Month: June 2002

Categories
Theater Theater Feature

Come and Get It!

On this Thursday last, Theatre Memphis hosted a gala celebration marking the arrival of its 500th mainstage production, George Kaufman and Moss Hart’s classic comedy The Man Who Came To Dinner. Champagne flowed like tap water, and the mob of tipsy patrons feasted like royalty. There were divinely succulent lamb chops, aperitifs served in chocolate shot glasses, and a stunning array of fruity sorbets, each one more delicious than the last. And then there was the show. Ah, yes, the show. We’ll get around to discussing that too, I suppose, if time allows.

Anniversaries are important occasions, no doubt. They are a time for reflection and evaluation as we recall past glories and laugh off our more embarrassing mishaps. But for such events to have any true meaning, they can’t just be about the past. They must also become a portal to the future: a chance to crow, You ain’t seen nothing yet.

To be brutally honest, The Man Who Came To Dinner is a poor choice on TM’s part. It was the last show to be performed at the theater’s cramped quarters at the Pink Palace prior to moving into its current facility at Perkins Extended and Southern back in the early ’70s. And, yes, a number of key-role actors from that previous production have returned to offer up outstanding performances. That’s all well, good, and as it should be, but the downside nearly negates the up. K&H’s zany comedy — peopled by the sort of wonderful eccentrics the two writers knew how to create so well — has really begun to show its age. The play’s leading character, Sheridan Whiteside, a renowned theater critic and radio celebrity based on New York Times drama critic Alexander Woolcott (1887-1943), drops so many names one almost requires a scorecard to keep up.

Thankfully, TM includes just such a card in the program: four pages’ worth of brief biographies. Certainly, even the most (pop)culturally challenged will recognize names like H.G. Wells and Arturo Toscanini, but who among us remembers socialite Dorothy di Frasso, lecturer William Phelps, or diver William Beebe? It’s not so much that one has to know these names to enjoy the comedy, but it’s impossible to enjoy the richness of the humor without a working knowledge of every name the viciously clever Whiteside drops. No list of bios, no matter how thorough, can fill in the gap between simple knowledge and total understanding. Several seasons back, the late Ellis Rabb, Memphis’ most celebrated director, solved a similar problem with Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s 18th-century comedy The School For Scandal by updating all the show’s proper nouns. It worked like a dream, and Sheridan’s pithy game of inside baseball became completely accessible. Alas, we’re at least 100 years away from a time when a director will feel comfortable performing such a surgery on The Man Who Came To Dinner.

Director Bob Hetherington has done an excellent job of never allowing the show’s outsized characters to leave the realm of believability. Given that this script is a slow-boiling farce complete with a herd of rampaging penguins, that’s no easy task. In the case of Sheridan Whiteside, the globe-trotting critic whose tongue is a weapon and whose kindness is rivaled only by his pettiness, a certain largess is to be expected. Curiously enough, Bennett Wood, an actor more than capable of reaching out to grasp all of Whiteside’s extremes, is remarkably even-keeled. There is a distinct lack of pomp in his circumstances, and from the beginning, we like Whiteside much more than we should. We should enjoy him in much the same way we enjoy Oscar Wilde’s more fabulous creations: as someone we’d love to have for dinner on occasion but would prefer to keep away from the children. Wood’s greatest gift, however, has always been subtlety, and perhaps he still just needs some time to grow.

Christina Wellford Scott (as outsized actress Lorraine Sheldon) and John Rone (as Beverly Carlton, a character based on Noël Coward) both revel in a certain cartoonishness, and the audience revels with them, while the show’s ingenues Pamela Poletti (Maggie) and John “I’d become one of Memphis’ best actors if I’d just stop smirking” Moore (Bert) are appropriately grounded.

There is really nothing wrong with TM’s Man that time and a shot of Jägermeister won’t fix. Too bad it’s all about nostalgia and beating down paths that are already well worn. Everything is very safe and tidy, exuding charm while showing not the tiniest shred of courage.

Through June 30th.

Categories
News

Sitting Up Front

The problem of the safety demonstration is greatly exaggerated in Business Class.

You know the problem: Do you watch, perhaps making awkward eye contact, as the robotic flight attendant snaps the seat belt and points out the exit doors? Or do you not watch, thereby making her show seem pointless, her time wasted, and you arrogant?

It’s a whole different problem when there’s only about seven of you and the attendant is looming overhead, her hip about a foot from your face. You imagine she’s taking inventory of her little brood of passengers, noting which ones will make it in a crash and which ones aren’t worth saving.

In my case, she was probably thinking, Here’s another business-class rookie, because during her belt-snapping show, I was torn between watching the pilots twist mysterious knobs in the cockpit and trying to negotiate the controls of my laptop-sized seat panel. The pilots had a plane to fly, sure, but I couldn’t get my video screen unfolded because I couldn’t find a place to put my drink.

This is life in Business Class: a barrage of distractions and decisions, like how you deal with the stares of the coach-class folks as they board through your section. I know what they’re thinking, because I thought the same thing on every previous flight of my life. They’re looking at us, sitting up front with our pre-taxi snacks, and thinking, Who do these folks think they are? So when I was the one sitting there sipping orange juice and reading the paper, I was thinking, Stop looking at me! It isn’t my fault!

My parents are getting close to retirement and are starting to cash in on their lives of work. Part of this was to go to France for 10 days, take me along, and, by golly, fly Business Class the whole way. On most airplanes, that just means you sit up front and get your own flight attendant — an attendant who (and I know they’ll deny this) is always better-looking than the ones behind the curtain.

But on the 747 from Chicago to Amsterdam, sitting up front means you’re in a space nicer than any apartment I had in college. Your seat is wide and soft, and it leans back to darn near horizontal. Even when you lift the leg rest (leg rest!), you don’t come into contact with the person in front of or behind you. Everybody can stretch out in Business Class.

They give you headphones too. I always wondered why some airlines charge a few insulting dollars for headphones after you’ve paid their absurd prices for a seat. It turns out that if you’re further abused by the Business Class fare, they just hand those things out, along with booties, blankets, blindfolds for sleepy time, and a little tin gift pack with soaps, shampoo, toothbrush, moisturizer, and shoehorn. I wanted to ask my dad if he had worked out the per-shoehorn rate, but he was arguing with Mom over which button on the seat panel did what. One of them, I’ll have you know, was the lumbar support.

