Okay, Maybe I am Haunted

So when I heard the news about Paul Newman today I was upset. All out of proportion upset. Not upset for the same reasons as other people were-of course, I admire his work greatly (I think his Brick in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" is just about as perfect a match of actor and character as you can find) and one can't imagine a cooler, hotter, more charitable soul than he but I was upset on behalf of someone else.



Here's where it gets complicated.

That someone else is a fictional character.



As any regular reader of this blog knows I am a huge fan of Willy Vlautin's novel, Northline. The protaganist of that book, Allison Johnson, copes with the challenging situations in her life by having imaginary conversations with Paul Newman. So, when I heard that he was sick and not expected to live much longer I kept thinking of Allison and how upset she would be when he left this world for good even though I know

1) she is a fictional character and

2) that their unique relationship wasn't bound by the physical world.

And now that he's gone I'd like nothing more than to tell her I'm sorry. I also feel like I should write Willy Vlautin though I'm not sure to say what. Maybe just to commiserate or note this passing, rather like you'd elbow someone you were skywatching with to say, "Wow, that was a bright one."



Yeah, that.

Hoist On My Own (Musical) Petard

So I was hating on DMX.

Then the playlist changed-yay! Right?

Yeah, yay until one of the songs was revealed to be, in, as my friend Carrie rightly said, a "of all the gin joints in all the world" moment, one of the songs featured on the ungiven mix (previously referenced in the "Little Deaths" post). No, not just one of the songs, the keystone song on which the rest of the mix was built.

So now, at least 2 times every workday I get to hear it and its driving beat says nothing to me so much as "loser loser loser".

Lord, how I hate DMX.

Doing the Job Right

I can cross one more off the list. In my continuing life quest to visit every Thoroughbred track in North America, Turfway Park is done. How I missed this one-in Florence, Kentucky it's just an hour away from Louisville-I don't know.

Turfway has a modest physical plant, though I'm sure it's more dressed up on Lane's End Stakes or Kentucky Cup days as opposed to a nonstakes Sunday in September. I liked that about it though. The paddock empties out into the crowd by the rail so you're as likely to walk elbow to elbow with a trainer or jockey as another race fan. The small setting makes the people watching even easier and the boot cleaners by each door leading into the grandstand reminds you of what's most important-the horses. I also liked hearing Mike Battagalia call again-he was the race announcer at Churchill Downs for years so it was like going back in time for me.

But what stuck with me most about Turfway was my pick in the fourth race, Sweet Strawberry, whose win kept me only down $4 for the day. As he came into the paddock his mane and tail were braided and he was looking his best. For those who haven't done it braiding a horse's mane and tail is a time consuming task that can take hours and I was impressed that the groom would take the time for a $7000 claimer in Race 4 on a nonstakes Sunday. It said to me that groom cares both about his job and his horse. It says he thinks, as I do, there's a right way to do a job and he chooses to do it that way. And in these cynical times I think I was as glad to see that as I was to cash a winning ticket.

Technical Difficulties, Please Stand By

I apologize to my loyal Hoyden readers for the spottiness of recent postmove posts. When I said I wanted to take my hometown by storm a Category 1 hurricane was not what I had in mind. When the remnants of Ike swept through town a week ago the resulting windstorm left 300,000 people in Louisville without power. 90,000 still don't have it a week later. Though I never lost the juice working a new job and attempting to find permanant digs in a city without power has been a challenge. More regular posts will be forthcoming.

Hating on DMX

For those of you who do not toil in the service industry first an explanation.

DMX is a music company that provides music feeds to stores and restaurants. Like a lot of things you can buy you can go as fancy (with specific playlists matched to day of the week or time of day) or cheap (one short playlist that plays repeatedly, over and over) as you like.

One guess which one my new employer chose.

