Youth Without Youth (2007), directed by Francis Ford Coppola:
[SPOILER ALERT!]
I heard about this new Francis Ford Coppola film from a trailer on another DVD. If it ever played Birmingham, I missed it. Chances are it played New York and L.A. and a few festivals, then wasted no time getting onto DVD. Over the course of several nights, after determinedly slogging through this fantasy/romance/tragedy dressed in the trappings of a treatise on linguistics and philosophy, it is easy to see why. There are just too many ideas competing for space on the screen, and none of them gets sufficient play to take full shape. That is indeed unfortunate, as the production value is of the highest quality, and the film has a painterly look and mysterious texture very similar to Darren Aronofsky’s The Fountain. Tim Roth portrays the central character of Dominic Matei with a studious gravity, though at times bearing the appearance of a man sleepwalking (which may have been intentional, given the disappointingly conventional it-was-all-a-dream ending).
Capturing the Friedmans (2003), directed by Andrew Jarecki:
Watching this documentary was an unpleasant experience. Well-made and well-researched, the subject matter - pedophilia and the disintegration of a family - is unnerving, at best. The film begins with the investigation of Arnold Friedman - the father - on charges of possessing child pornography and follows the uncomfortable family dynamic over several years, making use of videotapes that the Friedman sons took of practically every family interacton. I found myself cringing most painfully during those moments when the family members were engaged in shouting and screaming matches. This is a must-see for social workers, family therapists and students of the law (the legal cases against the Friedmans are shockingly mismanaged), but it may have everyone else longing for a viewing of something warm and fuzzy. Like The Godfather.
If, like me, you have been hooked on the Olympics for the last week and a half, you have most likely seen this commercial from Nike. The song sampled here is “All These Things That I’ve Done,” by The Killers. I always watch it closely, as if expecting to see Michael Phelps touch the wall at the end. Terrific stuff.
I read with interest your recipe for blueberry glace pie, and was wondering if you have ever tried that recipe with any other fruits as the main ingredient? I attempted to make the pie according to your recipe, but substituted powdered sugar for corn starch and created a runny mess. Lesson learned. Please let me know about the other fruits for the pie. I am specifically thinking about grapefruits.
Sincerely,
Fruit Sweet
Ventura, California
Dear Fruit,
If your idea of an appetizing dessert is some tart citrus wedges amassed in a gelatinous mold lined with crust, by all means GO FOR IT! I remember such confections, sans crust, from my childhood. They tended to be made of transparent green jello with chunks of pineapple jammed inside. Not quite beautiful to look at, a bit jiggly (thus somewhat titillating), but refreshing on a hot day if you ate it before it had a chance to melt.
I have never tried other fruits in that pie recipe, but think that bananas or peaches might be fun to try – to eat, at least. If you do try to cook either of those in the future, please attempt making the pie at least three times to perfect the ingredient ratios. Then, once it is perfect, please forward the recipe on to me. Thank you.
As for the powdered sugar faux pas, you have taught yourself a valuable lesson. I recall my mother making her famous chili con carne once, and adding what she thought was corn starch at the end of the cooking process to give it a bit more thickness (the better to stay on the tortilla, don’t you know!). When that didn’t work, she added some more, then some more, and then a bit more. After emptying most of the remaining corn starch into the chili pot, she noticed that the box was labeled “Powdered Sugar.” All of those yellow pantry boxes looked the same, anyway. She decided to pretend that nothing was amiss, and presented my father with a lake of chili on a plate, accompanied by her apologies for the runny stew. Ah, yes…the day my mother invented “sweet” chili, which, despite an initial launch offered by my Dad (from tabletop to wastebasket), never really took off.
I met Ben Weaver when he stopped by l’Edge on a 17 February afternoon in 2006. We were having an unseasonably warm, if slightly wet, day in Alabama, and Ben was wrapped in layers, as if he had prepared for the worst or, at least, a deer hunt. The wrapping on his head, complemented by a scruffy growth of beard, looked like it had recently been skinned from the carcass of a raccoon.
Ben was in town as the opening act for Hem that evening, and was accompanied on his visit to the store only by his touring partner. The members of Hem showed up, as they traditionally would whenever visiting Birmingham, moments after Ben left - one happy, excited family of musicians, chattering and abuzz. Ben, on the other hand, was quiet and reserved. Our conversation was spare but pleasant, and slightly awkward.
Later, at the show, Ben took the stage. Hem has a devoted following in this town, so the house at Workplay was nearly full for the opener. But it seemed that the crowd wasn’t prepared for the intensity of Ben’s performance, nor for the bleak, lonely tone of his lyrics. His vocal style was less traditional singing and more of a plaintive wail crossed with a growl which, frankly, suited the content of the songs quite well. Nonetheless, toward the end of the set, people began to get restless, and offered only the politest smattering of applause after each number. At one point, a hand motion, as one might imitate a person slashing his wrist with a razor blade, was exchanged between people sitting at my table, accompanied by a silent grimace. It was tough going.
