Exile on East High Street Or How I Learned to Start Drinking & Love the Stones

A while back the subject of the Rolling Stones's Exile on Main Street album came up in conversation betwixt thee JSH & JTD...here's an excerpt:

JSH: A few months ago I had a particularly satisfying argument with a table full of old Louisville hipsters over Exile on Main Street. They were all adamant that it was easily the best Stones album, and when I said I thought that award should go to Let It Bleed, they, in masse, snurled their noses and said, "No no no, it's Exile." So I said, "How does 'Loving Cup' go? Sing it. Right now." No one could. Ditto "Soul Survivor." Ditto "Let it Loose," etc.
JTD: I can sing "Loving Cup," Frank.
JSH: Well, I could too, heh
JTD: I know what you mean.
JSH: But I proved that they were only arguing on knee-jerk hipness, and they didn't really have a working understanding of the album.
JTD: Exile on Main St. has a rep that goes beyond people actually listening to it.
JSH: Precisely.

And then, my mind starts to roll back through time. See, as a teenager, I didn't listen too much to the Stones, outside of the basic "greatest hits" that were impossible to ignore via "classic rock" commercial radio (for a long time the only way I experienced the Stones via an album was a childhood buddy's copy of Sticky Fingers). I self-educated (or perhaps more appropriately self-medicated) myself in the Stones more as a man (or more appropriately, man-child) in my early twenties, when I had started to amass the sufficient amount of heart-ache, hangovers, and early dreams seeming already deferred.

Growing up, I was a bit of a reactionary, in a music-taste sense. With ears surrounded by the dreck of eighties pop country (I was born in 1976), I turned against "country music" (I was ignorant, as it wasn't around much, of most decent country). But arriving from the sticks of Jackson County to the "big city" of Lexington, and putting time in as a dj at WRFL, I drifted more and more towards an interest in jazz, specifically the history of it. Jazz led me to investigate the history of the blues. Which then led to rockabilly. And from rockabilly, I began more and more to reveal to myself the real story and sounds of country music, which then led me to cease being a "self-hating hillbilly."

I also met JSH in this period (actually, slightly before I relocated to Lex). Once he handed a copy of Nick Tosches's Country book, the death nail had been struck (in the forming of the predispositions that largely carry through 'till today). Brian Manley and I would go on to inherit his Late Late Show format and moniker at WRFL, the station's equivalent of "oldies" programming, a show which imposed no limitations on itself other than to not play music made past 1969 ("1869 to 1969," was our motto).

At this juncture, I was finally ready to hear the Stones. I was buying a good chunk of my music on vinyl, a collector, and this was how I began to truly experience the Stones catalogue. Not finding Exile on vinyl, which I knew almost exclusively by reputation, I picked up a compact disc remastered/reissue, which quickly went into personal heavy rotation.

I listened to it most at this little studio apartment I had for a couple of years on East High Street. I had moved into it after the dissolution of an affair with an artist chick ten years my senior. I experienced heartbreak. Or what I then thought of as heartbreak, least ways.

While living in this apartment, I got cozy with an underage gal (one has to play various angles), I got laid, I got stabbed, waited a night out in jail, I worked various jobs, including a part-time stint at a porn store. I drank, I wrote, I drew in my sketchbooks, I sold original art on eBay, I played "drinking UNO" with Brian Manley (who worked full time at the aforementioned porn store), I did some poetry readings, I played rock and roll, I met Hasil Adkins, I met Sexton Ming, I told a few lies, as well as a few truths, I took my phone calls, when the phone wasn't turned off, on an old heavy-duty rotary phone that doubled as a self-defense weapon (JSH called me one night, the electricity had been cut off, and the answer to his question, "What are you doing?" was answered, "Just drawing mutants by candlelight," a phrase, which altered to "Mutants by Candlelight" became the name of my one-man show at the now defunct Magic Beans coffee shop). I mostly drank.

While it might have helped my understanding of Exile, I never shot heroin in this place (never did get into that, heroin...like the guy in the New York Dolls sang, "I didn't come here lookin' for no fix"). Although a buddy did, shoot up that is, in the bathroom, which he later apologized for (he was supposedly clean), although I didn't even notice at the time (you see, I was drunk).

