel, George Michael, Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Michael Bolton, Luther Vandross, Gloria Estefan, Hall and Oates, Lionel Richie, Phil Collins, Boz Scaggs, as well as some of the new artists on the AC scene – 'N Sync, Faith Hill, Shania Twain, etc. When Sky first went on the air in May 1999, we utilized a satellite radio network, meaning that a company in another state provided the programming. There was a dee-jay sitting in a studio literally a thousand miles away who was playing music, but through computers and previously recorded bits, he sounded as though he was sitting right here on Harrison Street in Batesville. Longtime listeners will remember that, during certain parts of the day, the audio would skip. In other words, you would be listening to a song, and suddenly, the audio would drop off for a second or so. This was a frustrating problem that could never be resolved either by local engineers or engineers on the other end of the line. Longtime listeners will remember that, during certain parts of the day, the audio would skip. In other words, you would be listening to a song, and suddenly, the audio would drop off for a second or so. This was a frustrating problem that could never be resolved either by local engineers or engineers on the other end of the line. Rather than continue with a source that was flawed, we decided to begin locally programming Sky, using local announcers and locally programmed music. We started doing this at the beginning of this month, and the results have been scattershot, at best. There have been some listeners who have complained that the music selection is not as `70s-based as it had been in the past and that there is too much new adult contemporary music. Since I'm the guy who now programs Sky, I'm the one to blame. Programming a radio station can be tricky business. Whenever a change, however so slight, is implemented at a radio station, there will be folks who notice and aren't happy. I am, however, doing my best to tweak the programming and music on Sky. The station, to some folks, may have drifted from its original mix of music in the past few weeks, but that is changing. The current programming of Sky is listeners who have complained that the music selection is not as `70s-based as it had been in the past and that there is too much new adult contemporary music. Since I'm the guy who now programs Sky, I'm the one to blame. Programming a radio station can be tricky business. Whenever a change, however so slight, is implemented at a radio station, there will be folks who notice and aren't happy. I am, however, doing my best to tweak the programming and music on Sky. The station, to some folks, may have drifted from its original mix of music in the past few weeks, but that is changing. The current programming of Sky is, in part, a work in progress. For instance, yesterday, I went into our music library and removed about 100 songs from rotation. These songs should not have been in the mix to begin with, and that is my fault. And, I am currently adding by the box load hundreds of songs from the `70s and `80s that should have been in rotation from the start. The CD expense account at the station is going to be over budget for the next few months, and that's fine with us. We want to be able to provide a quality source of adult pop programming through Sky 99.5, and we will do that. It's extremely difficult to program a station that will play songs that everyone will enjoy. In fact, it's impossible. But, it is possible to program a station that, a majority of the time, will play music that is pleasing and fun to a wide range of listeners. It's my hope that, soon, the station sound will surpass the programming that originated from a studio miles away. Intion from the start. The CD expense account at the station is going to be over budget for the next few months, and that's fine with us. We want to be able to provide a quality source of adult pop programming through Sky 99.5, and we will do that. It's extremely difficult to program a station that will play songs that everyone will enjoy. In fact, it's impossible. But, it is possible to program a station that, a majority of the time, will play music that is pleasing and fun to a wide range of listeners. It's my hope that, soon, the station sound will surpass the programming that originated from a studio miles away. In the meantime, if you have any comments or suggestions about Sky 99.5, or any of the other radio stations in the W.R.D. Entertainment family, do not hesitate to write me in care of Arkansas Weekly. Your comments are always valued and appreciated. * * * I don't know how long it will stick around in Batesville, but if you see a chance to catch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon at the Oaks 7 Cinema, grab it. The film, which is currently nominated for 10 Academy Awards, is a visual and thoroughly entertaining epic like none we've seen in a while. It's full of romance and martial arts battles from the