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Music Music Features

Changing of the Guard

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Remove a musical patriarch from his homegrown scene and what happens? In the case of the North Mississippi hill country, the death of beloved bluesman R.L. Burnside has spurred his offspring into action.

“After a number of false starts, the North Mississippi blues scene is finally starting to coalesce a bit,” says music writer Scott Barretta, who moved to Oxford in 1999.

“In one sense, it’s disappointing that R.L. is no longer part of the action, but it’s also exciting to see all the new bands that have gotten their act together,” Barretta says.

Burnside Exploration, formed by R.L.’s son Garry Burnside and his grandson Cedric Burnside, has two new albums on the way. Duwayne Burnside, another son, is touring with his group the Mississippi Mafia on the strength of his debut studio release, Under Pressure. And Kenny Brown, R.L.’s “white son” and longtime guitarist, continues to soldier on as a solo artist.

“We’ve been into blues all our life,” Garry Burnside says. “Whatever we do is gonna be considered ‘hill country’ because this is where we’re from. But we’re the new generation. We like rap and all kinds of music.”

Last March, Burnside Exploration entered Jimbo Mathus’ Delta Recording Studio in Clarksdale, Mississippi, to record an album for B.C. Records, the label behind Under Pressure. That record, says Cedric, should be released next month. In the meantime, the group cut 10 more tracks at Justin Showah’s Electric Catfish studio in Oxford, which they hope to release on a local label early next year.

“Most of those songs are originals,” Cedric says. “I write about my life, my kids, and everyday things. I try to stick to the truth.”

Just 27 years old, he recalls growing up without a radio or a TV. “My granddad used to play out on the porch, and we’d have house parties every weekend. Johnny Woods would come over and blow harmonica, and he’d drink two or three gallons of corn liquor. We just stomped up dirt.”

A few years later, Cedric explains, the family purchased a radio, and the younger generation of Burnsides was exposed to hip-hop artists like LL Cool J and Run-D.M.C. — artists who influenced his younger brother Cody, an aspiring rapper.

Despite the death of his grandfather, who passed away in September, Cedric maintains that 2005 has been a good year. He was cast in Craig Brewer’s upcoming flick Black Snake Moan, and in October, Burnside Exploration opened for perennial jam-band faves Widespread Panic at Mud Island. More recently, they’ve performed at festivals in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, and for sold-out crowds at the Buccaneer in Midtown Memphis.

“We have to live,” Cedric says, “and we have to take care of our family. The best way I know to make money is by making music.” This Sunday, December 4th, Burnside Exploration will perform at the Buccaneer.

Duwayne Burnside, meanwhile, has eschewed his hill-country roots for a more modern soul-blues sound. Nevertheless, Duwayne’s Albert King-derived guitar technique, which comes through loud and clear on songs like R.L.’s “Bad Luck City,” is well worth checking out.

Over the last few years, many of the Burnside musicians have collaborated with Senegalese guitarist Guelel Kumba, who relocated to Oxford in 2001.

“When Guelel came here, most of the people he was playing with didn’t know about African music,” says Barretta, who teaches an “Anthropology of the Blues” course at the University of Mississippi and hosts a blues-oriented radio show, Highway 61, on Mississippi Public Radio. “Guelel himself recognized the similarities between Senegalese music and the hill-country music. He developed a band, Afrissippi, via informal gigs in Oxford.”

Showah, the group’s bassist, recorded Afrissippi at Mathus’ Clarksdale studio in mid-2004 then fine-tuned some songs at his own home studio. Released in late October, the band’s Fulani Journey is currently available online (go to ElectricCatfishRecords.com for ordering info).

A perfect marriage of Senegalese folk music and droning, primitive hill-country blues, Fulani Journey is a natural extension of earlier concept albums like Othar Turner’s Senegal to Senatobia, released on Birdman Records in ’99.

“Guelel didn’t have any preconceptions about Mississippi. In fact, he had no idea there were so many cultural connections between Senegal and the hill country,” Showah says. “But everyone in Oxford has responded to his music, and he’s developed a friendship with the town itself.”

“Playing with Guelel isn’t hard, and it isn’t easy,” says Garry Burnside. “It’s just different. I’ve learned a lot of stuff by just hanging out with him and listening.”