I recall that the way Exile worked for me is that I would usually throw it on early in the evening to preface a night out drinking and carousing. Downing a few beers and/or shots, to grease the old wheels. "Rocks Off," "Rip This Joint," & "Hip Shake" (the first three tracks) were the way to get a night of debauchery started. If I made it to "Tumbling Dice," I got a strong sense of the implicit gambling, my own toss of the dice into the evening.

I've read criticisms that the album is murky, and, yeah, I agree, but I would also postulate that the album is about murk and that's the point, pilgrims...it's murky music for murky people. I would imagine that those who level this criticism have perhaps not spent one-too-many nights haunting the dark chambers of the soul.

I would normally pause the CD after the first few tracks, knowing that if I made it back to the apartment alone, I would indeed hit play, pick up where I left off, and continue to inebriatededly absorb the album. If one makes it to the second half of the double album, "Happy" can pick up the spirits. Maybe one indeed feels like a "Turd on the Run." You may be drunk and/or blue enough to speak the language of "Ventilator Blues," drunk enough to no longer talk about Jesus; you "Just Wanna See His Face." One may wish to "Stop Breaking Down," even if the inevitability is unavoidable, despite Mick's admonitions. After you, "Shine A Light," despite all the amputations, you can perhaps be christened finally, a "Soul Survivor."

I lost the compact disc version somewhere in my further travels. Did I sell or trade it in a moment of weakness? Let some young lass with shapely gams borrow it, not to be returned? So for quite a few years I lived without Exile On Main Street. Then, last December, while in, of all places, Oahu, I picked up a used vinyl copy, which, brought back to the mainland in my carry-on bag, has again returned the sounds of Exile back into my life.

These days, it serves a purpose for all occasions, seemingly suitable for a sober afternoon's meditation. Alternately, I enjoy it while drinking, either swimming in the murk of my own private reminiscence and speculation, or as a fine background soundtrack for sharing a "Loving Cup" with pallies. As that song states, "I'd love to spill the beans with you 'till dawn." I am currently prone to repeatedly listening to side 2 of Exile like I'm autistic. Even more autistic, specifically side 2, track 2. "Torn & Frayed" is my current theme song. 'Cause, literally and figuratively, my coat indeed, just like the song goes, "has seen much better days."

Some days I may prefer Goats Head Soup or Sticky Fingers, I may side with JSH's Let it Bleed choice, or even some days Tattoo You, and then some days it's Some Girls. Out of Our Heads, anyone? Beggars Banquet? Between the Buttons? I could go on, but Exile, as a whole, not just individual tracks, is the tall glass of water to which I can endlessly return and drink of its nuanced elixir; it's the sustenance that can alternately shove me under and get me over countless emotions, various (if not in fact countless) ups & downs. And I don't care who knows it. "Make every song your favorite tune," Jack.

And, again, I can sing "Loving Cup," Frank.


- - JTD

Stammheimer Hopfenschnupf

I worship Stammheimer Hopfenschnupf.

No, Stammheimer Hopfenschnupf isn't an obscure Wagnerian opera singer from 1918, nor is it an experimental World War II aircraft, but rather the newest taste treat for my sinuses. It's a dry snuff (you know, real snuff, the kind you actually sniff) imported from Germany and containing delicious Stammheimer beer hops.

Though I'm enamored of all the other snuffs in my collection, especially Wilson's Irish High Toast, this hoppy German confection is the ultimate for me. It pairs perfectly with Duvel, my Belgian ale of choice. A fella could have a pretty good weekend in Butchertown with all that stuff. Throw a Dirt cigar in there too and then you got somethin'.

(What, I hear you cry, huff powdered tobacco and smoke a cigar at the same time? Oh hell yes. Life is good.)

I ordered mine from the British outfit Snuff Store and was quite pleased with their lightning-fast service, but a poster on the Snuffhouse forum notes that you can now get it stateside from Mr. Snuff.

