ON THE AVENUES: Four more years? Heaven help us all, but there are five reasons to be optimistic.

“The only thing you learn from history is that no one learns anything from history.”
-- Otto von Habsburg

There was a time in the late 1980s, only the briefest of moments after Raygun had gone out to pasture, as Bush the Elder became heir to the nuclear code, when it still seemed as if Madonna wasn’t calculating and cynical ALL the time.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve always greatly admired and fully appreciated the Material Girl exactly for who she is, a savvy musician and performance artist with an amazing head for business.

But even as late as 1989 Ms. Ciccone could toss out a bouncy ditty like "Cherish" and you’d pause for a moment, smile and think: “Wow, what a sweet chorus, and it really hasn’t been that long since 'Borderline', has it?”

Speaking of defining lines in the dross, since the conclusion of the municipal election cycle in 2019 my love (for Nawbany) has been pushed over the borderline, clearing the top of the guardrail, and come to rest at the bottom of a shambolic sinkhole once used as latrine and landfill by immigrant Gahans arriving here on the Mayflower.

Or was it the Titanic?

But that’s all right with me, because my innate stubbornness eliminates the possibility that these kingpin nitwits will ever govern MY head space. Rather than dwell on the dipshittsian dysfunctionals, let’s see if there is a case to be made for this municipal glass being half-full with our delicious Pilsner Urquell, rather than half depleted of their Bud Light Mang-o-Rita pet shampoo.

Because I promised ... here are FIVE POSITIVE TAKEWAYS FROM THE NOVEMBER 5 ELECTION.

5b. City council addition by subtraction.

David Barksdale (at-large) wagered it all on the luxury Reisz Mahal, eagerly abetting Dear Leader’s megalomania but annoying one too many Republicans in the process. Thus hemorrhaging credibility, the votes he lost from his own tribe cost Nanny Barksdale his bid for re-election.

Credit Gahan for divining Barksdale’s buildings-not-people Achilles heel and smacking it constantly with a baseball bat, then pushing the dazed ex-councilman aside to congratulate the candidate, pretend-Democrat Jason Applegate (see below), who beat him.

Maybe someday people will see Gahan for who and what he really is, but until then, it’s #HisNA business as usual.

However … counter-intuitively, Barksdale’s fall might actually make the anti-Gahan resistance stronger by removing its weakest link, while at the same time freeing Barksdale to return to the unelected sector, where he can do better works for the city than merely roll over and play dead for the pay-to-play Democratic vandals.

5a. On January 1, 2020 the city of New Albany will be rendered utterly decaffeinated.

Dan “Councilman Cappuccino” Coffey has retired from his council seat after two decades representing the 1st district, otherwise known as Westendia. Previously we have thanked Coffey in perfect seriousness for his long years of service, and irrespective of one’s “side” when analyzing his legacy, it cannot be disputed that Coffey has joyfully played the role of Freud’s id on council for all these years. His absence removes the scream from the body's primal. Maybe Pat McLaughlin can pick up the slack.

On second thought ... no, that's highly unlikely.

4. Coffey’s successor will not be a Dickeyite pushover.

The 1st district race in 2019 pitted woman against woman. Has this ever happened before? Both were excellent candidates, but only one could win, and Jennie Collier (D) did. The Green Mouse says Collier is no friend of the mayor’s, and is likely not to be the rubber stamp Gahan demands his sycophants abase themselves to be, that she’ll think for herself and perform more as an independent than a boot-licking lackey of McLaughlin’s caliber.

If so, a cooperative bloc of Collier, three Republicans (Al Knable and David Aebersold, both at-large, and newly elected 5th district councilman Joshua Turner) and independent 6th district incumbent Scott Blair could thwart the more egregious of Gahan’s harebrained schemes.

3. Joshua (JT) Turner won in the 5th district.

Not only is this an automatic energy boost of epic proportions, particularly compared with Turner’s somnolent apparatchik of a predecessor, but it bodes well for the future of the district. Once solidly Republican, the 5th has gone Democratic in recent years, although the races have been very close.

Team Gahan’s effort to buy the 5th with its Colonial Manor fix-is-in plan miserably failed, exposing the mayor’s comprehensively clothes-less attire, and Turner flipped it. Meanwhile the junta will find a way to reward loyal servant Matt Nash with a few farthings more, and all will again be well in papa Warren’s interior world of ethics-free cajoling.

Turner is going to be a hard-working, open-minded public servant. Keep your eyes on him.

2. Let us join together in Extol.

Newly elected at-large councilman Jason Applegate somehow passed through an entire municipal election cycle, occupying a whole calendar year, without ever once being questioned by even the first self-satisfied, card-carrying progressive member of the League of the Beautiful People about the word “conservative” appearing as his political identity at his Facebook page.

