Finally baseball season has arrived, and with it the necessity of surveying major league rosters to account for the winter’s trades and free agent signings.
In like fashion, the assemblage of downtown New Albany eateries and watering holes has undergone a near complete overhaul in recent months. Here are a few of the changes, bearing in mind that as usual, my primary emphasis is on those businesses aiming to have good beer as part of their presentation, and consequently are of greater interest to me personally. I know that some are being omitted, and welcome their inclusion via comments.
First, a quick shout-out to Speakeasy Jazz on State Street, which has survived both the Bistro New Albany and Connor’s Place, and should benefit from the unexpected closing of the Jazz Factory in Louisville.
Many readers have asked about the abrupt departure of Connor’s Place, formerly located at 207 East Main Street, and now in storage and on hiatus. It is a circuitous story that begins with owner Dave Himmel’s inability to reach a lease agreement with his landlords, continues through his oft-stated desire to open a fish and seafood restaurant downtown, and hopefully will end when the aquatic project, slated to be called the Market Street Fish House, comes to fruition in mid-April at 133 East Market (location of the now defunct Treet’s Bakery Café).
Just across Market Street from the soon-to-open Fish House is an unused commercial building that will be remodeled to spec for Dave by its new owner, and in this space a revamped Connor’s Place hopefully will reopen by mid-summer.
Got all that? Might as well rename that stretch of Market as "Himmel Way" and get it over with. When Connor's Place returns, NABC will have beer there.
You may be wondering what is to become of the Main Street quarters formerly occupied by Connor’s, and the answer comes from an NAC informant:
A new restaurant will be opening where Connor’s Place was, and they are planning on having ongoing artist showcases. It is going to be called “Studios” and the owner’s name is Trish Meyer.
There is no further information on the sort of eatery Studios will be. Trish, if you're reading ... let us know what's up.
Back around the corner in the building that most natives still call the New Albany Inn, The Windsor Restaurant & Garden is open for business at 148 East Market, which in Louisville-area parlance is “where the late, lamented Bistro New Albany used to be.” Business First recently offered a preview of the establishment, which is observing lunchtime hours at present and will expand into evening dining when it’s warm enough to use the famous courtyard. NABC has been contacted about beer for the Windsor, and we’re cautiously optimistic that there’ll be a good beer program there, though perhaps not to the scale of bNA’s great list.
Meanwhile … in the historic Baer building at 321 Pearl Street, work continues on the River City Winery. A couple hundred yards northeast as the crow flies is the spot on Bank Street where NABC is continuing to plan its production brewery and taproom ... and don't ask me "when" this is going to happen unless you have a wheelbarrow full of money to invest.
Elsewhere, the Orchid Asian Cafe is located at 400 West Main, and is an intriguing addition to the downtown dining scene primarily because the menu includes Thai and Vietnamese offerings beyond the usual Chinese fare, and the décor is bright, modern and absent the kitsch generally associated with “Chinese” restaurants. It’s almost impossible to fathom that the venerable Kerstien’s tavern used to occupy the new home of the Orchid. No alcohol, but we’ve been impressed so far with the food.
What am I forgetting? Make a comment and let me know.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
If he had been the batter, it would have been a called third strike.
The ceremonial first pitch of the Washington Nationals home opener was just thrown by the worst president ever, George W. Bush.
It was high and well out of the strike zone, and never has imagery been more appropriate.
It was high and well out of the strike zone, and never has imagery been more appropriate.
Hillary Clinton and the mystery cutlet.
It’s ironic that during the past week …
(a) I was supposed to be writing the next installment about my visit to Sarajevo in 1987, but didn’t have time.
(b) Hillary Clinton spoke about her dangerous visit to nearby Tuzla in 1996, but lied … er, I mean, “misspoke.”
(c) Sen. Clinton then came to New Albany and entertained her fans at the South Side Inn, but revealed nothing new.
(d) I contemplated protesting her visit to New Albany by holding a sign reading “No blood for kale,” but changed my mind.
Speaking personally, I’m an Obama man, though not for reason of sexism. As suggested by one of the bar patrons Saturday evening, I’m actually a virulent ageist, rejecting the older presidential candidates in favor of the one younger (46) than I am (47.
This means that Roger’s ageist trifecta is now complete: My doctor, my lawyer and my chosen candidate for the Oval Office are all younger than me, and all I can add is a heartfelt “Hallelujah.”