- - JSH

The Black Oil

God, I love this planet. Where else in this spiral arm of the galaxy are you going to find a decadent item like this?

I'm a sucker for any beer that takes itself so seriously that it comes in a box. And if each bottle is individually numbered - as this one is - all the finer. And the price definitely commands attention - I never dreamed I'd ever pay eighteen bucks for a tiny eleven-ounce bottle of beer.

So what is this elixir, and what's so special about it? It's a whiskey-cask-aged brew called Ola Dubh, which is Scottish Gaelic for "Black Oil" (As an X-Files aficionado, I couldn't pass up a name like that anyway). Its monicker is an apt one: the box actually describes it as "gloopy and viscous", and their website actually likens it to "used motor oil". Now THAT'S my kinda beer!

And they wasn't kiddin'. The dark beers don't get no darker than this here dark beer. Guinness, by comparison, is simply dark brown, but Ola Dubh really is BLACK, blacker than Coca-Cola, blacker than 10W40, blacker than a goth chickie's hair. The taste is a delicious punch in the snozz, but it's deceptively silky smooth since it's actually an ale; it just looks like a stout.

The packaging is slightly misleading, I have to say - Ola Dubh is offered in 12-year, 16-year, and 30-year variants, and I first thought that meant that the ale itself had been maturing in a whiskey cask for 30 years. Alas, such is not the case - the age refers to that of the whiskey whose cask the ale was in. Fair enough; it's still amazingly amazing.

Partially because of the intensity of the stuff, and partially because it's too expensive not to savor slowly, I sipped it from a shot glass. You want "notes"? I'll give you "notes". I tasted hints of moldy firewood, grill scrapings, carburetor buildup, pork rinds, lighter fluid, charred gristle, streethooker backwash, livery stables, box matches, attic dust, Old English furniture polish, and a burning doghouse.

I dug it.

I only got one bottle of the stuff, so I can't really speak at length about its buzz factor, but I get the feeling one could get powerfully and mystically endrunkenated on the Black Oil if you had the scratch to splash on several boxes worth. Next time I get some, I think it would be cost-effective and buzz-enhancing to stretch it out by doing boilermakers with shots of Black Oil and something like Ommegeddon. (But strictly old-school "beer and a shot", Bunk-and-Jimmy style, not those "depth charge" frat boy party tricks.)

- - JSH

JSH's Supermarket Finds: "Self Heating Cocoa"

I happened to spy this here cocoa on a big endcap display at the Wally-mart t'other day. It was a cold crisp morning, a hot cocoa sounded good, and I grabbed it without even looking closely at it.

Then I realized it said "Self Heating Cocoa."

Self heating?? So, how does THAT work? Hmmm. Then I realized that one full fourth of the can was devoted to disclaimers and warnings...


Do not microwave. Okay. Do not pour out. Well, that's kind of strange, isn't it? Why can't I pour it out if I want to? I mean, it's my cocoa, Goddamnit. Place on heat-proof surface. Wow, how hot does this thing get? If it gets so hot that the bottom of it could burn something, how I am supposed to hold the ding-dang thang? Tampering with container may result in accidental contact with heating materials. Okay, now you're just getting scary, Mr. Can. So there's both cocoa and some kind of corrosive substance sharing a can, like the night, together? That's just wrong.

And then there's the mysterious "pink spot". It says here that the tamper-proof cap will not turn unless the pink spot has turned white. Even more spookily oracular is the warning "If pink spot stays pink, do not drink". Uh-oh. Is this cocoa or a pregnancy test?


Then there's the actual instructions on how to operate this here crazy steampunk Interzone cocoa. First, you turn it upside down and pull off the foil from the bottom. Check. Second, while upside down, "drain green water from heating chamber by firmly pushing white button into can". Wait, what?

Then you shake it gently for five seconds, and then you monitor the pink spot closely. When the pink spot turns white, your cocoa is safe to drink. Then it repeats the admonition not to drink the cocoa - not to even open the can - if the pink spot does not turn white.


On the lid, we have another urgent warning that you must NOT pour the cocoa out. This is still the most troubling aspect of this Star Trek hot chocolate for me. What happens if you do pour it out? Does it explode? Will you upset the green water, or offend the pink spot?

