Once upon a time, Lou lived in Baton Rouge. Only for a year, but long enough for Lou to get a sense of what life in a college football town was like. Folks in Baton Rouge decked out their houses in purple and gold lights and banners and signs like it was Christmas; some even went so far as to paint their usually neutral-colored porches LSU colors during the season. (And, by the way "the season" always referred to football season, not holiday season, not even Mardi Gras season... although it may be different now that LSU's basketball team is a force-- Lou loves Big Baby!).
Roommate lived in Knoxville for seven or eight years, so he knows football towns too. When we moved here last summer and football season started, we both thought it was so nice that Louisville seemed like a rare football town. A town where football stars and coaches take their place among the pantheon of local sports stars. A town where rooting for the football team appeared to be more of a matter of civic pride than single-minded obsession. And we partook of that civic pride with gusto, cheering the Cardinals on to the Orange Bowl enthusiastically.
Or maybe, last season, fresh to the city, we were all too willing to overlook the signs of hysteria. This season, though, with the newness of our new home somewhat rubbed off, Louisville fandom (to me, I can't speak for Roommate) seems to have drunk some serious Kool-aid.
Despite the fact that 90% of my blog entries are seriously biased, I felt obliged to label this an editorial because I know what I am about to say is the product of my current pouty, pissy mood. Abandon all hope, ye who read further... you're about to enter the realm of Lou's hypocritical, poor loser, bitchiness...
Roommate left yesterday for a business trip preceded by a camping vacation in the wilds of Connecticut (there be wilds in Connecticut?), so I thought what better way to celebrate my home-aloneness than to watch the NFL kickoff Saints vs. Colts game in the social comfort of one of our local drinking establishments? Roommate is a Colts fan and I, of course, am a Saints fan; in our 5+ years as companions, we've always enjoyed a good row during these games.
So I set off on the circuit of my favorite local bars and found not one, not two, but the first three bars I stopped at had every TV turned to the Louisville Cardinals game. At the second place I stopped at, the bar I have probably clocked the most hours at since coming to this city, I asked the bartender-- who knows me-- if she couldn't possibly turn the tiny TV in the corner to the Saints game. And she said, "Sorry honey, all the TVs work off the same box"-- which is totally not true. As I said, I've been in there a blue million times...
The 4th bar I stopped at-- Buffalo Wild Wings on Bardstown-- has a TV for every three patrons, and yet the Saints vs Colts game was only on one-- a tiny TV in the corner. Seemed good enough for me until I realized that I was hooting and hollering when the rest of the bar was silent.
It seems relevant to mention the fact that the Cardinals were playing an unranked team, and at half time were only up by three... a pretty abysmal showing. And despite the fact that they're working under a new coach (popularly dubbed "Coach K," much to the disgust of my Roommate who asserts that there is only one Coach K in college athletics-- and in his defense, can we seriously not pronounce the name Kragthorpe??), local sports pontificators are balls-afire about the fact that we could go "all the way." Sure they beat Middle Tennessee by 16 in a 58-42 game, but is giving up 42 points the mark of a team that could go "all the way"?
As I said, these are the teary, beery, sour grapes opinions of a woman whose team just lost by 31 points. But do all these college fans put their NFL allegiances aside, especially those to a team from just a little over 100 miles away, until Cardinal season is over? They didn't seem to last year.
To the credit of the Louisvillagers, as I made my way from bar to bar, wearing my Saints baseball cap, I was stopped THREE times and told: "Go Saints! America's Team!" America's team? Really? Once, I could have understood, but three times? When I was a kid the Cowboys were America's team. Who were America's team between the two? Hey, I'm not complaining, especially because America's team just lost by 31 points. Small victories.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
We named the DOG Indiana!
Movie history-- major or minor, depending on how it rolls-- was made tonight at the Baxter Avenue Theater in Louisville. As part of their midnight movie "Splosion' Summer Spectacular," Baxter became the last theater to show any part of the Indiana Jones trilogy until the studio lifts the moratorium after they release Indiana Jones IV. And rumor has it, the studio is planning to destroy all film versions of the trilogy and switch them over to digital. So, Baxter may have hosted the last showing of an Indiana Jones movie on 35mm film.
What Gen-Xer didn't, at some point, want to be Indiana Jones? I, personally, went so far as spending a semester and a half as an anthropology major in college until I realized that I don't have a head for memorization. I had a high school friend who wore an Indy hat outside of school and a college friend who'd mastered the bull-whip in his spare time. For my generation the sight of snakes prompts a silent mutter of "Snakes? I hate snakes," and not "I've had it with these *&%&*( snakes on this ! (*&^% plane."
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade has held up incredibly well over the past 18 years (Lordy, makes me feel so old). It's funny and charming and exciting. Over time, I've forgotten the melodrama/farce element of the series. It's sad to see the earnest, puupy-haired, young River Phoenix as the teenaged Indy; you can't help but wonder what would have become of him (I like to think more Ethan Hawke than Keanu Reeves). Sean Connery is in his crotchety-old-man-that-I'd-still-do glory. And Harrison Ford makes it incredibly easy to forget how odd he's become in the past 18 years.
And who doesn't like a good midnight movie on a Saturday night? The director of the midnight movie series (I actually don't know who the heck he was, some well-dressed young guy who addressed the crowd before the movie) announced the line-up for fall and winter, and there will be many more midnight movies in my future. Stupidly, I didn't take out a pen and jot them down, but here's what I can remember.
Next midnight movie is on 9-15 and it's Team America, which I have yet to see. In October, for one month only, Baxter will be running a midnight movie every Saturday night-- a horror through the decades series. Creature from the Black Lagoon (50's), The Birds (60's), and Evil Dead 2 (80's-- sorry I forget what 70's was), which will be preceded by a costume contest which has a super cool prize: the chance to choose a midnight movie to be shown in February. Unfortunately, my choice would be Harold and Maud and they showed that last year (and I missed it!!), but I think, off-hand, my back-up might be Jaws.
Other movies on the horizon: A double feature of The Dark Crystal and The Labryinth (I'm SO there!). A Hard Day's Night and Stop Making Sense. Moulin Rouge just before Valentine's Day. Donnie Darko right before New Year's. Enter the Dragon, the last film Bruce Lee made before he died (unfortunately, not the one that featured Kareem Abdul Jabaar-- I'd love to see that fight scene on the big screen). I know there were more, but that's all I can remember. All good stuff, there wasn't a stinker in the lot.
On a side note, I racked up two movies at Baxter today. Last Crusade at midnight and Once as a matinee. This movie musical, which was released in a limited run and won the audience prize at Sundance way back in the spring, has finally made it to my neck of the woods and it floored me. Best movie I've seen in a long time. The only movie I've ever seen where I left the theater and walked straight to a record store to buy the soundtrack (Ear X-tacy, by the way, has both the soundtrack and the newest record by the lead actor's band, the Frames, on sale right now. I bought them both and went home and listened to them both. I feel like a 13 year old having seen High School Musical for the first time-- which I haven't seen.). Ah, I remember Glen Hansard when he was Outspan "Fender Bender" Foster in The Commitments, back in 1991, which is still my favorite movie about music, even though I thought Once was BRILLIANT! The Courier-Journal gave the film a rare 4-star rating, and today's 3:20pm matinee was packed! The buzz, albeit three months or so late, has finally hit Loueyville.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
All the pretty horses
While I was at the fair today, I also attended The World's Championship Horse Show, which apparently is the world's biggest competition for the American Saddlebred. I didn't know that; I had to look it up. I knew nothing about the competition before I went, and now that I have been, I am more-- not less-- baffled by the whole thing.
I didn't even know what an American Saddlebred was until last year when a student of mine competed in the event. This year, I promised her I'd go to see her compete. It's a week-long thing with today and tomorrow being the Big Days. She took home a ribbon in the 3-gaited junior horse division thing; another student got one for the 5-gaited. Apparently, if they've made it this far, they've already won some Big Prizes. And I'm afraid that pretty much covers my knowledge/understanding of the event. (Ignorance evidenced when I was speaking to woman in the seat next to me and, without thinking, I referred to my student as a "jockey.")
According to the Fair website:
This exciting and prestigious event, held annually in conjunction with the
Kentucky State Fair, crowns world champion Saddlebreds in different divisions
each year. The show attracts people from all across the country and the world
including more than 2,000 horses competing for over $1 million in awards.
Clearly, very impressive. And it was a beautiful and sometimes interesting experience. First of all, spectators dress up for the event like they do the Derby, except in eveningwear. Cocktail dresses and suits. I wore a sundress to beat the heat and felt underdressed.
The program for the event costs $15 and is a spiral-bound tome of dictionary proportions. After spending all that money just to go ($7 for the fair, $5 for the parking, and $16 for the show... not to mention the $15 I spent on food and drink), I chose to forgo the program and just bug my neighbors for the numbers of my student-riders-- they all look the same (elegant, even regal) in those dapper little hats and dress coats.
The competition varied between horses with riders that went through a series of different running styles-- trotting, walking, cantering-- and then horses that pulled little pretty buggies and also went through a series of different running styles. Sometimes the horse and rider competition involved the riders getting off the horses and removing the saddles and showing the horses like the dogs at Westminster. Sometimes the riders stayed on the horses the whole time. No jumping. No racing. Personally, I would have been more interested if the competition involved racing as well. Or maybe demolision derby type stuff. If you knocked another rider off his or her horse, you got extra points or something.
I have to say, while the event was surely a spectacle, as a mere spectator, I felt completely in the dark. While the announcer comments extensively on the goings-on, he does so in jargon that was lost on me. And gosh darn it, all the horses and riders (not jockeys) are so pretty... how am I supposed to know which ones really "brought it"? I really couldn't tell what, exactly, was being judged. It seemed like a beauty pagent, but was it the horses or the riders or both who were actually earning the ribbons?
I certainly recognized the "Stage Moms" in the pagents, but I don't know who they were. When the riders would dismount and show their horses, there was, inevitably, someone else who would stand in front of the horse and either wave a towel or throw some sawdust into the air. I'm just guessing, but I think this wild and rather undignified act was performed to try to get the horse to look up? Again, it was like watching any other sporting event without having at least a passing understanding of the rules. More often than not, I thought I'd pegged the winner and was totally wrong. In fact, in the 5-gaited junior competition, I was sure that my student had it nailed. They gave out 8 ribbons for a field of 16, and she didn't get a ribbon at all!
The constant reiteration of the words "World Champion" gave weight to the evening, although there wasn't much of a "world" presence that I could tell. A horse from Canada won something, and a stable from South Africa won something...
I doubt I'll go again unless I have another connection to the event. Both of my students have maxed out age-wise on the junior competition and will be off to college next year. If I do go back, I'll do my research ahead of time. And I'll remember not to call the riders "jockeys."
Happy Birthday Freddy!
It is someone's job to live within Freddy Farm Bureau and talk to fairgoers. This amazes me almost as much as the fact that it is somebody's job to be BirdZerk!
This year is Freddy's 50th birthday. He's a charming, bright-eyed, goofy-grinned guy who always has a nice word or two for the ladies.
This year is Freddy's 50th birthday. He's a charming, bright-eyed, goofy-grinned guy who always has a nice word or two for the ladies.And, according to the Courier-Journal, he's still single. I could do worse. I have done worse.
It's time to put on make-up; it's time to light the lights
Today in one of my classes, we were talking about the fair, and I said: "I spent hours in the exhibition hall. I just loved looking at all the cakes and canned goods... Holy cow, I saw the most amazing thing in the cake section..."
And before I could finish my statement, two students said, "The MUPPET CAKE???"
An old high school acquiantence of mine works for Industrial Light and Magic... I'm thinking this blue-ribbon cake decorater should look him up.
Proud to believe in Americana
Some of my fondest memories from childhood involve going to the Martha's Vineyard Agricultural Fair. As fairs go, it's pretty small potatoes (although, it did feature a Biggest Potato contest), but as a suburban girl, it was nice to get up close and personal with the livestock, it was always good for some delicious fair food, and I would spend hours walking the aisles of the exhibition hall perusing the quilts and the canned goods and the art.
I just got back from my second visit to the mammoth Kentucky State Fair. My tummy's full of Italian sausage, roasted corn, and lemonade. I pet some sheep and pigs. Walked til I had blisters. Bought a honey bear from the beekeepers society. I don't even do carnival rides, and two visits isn't enough to cover the whole thing. The fair is eleven days long, and you could probably find a way to entertain yourself for the entire stretch if you were so inclined.
My only complaint about the fair is how expensive a day it ends up being. $7 admission. $5 for parking. $6 for an Italian sausage. $5 for a lemonade (best deal-- refills are half price-- this time I saved my cup from my last visit, smuggled it in and got the cheaper refill... good thinkin'). $3 popcorn. $3 roasted corn. Plus I spent $16 to go to the horse show-- more on that in a minute. It's not often that I'm thankful that I don't have a family... but seriously, add kids to the mix and you've got the cost of rides, games, souvenirs. Or run the risk of being the weird, mean mom who brings baloney sandwiches to the fair.
There's not much left in these United States of ours that feels quite as unabashedly American as a good State Fair (ludicrous prices, included). Little old ladies with names like Agnes and Lily pitting their canned green beans against each other's. The Future Farmers of America displaying their business plans for dog breeding facilities or tractor restoration services. The Girl Scouts showing off their digital photography skills (a far cry from the friendship bracelets and pot-holder projects when I was a Brownie). The balloons, the rides, the cheesy as-seen-on-tv product booths, the fried things that shouldn't be fried, the bad karaoke and cover bands, the men in cowboy hats and boots, the women who's midriff-baring tops bare midriffs that shouldn't be, the children on leashes... America in all its wholesome, corn-dog, diverse, kitschy glory.
Last year, I cried as I watched a little 4-H girl sob when her lamb didn't win a ribbon. It was heartbreaking; I could hardly stand it. Even though I knew full well that widdle lambikins would probably end up as stew. You get caught up in it all. At least I do. I didn't leave wanting to belt out some Lee Greenwood, but I did kind of latch onto the sweet notion that the best parts of Americana still thrive somewhere-- somewhere in my little state.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Blogging the heat
It's 11:28pm as I write this, and it's 87 degrees. Tomorrow the high is 101. On Tuesday, we had a lovely rainstorm that lasted the better part of the day; up until Tuesday, we'd been on a record-breaking streak of 22 days above 90 degrees-- on Tuesday we topped out at 88. But every day since has hit at least 92.
If we hit 100 tomorrow, that will make six 100+ degree days during a single month, which would tie a record set in 1936. And we'd still have a week left.
