Chasing the Blues

Downtown Baton Rouge Rediscovered

Back from a quick weekend trip to Louisiana, once again heading from Atlanta to Montgomery and Mobile to Slidell, Hammond and Baton Rouge. We stayed in downtown Baton Rouge at the Hilton, the renovated Capitol House and Heidleberg.

What a pleasant surprise to find a vibrant scene in downtown Baton Rouge, which used to be abandoned at night. Now a number of bars, restaurants and live music sites keep the streets full with fun-lovers until the early morning hours.

Walking around the old streets near the Mississippi, I rediscovered how much of my past life unfolded in downtown Baton Rouge. I worked in several jobs there as a young man, and even lived close to downtown before leaving for Georgia 30 years ago.

Coming home, we again traveled through lower Alabama to northern Georgia. As has become our custom, we stopped at the Pizza Hut in Evergreen for its buffet. It's hardly elegant dining, as we enjoyed at a couple of spots in downtown Baton Rouge, but the salad and pizza bars are tasty, and the workers are always friendly and quite competent. And, a convenience store is right next door, where we fill up with gas for the ride home to Atlanta.

Farewell, Nicholas Katzenbach

In my morning perusal of The New York Times the other day, I saw an image indelibly etched in my memory bank, from 1962 or so, of Kennedy-era Assistant Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach confronting Alabama Gov. George Wallace at the University of Alabama's entrance.

As absurd as it may seem to today's young people, Katzenbach had arrived in Tuscaloosa to enforce the entry of black students to the state university, and Wallace vowed to keep them out. Katzenbach prevailed,and Wallace backed down, a major development in the eventual victory of civil rights.

Back in those days, the events of the civil rights movement and other historical occurrences played out in black and white television, which I watched when I came home from school. Long before CNN and Fox News, the then three networks NBC, CBS and ABC covered the news, breaking into daily programming to give live reports of history in the making. So, I have a vivid memory of the situation captured in the Times photograph, having watched it at home, no doubt hoping for the quick broadcast of one of the local shows that took up the afternoon, my favorite being Count Macabre, who showed old horror movies such as Frankenstein and Dracula.

The photograph illustrated the Times' obituary of Katzenbach, frequently dispatched by the Kennedy administration to hot spots in the deep South. I remembered well the tall, avuncular and well-tailored Katzenbach from TV news that brought the civil rights struggles into our den. Until reading the obituary for Katzenbach, I'd forgotten that he'd gone on to be attorney general under Lyndon Johnson. Katzenbach is also a leading supporting actor in documentaries I've seen about the Kennedy era. I remember one in which he and Bobby Kennedy talk on the phone, chatting about their children and so forth, until Katzenbach tells of efforts to get James Meredith into Ole Miss or some such event.

The obituary gives a complete picture of Katzenbach's extraordinary life, from his days at Princeton then Yale Law, to his service during World War II and for the U.S. government, before a distinguished career as a lawyer in later life. Katzenbach was not one of the major characters of the '60s, but even secondary figures from the time are imbued with greatness.

 

Saints and Tigers Head for Football Top

I'm amazed by Drew Brees and the Saints, their offensive machine even more efficient than when they won the Super Bowl. The Saints got screwed on the seeding, and so face a daunting patch to headed back to the Super Bowl, having to travel to San Francisco and then probably Green Bay, but this is the most proficient offense in the history of football. Watching the Saints, I wonder if I'm in some kind of childhood dream, especially since I remember the old, goofy Saints, a standing joke. 

New Orleans is known for great creativity, in food and music, but the Saints are a different kind of success for which the old city has never been known. Cuisine, jazz, blues and rap are associated with decadence, while pro football success is tied to discipline, business, purpose, teamwork, etc. So, Brees and the Saints bring a different model for the city.

Meanwhile, the LSU Tigers prepare for the national championship. I'm glad the Tigers are enjoying such success in football, but it breaks my heart that the university's academic purpose is severely wounded by budget cuts by the inexplicably popular Bobby Jindal. I love the Southern Review and LSU Press as much as the football team.

One amusing item I saw on Facebook: The Roosevelt Hotel now has a drink for the Honey Badger, LSU's flamboyant defensive back. Seeing the menu raised memories of Huey Long, who loved LSU and strove to make it a great institution, unlike today's short-sited, tax-averse governor. 