choreographer of the terrific fights in The Matrix. Romance and martial arts seem an unlikely combination, but it works in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. * * * I don't know how long it will stick around in Batesville, but if you see a chance to catch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon at the Oaks 7 Cinema, grab it. The film, which is currently nominated for 10 Academy Awards, is a visual and thoroughly entertaining epic like none we've seen in a while. It's full of romance and martial arts battles from the choreographer of the terrific fights in The Matrix. Romance and martial arts seem an unlikely combination, but it works in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Inside.com, the media industry Web site, recently wrote an interesting article on the critical reception of Crouching. It seems that the movie arrived on the scene with film critics tripping all over themselves to praise it. But, when Crouching actually caught on with audiences, some critics then started to criticize the movie, as well as the reviewers who initially gave it a glowing review. That stinks of pure snobbery. When the masses support something, it must be simple-minded to be so universal. So, don't miss this terrific flick. It is extremely rare that Carmike Cinemas, the company that runs the Oaks 7, brings in a film of this caliber, so support Crouching while it's here. And, don't let the subtitles scare you. * * * In case you missedell as the reviewers who initially gave it a glowing review. That stinks of pure snobbery. When the masses support something, it must be simple-minded to be so universal. So, don't miss this terrific flick. It is extremely rare that Carmike Cinemas, the company that runs the Oaks 7, brings in a film of this caliber, so support Crouching while it's here. And, don't let the subtitles scare you. * * * In case you missed it, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette columnist Philip Martin recently wrote a Sunday column on the West Memphis Three, the trio, led by Damien Echols, convicted of murdering three little boys in a very high profile case a few years back. The column touched on the number of celebrities who have come out in support of a new trial for the WMT. Their reason being that local authorities were quick to point the finger and accuse the three, alleged, Satan-worshipping teens for the deed. Steve Earle, Tom Waits, and Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam – all artists whom I like -- have expressed their contempt for the manner in which the entire case was handled. They have also contributed songs to a recently released compact disc that benefits the convicted three in some form. Vedder, on stage at a Memphis Pearl Jam show last year, apparently went so far as to call Arkansas "Hell" for the "mishandliumn touched on the number of celebrities who have come out in support of a new trial for the WMT. Their reason being that local authorities were quick to point the finger and accuse the three, alleged, Satan-worshipping teens for the deed. Steve Earle, Tom Waits, and Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam – all artists whom I like -- have expressed their contempt for the manner in which the entire case was handled. They have also contributed songs to a recently released compact disc that benefits the convicted three in some form. Vedder, on stage at a Memphis Pearl Jam show last year, apparently went so far as to call Arkansas "Hell" for the "mishandling" of the case. Martin, a writer that some could peg pretentious and somewhat of a liberal weenie, eloquently chastised the star-studded support of the convicted murderers. The piece nailed my thoughts on the matter completely. Martin noted, that while all of this celebrity nonsense and questioning of the case will likely continue and intensify until Echols's probable execution, the fact of the matter is that three innocent children lost their lives in a brutal and hellish manner, and that is sometimes lost. I am pretty sure I'm against the death penalty, but to me, there is no justice harsh enough for what these three (now) men did. * * * By the way, Martin gave a lukewarm review of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Maybe he's one of those snobby critics who sometimes equate popularity with mediocrity. Who cares -- just go see the movie, and judge for yy continue and intensify until Echols's probable execution, the fact of the matter is that three innocent children lost their lives in a brutal and hellish manner, and that is sometimes lost. I am pretty sure I'm against the death penalty, but to me, there is no justice harsh enough for what these three (now) men did. * * * By the way, Martin gave a lukewarm review of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Maybe he's one of those snobby critics who sometimes equate popularity with mediocrity. Who cares -- just go see the movie, and judge for yourselves. February 14, 2001 Just asking here, but would