As I switched the laundry and unloaded the dishwasher, I spent around 15 minutes listening to our local NPR station-- an interview with our mayor, Jerry Abramson. Is it just me, or am I truly jaded at this point? But do any of you get the cold sweats whenever you start to dwell on a politician that you think is a really good person? I know, I'm from New Orleans; I can't be expected to take my local politicians at face value...
He made jokes about the heat. Promised that in a week or ten days we'd be free from the misery-- if his office had anything to say about it. Also clarified that the heat-related death that I mentioned in an earlier blog entry might not have been as heat-related as the media set forth. Talked about the new arena plans and suggested that he was not 100% on board with the design-- he's hoping for a public ice-skating rink and reflection pool in the plaza. Also talked about his visit to NYC, and how effective it was when it came to recruiting potential business to the city. Frankly, his visit sounded much more productive than any of the visits that the NOLA mayor Nagin had in the months following Katrina.
I just liked the guy. And that, in and of itself made me feel very... uncomfortable.
If we hit 100 tomorrow, that will make six 100+ degree days during a single month, which would tie a record set in 1936. And we'd still have a week left.
As I switched the laundry and unloaded the dishwasher, I spent around 15 minutes listening to our local NPR station-- an interview with our mayor, Jerry Abramson. Is it just me, or am I truly jaded at this point? But do any of you get the cold sweats whenever you start to dwell on a politician that you think is a really good person? I know, I'm from New Orleans; I can't be expected to take my local politicians at face value...
He made jokes about the heat. Promised that in a week or ten days we'd be free from the misery-- if his office had anything to say about it. Also clarified that the heat-related death that I mentioned in an earlier blog entry might not have been as heat-related as the media set forth. Talked about the new arena plans and suggested that he was not 100% on board with the design-- he's hoping for a public ice-skating rink and reflection pool in the plaza. Also talked about his visit to NYC, and how effective it was when it came to recruiting potential business to the city. Frankly, his visit sounded much more productive than any of the visits that the NOLA mayor Nagin had in the months following Katrina.
I just liked the guy. And that, in and of itself made me feel very... uncomfortable.
The End is Nigh
Maybe nigh-er than you think...
When we moved to Louisville in July 2006, after 10 months of living in Post-Katrina New Orleans, we started to see bumper stickers on walls, trashcans, etc, announcing "8-29: The End is Nigh!"
A wee bit close to home, I have to say: 8-29 being the anniversary of Katrina's assault on my home of nearly a decade. Indeed, 8-29 was the "end" of a lot for me.
8-29 also happens to be Roommate's birthday-- poor thing. Cruelly, on 8-29-05, as we were glued to the Weather Channel and watched the waves pound the shores of our evacuation hotel in Panama City Beach, it took me until 3pm to remember to wish Roommate a Happy Birthday. (lie... he reminded me) I felt so badly that I cried. Of course, tears were readily available that day and for months afterward. I always thought it stunk that my birthday (8-31) is marred by the death of Princess Di. Big whoop now.
A few weeks later, the Louisville Zombie Attack graced the front page of the Leo Weekly, and we figured what better way to celebrate both Roommate's birthday and the one-year anniversary of Katrina than watching the living dead parade into a New Orleans-themed restaurant-- Big Dave's on Bardstown Road. The irony, folks, is almost ludicrous.
Abitas and crawfish were consumed. Zombies were observed. And a good, good time was had by all.
In the past year, we've met-- I daresay we've befriended-- the man behind the march, John King, a Louisville artist and bartender at Cahoots, who also shares the 8-29 birthday.
From the Zombie Attack MySpace page:
this year's zombie attack will be held at bearno's on bardstown rd. at 9pm. with ONE SMALL STEP, IAMIS, and BUFFALO BILL and zombie films presented by LOUISVILLE FILM SOCIETY. this party is FREE and ALL AGES. the zombie walk will be held at dusk (8:29pm) at the corner of bardstown rd. and eastern pkwy. we will meet in the parking lot behind objects of desire at 8:15pm and head north to bearno's. please dress up and bring your friends. prizes for HOT ZOMBIE, GROSS ZOMBIE, and KING and QUEEN ZOMBIE in our costume contest, including free movie rentals from wild and wooly video !!!MOVIE NIGHT:we will also be showing shuan of the dead and HOT FUZZ at FLOYD THEATRE at U of L on sat Aug 25th at 6 pm and Sun Aug.26th at 8:30 pm!! and it's FREE to everyone!!
Please note that this is a milestone for Lou, who has managed to blog an event BEFORE it actually happens!! We'll be there again this year. If you're looking for Lou, she'll be in a zombie costume.
Read the Leo Weekly article from 2006 here.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Neighborhood Association Gone Wild!
Shame on me. I moved to the Original Highlands neighborhood a year and a month ago. I joined the neighborhood association (for the whopping cost of $8 yearly dues) last September, but I just managed to drag my behind to my first meeting of the Original Highlands Neighborhood Association (OHNA). And it was, in short, a freak show.
According to a co-worker and fellow OHNA member, the previous meeting was even worse. I can hardly imagine.
Forgive me, gentle readers. My civic awareness is somewhat limited to what I have read in neighborhood newsletters, newspapers, and online neighborhood plans. I read some time ago, early spring perhaps, that the OHNA was pursuing the idea of designating the neighborhood as an official Historic Preservation Neighborhood, I liked the idea, and I left it at that. Little did I know that this issue would pit neighbor against neighbor and sow the ugly seeds of conflict, lawsuits, clandestine dealings, and suggestions of impeachment.
The first I heard of the conflict was when “LANDMARKS EQUALS DEED RESTRICTIONS” yellow yard signs started popping up in the ‘hood. (Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that grammatically incorrect? It’s been grating on me. Landmarks (plural) EQUAL, right??)
Then I was gone most of the summer. When I returned, I got an OHNA newsletter that reprinted a letter from the attorney of a Highlands resident that was essentially a “cease and desist” order, demanding that any pursuit of the Landmark designation be halted. Signatures had been gathered; objections had been raised.
Further to that, several days later, I received an email from the OHNA president that despite the fact that they had “ceased and desisted” that the aforementioned resident was threatening a lawsuit and seeking, essentially, impeachment of the president of the Board.
Curiosity peaked and hackles raised by the belligerent and fear-mongering tone of both letters from the attorney, I decided that I would attend my first neighborhood association meeting tonight.
I sat in the hot auditorium of the Metropolitan Community Church, next to my coworker/fellow Highlander, and gazed in desperate sympathy upon the seemingly mild-mannered president, knowing that as he ticked off agenda items, he grew ever closer to the time marked “Community Concerns.” Park renovations? Check. Good stuff. Garden Club report? Sympathetic pregnant woman looked worried as though she might draw ire. September festival report? Sounds great. It’s a big deal.
The moment for Community Concerns came early due to the no-show of some council people and the LMPD guy who’s supposed to give a crime report. First hand up and my stomach churned. But it’s a reasonable older guy concerned that since the smoking ban Willy’s sidewalk seating has pushed so far into the sidewalk that his wheel-chair-bound relative can’t navigate past. Reasonable request. Reasonably handled.
What ensued was far from reasonable. Lawyer stood up and asked to make some motions before the membership. Lawyer for the OHNA countered that the by-laws say that motions can only be made before the Board and are not up for membership vote. Only elections are up for neighborhood vote. Shouting followed.
Lawyer read her motions anyway. The same one that were in the email letter. No more pursing the Historic Preservation status. Board countered that they had voted unanimously AGAINST pursuing the Historic Preservation status last week. Huh. Okay, issue over right? No no no no.
Motion to impeach president for misconduct. More reiteration of the motion about ceasing the pursuit of the Preservation district. Shouting about distrust for the board. Something about “absolute power corrupting.” On and on. Inability to get appropriate records of membership from the board. Hollering about funds mismanaged. More harping on the pursuit that had already been abandoned. Insulting of wives. Suggestions of conflicts of interest because Board President is married to the head of the September festival. People standing on chairs. Aforementioned pregnant head of the Garden Club speaking so passionately and tearily that I was sure her water would break right there. Shouting about the fact that all these folks show up only to bitch when the usual OHNA meeting attendance is around a dozen folks. And so on…
Okay, my two or ten or fifty cents…?
The basis for the lawsuit is that the president of the OHNA wrote an editorial in the neighborhood newsletter recommending going on with the Preservation status even though the cease & desist letter had been sent. But the newsletter was at the printers when the letter was received. And, as he said, it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s entitled to his opinion. I agree with that.
Is the OHNA board in the clear? Not entirely. It does seem as though they’ve made it very difficult to get vital information to people with civic concerns, like the roster of the OHNA membership and the by-laws of OHNA. That’s not good. And while I don’t excuse them for it, it seems to me that they serve the neighborhood for FREE (correct me if I am wrong!) and that it takes a lot of time to get such stuff organized. And, let’s face it folks, we pay EIGHT DOLLARS A YEAR as dues. We can only expect so much.
On the issue itself: I am a newcomer to the neighborhood, but I am a homeowner, a taxpayer, and an OHNA member. And I bought my house specifically because it is 101 years old. In fact, when I told my real estate agent what I was looking for, #1 on my list was: “must be an older home, preferably MUCH older.”
I did not buy my historic home for the sloping floors, the invasion of mice during the winter, the fact that I had to rip out cabinets and rewire my kitchen just to install a dishwasher, the fact that I can’t hang heavy artwork on the crumbly plaster walls…
I bought my historic home for the beautiful bones that all older homes have. And yes, I bought it for the status—I like to be able to say that my house was built in 1906. I like to lie awake on sleepless nights and think of all the people who have lived in my home. And I like that I can glance up and down my block and see homes that also have stood for a hundred years or more. I came here from New Orleans. I grew up in New England. I am accustomed to cities and neighborhoods with historic weight. I’d sooner go back to apartment living (hopefully an apartment in a historic building) than live in new-built home. I accept the responsibilities and extra cost related to living in a historic home.
Likewise, I accept the responsibilities related to living in a historic neighborhood. I know that if the Historic Preservation designation passed, I would have to fast-track fixing up my falling-down garage. And I know that I could never house my plastic pink flamingoes in my front yard (they can be resplendent in the back). Those responsibilities are a trade-off for the security of knowing that my neighbor cannot pave over her front yard (you can laugh, but when my ex-husband and I bought our home in NOLA, the front yard was concrete—we immediately ripped it out). A trade-off for the security of knowing that the landlord can’t tear down the four-plex across the street and turn it into a modern McMansion. And I believe that the benefit for having to keep my house looking nice and saving my kitschy inclinations for more private displays is raised property values—which I could use… big time.
No matter what I believe, I know that some of my neighbors behaved deplorably at this meeting. Battle lines were drawn. What appalled me the most was the lack of civility shown by the anti-preservationists. If I had come into that meeting on the fence about the issue, there would have been nothing on God’s green earth that could have compelled me to take their side. I could never ally myself with those who engage in personal attacks and blatant fear-mongering. What a shame—this may be an odd thing to say, but what a shame that their point of view has to be represented publicly by inarticulate shouting and name-calling. If they have a valid objection, it would have benefited all of us had said objection been voiced reasonably and without melodrama.
My suggestion on the issue? When in Post-Katrina New Orleans, neighborhoods had to decide whether or not they would put their efforts into creating a neighborhood plan for neighborhoods that had been, effectually, destroyed by the hurricane, they went door-to-door and asked people if they wanted to come back. The OHNA should employ an impartial service to survey the neighborhood, door to door, member of the OHNA or not. Ask every homeowner (frankly, renters should have no say) if he or she wants the Preservation district to go forward. Do not rest until as close to 100% of the homeowners have been polled. And then go forward OR NOT as per a majority.
Shame on all of them. The board dropped the ball on some issues certainly. But few people deserve to be spoken to with such disrespect and lack of regard for civility... it was a truly embarrassing display. I have vowed to attend as many OHNA meetings as I can henceforth. And I will do all that I can to keep the shouters OFF of the board.
According to a co-worker and fellow OHNA member, the previous meeting was even worse. I can hardly imagine.
Forgive me, gentle readers. My civic awareness is somewhat limited to what I have read in neighborhood newsletters, newspapers, and online neighborhood plans. I read some time ago, early spring perhaps, that the OHNA was pursuing the idea of designating the neighborhood as an official Historic Preservation Neighborhood, I liked the idea, and I left it at that. Little did I know that this issue would pit neighbor against neighbor and sow the ugly seeds of conflict, lawsuits, clandestine dealings, and suggestions of impeachment.
The first I heard of the conflict was when “LANDMARKS EQUALS DEED RESTRICTIONS” yellow yard signs started popping up in the ‘hood. (Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that grammatically incorrect? It’s been grating on me. Landmarks (plural) EQUAL, right??)
Then I was gone most of the summer. When I returned, I got an OHNA newsletter that reprinted a letter from the attorney of a Highlands resident that was essentially a “cease and desist” order, demanding that any pursuit of the Landmark designation be halted. Signatures had been gathered; objections had been raised.
Further to that, several days later, I received an email from the OHNA president that despite the fact that they had “ceased and desisted” that the aforementioned resident was threatening a lawsuit and seeking, essentially, impeachment of the president of the Board.
Curiosity peaked and hackles raised by the belligerent and fear-mongering tone of both letters from the attorney, I decided that I would attend my first neighborhood association meeting tonight.
I sat in the hot auditorium of the Metropolitan Community Church, next to my coworker/fellow Highlander, and gazed in desperate sympathy upon the seemingly mild-mannered president, knowing that as he ticked off agenda items, he grew ever closer to the time marked “Community Concerns.” Park renovations? Check. Good stuff. Garden Club report? Sympathetic pregnant woman looked worried as though she might draw ire. September festival report? Sounds great. It’s a big deal.
The moment for Community Concerns came early due to the no-show of some council people and the LMPD guy who’s supposed to give a crime report. First hand up and my stomach churned. But it’s a reasonable older guy concerned that since the smoking ban Willy’s sidewalk seating has pushed so far into the sidewalk that his wheel-chair-bound relative can’t navigate past. Reasonable request. Reasonably handled.
What ensued was far from reasonable. Lawyer stood up and asked to make some motions before the membership. Lawyer for the OHNA countered that the by-laws say that motions can only be made before the Board and are not up for membership vote. Only elections are up for neighborhood vote. Shouting followed.
Lawyer read her motions anyway. The same one that were in the email letter. No more pursing the Historic Preservation status. Board countered that they had voted unanimously AGAINST pursuing the Historic Preservation status last week. Huh. Okay, issue over right? No no no no.