Thousands of times they pilloried those nasty conservatives, and every single day Applegate hid in plain sight by describing himself as one. The woebegone Buttigieg Belt never noticed -- well, they noticed but chose not to.

So yes, we all know that Applegate has been a Republican his entire life until encouraged to run for office (Q: Which office? A: Who cares?) and it’s equally obvious that he has attached himself to Jeff Gahan’s perfumed hip more slavishly than Terry Middleton, almost certainly because Big Daddy needs an economy-sized heir apparent.

We all grasp the unexplained switcheroo respectability thus afforded the chosen at-large "Democrat" … but maybe, just maybe, the “conservative” moniker acts like a guilty conscience to lead him on widely scattered occasions to push back against Gahan’s ruinous indebtedness and mind-boggling expenditures, or to at long last contemplate that cooperation with David Duggins’ “blessings in a backpack” approach to NAHA administration is tantamount to loading residents onto cattle cars headed for Greenville -- as well as being an unmitigated crock of shit.

1. New council blood means a different balance of personalities.

In the final analysis, a juggling of chemistry is the most important outcome of the 2019 municipal election. Apart from council’s three intellectually exhausted returning Democrats, now purged of all pride, idealism and brain-matter to function as grim power-brokers for the oligarchs (Bob Caesar, McLaughlin and Greg Phipps, henceforth to be known here as the CMP, or “consent management platform”), there is at least a possibility of the body being a genuine mechanism of checks and balances, with legislative creativity thrown into the mix.

Actions resembling this description won’t emanate from the kept Democrats, who are kept on a tight leash by Squire Adam. However, if that bloc of five bipartisan council members arises, it might yet be interesting.

---

Did you hear the one about Gahan phoning McLaughlin at 2:00 a.m.? According to the Green Mouse, here’s how the councilman answered the call.

Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home

When you call my name it's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there
In the midnight hour I can feel your power
Just like a prayer you know I'll take you there

I hear your voice, it's like an angel sighing
I have no choice, I hear your voice
Feels like flying
I close my eyes, Oh God I think I'm falling
Out of the sky, I close my eyes
Heaven help me

---

Recent columns:

December 21: ON THE AVENUES HOLIDAY SPECIAL: Truth, lies, music, and a trick of the Christmas tale (2019 Remix).

December 19: ON THE AVENUES: These parents oppose their children's exposure to the PURE Initiative as part of the NA-FC Schools curriculum. Here's why.

December 12: ON THE AVENUES: He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.

December 5: ON THE AVENUES: Ladislav's language, 1989 - 1990 (Part 2).

November 28: ON THE AVENUES: Ladislav's language, 1989 - 1990 (Part 1).

ON THE AVENUES: If it's about learning and knowledge, then by definition it's a Gahan Free Zone. You're welcome.

ON THE AVENUES: If it's about learning and knowledge, then by definition it's a Gahan Free Zone. You're welcome. 

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

This week’s column begins with the famous words of Duke Ellington.

“Music is my mistress, and she plays second fiddle to no one.”

It’s important we understand his intended meaning. Nowadays the noun “mistress” generally is used to reference an unsavory male power scenario in which the woman is subservient, but the primary definition of the word is different and more positive:

“A woman who has power, authority, or ownership.”

Ellington definitely did not view music as something he controlled and kept in its place, to be shielded from view in an efficiency apartment until he needed it to relieve his desires. If anything, it was the other way around. Music was his life, and it called the tempo.

Wait – it seems there’s a question from the cheap seats: Roger, who is this Duke Ellington fellow, anyway?

Ah, yes. I keep forgetting about the calendar. It’s 2019, and music comes from computers just like bread originates with Kroger.

Duke Ellington (1899-1974) was a musician and orchestra leader in the then-dominant idioms of jazz, big band and swing. To me, he remains one of America’s foremost composers in any musical genre.

My parents raised me on music like Ellington’s, and in 1971 they took me to see a concert in Louisville by his ensemble. The rock and roll bug subsequently bit me hard, but I’m eternally grateful to have been exposed to these old-school variants of American music. They remain huge daily components of my internal soundtrack.

We all hear music differently, and as noted oft times before, my own default calibration prefers catchier tunes. Ellington wrote his share of these, capable of being whistled while strolling or “interpreted” in the shower – and selling a few 78 rpm records in the process.

Music is a big tent, and a well-constructed pop ditty with a hook means as much to me as a classical concerto or Ellington’s own extended suites of conceptual music.

Moving along, there is no rational way to make the transition from “music is my mistress” to “living in the material world” so I won’t even try. Ten years after Ellington passed from the scene a talented woman by the name of Madonna Louise Ciccone had a hit with “Borderline,” a song written by Reggie Lucas.