you think me odd if I thoroughly enjoyed a movie full of cannibalism, open guts, open skulls, disfigured cretins, and man-eating boars? The gruesome ingredients of Hannibal really didn't hit me until I was talking about the movie with my wife the morning after I viewed it at the Oaks 7 Cinema. "Did you like the movie?" she asked me. "Loved it," I told her. "It was pretty funny." "Funny?" "Yeah, Anthony Hopkins was hilarious." The gruesome ingredients of Hannibal really didn't hit me until I was talking about the movie with my wife the morning after I viewed it at the Oaks 7 Cinema. "Did you like the movie?" she asked me. "Loved it," I told her. "It was pretty funny." "Funny?" "Yeah, Anthony Hopkins was hilarious." "I don't see how a movie like that could be funny," she said. And, then it hit me, this creepy feeling that I actually did enjoy the black humor of this well-made, but demented sequel to the Oscar-winning The Silence of the Lambs. And, once you see Hannibal, if you should decide to do so, you will understand that "demented" is a conservative term in describing the bloody antics of this movie. Faint of heart move on, but Hannibal includes: a bloody shootout with an infant caught in the crossfire, a drug-fueled man who slices off his own face and has the remains fed to his dogs, a graphic stabbing, a slit throat, a disembowelment, a hanging, and an unfortunate soul who is forced to have his own brains for dinner. Oh, and let's not forget the man-eating wild boars. And, I enjoyed all of this. Why is that? Here I am, a guy who loathes violence of any sort, who is puzzled by the inane popularity (both critically and financially) of shock-rapper Eminem, and who has refused to see Oliver Stone's blood-fest, Natural Born Killers to this day, just to make some sort of personal statement to myself, and I liked this gory horror film. Found it funny, even. Hannibal picks up 10 years after the ending of Lambs, when Dr. Hannibal Lecter had escaped from the asylum and ventured far into some third world country to begin a new life and a new search for tasty dinner recipes. Dr. Lecter is now Dr. Fell, a respected arts scholar living alone in Italy. One of Dr. Lecter's former victims, the mega-rich Mason Verger (the one Lecter made slice off his own face – don't ask, it's explained in the movie), a man literally without a face, has a bounty on Lecter's head. When a snooping Italian detective picks up the scent of Lecter, Lecter's nemesis and semi-admirer, F.B.I. agent Clarice Starling (Julianne Moore, from Magnolia), also enters the picture. And, then all the bloody mayhem begins. Finding a defense for Hannibal is difficult. Taking the film for what it is might help: an intelligent and witty modern vampire story. And, I grew up on late-night television vampire flicks with Christopher Lee – movies that, on description alone, would sound almost as gory as Hannibal: blood drinking, impaling, deaths by fire, decapitating, stakes through the heart. All of the old Lee Dracula films were full of that macabre stuff. Hannibal, really, is much of the same with a wicked performance at the center from Anthony Hopkins. Hopkins, the excellent actor who has played characters as varied as Christian scribe C.S. Lewis to the cultured, yet flesh-hungry madman called Hannibal, brings such an eerie and gleeful sense of fun to the title role, that it's hard not to like the monster. I suppose my admiration for this movie is hypocritical. I loathe the mindless violence pop culture spews out toward the youth market. And, I would never let a child come within a mile of it; any parent who allows a child to see this movie is a moron, frankly. But, Hannibal is simply an old-time monster movie for adults. It's witty, beautifully written and acted, and, of course, quite sick. Like me, you'll eat it up like a greasy dinner plate of barbeque and hate yourself in the morning. February 7, 2001 Right now, standing on the scales in my birthday suit, I'm hitting 190 pounds. That's probably a little above average for guys like me who stand 6'2", right? Wait a minute – girls, get past that image of me in the first sentence, all right? We're all adults here. OK, now, let's move on. That's probably a tad above average for guys my height, right? It's a little disconcerting, because throughout my life I've been a bony and lanky sort of fellow. Icabod-ish, if you will. Yet, for the past year or so, I've noticed an alarming increase in my appetite and, of course, my weight. Now, I realize that age, lack of proper exercise, and the inevitable slowing of my metabolism are all going to play a factor in my weight gain. But, lately, my increase in appetite and lust for all things food has become simply amazing. A couple of examples… I order a take-out pizza from a local establishment. I pull out of the parking lot, and with the pizza still hot, begin stuffing the pieces in my mouth with absolutely zero self control. By the time I was home, three pieces and two breadsticks were already in