Chasing the Blues

August, the Dog Days, or is that old man wolf howling at the door?

Another long assumed certainty crumbles: the U.S. no longer has a AAA credit rating. Chatterers on CNN say don't worry, it really means nothing. The Wizard of Oz scenario once more; pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

Nothing better to do while waiting for the Apocalypse and or the start of college football season than to deeply engage with the Braves. Now they are playing at the Mets' Citi field. Although the Mets are severely diminished, another victim of the financial crash except for the splendid Reyes, the Braves playing there always seems more like real baseball than when they're playing against a team like the Arizona Diamondbacks, which could disappear tomorrow and I wouldn't care. New York among other things means baseball to me. 

Of course, watching the Braves on TV pushes my tolerance for the cornball announcer Chip Caray, who shows little of the talent for low-rent humor of his dad, Skip, or his grandad, Harry. Recently, I escaped Chip by listening to the Braves on the radio with Don Sutton and whoever his partner is. Sutton and pal give more insightful analysis and a more pointed, adult humor. But, I like to watch on TV. Perhaps I'll turn down the sound and listen to the radio.

Last night, the Braves at last bested the Mets behind Dan Uggla's amazing revival. The Braves broke through when the Mets removed their young knuckleballer R.A. Dickey, one of the traditionalists who wears his uniform trousers above his stockings. Watching Dickey's knuckleballs, I wanted the pitch to be banned, like the spitball. Although I loved Phil Niekro, and even Hoyt Wilhelm, the knuckleball seems bogus, based on trickery more than skill. Dickey appears to be an OK guy, a bit nervous, but I say throw the slider, the fastball, the curve or get out of the game. Ban the knuckleball!

Even my TV viewing's lost, after the end of "Treme." I watched the three episodes of a strange little show on PBS, "Zen," which starred Rufus Sewell as a detective in Rome. I liked the depiction of the ancient, corrupt Italian city, and a luscious Italian actress who after making it as a Bond girl to Daniel Craig now does three-episode Masterpiece series shows. I'm unable to get back to "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and "Entourage," both of which I've already buried. 

So, after long days of eyeball-searing work, I ruin the old orbs even further with reading. Faulkner's "The Hamlet," a long tome on World War I, books on Huey Long, Jonathan Yardley, the New Yorker, Commonweal, the Kenyon Review, the New York Review of Books, The New York Times. At times, I'll sit down and play the piano, lately I've been practicing on "Rally Round the Flag Boys."

 

Keith Richards, the Pirate at Rest

Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards is the man of the season, with his autobiography drawing raves, especially among the rarefied chattering classes. Richards, the Stones' notorious wildman, turns out to be a cultured romantic at heart. 

So far, Richards has received a Valentine from the New York Times' Maureen Dowd, a gushing interview with "Fresh Air's" Terry Gross and a laudatory review in the New Yorker. Long past his heroin and hotel-trashing days, Richards turns out to be a chivalrous, sensitive poet who treats women with grace and sensitivity.

In Gross' interview of Richards, he spoke about his craftsmanship and satisfaction (He at last has gotten some) writing songs for Mick Jagger, who comes off quite the brute in the book. Richards told Gross about his "vowel movement," how he strives to write lines with open vowel sounds. It sounds like a small thing, but such attention to detail is the sign of an artist. He's also a genius at inventing catchy guitar riffs.

Nearing 70, Richards has survived several life-threatening challenges. He's come through alive, a kind, compassionate and humorous man, a surprising gentleman, as Dowd put it.

 

Remembering Huey P. Long, Louisiana's Kingfish

Wednesday marks the 75th anniversary of Huey P. Long's assassination, of which I was unaware until discovering an interesting article in the New Orleans Times-Picayune uncovering the controversies still surrounding the shooting of the Kingfish at the Louisiana State Capitol in Baton Rouge on Sept. 8, 1935.

Robert Travis Scott's piece goes into how incomplete and inconclusive the evidence is; as he says, there was no CSI at the time in small-town Baton Rouge, and Long's circle covered up much. In fact, the investigation was limited to a belated coroner's inquest, and the police work was poorly done.