Then, near the very end of his set, Ben sang “Ragged Words.” For me, it turned the entire tone of the set on its head. The lyrics were poetic, vivid, and non-specific enough for me to make of their meaning whatever I wished. I wanted to immediately hear it again.
After the evening was over, I approached Ben in the lobby of the theater and expressed my admiration for the song. He thanked me, and said something else, but his response was barely audible and consisted of no more than five syllables - I didn’t catch the words. He dug in his pocket for something and distractedly looked away.
“Ragged Words” (2003) by Ben Weaver
These ragged words
These midnight eyes
These dust covered boots
This bent up lust
These young boy dreams
These mannish woes
These driftwood arms
These bottle lips
This train whistle voice
This eager love
This uncut beard
These achin’ arms
This longest look
This played-out soul
This grain of truth
This musicians’ curse
This thorny kiss
This mangled path
This old truck groan
This steadiness
These oil dark eyes
This lonely guess
This full moon moan
This highway smile
This lost dog heart
These reasons why
This entangled sleep
All these shows I play
This rock and roll vein
This blue collar mouth
This angel’s idea
This road map home
These chain link prayers
This father’s word
This guitar money
This red light cigarette
This one desire
This bedroom rain
This blue electricity
These choke-cold bones
These optimistic regrets
This bus station wave
This sand in my name
This bare nakedness
This prize fighter’s jab
This falling grace
This antique tongue
This Midwest deal
This suitcase goodbye
These gas pedal eyes
This foolish hope
This small town stare
This strangled touch
These cowboy hands
Wherever you are
Whenever you want
It is what it is
It’s sorrow and bliss
Your head on my chest
Under a sky this blue
Wherever you are
This song is for you
“Do you have kids?” I am sometimes, though rarely, asked.
“Well, I have pets.”
“Ooh! Cats?” If the person asking is a cat-lover, the first part of that is usually an octave or two higher than the second part. I nod to answer Yes. “What are their names?”
“They’re from the same litter,” says I. “A male and a female cat. The male’s name is Ziggy.” The interrogator smiles. Ziggy is, after all, a familiar-sounding name for a pet. I continue, “His full name is Zigeunerweisen. Have you ever watched a cat between around two and four in the afternoon? You know how they’ll rouse from that second or third nap of the day and start chasing shadows and their own tail, doing their kitty version of a lion growl, and darting through rooms and down hallways? Well, there is a piece of classical music written by Pablo de Sarasate called ‘Zigeunerweisen’ that has that same frenetic, energetic pace, just like a cat’s crazy hour.”
My questioner’s eyes glaze over. Maybe I offered too much information.
“Anyway, Ziggy was like that when he was a kitten, so that seemed like an appropriate name. But it’s much easier to say Ziggy than his full name.” I try to limit the number of words I use that have v-sounding w’s to a minimum, in an attempt to avoid sounding lofty. Wagner. Weltanschauung. Kurt Weill.
“What about the female cat? What did you name her?”
I say, very matter-of-factly, “Her name is Barbara.”
With total honesty, I swear to you that this statement is always met with a double take. Then a laugh. For who, in their right mind, would ever name a cat Barbara?
Most assume that I named her after a human, someone that I know with that name. I allow them to believe that, if they like. My eldest aunt, who is also my godmother, is named Barbara. One of my fellow graduate school mates was a Barbara, and we were close friends for a time just before I was adopted by this cat and her brother. If cat Barbara could have ever been named after a particular person, though, her namesake would most likely have been my first grade teacher, SAM (our acronym for Sister Augustine Mary, who later changed her name back to Sister Barbara Mason), who telephoned on my birthday one year and played me ”Las Mañanitas” on her trumpet. That is the kind of thing that you never, ever forget, the kind of thing that demands a reminder of a moment that belongs to no one but you. A homebound feline companion bearing her name could be that reminder.
But Barbara was not named for any specific person. Instead, she was named after another cat. Well, in a sideways manner, I guess. To explain it to you requires the telling of another story.