By the time I'd read the whole owner's manual for the damn beverage, I was convinced there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell I was going to mess with this stuff. But I bought it anyway, and keep it on a shelf in my kitchen to serve as a constant reminder of John Titor's prediction that 2008 was roughly the year in which people would start to realize that the world we are living in is not the one in which we thought we were living in.


- - JSH

The Prisoner is Number One

Let's be clear about one thing: Winespeak is a hoax.

There, I said it. I'm taking the cowardly way out and saying it in a blog so that I can continue holding my tongue and refraining from telling you you're a moron when you take a sip of some cheap package-store crap and thoughtfully exclaim, "you know, the delicate balance of the charcoal, elderberry, leather, and bergamot notes serve to balance the gentle blend of syrah, zin, and cab. I also detect grassy, earthy notes of burnt cedar, wheatstraw, toasted almond, and pine tar; effervescent yet sullen, incandescent yet demure."

Leonard S. Bernstein also gives the game away in his book The Official Guide to Wine Snobbery:

"You are sure to be regarded as a first-class wine snob if you discern the aroma of violets in a red wine. Naturally, you make much of this, exhibiting considerable excitement and, of course, conviction. Conviction above all else; after all, who can contradict you? The best they can say is that they do not detect the aroma of violets, at which time it will be apparent that their experience is limited and they will feel appropriately humiliated."

Anyway, I'm a hillbilly from Waco, KY and I didn't come to describe wines in language that sounds like a cross between bad poetry and Morimoto's grocery list, I came here to git sumpna drank. I know the difference between a good, bad, and simply mediocre wine, but honestly, I'm not all that concerned if it tastes passable and will provide me that special elegant buzz that can only be obtained specifically from the demon grape.

I tend to prefer tough, manly red wines in general, the kind that sommeliers would recommend with a sirloin steak and fried potatoes. However, I'm equally happy with a light Sangria, which I've imbibed plenty of this past wonderful summer. I like dry wines, flavorful wines, powerful wines, wines that compete with a meal rather than merely compliment it. But I don't want to hear about "notes". (The madness has even struck beer drinkers - some people here say they detected "faint notes of bubblegum" and a "subtle hint of over-ripe bananas" in my beloved Duvel. They are obviously insane.)

Which brings us to a favorite recent acquisition: the 2006 "The Prisoner" wine from Orin Swift Cellars. You can read what the experts say about it here, or, my fellow Transylvanians, you can take my word for it that it's tasty on the tongue and easy on the arteries. It's frou-frou enough you can serve to it your classy friends and swirl it ostentatiously in goblets, or just chug it straight from the bottle while grilling ribs on your porch, which I'm not ashamed to say I've done.

The Prisoner's pricey - at $35 a bottle, this is about as much as I'm willing to spend on a bottle of wine unless you tell me it was fermented with Thomas Jefferson's wig or something. But if you figure you're worth it (and if you read this blog, then goddamnit, you are worth it) then try some, buy some. It's easily my favorite wine purchase this year, and goes perfect with grilled meats of all kinds. The 2006 is already out of stock from Orin Swift, but I'm still seeing it on store shelves... so procure yourself a bottle while you still can!

- - JSH

W.

Oliver Stone, known for directing some of the most accurate and diligently researched historical/political films of the last twenty years, returns again to the subject of American political figures with his "bio-pic" of George W. Bush, W.. Wait...what'd he say?

Shouldn't that have read, "Oliver Stone, known for directing inaccurate and personally biased historical/political films..."? No, my friends, it shouldn't. I said it right the first time. For a long time Cheeseburger & Fries have individually derived much insight from such Stone flicks as JFK and Nixon.

There's really no such thing as a perspective of agreeing or disagreeing with JFK's point of view; almost every line of dialogue, every character touches upon something specific, and specifically documented, from years of conspiracy research. Name another historical film that's as steadfast in having its roots in actuality (even if the actuality is based on theory). I can't.