The big question is whether reputed assassin Dr. Carl Weiss actually shot the Louisiana senator, who tightly controlled Louisiana politics, or whether Long was shot by a bodyguard. Weiss was slaughtered by a barrage of bullets fired by Huey's bodyguards in the hallway between the Capitol's House and Senate chambers, but Scott looks at the question of whether Weiss actually possessed the small pistol allegedly used to fire a bullet into Huey's stomach. Some reports say Weiss approached Long to talk with him, and punched the senator in his ample mouth, and then the bodyguards opened fire, with one of their bullets striking Long. Scott goes into details that were new to me; that Weiss, a young Baton Rouge doctor with a small child, had left his pistol in his Buick when he parked it in the Capitol parking lot, and that Huey's goons had searched the car and found the handgun in the glover compartment and planted the weapon at the scene.

The case has fascinated me since childhood, when I repeatedly read my father's copy of old States-Item reporter Hermann P. Deutsch's "The Huey P. Long Murder Case." The book contained photos from the scene, including one of Weiss' bullet-riddled, wide-eyed body. The shooting was vivid to Baton Rouge children who visited the State Capitol, where tour guides dutifully pointed out bullet holes in the stone walls of the hallway.

Later, when I worked at the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate, I was often fascinated by a framed State-Times front page from Sept. 9, 1935, with glaring headlines about Huey's shooting. One curious story on the page was that a man in downtown Baton Rouge had been arrested for marijuana possession on the same day as Huey's shooting.

As Scott says, the shooting of Long will remain inconclusive. He discounts the old theory that Weiss was acting as the agent of an organized conspiracy to kill Long. Not mentioned is an old story that I first heard in childhood at the barbershop where I loved to spend an hour or two reading comics while waiting to have my hair cut, that Franklin Roosevelt had Huey killed. That came from the lips of Bob the Barber, a cracker barrel philosopher who carried out his trade with his scissors and combs despite having only three fingers on one hand.

Those of us growing up in Baton Rouge in the '50s and '60s had vivid memories of Huey's brother, Earl K. Long, and the bizarre climax of his last term as governor, when he was transported to and escaped from a series of mental institutions. Later, we read in A.J. Liebling's "The Earl of Louisiana" about Uncle Earl's courageous battle for civil rights and listened to Baton Rouge reporter Brooks Reed's recordings of Long from the Texas instiutiton he escaped with the aid of political allies like Sheriff Cat Doucet of Opelousas. Then, there was a movie about Earl's relationship with Blaze Starr, starring Paul Newman.

Earl was real to us; Huey a distant, godlike legend. We devoured T. Harry Williams' definitive biography of Huey when it came out, growing closer to the Kingfish and his legend. Through the years, more books came out on both Huey and Earl. Huey's spirit haunted Robert Penn Warren's "All the King's Men," and Randy Newman's record "Good Ole Boys" gave the saga a vivid musical rendering.

Huey built LSU and made it one of the finest universities in the South. Now, with the grinning huckster Bobby Jindal slashing the university budget, Huey's legacy of support for the university grows even brought. Long's dictatorial regime undoubtedly had evil consequences, but I'll raise a glass to the Kingfish on Sept. 8, and remember Uncle Earl as well.     

A Frenzied Flurry

The bad economy, GOP resurgence and right-wing glee, and the all-too-characteristic shell-shocked gloom of the Obama administration and Democrats have put a clog in my blog. I did post a piece about seeing all three episodes in one night of Larry McMurtry's "Streets of Laredo," but that disappeared in the ether of one of Comcast's breakdowns.

Yep, James Garner played the old Texas Ranger Woodrow McCall, instead of Tommy Lee Jones, who'd portrayed him in "Lonesome Dove." In the sequel to that fine miniseries, old Woodrow suffers the same fate as Robert Duvall's Gus McRae, having his leg amputated. Unlike Gus, though, Woodrow lives on without the limb, taken off in in time to stop gangrene's deadly invasion.

Sissy Spacek replaces Diane Lane as the reformed prostitute. The rest of the colorful cast includes Sam Shepherd as Woodrow's good-hearted sidekick, George Carlin of all people as a grizzled mountain man type, Ned Beatty as Judge Roy Bean and Randy Quaid as the brutal outlaw John Wesley Hardin. A lot of evil, malevolent bad guys, beautiful scenery and overcoming challenges of the primitive country make "Streets of Laredo" almost as good as "Lonesome Dove."

Outside of the political/economic doldrums, here are a few fine filips that make me feel like I'm fixin' to frolic: football, Franzen's "Freedom," Freddie Freeman.   