The stewardess wanted to know which meal I would be having. I stared at her blankly for a moment, not quite making the connection between “airplane” and “options.” So I grabbed the menu (menu!), which had the date and flight number printed on it and was called “Spanish Food and Wine Festival.” I chose the chicken with horseradish potatoes instead of the peppered beef tenderloin and crab ravioli then wondered how I would ever go back to honey-roasted peanuts. When the attendant came back with my hot, wet towel, I decided I couldn’t and wouldn’t go back.

The flight itself borders on absurd. On any transatlantic flight, it seems like the attendants are constantly coming around with food, but, up front, they mix it up with free booze, seconds on dessert, chocolates, duty-free shopping, and (on the Dutch airline KLM) a little ceramic Dutch house filled with Dutch gin held in by wax over the little Dutch chimney. It’s a veritable carnival in the sky.

And then there’s the home entertainment system they call a seat. Again with the options: There were half a dozen radio stations and five movies. I could have watched Ali, Kate and Leopold, The Majestic, French Kiss, or Glitter with Mariah Carey. So I read.

The final happy moment was the arrival. It was enough that we had crossed the ocean blue and wound up in Europe. And it was more than enough that we had checked in and boarded via the short lines. But after years of sitting in something like seat 37F (window behind the wing), I cannot express the sublime joy of actually standing up as soon as the plane comes to a stop — because, after all, there’s no luggage compartment over your head and no mother of two rounding up her offspring in the aisle — and then, as soon as the door is opened, immediately walking off the plane.

That’s what people get to do when they sit up front.

Categories
Opinion Viewpoint

Fix the Problem

No one wants to pay more taxes. I don’t want to pay more in taxes than is absolutely necessary.

However, I recognize that providing an adequate level of state services requires we all pay taxes.

We are a low-tax state and, even after tax

reform, will continue to be a low-tax state. The average

Tennessean pays less in state and local taxes than the citizens

of any other state. Including the District of Columbia, we

rank 51st in the nation in per-capita state taxation.

While being ranked last in taxation is a good thing, it

does have consequences. If we insist on being 51st in taxes, we

will never rank much higher in areas that are important to all of

us, like quality educational programs for our children and

health care for our neediest citizens. I support increased tax revenue

because I do not want to be ranked 51st in these areas.

Our current consumption-based tax system grows at

a slower pace than the cost of services being provided for

two simple reasons. First, over the last 20 years, we have

dramatically shifted our purchasing away from goods which are

taxable to services which are not taxed. Second, under

federal law, most purchases made over the Internet are not subject

to state sales taxes. It is estimated that Internet sales are costing

us over $300 million annually in tax growth.

The current system is unfair. It asks lower-income families

to pay a higher share of their income in state taxes because we tax consumption of

basic needs, such as food, clothing, gasoline, and driver’s

licenses. Why do I say this is unfair? A family making $12,600

pays approximately 12 percent of its income in state and

local taxes while a family making $159,000 pays approximately

4 percent of its income in state and local taxes. What’s

fair about that?

I support the flat-tax reform plan because it creates a

fairer tax system and represents a long-term solution to the

state’s funding needs.

This income-tax amount is deductible on your

federal income tax return in the same way that you currently

deduct home-mortgage interest and property taxes.

The plan does remove the state and local sales tax

on groceries, on clothing with a value less than $500, and

on nonprescription drugs. This provides some degree of tax

relief to low- and middle-income families as well as our

elderly population who live on a fixed income.

With this reform in place, Tennessee will also be able

to capture the taxes it currently loses from people who work

in Tennessee but live out of state. Those who do not live here

but work here would now begin paying income taxes to Tennessee.

For instance, professional athletes and entertainers

would have to pay to play or perform here just as they do in

almost every other state. We estimate that Tennessee lost out

on around $120 million in revenue from people who work

here but pay no taxes here.

During this legislative session, it has become

apparent that a majority of legislators now recognize that

Tennessee faces a significant financial problem. To have a

balanced budget next year, we must find a way to raise revenue or

we must reduce the current budget by $950 million.

I don’t want to cut $950 million from existing

spending because of the severe consequences it will have on every

citizen in this state. I don’t think most people who have

studied this want that either. The question, then, is: How are

we going to raise this money? We can either reform the system

by choosing fairness, deductibility, and long-term stability or

we can perpetuate the current unfair and inadequate system

and continue to have a similar problem in the years ahead.

I’m for fixing the problem. n

Jimmy Naifeh, who represents Covington in the state

legislature, is Speaker of the House. This is an abridgement of

a longer communication that may be read on the

Flyer Web site, www.memphisflyer.com.

Categories
Cover Feature News

The Summer Issue

the memphis flyer presents the Summer Issue

Summer afternoon — summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language. — Henry James

Memphis summer. Few who live here would call those two of the most beautiful words in the English language. But they are two words that bring much to mind. First — let’s not tiptoe around it — yes, it’s hot. Really hot. But after a couple of weeks, the heat loses its punch somehow. We adapt: We wear fewer clothes; we eat less, and later in the day; we learn to avoid sitting bare-legged on hot car seats. The heat fades into the background and becomes part of the scenery — always there but somehow not so important. It’s then that we can finally celebrate this muggy, steamy season to the fullest.

Memphis summer: It’s the sweet surprise of honeysuckle perfume wafting over us on an evening walk; it’s a frosty Corona at a sidewalk table; it’s stepping out of a late-night bar and into a dark humidity so dense it feels like you’ve been wrapped in a hot, thick towel; it’s a sloppy barbecue nacho warming your lap at AutoZone Park; it’s a walk along the Mississippi as sunset paints the sky; it’s lying on your back in a field at Shelby Farms and pondering the infinite throw of stars.

Memphis summer. It’s here. It’s whatever you want it to be. Taste it. Feel it. Live it. It’s the only one you’re going to get this year. — Bruce VanWyngarden

Summer How to’s

School’s In Session

How to catch a foul ball, taste-test ice cream, and, ladies, pee standing up.