Motion to impeach president for misconduct. More reiteration of the motion about ceasing the pursuit of the Preservation district. Shouting about distrust for the board. Something about “absolute power corrupting.” On and on. Inability to get appropriate records of membership from the board. Hollering about funds mismanaged. More harping on the pursuit that had already been abandoned. Insulting of wives. Suggestions of conflicts of interest because Board President is married to the head of the September festival. People standing on chairs. Aforementioned pregnant head of the Garden Club speaking so passionately and tearily that I was sure her water would break right there. Shouting about the fact that all these folks show up only to bitch when the usual OHNA meeting attendance is around a dozen folks. And so on…
Okay, my two or ten or fifty cents…?
The basis for the lawsuit is that the president of the OHNA wrote an editorial in the neighborhood newsletter recommending going on with the Preservation status even though the cease & desist letter had been sent. But the newsletter was at the printers when the letter was received. And, as he said, it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s entitled to his opinion. I agree with that.
Is the OHNA board in the clear? Not entirely. It does seem as though they’ve made it very difficult to get vital information to people with civic concerns, like the roster of the OHNA membership and the by-laws of OHNA. That’s not good. And while I don’t excuse them for it, it seems to me that they serve the neighborhood for FREE (correct me if I am wrong!) and that it takes a lot of time to get such stuff organized. And, let’s face it folks, we pay EIGHT DOLLARS A YEAR as dues. We can only expect so much.
On the issue itself: I am a newcomer to the neighborhood, but I am a homeowner, a taxpayer, and an OHNA member. And I bought my house specifically because it is 101 years old. In fact, when I told my real estate agent what I was looking for, #1 on my list was: “must be an older home, preferably MUCH older.”
I did not buy my historic home for the sloping floors, the invasion of mice during the winter, the fact that I had to rip out cabinets and rewire my kitchen just to install a dishwasher, the fact that I can’t hang heavy artwork on the crumbly plaster walls…
I bought my historic home for the beautiful bones that all older homes have. And yes, I bought it for the status—I like to be able to say that my house was built in 1906. I like to lie awake on sleepless nights and think of all the people who have lived in my home. And I like that I can glance up and down my block and see homes that also have stood for a hundred years or more. I came here from New Orleans. I grew up in New England. I am accustomed to cities and neighborhoods with historic weight. I’d sooner go back to apartment living (hopefully an apartment in a historic building) than live in new-built home. I accept the responsibilities and extra cost related to living in a historic home.
Likewise, I accept the responsibilities related to living in a historic neighborhood. I know that if the Historic Preservation designation passed, I would have to fast-track fixing up my falling-down garage. And I know that I could never house my plastic pink flamingoes in my front yard (they can be resplendent in the back). Those responsibilities are a trade-off for the security of knowing that my neighbor cannot pave over her front yard (you can laugh, but when my ex-husband and I bought our home in NOLA, the front yard was concrete—we immediately ripped it out). A trade-off for the security of knowing that the landlord can’t tear down the four-plex across the street and turn it into a modern McMansion. And I believe that the benefit for having to keep my house looking nice and saving my kitschy inclinations for more private displays is raised property values—which I could use… big time.
No matter what I believe, I know that some of my neighbors behaved deplorably at this meeting. Battle lines were drawn. What appalled me the most was the lack of civility shown by the anti-preservationists. If I had come into that meeting on the fence about the issue, there would have been nothing on God’s green earth that could have compelled me to take their side. I could never ally myself with those who engage in personal attacks and blatant fear-mongering. What a shame—this may be an odd thing to say, but what a shame that their point of view has to be represented publicly by inarticulate shouting and name-calling. If they have a valid objection, it would have benefited all of us had said objection been voiced reasonably and without melodrama.
My suggestion on the issue? When in Post-Katrina New Orleans, neighborhoods had to decide whether or not they would put their efforts into creating a neighborhood plan for neighborhoods that had been, effectually, destroyed by the hurricane, they went door-to-door and asked people if they wanted to come back. The OHNA should employ an impartial service to survey the neighborhood, door to door, member of the OHNA or not. Ask every homeowner (frankly, renters should have no say) if he or she wants the Preservation district to go forward. Do not rest until as close to 100% of the homeowners have been polled. And then go forward OR NOT as per a majority.
Shame on all of them. The board dropped the ball on some issues certainly. But few people deserve to be spoken to with such disrespect and lack of regard for civility... it was a truly embarrassing display. I have vowed to attend as many OHNA meetings as I can henceforth. And I will do all that I can to keep the shouters OFF of the board.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
There goes the neighborhood
The best thing to happen to my little corner of the Original Highlands neighborhood has been the opening of Quills, a coffee shop/bookstore on Kentucky Ave, one block off of Barret. Not much of a bookstore yet-- only three or four shelves of barely-used and new books at extremely good prices-- but a heck of an urbane place to sit and drink good coffee in an excellent environment.
Today was my third visit to Quills in the past week. In a moment of weird concordance, I spent 18 minutes listening to Bryant Simon's excellent lecture on Starbucks and its popularity from this year's TASTE 3 convention. And while I dug the lecture and totally buy into his observations about the safely hip and artistic "brand" that Starbucks has forged, it begs the question: hasn't that brand been seized upon by just about every coffeeshop-- corporate or mom 'n pop-- that's opened in the past decade?
Today was my third visit to Quills in the past week. In a moment of weird concordance, I spent 18 minutes listening to Bryant Simon's excellent lecture on Starbucks and its popularity from this year's TASTE 3 convention. And while I dug the lecture and totally buy into his observations about the safely hip and artistic "brand" that Starbucks has forged, it begs the question: hasn't that brand been seized upon by just about every coffeeshop-- corporate or mom 'n pop-- that's opened in the past decade?
- Safely hip-- not hip enough to be alienating. Quills? Check. Great graphics on the logo and frequent-buyer cards. Bulletin board full of alt-culture happenings.
- Artsy so you don't have to be. Quills? Check. Fanciful bird and feather related art on the walls. A gorgeous photo series in the women's rest room. Fantastic alternative music on the sound system.
- Archictureally eccentric. Quills? Check. Industrial pipe-and-duct-baring ceilings. Dark walls. Mansion library style built-in bookshelves with intricate moldings. Window-seat-ish nook for reading.
- Fosters intellectual atmosphere. Quills? Check. Issues of the Economist and Paste readily available. Stock of books definitely on the literary end of the pop-lit spectrum.
No slight against Quills intended. In the end the Starbucks-Quills-Highland-Heinie Bros. question remains one of which of these attempts at artsy-feelgood-eccentric-intellectual-hip coffee-serving establishments best meshes with your own balance of the aforementioned attributes. Quills just happens to mesh best with mine.
In my experience:
- Highland is more hip-alt.
- Heinie Bros is more hippie-feelgood.
- Days is more mature.
- Starbucks is more boho-bobo-yup.
And Quills, for me, is just right. Beautiful to look at. Quiet. Good tunes. Free WiFi (enjoyed by all aforementioned establishments except Starbucks). Good coffee. Roommate says good food. A bit off the beaten path. A bit more expensive than Highland, which has been my coffeeshop of choice for the past year. But worth it to avoid the sometimes-less-than-desireable crowd that tends to congregate at Highland, particularly in nice weather.
Note: they've been having AC issues there, and at times the place is quite hot. Quills would benefit from installing outside plugs for computer users.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
103 degrees-- time to declare Willis Carrier a national hero
I know what you're thinking: She's been gone all this time and when she finally comes BACK, her first impulse is to bitch. Typical.
I'm sorry. I am. But it's 8:12pm, and it's 99 degrees! I'm not moving, but I'm sweating. I'm wearing next to nothing, and my little something is dark with sweat stains.
At 4:13pm today, the temperature in Loueyville topped 103-degrees, making this officially the hottest day of the summer. I was not around to see it; I was stuffing down popcorn and sitting in the blissfully cool Baxter Theater watching a matinee of Stardust. (Good stuff, by the way. I never cease to be impressed with how versitile DaNiro is. Loved the wicked Extras reference when Ricky Gervais said, "You having a laugh?" Charmed that no matter how much older and more gorgeous Claire Danes get, you can always see a little Angela Chase in her worried eyes.)
But I digress... I got home from Saratoga Springs a little over a week ago, and every day that I have been home it has topped 90, mostly topped 95, often with a heat index over 100. I tried to find out how many records we've broken this year-- I think more than 3 since I've been home-- but frankly, my little brain is like a fried egg. I googled for around two minutes, came up with nothing, and then gave up.
Tomorrow the forecast is for 101.
Today, by the way, was the first day back at school where I work.
I think the USPS should honor the creator of central air conditioning with a stamp. We should have National Air-Conditioner Inventor day and get the day off, preferably in mid-August. Fried egg brain served me better this time: Willis Carrier invented modern electrical air conditioners. Bless him and all of his decendants and all of his ancestors and... huh, irony? The first air-conditioner was installed in a house in Minneapolis! Not stinking hot El Paso. Not furnace blast Phoenix. Not inside-of-a-dog's-mouth New Orleans.
On a sober note: yesterday, Louisville suffered it's first heat-related death. A man died from heat stroke on the side of the road. The heat is not just bitch-worthy, it's deadly.
I'm sorry. I am. But it's 8:12pm, and it's 99 degrees! I'm not moving, but I'm sweating. I'm wearing next to nothing, and my little something is dark with sweat stains.
At 4:13pm today, the temperature in Loueyville topped 103-degrees, making this officially the hottest day of the summer. I was not around to see it; I was stuffing down popcorn and sitting in the blissfully cool Baxter Theater watching a matinee of Stardust. (Good stuff, by the way. I never cease to be impressed with how versitile DaNiro is. Loved the wicked Extras reference when Ricky Gervais said, "You having a laugh?" Charmed that no matter how much older and more gorgeous Claire Danes get, you can always see a little Angela Chase in her worried eyes.)
But I digress... I got home from Saratoga Springs a little over a week ago, and every day that I have been home it has topped 90, mostly topped 95, often with a heat index over 100. I tried to find out how many records we've broken this year-- I think more than 3 since I've been home-- but frankly, my little brain is like a fried egg. I googled for around two minutes, came up with nothing, and then gave up.
Tomorrow the forecast is for 101.
Today, by the way, was the first day back at school where I work.
I think the USPS should honor the creator of central air conditioning with a stamp. We should have National Air-Conditioner Inventor day and get the day off, preferably in mid-August. Fried egg brain served me better this time: Willis Carrier invented modern electrical air conditioners. Bless him and all of his decendants and all of his ancestors and... huh, irony? The first air-conditioner was installed in a house in Minneapolis! Not stinking hot El Paso. Not furnace blast Phoenix. Not inside-of-a-dog's-mouth New Orleans.
On a sober note: yesterday, Louisville suffered it's first heat-related death. A man died from heat stroke on the side of the road. The heat is not just bitch-worthy, it's deadly.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Been a Long Time Gone
Lou's been on a "working vacation" in what is not but should be Loueyville's sister city in New York State-- lovely Saratoga Springs, NY. More work than vacation, hence the radio silence on Loueyville.com.
She's home now and will be back to entertain and enlighten soon!
She's home now and will be back to entertain and enlighten soon!
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Reliable & Cheap: I sing the house electric!
Anytime I come across a great deal, I'll be sure to tell you about it, faithful readers!
Lou just had a ton of work done on her house, the most impressive of which was work done by an electrician. Said electrician is retired from LG&E, but not someone whose name you'd get from the phone book. And because I haven't asked him for permission, I won't publish his details here, but please email me if you need some electric work done and I will send you his phone number.
Electrician wired the livingroom for a ceiling fan and installed it, moved a light fixture in the bathroom, moved a plug in the bathroom, wired the kitchen for a dishwasher, and-- most impressively-- wired my garage for full electricity. This involved tapping into my house box, digging a 50 foot trench from my house to the garage (and installing plugs both at the back of the house and in my yard), and installing plugs and ceiling lights in the actual garage. The job took him more than 10 hours, and on the day that he did the garage, he brought a helper, and the entire job cost me less than $800.
I love this man.
Lou just had a ton of work done on her house, the most impressive of which was work done by an electrician. Said electrician is retired from LG&E, but not someone whose name you'd get from the phone book. And because I haven't asked him for permission, I won't publish his details here, but please email me if you need some electric work done and I will send you his phone number.
Electrician wired the livingroom for a ceiling fan and installed it, moved a light fixture in the bathroom, moved a plug in the bathroom, wired the kitchen for a dishwasher, and-- most impressively-- wired my garage for full electricity. This involved tapping into my house box, digging a 50 foot trench from my house to the garage (and installing plugs both at the back of the house and in my yard), and installing plugs and ceiling lights in the actual garage. The job took him more than 10 hours, and on the day that he did the garage, he brought a helper, and the entire job cost me less than $800.
I love this man.
Fourth in the 'Hood
Well, this is the perfect opportunity to brag on my neighborhood. The drizzle on the fourth let up a little, but not enough to spur my lazy bones down to the Waterfront. So Roommate and I got a couple of six-packs of Abita and $18 worth of side-of-the-road fireworks and decided to make a night of it.
We'd spent the previous couple of days trying to remember what we'd done last 4th of July; we knew we'd already moved and that we didn't go to the Waterfront, but couldn't remember where we'd been. At dusk on the 4th, it struck us... we'd stayed home and watched the neighbors go nuts with fireworks down the road.
This fourth, we invited our neighbor over to watch from our front lawn, and for two hours (at least!) we drank beer, listened to the blues channel on Sirius, and watched the same neighbors get somewhat lethal with fireworks, adding our own little display during the lulls. It was just a ridiculously pleasant evening, overall. A little spitting of rain, good neighbors, free and fun fireworks, great tunes, an endless supply of beer. And while the show downtown would have been better, our 4th seemed more in keeping with stereotypical Americana. In fact, it all felt very small town.
And that's been one of the best things about moving to Louisville-- the small town vibe. It was instant, palpable, the moment we stepped out of the moving van. The day we moved in was one of the hottest day last summer-- well over 90. Neighbor #1 (who came over for the 4th) was outside listening to NPR and doing her gardening. Several hours later, she showed up on our front porch with a case of beer, a case of Mountain Dew, a cooler with ice, and a half a pizza. Neighbor #2, across the street, chipped in by helping us lug some of the bigger pieces of furniture. Neighbor #3 came over with a handful of take-out menus and brochures about the city. Neighbor #4 gave us a houseplant and block gossip. Within 24 hrs, we knew every neighbor within eyeshot of our house.