New Orleans on Upswing, Five Years After Katrina

Five years after Katrina's devastation of New Orleans, the images remain unbelievable of the city's flooding and people abandoned on rooftops, crying for help. The most heart-wrenching piece I've seen was Larry King's interview with Harry Connick Jr., in which those horrible days after Katrina were revisited and optimism for the future eloquently expressed.

Many things look on the upswing for the old city. President Obama in his speech at Loyola gave a strong vision for New Orleans' future. Public education is reportedly being revitalized, new businesses are moving in and the health-care system is under reconstruction. The Saints' Super Bowl championship gave the city a strong model of hard work, community dedication and success.

Even before Katrina struck, New Orleans, like most of the lower Mississippi River towns, was a failed city. Some see Katrina as a blessing in disguise, giving the "shock" needed for a true resurgence. Once New Orleans had real industries like shipbuilding and a vibrant local economy with a host of breweries, bottling companies, banks and financial companies and food manufacturers. The music and entertainment industries were always strong, but too small and insular to support a major city. Slowly, with the decline of the city's ports, manufacturing and trade, the economy turned to a narrow dependence on tourism, along with the continued if declining presence of the oil industry.

 Reports about memorial cermonies in the devasted lower Ninth Ward said that the neighborhood is being rebuit as a "green" community. From that base, New Orleans can perhaps turn itself into a center of the green industries that Obama touts, supplanting its oil economy.

Another posititve sign is the strengthening of the city's levee system, to prevent future tragedies like Katrinia, although the city will always be geographically vulnerable  to hurricanes. Another huge threat is the continued destruction of the Gulf fo Mexico wetlands south of the city, a problem given attention during the oil spill. Again, Obama promises action to stop wetlands loss.

After five years, many New Orleanians remain displaced and lost. Violent crime is stills high and poverty ingrained. Yet New Orleans shows a vibrancy and productive spirit that had eroded long before Katrina.

Farewell to Bobby Thomson

Bobby Thomson's death comes in late summer, when the anticipation of autumn grows keen. I associate Thomson's famous home run, overly hyped as "the shot heard round the world," with fall, the end of a season, shadows across a green field in the dying afternoon.

The opening chapter of Don DeLillo's novel "Underworld"  explores the significance of Bobby Thomson's home run, which won the 1951 National Leage pennant for the New York Giants and crushed the Brooklyn Dodgers in sudden, shocking defeat. On a crisp autumn morning, I first heard of DeLillo, and Thomson for that matter, while driving to the Lenox MARTA station. Bob Edwards, who  if I remember correctly  was still working at NPR at the time, marked the anniversary of Thomson's home run by interviewing DeLillo, or perhaps just reading his short story "Pafko at the Wall," appearing in that month's Esquire magazine.

The short story, the basis for the opening chapter of "Underworld," talked about the deciding playoffs game for the National League pennant, the fans rushing to the stadium, the New York Giants announcer Russ Hodges in the booth, the Brooklyn Dodgers' two-run lead in the ninth inning, the bringing in of the Dodgers' ace Ralph Branca with two Giants on base, Thomson's swing, Hodges' famous call, "The Giants Win the Pennant," and Dodgers left fielder Andy Pafko's disconsolate sag against the short fence in the old Polo Grounds. That day after work, for the first time in years I bought Esquire to read the story, and later purchased "Underworld" on the very day it was published. Even 13 years ago, when the book came out, the publication of a major novel generated great immediacy and excitement, which I rarely if ever feel today. Reading the book, which had as a central motif a search to discover the lost ball hit by Thomson, awoke within me a fascination for the game and Thomson's blast. Later, I searched the Internet and found a photo of Pafko at the wall (above left), which I printed out and kept taped to my desk at work.

The home run capped a Giants run to the pennant after being at one point 13 games behind the Dodgers. When asked about the Giants' chances, Brooklyn manager Charlie Dressen said about Leo Duroucher's club, "Are the Giants still in the league?" The Giants, with their brilliant rookie Willie Mays, steadily gained ground on the Dodgers. Later, a Wall Street Journal writer, with apparently no need to keep up with the stock market, uncovered evidence of an ingenious Giants system to steal opponents' signs. The article even hinted that Thomson knew what pitch was coming from Branca -- a fastball -- although Thomson steadfastly denied being tipped off.