During college, I lived in Quincy House - a Cambridge city block housing a few hundred students, a handful of graduate student tutors, and a varied collective of Harvard faculty members. It was an outstanding experience, as we, the undergrad students, had exposure to a multitude of diverse people, their backgrounds, and interests. A group of us spent an evening at one music grad student’s apartment learning about the operas of Richard Strauss (the subject of his dissertation). E.O. Wilson joined us for lunch one afternoon, and pulled a test tube filled with ants from his coat pocket to illustrate a point about sociobiology. I recall discussions over coffee about the oratory of Ronald Reagan with tutor Paul Erickson (who later wrote a book on the subject), and listening to Roger Swaim’s colorful descriptions of bee-keeping, while standing in the House courtyard. Daily, we had random contact with this colorful batch of residents, and sometimes we would schedule time with them for more specifically prescribed educational purposes.
On one such scheduled meeting, a small group of us went to the apartment of Business Professor Raymond and his wife, Lee. We stood on the landing outside their door and knocked. There was no answer. We could see that the apartment was dark, and the curtains were drawn. We knocked once more. Shortly, we heard some shuffling and movement on the other side of the door. The latch turned and the door moved slowly inward until there was about a two-inch crack of an opening. Mrs. Raymond’s face appeared out of the darkness. She pressed her face toward the opening and, raising a finger to her lips in that universal sign, said, “Shhh. Michael’s sleeping.” We filed into the living room and tip-toed around the furniture into the adjoining study where Prof. Raymond was waiting for us. We were all unaware that the Raymonds had any children, for surely we would have seen them playing in the courtyard.
As it turned out, they did not have any children, nor any grandchildren, that were named Michael. Michael was the name of their cat. A large, old, spoiled-rotten cat who, that day, was enjoying the luxury of a quiet nap in the midst of a bustling college campus.
Imagine if Lee Raymond had said, “Shhh! Fluffy’s sleepy.” Or “Snowball’s sleepy.” We would have likely not taken her too seriously, thinking that the sleeping habits of a cat paled in importance to our impending discussion of the economic theories of Adam Smith (or whatever it was that we were discussing that day). The choice of such a mundane, commonplace human name for a pet was ingenious. It served to include him, without hesitation, as an official member of the family. I resolved to remember that small lesson, for the day that I had pets of my own.
The lesson was soon forgotten. The following year, I adopted a kitten, named her Gatita, and lost her just a few months later. Eight years after that, I was living in Birmingham. A pair of kittens moved into my backyard, abandoned by their mother, who showed up only a couple of times to check on them before she disappeared altogether. I named the kittens Zippy and Waldo, for no reason, in particular. Within six months, they were both injured and killed by the Highway 78 traffic behind my house. I decided that, if I ever again brought animals into my home, it would be a permanent situation, and they would be official members of the family.
It only took a few months before I caved. A friend of a friend of a friend had kittens to offer, and my two current housemates chose me immediately. You know why Ziggy got his name. Choosing a name for the female was more difficult. Her medical record at the veterinarian’s office has my first shot at a name, Squishy B, scribbled on its header. But, immediately thereafter, I had remembered the lesson of Michael Raymond, and was trying out girls’ names on her. Suzie? Too girly. Mary? I had a friend named Mary, and she might think this to be a tribute. I considered Cecilia, Margaret, Brenda and Linda. Those were all fine, but the moment I said Barbara, I knew it was perfect. No one in their right mind would name a cat that.
Now I say the name, ”Barbara,” and what I envision before me is not a psychology graduate student or a trumpet-playing nun, but a furry companion with a distinct personality. She complains when she is hungry, is constantly fixing her hair, protests and runs from the room when I sneeze, and, except for the unpleasant occasions when she violently coughs up a hairball, is nearly human.
So, please don’t laugh at her name. You’ll hurt Barbara’s feelings.
Blender magazine, while not necessarily perched at the top of the quality heap of music magazines, (But what is, anyway? Rolling Stone? No. Spin? No. Does Tiger Beat still publish?) has released lists of the top ten favorite songs of the two main U.S. Presidential candidates. There are surprises among the highly predictable lists:
Obama is a “deep cuts” kind of guy, choosing “City of Blinding Lights” by U2 and “I’m On Fire” by The Boss. But, sorry, Barack. You have to lose a turn on this one - many would sell their mother for an endorsement from either Bono or Bruce, and I’m afraid these choices are just too transparent.
All of McCain’s choices were recorded before 1978 (I guess that is not really a surprise), the latest being “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA, released in 1977.
Speaking of ABBA, McCain chose two songs by the Swedish band: the aforementioned song whose title itself is a plea for votes, and “Dancing Queen” (some American Idol-watching staffer in the McCain camp must have suggested this as an overture to the gray-haired vote, knowing that it is a favorite cover in the concert repertoire of Season 5 winner Taylor Hicks).
“One-term” McCain is burdened by the spectre of Father Time, choosing topical songs “If We Make It Through December” by Merle Haggard, and Dooley Wilson’s version of “As Time Goes By.”