While readers can consult the mainstream local media for coverage of Sen. Clinton’s starchy South Side soiree, I’d like to pass along the single funniest thing I heard about yesterday’s epic clash between Clintonian liberalism and good ol’ country cooking. It comes from my friend Todd Antz, owner of Keg Liquors in Clarksville, which has the best selection of bottled craft beers in the area.
With regard to Mrs. Clinton’s stated preference for the delights of Southern cuisine, Todd wrote:
Do you really think she feels at home at the Southside Inn? Maybe she'll stop by the Keg for a six pack of Schlitz and a bag of pork rinds for the drive to the airport?
Bill would ... but that's a whole other story.
(a) I was supposed to be writing the next installment about my visit to Sarajevo in 1987, but didn’t have time.
(b) Hillary Clinton spoke about her dangerous visit to nearby Tuzla in 1996, but lied … er, I mean, “misspoke.”
(c) Sen. Clinton then came to New Albany and entertained her fans at the South Side Inn, but revealed nothing new.
(d) I contemplated protesting her visit to New Albany by holding a sign reading “No blood for kale,” but changed my mind.
Speaking personally, I’m an Obama man, though not for reason of sexism. As suggested by one of the bar patrons Saturday evening, I’m actually a virulent ageist, rejecting the older presidential candidates in favor of the one younger (46) than I am (47.
This means that Roger’s ageist trifecta is now complete: My doctor, my lawyer and my chosen candidate for the Oval Office are all younger than me, and all I can add is a heartfelt “Hallelujah.”
While readers can consult the mainstream local media for coverage of Sen. Clinton’s starchy South Side soiree, I’d like to pass along the single funniest thing I heard about yesterday’s epic clash between Clintonian liberalism and good ol’ country cooking. It comes from my friend Todd Antz, owner of Keg Liquors in Clarksville, which has the best selection of bottled craft beers in the area.
With regard to Mrs. Clinton’s stated preference for the delights of Southern cuisine, Todd wrote:
Do you really think she feels at home at the Southside Inn? Maybe she'll stop by the Keg for a six pack of Schlitz and a bag of pork rinds for the drive to the airport?
Bill would ... but that's a whole other story.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Small mention; potentially big deal.
A quick blurb in the Courier-Journal earlier in the week probably didn't garner much attention. I'd like to think that's only because it was tucked into a list of several other news bytes.
I'd also like to think it might represent an opportunity to begin a more serious discussion of fulfilling our duties to each other, as previously outlined at NAC in the New Albanian's "It's never too late for a renewed civic commitment to human rights".
Mayor Doug England will have a town hall meeting next month at Jones Memorial AME Zion Church.
The meeting, announced by the church and the New Albany branch of the NAACP, is set for noon April 5 at 258 Ealy St.
For more information, contact Pastor O. Lacy Evans at (502) 643-0996.
If being heard is a human right, it means someone has to listen. Please consider joining me in that endeavor next Saturday.
I'd also like to think it might represent an opportunity to begin a more serious discussion of fulfilling our duties to each other, as previously outlined at NAC in the New Albanian's "It's never too late for a renewed civic commitment to human rights".
Mayor Doug England will have a town hall meeting next month at Jones Memorial AME Zion Church.
The meeting, announced by the church and the New Albany branch of the NAACP, is set for noon April 5 at 258 Ealy St.
For more information, contact Pastor O. Lacy Evans at (502) 643-0996.
If being heard is a human right, it means someone has to listen. Please consider joining me in that endeavor next Saturday.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Hillary in New Albany: Steam tables for "change?"
Hillary Clinton will be in town Saturday to campaign. She will answer questions at the South Side Inn, circa 2:00 p.m.
I can't make it, but I have a question:
"Mrs. Clinton, can you describe the proper symbolism for 'change' truly befitting for a Democratic Party supposedly poised to regain power?"
And by the way, pass that plate o's starch 'n' carbs, will ya?
I can't make it, but I have a question:
"Mrs. Clinton, can you describe the proper symbolism for 'change' truly befitting for a Democratic Party supposedly poised to regain power?"
And by the way, pass that plate o's starch 'n' carbs, will ya?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Drop the book slowly and show me your hands.
Local bookseller Randy Smith reports that Governor Mitch Daniels and the Indiana legislature recently passed into law H.B. 1042, a statute making it mandatory, under threat of arrest for a Class B misdemeanor and imprisonment for up to 180 days, for any person or business selling “sexually explicit materials, products, or services” to provide a complete list of such products and pay a $250 dollar registration fee to the Secretary of State who will then forward the information to local government officials.
As Randy explains:
Well, you might say, what's so wrong with that?
Let's just for a moment take a look at a few of the books that would qualify as "sexually explicit."