The event continues to shine in the imagination of baseball lovers, although many other dramatic home runs have been hit since, several of them winning the World Series, not just the pennant. It was the dawn of the television era, but only a few people had TVs in the home as yet, especially outside of New York and other big cities. I have the impression of most TV viewers witnessing the home run on sets in neighborhood bars.  Radio and newspapers were still the dominant media for sports and news. Baseball was still the undisputed sports king; avidly followed throughout the land, although one wonders if Thomson's home run was that earth-shattering outside of the metropolis. It seems a very New York-centric moment.  The home run was an epochal moment in the ancient Dodgers-Giant rivalry, but proved anticlimatic; the Giants were on to lose to the New York Yankees in the World Series in five games.

After Thomson's home run, TV would rise in in importance, bringing with it the primacy of pro football over baseball in the sports world. The 1958 NFL championship game between the Baltimore Colts and New York Giants would mark the new dominance of both pro football and TV.

Following Thomson's death at 86 on Tuesday, ESPN's "Baseball Tonight" had the good sense to interview Branca, forever linked with Thomson. The two had made a career of recalling the home run, appearing together at autograph shows and other events. Branca's strong New York accent sounded vibrant as he gracefully said farewell to his old nemesis. Once again, a grainy black and white film showed him as a young man, standing on the mound and throwing the ball, and Thomson swinging.

On deadline, Red Smith wrote an account of Thomson's shot for the old Herald-Tribune. Red Smith and Don DeLillo; two masters who recorded the event for different purposes and for different audiences. TV and film recorded the event, but Thomson and Branca's immortality is captured best in Red Smith and Don DeLillo's language.

 

Bring Back the WPA, and Put Writers to Work

Former Clinton Labor Secretary Robert Reich on Keith Olbermann's show called for a program like the old WPA to fight unemployment.

I don't know if we will go for '30s-style work camps in the forest, althought it would be fun to sit around in lumberjack shirts listening to Woody Guthrie songs, but I'd love to see a WPA program like the one that put writers to work writing guidebooks to the states. Those books were quite good; I have one done for my native state of Louisiana, and it's great reading. It gives a flavor of how life was in New Orleans and other cities, before the advent of interstates and suburbs.

Some pretty well-known writers got their starts writing for the WPA, including Saul Bellow. Not that journalists should be given any special consideration, but with so many reporters and editors out on the streets, the talent would be there for a new series of guidebooks. Of course, in this day, guidebook publishing has become big business, and publishing companies would likely scream about the government-backed competition. Back in the '30s, the WPA guides were ground-breaking. Nowadays, the writers would probably produce WPA blogs.

Boys Will Be Boys: Quite a nasty baseball brawl between the Reds and the Cardinals. Plenty of stupidity to go around, but why do Tony LaRussa and Dusty Baker keep their feud going? Most of the players are still young, but LaRussa and Baker should know better. As usual with baseball fights, more pushing and shoving than punching, although Reds pitcher Johnny Cueoto started kicking. Must bbe that soccer mentality.

Slow News Day: Must not be much happening in Washington: The New York Times' Maureen Dowd writes an entire column about her college roommates.

Hail Johnny Drama: "Entourage" at times barely runs on creative fumes, but Kevin Dillon's Johnny Drama remains one of the all-time great comic characters. A vintage quote from the latest episode: "I'm being considered by Dos Equis as the least interesting man in the world." 

 

Obituaries Show Variety of American Lives

The New York Times obituary page presented two interesting deaths: Harvey Pekar and Tuli Kupferberg. Pekar, who gained extraordinary fame from a meager literary talent, proved that in America just about anyone could find his or her 15 minutes in the spotlight. Along with Charles Bukowski, a much larger talent, Pekar the writer of the comic book American Splendor reflected the triumph of the underground man, the urban lumpenproletariat, the resentful, angry, sullen drone.

Kupferberg gained fame his fame as a member of the Fugs, the iconoclastic and satiric band from New York's Lower East Side. A survivor of the Beat Generation: his failed suicide attempt by leaping from the Manhattan Bridge was memorialized in "Howl," Kupferberg kept playing his icoclastic rock, or anti-rock, until his 80s.