“While the scene [in north Mississippi] has changed dramatically,” Barretta says, “it’s difficult to make an assessment. Things look like they’re happening, but they aren’t, or vice versa. You can’t judge these musicians in terms of career trajectories, because they’ll constantly surprise you.”

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Ex-Porch Ghoul returns to the roots-punk dark side, comes out pretty good.

The Ruckus’ singer-songwriter Mick Walker, aka Eldorado Del Rey, recorded Planet of the Vampires II backed by punk-blues darlings the Immortal Lee County Killers in 2004, shortly after his previous, similar-sounding band the Porch Ghouls returned from an unlikely tour with Aerosmith and Kiss and promptly imploded. The Ghouls’ Bluff City Ruckus was the first release for Roman Records, a Columbia imprint helmed by Aerosmith guitarist Joe Perry, who, according to lore, unsuccessfully lobbied to hook the Porch Ghouls up with a hit-making songwriter and who is offered eternal thanks in the liner notes for the self-released Vampires. I only offer the back story because it’s hard to listen to the chief Ghoul sing “Blood on Satan’s Claw” and not wonder if somebody isn’t wearing their disillusionment on their sleeve: “When you’re doing fine, he’s your biggest fan…/He writes your songs, plots your moves, and stands you tall/Pulls the rug out, steps away, and lets you fall.” Yeah, El Del, it sucks, but the devil offered you a helluva break, didn’t he?

Vampires‘ tunes, with few exceptions, are of the roots-punk variety, with a moldering monster-mash ethos like a gothier take on the Compulsive Gamblers’ Bluff City. Most of the songs are solid, many are excellent, but none will make you surrender your Cramps collection. Even the best are just a shade too close in spirit or form to other, more distinctive recordings. When Eldorado yelps bluesy snatches of spook stories like “All [my will] is gonna say, bury me in the month of May,” it might make you reflexively reach for the Oblivians’ definitive Plays 9 Songs. “House by the Cemetery,” a sturdy ode to obsessive yearnings, seems to carry the subliminal message: “Play X’s ‘Burning House of Love’ and ‘In This House That I Call Home’ back to back.”

Eldorado’s blues pop is a little too light (of style, not subject matter) to let the Lee County Killers really do their thing, and the Killers are a little too dangerous for Vampires‘ more whimsical moments. It’s a record that flirts with greatness but gets slapped and has to go home with greatness’ slightly less attractive sister, pretty goodness. — Chris Davis

Grade: B

Eldorado and the Ruckus play the Buccaneer Friday, December 2nd.

Categories
Music Music Features

Kanye and the Kids

When most musicians come to town, they take in Beale Street, hit the Rendezvous, or tour Graceland in their downtime. Others throw down at the Peabody or hole up on the tour bus. Before Kanye West‘s November 19th concert at the Mid-South Coliseum, he kicked it with a roomful of teenagers.

West spent nearly two hours with 25 students from Memphis’ Middle College High School that afternoon. Under the aegis of the Grammy Foundation‘s Grammy SoundChecks mentoring program, he answered questions about his personal life, his career, and the music biz, amidst many chuckles and a few nervous giggles.

“The odds of someone walking up to Jay-Z and saying, ‘Yo, sign me to Roc-a-Fella’ are slim to none,” West admitted, explaining in the next breath that his first big break came when he provided some beats for Jay-Z’s The Blueprint album, released in 2001.

Clad in a cream-colored hooded sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans, West looked much like the students he was mentoring. Of his own success, he said, “It’s like winning a lottery ticket.” Instead of trying to catch the attention of a superstar, he urged would-be entertainers to get internships in the music industry or build connections via non-rapping insiders. “Try to holla at the person next to that famous person,” he said.

“The key is talent meets work ethic,” West said. “Whatever city you’re in, whatever school you’re in, whatever block you’re on, you have to be the best. If you’re not, team up with the best. Be realistic.”

West touched on practical matters, like selling publishing rights (“Don’t”), revealed plans to shoot an extended-length video for the “Diamonds from Sierra Leone” remix, and delivered an impromptu a capella rendition of “Spaceship.”

He encouraged students to discover what they like, then figure out a way to build a career on it. He explained his vision for rap school curriculums. And through a series of offhanded references to civil rights movement heroes, he also persuaded them to hit the history books.