Classes may be over, school may be out, but you can always learn a little more.

Especially the summer-specific skills we’ve lined up for you. If you’ve always wanted to know how to catch a foul ball or, ladies, pee standing up, we’ve got the answer. If you’ve always dreamed of being an ice-cream taster, read on.

The Flyer staff consulted with experts, did extensive field testing, and now serves up this cool bit of summer school.

HOW TO CATCH A FOUL BALL

by James P. Hill

Okay, baseball fans, check your gear: ticket to get in, notepad for autographs, binoculars to get a close-up view, and — never forget it — your glove to catch foul balls.

Baseball experts suggest fans began looking for souvenir baseballs around ballpark diamonds back in the 19th century. “It’s taking home a bit of your memory of having been to the game,” says Bob Brame, Memphis Redbirds director of communications. “As a kid, I would take my glove to games to catch a foul ball. This is part of the spirit, the feel, and the love of America’s pastime.”

Over the years, baseball fields changed from diamonds with a wooden backstop or fence to incredible sports venues like BankOne Ballpark in Phoenix or the gem of AAA baseball, AutoZone Park here in Memphis.

Many fans use their seat’s location as a tool in landing that special game-day treat. “I think sitting down at the 1st and 3rd baselines and behind the dugouts are great places to get a foul ball,” says Steve Horne, Memphis Redbirds director of field operations. The next thing to do is watch for three types of balls. First kind: A batter cuts the ball as a line drive into the stands — this could be an easy catch in your glove. Second kind: A batter swings at a pitch and clips the ball, sending it up to the stadium’s roof and down into the stands — you’re going to have to make a run for this one. Third kind, only effective at AutoZone Park: “Get a $5 bluff seat and try to get a home-run ball,” says Redbirds staff member Ed Collins.

So keep your eye on the prize, and if a ball is hit so hard that it leaves the park altogether, you still get the excitement of watching a home-run.

HOW TO TEST ICE CREAM

by Simone Barden

Imagine being paid to eat popsicles, fudge bars, vanilla ice cream, and strawberry sherbet all day long. Somebody’s got to, right? That somebody at the Turner ice cream factory in Covington is lab technician Pam Boswell.

Boswell tests and tastes about 40 different ice cream samples a day. The samples at Turner don’t come by the scoop. They come in half-gallon containers, pints, or whatever size appears that day. Boswell’s lab freezer fills up quickly, and she actually eats the ice cream to make sure it tastes right. “Some people just dip their tongue into it and spit it out; I prefer to eat it,” she says.

Boswell doesn’t have a degree in food science. She started out working at the factory and transferred to the tasting-and-testing lab four years ago. She just happens to really like ice cream. In fact, she calls herself an ice cream addict. “I usually don’t make it through a weekend without ice cream,” she says. “I have to go to Sonic or some other place to get some because I don’t keep any at home.”

For Boswell, testing is a “feeling thing” more than anything else. Sweetness, she says, is one of the main things to consider, but sweetness doesn’t just mean sweet versus not sweet. Sweetness includes texture and smoothness.

This is not just summer fun. This is serious business. Testers cannot skip the tasting when it gets frosty outside. That doesn’t matter to a die-hard like Boswell — “I can eat ice cream all year long,” she says, “but popsicles are nicer to taste during the summer than during the winter.”

HOW TO PEE STANDING UP

by Lesha Hurliman

It occurred to me again at the Beale Street Music Fest this year as I hovered at an excruciating angle inside a Porta-pottie: Some aspects of female anatomy just simply aren’t ideal. Most women will agree with me that the “squat” method is — how should I put it? — unpredictable. There is no telling what will happen. One second, you’ll be experiencing the straight and narrow, and then, for no apparent reason, you’ve got a wayward problem.

This summer, the season of the great outdoors, concerts, camping, and (need I remind you?) snakes, ticks, and poisonous weeds, there is perhaps no greater gift a woman could give herself than the ability to urinate while standing. According to nurse Denise Decker’s “A Woman’s Guide On How To Pee Standing Up” (www.restrooms.org/standing), there are two ways to do this: the “finger-assist” method, which requires a very intimate knowledge of your nether region, and the device method.

For the finger-assist method, the shower or bathtub is where you will want to start. Using either of your clean hands, make a “V” with your first and second fingers and spread the inside of your labia minora (if you are not sure where these are, let’s just say it is the area surrounding the urethra). Next, lift to the desired angle, then urinate. According to Decker, “If you don’t spread and lift, it could run down your leg.” This is not as easy as it sounds. I, for one, have had some issues while trying this method. Once I got my “V” in place, the urine stream was, um … unforthcoming.

But like every skill, practice makes perfect. There are women who can urinate through the fly of their jeans without so much as a drop straying. One woman even boasts she can, after years of practice, write her name in the snow. (Girl, I have no idea how — lots of hip action is all I can come up with.)

For those of you less interested in the hands-on method, there are plenty of devices out there to help: the TravelMate (looks sort of like a measuring spoon with a hollow handle and comes with a denim or tapestry carrying case), the Whizzy (handles for the seat in a public restroom), and the Shenis (replace the “sh” with a “p,” make it 12 inches long, and you’ll get the picture).

I myself am through whining about this particular trait of my gender. Join me and Nurse Decker: Stand up and pee.

Categories
Opinion Viewpoint

Summer Golf

The invitation came a few weeks ago from the communications coordinator for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, who asked if I would be interested in playing in John Daly’s celebrity golf tournament at the Grand Casino and writing about it for the Flyer. I thought about it for, oh, three seconds before saying, “Sign me up.” After all, what golfer wouldn’t want to watch Daly hit some of those mega-drives and hang out with some Hollywood types for a day? Sounded like a dandy idea to me.

Being the shallow type, the next question I asked was: “So who are some of the celebrities who show up for this thing?”

“Well, Joe Pesci has committed,” she replied. “And Nolan Richardson and Dickie Betts, maybe Meatloaf, lots of Nashville musicians, and … “

“JOE PESCI is coming?”