And it's been that way ever since. Borrowing garden tools. Trading plants from a neighbor's garden for vegetables from mine. Advice about carpenters and electricians. We know everyone's kids and everyone's pets (more pets than kids in this neighborhood).
I lived in four different places in New Orleans, all within a mile of each other. I never knew more than one neighbor at any given apartment, and most of those neighbors that I knew were also my landlords. Here, it's not exactly the 1950's ideal of block parties and bbqs, but it's that nice level measure of closeness without oppressiveness. I never feel like my neighbors are spying over fences, but I always feel like they have my back.
And it was a pleasure spending the 4th with them, some from a distance, and some right in my front yard.
We'd spent the previous couple of days trying to remember what we'd done last 4th of July; we knew we'd already moved and that we didn't go to the Waterfront, but couldn't remember where we'd been. At dusk on the 4th, it struck us... we'd stayed home and watched the neighbors go nuts with fireworks down the road.
This fourth, we invited our neighbor over to watch from our front lawn, and for two hours (at least!) we drank beer, listened to the blues channel on Sirius, and watched the same neighbors get somewhat lethal with fireworks, adding our own little display during the lulls. It was just a ridiculously pleasant evening, overall. A little spitting of rain, good neighbors, free and fun fireworks, great tunes, an endless supply of beer. And while the show downtown would have been better, our 4th seemed more in keeping with stereotypical Americana. In fact, it all felt very small town.
And that's been one of the best things about moving to Louisville-- the small town vibe. It was instant, palpable, the moment we stepped out of the moving van. The day we moved in was one of the hottest day last summer-- well over 90. Neighbor #1 (who came over for the 4th) was outside listening to NPR and doing her gardening. Several hours later, she showed up on our front porch with a case of beer, a case of Mountain Dew, a cooler with ice, and a half a pizza. Neighbor #2, across the street, chipped in by helping us lug some of the bigger pieces of furniture. Neighbor #3 came over with a handful of take-out menus and brochures about the city. Neighbor #4 gave us a houseplant and block gossip. Within 24 hrs, we knew every neighbor within eyeshot of our house.
And it's been that way ever since. Borrowing garden tools. Trading plants from a neighbor's garden for vegetables from mine. Advice about carpenters and electricians. We know everyone's kids and everyone's pets (more pets than kids in this neighborhood).
I lived in four different places in New Orleans, all within a mile of each other. I never knew more than one neighbor at any given apartment, and most of those neighbors that I knew were also my landlords. Here, it's not exactly the 1950's ideal of block parties and bbqs, but it's that nice level measure of closeness without oppressiveness. I never feel like my neighbors are spying over fences, but I always feel like they have my back.
And it was a pleasure spending the 4th with them, some from a distance, and some right in my front yard.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Fizzle on the Fourth?
It's 640pm on the Fourth of July, and I'm drinking a Newcastle Brown Air on the front porch of my humble abode. Even though it's drizzling and overcast, it's hot-- sweaty hot. There are three hours and twenty minutes until the Waterfront Fireworks, but less time until the Neville Brothers take the stage. And while I know I'm not the Wicked Witch-- friends may disagree-- who will melt into a split-pea-colored puddle if I get a little wet, I'm just not sure I'm willing to sog my way through the festivities.
Not to mention the fact that I haven't totally forgiven the Neville Brothers-- Aaron Neville specifically. While most New Orleans musicians have worked overtime since Katrina trying to bring attention and money and renewed culture to the city, the First Family of New Orleans has been notably lax. From bad mouthing the city to abstaining from Jazz Fest (due to Aaron Neville's supposed asthma-- I'm not saying he's lying, per se, but you got to wonder where hometown boy got pipes like that if he has breathing issues), they've lost the First Family cred to the Marsallises and the Mannings in my mind.
That being said, they put on a hell of a show. And if they can't be playing in New Orleans for the Fourth (Aaron: "cough! cough!), then I'm happy that they're in my new ville. Maybe I should try an anti-rain dance. Although, if it worked, I'll be sorry I didn't try it during Katrina.
Not to mention the fact that I haven't totally forgiven the Neville Brothers-- Aaron Neville specifically. While most New Orleans musicians have worked overtime since Katrina trying to bring attention and money and renewed culture to the city, the First Family of New Orleans has been notably lax. From bad mouthing the city to abstaining from Jazz Fest (due to Aaron Neville's supposed asthma-- I'm not saying he's lying, per se, but you got to wonder where hometown boy got pipes like that if he has breathing issues), they've lost the First Family cred to the Marsallises and the Mannings in my mind.
That being said, they put on a hell of a show. And if they can't be playing in New Orleans for the Fourth (Aaron: "cough! cough!), then I'm happy that they're in my new ville. Maybe I should try an anti-rain dance. Although, if it worked, I'll be sorry I didn't try it during Katrina.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Elizabeth Edwards in Lexington
Here’s a tip for faithful readers: You know something matters to Lou when she hops in the ol’ (check engine light’s been on for months) jalopy and drives a significant distance to be there. Mama don’t like to drive.
But this morning, jalopy (still proudly emblazoned with the Kerry/Edwards ’04 bumper sticker) and I chugged our way down Highway 64 all the way to Lexington to see Elizabeth Edwards at a Small Change for Big Change fundraiser. I’d started to think that there wouldn’t be many people there. The Edwards campaign had been emailing me daily for weeks and had called me twice within the past few days. Lexington seemed an unlikely venue—a much redder city than Louisville in this red state.
Yeah, I was a little wrong about that one. I got to the Downtown Arts Center fifteen minutes early, secured a second-row seat in the black box theater, and looked sympathetically at the campaign workers, desperately trying to fill the seats behind the stage so that, on camera, it would look like there was a significant crowd.
And then people just kept coming and coming, and pretty soon all the seats were filled and people were sitting on stairs, standing in the corners, getting a little cranky as time ticked by, 5pm came and went, and still no Mrs. Edwards.
Then the head of the Young Democrats of Kentucky took the stage, apologized for the wait and explained that Mrs. Edwards was on CNN as he spoke, talking to Wolf Blitzer. The crowd let forth a harmonious, “Oooooohhhh!”
Jonathan Miller, Chair of the Kentucky Democratic Party and State Treasurer, introduced Mrs. Edwards. Handsome and eloquent, Miller seemed genuinely behind the Edwards campaign and cited Mrs. Edwards’s recent spat with Ann “I sold my soul to the devil for pretty blonde hair” Coulter as evidence that with Mrs. Edwards we would be sure to have a First Lady of genuine grace and civility. This came up often during the evening, people congratulating Mrs. Edwards on her strength and courage.
She’s shorter than she looks on TV and in pictures. And older, too. She took the stage with confidence, spoke eloquently about every single issue that the audience threw at her, and genuinely knew her stuff.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been married once, and never at any point during my marriage—even the salad days, though there were admittedly few— would I have ever, ever trusted my husband to speak for me and represent my beliefs to anyone, anywhere. That’s probably a shit example because, clearly, we were not on the same page (any page, ever). Heck, I’ve dated some amazing men, men whom I felt deeply understood me and my beliefs, and still, I never in a million years would have been comfortable with them going out and yammering on about what I think to anyone, anywhere.
But Mrs. Edwards seemed “on message” 100% of the time. And her husband’s policies seem to be her own as well. This is an amazing thing. She didn’t just buy in; it was apparent that she had co-authored or co-imagined these ideas. And that’s what impressed me most. John and Elizabeth Edwards have a vision for America. And it’s a good one.
In her opening remarks (which were brief, she said, so she could get to questions), she mentioned that her 30th wedding anniversary was coming up next month, and as they were moving, she’d come across her wedding album with a copy of their wedding vows. In their wedding vows, John and Elizabeth pledged to not only love and protect, but also to work together to help those who were less fortunate. She said that back then it seemed like the optimistic vision of two naïve 20-somethings, but that in retrospect, “it’s been the map for our lives.”
Lord, if you can’t love that then…
I had the privilege of being able to ask a question. I told her that tomorrow—today, now—marks my one-year anniversary of living in Louisville after having moved here from New Orleans. I thanked her and her husband for the attention that they have paid to my home city. And I asked her what John would do, specifically, to help rebuild the levees in New Orleans. She didn’t really directly get to the heart of my question except to say that she knew that John wanted to assemble the “best minds” of engineering from all around the world to address that issue. But what impressed me most is that she said that as soon as he was in office, he would appoint “one person” who would be the liaison to the city that would report to him “daily.” Someone who—every day—he would ask, “What did you do for New Orleans yesterday?” Wholly accountable to him.
Not bad. It’s a start.
She answered questions about outsourcing (we pay taxes and companies who send business overseas are subsidized? That’s bullshit.), healthcare (100% universal, citizens paying no more than 4% of their wages), immigration (use unmanned drones to detect border crossers, penalize people who hire unlawful immigrants, give immigrants and their families a clear path—with penalty involved— to citizenship), cancer (if cancer were a nation, we’d wage war, better fund the NIH), the loss of her son (it’s like having your leg cut off, no one asks you if you’re over the loss of your leg, you just learn to walk on one leg), Veterans’ benefits (each Vet should be assigned one case worker who is also a Vet), and the war in Iraq (John is really, really sorry he voted for it), all with integrity and good humor.
When talking about immigration, she said that even though there’s no “ding” on the door, when you walk into Blockbuster, even if you can’t see a worker, some worker somewhere, says, “Welcome to Blockbuster!” If they have the technology to know that someone has entered Blockbuster, why can’t we use that same technology to detect when an immigrant has crossed the border? (And what IS that technology anyway?)
When talking about her battle with cancer, she said that when people say that they pray for her health, she tells them to, instead, pray for the health of Supreme Court Justice Stevens.
A woman, a cancer survivor, gave her a necklace that she has worn every day for the past ten years. Mrs. Edwards remarked on the sisterhood of cancer patients and apologized for not being able to put it on because chemo had caused neuropathy in her hands and she can no longer button the clothes of her children or grasp the clasp of jewelry. It made me cry. A terrible reminder that this is a woman who could be dying. It was the first question (comment) of the evening, and no matter how jazzed up you could be from that point on, it just felt so horrid and wrong that this voice was springing from a woman in deep, mortal pain.
One of the last comments of the evening came from a man who self-identified as a registered Republican, but whose son had died of cancer in March. He’d written a book about it and gave it to her, asking if she would read it and consider giving him a blurb. For those of you who don’t know (and bless the Edwardses for not putting this more center-stage), Wade Edwards, their 16 year old son, was killed in a car crash in 1996. Wade, by all accounts, was a remarkable kid. And as a response to his death, the Edwardses founded the Wade Edwards Foundation which funds an after-school program for students in North Carolina, and he is an inspiration for the Edwards campaign policy to make the first year of college free for every American.
When in the presence of Elizabeth Edwards, it’s so easy to imagine her at the helm of this country in one way or another. It’s a keen reminder of how disappointing the wife of the Current Occupant has been. Seems like Laura Bush’s only achievement has been convincing her husband to read “some Shakespeares” from time to time. And that’s a sight better than her mother-in-law, who seemed like a pretty nice lady, but who upon visiting Katrina evacuees in the Astrodome said that “so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this (she chuckles slightly) is working very well for them."
Unlike these ladies-who-lunch, Mrs. Edwards calls to mind another strong and strong-headed First Lady. Dare I say it, but there’s a whiff of Hilary Rodham Clinton to her.
I came to the event 95% sure that Edwards was my man. I left and immediately affixed the bumper sticker to the jalopy. It’s official, folks, the Loueyville website heretofor endorses John Edwards for the Democratic Nominee in 2008, and without question endorses Edwards for president.
But this morning, jalopy (still proudly emblazoned with the Kerry/Edwards ’04 bumper sticker) and I chugged our way down Highway 64 all the way to Lexington to see Elizabeth Edwards at a Small Change for Big Change fundraiser. I’d started to think that there wouldn’t be many people there. The Edwards campaign had been emailing me daily for weeks and had called me twice within the past few days. Lexington seemed an unlikely venue—a much redder city than Louisville in this red state.
Yeah, I was a little wrong about that one. I got to the Downtown Arts Center fifteen minutes early, secured a second-row seat in the black box theater, and looked sympathetically at the campaign workers, desperately trying to fill the seats behind the stage so that, on camera, it would look like there was a significant crowd.
And then people just kept coming and coming, and pretty soon all the seats were filled and people were sitting on stairs, standing in the corners, getting a little cranky as time ticked by, 5pm came and went, and still no Mrs. Edwards.
Then the head of the Young Democrats of Kentucky took the stage, apologized for the wait and explained that Mrs. Edwards was on CNN as he spoke, talking to Wolf Blitzer. The crowd let forth a harmonious, “Oooooohhhh!”
Jonathan Miller, Chair of the Kentucky Democratic Party and State Treasurer, introduced Mrs. Edwards. Handsome and eloquent, Miller seemed genuinely behind the Edwards campaign and cited Mrs. Edwards’s recent spat with Ann “I sold my soul to the devil for pretty blonde hair” Coulter as evidence that with Mrs. Edwards we would be sure to have a First Lady of genuine grace and civility. This came up often during the evening, people congratulating Mrs. Edwards on her strength and courage.
She’s shorter than she looks on TV and in pictures. And older, too. She took the stage with confidence, spoke eloquently about every single issue that the audience threw at her, and genuinely knew her stuff.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been married once, and never at any point during my marriage—even the salad days, though there were admittedly few— would I have ever, ever trusted my husband to speak for me and represent my beliefs to anyone, anywhere. That’s probably a shit example because, clearly, we were not on the same page (any page, ever). Heck, I’ve dated some amazing men, men whom I felt deeply understood me and my beliefs, and still, I never in a million years would have been comfortable with them going out and yammering on about what I think to anyone, anywhere.
But Mrs. Edwards seemed “on message” 100% of the time. And her husband’s policies seem to be her own as well. This is an amazing thing. She didn’t just buy in; it was apparent that she had co-authored or co-imagined these ideas. And that’s what impressed me most. John and Elizabeth Edwards have a vision for America. And it’s a good one.
In her opening remarks (which were brief, she said, so she could get to questions), she mentioned that her 30th wedding anniversary was coming up next month, and as they were moving, she’d come across her wedding album with a copy of their wedding vows. In their wedding vows, John and Elizabeth pledged to not only love and protect, but also to work together to help those who were less fortunate. She said that back then it seemed like the optimistic vision of two naïve 20-somethings, but that in retrospect, “it’s been the map for our lives.”