my stomach. Another day: I'm busy at work, and there's no time to leave for a nice, leisurely lunch. I have a co-worker bring back a three-piece, original recipe dinner from KFC. I sit down at my desk, rip open the plastic container (I miss the red and white striped box with the Colonel staring back at me.), and like a lion attacking its prey on the Discovery Channel, I devour the chicken with no mercy. At home, I will find myself always munching on pretzels, Oreos, cold pizza, ice cream bars, donuts, etc. What am I doing? Why am I harming myself by shoveling fatty, heavy, doughy and sinfully yummy goodies into my system with the self control of a heroin addict? The lifestyle full of rigorous fitness and disciplined appetite is not one for which I strive. A Twinkie is much more appealing to me than a salad. The couch is more enticing than a 4-mile run in the freezing cold. As I have written before, I could get up every morning, jog, lift weights, and eat granola and fruit, and then, walk out in front of a truck the next day. And, up in Heaven, I would sit glumly on my cloud and think of all of the Big Macs I missed in the pursuit of a long, healthy life. So, the long and short of it is this: I have fallen passionately in love with gluttony. And, it is in this spirit, that I would like to close with the Top Ten Foods that have graced the buds of my tongue. Enjoy and bon appetit. Oh, and don't forget, Hannibal opens Friday. The Spanish omelet at Herman's in Fayetteville. The garlic chicken at Herman's in Fayetteville. The ravoli at Venetian Inn in Tonitown. The aforementioned 3-piece fried chicken dinner (original recipe) from KFC. The Tommy's Kingburger with lettuce, onion, and mayo from Tommy's in Batesville. The pepperoni pizza from Bruno's Little Italy in Little Rock. The veggie pizza with wheat crust and pesto sauce from Tommy's Famous in Mountain View. The Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. The pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut (thin crust). The smoked trout from Tail of the Trout in Rogers. Of course, any home-cooked family meal (this includes the grandmother's fried chicken, the mom's steaks, and the wife's spaghetti) is above and beyond the restaurant fare. Except maybe the Herman's meal. That would go alongside the home-cooked meals. So, there you go. I am now going to close my laptop, put on my jacket, drive home, eat, and enjoy life. Contact Rob via e-mail at max @ maxfm.com. January 31, 2001 I've become a pro at embarrassing myself on the radio. Let's take for instance one recent morning when, in a vicious attack on that kid singer, Billy Gilman, I decided to mimic the current "boy wonder" of country music. He's the one with that extremely syrupy song called "Oklahoma," which tells the story of a boy reuniting with his dad and, pulls just about every string in the book to ensure your hanky's soaked by the end of the tune. I know a lot of people like this stuff, but yeech. Anyway, I recently kept poking fun at Gilman all morning long, and finally, I decided to sing a few lines from "Oklahoma" to attempt to get a laugh. Key word there: attempt. There's a column I wrote not long ago which dealt with this topic, my obnoxious level on the radio. Apparently, I did not take it to heart. The line I sang went something like this: "She said we found a man that looks like you. He's got big teeth and eyes of blue." I threw in the "big teeth" remark; at his current age, Gilman has a large set of choppers. It was a mean thing to say, I know, but like I've said before: I become extremely obnoxious when I get on the air. A lot of other folks also apparently think this. I heard one co-worker in the office say later that day, "I just had to turn it off." (I was eavesdropping.) Then, that night, my sister-in-law, Tonia, told me: "Rob, don't ever try to sing again. It was just awful. Awful." "I was just trying to be funny." "Well," Tonia said, "it was obnoxious is what it was. I mean, there I was in the health club, working out, and here you come on the radio, all over the health club, singing. I was so embarrassed. I just dropped my head and hoped no one would notice me." Jeepers, that stung. But, I admit it. I went on too long with something that wasn't funny to begin with. Then I had to go and sing in my screeching, off-tune voice. And, to top it off, I was ugly about a pre-teenager's teeth. (If it helps matters, I am – due to my fair complexion -- regularly called "Casper," and I'm rapidly developing a soft and expanding tummy. So, all of you Billy Gilman fans, feel free to taunt me at any time.) Have I no shame? Have I no sense of decency? Do I not understand the word "obnoxious?" Oh well, I'll try and be a good boy. I am getting a good feel of my limits, I believe, as well as the term "beating a dead horse." I'm also making a promise in these pages that I will never sing again on the radio. I'd hate to embarrass my sister-in-law. * * * At Saturday's inauguration, Sen. Mitch McConnell gave the