Recently, I read a piece by Tom Friedman in the Times about how America's future depends on cities with great universities, a vibrant, creative population and innovatative busineses. Baton Rouge could be a city like that, and has been at fleeting moments, but LSU and Louisiana's capital city has often been crippled by short-sighted, corrupt politics and a provincial, uncommitted population. 

 

Christmas Decorations Show Excess

This Christmas decorations appear more garish in my neighborhood this year. A few years ago, a number of ranch houses around the block were bulldozed for the construction of McMansions, and these are now covered with strands of hideous lights. The lights glow with a neutral beige color; the platinum-tinted color of money and bad taste. On a walk the other night, I was cheered at one of these homes to see a solitary, well-lit tree in the window and no other decorations.

Of course, we have not yet even put up our decorations, and as usuual I am entertaining the notion of not even laying out the few strands of lights that I usually place upon our front hedge. Out of town last weekend for a wedding in New York, we have not even put up our Christmas tree.

Years ago, when I passed the condominium community on my nightly walks, I was happy to see in one modest home old-fashioned candles aglow in the windows. I remembered similar decorations from my childhood. They were cheap electric plastic candles that one could buy at what used to be called 5 and dime stores. They had a small, orange molded flame that came alive when one plugged in the cord. For some reason, this cheap, tawdry gesture at Christmas cheer at the condo filled me with happiness. Alas, they disappeared years ago, and now the beige color of the small candles' base grows grotesque writ large in huge strands of gilded lights.

The purpose of such excess mocks the generous Christmas spirit and calls attention to the homeowner, emblazoning to all who pass, "see how rich and wonderful am I?" Give me a single Christmas candle, shining from a window.

Houston Astros Going to the American League

My years as a Houston Astros fan will enter a new stage in a couple of years, when the 'Stros head into the American League. From reports, Major League Baseball bribed the new owner, whose name I don't recall presently, by greatly reducing the purchase price for the team, which might have been the worst in baseball history last year. As an Astros fan, I had the unpleasantness of watching former Astros players on almost every playoffs team this fall. Perhaps the new guy can use the payoff money from MLB to rebuild the franchise, just recently quite competitive.

I guess it won't make much difference to me seeing the Astros in the American League, although ever since I was a child I've thought of the Astros as a National League team. Long before the days of interleague play, which will become more common when the Astros leap to join the Texas Rangers in the A.L. West, the 'Stros played the Giants, the Dodgers, the Cardinals, the Braves. Now they'll be playing the Red Sox, the White Sox, the Yankees, etc. 

Gee, my first major league game was seeing the Cardinals play the then .Colt 45s, when the Astrodome was a rising skeleton seen from our seats in the brutally hot, open air Colt stadium. There I was with my late father, my late grandfather and a neighbor, Richard. We had made the trip from Baton Rouge to Houston on U.S. 90 through Jim Bowie and Cat Doucet's Opelousas and Lake Charles and Orange; I-10 had not yet beeen completed. The young Bob Gibson was on the mound for the Cardinals, and the aging Stan Musial in the dugout, although Stan the Man did play in the second game of the twi-night double header. While the Cards had Lou Brock, Bill White, Dick Groat, etc., the 'Stros had the likes of Turk Farrell, Bob Aspromonte (LA Dodgers farm club product) and the 19-year-old Rusty Staub, fresh out of Jesuit High in New Orleans. 

Over the years, I spent many a sultry night on a front porch in Baton Rouge, listening to the 'Stros, slowly shifting over the years from iced tea to beer to bourbon, back to iced tea. The names: the Rooster, Doug Rader; the Flea, Bob Lillis;  the Toy Cannon, Jimmy Winn. The 'Stros. Trading away Rusty Staub because owner Judge Hofeinz got pissed when Staub refused to play on Vietnam Moratorium Day. Trading away Joe Morgan. Trading away Mike Cuellar. Cesar Cedeno. The killer Bs. Roy Oswalt. Nolan Ryan. Fat Elvis, Lance Berkman. (Speaking of Fat Elvis, I once saw him perform in the Astrodome, but that's another story). Yes, the 'Stros had some great years, before wrecking the franchise again.

Well, once again, as with the college conference realignments, tradition goes by the wayside in the interests of money. The 'Stros in the American League. Sure, I'll buy it. 