Lord, if you can’t love that then…
I had the privilege of being able to ask a question. I told her that tomorrow—today, now—marks my one-year anniversary of living in Louisville after having moved here from New Orleans. I thanked her and her husband for the attention that they have paid to my home city. And I asked her what John would do, specifically, to help rebuild the levees in New Orleans. She didn’t really directly get to the heart of my question except to say that she knew that John wanted to assemble the “best minds” of engineering from all around the world to address that issue. But what impressed me most is that she said that as soon as he was in office, he would appoint “one person” who would be the liaison to the city that would report to him “daily.” Someone who—every day—he would ask, “What did you do for New Orleans yesterday?” Wholly accountable to him.
Not bad. It’s a start.
She answered questions about outsourcing (we pay taxes and companies who send business overseas are subsidized? That’s bullshit.), healthcare (100% universal, citizens paying no more than 4% of their wages), immigration (use unmanned drones to detect border crossers, penalize people who hire unlawful immigrants, give immigrants and their families a clear path—with penalty involved— to citizenship), cancer (if cancer were a nation, we’d wage war, better fund the NIH), the loss of her son (it’s like having your leg cut off, no one asks you if you’re over the loss of your leg, you just learn to walk on one leg), Veterans’ benefits (each Vet should be assigned one case worker who is also a Vet), and the war in Iraq (John is really, really sorry he voted for it), all with integrity and good humor.
When talking about immigration, she said that even though there’s no “ding” on the door, when you walk into Blockbuster, even if you can’t see a worker, some worker somewhere, says, “Welcome to Blockbuster!” If they have the technology to know that someone has entered Blockbuster, why can’t we use that same technology to detect when an immigrant has crossed the border? (And what IS that technology anyway?)
When talking about her battle with cancer, she said that when people say that they pray for her health, she tells them to, instead, pray for the health of Supreme Court Justice Stevens.
A woman, a cancer survivor, gave her a necklace that she has worn every day for the past ten years. Mrs. Edwards remarked on the sisterhood of cancer patients and apologized for not being able to put it on because chemo had caused neuropathy in her hands and she can no longer button the clothes of her children or grasp the clasp of jewelry. It made me cry. A terrible reminder that this is a woman who could be dying. It was the first question (comment) of the evening, and no matter how jazzed up you could be from that point on, it just felt so horrid and wrong that this voice was springing from a woman in deep, mortal pain.
One of the last comments of the evening came from a man who self-identified as a registered Republican, but whose son had died of cancer in March. He’d written a book about it and gave it to her, asking if she would read it and consider giving him a blurb. For those of you who don’t know (and bless the Edwardses for not putting this more center-stage), Wade Edwards, their 16 year old son, was killed in a car crash in 1996. Wade, by all accounts, was a remarkable kid. And as a response to his death, the Edwardses founded the Wade Edwards Foundation which funds an after-school program for students in North Carolina, and he is an inspiration for the Edwards campaign policy to make the first year of college free for every American.
When in the presence of Elizabeth Edwards, it’s so easy to imagine her at the helm of this country in one way or another. It’s a keen reminder of how disappointing the wife of the Current Occupant has been. Seems like Laura Bush’s only achievement has been convincing her husband to read “some Shakespeares” from time to time. And that’s a sight better than her mother-in-law, who seemed like a pretty nice lady, but who upon visiting Katrina evacuees in the Astrodome said that “so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this (she chuckles slightly) is working very well for them."
Unlike these ladies-who-lunch, Mrs. Edwards calls to mind another strong and strong-headed First Lady. Dare I say it, but there’s a whiff of Hilary Rodham Clinton to her.
I came to the event 95% sure that Edwards was my man. I left and immediately affixed the bumper sticker to the jalopy. It’s official, folks, the Loueyville website heretofor endorses John Edwards for the Democratic Nominee in 2008, and without question endorses Edwards for president.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Zappos.com Outlet: Risking traumatic brain injury for a cheap pair of shoes
Those of you who keep up with my book review site, Lou Reads, know that there is no love lost between me and shoes. Or rather, me and shoe shopping. I was cursed with fragile footsies; anything less soft than an angel's wing brings on a blight of blisters, a collection of calluses (thanks, Mom, for your bad genes).
In fact, I haven't been able to feel my right pinkie toe since Bonnaroo.
So, when one of my colleagues told me that Zappos.com, the largest shoe dealer on the web, had an outlet store in wee Shepherdsville, KY, I figured this might be the chance to score some of those high end, toostie-gentle, brand-name shoes I can never afford retail. Of course that was months ago, and I filed away the knowledge for a rainy day... little did I know.
Turns out that Zappos is headquartered in Nevada, but their primary warehouse is in Shepherdsville. If you go to their website, you can take a "tour." Apparently, they offer employees "free vending," so I'm thinking WIDE styles are probably popular with the employee discount.
Anyway, bored and looking for a field trip, I set out for Shepherdsville around 5pm today. It's around a 25 minute drive from the Highlands, just off exit 116 on I-65 South. Just as I turned off the exit, the skies opened up, the wind began to whip, and I put-putted at 15MPH from the exit to the driveway of the massive Zappos building. Storm-blinded, I parked in one of the conveniently placed customer parking spots right near the door and bolted from the car.
When I made it through the doors, I noticed that the employees were flooding out of the shop into the glass foyer. It wasn't until I was inside that I realized what they were looking at. The first "P" in the Zappos sign had been torn from the building and shattered on the ground in the parking spot next to mine. (See picture above)
Had I put-putted a little faster from the highway exit, it might have come crashing down on my noggin. I later found out that the P was made with foam, so traumatic brain injury may be an exaggeration, but it sure would have hurt like the dickens.
The storm lasted a good hour or so, and for me being stuck in a shoe store for an hour is pretty much hell ("Shoes everywhere! Nothing but shoes! 99% of which will tear up your tender toes! And even at outlet prices, there's still thousands of shoes that cost more than your weekly food budget!")
That being said, I did indeed find high-priced, feet-friendly, name-brand shoes at a bargain (a pair of Bjorn sandals that retail for $97 for just $50). They had plenty of Danskos, for example, in the $60-$80 range. Because of the delay, I nearly succumbed to impulsiveness and walked out with three pairs of shoes (Naturalizers for $37 and Croc flats-- I know, I know, ugly. But these looked comfy-- for $16), but better nature prevailed and I put back two.
The outlet store has a whole wall of deeply discounted shoes (many seemed slightly damaged) and frequent sales. From July 4-16, the outlet is having a summer sale where no shoe will be less than 30% off (I may go back and check out the Danskos again). Men seem to get short shrift there; not too many rows of men's shoes. And the pocketbooks? Ugh! Unless you're Paris Hilton, looking to carry all your earthly possessions with you in a huge, ugly, hobo bag just in case you end up in the clink again, AND are willing to pay $200 for the privledge, forget it.
Definitely worth the drive. Just stay away during windstorms. Still five letters left.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Louey
As you may have guessed, at this point, I'm not really Louey, or even Lou. The real Louey was a stray cat who showed up at my house when we moved in. He-- or she, I never bothered to check under the hood-- was a stray cat that I reluctantly made friends with.
By late fall, I started buying cat food and feeding Louey whenever he came to the porch. By mid-winter, when the weather turned dangerously cold, I began putting nests of blankets and towels on the porch for him. Some nights, I would go to bed with him nestled in the cat-cave,and wake up in the morning to find him still there.
He disappeared sometime in mid-January, and Roommate and I counted him as lost. He was so impossibly thin when he disappeared. It broke my heart. Made me feel like a really bad person. Although with cats, as with men, I knew it was impossible to make a lifelong stray a housecat.
But he reappeared some months later, and the feedings and loving began anew. We bought new cat food. We fed him leftovers and cold cuts. And he, still tragically skinny, returned our love with love.
The neighbors called him "Louey." It was probably, actually, Louie. The word on the street is that Louey had been here for years-- some say as many as five. Some say that he was the housecat of the neighbor behind me and that the neighbor, when he or she moved, just left Louey behind. How you could leave Louey behind is beyond me.
In the past weeks, Louey took a turn for the worst. Although he had a habit of bulemic binging and purging, it became worse and he was unable to keep anything down. And long, so sad, story short, while we were at Bonnaroo, our neighbor had Louey put to sleep. She said it was peaceful and painless and humane.
I suppose she meant for Louey, but the tears in her eyes and my own inability to take in Louey's food bowls are signs of the inhumanity of losing someone you love. I loved that fricking cat. And even now, days after I heard of Louey's fate, I cry as I write this.
I am not Lou or Louey. That damned cat was Louey. And the whole mythology of Loueyville arose from him (or her, I suppose I could have at least looked).
Thank you to the neighbor who did right by poor Louey. Louey was a good cat. And my friend.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Things I'd never heard of til I moved to Loueyville
- Cake wheels: Roulette for cakes. Seriously. There’s a numbered grid and a big wheel with numbers; you put a dime or a nickel in a numbered square and if the wheel stops on your number, you win a cake. Seriously. Sometimes you can choose between a cake, a plate of cookies, or a houseplant. Apparently, it’s a big draw. You almost never see an ad for a church fair or a picnic without it mentioning “CAKE WHEEL!”
- Cornhole: It sounds dirty, I know. It sounds even dirtier when my backyard neighbors at the Catholic center bellow a beer-slurred “CORNHOLIO!!” to resounding applause. Even on Sundays. The chicken-or-egg question remains, what came first, Beavis & Butthead or the game? Cornhole, as far as I can tell, is a social game, best played while drinking, involving a wedge-shaped wooden game board with a hole in the middle. Often the wedges are pimped; popular themes in this neck of the woods are U of L and UK colors and mascots. Players toss beanbags into the hole. I’m guessing that when you get the beanbag (Was it originally played with corn? Get the corn in the hole?) in the hole, you yell “CORNHOLIO!!” Or at least the Catholic guys do. Cornhole is a popular bar game. Imagine my surprise when I first opened the weekly newspaper here to see “Cornhole Night” advertised at several drinking establishments.
- Hot Browns: A local favorite. Basically an open-faced turkey sandwich with tomatoes, bacon, and mornay sauce (a béchamel cheese sauce). Supposedly first created by the Brown Hotel in Louisville.
- Frogger for Charity: Okay, I’m sort of making this one up, but I have never in my life seen a charity (in today’s case a “Nationals Bound” pee wee team of some sort) send children out into the middle of a three lane 45-mile-an-hour-speed-limit road with buckets to collect change. No joke: they’d set up cones along the dotted yellow lines, put the kids in orange crossing-guard vests, and sent them out, one per lane, across Bardstown road right where it meets up with I-264. Not an adult to be seen. This is the second time I’ve seen such noodleheadedness in the past two months! Methinks some of those young ‘uns might not make it to Nationals—with or without your change from the Sonic drive-thru.
Famous Loueyvillagers
- Muhammad Ali (the Greatest)
- Bob Edwards (Lordy, I love this man. The way that the previous generation loved Cronkite)
- Hunter Thompson (needs no explanation)
- Louis Brandeis (famous judge)
- Diane Sawyer (there aren’t enough famous female Loueyvillagers)
- Ned Beatty (of The Big Easy fame—ha!)
- George Rogers Clark (military leader, not to be confused with his brother, who was half of the famous duo Louis and Clark)
- Tom Cruise (half of the famous TomKat tragedy)
- Thomas Edison (who let us see light)
- Dian Fossey (immortalized by a special exhibit at the Louisville Zoo)
- Sue Grafton (F is for Famous Mystery Author)
- Will Oldham (who’s the best kept secret—even from Lou—in music)
- Wilson Pickett (Soul God)
- Pee Wee Reese (not to be confused with Pee Wee Herman)
- Rick Pitino (who blew it with the Celtics)
- “Papa” John Schattner (too young to be called Papa of anything, even pizza)
- Zachary Taylor (the only president buried in the city)
- Sean Young (hard to feel bad that she’s underrated when she starred in Blade Runner)
- Johnny Unitas (football player I always confused with the guy who broke his leg so badly)
- Gus Van Sant (I never understood what “My Own Private Idaho” meant)
thanks to wikipedia.com
Friday, June 22, 2007
Lou's Center of the Universe
According to Google Maps, there are seven coffee shops within one mile of my house: Highland (at which 90% of Loueyville has been written), 2 Heinies, Starbucks, Days, Atomic Saucer, and White Linen Tea Company (Does that count?).
There are 28 bars within one mile of my house. Fifteen of which are within a half a mile. And frankly, I don’t think twice about walking to the Hideaway or Big Dave’s, and they’re more than a mile away, so truly that puts the number of bars within walking distance at 39.
I can walk to Baxter Theater and Valu-Mart (.4 miles) both Cherokee and Tyler Parks (both under .5 miles). And although locals give us funny looks when we tell them this, Roommate and I have been known to walk all the way to the Waterfront on occasion (a whopping 2.5 miles!).
All of this is just to say that in one week I will be celebrating One Year in Loueyville. I came to the city for a job interview, decided to take the job, and bought the second house I saw on my second visit to the city. Credit is due to Roommate who discovered the Original Highlands neighborhood and declared it “as close to New Orleans as you’ll find in Loueyville.” (We’ll not get into the relative New Orleans-i-ness of this city, but I will say that on the night we moved in we made our way down to Baxter Ave and found Abita Turbo Dog on the beer menu at both O’Sheas and the Outlook—not to mention the Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras posters on the walls of the latter—and just felt good.)
One Year in Loueyville has been good to me, due in no small part to the fact that I live, without a doubt, in the Center of Universe. Who could have known when I plunked down every last penny (you think I joke, but, alas…) for the down-payment for my humble abode (and got royally screwed by my mortgage broker—some wounds never heal) that I had made such a good choice? Score one for Lou.
There are 28 bars within one mile of my house. Fifteen of which are within a half a mile. And frankly, I don’t think twice about walking to the Hideaway or Big Dave’s, and they’re more than a mile away, so truly that puts the number of bars within walking distance at 39.
I can walk to Baxter Theater and Valu-Mart (.4 miles) both Cherokee and Tyler Parks (both under .5 miles). And although locals give us funny looks when we tell them this, Roommate and I have been known to walk all the way to the Waterfront on occasion (a whopping 2.5 miles!).
All of this is just to say that in one week I will be celebrating One Year in Loueyville. I came to the city for a job interview, decided to take the job, and bought the second house I saw on my second visit to the city. Credit is due to Roommate who discovered the Original Highlands neighborhood and declared it “as close to New Orleans as you’ll find in Loueyville.” (We’ll not get into the relative New Orleans-i-ness of this city, but I will say that on the night we moved in we made our way down to Baxter Ave and found Abita Turbo Dog on the beer menu at both O’Sheas and the Outlook—not to mention the Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras posters on the walls of the latter—and just felt good.)