The exaggerated figure of the tragic Nixon in Stone's film version is an exaggeration of an exaggeration. Like some cartoon character come to life, the actual Nixon is as distorted and expressionistic as Stone's vision. The film to me has always played poetically, dramatically accurate. Anthony Hopkins may not look like Nixon, but rather than do a bad impression (as was a criticism against him), he seems to invoke Nixon. Besides, didn't the real Nixon always seem like he was doing a bad impression of himself? And so very much of the dialogue of Nixon is based on transcriptions of actual conversations and speeches, I've always discerned that Nixon hits the mark; in fact, it even inspires a bit of sympathy for Nixon in me.

I'm not saying that these aformentioned movies are non-fiction, exactly. More that Stone's movies come closer to the idea of Truman Capote's conception of the "non-fiction novel."

And with that., we have W.. What surprises me most is that the movie isn't really all that controversial. And we're talking about a movie that's documenting the life of a President before he's out of office. At this particular point in human history, even the most average of average citizens tends to disapprove of the Bush administration. Like Nixon, so much of the conversations and speeches are based on a literal transcription of what was said, that the invented aspects, under Stone's direction, play poetically/dramatically accurate.

What Stone presents is George W. Bush as a son who could never quite win the approval of his father, or seem to be able to live up the legacy of his family. He deals with this by adopting a rich kid fake Texan cowboy persona, drinking and fucking up and being a likable pal to his other privileged cronies. When he finally turns towards the family business of politics, he ultimately discovers he's a natural (moreso than his father). With the help of, as the W. character calls him, "genius boy," Karl Rove, he develops, after years of failure, an approach to politics that's more about winning than substance, and that's American politics in is most pure form. And he can finally stuff it in his father's face.

The tragedy here, interestingly enough, is a tragedy that Bush is unable to even perceive. That arrogant idea of being a winner at all costs, whether it corresponds to the facts to the real world or not, does not translate into waging wars. The kinks of history, placing Bush and his administration in the White House during 9/11, allows them to do just this, waging wars more on the idea of being a winner, more than the country collectively as a winner, but one's own self, of self-indulgence and self-gratification, in the guise of Bush and his cronies.

Well, it lasted for a while. Unprecedented power, unprecedented approval from a population, a good amount of which were blinded by fear and uncertainty. But all good rackets come to an end. What's adept of Oliver Stone is that he's carved the epitaph for this particular racket/administration, before its even actually gone.

Adios.

--JTD

Kentucky vs. the Internet

I've seen some truly weird Kentucky laws in the past, but this new court ruling from Frankfort has to take the proverbial cake. In case you haven't heard, Governor Steve Beshear has proclaimed, as if by royal fiat, that the state of Kentucky has the right to confiscate the domain names to online gambling sites (even ones in other countries) that, in his view, violate Kentucky anti-gambling laws.

Sounds insane? Sounds illegal? Yes, indeed. And yet Beshear's view is also held, coincidentally enough, by a certain Judge Thomas Wingate in Frankfort. Judge Wingate has ordered owners of 141 online gambling domain names to appear at court hearing on November 17. And then they have to demonstrate that they're blocking traffic from residents in Kentucky - which of course, they're not. If the sites don't appear or don't comply with the ruling, the rights to their domain names will be forfeited to the state.

Experts, however, take an extremely dim view of Beshear and Wingate's confused idea of how the internet works. The professional Poker organization GPSTS called it "bizarre, far-reaching, and unpleasant", and iMega (Interactive Media Entertainment & Gaming Association), which is an organization championing internet growth and innovation, had this to say:

"Judge Wingate has ignored the clear laws of his own state in coming to a decision that essentially green-lights any jurisdiction - in the U.S. and abroad - to ignore our rights and abuse their power to do away with competition or speech or content with which they oppose, regardless of the law. This is a dark day for Internet freedom."

John Pappas of the Poker Players Alliance is equally outraged at Beshear and Wingate's scheme:

"This action not only unduly restricts the freedom of Kentucky residents to play games of skill online, such as poker, but sets a precedent for censorship of the internet by force.