I really want to know if Obama really listens to hip-hop…I mean, really. will.i.am? OK. The Fugees? They’re as much R&B as hip-hop, I guess. But Kanye West? Kanye “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” West? I’m not buying it. But, at least all three of these artists are current.
Both candidates chose a song by Frank Sinatra, but neither used that choice to target a voting block (”New York, New York” or “Chicago”…hello, Mr. Senator from Illinois!) or, again, comment on his age (”It Was a Very Good Year”). Missed opportunities, fellas, especially you, Senator McCain. Instead we get covers of Cole Porter love songs: “Easy to Love” (Obama) and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” (McCain).
Obama gets “cool” points by choosing “Sinnerman” by Nina Simone, a choice that would have been even cooler if he had chosen the remix of that song by Felix da Housecat (audio clip below). Can a Starbucks Senator Selects CD be in this man’s future?
Is she singing “What’s the matter with you, ‘Rack?”
Obama chose the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter,” with its refrain, “War, children, it’s just a shot away, it’s just a shot away.” Remember that.
I also give a pass and a high-five to McCain for choosing Louis Armstrong’s version of “What a Wonderful World” over the beaten-to-death mash-up of “WAWW” and “Over the Rainbow” by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. In my past life as a music retailer, I sold so many copies of Iz’s CDs that I can now spell his serpentine surname in my sleep, but…if I hear that medley featured in just one more movie soundtrack, or playing overhead in one more MOR strip-mall eatery, my head will implode. And it will be ugly.
“Good Vibrations” is, of course, not Senator McCain’s favorite Beach Boys song, as we have all heard him sing “Barbara Ann” with vigor on the nightly news.
What! No Elvis Presley?! Guess neither one of these guys cares too much for the Southern vote.
I would like to send Senator Obama a copy of Kathleen Edwards’ Asking for Flowers, for clarity, and maybe a Nick Drake album to soften that hip-hop edge a little bit. To Senator McCain, I bequeath my 1970’s box set Flower Power: The Music of the Love Generation. My 81-year-old Uncle Ernie in California has a copy and likes it - why shouldn’t that youngster from Arizona let his freak flag fly, as well?
The lists follow:
Barack Obama
1. “Ready or Not” by Fugees
2. “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye
3. “I’m On Fire” by Bruce Spingsteen
4. “Gimme Shelter” by Rolling Stones
5. “Sinnerman” by Nina Simone
6. “Touch the Sky” by Kanye West
7. “You’d Be So Easy to Love” by Frank Sinatra
8. “Think” by Aretha Franklin
9. “City of Blinding Lights” by U2
10. “Yes We Can” by will.i.am
John McCain
1. “Dancing Queen” by ABBA
2. “Blue Bayou” by Roy Orbison
3. “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA
4. “If We Make It Through December” by Merle Haggard
5. “As Time Goes By” by Dooley Wilson
6. “Good Vibrations” by The Beach Boys
7. “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong
8. “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” by Frank Sinatra
9. “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond
10. “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” by The Platters
My high school classmate, Casey Campbell Spaccarelli, is, without a doubt, the Michael Phelps of memorization. After not having sung our school’s Alma Mater in some 30 years, she achieved the impossible feat of singing it almost word-perfect (if not note-perfect), and she didn’t need to flap her arms three times to do so.
Our 30th reunion took place at the beginning of the month in San Diego, and several folks travelled from good, long, out-of-state distances to attend: Florida, Illinois, Nebraska, Virginia, Arizona and, yes, Alabama. You’ll most likely be hearing about this event - what ended up being a series of events spreading out over several days, in fact - in a variety of ways on this site in the future. You have been warned!
But, about that Alma Mater. It first came up over lunch on Reunion Saturday, and as Mike, Mo and I struggled to remember the words, Cathy quietly began singing it. We sat in stunned amazement as Cathy plowed through the whole song, while its jagged, uneven melody (it’s about as easy a tune as “The Star-Spangled Banner”) floated across the table over my chicken caesar salad and Mo’s root vegetable and goat cheese mélange.
Then, on Reunion Sunday, inspired by the inspirational homily delivered by another one of our classmates at the USD Immaculata, or perhaps inspired by the idyllic hilltop setting, or perhaps inspired by one last gathering of old friends, Casey delivered the above performance. Bravo!
In case you were wondering, the word “Olé!” is written into the ending of the song.
Who’s going to argue with that?! It would have been an even better sign that said:
“STOP ALL WAR ALL WAYS.”
This sign was on a street corner in San Diego’s Old Town, but I also saw one of these - graffitoed a bit less artfully and more sloppily - at an intersection across the street from a cemetary entrance in Oceanside. The message remained the same, and no less urgent.