“Yes, and Hootie and the … “

“Joe Pesci?”

The communications coordinator (also a friend) sighed. “Yes, Joe Pesci is coming.”

“Man,” I said, “Joe Pesci would be perfect for the story. Can I play with him? Please? I just want to be there to hear him go off when he screws up: ‘Look at dat freakin’ bawl. It’s in da freakin’ watah! How da freak does dat freakin’ bawl go in da freakin’ watah?'”

“Nice,” she said, “very nice. But, look, it’s kind of a luck-of-the-draw thing. There’s a pairings party you have to go to. And besides, this is about the kids, not about who can get the coolest celebrity to play with.”

“Can’t you put the fix in for me?” I asked, remaining firmly in the shallows. “Joe seems like the kind of guy who’d appreciate a good fix.”

“I don’t think so,” she said wearily. “But I’ll see what I can do. Are you in or not?”

“Freak yes, I’m in.”

The pairings party was held AT the Rendezvous the night before the tournament. I showed up early so Joe and I could talk strategy for the next day’s match. I figured he’d want some tips on the course, or maybe he could give some advice on the best way to get a good lie when nobody’s looking.

It didn’t take long before I started seeing some of my fellow celebs. There was former Dallas Cowboys coach Barry Switzer standing in the alley smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, Coach,” I said. (Coaches love it when you call ’em “Coach.”)

“Hey fella,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Nice to see ya.”

Yeah, baby, I was in the bigs now. Chatting up the beautiful people. I glided inside and almost stumbled over Hootie. Of course, only the truly ignorant would call Darius Rucker of Hootie & the Blowfish Hootie. There is no actual Hootie. Rucker’s just another Blowfish. (As we all are in the vast ocean of life, when you think about it.) I thought of sharing these deep thoughts with my man Darius, but for some reason, he seemed to want to continue talking to the gorgeous brunette with the deep tan and turquoise jewelry. Go figure.

Inside, there were other Blowfish, including the tall guy with straight hair and the tall guy with curly hair. A veritable school of Blowfish, right there in the Rendezvous. Eating barbecue.

Our host, John Daly, was in the midst of it all, smiling easily, charming everyone he met. I was struck by how small he really is, which makes the fact of his incredibly long drives even more impressive. His dedication to this tournament is also impressive. Since 1992, he’s raised almost $1.5 million for Make-A-Wish.

After much noshing and chatting, the whole shindig was moved to B.B. King’s, where the pairings were to be announced. No sign of my buddy Joe yet. Playin’ it freakin’ cool, as usual.

After a steaming set from Little Jimmy King, Daly took the stage to announce the pairings. But before he could get started, there was a voice from the wings.

“Hey, you crazy sonofagun.”

It was Joe Pesci, at long last. He and Daly embraced and exchanged a little celebrity banter.

“Stand up, Joe,” Daly said. “Oh, wait, you’re already standing up.” Like that.

As the pairings were read off, people around the room were high-fiving. “Yes! Nolan Richardson. Cool.”

Finally, I heard my name through the din. And my celebrity teammate was … John Cafferty.

John Cafferty? Huh? Obviously, the fix wasn’t in. Joe would have to carry on without me. And I’d have to figure out who John Cafferty was before our 8 a.m. tee time the next day.

Actually, I found out a little sooner. The party moved en masse to the Rum Boogie for an impromptu jam session as various musicians hit the stage to join the house band, the Gamble Brothers. Johnny Lee got up and sang “Poke Salad Annie.” Mark Bryan of Hootie et al. (the tall one with curly hair) jumped in on “Fire on the Bayou.” Then Steve Cropper started working a slinky guitar lick, and a sax player who looked vaguely familiar stepped up and began to wail the opening riff to the soul classic “Shotgun.” Next to him was a small man with tousled hair and a soulful face who grabbed the mic and started to sing in a strong, sandpaper voice.

“Who’s that?” I asked the guy standing next to me.

“John Cafferty. From the Beaver Brown Band. So’s the sax player. Remember them?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “‘On the Dark Side.’ Big ’80s hit.”

“From Eddie and the Cruisers … “

Then it all came rolling back: the summer of ’83, or was it ’82? I was a young father, starting a journalism career after quitting the last of a forgettable string of bands. Eddie and the Cruisers was on cable — constantly. It was an oddly compelling film, with Michael Pare, Tom Berenger, and Ellen Barkin all getting their first big parts. It was about youth and death and sex and drugs and rock-and-roll, and I watched it several times that summer. It spoke to me, baby. The Beaver Brown band, of course, played on the soundtrack.

Up on stage, “Shotgun” was building to a climax. Cropper and “Tunes,” the Beaver Brown sax player, were trading four-note licks, climbing higher with each exchange, sending the soul chestnut to places it had never visited before. Then it was back to the chorus and Cafferty’s raw shout brought it all back around. It was probably the best rendition of “Shotgun” ever played in the history of the world. At least. Even the audience was exhausted when it ended.

So, okay, I thought. I didn’t get Joe Pesci, but John Cafferty might be kind of interesting. Sonofagun can still sing, that’s for sure. What the freak.

The next morning came early. Very early.

At 7 a.m., the Cottonwoods Golf Course was awash with more than 80 yellow-shirted Make-A-Wish volunteers checking in golfers, setting up breakfast, directing golf-cart traffic. I was struck by the missionary zeal of this group. They believe in what they’re doing, no question.

As I was leaving the clubhouse, I got an idea why. A small girl on crutches and in leg braces — maybe 10 years old — was attempting to climb the three steps into the clubhouse. I waited on the landing above as she painstakingly, slowly lifted one leg up, maneuvered her crutches into position, set her leg down, pushed off on her crutches, lifted her other leg, and dragged it up. Those with the girl made no move to help but offered encouragement.

“You’re doing great, baby.”

“Just one more.”

Her courage was beyond measure, but it was hard to watch.

Finally, she was up on the landing and through the doors.

“We’re going to go out and play 18 holes, and she’s just tryin’ to climb three steps,” a voice behind me said. “Kinda puts it all in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, a little moist-eyed.