Whether talking about personal or professional matters, West’s message was continually upbeat.

“Don’t spend time on negative energy,” he said. “People will say, ‘50 Cent said this about you,’ and I’ll say, ‘Yeah, that’s his opinion.’ They’ll ask, ‘You got a beef with him now?’ I’ll answer, ‘No, that’s his opinion.’ I don’t have a reason to bring someone down.”

West said that the media likes to promote negativity between black people, so, he claimed, he hardly ever reads the myriad articles written about him.

“Will his comments at the telethon affect his nomination?” he asked, mimicking reporters discussing his 10 Grammy nods and the flack surrounding his now infamous outburst against President Bush during NBC’s Hurricane Katrina fund-raiser.

“I have a responsibility to spread information,” he added in a more serious tone. “I like messing with people’s sensibilities. The close-minded American is my canvas.”

Revisiting his post-Katrina comments and a later tirade about the rampant homophobia in hip-hop music, West noted: “The label publicists say, ‘Kanye, don’t touch on it.’ But when I get the opportunity, I’ll open it up again.”

Exceedingly polite, West focused all his attention on his audience, pausing once to tell his stage crew — working in the next room — to quiet down. At the end of the session, he apologized for taking up everyone’s time, then gave Principal Michelle Brantley Patterson enough tickets for the entire student body to attend his concert.

“This meant a lot to my students,” said Middle College High School music teacher Gerard Harris. “Kanye’s not just hollering on the mic. He’s very philosophical, and he has real goals. He exposed them to the inner workings of a rap artist’s mind.”

Categories
Art Art Feature

Think About It

In order to access “On Others,” the current exhibition at Rhodes’ Clough-Hanson Gallery, you must first get past two seven-foot-tall sentinels made by Steven Thompson. One, Aegis of the Green and Bold Cooperative, is a vision of patriotic, nationalistic impulses gone terribly awry. A leather hood and robe obscure Aegis’ face and body. Attached to his sewn-up eye sockets are long leather thongs that hang down and wrap around the figure’s arms. This sightless, endlessly looping, relentlessly self-absorbed sentinel suggests that getting past habitual thinking and embracing others’ points of view are not easy tasks.

Melody Owen echoes this notion in her video installations. Instead of roaring, Owen’s version of a Hollywood trademark, MGM Lion, hiccups a series of art nouveau baubles. These brightly colored, quickly dissappearing hiccups read like droll commentary on formula movies spit out by Hollywood during the 1950s.

From the back of the gallery we hear pervasive, undulating sounds. This chorus comes from 22 tiny speakers Greg Pond has placed in an aluminum web that supports dead branches and artificial flowers for a piece titled Sugar Candy Mountain: The Final Resting Place for the Soul of Saint T. Poignantly and fittingly, Saint T, in part, probably refers to the 16th-century mystic Saint Teresa, whose beautiful descriptions of mystical experience have helped others access a more passionate spirituality.

Jack Dingo Ryan explores the full spectrum of awareness with Kaczynski Monument (graphite on mylar). In Ryan’s psychological portrait of the Unabomber, lines of energy rush across a blank landscape toward the viewer and an owl appears to grow out of the top of Kaczynski’s head. In this spare, skilled drawing, the surreal looks real, and Ryan captures the intense certainty, focused energy, and single-mindedness of obsession. Skull Shelf broaches the ineffable as Ryan considers whether death is a dead-end or an all-embracing awareness.

Know-how and a passion for life are present in Patrick DeGuira’s Precarious Stack, a mixed-media assemblage in which 20 tea cups are stacked end-to-end on top of a red-bound copy of The Joy of Sex, which in turn sits on a small white folding chair. Social interactions, including tea parties and sexual relations, are balancing acts, DeGuira seems to be saying.

DeGuira explores another example of conscious living with Life Flower, a mixed-media installation which fills the 11-by-14-foot gallery within a gallery inside Clough-Hanson. Here DeGuira pumps chirping bird sounds and covers the floor with faded paper grass. Just as faded is the large photograph of a man about to cut into his shoulder-length white hair. He’s pushing 60, and the plastic love beads he may have worn in the 1960s stream like tears down both sides of his face. There is no bitterness, no irony in his stoic expression, just resignation — perhaps because the challenges we face now are so different from the transcendence we believed was just within reach some 40 years ago.