Many of Governor Beshear's arguments - that online poker is illegal, unregulated and without a mechanism to capture tax revenue - are false. Online poker is not illegal under Kentucky law, it is regulated in its home jurisdiction and the Commonwealth of Kentucky chose not to license and regulate poker websites."

Most disturbing of all to me is that the Governor openly admits that a key part of his reason for committing this constitutional travesty is because he would prefer gambler's dollars to be spent at Keeneland, Churchill Downs, and the Kentucky lottery:

"Illegal and unregulated gambling Web sites - many of which operate from other countries - are leeches on our communities and unfairly undermine Kentucky's horse-racing industry. By seizing those Internet names, the state can require the casino operators to block their sites from being accessed in Kentucky. Kentuckians likely spend tens of millions of dollars on illegal internet gambling sites each year - money that might otherwise go to Kentucky's horse tracks, charitable events and the state lottery."

So, uh, that pretty much reduces his argument to a very petty matter of professional jealousy: 'hey, dese other guys' gambling scams are interfering with OUR gambling scams! Dah, we can't have dat! We'd betta rub 'em out, boss!'

Mind you, I don't give a hoot about online gambling myself. It's strictly for suckers and dopes, if you ask me. But I'll still defend to the death these rubes' constitutional rights to go clickity-clack on any internet site they choose, and to blow their money on said sites.

If allowed to get away with this madness, I guarantee you internet erotica will be next, and then the precedent will be laid to quash political dissent sites and anything else that anyone in any Government anywhere wants to banish from the web. So this isn't just about Poker, it's about setting a legal precedent that allows two-bit politicians and judges to really screw up the internet for everyone else in the world.

- - JSH

It's About Nightlife, Stupid.

Most everyone in the Lexington area continues to be abuzz about the CentrePointe Tower, the latest in a never-ending series of ill-advised construction projects that destroy entire city blocks of wonderful old buildings and then end up diminishing the city's value. Worse, some of these types of projects end up not even being built when all is said is done, but the developers still make a freakin' fortune from these aborted projects regardless. Developers don't really have to give back all those millions they raised for these half-baked projects, even when they end up not happening. That's the beauty of the construction business. Maybe I should get into it.

I love Lexington and have lived there on and off for many years, but let's face it: it doesn't exactly have a bustling downtown. And what little nightlife of value it had is going to be utterly destroyed by this 'tarded skyscraper scheme. The useful part of town will inevitably move somewhere else, of course, as Mia's and The Dame already have, but that's not the point. The point is that Lexington doesn't need this stupid cock-and-balls-looking skyscraper, and the people who are in the greatest position to change Lexington nightlife don't know jack about nightlife.

No, seriously. What we have here are a group of people who are trying to figure out "gosh, how can we make downtown vital?" when they have no frame of reference for vitality. These people probably never set foot in Buster's and would have been profoundly uncomfortable if they had. They likely don't frequent bars all that much at all. They're in the class who can afford to eat in a five star restaurant yet they're totally lost looking at the menu in one. They don't know a good steak from a mediocre one. They're equally clueless in a fancy club or a roadhouse dive, preferring only the humdrum median of, say, T.G.I. Fridays. They don't dance. They don't smoke. They fall asleep at the theatre or the opera. They don't know how to have a good time. So it's no surprise that these types of people fail at making downtown Lexington an exciting place to be, because they wouldn't know excitement if it came up and bit them on the elbow.

(Yes, I know I've just painted a large group of individuals with a very broad and sweeping brush. But even if I'm wrong, I'm still right. That's dialectic physics.)

I think Barefoot And Progressive said it best:

"What Lexington needs is leaders who are willing to recommit our city to creating the atmosphere necessary to attract the largest-growing class in our economy for the good of our local culture, but just as importantly, for the future of our economy, our community and our people.

The future of the American economy and thus the future of the Lexington economy will be contingent upon the attraction of the creative class. To paraphrase Richard Florida, those communities that get this basic fact will survive and prosper and those that don’t will wither and die. What the proposed Centre Point tower entails is not a fostering of the creative class, but a war on the creative class, and the battle lines have been drawn."