I turned, and the guy behind me stuck out his hand. “John Cafferty,” he said.

I’m here to tell you now that y’all need to go out and buy John Cafferty’s records and rent Eddie and the Cruisers several times, because this guy is one of the nicest, most genuine people I’ve ever met. Plays a decent game of golf too.

That said, there’s nothing more boring than recounting a golf outing, but I will say our team finished a respectable eight under par and everybody contributed at least one miraculous shot or two. We even got a little help from John Daly, who played one hole with each team.

Daly pulled up in a cart on the 10th tee, just after we’d put four 220-yard drives in the fairway — or close, anyway. He jumped out and said, “Y’all want some help?” Yes, we did.

“How long is this hole?” Daly asked.

“Says 299 from this tee box, John.”

Daly let this information sink in, looked down the fairway, then took 10 paces back from the tee markers. He tossed aside his cigarette, stuck a ball on a tee, waggled his driver once or twice, and took a massive 340-degree swing. There was a thwack loud enough to stunt grass growth, loud enough to loosen the elastic in your shorts, loud enough … well, it was freakin’ loud. The white pellet disappeared into the ever-blue Delta sky, heading west toward the unseen green, hidden behind a row of moguls about 275 yards out.

“Uh, thanks, John,” we said. We piled into our carts, drove to pick up our meager offerings to the fairway gods, and headed toward the green — where we found Mr. Daly’s ball about 20 feet from the cup.

“Need any more help, fellas?” Daly shouted from his cart.

“I think we can handle it from here, John. Thanks,” we said.

After our round, we headed to the dining room for lunch, all of us, that is, except Cafferty, who went immediately to an adjoining area that had been set up for Make-A-Wish kids and their families. About 45 minutes later, as we were finishing our sandwiches, he rejoined us.

“Whew,” he said, shaking his head. “Those people are amazing — the stuff they’re going through is unbelievable. It makes you humble.”

It was clear that Cafferty, who has two small children of his own, has become personally involved in the Make-A-Wish cause. As various celebrities walked into the dining room, he urged each of them to go to the kids’ room before eating. “Go on in there,” he’d say. “They need you in there now.”

As he finished his lunch, one of my playing partners asked Cafferty how he got connected with Eddie and the Cruisers.

“It’s a strange story,” he said. “At the time, we were playing up and down the East Coast, just bars mainly. One weekend at a gig in New York, this guy came up and asked for my phone number. We didn’t hear from him again until three years later. He called and asked us if we were still together and if we wanted to be the band in this movie he was making.

“So we make Eddie and the Cruisers and it gets released and just dies immediately, and we think, Well, that’s that. A few months later — I think it was the summer of ’83 — it gets released on cable. This was when people first started getting cable in big numbers, and that movie played almost every day. There were a lot of kids home for the summer, and they saw the movie and liked it and started buying the soundtrack. We had no idea at first, but one day, we were playing a gig in Toronto and my manager called and said, ‘You better get back home. You sold 30,000 records this week.'”

“I said, ‘What record?'”

“That’s a hell of a story,” I said.

“What it says to me,” Cafferty said, “is that life is all about being in the right place at the right time.”

Just then a child in a wheelchair was pushed over to our table. He was impossibly small but with a teenage face peering out from under an Alabama baseball hat. I find out later he has an evil little ailment called brittle bone disease.

“Hey, John,” he said in a very high, small voice. “How’s it going?”

“Hey, how are you, man?” John replied, obviously renewing an aquaintance. He turned and started talking animatedly to the kid with the big dose of bad luck in the Alabama hat.

As I watched, I couldn’t help but think John Cafferty was still in the right place at the right time.

If you know of a child in need of a wish, or to volunteer, call Make-A-Wish at 680-WISH.

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Film Features Film/TV

Sunscreenless Cinema

While film culture in Memphis has improved dramatically over the last five years, there’s still a whole world of vital cinema out there that never shows up on local screens. For example, of the 126 films that received votes in The Village Voice‘s Take 3 national film critics’ poll last year, only 66 have been shown on local screens (and three of those — Cure, George Washington, and La-Lee’s Kin: The Legacy of Cotton — were one-time-only festival screenings). But most of the others are (or will be) available at local video stores, so instead of risking a sunburn while indulging in some of the summertime activities highlighted elsewhere in this issue, you could spend some leisure time in the comfort of air-conditioning and catching up with how the other half of the film world lives. Here are a few viewing suggestions, all available at your finer local video establishments:

The highest-ranking film in the Take 3 poll that never found a home on local screens is The Circle (ninth on the Voice list), a wrenching, harrowing film from Iranian director Jafar Panahi. Best known for the child-centered The White Balloon, Panahi takes aim here at the Islamic country’s “woman” problem. A maker, like many of his celebrated countrymen, of accessible art movies, Panahi here crafts a richly metaphoric yet concrete and graspable film. The film is structured the way Richard Linklater’s Slacker was — the camera follows one character (or set of characters) until he or she intersects with another then the camera picks up the new character to follow him or her, etc. This structure emphasizes a social problem rather than the plight of an individual, with the succession of women appearing in the film standing in for the country’s entire female population.

The Circle‘s women, most of them recently released from prison (their crimes unspecified), are trying desperately to find their place in a country depicted here as a patriarchal police state, a country where merely being a woman is portrayed as a crime. (The film, unsurprisingly, was a precariously made production that has been screened in Iran only once.) A long day’s journey into night –from a hospital nursery to a jail over the course of a single day —The Circle is framed by the plight of a single, unseen woman whose predicament attains intense power when seen in the context of all that comes in between. The film builds to an unbearable anxiety and is governed by a Kafkaesque nightmare logic — except this is basically a neorealist film.