Hoosier Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy would top the list. The Holy Bible certainly contains sexually explicit material. Our Bodies, Ourselves is clearly sexually explicit as are any number of parenting guides that help people teach their children about their bodies.
NA Books Daily: Daniels, Legislature Besiege Booksellers...and Freedom
Email if you're interested in placing a group order for "You can have my book when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers" bumper stickers. A portion of the proceeds might go toward Randy's bail.
As Randy explains:
Well, you might say, what's so wrong with that?
Let's just for a moment take a look at a few of the books that would qualify as "sexually explicit."
Hoosier Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy would top the list. The Holy Bible certainly contains sexually explicit material. Our Bodies, Ourselves is clearly sexually explicit as are any number of parenting guides that help people teach their children about their bodies.
NA Books Daily: Daniels, Legislature Besiege Booksellers...and Freedom
Email if you're interested in placing a group order for "You can have my book when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers" bumper stickers. A portion of the proceeds might go toward Randy's bail.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Film: "The Way I Spent the End of the World."
The Way I Spent the End of the World is director Catalin Mitulescu’s surprisingly quiet, nuanced view of Communist Romania’s waning months.
What makes the film quiet and nuanced is that my conscious use of "waning" is appropriate only in retrospect, and quite obviously none of the characters around whom the story revolves in the latter half of 1989 can read the future and foresee the December revolution and sudden fall of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, Romania’s long-serving, self-anointed Conducator, or leader.
Of all the Eastern European locales where such a coming of age story might conceivably be set, none is more appropriate than Ceausescu’s stunted and strangulated version of the North Korean hermetic kingdom that he had visited in the 1960’s, and subsequently spent decades of serial misrule in an ultimately doomed effort to graft the personality cult of Kim Il Sung onto the pathetically grandiose architecture of Benito Mussolini’s Milan train station, and to situate the result in one of the continent’s least equipped milieus.
As befitting a crazed leader dubbing himself "Genius of the Carpathians" in spite of a peasant background as a semi-literate cobbler, Ceausescu’s dubious praises, as well as those of his even less educated wife, Elena, literally were sung by Romanian schoolchildren prior to the commencement of their daily classes, and it is here that the film’s viewers drop into the lives of 17-year-old Eva (Dorotheea Petre) and her young brother, Lalalilu (Timotei Duma).
As the tale unwinds, the director Mitulescu contrasts the dark and leaden idiocy of the "official" culture of Communism in Romania, as exemplified by the country’s regimented educational apparatus, with the relative normalcy of family life at home, but critically, nostalgia, bathos and the false positives of the Pollyanna principle are mostly avoided.
Eva’s and Lalalilu’s extended family is a loving one, and life is far from wretched, but the unfathomable pressures of existing in an increasingly impoverished and stressful atmosphere are duly illustrated. Random acts of violence punctuate the narrative, the presence next door of a Securitate (secret policemen) officer’s privileged and amorous son has tremendous consequences, and the oppressive political climate has a way of making an otherwise sane patriarch strip to his underwear in a tragicomic rooftop protest that results in his removal by ever-present government flunkies.
Forced by circumstance to make a series of momentous decisions for herself and her family, Eva is abruptly rescued by fate, as Ceausescu’s run of good fortune, which had been exacerbated on more than one occasion by Western nations willing to overlook human rights violations, finally is trumped by a groundswell of resentment. Eva's neighbors watch on television while the elements of the Conducator’s own party cronies, aided and abetted by the military as well as hundreds of thousands of ordinary Romanians, take to the streets. In the end, even all but the most culpable and compromised Securitate elements also melted away, to be rehabilitated in an early post-Communist government almost indistinguishable from the one preceding the Iron Curtain’s collapse.
If we were to locate Mitulescu’s fictional siblings now, they would be 36 and 26, respectively. More importantly, they would be carrying provisional European Union credentials, for the Romania of systematization, Communist party congresses and agro-industrial complexes is in the process of completing its belated switch of ideological sides. Ceausescu’s ever-present photo no longer glowers from classroom walls, but how many of the people from the generation of the sister’s and brother’s parents, aunts and uncles now sometimes look backward with rose-colored glasses?
More than we might think, even if.
What makes the film quiet and nuanced is that my conscious use of "waning" is appropriate only in retrospect, and quite obviously none of the characters around whom the story revolves in the latter half of 1989 can read the future and foresee the December revolution and sudden fall of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, Romania’s long-serving, self-anointed Conducator, or leader.