“On Others” is a trip — covering the ground of death, delusion, disappointment, sex, and patriotism. These artists have put together a nearly seamless meditation on the mind and its foibles, taking you about as deep into consciousness as you are willing to go.

“On Others”

Clough-Hanson Gallery

Through December 7th

Categories
Food & Wine Food & Drink

Have Bar, Will Tend

You know him as Parks. Everybody does. After tending bar for almost 20 years, David Parks could be the best-known bartender in Memphis. In a city where the shelf life for bartenders is usually short, Parks is the regular’s regular.

But according to him, he had a tough time getting started.

“It’s difficult to get into the business here, because Memphis is very cliquish when it comes to bar jobs,” he says. “You’d have to sleep with someone’s evil stepmother or agree to give somebody 10 percent of your income for the next year to get hired.”

When Parks first arrived in Memphis by way of Jackson, Mississippi, he was young, cocky, and already bar-savvy.

“I had probably more experience than a lot of the general managers who interviewed me, which isn’t good when you’re the new kid on the block,” Parks says.

It took him two years and a polygraph test (which he didn’t exactly pass) before he finally got hired as the bar manager for Alfred’s on Beale Street. Parks worked at Alfred’s only a few months, but that’s all it took to get him in the loop. Now his résumé reads like a laundry list of local hot spots — Wellington’s, Bistro Hemmings, Maxwell’s, Mélange, the Beauty Shop. His next stop will be the bar at The Inn at the Hunt-Phelan Home, scheduled to open this month.

He began his career essentially by accident. He was 16 years old, trying to make some money working at a gas station, a tire store, and a grocery store. A friend asked him to fill in as a bar-back — “the kid who does all the grunt work, hauls the beer and ice, restocks, and cleans the bar,” Parks explains — at a redneck biker bar in Jackson. His first night there, he made more money than he did during a week of working his three jobs.

He went on to the well-known Jackson restaurant George Street Grocery, where he learned the ropes from a Yugoslavian bartender in his mid-60s. “I just knew him as Cotton. His name had at least eight syllables, and nobody could pronounce it,” Parks remembers. “Cotton would quiz me on mixed drinks. Out of the blue he’d ask me to name the ingredients of a Bloody Mary or a Mojito, and if I didn’t know them, he made me give him a dollar.”

Twenty years in any business is a long time, but it’s an eternity in bartending. It’s a job in which it’s not unusual for your boss to accuse you of stealing, your customers to accuse you of being stingy with the booze, and your wife or husband to accuse you of cheating.

Parks’ secret to longevity? He and his wife of 17 years have three children who provide regular reality checks.

He also happens to be very good at his job. He is nice but doesn’t overdo it. He knows his customers but doesn’t favor the big shots. Plus, he can mix a martini that will make even your evil stepmother look good.

Most importantly, Parks takes the job seriously. “Slinging whiskey and making a mixed drink are two different things. It’s like being a great chef. When somebody walks into the bar and says, ‘I kind of feel like mango,’ a good bartender will mix a good drink.”

Shaken or Stirred?

Five elements of the Memphis drinker.

How does Memphis drink? We asked bartender David Parks, who has picked up a thing or two about Memphis drinkers. Here are five:

1. Memphians are becoming more sophisticated drinkers.

Beer, mixed drinks, and straight-up hard liquor are slowly feeling the threat of Sidecars and Manhattans.

2. Wine is more popular than ever.

When it comes to wine, a lot of people are still experimenting, so what they’re looking for is good taste for a good price.

3. Memphians don’t necessarily get wasted when they’re out drinking.

The “waste” factor depends on where the drinking is done.

Lounge: Drinking with a purpose — to be seen or to break the ice before a dinner meeting. The “waste” factor: low to moderate.

Restaurant: It’s all in the pacing and the tolerance. A drink at the bar before dinner, some wine during the meal, maybe another with a cigarette after dinner, can you handle it? The “waste” factor: low to moderate.

Nightclub: The conveyer belt of drinking. Purpose is to get drunk efficiently. The bartender might rarely see the face of his customers, just a subtle hand gesture to indicate that it’s time for another — and make it fast. The “waste” factor: high to extremely high.