But, for you subtitle-phobes, not all the movies that bypass Memphis are foreign-language films. The highest-ranked American film on the Voice list is Donnie Darko (16th), an idiosyncratic, iconoclastic teen film that deserves to be discussed alongside similar recent works such as Rushmore, Ghost World, and Gummo. The debut feature from twentysomething writer-director Richard Kelly, this muted, nostalgic film about the plight of a delusional teen in the 1980s carries echoes of The X-Files, David Lynch, and comic books. Downbeat and doleful on the surface yet with mysteriously hopeful undercurrents, this highly original, high school gothic defies easy description, but it is spiked with brilliantly filmed set pieces (a few applause-worthy slo-mo tracking shots and a great reverse montage at the film’s most crucial moment), genius stunt-casting (Drew Barrymore as a beatnik English teacher, Patrick Swayze as a sleazy New Age guru), and wonderful, small details (personal faves: Donnie Darko and his girlfriend watching The Evil Dead in an otherwise empty theater; Donnie’s little sister’s school-talent-show dance troupe, Sparkle Motion, almost as sublime a name as Ghost World‘s bar band Blues Hammer).

Released roughly concurrently with his Waking Life and no less an experiment, Richard Linklater’s Tape is definitely worth a look. Shot on digital video, containing only three actors, and taking place entirely within a single hotel room, the film is talky and theatrical (based, unsurprisingly, on a play) in a manner that may evoke David Mamet or Neil LaBute except it’s considerably more relaxed and philosophical than either. Linklater’s little experiment is essentially a film about subjectivity.

This compellingly tossed-off film depicts a 10-years-after reunion in a Lansing, Michigan, motel room between high school buddies Vince (Ethan Hawke) and John (Robert Sean Leonard) — the Dead Poets Society heartthrobs reunited! John is an aspiring filmmaker in town to screen his latest at a local festival. Vince shows up for moral support, armed with lots of drugs and a hidden agenda. The good times deteriorate quickly between belligerent Vince and condescending John, and when mutual ex-girlfriend Amy (Uma Thurman) shows up, the film’s vaguely Rashomon-like discussion of a high school date rape takes center stage in a reunion charged by ricocheting agendas and mind games.

Or if you want a good laugh, you might try Larry Clark’s Bully, in which the Kids director takes the same social concerns and visual style on a trip to suburban Florida. As with Kids, Bully forces viewers to question their own role as partial creators of the film: Is this a searing social commentary and cautionary tale or prurient sleazebag voyeurism? You decide! I choose the latter and say that it ranks pretty high on the Unintentional Comedy scale (unless Clark is sharper than I’m giving him credit for and you’re supposed to laugh at this “tragic” story). But, whatever your take, Bully clearly isn’t as accomplished as Kids — it’s missing the identification screenwriter Harmony Korine brought to that lightning rod of a film.

Bully is based on the true story of a group of emotionally blank Florida teens who murder one of their friends (a little River’s Edge here too), but Clark is less concerned with the crime than with finding an excuse for his young, hard-bodied cast to get naked. In other words, it’s classic teen exploitation — ogling decadence laced with a moral.

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We Recommend We Recommend

thursday, 20

Well, I was going to be rather mean about a Commercial Appeal column that appeared a couple of weeks ago which trashed a very good, tiny start-up restaurant with a slew of calamitously misguided remarks and almost resulted in the place shutting its doors forlunch, making many, many people very unhappy and throwing some very hard-working people back into a cycle of poverty, but I’ve been assured that they are above such nonsense, so I’ll back off. I can’t eat anyway because I can’tstop laughing about the two lawyers from Mississippi who are filing a lawsuit against Osama bin Laden

and al Qaeda. Now, I am not making fun of Mississippi. I love Mississippi. I love the Delta. I love the Gulf. I love Oxford and Faulkner and Eudora Welty and Tennessee Williams and Clarksdale and lots of other things about Mississippi. But suing Osama bin Laden? And going to Kenya and Tanzania to sign up clients? Can you say, Too much time on someone’s hands? It would

really bite to be the one who has to serve Osama with the subpoena. The entire world can’t lay hands on the guy, but apparently the lawyers from

Mississippi have just a wee bit more going for them. And if they were to find Osama and file their suit, a little voice tells me that there would be much more pressing things to handle with him than a lawsuit. Maybe these lawyers should refocus their efforts and go after Birmingham, Alabama, resident Kimberly King, who recently — well, she recently took a utility knife and chopped her boyfriend’s butt off. Yep, attacked him during an argument and just cut off his buttocks. One can only imagine what that argument was about. The boyfriend didn’t give the police all the details, and as an American citizen, I want them. Now. What could he possibly have

done to incur this kind of wrath? Was he being a wisecrack? Did she ask him during dinner to pass the Spam croquettes and instead he passed alittle

gas? I have a very vivid image in my head, unfortunately, of a very drunken boyfriend tackling a very hot-headed girlfriend and doing that in her face as a joke and the whole thing turning very ugly. But mental images aren’t

enough. I want photos. Not of the dismembered derriere but headshots. I feel more than certain that there’s a mullet involved here. And just how in the world does one cut off someone else?s buttocks? I do believe I would have put up some kind of fight. Like, say, killing her. And what happened to the cut-off buttocks? Talk about giving new meaning to picking up a piece of

ass. Not to mention turning the other cheek. I am truly fascinated. Maybe she should hook up with Lorena Bobbitt and the two could have their own

cooking show specializing in hot dogs and buns. Or sausage and rump roast. Boston butt with beanie weenies. (Okay, enough.) Ol? Kimberly, after carving out her niche as one of Alabama’s most notorious knife-wielders, was arrested on charges of attempted murder, of which she told a television reporter, “This ain’t right.” Sister, I think it’s very fair to say you ain’t right. Just cut off his butt. I don’t know if I’ll get over this one.

In the meantime, here’s a little look at what’s going on around town this week. Cut off his butt. Good heavens. If you are reading this early on

Wednesday the 19th, as many of you do, there’s a reunion concert tonight at the Map Room by that ever-popular Memphis band Accidental Mersh. As for Thursday, today kicks off the Annual Southern Fried Regional Poetry Festival at various venues downtown; don’t know much about it other than the “Too Early For Poets Open Mic” gig at CafÇ Francisco 10 a.m. Friday. Check www.memphispoetry.com for details. I don?t have time. The Memphis Redbirds are playing Edmonton tonight at AutoZone Park. And there’s live jazz by Neptune’s Army tonight at CafÇ Zanzibar.

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News News Feature

CITY BEAT

ROUND NINE

Call it the aftercard.