Of all the Eastern European locales where such a coming of age story might conceivably be set, none is more appropriate than Ceausescu’s stunted and strangulated version of the North Korean hermetic kingdom that he had visited in the 1960’s, and subsequently spent decades of serial misrule in an ultimately doomed effort to graft the personality cult of Kim Il Sung onto the pathetically grandiose architecture of Benito Mussolini’s Milan train station, and to situate the result in one of the continent’s least equipped milieus.
As befitting a crazed leader dubbing himself "Genius of the Carpathians" in spite of a peasant background as a semi-literate cobbler, Ceausescu’s dubious praises, as well as those of his even less educated wife, Elena, literally were sung by Romanian schoolchildren prior to the commencement of their daily classes, and it is here that the film’s viewers drop into the lives of 17-year-old Eva (Dorotheea Petre) and her young brother, Lalalilu (Timotei Duma).
As the tale unwinds, the director Mitulescu contrasts the dark and leaden idiocy of the "official" culture of Communism in Romania, as exemplified by the country’s regimented educational apparatus, with the relative normalcy of family life at home, but critically, nostalgia, bathos and the false positives of the Pollyanna principle are mostly avoided.
Eva’s and Lalalilu’s extended family is a loving one, and life is far from wretched, but the unfathomable pressures of existing in an increasingly impoverished and stressful atmosphere are duly illustrated. Random acts of violence punctuate the narrative, the presence next door of a Securitate (secret policemen) officer’s privileged and amorous son has tremendous consequences, and the oppressive political climate has a way of making an otherwise sane patriarch strip to his underwear in a tragicomic rooftop protest that results in his removal by ever-present government flunkies.
Forced by circumstance to make a series of momentous decisions for herself and her family, Eva is abruptly rescued by fate, as Ceausescu’s run of good fortune, which had been exacerbated on more than one occasion by Western nations willing to overlook human rights violations, finally is trumped by a groundswell of resentment. Eva's neighbors watch on television while the elements of the Conducator’s own party cronies, aided and abetted by the military as well as hundreds of thousands of ordinary Romanians, take to the streets. In the end, even all but the most culpable and compromised Securitate elements also melted away, to be rehabilitated in an early post-Communist government almost indistinguishable from the one preceding the Iron Curtain’s collapse.
If we were to locate Mitulescu’s fictional siblings now, they would be 36 and 26, respectively. More importantly, they would be carrying provisional European Union credentials, for the Romania of systematization, Communist party congresses and agro-industrial complexes is in the process of completing its belated switch of ideological sides. Ceausescu’s ever-present photo no longer glowers from classroom walls, but how many of the people from the generation of the sister’s and brother’s parents, aunts and uncles now sometimes look backward with rose-colored glasses?
More than we might think, even if.
The film is much recommended.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Random thoughts for a random Tuesday.
1. Why do we judge government and private action by such different standards? The private market let the Baptist Tabernacle languish for decades but, when the city bought it, some said they'd better hurry up and do something with it, lest the purchase be viewed as proof that private interests would've handled the property better.
Have these folks been exposed to a different history than I have? Or, by "hurry up" do they mean within the next 25 years or so? And, if there is sudden, significant interest, couldn't the city just sell it?
2. Why don't we just go ahead and provide free wireless Internet access downtown? Have we even examined how much it would cost? We have at least three networking companies downtown. Surely they can help earn their enterprise zone tax breaks.
3. Where are we supposed to sit downtown? I don't think I've ever been in a successful city center anywhere that didn't have ample seating.
4. How much is a small surface parking lot worth downtown? They're unquestionably one of the most unattractive, inefficient uses of urban space. If we're going to use public money to buy property, lets start buying them up. They're cheaper, as is planting grass and trees rather than rehabbing buildings. We'd have places to sit and connect with each other and the Internet, and buildings right next to parks are more attractive. They could also function as market and event space.
5. What's wrong with the industrial zone just east of Vincennes in the general vicinity of Main and Market? Isn't there a bunch of empty and/or underutilized property there? Who wouldn't want their high tech campus to overlook the river? Couldn't people walk or ride bikes to jobs there using preexisting infrastructure, including folks from Clarksville and Jeffersonville when the Greenway is complete and from across the river when the K&I bridge is opened back up?
6. Is it fair to ask new investors to spend $300-500K to purchase and do full building rehabs when long-time building and business owners- some of whom have probably paid off their buildings or have some serious equity to work with- aren't even expected to open their windows and paint every once in a while?
Have these folks been exposed to a different history than I have? Or, by "hurry up" do they mean within the next 25 years or so? And, if there is sudden, significant interest, couldn't the city just sell it?