4. Memphians don’t talk any more than anybody else.

The rule: Anyone who lingers around the bar has something to say — no matter where they’re from. What gets said is another story.

5. Memphis’ bar crowd is very disloyal.

Booze tastes essentially the same at every watering hole, so what’s the difference, really, between Bar A and Bar B? Memphians tend to leave the old watering hole behind as soon as the new place opens. It’s nothing personal. — SW

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Rent Overdue

Rent takes place in the New York City of myth. A place where archetypes run free. Where well-scrubbed people of different ethnicities and sexual orientations get along just fine, thank you very much, until the outsiders come in and mess everything up. A place where everyone has AIDS but no one seems very sick. A place where, when bar tables are pulled together, someone — probably several someones — is going to dance on them. A place where beautiful young people proclaim their love with white cornflake snow in their hair. A place where junkies mournfully shoot up in gloriously back-lit alleys. A place that kind of looks likes Streets of Fire. It is, in short, the New York that the middle of the country believes in. And that’s director Chris Columbus’ target audience for this film adaptation of the long-running Broadway musical, which was itself an adaptation of Puccini’s La Bohème with New York gentrification taking the place of Parisian class struggle.

The irony of a story where selling out to corporate interests intent on creating “Cyberworld” is the ultimate mark of weak character being told in a $40 million movie financed by a multinational corporation best known for making consumer electronics is apparently lost on the director of Home Alone. Or, if it did occur to him, there’s no sign in his film, which bears every mark of being a piece of intellectual property leveraged for maximum profitability, its ideal cultural moment allowed to pass because theater seats are more expensive than movie tickets.

Despite the fact that the audience’s viewing experience is similar, film and theater are two very different mediums. Adapting one to the other — and, increasingly, it’s a two-way street these days, as evidenced by the upcoming film of a musical of the film The Producers — is tricky. Doing a well-known stage musical on the screen requires either totally abandoning realism for artifice, like Baz Luhrmann’s superior Moulin Rouge, or attempting to shoehorn the ludicrousness of people bursting into song into a more realistic setting, like Fiddler on the Roof. Columbus takes the middle ground, creating huge but obvious sets for some street scenes and occasionally venturing into the real New York City (or a Canadian equivalent) and a postcard New Mexico desert for others. The result is jarring, especially for a movie that works so hard to smooth out any rough edges.

But really, we’re here for the singing and dancing. How is it? Well, it’s pretty darn good. With the exception of Rosario Dawson and Tracie Thoms, most of the Broadway cast has been retained, and they clearly know their stuff. Jesse L. Martin and Wilson Jermaine Heredia are exceptionally well-rounded for characters in a musical. It is their story, rather than Dawson’s Mimi, that provides the emotional core of the movie. Not faring so well in the celluloid transition is Idina Menzel as Maureen, a performance artist whose badly staged and downright stupid protest piece gets more attention than Laurie Anderson’s “O Superman” ever did.

But, as a whole, the cast is clearly working its collective butt off. Rent won a Pulitzer for bringing the subject of AIDS onto the musical stage, and one can’t help but wonder what the result would have been had a more adventurous director attempted to take the game cast in a more risky direction. But with Columbus in the driver’s seat, the film meanders for two and a half hours, occasionally hitting a high point but mostly just slogging through, leaving an audience who has not so much enjoyed as endured the experience.

Rent

Opened Wednesday, November 23rd

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

The Ice Harvest is infectiously existential.

In life, sometimes you do good things and sometimes you do bad things, but usually the results are the same. That’s John Cusack’s character Charlie Arglist’s outlook on life in the noir/comedy The Ice Harvest. Arglist is a mob lawyer in Wichita Falls, Kansas, proving that even small-time wiseguys need quality representation. When the film opens, Arglist, egged on by his friend, a strip-club owner named Vic (Billy Bob Thornton), has decided to make a play for the big time and rip off his boss, Bill Guerrard (Randy Quaid), to the tune of $2 million. The two have clearly considered every angle, even scheduling their heist for Christmas Eve when Guerrard will presumably be spending time with his family. Every angle, that is, except for an ice storm that turns the city into, in Vic’s words, “an ice hockey rink” and fatefully delays their getaway.