Dyersburg investors in the big fight are now scrapping among themselves.

As The Memphis Flyer first reported in April, Dyersburg money played a key role in the unusual circumstances that brought the heavyweight championship fight to Memphis. At that time, it was uncertain that the fight would occur at all because Tyson had been banned in Nevada and New York. The Pyramid was seen by many “experts” as a venue of last resort, and the fight was so controversial that First Tennessee Bank wanted nothing to do with a letter of credit for the site fee.

When it became clear that the fight was not only going to happen but would also generate worldwide interest and make a lot of money, the Dyersburg investors began scrapping.

At issue is exactly who had a piece of the deal. Dyer Investments, headed by a former Dyersburg banker named Billy Y. Walker who went to prison for savings-and-loan fraud 15 years ago, was the investment vehicle. Defendants in the lawsuit filed earlier this month include Walker and Dyersburg businessmen John Ford and Kent Ford of the Ford Construction firm, a major road contractor in Tennessee.

Walker did not return phone calls to his office, and attempts to speak to John Ford have been unsuccessful.

The six plaintiffs, all represented by Dyersburg attorney Robert Millar, include Darrell, Darren, and Dena Sells of Dyersburg, Dr. W.W. Lents II of Newbern, Willie German of Fayette County, and Robert S. Pinner of Hardeman County.

Millar says his clients agreed to, in effect, lay off $7 million of the $12.5 million site fee. The deal was that the investors would lose money if ticket sales failed to reach $12.5 million and would make up to $2.5 million if sales reached $15 million. Millar says his clients were told they would make 10 percent, or $700,000, if all went well. When it became clear that sales would in fact exceed $15 million, the defendants “advised my clients they were no longer needed.”

Each of the six lawsuits is identical except for the name of the plaintiff and the share of the $7 million. The lawsuits, filed in Chancery Court in Dyer County, seek $700,000 in compensatory damages and $2.1 million in punitive damages.

A trial date has not been set.

On June 8th, Lennox Lewis knocked out Mike Tyson in the eighth round of the bout, which had a record gross from all revenue sources.

*********************************

The Distant Echo Of Violent Crime

The headlines are horrifying. Young gunmen are killing innocent children in the streets of Memphis. In the most recent cases, victims and shooters are black. Politicians, police, and neighbors are outraged, concerned, and determined to do something.

A task force of elected officials and leading citizens appointed by Memphis mayor Willie Herenton has issued a special report in the wake of a spate of well-publicized shootings.

It is called the Mayor’s Black on Black Crime Task Force Report.

“It is the deep conviction of the task force that the suggestions herein, if heeded, will serve as a solid foundation from which to launch meaningful efforts to stem the tide of Black on Black crime in this community,” the report reads.

The date is September 10, 1992.

Ten years ago, Memphis was battling another “epidemic” of violent crime, and the recently elected mayor appointed Shelby County public defender A C Wharton to be task force chairman. Wharton is still the public defender, but now he is also a candidate for mayor of Shelby County.

Time will tell whether the latest crime-fighting efforts of Herenton, Shelby County district attorney Bill Gibbons, and the Memphis Police Department will be more effective than the Black on Black Task Force, whose members included such current public officials as school board member Lee Brown, state Rep. Lois DeBerry, and city councilwoman TaJuan Stout-Mitchell.

Task force recommendations included establishment of a Mayor’s Youth Commission, stay-in-school programs, expansion of Head Start, expansion of neighborhood policing focused on drug enforcement, anti-crime billboards, and a city-sponsored rap concert to “foster better relations” between young people and city leaders.

How are we doing? Well, stay-in-school programs and Head Start are cornerstones of yet another task force on public education, neighborhood policing is an evergreen, drug wars are the cause of the most recent fatal drive-by shootings, tough-talking billboards are plentiful, and we’re still waiting on that rap concert and youth commission.

In a concluding section on implementation, the authors of the report wrote: “The task force realizes that even the best reports are useless without a plan for implementation. It is the intention of the task force that each of its recommendations become the project of an individual or organization for implementation purposes.”

A sample “contract” followed, with spaces for the signatures of the mayor and a crime-fighting partner. If any of the contracts were executed, they apparently are no longer in effect. Maybe someone will revive them, but the odds favor a brand-new task force and a brand-new report instead.

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News News Feature

WHAT’S NEXT FOR SHELBY FARMS?

Political miscalculations have put the fate of the proposed Shelby Park Conservancy in doubt.

The Shelby County Commission voted 6-4 Monday against turning Shelby Farms over to a privately funded conservancy, reversing its 9-2 approval of the concept in May.

“We’re down but far from out,” said Ron Terry, mastermind of the conservancy plan. “Normally, you should be able to count votes before you have a vote taken, but in this case, some of the votes were pretty well obscured.”

An impassioned last-gasp appeal from Shelby County mayor Jim Rout on behalf of the conservancy failed.

“This is not a political football,” Rout said. “I urge you to think about this. Do not defeat this item. Defer it, but don’t kill it today.”

A majority of the commissioners, however, was not moved by the lame-duck mayor, although retiring commissioner Buck Wellford, a conservancy supporter, switched his vote to the majority to keep his options open.

In some ways, Shelby Farms has become a political football. Joe Cooper, the Democratic candidate for Wellford’s seat, attended the meeting and spoke in favor of allowing commercial development in part of the 4,450-acre park. His Republican opponent, Bruce Thompson, has ridiculed that position. On Monday, Cooper scaled down his proposal from 2,000 or more acres to a modest 25 to 30 acres of development suggested by Commissioner Michael Hooks.

Cooper sat next to developer Jackie Welch, who is both a political kingpin and a supporter of developing some of Shelby Farms. But Welch downplayed his involvement and said he was at the meeting only because his daughter was being appointed to the Land Use Control Board and he had a zoning case before the commission.

“I’m not involved, and I’m not going to get crosswise with Rout or anyone else,” Welch said. “My opinion is that you could take 30 to 40 acres of frontage along Germantown Road and lease it and produce some income. [The county] could have had Wal-Mart there.”