standard introduction to the newly-sworn-in George W. Bush for the very first time: "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, George W. Bush." Right after McConnell said "…President of the United States…," I could swear I saw Bill Clinton smile and start to move toward the podium. Old habits die hard, I suppose. * * * Although he had (and has) a load of enemies, I think President Clinton mainly did a skillful and effective job during his eight years. I certainly didn't agree with some of his policies, but I don't agree with some of President Bush's policies either. I think Bush, though, will surprise the many that voted against him and turn out to be a very talented and productive leader. I doubt anything that President Bush accomplishes will satisfy some people. Take, for instance, the goofballs protesting in Washington Saturday as the president-elect's motorcade made its way toward the inauguration ceremony. The sheer anger in the protester's actions teetered on the point of silliness. One moron, wearing nothing but stars and stripes underwear in the freezing rain, tried to jump the massive security line and approach Dick Cheney's limo. Bush has acknowledged time and again the thin line by which he was elected, and he has promised he will foster an administration of inclusiveness. Heck, if Al Gore would have picked the same racially diverse and bi-partisan cabinet that Bush has (save for Attorney General-designate John Ashcroft), these same protesters would be praising the former vice president to no end. It boils down to petty partisan politics and simple immaturity. The Big Mean Republicans are in the White House and the Kind Gentle Democrats are licking their wounds. Life goes on and time ticks away to another election in four short years. And, in the meantime, some people have nothing better to do than complain and whine and do absolutely nothing to contribute to the collective good of the world. While other dimwits try to be funny on the radio and end up being irritating and obnoxious…but, that's another story. Rob Grace can be heard every weekday morning with Lisa Smith on The Max 93One FM. He can be reached, via e-mail, at [email protected]. January 24, 2001 I'm a little late, but I just discovered the joys of Napster. Napster, for those of you who a) don't watch television, b) don't read newspapers, c) don't own a computer, or d) all of the above, is the web site that connects music lovers from all over the globe and allows those folks to trade songs via downloads. A friend of mine recently played me a compact disc he had burned (for those of you who don't know what Napster is, this means "record") on his home computer using songs he had downloaded from Napster. "Now, wait a minute," I said, "let me get this straight. You downloaded all of these songs from the Internet? For free?" "Yep," my friend said. "It's Napster. It's all free. Don't you watch television? Read the papers?" So, last week at work, I downloaded the latest version of Napster. (Now, wait a minute, I know what you're thinking. What am I doing downloading a music program when I should be hard at work? Well, smarty pants, since I work at a radio station, music plays a part in my job duties, so na-na-na-na-na-na.) Before I committed to being a Napsterhead, I wanted to make sure this thing was worth my time. So, I started doing searches on semi-obscure songs I haven't heard in a long time. I typed in "One Step Ahead" by the early `80s group Split Enz. Napster searched. Ten seconds later, a screen popped up and listed all the other folks online who had that particular song on their hard drive. I clicked on a few of these users (sometimes it takes a few tries to get a perfect connection with a fellow Napsterhead), and five minutes later, I had a CD-quality copy of a superb song I had not heard since my junior high days. OK, that was easy. Let's really test Napster, I thought. I typed in "American Skin" by Bruce Springsteen. This is the controversial (and stunning) song by Springsteen that details the shooting by New York City policemen of an unarmed African immigrant. It's never been released, so I figured that it might be tough to find a copy. I hit the "ENTER" button, and boom, more than 90 versions of "American Skin" available for download popped up on my screen. All of these copies were bootleg recordings made of the song from the audience at a particular Springsteen concert, and thus, the sound quality was terrible, but there they were, in all of their kilobyted and Napsterized glory. I'll admit that I've spent a little too much time on Napster for the past few days. I like to tell myself that all of this searching and downloading songs is research for my radio job, but the wicked truth is I'm building an heckuva song collection for my own personal enjoyment. As I type this, I'm listening a bunch of rare acoustic songs I've downloaded from one of my favorite new bands, Better Than Ezra. So far, I've found acoustic goodies from Springsteen, Steve