- - JSH

Boxer Soothes Fists With Son's Wet Diapers

Found here tonight:

BERLIN (Reuters) - Vitali Klitschko used his son's wet diapers to keep his fists from swelling up after winning his WBC heavyweight title bout against Nigeria's Samuel Peter, the Ukrainian told a German newspaper on Tuesday.

Klitschko said he wrapped them around his hands and it helped him recover.

"Baby wee is good because it's pure, doesn't contain toxins and doesn't smell," the 37-year old boxer told Bild after he won back the WBC title on Saturday.

"I wrap nappies filled with my three-year-old son Max's wee around my fists," he said, adding he got the idea from his grandmother. "The nappies hold the liquid and the swelling stays down."

Klitschko said Peter should try the diaper trick as well.

- - JSH

Chad Dawson Versus Antonio Tarver, or, Glen Johnson Will Not Be Forgotten

This past Saturday, I settled in to watch the elder, motor-mouthed Tarver face off against the up-and-coming Dawson. The last time I mentioned Dawson, it was in protest of his win over Glen Johnson by decision.

To recap, it was my position that the wheels of the boxing industry had already written the script that Dawson was to move easily past Johnson to set up the highly anticipated Tarver vs. Dawson. Because the Johnson vs. Dawson went to decision, the judges stuck to this script. The cold hard facts of life were, on one hand, Johnson clearly won the fight on points, and, on the other hand, this victory was taken away from him. Luckily, Glen Johnson seems to be moving on, according to this article from the Jamaica Observer.

What are you gonna do? Like Glen Johnson, we move forward. Which puts us back in continuity with the boxing industry photo-play, already in progress. Tarver, the same age as Johnson by the way, needed to prove himself against the up-and-comer. And Dawson, who did not prove himself victorious against Johnson, needed to prove himself against the established Tarver to make a definitive statement of his world class status.

To Dawson's credit, unlike with Johnson, he brought it this time. While Tarver stayed in there throughout, it was obvious that Dawson had more power and focus consistently throughout all twelve rounds, and the judges justly awarded him the victory on points. The match with Johnson, for better or worse, humbled Dawson and seemed, from my perspective, to imbue the fighter with a classy skillful determination that I did not detect in him with the Johnson fight.

As I say to the old lady when she inquires about my favorites prior to a boxing match, my favorite is simply whichever fighter fights the best fight. And in this particular fight, it was Dawson. Opinions about Johnson vs. Dawson didn't enter into the picture while actually observing last Saturdays fight as it happened.

Looking to the future, personal and biased inclinations make me want to see Johnson make a tremendous comeback and force Dawson to have to fight him again, so, on that note, I'll be watching Glen Johnson's underdogged career with some interest.

I've been hip to buying tins of the cigarillo version of the Carlos Torano Exodus 1959 line. It's a good purchase in that, for the money, I feel it's nice to have a few extra on hand to give to a cigar smoking buddy (actually, I recall slipping JSH one of the Reserva Selecta line in this size, which is a bit more of a mellow smoke, at his Weird Kentucky book signing at Morris Book Shop), who may not be as dedicated a smoker as I, and is a nice sized cigar for when I'm leaning towards a more concise cigar experience. It's not what you want when you really wanna kick back and spend some time with a cigar. The Torano cigarillo is a well-crafted short film, as opposed to an epic movie. The tin's kinda cool, too. It was one of these puppies I smoked as Dawson put Tarver under the rug.

--JTD

Mercury Retrograde

Jim Morrison once said of astrology, "I think it's a bunch of bullshit". I'm pretty much with Jim, but I have to say there is something to the concept of the Mercury Retrograde.

It's a (thankfully) short period during which anything that can possibly go wrong does so with gusto - especially matters related to communication and travel. During this current ongoing Mercury Retrograde, all kinds of truly fucked-up events have transpired, not the least of which are the sudden death of my laptop (one year to the day after the one-year warranty expired) and the little matter of my car exploding into flames in my face while I was driving it down 64 East, just like Robert DeNiro in Casino. I also include the recent calamitous week-long power outage in Louisville as being part of the Mercury Retrograde, as well as the current financial disasters going on at Wall Street and every other international exchange as well.