Protagonist trapped in a small town by inclement weather is a road director Harold Ramis has been down before in his 1993 masterpiece Groundhog Day, but that’s where any similarity to his previous work ends. For while darkness has always been a part of Ramis’ humor, The Ice Harvest is so black that it may even surpass the Coen Brothers’ chilliest films. If Groundhog Day revealed a previously unseen depth in Ramis’ clowning, this film makes his pessimism seem bottomless. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The Ice Harvest is a fairly faithful adaptation of a novel by Scott Phillips, deviating only to lighten up the book’s even-more-of-a-downer ending. The pacing is unhurried and natural, like the great crime movies of the 1940s. All of the familiar noir elements are here: the femme fatale with killer gams (Connie Nielsen), the perfect crime that unravels in a flurry of double-crosses and bad luck, and the nonjudgmental treatment of characters who would, in real life, be way too slimy to hang out with on a regular basis but who are fun to visit for 90 minutes or so.

Cusack’s trademark sad-sack performance is the glue that holds the rest of the film together as he shambles through a procession of strip joints, convenience stores, and restaurants. Sometimes he bears a passing resemblance to Fred MacMurray in Double Indemnity, his wink to the audience barely perceptible behind a stoic exterior. He and Thornton have a great time wallowing in the sleaze and bouncing disparaging one-liners off each other. Cusack and Oliver Platt also crackle as the former and current husbands of money-grubbing, two-timing Sarabeth (Justine Bentley), whose severe demeanor explains Platt’s show-stealing enthusiasm for liquor.

A film whose most moral action is breaking a woman-beating guitarist’s fingers should be on some level rather depressing, but Ramis’ existential take on the material is strangely infectious. Life sucks, and all is corruption, he seems to say. We might as well have a laugh about it.

The Ice Harvest

Opened Wednesday, November 23rd

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Naughty Pilates

After watching a typical workout video every morning for a month or so, bad things start to happen. You find yourself humming the once-energizing Muzak on your morning commute. You begin telling others to “feel the burn” at the damnedest times. And eventually, a sense of dread kicks in just thinking about all those women in matching leotards.

Not so with local “punk-rock Pilates” instructor Christine Gladney’s Naughty Pilates DVD, in which the traditional posture-improving methods of exercise guru Joseph Pilates mingle with the tawdry world of burlesque. At worst, you may find yourself craving a martini mid-workout.

Gladney plays exercise vixen Sophie Couch, and her pals take names like Fanny LaFay, Panties von Hendrix, and Fantasy Landis. Wearing slinky lingerie or cocktail dresses and stilettos, the girls demonstrate Pilates moves atop the bars at the Beauty Shop, Earnestine and Hazel’s, and Young Avenue Deli or on the hood of a pink Cadillac.

Martini shakers are substituted for weights and traditional exercises are given new names, like “Kiss Your Lover,” “The Corkscrew,” and “The Drunken Baby.” Two guys designated “The Cabana Boys” appear occasionally to refill martini glasses. As a disclaimer, Gladney warns viewers at home, “These aren’t real martinis, silly.”

She also recommends not working out in stilettos — advice that rings true when Fanny LaFay’s heel comes flying off, hitting her in the noggin during a kicking exercise called “The Can-Can.”

Before switching to the wacky bar scenes, Gladney demonstrates each move first in an actual workout setting to ensure viewers understand proper positioning and breathing techniques. This makes the DVD useful as a workout, not just a kitschy novelty.

Viewers are in for a special treat when Marny Star demonstrates a leg kick called “The Mermaid.” Wearing a nautical-inspired bikini top and a glittery fin, she works out atop the bar at Anderton’s while local roots-rocker Amy LaVere (of Amy & the Tramps) sings a seafaring song and Gladney strums a ukulele.

The entire DVD is set to local music that plays like a hipster soundtrack. Scenes are set to original music from the Preacher’s Kids, Jeffrey Evans, the Oblivians, Redondo Beat, Mr. Airplane Man, Lorette Velvette, ’68 Comeback, and Gladney’s own band, Sugarpush.

With Naughty Pilates, the days of dreading the daily workout are over, and with its über-hip soundtrack, you can forget all about that cheesy workout music from your Jane Fonda days. So strap on some stilettos and fix yourself a stiff drink. It’s “burlates” time!