One Year in Loueyville has been good to me, due in no small part to the fact that I live, without a doubt, in the Center of Universe. Who could have known when I plunked down every last penny (you think I joke, but, alas…) for the down-payment for my humble abode (and got royally screwed by my mortgage broker—some wounds never heal) that I had made such a good choice? Score one for Lou.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Loueyville Special Edition: Bonnaroo 2007-- WE HEART HIPPIES
“We HEART Hippies.” I had a fantastic time at Bonnaroo 2007, but no moment during the entire festival gave me quite the giggles, the joy, and the pleasurable mild befuddlement than seeing those words scrawled in pink marker on the drive-in window at the Manchester, TN Starbucks on our way out of town. Welcome Bonnaroo Festival! We Heart Hippies!
I would never self-identify as a hippy. I hate jam bands; in fact, jam band music is just about the only type of music that I plain cannot listen to. Roommate dragged me to hear Widespread Panic at Bonnaroo and I was bored senseless. I don’t do drugs. At all. None. Unless you count coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, and Advil. That put me (and Roommate) in the vast minority this past weekend.
But I missed the New Orleans JazzFest, an event I regard as my birthday, Christmas, and Mardi Gras rolled into one, for the first time in nearly a decade this year, and Bonnaroo seemed a fair alternative. In the past six years, the event has evolved past the typical jam band hippy fest to offer a more diverse spectrum of entertainment.
But right from the outset, I need to make it clear that Bonnaroo is not what I would call “my scene.” So take any criticism that I may offer with that nugget of salt. And also know up front that despite my non-hippy (although Roommate may argue with me), non-stoner, jam-band-hating status, I had a hell of a good time.
And I didn’t come away from the event HEART-ing hippies. I got pretty sick of stoned people. And at times I felt kind of nostalgic for the time when being a hippy actually meant something more politically and socially significant. But the organizers of Bonnaroo did a heckuva job, in general, and I’ll certainly be back.
Read on for a Loueyville Special Edition: Bonnaroo 2007.
I would never self-identify as a hippy. I hate jam bands; in fact, jam band music is just about the only type of music that I plain cannot listen to. Roommate dragged me to hear Widespread Panic at Bonnaroo and I was bored senseless. I don’t do drugs. At all. None. Unless you count coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, and Advil. That put me (and Roommate) in the vast minority this past weekend.
But I missed the New Orleans JazzFest, an event I regard as my birthday, Christmas, and Mardi Gras rolled into one, for the first time in nearly a decade this year, and Bonnaroo seemed a fair alternative. In the past six years, the event has evolved past the typical jam band hippy fest to offer a more diverse spectrum of entertainment.
But right from the outset, I need to make it clear that Bonnaroo is not what I would call “my scene.” So take any criticism that I may offer with that nugget of salt. And also know up front that despite my non-hippy (although Roommate may argue with me), non-stoner, jam-band-hating status, I had a hell of a good time.
And I didn’t come away from the event HEART
Read on for a Loueyville Special Edition: Bonnaroo 2007.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007-- Getting there & Camping
Roommate and I left Loueyville at 2am-ish on Thursday morning and started the five or so hour trip to Manchester. Stopped in Murfreesboro for some Steak and Shake around five and then in a rest stop for an hour snooze. And when we arrived in the Manchester area around 7am CST, there were already thousands of cars lined up at the exits. After an hour waiting at exit 112, we were diverted to exit 127. Around an hour later, we were parking at our campsite.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #1: Although there is conflicting information on the web, it seems as though it doesn’t make a hugo difference what time you arrive. Within a few hours of arriving I heard people complaining that they’d gotten there super-early and that latecomers were getting better sites—that the Roo folks appeared to be filling the campsites from back to front. Our walk from site to CenterRoo took around 20+ minutes; it was tolerable, but inconvenient, especially if, as Roommate said, you want to “get your drink on” in between acts.
Popped up the tent, and then took tent #2 and hiked to the open camping site. Open camping is much closer to CenterRoo, but it is first come, first served, and my midday on Thursday it looked like a refugee camp. The idea was that I would camp at Open Camping and Roommate would camp by the car, but it became pretty clear to me early on that I was not going to feel comfortable sleeping alone in such a crowded space. This served up some pretty hearty conflict between Roommate and I for the remainder of the festival, as I moved into his tent. I do feel bad about imposing upon him, but in my defense I stand by the fact that Open Camping is no place for a woman alone. I don’t mean to play the gender card, but he didn’t get it.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #2: If you don’t mind a postage stamp sized piece of real estate, Open Camping is a great alternative to staying with your car. Get there early. Be prepared to lug your gear close to a mile. The smart folks brought dollies or wagons to pull their gear. As soon as you get there, make sure you stake your claim on all of the space that you need. Anything not taken up by a tent is free space for another Roo-er. I recommend a tent and a separate shade canopy no matter where you camp. That way you have both a sleeping space and a hang-out space. Bring a good flashlight because at night the place is a maze of tent stakes and people.
The first night, we cooked out steaks and veggie skewers. Everyone who walked by our tent ogled our meal. Amazing what two pieces of meat and sticks of mushrooms, peppers, and onions will inspire in people; we were the envy of our ‘hood. The third night we drunkenly cooked up some hot dogs. That was the extent of our camp-cooking experience.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #3: As your site location is a bit of a crap-shoot, don’t plan on many meals at home-base. I brought the makings for iced coffee but the milk spoiled by day 2. Powdered milk would have been a better option. Breakfast eaters might be better served by home cooking but neither I nor Roommate are big on breakfast. We brought fruit for light snacks in the morning. Lots of beer and wine and alcohol. A 24-pack of water served us for the entire trip, but next time I’ll probably bring two. It wasn’t unusual for me to drink three bottles before even setting out for CenterRoo in the morning.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #4: Bonnaroo is a joy for low-maintenance people. It’s probably hell for high-maintenance people. I sweat buckets and buckets. Suffered a bit of heat exhaustion one day. I was dirty ALWAYS. I have blisters you could bounce quarters off of. I spent too much money. I felt overwhelmed by options much of the time. But as I said, I had a blast. That being said, I am relatively low-maintenance. I am also brushing up against the age when I will no longer be quite so low-maintenance. In the not-so-distant future, I may only consider Bonnaroo if I can (A) pay for VIP tickets or (B) rent a camper.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #5: Things I brought and forgot:
Things I brought: A box of antibacterial hand-wipes that served as our “shower” all four days. It’s amazing the difference that three or four of those will make to your dirty, dusty body. I felt dirty all the time, but at least I went to bed feeling relatively fresh. Gatorade, while yucky, does a better job of hydrating you in the morning than plain water. I froze three bottles before leaving and they helped keep the cooler cold and helped me feel better in the morning.
Things I forgot: A big jug for water—I could have filled it at water stations and actually washed off properly. A camp shower would have been ideal. A bathing suit for aforementioned camp shower. Grilling tools—simple whoopsie on my part. A shade tent—definitely a must for hanging out outside and even for providing additional shade for the tent which turned into a broiler by 8am.
We left Roo around 11am on Monday, long after the traffic had died down, but it still took us an hour to get on the highway. I don’t know the answer to that; I doubt that there is one.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #1: Although there is conflicting information on the web, it seems as though it doesn’t make a hugo difference what time you arrive. Within a few hours of arriving I heard people complaining that they’d gotten there super-early and that latecomers were getting better sites—that the Roo folks appeared to be filling the campsites from back to front. Our walk from site to CenterRoo took around 20+ minutes; it was tolerable, but inconvenient, especially if, as Roommate said, you want to “get your drink on” in between acts.
Popped up the tent, and then took tent #2 and hiked to the open camping site. Open camping is much closer to CenterRoo, but it is first come, first served, and my midday on Thursday it looked like a refugee camp. The idea was that I would camp at Open Camping and Roommate would camp by the car, but it became pretty clear to me early on that I was not going to feel comfortable sleeping alone in such a crowded space. This served up some pretty hearty conflict between Roommate and I for the remainder of the festival, as I moved into his tent. I do feel bad about imposing upon him, but in my defense I stand by the fact that Open Camping is no place for a woman alone. I don’t mean to play the gender card, but he didn’t get it.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #2: If you don’t mind a postage stamp sized piece of real estate, Open Camping is a great alternative to staying with your car. Get there early. Be prepared to lug your gear close to a mile. The smart folks brought dollies or wagons to pull their gear. As soon as you get there, make sure you stake your claim on all of the space that you need. Anything not taken up by a tent is free space for another Roo-er. I recommend a tent and a separate shade canopy no matter where you camp. That way you have both a sleeping space and a hang-out space. Bring a good flashlight because at night the place is a maze of tent stakes and people.
The first night, we cooked out steaks and veggie skewers. Everyone who walked by our tent ogled our meal. Amazing what two pieces of meat and sticks of mushrooms, peppers, and onions will inspire in people; we were the envy of our ‘hood. The third night we drunkenly cooked up some hot dogs. That was the extent of our camp-cooking experience.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #3: As your site location is a bit of a crap-shoot, don’t plan on many meals at home-base. I brought the makings for iced coffee but the milk spoiled by day 2. Powdered milk would have been a better option. Breakfast eaters might be better served by home cooking but neither I nor Roommate are big on breakfast. We brought fruit for light snacks in the morning. Lots of beer and wine and alcohol. A 24-pack of water served us for the entire trip, but next time I’ll probably bring two. It wasn’t unusual for me to drink three bottles before even setting out for CenterRoo in the morning.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #4: Bonnaroo is a joy for low-maintenance people. It’s probably hell for high-maintenance people. I sweat buckets and buckets. Suffered a bit of heat exhaustion one day. I was dirty ALWAYS. I have blisters you could bounce quarters off of. I spent too much money. I felt overwhelmed by options much of the time. But as I said, I had a blast. That being said, I am relatively low-maintenance. I am also brushing up against the age when I will no longer be quite so low-maintenance. In the not-so-distant future, I may only consider Bonnaroo if I can (A) pay for VIP tickets or (B) rent a camper.
Lou’s Roo Camping Tip #5: Things I brought and forgot:
Things I brought: A box of antibacterial hand-wipes that served as our “shower” all four days. It’s amazing the difference that three or four of those will make to your dirty, dusty body. I felt dirty all the time, but at least I went to bed feeling relatively fresh. Gatorade, while yucky, does a better job of hydrating you in the morning than plain water. I froze three bottles before leaving and they helped keep the cooler cold and helped me feel better in the morning.
Things I forgot: A big jug for water—I could have filled it at water stations and actually washed off properly. A camp shower would have been ideal. A bathing suit for aforementioned camp shower. Grilling tools—simple whoopsie on my part. A shade tent—definitely a must for hanging out outside and even for providing additional shade for the tent which turned into a broiler by 8am.
We left Roo around 11am on Monday, long after the traffic had died down, but it still took us an hour to get on the highway. I don’t know the answer to that; I doubt that there is one.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007-- An Alternate Universe
On Saturday morning, Roommate and I sat at the New Moon coffee shop tent in CenterRoo and met some of the people who worked there. One of the guys said that it was his second Bonnaroo and that he explained the event to his friends as being “like an Amsterdam in the US for four days.” That’s the best description of the Bonnaroo environment that I’ve heard. Note that he said this as he lit up a bowl and commented that he could still taste last night’s opium in it.
Drug use is overt and ubiquitous at Bonnaroo. Back in the day when I was in college, I had a couple of friends who dealt pot, but most were casual users and normally so broke that the most they could hope to score was a dime-bag from time to time.
While waiting in line for the Flight of the Conchords/Demitri Martin show, I watched as the girls behind us lit up a joint as thick as my thumb and smoked the whole thing down to the nubbins in fifteen minutes. No single “drug” moment struck me more than that. Had my college friends gotten their hands on a joint that fat, they would have taken two hits, stubbed it out, and pocketed it for another day—or at least a couple hours later. When we arrived at Bonnaroo, we saw cars pulled over and bags of pot the size of small pillowcases confiscated. Clearly it was mostly for show (and an instance of profiling in the extreme—our car was barely examined).
Only 46 arrests were recorded at Bonnaroo (and we saw one of them, an unruly man pinned down by no fewer than three security folks on the second day), so anything goes and anything for the most part goes unpunished at Bonnaroo.
People are definitely friendlier at Bonnaroo. The official Bonnaroo website encourages attendees to reach out to people, to make new friends, to ask questions. And that’s a fantastic thing. We didn’t make any lasting friends this year—partly because I’m such an introvert—but we did have some wonderful conversations.
Varying degrees of nudity is popular at Bonnaroo. And frankly, back when I was a wee 98 lbs, not so many years ago, I might have taken part. (And this depresses me a little; I like to think I’m of the “be-proud-of-your-body-type” feminist camp, but all the cute, wee young women in sarongs and duct-taped or body-painted nipples intimidated).
My one teeny concession to this atmosphere was that I let the girls fly free for a few days. It may not seem like such a big deal, but once upon a time there was probably a young Lou much like me who prayed very hard to Our Lady of Perpetual Endowment in hopes of being granted giant bazooms. Unfortunately, Our Lady must have been a bit distracted because I was granted said bazooms instead of that girl. Bazooms that have continued to expand even into my early thirties such that I can no longer buy OTC bras. (More likely these bazooms were a gift from my grandmother, who, after seeing me in a bathing suit when I was 12, said, “I’m so sorry. You inherited got my boobs. You’ll have grooves in your shoulders where your bra straps rub by the time you’re thirty.” She was off by 5 years.) Women are generally ingrained with the knowledge that big floppy breasts are not a sight to behold, but gravity (who is a “harsh mistress” *The Tick) has been relatively kind to me, and it felt like a million bucks to be fancy free for a couple of days.
Yeah, yeah. Lou’s a hippy.
Drug use is overt and ubiquitous at Bonnaroo. Back in the day when I was in college, I had a couple of friends who dealt pot, but most were casual users and normally so broke that the most they could hope to score was a dime-bag from time to time.
While waiting in line for the Flight of the Conchords/Demitri Martin show, I watched as the girls behind us lit up a joint as thick as my thumb and smoked the whole thing down to the nubbins in fifteen minutes. No single “drug” moment struck me more than that. Had my college friends gotten their hands on a joint that fat, they would have taken two hits, stubbed it out, and pocketed it for another day—or at least a couple hours later. When we arrived at Bonnaroo, we saw cars pulled over and bags of pot the size of small pillowcases confiscated. Clearly it was mostly for show (and an instance of profiling in the extreme—our car was barely examined).