LSU Outlasts Alabama

The smell of my victory cigar lingered Sunday morning as I turned back the clocks. All alone, I watched LSU overcome Alabama 9-6 in a game that reminded me of the brutal defensive fist-fights of my childhood, when Charley McClendon coached the Tigers. Some called the game a classic, but I'm not so sure. To me, the game had a ragged quality, with both teams apparently hampered by all of the hype that preceded it. Whether classic or not, the LSU win was sweet, and I drank red wine and lit up the cigar that I'd bought in Apalachicola on a trip to the beach. As LSU's longtime radio announcer, the sometimes verbally challenged Jim Hawthorne, said, "there's no doubt LSU is No. 1 in the land."

Watching the game, I thought of my long-dead father, who deeply hated Alabama and Bear Bryant, who beat LSU year after year, always receiving the benefit of questionable referees' calls. Over the last 20 years or so, LSU has joined Alabama at the top of the national football world, and played the Crimson Tide on a pretty much equal basis. In my father's day, LSU played Alabama in Birmingham's Legion Field, where such stars as Joe Namath, Kenny Stabler and Leroy Jordan would take the measure of ol Cholly Mac's teams. Back then, Southern teams were all-white, until the Bear himself saw that he could not compete nationally unless he recruited black players. It took Charlie Mac years to see the same lessson, leading to a decline in LSU football that continued until long after my father's death. Now, the big game was played in Tuscaloosa, and both teams had immense numbers of NFL-quality black players.

Unlike many Tiger fans, I still like Bama coach Nick Saban, who banished all of the ghosts that had haunted and crippled LSU football for years and took LSU to national football prominence, where they've remained under Les Miles. Saban receives adulation from the national media, but he's just as flawed a coach as anyone else, as shown in his team's puzzling struggle with substitutions in overtime, giving LSU a surprisingly easy victory. if Miles had botched the overtime as much, he'd be ridiculed endlessly. I'm sure Saban still will be considered an invincible genius.

As for Miles, I'm often amused by his verbal tics and goofy peronality. Yet, the man can coach. He has grown each year professionally, and is a fine representative of the university. He helps his players graduate, and treats them with respect, while Saban is known for abusing his. 

On this bright Sunday, I think about my father, who never lived to see his grandchildren or LSU return to football prominence. If you can hear me Daddy, there's no doubt today that LSU is No. 1 in all the land.

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."

 

Now Steve Earle Won't Sing Anymore on "Treme?"

I was half-shocked at the end of "Treme" last week at the apparent murder of Harley, the genial, wise street musician played by Steve Earle. Guess I won't ever call a kid who's packing "son."  Too bad the sweet Annie had to witness the punk shooting her pal. ... I always wondered if Wendell Pierce's Antoine Batiste would be the one killed. ....Kermit Ruffins looked ready to do the trick last week, when Batiste pied-piper fashion stole his crowd to an adjoining Frenchman Street bar, an implausible scene. Would jazz musicians really do so things to each other? ...I was thrown off by the endless "True Blood" promos and the lack of previews into thinking that last week's "Treme" was the final one of the season. Turns out it runs a few more weeks, with "True Blood as its lead-in. Looks like the badly limping "Entourage," mercifully in its last season, will take "Treme's" slot. ... No, I'm still not tempted to try to catch up with "True Blood." Any attraction vampires had for me died with Bela Lugosi. ..

...Now Congressional Country Club leaders are turning defensive at how easy their course played at U.S. Open. Not only did Rory McIlroy take the place apart, a bunch of guys shot under par, including the second place 8 under score. ...When the graphic showed all-time great scores, Ben Hogan's 8 under at Riviera in 1948 still made the list. I think Rory's legitimately good, but think of the inferior clubs and deader ball Hogan played with, along with the fact he was still recovering from his horrific auto accident and had to play 36 holes in one day. ...I'd love for the U.S.G.A. to bring back the 36-hole final, last played at Congressional the day of Ken Venturi's near death march to the title....Call me golf lesson geek, but I've noticed Rory has something in common with Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus: the interlocking grip, instead of the conventional Vardon overlapping like most players, including Hogan. Golf lesson fanatic that I am, I looked at Rory's hands on the club, intrigued at observing his pinkies intertwined, not one overlapping the other in the missionary position, as it were. The interlocking is usually for players with small hands, as I've heard Nicklaus has. If Rory goes on to win enough majors to enter the Nicklaus/Woods realm, that'll be quite a testimony for the interlocking...Rory''s embrace of his Irish "Da" was touching enough, but his  adolescent behavior strikingly contrasted with that of Nicklaus when he beat Arnold Palmer in a 1962 playoff to win the Open at Oakmont. Nicklaus was the same age, 22, but his dad, Charlie, while still alive, was nowhere to be seen on TV. Jack, who appeared more middle aged as a young man than later, when he grew his blond locks fashionably long, was already married at age 22, and might already have been a father.  While Rory certainly showed steely maturity on the course, his behavior when finished shows how long adolescence now lasts in young men. 