Welch said Hooks called him to verify some property values along Germantown Parkway because Welch sold some adjoining land to Storage U.S.A. Welch has supported Hooks politically and raised money for his campaigns in the past.

But the political football analysis shortchanges some philosophical objections made previously by some opponents of the proposed conservancy. Commissioner Walter Bailey in particular has questioned the wisdom of turning over a huge public asset to a private board, even one willing to invest $20 million in park improvements and maintenance. He has noted that proponents brought the proposal to the commission scarcely a month ago as pretty much of a done deal and urged commission ratification by July 1st.

“The Shelby County government is not for sale,” Bailey said. “If you got money, you got control. I will not vote for this project.”

Marilyn Loeffel, who also voted against the conservancy, is a member of a conservative faction of the Republican Party that has some problems with Rout, but her objections also were grounded on principles. She thinks the elected commission is giving away too much power to appointed authorities.

Even though he is in the thick of the political campaign for his commission seat and has bad blood with Welch, Wellford was willing to grant opponents of the conservancy some good-faith motives. “I think a combination of issues is going on,” he said. “You’ve got some people who legitimately think this is an elitist project, and they are sort of reacting in a populist, anti-elitist attitude. I think Walter personifies that. Second, I have no doubt there are developers looking to carve out a substantial part of the park. Third, some Democrats are trying to give some credibility to Joe Cooper.”

Wellford said any opposition to the conservancy, even in the form of a request for a study of land values, is tantamount to killing it.

“Momentum is everything in politics,” he said. “Ron Terry may not have the energy or desire to put it back together in six months or a year from now, but the new mayor could make it a priority.”

A day after the meeting, Terry sounded like he still has plenty of fight left in him.

“You still have the same question of whether we can give additional information to the commission that would be persuasive enough to make them reconsider their action and whether we can continue with the progress in the state legislative delegation concerning the Agricenter bill over there,” he said.

That bill would dissolve the Agricenter in favor of the conservancy.

Categories
News News Feature

TRANSLATION: MEMPHIS

FELINES

If any of you have been looking for a good cathouse in town, I believe it is located right next door to my new place.

And no–I’m not talking about that kind of cathouse, silly. An antiquated Memphis law prevents eight or more women from boarding in the same home to prevent that type of potential witchery, or so I’ve heard.

What I’m referring to is the mew, hiss, and purr of a literal cat motel. A humble meeting place for all beings of the feline persuasion, the sheer number, variety and odor of which truly astounds me.

I suppose that there’s a place like this in every town. To be honest, I find it kind of interesting, at least during this, the honeymoon phase.

I’ve even forgiven them for tossing trash all over the lawn, which in turn attracted every ant in a three-mile radius, on our first morning there.

Aren’t I sweet?

Until I moved to Memphis, I was never much of a cat person. I didn’t hate them or anything, unlike my Dad whose prized possession was Earl the Dead Cat. Earl was the most tragic little stuffed animal you could ever hope to see, made to look like the victim of a mauling by an 18-wheeler. Needless to say, we were not encouraged to bring home any cats of our own.

In Dad’s defense, he did stop and attempt to rescue the one kitty that he accidentally hit with his own car. We may come programmed with a questionable sense of humor in my clan, but we’re not heartless.

Anyhow, about two years ago I inherited my two little babies from a friend who was leaving town, and it was an instant kitty love fest.

There’s a bit of a difference, however, between a duo of indoor cats and the twenty-five that run my new block.

The strangest aspect of this new relationship that I am forming (cautiously, I might add, and without cute little welcome bowls of milk or tuna) is that these ubiquitous four-legged neighbors are always lurking about in and around my windows. I’m not a paranoid freak or anything, but it’s a little unnerving to see a glowing set of eyes tracking you every time you make a move. Especially since they haven’t been the same set of eyes on any given occasion.

I’m talking serious power in numbers here. I’ve seen a tabby, a Siamese, a little poof of an orange kitten, the infant, teenaged, and adult versions of Jedi, my own little black cat, a near exact replica of Losis, my other cat, an extremely well-endowed gray and white little guy (who might be responsible for some of the nose-thrilling drafts that escape from the compound on occasion,) a slinky black and white specimen than can walk along a fence like a squirrel, and about every possible mixture of the above lot.

It’s insane.

My curiosity is primarily directed toward what it must be like inside this underground house of mews. (Not to be confused with the actually House of Mews, which serves as a shelter and adoption agency for Midtown strays.) There has been a lot of talk of late about the supposed psychological disorder of animal hoarding. This is reportedly most prevalent in middle-aged women who believe that they are helping the plethora of animals that they take in, whether or not they truly have the means to provide adequate care.

As yet, I have not laid eyes on the person at the heart of the cathouse. But maybe this is for the best. Truth be told, I’m not sure I want to get that involved, and I’ll give you a little back story on the reason why.

One of my good friends works as a dealer at a casino in Tunica. Now, he had a regular at his table who was a self-proclaimed cat aficionado. I’m talking feline-friendly to the point that this gambler honestly believed that his brood could speak to him, and not in the symbolic interpreting of the nods and meows way, either.

On one occasion, he told my friend that he was forced to shoot one of his boarders, because the “spy cat” in the house informed him that this selfish kitten was eating all of the other cats’ food.

Alright then.

Several weeks later my dealer friend told me that this man had come back, seriously perplexed because one of his cats wouldn’t speak to him. He as worried that he might have to take him out as well. Apparently, the stony silence of this little puss-in-boots was causing unrest amongst the rest of the cats in the house.

On a whim, I advised my friend to tell the man that perhaps the cat was into some type of Zen thing, and that what he was interpreting as a non-communicative nature was simply a state of deep meditation. The next time I heard anything about the situation, I was glad to find out that the man was extremely relieved and decided to give the poor little thing a chance to live after all.

Scary, scary stuff.

I’m not implying that I believe there is any sort of conspiracy going on over there, or any man on cat violence for that matter, but it seems that people with that number of kittens often prefer to keep to themselves. So I guess I might just give it a while before I walk the steps to the door of kitty heaven.

Besides, I’ll be busy enough I’m sure, dealing with all of the cats that are walking the steps to mine.