Only 46 arrests were recorded at Bonnaroo (and we saw one of them, an unruly man pinned down by no fewer than three security folks on the second day), so anything goes and anything for the most part goes unpunished at Bonnaroo.
People are definitely friendlier at Bonnaroo. The official Bonnaroo website encourages attendees to reach out to people, to make new friends, to ask questions. And that’s a fantastic thing. We didn’t make any lasting friends this year—partly because I’m such an introvert—but we did have some wonderful conversations.
Varying degrees of nudity is popular at Bonnaroo. And frankly, back when I was a wee 98 lbs, not so many years ago, I might have taken part. (And this depresses me a little; I like to think I’m of the “be-proud-of-your-body-type” feminist camp, but all the cute, wee young women in sarongs and duct-taped or body-painted nipples intimidated).
My one teeny concession to this atmosphere was that I let the girls fly free for a few days. It may not seem like such a big deal, but once upon a time there was probably a young Lou much like me who prayed very hard to Our Lady of Perpetual Endowment in hopes of being granted giant bazooms. Unfortunately, Our Lady must have been a bit distracted because I was granted said bazooms instead of that girl. Bazooms that have continued to expand even into my early thirties such that I can no longer buy OTC bras. (More likely these bazooms were a gift from my grandmother, who, after seeing me in a bathing suit when I was 12, said, “I’m so sorry. You inherited got my boobs. You’ll have grooves in your shoulders where your bra straps rub by the time you’re thirty.” She was off by 5 years.) Women are generally ingrained with the knowledge that big floppy breasts are not a sight to behold, but gravity (who is a “harsh mistress” *The Tick) has been relatively kind to me, and it felt like a million bucks to be fancy free for a couple of days.
Yeah, yeah. Lou’s a hippy.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007-- Thursday Line-Up
New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars: Had to hometown represent. Always fun.
David Cross, Aziz Ansari, and Nick Kroll (Comedy tent): Nick Kroll, soon to be of the Geico Cavemen TV sitcom, opened the show as his Fabrice Fabrice character who would have been patently offensive if he hadn’t picked out a hipster, instamatic camera wielding hipster named Crunchy out of the audience and dicked around with her considerably. (I have a low tolerance for gay stereotype comedy.). At the very least, he’s talented on-the-spot. Aziz Ansari, of the MTV show Human Giant, was much funnier. Both joined David Cross onstage for a Blue Collar Comedy parody called “You Might be a Deadneck.” “You might be a Deadneck if… you hackysack, but only with white people… you wear your Widespread Panic shirt to a tractor pull…” Cross’s best moments were improvised, lambasting the stereotypes of Bonnaroo people as rich white girls in dreadlocks singing “Buffalo Soldier,” mocking the weird comedy stage, and complaining (rightly so) that if you listened very closely, it sounded like there was a heavy metal band playing right next door. Cross didn’t disappoint. The others, eh.
Yard Dogs Road Show: One of the best venues of the entire event was the new Bonna Rouge stage. Headlined by the Yard Dogs Road Show out of San Francisco, the Bonna Rouge stage offered cabaret-style entertainment. Yard Dogs featured fantastic vaudeville jazz and burlesque. Stunning stuff.
David Cross, Aziz Ansari, and Nick Kroll (Comedy tent): Nick Kroll, soon to be of the Geico Cavemen TV sitcom, opened the show as his Fabrice Fabrice character who would have been patently offensive if he hadn’t picked out a hipster, instamatic camera wielding hipster named Crunchy out of the audience and dicked around with her considerably. (I have a low tolerance for gay stereotype comedy.). At the very least, he’s talented on-the-spot. Aziz Ansari, of the MTV show Human Giant, was much funnier. Both joined David Cross onstage for a Blue Collar Comedy parody called “You Might be a Deadneck.” “You might be a Deadneck if… you hackysack, but only with white people… you wear your Widespread Panic shirt to a tractor pull…” Cross’s best moments were improvised, lambasting the stereotypes of Bonnaroo people as rich white girls in dreadlocks singing “Buffalo Soldier,” mocking the weird comedy stage, and complaining (rightly so) that if you listened very closely, it sounded like there was a heavy metal band playing right next door. Cross didn’t disappoint. The others, eh.
Yard Dogs Road Show: One of the best venues of the entire event was the new Bonna Rouge stage. Headlined by the Yard Dogs Road Show out of San Francisco, the Bonna Rouge stage offered cabaret-style entertainment. Yard Dogs featured fantastic vaudeville jazz and burlesque. Stunning stuff.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007-- Friday Line-Up
The Little Ones: I missed their big performance the day before, but caught them at a smaller stage on Friday. One of the true pleasures of Bonnaroo was catching snippets of bands I’d never heard of before and falling in love. The Little Ones was the first of these. Joyful, fantastic music.
Uncle Earl: A four-woman bluegrass group who recently recorded an album produced by John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin. Great stuff. I’d never heard it before. When JPJ took the stage to play the mandolin as a surprise guest, it was a genuine thrill. Later, he played with Gillian Welsh, and he apparently bopped around the bluegrass shows all weekend long.
Paulo Nutini: Started off a bit dull, but as soon as Roomate left to check out another show, he kicked it up. Played a great cover of Moby’s “Natural Blues.”
Gillian Welch: Sounded just like I hoped she would, like an angel. Won me at the first song, “Orphan Girl.” John Paul Jones guested. The only rain during the entire event occurred during her show.
Kings of Leon: Boring and repetitive. My opinion, though, was clearly in the minority.
Lily Allen: See Best Of
Firecracker Jazz Band: See Best Of
Angel and the Love Mongers: In the tiny Troo Music Tent, this Knoxville band was so good that for the first three or four songs, I was sure they were playing covers. Lead singer is a former model and actor, and his on-stage strutting and preening and pouting seemed a parody of rockstar-dom. But, alas, he was dead serious. Still and all, his voice made up for the silliness, and the whole set led Roommate to comment “there weren’t bands like this when I lived in Knoxville” on several occasions.
Uncle Earl: A four-woman bluegrass group who recently recorded an album produced by John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin. Great stuff. I’d never heard it before. When JPJ took the stage to play the mandolin as a surprise guest, it was a genuine thrill. Later, he played with Gillian Welsh, and he apparently bopped around the bluegrass shows all weekend long.
Paulo Nutini: Started off a bit dull, but as soon as Roomate left to check out another show, he kicked it up. Played a great cover of Moby’s “Natural Blues.”
Gillian Welch: Sounded just like I hoped she would, like an angel. Won me at the first song, “Orphan Girl.” John Paul Jones guested. The only rain during the entire event occurred during her show.
Kings of Leon: Boring and repetitive. My opinion, though, was clearly in the minority.
Lily Allen: See Best Of
Firecracker Jazz Band: See Best Of
Angel and the Love Mongers: In the tiny Troo Music Tent, this Knoxville band was so good that for the first three or four songs, I was sure they were playing covers. Lead singer is a former model and actor, and his on-stage strutting and preening and pouting seemed a parody of rockstar-dom. But, alas, he was dead serious. Still and all, his voice made up for the silliness, and the whole set led Roommate to comment “there weren’t bands like this when I lived in Knoxville” on several occasions.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007-- Saturday Line-Up
Old Crow Medicine Show: Saw them in 2006 at JazzFest, and that small stage was such a better venue for their old-timey sound. Still a great show.
Alexa Ray Joel: Girl’s got pipes! So nice to see celebrity spawn who has something to offer beyond her lineage. She’s cute as a button, and if you bumped into Alexa Ray at a party, you’d immediately snark to your best friend, “She’s adorable, but she looks like Billy Joel with braids.” Good original tunes, but it was a bit unnerving that she’d introduce each song saying, “This is my Ray Charles-y song” or “This is my Dolly Parton number” and it would be.
Gogol Bordello: Sounds like the party band for Johnny Rotten’s bar mitzvah. I listened to the first two and the last two songs. The last two were better than the first. Wish I had actually seen the band. Fountains of Wayne commented that they had a “naked” lead singer and dancing girls. Damn being short.
Fountains of Wayne: See Best Of
Damien Rice: See Best Of
Flight of the Conchords/ Demitri Martin: The women in line behind us commented that Demitri Martin was the boy they wanted to take home to their mothers. He’s not my type, but I get it. Old school, one-liner kind of comedy. Most of it was hilarious, but some jokes were met with a chorus of “huh?” Finished out the set with a hilarious song of a litany of insults called “You vs. Me.” Surprising lack of audience response to the final insult: “You: George Bush/ Me: Your place in history.” And what is one to make of New Zealand’s Flight of the Conchords, this folk band comedy act picks up where Spinal Tap left off 20 years ago… sort of. I’m waiting to see their HBO show to render my final verdict. Had some good belly laughs at songs like “Part-Time Model” and was surprised at how many audience members knew their stuff well enough to call out song requests. Also surprised at how many people left after a song or two. Not for everyone, clearly.
Police: Saw Sting at JazzFest a few years back, and no offense at all to the rock gods that complete the Police, but you could replace Axel Rose with Sting in Guns N Roses, have them play “Roxanne,” and I probably wouldn’t know the difference. Still and all, good stuff.
Alexa Ray Joel: Girl’s got pipes! So nice to see celebrity spawn who has something to offer beyond her lineage. She’s cute as a button, and if you bumped into Alexa Ray at a party, you’d immediately snark to your best friend, “She’s adorable, but she looks like Billy Joel with braids.” Good original tunes, but it was a bit unnerving that she’d introduce each song saying, “This is my Ray Charles-y song” or “This is my Dolly Parton number” and it would be.
Gogol Bordello: Sounds like the party band for Johnny Rotten’s bar mitzvah. I listened to the first two and the last two songs. The last two were better than the first. Wish I had actually seen the band. Fountains of Wayne commented that they had a “naked” lead singer and dancing girls. Damn being short.
Fountains of Wayne: See Best Of
Damien Rice: See Best Of
Flight of the Conchords/ Demitri Martin: The women in line behind us commented that Demitri Martin was the boy they wanted to take home to their mothers. He’s not my type, but I get it. Old school, one-liner kind of comedy. Most of it was hilarious, but some jokes were met with a chorus of “huh?” Finished out the set with a hilarious song of a litany of insults called “You vs. Me.” Surprising lack of audience response to the final insult: “You: George Bush/ Me: Your place in history.” And what is one to make of New Zealand’s Flight of the Conchords, this folk band comedy act picks up where Spinal Tap left off 20 years ago… sort of. I’m waiting to see their HBO show to render my final verdict. Had some good belly laughs at songs like “Part-Time Model” and was surprised at how many audience members knew their stuff well enough to call out song requests. Also surprised at how many people left after a song or two. Not for everyone, clearly.
Police: Saw Sting at JazzFest a few years back, and no offense at all to the rock gods that complete the Police, but you could replace Axel Rose with Sting in Guns N Roses, have them play “Roxanne,” and I probably wouldn’t know the difference. Still and all, good stuff.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007- Sunday Line-Up
Don Byron featuring Chris Thomas King: See Best Of
Wolfmother: Roommate loved it. I thought it was just… loud.
Charlie Louvin: See Best Of
Elvis Perkins in Dearland: The Bonnaroo guide made it sound like Perkins’ music would make you want to jump off a tall cliff, but I found the set joyful and fun. The band looks like a bunch of B-grade 70’s porn stars, except for the drummer who, mid-set, strapped on a bass drum and pranced around the stage like Puck. I’ll definitely look to pick up a CD soon.
Miss Lolly Pop’s Burlesque Coterie and Sideshow Bennie Experience: I’ve never seen women strip to pasties and be so wholly unsexy. Not even on in a cheap Bourbon Street club where the low lights barely hide the women’s stretch marks and C-section scars. The one exception was Miss Monica Honeybush, who’d clearly done her homework for her old-fashioned formal-wear gloves to skivvies strip tease. She got her tassels twirling like ceiling fans on high. Sideshow Bennie was a bit more entertaining, shoving screwdrivers up his nose and swinging four (!!!!) irons from his nipple rings.
Wilco: See Best Of
White Stripes: Couldn’t see them for the crowd. The audience would have been much better served had the White Stripes appeared on the big stage with the video screens (aren’t they a visual act, too, in the end?). Great music, but I pouted for hours because they didn’t play the “Doorbell” song. Damn them.
Wolfmother: Roommate loved it. I thought it was just… loud.
Charlie Louvin: See Best Of
Elvis Perkins in Dearland: The Bonnaroo guide made it sound like Perkins’ music would make you want to jump off a tall cliff, but I found the set joyful and fun. The band looks like a bunch of B-grade 70’s porn stars, except for the drummer who, mid-set, strapped on a bass drum and pranced around the stage like Puck. I’ll definitely look to pick up a CD soon.
Miss Lolly Pop’s Burlesque Coterie and Sideshow Bennie Experience: I’ve never seen women strip to pasties and be so wholly unsexy. Not even on in a cheap Bourbon Street club where the low lights barely hide the women’s stretch marks and C-section scars. The one exception was Miss Monica Honeybush, who’d clearly done her homework for her old-fashioned formal-wear gloves to skivvies strip tease. She got her tassels twirling like ceiling fans on high. Sideshow Bennie was a bit more entertaining, shoving screwdrivers up his nose and swinging four (!!!!) irons from his nipple rings.
Wilco: See Best Of
White Stripes: Couldn’t see them for the crowd. The audience would have been much better served had the White Stripes appeared on the big stage with the video screens (aren’t they a visual act, too, in the end?). Great music, but I pouted for hours because they didn’t play the “Doorbell” song. Damn them.
Loueyville SE: Bonnaroo 2007-- Best Of
Fountains of Wayne: John Roderick of the band The Long Winters called Fountains of Wayne an “Absolutely Perfect Rock Band” in his blog report from Bonnaroo. (yeah, I know, “if he could do it why couldn’t Lou?) Amen and then some. One of the few sets I listened to from beginning to end, FOW proved themselves to be pretty damned perfect. Playing a good 50% of their stellar Welcome Interstate Managers album, the band began with a canned feed from a New Jersey radio station announcing the weather and traffic information for any given morning in the tri-state area. You just got to love a band that says, “Because we’re playing in Tennessee, it’s in our contract that we play a country song. We’re going to play one by Kenny Chesney. We were going to ask Kenny to guest for us, but we don’t know him. And regardless, he’s busy sucking somewhere else.” Easily making my “best of” list, FOW made me laugh, made me dance like a crazy person, and made me want to kick the asses of the lethargic, moribund jerks who took up space inside the tent waiting for the upcoming Ween show. I like Ween just fine, but their fans made me want to skip the show, which I did. If you can’t rock to Fountains of Wayne, there’s something wrong with you.