Earle, R.E.M., Tom Petty, Stone Temple Pilots, Lenny Kravitz, Foo Fighters, U2 and loads more. Napster, of course, has been under attack by the major record companies on the basis that all of us music geeks are getting all of this stuff without passing along the almighty buck to their coffers. There's been talk that Napster might strike a deal with the record companies by instigating some type of fee for the site. This, of course, would stink, but time will tell. For now though, my modem is working overtime. While my wife continues to tear through the popular Left Behind series of novels (she's on the eighth book, The Indwelling), I've started The Proud Highway, a collection of letters from the crazed and legendary journalist Hunter S. Thompson. Those of you familiar with Thompson and his outrageous (and many times, illegal) exploits throughout the last four decades might immediately see a severe disparity in the reading tastes of my wife and myself. While Julie reads an epic adventure series geared toward the Christian market concerning the Apocalypse, I'm devouring the correspondence of an infamous and (some might say) borderline-insane man with a fondness for large guns and various types of mood-altering substances. Needless to say, my wife and I have different reading tastes. Highway, by the way, is superb stuff. The letters from Thompson cover a period from 1955 through 1967 when the writer was struggling to make a name for himself and extensively indulging in the newfound freedoms of early adulthood. His prose is always sharp, exciting and wild, and following his talent as it slowly develops into the wicked "gonzo" style for which he became known is a real treat. The Proud Highway is recommended stuff for those of you familiar with the mad journalist from Colorado. January 17, 2001 Cleaning off my desk for the new year, I found some things I thought might interest some folks. Under one pile of papers, I found the hard copy of an e-mail from Tony Kirk. Tony, in response to T. Blanston's Christmas columns, wanted to pass along some predictions for 2001. In an effort to keep pace with Minnesota Gov. Jessie Ventura broadcasting XFL games, Tony predicts Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee will become a pitchman for Banana Republic. He also predicts that New York City sewer rats as well as Batesville sewer rates will grow bigger and scarier, and that the Melba Theatre will re-open with an exclusive six-week run of the Tom Cruise classic, Magnolia. Crowds at Magnolia will be sparse, Tony predicts, but frog leg sales will triple at local eateries. Speaking of the Melba restoration…This is an event I really, really appreciate. Growing up in Batesville, my weekend nights almost always included a flick at the Melba. Every time I come across a mid `70s movie on television, there's a pretty decent chance I saw it at the Melba or the late, lamented Landers. The Melba is part of my adolescence, my formative years, so when it quickly declined into a pitiful and neglected state starting in the late `80s, I felt like I was losing a patch of my youth. I took my first "date" to the Melba. Debbie Dugger and I were in the fifth grade, and we held hands during a double feature of The War of the Worlds and When Worlds Collide. (Just to clarify: this was a reissue of these classic sci-fi flicks of the `50s. The actual year was `77 or `78.) Debbie, to her credit, would not allow me to kiss her because she knew she would have to tell her mother after the show. "It would be on my conscience," she said. I remember getting the pee scared out of me at The Legend of Boggy Creek, a made-in-Arkansas, low-budget scare fest about the legendary Fouke, Ark. monster. I remember people literally screaming and running out of the theater during a showing of a B-level horror flick called Burnt Offerings, a movie which seems pretty tame today. I remember seeing Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Billy Jack, The Ten Commandments, Blade Runner, Rocky, countless James Bond movies, and all sorts of other films on the mammoth (compared to the Oaks 7 screens) movie screen at the Melba. I remember George, the big guy with the lazy eye who tore tickets and called me Rob The Blob, and how we would talk about all the interesting movies that were coming soon. And, I remember all of my other "dates" at the Melba with other childhood and teenage sweethearts such as Nicole, Gina, Julie, Angie, etc. (Oh, there were so many others…I was quite the ladies man.) Anyway, I'm glad someone who also treasured the Melba is working to re-open it. I believe when the restoration is finished, they're going to show second-run flicks. I've also heard, and I hope this is true, that they're going to exhibit some classic movies as well. I'd love to see some films from the `60s and `70s on the Melba's large screen where they belong. * * * And, speaking of cleaning my desk off…I spent an entire workday last week cleaning out my office. Since I do a lot of stuff with The