2. Why don't we just go ahead and provide free wireless Internet access downtown? Have we even examined how much it would cost? We have at least three networking companies downtown. Surely they can help earn their enterprise zone tax breaks.
3. Where are we supposed to sit downtown? I don't think I've ever been in a successful city center anywhere that didn't have ample seating.
4. How much is a small surface parking lot worth downtown? They're unquestionably one of the most unattractive, inefficient uses of urban space. If we're going to use public money to buy property, lets start buying them up. They're cheaper, as is planting grass and trees rather than rehabbing buildings. We'd have places to sit and connect with each other and the Internet, and buildings right next to parks are more attractive. They could also function as market and event space.
5. What's wrong with the industrial zone just east of Vincennes in the general vicinity of Main and Market? Isn't there a bunch of empty and/or underutilized property there? Who wouldn't want their high tech campus to overlook the river? Couldn't people walk or ride bikes to jobs there using preexisting infrastructure, including folks from Clarksville and Jeffersonville when the Greenway is complete and from across the river when the K&I bridge is opened back up?
6. Is it fair to ask new investors to spend $300-500K to purchase and do full building rehabs when long-time building and business owners- some of whom have probably paid off their buildings or have some serious equity to work with- aren't even expected to open their windows and paint every once in a while?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Pangea Day, May 10, New Albany.
What Is Pangea Day?
Pangea Day taps the power of film to strengthen tolerance and compassion while uniting millions of people to build a better future.
In a world where people are often divided by borders, difference, and conflict, it's easy to lose sight of what we all have in common. Pangea Day seeks to overcome that - to help people see themselves in others - through the power of film.
On May 10, 2008 - Pangea Day - sites in Cairo, Kigali, London, Los Angeles, Mumbai and Rio de Janeiro will be linked live to produce a program of powerful films, visionary speakers, and uplifting music.
The program will be broadcast live to the world through the Internet, television, digital cinemas, and mobile phones.
Of course, movies alone can't change the world. But the people who watch them can. So following May 10, 2008, Pangea Day organizers will facilitate community-building activities around the world by connecting inspired viewers with numerous organizations which are already doing groundbreaking work.
The first graphic says to sign up to host an event, so I did.
Details will be forthcoming, but know that NAC is on the case, making it possible to participate in Pangea Day activities somewhere in New Albany on May 10 beginning around 1:00 to 2:00 in the afternoon.
Pangea Day FAQ
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Heaven on their minds.
In his preface to “Bertrand Russell on God and Religion,” the book’s editor, Al Seckel, writes:
There is a marvelous anecdote from the occasion of Russell's ninetieth birthday that best serves to summarize his attitude toward God and religion. A London lady sat next to him at this party, and over the soup she suggested to him that he was not only the world's most famous atheist but, by this time, very probably the world's oldest atheist. "What will you do, Bertie, if it turns out you're wrong?" she asked. "I mean, what if -- uh -- when the time comes, you should meet Him? What will you say?" Russell was delighted with the question. His bright, birdlike eyes grew even brighter as he contemplated this possible future dialogue, and then he pointed a finger upward and cried, "Why, I should say, 'God, you gave us insufficient evidence.'"
Earlier in the week Barack Obama eloquently spoke of intolerance, and the predictable result was a backlash of … well, intolerance, with a sizeable proportion of the bile emanating from the very same people who see themselves as religious, and who embrace the mission of reminding us of it on a daily basis, and of course it is hypocrisy of this magnitude that lies as much at the heart of America as those noble ideals we prefer to enshrine as our national myth. Forgive me then for celebrating today’s decidedly non-secular holiday with H. L. Mencken:
The truth is that Christian theology, like every other theology, is not only opposed to the scientific spirit; it is also opposed to all other attempts at rational thinking. Not by accident does Genesis 3 make the father of knowledge a serpent -- slimy, sneaking and abominable. Since the earliest days the church, as an organization, has thrown itself violently against every effort to liberate the body and mind of man. It has been, at all times and everywhere, the habitual and incorrigible defender of bad governments, bad laws, bad social theories, bad institutions. It was, for centuries, an apologist for slavery, as it was the apologist for the divine right of kings.
-- From “Treatise on the Gods”
I’ve posted another essay elsewhere: Your own personal Easter.
From a purely psychological standpoint, even I can’t deny the efficacy of Easter’s promise of hope and comfort, both in the universal sense of human uncertainty when it comes to ultimate meanings, and specifically for those who are at a point of loneliness and despair. Bleak is not a place that lends itself to hope, but concepts like Easter hold out the promise of redemption.