I heard a snippet a few weeks ago while shopping for groceries, and devolved into a reverie amid the canned vegetable aisle. As surprising as it might seem for casual readers, “Borderline” is a favorite song of mine. Granted, I’d never seek to compare it to Ellington’s “Mood Indigo,” although “I Got It Bad (and That Ain’t Good)” perhaps functions as a serviceable parallel.

“Borderline” always prompts a smile because from sheer serendipity it became a theme song for my early European trips. From the first expedition in 1985 through mid-1990s, it seemed as if whenever I was packing my bag for a trip “Borderline” would play on the radio.

(That’s an increasingly antiquated music dissemination device.)

Indeed, different strokes; lightweight ear candy to some, symbolic prelude to others. Borderlines are for containment, and also for crossing. I had an easy life growing up as a white middle-class male, with no wars to go fight, compulsions to attain wealth or lasting romantic ties (I’d quite likely have traded my imaginary kingdoms for a meaningful relationship, but that’s another whole story).

What I needed was a kick in the butt. It surprised even me when this became self-administered. For 1,001 tiny incremental reasons, my becoming obsessed with the idea of roaming Europe became the foundational theme tying together all the topics of the human experience that struck me as interesting.

Neither internal combustion nor deer hunting was among them. Selling insurance, widgets or houses? Nope. Math absolutely wasn’t a priority. The Arithmetic was a hideous curse, but reading and writing hit closer to the center of the target.

What excited me the most was history, geography, literature, music and art, as components of what we call the Western canon.

The Western canon is the body of books, music, and art that scholars generally accept as the most important and influential in shaping Western culture. It includes works of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, drama, music, art, sculpture, and architecture generally perceived as being of major artistic merit and representing the high culture of Europe and North America. Philosopher John Searle suggests that the Western canon can be roughly defined as "a certain Western intellectual tradition that goes from, say, Socrates to Wittgenstein in philosophy, and from Homer to James Joyce in literature".

My own “Borderline” was located and surpassed when I finally accepted that craving an ever greater exposure to this body of knowledge wasn’t a bad thing for a hick from somewhere near French Lick. In fact it was a very good thing, and the pursuit of culture made me happy. Maybe Rite of Spring would have been preferable to Madonna; to each their own.

I chased knowledge for its own sake, not because it would lead to a better job or a higher standard of living. Piles of excess money beyond the minimum required to get by, while allowing an escape every now and then, were never much of a priority or motivation.

Four decades later, an ongoing immunity to the supposed imperative of capital accumulation renders me only shakily American and utterly ineligible for membership in One Southern Indiana -- and that’s something to be extremely thankful for.

I was sure that knowing these things would make me a better person, and after college when funding was tight a lot of it came free of charge. Reading, studying and listening at local libraries (those vicious socialist institutions) were essential to preparing for trips as well as maintaining my sanity when the prevailing philistinism became too much.

Later, when there was more disposable income for books and CDs, the cash went for them and not fashionable clothing, hyper power tools or fancy sports cars. There isn’t anything wrong with any of these discretionary items; they just weren’t for me. These days books, music and art surround us at home, and they’re still representative of mental equilibrium when travel isn’t possible. I can’t imagine life without them.

There’s a sobering realization that in the end, for all one’s efforts, a lifetime of learning counts for little more than skimming the surface. However, this doesn’t deter me or intrude on my idealistic dreams. I’m eager to carry a few fragments of those past manifestations of thought forward for the benefit of the next generation.

If you tell the story in an engaging way, they listen. Indeed, the headlines lie, and the kids are alright.

---

When you’re a youngster, people ask you what you want to be when you grow up. I never had an answer for this question, at least one I was willing to concede aloud. It was different inside:

“Beats me. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

Looking back with all the benefits of hindsight, all I really wanted to be was well-informed about the world outside. Forever painfully aware of my own myriad social deficiencies, the simple aim was at least to be bright enough to ask intelligent questions and claim a bluffer’s knowledge about topics falling outside my circle of interests -- to be a competent concierge, barkeeper and conversationalist.

Blowing my life savings on a three-month backpacking trip through Europe in 1985 wasn’t about food and drink. Rather, travel would help me find myself by bringing into focus aspects of my character previously unchallenged, while cramming as much as humanly possible of the Western canon into my receptive skull.

Moussaka, Guinness, pickled herring and the joys of a genuine Bavarian beer hall were important, and yet secondary.

If you’ve stuck with me this far, thanks, and I know exactly what you’re thinking: the Western cultural canon omits so very much important about this planet. That’s absolutely true, and it’s something I’ve tried mightily to redress by broadening my exposure to the non-Western bearded white male aspects of “herstory.”