Max 93One FM, record companies send me hundreds of CDs, most of them useless. I filled up four large, legal-sized office boxes with old files, books, and mainly, CDs, the other day, and it feels like I'm in a new office. Remember those times in elementary school when the teacher would make you clean your cubbyholes out and wipe the accumulated gunk off the top of your desks? Sitting down at my desk after my recent clean-out last week, I felt the same sense of newness and neatness. Keeping it sparkling will be the chore. * * * A little critically-acclaimed film slipped into town last week. It's gone now, but the fact that Best in Show made it to Batesville was quite a shock. The movie, from one of the creators of the classic comedy This is Spinal Tap, is a "mockumentary" detailing the exploits of a variety of people and their respective canines participating in a Philadelphia dog show. I was looking forward to Best in Show because Tap is one of my favorite movies, and Waiting For Guffman, another similar movie from the same director (Christopher Guest) was also hilarious. But, Best in Show seemed forced to me. There were no big laughs, and the movie just kind of crept along. I know a lot of critics and people who loved it Best in Show (in fact the American Film Institute recently named one of the best movies of 2000), but I suppose my expectations were too high. January 3, 2001 Let's put it bluntly: ice sucks. It amazes me how modern life can come crashing, literally, to a complete standstill in only a few hours time. Of course, a tornado can do the job in a more deadly and devastating manner. But there's still nothing like the fear a slow slide can bring if you're in a car and helplessly creeping toward a utility pole, or another car, or perhaps a front porch. Or, all three. At the same time. Which is what happened to me during the recent ice storm. Being in the media business, it's almost required that you show up for work. Informing the public of dangerous, inclement weather is an absolute necessity. So, I drive a big 'ol sports utility vehicle. SUVs are supposed to handle winter weather fairly well. I had always heard that ice is not a friend to any type of vehicle, including the revered SUV. But, most of my travels to and from work during the ice storm were slide-free. I was surprised at the ease of getting around, and I suppose it was this confidence that got me into trouble last Wednesday morning. Most of the folks at the station were either stuck in their driveways or on a year-end vacation. The crew was thin and busy: Brian Andrews, Stacy Fields in the Weekly, Lisa Smith, and Kelli Keathley. Brian's wife, Jenny, had even come in to help with the pile of telephone calls that accompany winter weather. Julie Fidler, the editor of the Weekly, called and said she'd be willing to come to work that morning if someone in a SUV would make the trek into her frozen neighborhood to pick her up. "No problem," yours truly said. I am the SUV KING. I laugh in the face of ice. Nothing could stop me. Five minutes later. A steep curve in Julie's neighborhood. My SUV is slowly sliding off this particular curve and down into the front yard of Julie's neighbor. Fortunately for me, someone else had mowed down the neighbor's mailbox, so I only slid over the posthole where the box previously stood. Unfortunately for me, I had now managed to slide from the grass onto the glassy driveway. The smooth slick surface sped me up and now truly had me in a state of panic since the next stop was the house itself. "Mommy," I said to myself. Then, I remembered. Pump the brakes. That's what my dad always taught me. Pump the brakes. It worked. I stopped halfway on the driveway, halfway in the next yard. I turned the wheel and lightly tapped on the accelerator. And, the slide began again. This time, toward an electrical pole. There's a scene in a great Kevin Kline movie called, appropriately, The Ice Storm, where a car slides into an electrical pole, snaps a live wire, and promptly disposes of one of the film's main characters who happened to be walking on the side of the road. This scene replayed rapidly in my mind. Somehow, I figured a live wire would take care of me like the unfortunate character in the movie. "Mommy." Pump the brakes. I hit the grass right off the driveway and found some needed traction. I managed to slowly and carefully steer around the pole and into the front yard of the next neighbor. I looked around, going over my options. I had only one: drive through two more front yards, grabbing the traction of the grass, then speed up back onto the road the opposite way I drove. I would hate to have people look out their front porch window and see a big black SUV bouncing through their yard, but I had no choice. The plan worked. I managed to make it on the main road, and I picked up my cell phone. Stacy answered back at the station. "Tell Julie to enjoy her day off. I'm coming back." I hung up, tossed the phone aside. And, I exhaled very, very slowly.