For more information, see NaughtyPilates.net.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

The Rant

I don’t know whether to throw up, throw my arms in the air, pass out, laugh, cry, or bang my head against the wall. So I’m doing them all — at once. After 30-odd years of being a heavysmoker, I decided recently that it just might be time to try to quit. And so I am trying. And let me tell you, not onlyis it not easy, it is as downright strange as any acid trip. Things that used to be upsetting now make me laugh out loud, and things that would normally make me laugh out loud are upsetting. Things that normally don’t matter at all suddenly matter, and things that normally matter don’t matter at all. It’s hard to keep up with this stuff! Take my favorite person, George Bush. I’ve been so mean to him all these years, and now I feel sorry for him. I saw him twice on the news this morning: once, holding a cute white turkey and the other time, getting off a plane holding his little dog. I guess it’s gotten so bad for him that he thinks that as long as he’s holding an innocent little animal no one will throw anything at him. And what about that look on his face when he tried to sneak out of that press conference in Beijing through the doors that were locked. Dear Lord. Then I heard a report that the Vatican released a new document stating that gay men and those who support or condone the “gay culture” are officially banned from the priesthood but that “ex-gays” who have not been gay for at least three years may start the process of becoming a priest. See, normally this would make me puff all up and be angry with them for discrimination, but now I can’t stop laughing. The men who control one of the largest religions in the world actually think a gay person can be ex-gay for three years? Again, dear Lord. Those wild and crazy Vatican Catholics! Perhaps if they would stop running around in floor-length robes and sparkly hats they wouldn’t worry so much about this and could go on with what religious people are supposed to do: help people. But it doesn’t really matter. They’ll still never have a chess club because they’ll never be able to tell the difference between a bishop and a queen. Besides, who cares what they do when I can’t have a cigarette? Well, I get to have one a day. I probably shouldn’t have read the little book that came with my patches because there’s a section in there that tells you that you have to reward yourself for not smoking. So at the end of each day, I reward myself with … a cigarette! It doesn’t say not to do that! But one a day, compared to I won’t tell you how many packs, is certainly a step in the right direction. Only now, I can’t watch any television commercials. I guess I’ve been on the front end of bullshit so often that I can see it 10 miles away, and let me assure you that any company that “promises” you anything in a television commercial is flat-out lying to you. Swiffers will not make your life perfect. Ambien will not solve all of your problems. All of the low-interest loan companies that claim they will take away all of your debt and all of your problems have put so much evil in the fine print that they will own your ass for life. Despite what Dana Carvey and the rest of those morons tell you, Capital One does say “no.” And drinking a glass of Florida orange juice every day is not going to keep you from catching the occasional cold. I love it that the actor on that commercial thinks it would be a bad thing to be stranded on a tropical island away from other humans to keep away from germs. I’d give a million bucks to sling up on a beach in the sunshine for six months with no one yakking in my face and just some monkeys and pretty birds to keep me company. Yep, all commercials are lies. Vatican officials are nothing but a bunch of hypocrites. George Bush better keep holding those pets in front of him. And I’d better hope this day comes to an end soon so I can have my one cigarette. If not, I might start saying what I really think.

Categories
Politics Politics Feature

Samuel Alito v. Edward Garner

A Memphis case from the past affords some clue to Supreme Court nomineee Samuel Alito’s legal thinking:





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Shoot To Kill

Alito’s blank check for cops.
By Emily Bazelon
in Slate
Posted Friday, Dec. 2, 2005, at 6:06 PM ET

 

 

 


Favors deadly force when even cops don't
    Click image to expand.

Favors deadly force
when even cops don’t

Late on an October night in 1974, Memphis, Tenn.,
 police officer
Elton Hymon responded
to a call about a break in. At the scene, a
neighbor
said she’d heard glass
shattering and pointed to
the house
next door. Hymon
went behind it. He heard a
door slam. Someone ran
into the yard
and stopped at a 6-foot-high
chain-link fence at the
yard’s edge.
Hymon shined his flashlight
at the person and saw a
teenager who
he could tell was unarmed.
Hymon called, “Police, halt.”
The teen started
climbing the fence. Hymon
shot him in the back of the
head, fatally.
Edward Garner was a
15-year-old black eighth
grader. He
was 5 feet
4 inches tall and weighed
about 110 pounds. A purse
and $10
were found on
his body.

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