If you’re a believer, I do sincerely hope you find solace, inspiration and comfort from Easter. As an unbeliever, I promise to make good use of the day, beginning with the overdue search for that long-lost bonnet.
There is a marvelous anecdote from the occasion of Russell's ninetieth birthday that best serves to summarize his attitude toward God and religion. A London lady sat next to him at this party, and over the soup she suggested to him that he was not only the world's most famous atheist but, by this time, very probably the world's oldest atheist. "What will you do, Bertie, if it turns out you're wrong?" she asked. "I mean, what if -- uh -- when the time comes, you should meet Him? What will you say?" Russell was delighted with the question. His bright, birdlike eyes grew even brighter as he contemplated this possible future dialogue, and then he pointed a finger upward and cried, "Why, I should say, 'God, you gave us insufficient evidence.'"
Earlier in the week Barack Obama eloquently spoke of intolerance, and the predictable result was a backlash of … well, intolerance, with a sizeable proportion of the bile emanating from the very same people who see themselves as religious, and who embrace the mission of reminding us of it on a daily basis, and of course it is hypocrisy of this magnitude that lies as much at the heart of America as those noble ideals we prefer to enshrine as our national myth. Forgive me then for celebrating today’s decidedly non-secular holiday with H. L. Mencken:
The truth is that Christian theology, like every other theology, is not only opposed to the scientific spirit; it is also opposed to all other attempts at rational thinking. Not by accident does Genesis 3 make the father of knowledge a serpent -- slimy, sneaking and abominable. Since the earliest days the church, as an organization, has thrown itself violently against every effort to liberate the body and mind of man. It has been, at all times and everywhere, the habitual and incorrigible defender of bad governments, bad laws, bad social theories, bad institutions. It was, for centuries, an apologist for slavery, as it was the apologist for the divine right of kings.
-- From “Treatise on the Gods”
I’ve posted another essay elsewhere: Your own personal Easter.
From a purely psychological standpoint, even I can’t deny the efficacy of Easter’s promise of hope and comfort, both in the universal sense of human uncertainty when it comes to ultimate meanings, and specifically for those who are at a point of loneliness and despair. Bleak is not a place that lends itself to hope, but concepts like Easter hold out the promise of redemption.
If you’re a believer, I do sincerely hope you find solace, inspiration and comfort from Easter. As an unbeliever, I promise to make good use of the day, beginning with the overdue search for that long-lost bonnet.
Red Stars, Black Mountains: What’s Habsburg got to do with it? (Part 5).
A continuing Sunday series. See also:
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Raddy and what came after (Part 4)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Mellow Ljubljana (Part 3)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Welcome to Slovenia (Part 2)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Roger in Yugoslavia ’87 (Part 1)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Roger in Yugoslavia ’87 (Introduction)
----
In truth, the current Bosnian-Herzegovinian capital of Sarajevo, then just one of many provincial hubs in extinct Yugoslavia, always was the primary goal of my 1987 trip to the region, and to understand why, you have to learn a bit about my enduringly unfathomable Habsburg fixation. It certainly ranks among the more bizarre historical fetishes you'll encounter.
The Habsburgs were the long established ruling monarchs of the empire eventually to be termed the Austro-Hungarian empire, which in the years prior to the first world war occupied a substantial portion of what is now Austria, Hungary, Czech Republic, Slovakia, the Balkans and parts of northern Italy (recall the port of Trieste in an earlier installment of this series).
In 1914, the reigning Emperor Franz Joseph was 84 years old and had sat on the throne for 66 years, since 1848. Whether tacit or explicit, obeisance to the emperor's many-titled royal personage served as the only generally accepted bond between the empire's multitudinous nationalities and their languages, customs, aspirations and diverse lives.
At the same time, virtually every strain of the 19th and 20th century European experience came to be woven into the complex fabric of Austria-Hungary's capital, Vienna, ranging from visual artists (Klimt, Schiele) to formal musicians (Brahms, Bruckner and Mahler); writers, academics and scholars (Sigmund Freud and his retinue); future world political figures (Adolf Hitler, Yugoslavia's own Josip "Tito" Broz) radical Zionists and hyperbolic anti-Semites, the pioneering lager brewer Anton Dreher, and later, unbelievably, Leon Askin, the actor who played General Burkhalter on the television series "Hogan's Heroes", and who was born in Vienna nine years before Franz Joseph died.