It's this current "credit crunch" (is that what they're calling it these days?) that's really messing up my life right now, even more than being without a car. (I'm enjoying the 2008 Dodge Avenger I'm renting from Enterprise anyway.) It's coming at the worst possible time, since I still have some payouts to make for Toulouse-inations, and was in the midst of setting up Catclaw as a LLC and applying for Federal and State funding so we can carry out our plan to be established in our very own theatre space by this time next year.

Furthermore, this royally screws up our efforts to establish the best possible line of credit with our banks of choice, Chase and Republic Bank. For complicated reasons too convoluted for my Madison County brain to wrap itself around, credit line applications are now taking a long, long time to approve at Chase, even though my credit is, I'm proud to say, damn near flawless.

The Mercury Retrograde period ends October 15, and it can't come a moment too soon for me. These last few weeks have been a real downer. I had to chuckle and think of my good friend Aleister Crowley on the day when the Dow ended down 777 points, though.

- - JSH

Brooklyn Local 1

During all the trials and tribulations of Toulouse-inations, I got hooked on a new beer (well, it's new to me, anyway) called Brooklyn Local 1. It's definitely a challenger to my all-time favorite brew Duvel, presenting a Belgian-style taste and wallop truly worthy of dissolving the JSH liver.

Although it may often sound as if I give a pass to any and every Belgian-style brew that crosses my palate's path, it tain't so. I can't stand the fruity stuff like Gulden Draak that seems to thrill so many other beer drinkers. I'm also rather skeptical when it comes to Chimay, which has the same essential "fruity" problem that I can't get past.

I haven't been able to find much information online about Brooklyn Local 1, but I'm intrigued enough to consider making it the official JSHNYC beer, especially if there really is a Brooklyn connection.

- - JSH

SPX, Slight Return

(the photo above courtesy of the
Dirk Dada Live Journal)
Also check out this mini-article, with a photo of yours unruly: DCist.

SPX, in Bethesda, Maryland, was a whirlwind of a weekend. By general consensus, thee premiere showcase for self-publishing comics artists, and independent comic book publishers, it's an intense convention experience. However, it also is also by and large a friendly scene, with so many like-minded comics creators and publishers in one spot. Of course, there's the general sense of camps and cliques, but there's a pervasive, "we're in this boat together," sentiment.

Being that it was my first year, on one hand, I didn't know what to expect exactly, but also went in with almost zero expectations, save for meeting new people and seeing new work. Just a humble old aw-shucks hillbilly from the hills of eastern Kentucky, I was happy to see that I caught the eye of many goodly folks with my In Tongues Illustrated book and was glad that a few plunked down the change for a relatively high-end book from a relative unknown.

The Secret Acres gang definitely made me feel welcome. All their artists are worth checking out. I made it a point of SPX to pick up a copy of Theo Ellsworth's new Capacity book...I only just started reading it, but it does not disappoint.

Unfortunately, being chained, more or less, to my table as an exhibitor I had to miss out on the panel discussions. Jessi, my better half, got to check out the James Kochalka panel, and reported having a gay old time. The big let-down for me was not being able to swing the Ben Katchor panel (a feller whose work both us Transy Gents here covet); however, on the second day, Katchor's impeccable eye (if I don't say so myself, which I will) noticed my table and stopped by for a few questions about the work.

Introducing myself and glad-handing some of the Fantagraphics crew...Gary Groth, Kim Thompson, and Eric Reynolds was a kick. I was happy to get my hands on the new, hot-off-the-press Comics Journal featuring a career spanning interview with underground comix wild-man, S. Clay Wilson by Bob Levin, who is, hands-down, my favorite writer on the subject of comic book culture. I just in the past year self-educated (or would that be self-medicated?) myself in Wilson's work with his Checkered Demon anthology, as well as the Art of S. Clay Wilson

I'll be posting some sketches drawn during the conventions on my sketchbook blog soon. There's more to say about the weekend, but, see, I'm all talked out right now.

--JTD