I’m the first to concede these results haven’t been very consistent, and this is disconcerting to me. Given the various biases of a Southern Indiana upbringing, and the fact that my first and abiding love is all things European, improvement requires persistence and an active effort to broaden the scope of examination. Perfection isn’t attainable, and so this campaign will continue. Reader suggestions are always welcome.

In closing, please understand that the preceding is not intended to be construed as “look at me – I’m smart.” At the end of the day, being “smart” means precisely one thing, and that’s realizing how little you really know. All of us must willingly concede the vastness of knowledge outside our immediate spheres, about which we can gather only little bits and pieces.

Ellington occasionally was described as “Duke Elegant,” and my own formulation does not achieve his level of poetry:

"An abiding obsession with knowledge is my mistress." 

In a year and a half I’ll be 60, with no firmer notion today about what I want to be when I grow up than way back when, during the presidency of Adam’s “tricky dickey” namesake Nixon.

But I’m comfortable with the journey. It's been a grand ride. I know what I know, and also what I don’t. Time is running short, and yet there’s no hurry, so let’s kick back, enjoy one or two nice beers, tell the hamster’s spinning wheel to go straight to hell -- and learn something.

---

Recent columns:

February 5: ON THE AVENUES: Our mayor hates non-elected boards -- except when they're his own, which is why "hypocrisy" is spelled G-A-H-A-N.

January 29: ON THE AVENUES: How has the 3rd district councilman fared since this question from 2015: "Et tu, Greg Phipps?"

January 22: ON THE AVENUES: Democrats should judge city council incumbents in districts 2, 3, 4 and 5 by their regressive deeds, not their progressive words.

January 15: ON THE AVENUES REWOUND: Jeff Gahan and Adam Dickey are Trumping the Donald when it comes to breathtaking moral turpitude. Have they no shame?

Travel Music 1: Pole-vaulting a borderline, 1985.

My musical tastes never were particularly avant-garde. They are what they are, influenced heavily by early exposure to swing and big band music, which is to say I'm a very melody-based type of guy. As an adult, I've learned to appreciate and enjoy atonality, bebop and the Bulgarian women's choir. But when I was a kid, it wasn't quite the same.

Straight up: Pop isn't a dirty word in my lexicon. Never has been, never will be.

Back during the 1980s, my entire life was organized on a 24-7-365 travel footing. If not actually wandering the European continent, I was reading voraciously and planning another trip, working multiple low-rent jobs to save enough money to make my dreams come true. There simply wasn't cerebral time remaining to actively seek out new music, and besides, how quickly we forget the relative paucity of options in the prehistoric, pre-Internet planet.

There was some MTV, and later VH1. There was local radio, and at the time, quite a lot of classical music, then as now on WUOL 90.5 FM. There were people close to me who'd make suggestions. So it went. I'm surprised I ever learned anything at all.

All of this is prelude to the startling revelation that of all the world's music that might have settled into the weird archive between my ears, where music plays all the time and has done so for as long as I can remember, the song I always associate with my first overseas journey in 1985 is Madonna's "Borderline."

I heard the song numerous times just prior to departure, and it never really went away. In fact, in a metaphorical sense, that initial foray out into the world did indeed involve stepping across a considerable borderline -- I'd done nothing, been nowhere and was in the process of embracing the notion of "late bloomer" and straining it into comic incredulity. As noted previously, in spite of all the laborious planning and research, I was well aware how remarkably terrified I was of the interactions necessary to make the trip work ... and how equally cognizant I was of absolutely having to do it, or else resign myself to complete a homeland trek to irrelevance.

A bouncy Madonna pop song may not deserve to be fiercely metaphorical, and yet one's sub-conscious sometimes does the choosing for you. Maybe it worked, because that very first trip in 1985 certifiably changed my life, and it's why I smile every time I hear the song.

Evansville remembers the filming of "A League of Their Own."

It is pleasingly ironic that in the same year (2011) NABC began serving beer for Dubois County Bombers collegiate league baseball games held in Huntingburg's League Stadium, which was built as a set for the movie "A League of Their Own," the film's 20th anniversary is being marked.

Evansville extras, workers recall 'A League of Their Own', by Thomas B. Langhorne.

When Bombers management contacted us earlier this spring, I confess to having no recollection of Huntingburg's part in filming. What I remembered was the use of Bosse Field in Evansville, as Langhorne's news article describes.

My other memory of the time: Madonna's petulence at being stuck in Evansville, as recalled by the writer:

Not even Madonna's later criticisms of Evansville — she told TV Guide she “may as well have been in Prague” — could dim the afterglow.

It may be the only recorded instance of a comparison between Evansville and Prague, and if I were the Indiana city, I'd use it. Prague's reaction is unknown.