Add to the hoary chronological mix the tragedies of Franz Joseph's tumultuous personal life – his son infamously committed a murder/suicide with his youthful mistress, and his wife suffered from undiagnosed mental illness and was herself eventually murdered by an anarchist – then combine all this with various other socio-political and economic foreshadowing of imminent doom, and finally, consider that in 1914, Franz Joseph's closest remaining relative eligible for the succession was his profoundly unpopular nephew, and that uncle and nephew were quite different people with dissimilar views of the heavenly ordained family mission to rule … well, then you'll at least be aware of the many compelling threads in this narrative.
Readers of history already know the emperor's nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, as the man whose 1914 assassination in Sarajevo lit the fuse for the Great War. As for me, since my very first visit to Europe in 1985, when I made a visit to Austria's national military museum for the sole purpose of viewing the Archduke's blood-splattered tunic and the automobile he and his wife were using to drive through Sarajevo when Gavrilo Princip's bullets ended their lives, visiting the various Central European locales on the Franz Ferdinand heritage trail has been a constant attraction.
The military museum was first, and also in 1985, I walked through the crypt of the Austrian emperors in Vienna precisely to see where Franz Ferdinand and his wife are not buried – and this absence is a very important part of the overall story.
The Archduke was a blunt, obnoxious, violent, unlikable and repressed human being who in his spare time enjoyed slaughtering wildlife under the guise of hunting.
He also did something decidedly uncommon among his brethren European royalty of the age: He fell madly in love, and remained just as madly in love, with a woman decreed by the royal court to be inadequately marriageable for an heir to the throne, and so he married her anyway, even though doing so forced him to renounce the path of succession for the children, and to acknowledge that Sophie could not participate in the normal trappings of royal life … or enjoy an eternal resting place alongside the properly accredited Habsburg family members.
Inexplicably, the otherwise indefensible Franz Ferdinand was transformed into the perfect family man at home in various estates and castles scattered throughout the realm … but, not unexpectedly, his perceived mistreatment at the hands of protocol rankled, and he nursed a smoldering grudge until the end of his life, which came in Sarajevo during a journey of largely unnecessary semi-official business that was undertaken because it geographically placed he and his wife outside the direct control of the court, inside a province that had been annexed only a short time before, and enabled him to provide his wife, albeit it briefly, with the "official" perks denied her otherwise.
All this meant less than nothing to a young group of nationalistic Bosnian revolutionary conspirators who detested the empire and were being trained and financed by a covert arm of the independent Serbian kingdom's military arm in Belgrade ("Black Hand"), and thus we are brought back to Sarajevo, where the motley crew of inflamed and malnourished terrorists plotted their tragicomic ambush of the Archduke.
To start, a bomb was inexpertly tossed. It bounced off the hood of Franz Ferdinand's car and ignited on the one following it, injuring a subaltern. The bomb thrower sought first to drown himself, jumping from an adjacent bridge into the two-foot-deep river, then, thwarted, tried to ingest poison that wasn't poison. He was quickly arrested and the group dissolved in panic, with Princip adjourning to coffee house to morosely consider the failures of the botched performance.
Meanwhile, in spite of the bomb attempt and further warnings that security could not be guaranteed, a supremely annoyed Archduke elected to finish the official visit to Sarajevo's town hall, resulting in one of the most incredible photos you'll ever see, with the bedecked Austrian royal visibly bursting veins while minor officials in vests and fezes offer tepid and embarrassed salutes. The fear in their eyes is palpable even in the ancient black and white photo. A bad moon is about to rise, and they know it.
But nothing can be done when it comes to fate, especially in the Balkans.
Sure enough, perhaps an hour later, the motorcade resumed without the Archduke's staff having communicated to the lead driver a slight change in route undertaken to make the return safer. Having missed the turn, the cars were halted on the street directly outside the coffee shop where Princip now emerged to find his original target stock still and seated only 20 feet away, posing for the crosshairs. Princip fired two shots, one each for Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, both inexplicably perfect in aim, and within moments, the heir and his wife were both dead.
Throughout my subsequent travels, I've visited the Archduke's "hunting lodge" in Benesov, outside Prague, consumed the beer brewed in his name nearby, returned to Vienna to tour the Belvedere Palace (his official residence), and finally in 2003, arduously climbed the steep side of the Danube valley on a bicycle for the privilege of seeing the ancestral castle at Artstetten, and being presented the key to the mausoleum by the lady on duty so that after twenty-two years, the couple's graves could at last be viewed and my respects offered.