His passing brought strong memories of my college days. Along with Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention and Lenny Bruce, I loved listening to the Fugs. Not as musically advanced as Zappa, the jazz virtuouso, the Fugs exhibited a rougher, less subtle brand of humor. At the same time, they were more literary with their references to ancient and modern poetry.

My favorite member of the band was its leading force, Ed Sanders, also a fine poet. I followed Sanders' career past the days of the Fugs, when he put out two great satiric albums that also lampooned country music: "Ed Sanders Truck Stop" and "Beer Cans on the Moon." Like all fine parodies, the music while satirizng country music conventions also stood on its own as great country.

Along with Sanders' short story collection, "Tales of Beatnik Glory," I also was impressed by Sanders' account of the Charles Manson trial, the best report about the case.

In my music universe, I put the Fugs in the same place as Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, New York hipsters with a burnt-out, urban, literary sensibility. While Sanders was my main interest, I had a strong respect for Kupferberg. He deserves a place as an influential figure in rock history.

What a constrast between Pekar and Kupferberg's lives and that of the biggest death of the week, so far, George Steinbrenner. I actually liked Steinbrenner's Yankees in the early part of his ownership when he built those great teams with Thurmon Munson and Reggie  Jackson, managed by Billy Martin. But his act grew old over the years, and now I'm at place either hostile or indifferent to the Yankees.

 

Saints' Payton, Brees on the Book Circuit

The glow keeps shining from the New Orleans Saints' Super Bowl championship season: both coach Sean Payton and quarterback Drew Brees have books out about the NFL title and its importance to New Orleans' revival from Hurricane Katrina. Now Brees is making the rounds of TV talk shows to promote his book, and I'm sure Payton also will be highly visible.

While such recognition is wonderful for Payton, Brees, the team and the city, fans like myself also hope they're keeping their minds on football: NFL training camps open soon.

The still strong memory of the Super Bowl makes the gulf oil spill even more tragic. Recent news that the oil has seeped into Lake Pontchartrain shows that the disaster's impact on New Orleans and the rest of Louisiana will continue to grow. 

"Treme" Finale Evokes New Orleans' Enduring Spirit

"Treme" in its finale achieved the dramatic power it often failed to reach in its first episodes. The closing second line march, a device that served as filler in some episodes, eloquently spoke of the city's resilience and hope for the future. The hypnotic, mystical dance of Landonna Batiste Williams, played by Khandi Alexander, expressed the city's life spirit overcoming despair.

The episode confirmed the suicide of Creighton Bernette, whose sermonizing in the early episodes grew shrill and dramatically wooden. Played by John Goodman, Bernette in the late episodes leading to his death, embodied the city's prevailing pain and depression following Katrina. The accomplished Melissa Leo as Bernette's grief-shocked wife Toni and the wonderful India Ennegna as his young daughter Sophia fully evoked the incomprehending grief following a suicide.

Wendell Pierce as the trombonist Antoine Batiste lightened the mood with humor and zest, with the well-devleoped unfolding of his losses in poker games with his fellow musicians.  Enhancing the fun was the appearance of soul queen Irma Thomas, along with master musician/producer/songwriter Allen Touissant.

Taking the show to a higher level was the flashmback sequence to the characters' lives before Katrina, a poignant look at lost happiness and accomplishment. The well-ordered home of Batiste, with his collection of jazz albums, contrasted with the hardscrabble life of the show's previous episodes. A shot of the happy faily life of Bernette was piercing; Bernette is reading Walker Percy's "The Moviegoer," a symbol of the artistic success he is unable to accomplish. The scenes of the tragic imprisonment of LaDonna's brother, whose funeral leads to the culminating second line march, have profound cinematic power.

As usual, New Orleans' music is a narrative counterforce. Irma's "Time Is On My Side" is an affirmation of the city's musical spirit. "Just a Closer Walk With Thee," one of the city's signature songs, is full of sorrow and solace.   

For those of us entranced by Lucia Micarelli as Annie, her breakup with Sonny was satisfying. At the end of the show, she connects with Davis McAlary (Steve Zahn), an encouraging development.

Overall, David Simon and company overcame the unevenness of the first episodes with increasingly accomplished closing episodes. With the post-Katrina story finished, the show will have to take new directions. Goodman's lost prescence will be a challenge to replace. But "Treme's" first season closed with a rich mosiac of possibilities, raising our anticipation for the second season.