Lily Allen: The day after Bonnaroo, we made it to Murfreesboro, TN before konking out. I was suffering from some sort of cold/allergy brought on by the excessive dust, so we stopped in at a Target to buy some medicine. The Lily Allen cd was on sale for $9.99, so I bought it and on Tuesday we listened to it three times over on the way home. I’d heard Allen on NPR and several of her songs rang sonically familiar to me. She positively sparkled onstage; jubilant and giggly, she electrified the audience with her big band and diverse musical repertoire (ska, nola jazz, reggae, hip-hop, rock, you name it). The audience (most of it) fell in love, and so did I. But some were turned off by her brash, brat persona. She announced very early on that she was “So drunk” and preceded many of her songs with autobiographical stories about men who fucked her over and friends who turned out to be bitches. And after listening to her album several times over, I’m conflicted. She’s got a pixie beautiful voice and absolutely rocking music behind her, but her lyrics are quintessentially brat-punk. Because I loved her show so much, I want to shuttle her into the same category as Liz Phair, another brilliant, no-shit, foul-mouthed songwriter. But some of her songs are genuine turn-offs. But I can’t deny the fact that her version of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” might have been the musical highlight of Bonnaroo, and no on made me want to dance like she did.
Wilco: There ain’t nothing wrong with Wilco. Ever. Always tip-tops when it comes to performing live. They can stray down strange avenues and always make them seem like a walk through a shining neighborhood. And there’s nothing like watching Jeff Tweedy looking happy and healthy. I’ve never seen him smile so much.
Charlie Louvin: In a few weeks, Charlie Louvin will be 80 years old. I missed his big stage show, but was one of fewer than 30 people who caught him at his show at the Sonic Stage. Louvin, the surviving member of the Louvin Brothers band, is a Country Music Hall of Fame member, and funny and sweet and… randy! Obviously thrilled by the median age of his fans, Louvin commented several times that he thought that if he prayed hard enough, someone would take off her shirt. While I was in line to have him sign his new CD (duets with the likes of Elvis Costello, Jeff Tweedy, and Will Oldham), a Newbury Comics employee mentioned that Louvin said he’d “sign anything… even boobs!” We listened to the CD on the way home. Excellent purchase. His song, “Ira,” about his dead brother/bandmate made me tear up. Heartbreaking. Hard to reconcile the album’s Christian undertones with this breastloving man!
Firecracker Jazz Band: Just about the best New Orleans style jazz band that I’ve heard, in or out of New Orleans. Just one more reason that Asheville, NC is one of the most popular places for New Orleans ex-pats. Seriously worth a trip just to see them. According to their website, they don’t play out of town much.
Don Byron Featuring Chris Thomas King: We came out of this Sunday concert—the first of the day—wanting to duck back into the tent to see the band’s second show. I went because I’ve always adored the mercurial Chris Thomas King, but the whole band—every single member—was extraordinary. Don Byron plays the sax and the clarinet and was the bandleader for the event. When we left, I joked to Roommate, “This band belonged on a Cosby Show episode,” and he immediately knew what I meant. Each musician was stunningly talented, charismatic, and more than easy on the eyes. If there were any media in the poorly attended first show, surely they would have cast this as the best most-missed show at Bonnaroo. The music didn’t hold true to the schedule description (cartoon jazz?); they played well-loved funk and r&b classics like “Shotgun” and James Brown’s “There it is.” CTK was in full voice and guitarist David Gilmore could have headlined a show on his own. I’ll definitely be buying this album from Blue Note Records.
Lily Allen: The day after Bonnaroo, we made it to Murfreesboro, TN before konking out. I was suffering from some sort of cold/allergy brought on by the excessive dust, so we stopped in at a Target to buy some medicine. The Lily Allen cd was on sale for $9.99, so I bought it and on Tuesday we listened to it three times over on the way home. I’d heard Allen on NPR and several of her songs rang sonically familiar to me. She positively sparkled onstage; jubilant and giggly, she electrified the audience with her big band and diverse musical repertoire (ska, nola jazz, reggae, hip-hop, rock, you name it). The audience (most of it) fell in love, and so did I. But some were turned off by her brash, brat persona. She announced very early on that she was “So drunk” and preceded many of her songs with autobiographical stories about men who fucked her over and friends who turned out to be bitches. And after listening to her album several times over, I’m conflicted. She’s got a pixie beautiful voice and absolutely rocking music behind her, but her lyrics are quintessentially brat-punk. Because I loved her show so much, I want to shuttle her into the same category as Liz Phair, another brilliant, no-shit, foul-mouthed songwriter. But some of her songs are genuine turn-offs. But I can’t deny the fact that her version of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” might have been the musical highlight of Bonnaroo, and no on made me want to dance like she did.
Wilco: There ain’t nothing wrong with Wilco. Ever. Always tip-tops when it comes to performing live. They can stray down strange avenues and always make them seem like a walk through a shining neighborhood. And there’s nothing like watching Jeff Tweedy looking happy and healthy. I’ve never seen him smile so much.
Charlie Louvin: In a few weeks, Charlie Louvin will be 80 years old. I missed his big stage show, but was one of fewer than 30 people who caught him at his show at the Sonic Stage. Louvin, the surviving member of the Louvin Brothers band, is a Country Music Hall of Fame member, and funny and sweet and… randy! Obviously thrilled by the median age of his fans, Louvin commented several times that he thought that if he prayed hard enough, someone would take off her shirt. While I was in line to have him sign his new CD (duets with the likes of Elvis Costello, Jeff Tweedy, and Will Oldham), a Newbury Comics employee mentioned that Louvin said he’d “sign anything… even boobs!” We listened to the CD on the way home. Excellent purchase. His song, “Ira,” about his dead brother/bandmate made me tear up. Heartbreaking. Hard to reconcile the album’s Christian undertones with this breastloving man!
Firecracker Jazz Band: Just about the best New Orleans style jazz band that I’ve heard, in or out of New Orleans. Just one more reason that Asheville, NC is one of the most popular places for New Orleans ex-pats. Seriously worth a trip just to see them. According to their website, they don’t play out of town much.
Don Byron Featuring Chris Thomas King: We came out of this Sunday concert—the first of the day—wanting to duck back into the tent to see the band’s second show. I went because I’ve always adored the mercurial Chris Thomas King, but the whole band—every single member—was extraordinary. Don Byron plays the sax and the clarinet and was the bandleader for the event. When we left, I joked to Roommate, “This band belonged on a Cosby Show episode,” and he immediately knew what I meant. Each musician was stunningly talented, charismatic, and more than easy on the eyes. If there were any media in the poorly attended first show, surely they would have cast this as the best most-missed show at Bonnaroo. The music didn’t hold true to the schedule description (cartoon jazz?); they played well-loved funk and r&b classics like “Shotgun” and James Brown’s “There it is.” CTK was in full voice and guitarist David Gilmore could have headlined a show on his own. I’ll definitely be buying this album from Blue Note Records.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
stay tuned
No blogging from Bonnaroo. 90+ degrees and a 3/4 mile walk from camp to concert. Not dragging the laptop. But having a great time.
Too hot to even stay in this tent!
Note to future Roo-ers: You can never have too many Handiwipes!
Too hot to even stay in this tent!
Note to future Roo-ers: You can never have too many Handiwipes!
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Coming Soon: Lou at 'Roo
At posting time, there is 1 day, 22 hours, and 50 minutes left until Bonnaroo 2007. And this Lou will be there.
In a perfect world, I'll find the time to blog during the four-day festival. They'll have free wifi, and in theory, a place to plug in. If the stars do not align, then expect to see a Special Bonnaroo Edition of Out-of-the-Ville soon after I get back.
Stay tuned!
Waterfront Wednesdays
From April to September WFPK (91.9), one of the three public radio stations in Louisville, sponsors a free live concert on the last Wednesday of the month at Waterfront Park. The concert is listed as being from “5:00pm til dark,” but April’s concert, headlined by Los Straitjackets and May’s concert, headlined by Johnatha Brooks, both bumped up against the 11pm hour.
Waterfront Wednesdays typically features three bands with a good chunk of time to socialize between them. Vendors sell somewhat pricey, but better than your standard Bud/Miller fare, beer and cocktails as well as moderately priced yummy food. It’s cheap fun, but not cheap eats or drinks.
As a New Orleans Jazz Fest devotee, the April Waterfront Wednesday came just in time (the day before Jazz Fest 2007 opened) to slake a bit of my thirst for music al fresco. The turnout—so I discovered in May—was a bit smaller than usual, but it seemed that a large percentage of my neighborhood acquaintances were in attendance. It made it easy for me, in May, to decide to go alone when my roommate was out of town. I was sure to bump into people I knew.
I’d heard some of Los Straitjackets music before, but was tickled pink and purple to find out that they were touring with Big Sandy of the fantastic Los Angeles rockabilly band Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys, one of those bands you feel like no one but you has heard of and you’re kind of happy to have that secret. I was introduced to them, personally, by a friend in LA back in the very early 90’s. And every time I visited my friend, we’d hunt down a Big Sandy show. Since then, I don’t think I’ve missed Big Sandy if he’s come to town. I’ve seen him in Tampa, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and now Louisville.
Anyway, I’m gushing. It’s easy to do that about Big Sandy. Early in the evening, at Waterfront Wednesday, I walked past him and he smiled and waved. Later, when a friend forced me to go over and tell Sandy what a big fan I was, Sandy said, “I waved at you because you look so familiar. I know I’ve seen you before.” And my heart thumped. Dreamy. And what a nice guy.
The Sandy/Los Straitjackets show was like going to a wedding with the coolest band ever. Supporting their Rock en Espanol, Volume One album, the band played sing-a-long-recognizable tunes from the 50’s and 60’s, except that you couldn’t sing along because the words were in Spanish. I can’t do justice. From the hilariously choreographed moves of the band to their trademark Mexican Wrestling masks to Big Sandy’s on-stage theatrics, it was just what this Jazz Fest homesick girl needed.
May’s Waterfront Wednesday was on an equally beautiful day and far better attended, but the music was relatively generic and not at all the feel-good joyfest that April’s was. In this Lou’s opinion, the organizers of the event should focus on booking FUN bands. I’m thinking folks like They Might Be Giants and Barenaked Ladies. Or—sigh—Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys?
Regardless, I’ll keep going. It’s free and fun and there’s something special about being outside and listening to music with the Ohio River as a backdrop.
Coming June 27, 2007 to Waterfront Wednesdays: Mark Olson and His Band, Willy Porter, and Ultratone. Check it out at www.fpk.org.
Waterfront Wednesdays typically features three bands with a good chunk of time to socialize between them. Vendors sell somewhat pricey, but better than your standard Bud/Miller fare, beer and cocktails as well as moderately priced yummy food. It’s cheap fun, but not cheap eats or drinks.
As a New Orleans Jazz Fest devotee, the April Waterfront Wednesday came just in time (the day before Jazz Fest 2007 opened) to slake a bit of my thirst for music al fresco. The turnout—so I discovered in May—was a bit smaller than usual, but it seemed that a large percentage of my neighborhood acquaintances were in attendance. It made it easy for me, in May, to decide to go alone when my roommate was out of town. I was sure to bump into people I knew.
I’d heard some of Los Straitjackets music before, but was tickled pink and purple to find out that they were touring with Big Sandy of the fantastic Los Angeles rockabilly band Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys, one of those bands you feel like no one but you has heard of and you’re kind of happy to have that secret. I was introduced to them, personally, by a friend in LA back in the very early 90’s. And every time I visited my friend, we’d hunt down a Big Sandy show. Since then, I don’t think I’ve missed Big Sandy if he’s come to town. I’ve seen him in Tampa, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and now Louisville.
Anyway, I’m gushing. It’s easy to do that about Big Sandy. Early in the evening, at Waterfront Wednesday, I walked past him and he smiled and waved. Later, when a friend forced me to go over and tell Sandy what a big fan I was, Sandy said, “I waved at you because you look so familiar. I know I’ve seen you before.” And my heart thumped. Dreamy. And what a nice guy.
The Sandy/Los Straitjackets show was like going to a wedding with the coolest band ever. Supporting their Rock en Espanol, Volume One album, the band played sing-a-long-recognizable tunes from the 50’s and 60’s, except that you couldn’t sing along because the words were in Spanish. I can’t do justice. From the hilariously choreographed moves of the band to their trademark Mexican Wrestling masks to Big Sandy’s on-stage theatrics, it was just what this Jazz Fest homesick girl needed.
May’s Waterfront Wednesday was on an equally beautiful day and far better attended, but the music was relatively generic and not at all the feel-good joyfest that April’s was. In this Lou’s opinion, the organizers of the event should focus on booking FUN bands. I’m thinking folks like They Might Be Giants and Barenaked Ladies. Or—sigh—Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys?
Regardless, I’ll keep going. It’s free and fun and there’s something special about being outside and listening to music with the Ohio River as a backdrop.
Coming June 27, 2007 to Waterfront Wednesdays: Mark Olson and His Band, Willy Porter, and Ultratone. Check it out at www.fpk.org.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Churchill Downs Happy Hour
Friday afternoon after a long week at work, what better way to blow off steam than to yell "GO! GO! DAMMIT, RUN! RUN!" at horses that cannot hear you and may not understand English? I can't think of one. Better than going home and yelling at your kids. Better than going home and yelling at your TV. Better than hitting a happy hour at a bar and getting hit on by someone twice your age and whom you'd normally never give the time of day, but five Jaegerbombs into the evening he looks pretty good and. . . but I digress.
During race season, Churchill sponsors Friday Happy Hours, usually from 4pm-7pm. Live music. Cheap beer. Cheap hot dogs. By 5pm, it's crowded and quite the scene. Depending on when the races started, you'll get there with time to bet on at least the last five races.
$1.50 Coors (blech) or Killians (better). $1.50 hot dogs and not the weenie (pun intended) skinny ones, but the big thick ones that are anatomically disturbing. It's only $2 to get in for general admission-- and why would you want to be anywhere else?
Check the schedule at : http://www.churchilldowns.com/
During race season, Churchill sponsors Friday Happy Hours, usually from 4pm-7pm. Live music. Cheap beer. Cheap hot dogs. By 5pm, it's crowded and quite the scene. Depending on when the races started, you'll get there with time to bet on at least the last five races.
$1.50 Coors (blech) or Killians (better). $1.50 hot dogs and not the weenie (pun intended) skinny ones, but the big thick ones that are anatomically disturbing. It's only $2 to get in for general admission-- and why would you want to be anywhere else?
Check the schedule at : http://www.churchilldowns.com/
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