The playlist is 3 hours and 49 minutes long. I know because I timed it. For the majority of the employees who are part time and work 4 hour shifts it's probably fine. By the time the playlist repeats they know it's almost time for them to leave. But for us full time types that means hearing each song at least twice with a few lucky threepeaters. For music loving me, who in an insult added to injury twist used to program the music at my last job myself, it's painful to say the least. It's an odd mix of oldies and 90s-I'm not sure what research demonstrated that hearing k.d. lang's "Miss Chatelaine" and the classic "Fill Me Up Buttercup" will want to make people buy pillows or reed diffusers but there you go.

But worse for me, the repetition forces intense contemplation of lyrics never meant for such scrutiny. Take Looking Glass' "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)". The sailors are saying Brandy is a fine girl and what a good wife she will be? Sailors? Really? I didn't think sailors were into the commitment so much. Is Brandy only 'fine' as opposed to "fiiine"? (i.e. the kind you marry not the kind you screw?) Is the whole song really one of those insults that only sounds like a compliment? And I gotta say the protaganist of The Commodores "Easy (Like Sunday Morning)" is really a total prick. Yeah, the music is all langourous, almost postcoital, but the guy is a total commitment phobic, love em and leave em jerk one the ladies should stay far, far away from.

You know the music's bad when you wake up with a different one of the playlist songs in your head every day. It's enough to make a music lover wish for holiday music. Or deafness.

The Horizon is the Portal to the Dream

I'm back!

15 years gone I am now back in my hometown-my place. I don't have a permanent address yet (though I do have DBT concert tix, cause you know a girl's got to have her priorities) but I am back.

How long before I see the wasband? Or one of the girls who called me a lesbian in high school? Or get lost in a neighborhood I used to know well? It'll be interesting to find out. Look for future posts entitled variously, "Yes, You Can Go Home Again" or "No, You Can't Go Home Again".


(title & motivating phrase kindly provided by George Pelecanos)

aka A Little Piece of Heaven Right Here on Earth

That's John King books in downtown Detroit. Four floors of bookish goodness.

Oh yeah.

Hey There Maverick

All this Republican Convention coverage makes me wonder-do real mavericks call themselves mavericks? Or is it a term, like cool or literary, that should be applied only by others?

Little Things, Little Deaths

There's been a line from a young adult book running through my head the last few days. It's from Lois Duncan's Killing Mr. Griffin. I'll leave the YA uberblogging to Lizzie Skurnik's Fine Lines column over at Jezebel (the column from a few weeks ago about Flowers in the Attic? priceless) and simply quote it. It's written by a teen girl from the point of view of Ophelia addressing the stream:





"death with you is hardly more


than all the little deaths before"





Little deaths are not a crippling blow, just those small punches that take the heart and breath right out of you, temporarily. I had a little death recently and now I am left with the little things. Little things I made or found. Little things that show, despite my fears about being lacking in the abandon department, that I was at least thinking positive, hopefully. (Of course, finding and making those things were also a way of being together when the distance was great.) Things that, because of my fear and a hunch (now proven out) that the time was not right, were never given and now never will be.

Now, as I have said before, I'm a torch carrier from way back (I love the music of Ryan Adams and James McMurtry for just that reason) and if waiting were the issue I would do that, gladly, as this person is the defination of worth waiting for. But, I am a lot less in love with useless desire than I used to be and so find myself in the thankless position of having to decide what to do with these little things. They can't be returned, it seems like a sin to throw them away and they definately can't be saved for another person (talk about bad mojo!). What could be sadder than an unheard mix? Even more than an unsent letter there's something so forlorn about it. Maybe it's some sort of ceremony that's needed, to cleanse and such.

These considerations have become more important since my last trip home, since the anvil. When attempting to get the attention of a person who speaks fluent cartoon (as any Road Runner fan can attest) an anvil is needed, and in perhaps my most fortuitous thrift find ever I actually found a tiny one. In my upset, when I was disappointed by the conversation, I threw it away which I am now regretting cause, well, life is long and you just never know when you might need one.

Morale of the story? Even if you're disappointed, KEEP THE ANVIL.