|
||
|
||
3.
Roddy Frame's new CD. Who? Roddy Frame? Yep, Roddy Frame, a British guitar-whiz whose
claim to semi-fame was the mid-'80s band Aztec Camera. Surely you remember Aztec Camera,
right? Right? Oh, well, just trust me on this. Frame has quietly released a gorgeous new
album entitled Surf, which simply consists of Frame, his acoustic guitar and 13 elegant
songs. I wasn't able to find it locally, but I'm sure some of the area stores could
special order it if you trust my opinions. Standout tracks: "I Can't Start Now,"
"Turning the World Around," "Tough," "Big Ben."
Well,
I'm not Native American, I'm not under 21, I did not lose a bet, and although I do exhibit
some patterns of behavior that might call my sanity into question, I don't think I have a
serious chemical imbalance.
My
first thought was simple: If I was ever going to get over my fear of snakes, I needed to
do exactly what these two goobs were doing – just grab the thing and see what the
fuss was about. I mean, if Lisa and Kelli – two women I have easily scared in
practical jokes throughout the years – could play with a snake, surely I could.
His work will outlive the majority of the popular music that's been released in
the past 20 or 30 years. And, the thing is, his familiar stuff – Born in the
U.S.A., Tunnel of Love, portions of Born to Run and The River
– are not exemplary examples of his talent in my view. Sure, they're superb albums,
but when I think of Springsteen, it's the lesser-known work that rattles and hits me
between the eyes: the entire Nebraska and The Ghost of Tom Joad discs, and
the songs such as "American Skin (41 Shots)," "Land of Hope and
Dreams" "Light of Day" and "Shut Out the Lights" that never made
it on any official studio album. (The former three songs are available in live versions on
various CDs.)
A lot of folks have likely never heard of musician David
Baerwald. Some of you, particularly listeners of The Max, might know him from his first
claim to semi-fame, the L.A.-based duo David + David. They released a superb album in the
mid-80s called Boomtown. The cut "Welcome to the Boomtown," a staple on
The Max playlist, is a dark gem of a song about the dreary, drug-infused life of
disillusioned L.A. characters. "Welcome…" became a minor hit on its
release, and the r>July 17, 2002
Yesterday, Legacy released a rare and unreleased
concert from Simon & Garfunkel, Live From New York City 1967. The concert was
recorded at an outlet of Sony
Records, has been pumping out superb reissues and rare albums for a while now, and this
summer, they seem to be on a roll.
Another new Legacy release hitting stores on July 23
is The Essential Tony Bennett. This double-CD set includes just about every Bennett
classic, all the way up to his wonderful MTV Unplugged set. Each song has been
remastered and sounds better than ever, so if you appreciate the art of Mr. Bennett, you
might want to put this set on your list.
Since I had been in Dallas for the weekend for an
in-law visit, I picked up the doctor at the airport the morning of the show. As we walked
from the gate to the parking lot, he covered, in no particular order, the Web reports of
the Atlanta U2 show over the weekend; a recollection of the last two times he had seen U2
in Dallas; the particular seats he had at those shows; and the aforementioned opening gig
he caught when he was a teenager in Oklahoma.
Later on that night, as I'm struggling to put the kid to
bed, he wriggles like a hooked catfish while I try and slide on his pajamas.