Crawfish, and Flood, Season in Louisiana

We crossed the Mississippi on the trip to pick up the crawfish. Looking down from the Mississippi River Bridge from Baton Rouge to West Baton Rouge, I saw that the water line had reached near the top of the bank.

"If they hadn't opened the Morganza spillway, LSU and downtown Baton Rouge would have flooded," said my sister, in the driver's seat.

Big ships still plowed down the heart of the river, leaving a wake of white turbulence behind. The day was hot and dry; a juxtaposition of drought and high water. My sister turned to the ramp headed to West Baton Rouge, and we were headed through Brusly, divided into Back Brusly and Front Brusly, as my brother-in-law reminded me from the back seat.

I was visiting from Atlanta, interested tyo see this road, La. 1, that I used to travel frequently when my late father had a camp in Bayou Pigeon in Iberville Parish. We would not be going that far today, but would stop in Bayou Sorrell on the other side of Plaquemine to get two sacks of living, writhing crawfish for boiling that afternoon.

As we road, my sister and brother in law commented upon how much the area had grown; and sure enough, what I remember as sugar cane fields now were covered with strip shopping centers, condos, apartments and subdivisions. Appaently, the recession had not hit the area that badly, although Louisiana's state budget was in serious arrears.

Just outside of Plaquemine, my sister pointed out a commercial crawfish pond, and I turned to see a long, rectangular body of dark, still water. A squad of white herons stood on sentinel duty, statoned about 20 feet from each other in rows. They looked real, but in retrospect might have been fake birds to scare off whatever predator a crawfish pond might need protection from.

Headed into Plaquemine, the trip began to feel familiar. I saw the old rusted railroad bridge at the Plaquemine city limits and the lovely collection of ante-bellum homes. The names of the politicians on the eternal political signs were also familiar, dynasties of one or two families that had been running the parish when I left 30 years ago were still running things. Plaquemine had an exhausted, run down atmosphere, as if the 20th century and now the 21st had not quite settled in deeply. To my amusement, I noticed a sign for an Islamic temple beside a low-slung house of yellow stucco.

"I'm surprised Osama Bin Laden wasn't found in southern Louisiana," my sister said.

We turned off on the road that led to the Atchafalya Spillway and the road where my father had his camp. Again, homes, quite nice ones, lined the road where once sugar cane fieids lay. We turned off on a street where mobile homes and trailers alternated with nice houses. I recalled the strength of Louisiana's off-the-books economy. Although the state lags far behind most economic indicators, it's really quite prosperous, with many industries conducted outside of the bounds of govermental accounting.

We turned into a nice house with a big boat in front and picked up the crawfish. I looked at them in their sacks, packed in tightly with their familiar, distinctiive brown-gray color. We threw them in the back, and my brother in law covered them in newspaper to keep them from dying in the brutal sunrays beaming through the back window.

We headed back toward Baton Rouge, traveling beside the stressed levees along the Mississippi. I'd last traveled this road as a young man, and here I was back again at 60, taking part in a unique Louisiana ritual. We crossed the bridge, Huey Long's state capital rising into the bluish-white sky to our left, Tiger Stadium and LSU to our right. Folks had been flooded in the Morganza Spillway, but Baton Rouge was dry, by God, dry and resplendent beneath the hot Louisiana sun.

Mid-October

Another October drifts away. After Halloween and baseball's end, we'll be on the fast track to the holidays and winter. Summer, its dreadful heat, feels long behind us. Before Thanksgiving and Christmas, we'll have the huge national elections, with a lurch to the GOP in the offing.

Fall; someday soon will come the day when I'll be moved to reread Keats' "To Autumn," as I've done for years when a certain November Day matches the poem's mood of grand weather etched with foreboding. The college football season is already past its halfway point, only a month or so of games left.

The leaves have not yet changed. Two weeks or so left in another gorgeous October. Another year hurries into the past.