But Sarajevo in 1987 remains the benchmark. The town hall, the bridge and the museum located where the coffee shop had been … the footprints in the concrete sidewalk to show where Princip stood when he struck his blows against the empire … and the ambience of this strange old town with minarets and church spires both Catholic and Eastern Orthodox, not to mention synagogues, nestled together on a hillside, with the sprawling newer town encompassing a winter Olympics complex.
How much of it remains today? I ask because I've not returned, and as you know, Sarajevo had a few big problems since my lone visit.
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Raddy and what came after (Part 4)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Mellow Ljubljana (Part 3)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Welcome to Slovenia (Part 2)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Roger in Yugoslavia ’87 (Part 1)
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Roger in Yugoslavia ’87 (Introduction)
----
In truth, the current Bosnian-Herzegovinian capital of Sarajevo, then just one of many provincial hubs in extinct Yugoslavia, always was the primary goal of my 1987 trip to the region, and to understand why, you have to learn a bit about my enduringly unfathomable Habsburg fixation. It certainly ranks among the more bizarre historical fetishes you'll encounter.
The Habsburgs were the long established ruling monarchs of the empire eventually to be termed the Austro-Hungarian empire, which in the years prior to the first world war occupied a substantial portion of what is now Austria, Hungary, Czech Republic, Slovakia, the Balkans and parts of northern Italy (recall the port of Trieste in an earlier installment of this series).
In 1914, the reigning Emperor Franz Joseph was 84 years old and had sat on the throne for 66 years, since 1848. Whether tacit or explicit, obeisance to the emperor's many-titled royal personage served as the only generally accepted bond between the empire's multitudinous nationalities and their languages, customs, aspirations and diverse lives.
At the same time, virtually every strain of the 19th and 20th century European experience came to be woven into the complex fabric of Austria-Hungary's capital, Vienna, ranging from visual artists (Klimt, Schiele) to formal musicians (Brahms, Bruckner and Mahler); writers, academics and scholars (Sigmund Freud and his retinue); future world political figures (Adolf Hitler, Yugoslavia's own Josip "Tito" Broz) radical Zionists and hyperbolic anti-Semites, the pioneering lager brewer Anton Dreher, and later, unbelievably, Leon Askin, the actor who played General Burkhalter on the television series "Hogan's Heroes", and who was born in Vienna nine years before Franz Joseph died.
Add to the hoary chronological mix the tragedies of Franz Joseph's tumultuous personal life – his son infamously committed a murder/suicide with his youthful mistress, and his wife suffered from undiagnosed mental illness and was herself eventually murdered by an anarchist – then combine all this with various other socio-political and economic foreshadowing of imminent doom, and finally, consider that in 1914, Franz Joseph's closest remaining relative eligible for the succession was his profoundly unpopular nephew, and that uncle and nephew were quite different people with dissimilar views of the heavenly ordained family mission to rule … well, then you'll at least be aware of the many compelling threads in this narrative.
Readers of history already know the emperor's nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, as the man whose 1914 assassination in Sarajevo lit the fuse for the Great War. As for me, since my very first visit to Europe in 1985, when I made a visit to Austria's national military museum for the sole purpose of viewing the Archduke's blood-splattered tunic and the automobile he and his wife were using to drive through Sarajevo when Gavrilo Princip's bullets ended their lives, visiting the various Central European locales on the Franz Ferdinand heritage trail has been a constant attraction.
The military museum was first, and also in 1985, I walked through the crypt of the Austrian emperors in Vienna precisely to see where Franz Ferdinand and his wife are not buried – and this absence is a very important part of the overall story.
The Archduke was a blunt, obnoxious, violent, unlikable and repressed human being who in his spare time enjoyed slaughtering wildlife under the guise of hunting.
He also did something decidedly uncommon among his brethren European royalty of the age: He fell madly in love, and remained just as madly in love, with a woman decreed by the royal court to be inadequately marriageable for an heir to the throne, and so he married her anyway, even though doing so forced him to renounce the path of succession for the children, and to acknowledge that Sophie could not participate in the normal trappings of royal life … or enjoy an eternal resting place alongside the properly accredited Habsburg family members.
Inexplicably, the otherwise indefensible Franz Ferdinand was transformed into the perfect family man at home in various estates and castles scattered throughout the realm … but, not unexpectedly, his perceived mistreatment at the hands of protocol rankled, and he nursed a smoldering grudge until the end of his life, which came in Sarajevo during a journey of largely unnecessary semi-official business that was undertaken because it geographically placed he and his wife outside the direct control of the court, inside a province that had been annexed only a short time before, and enabled him to provide his wife, albeit it briefly, with the "official" perks denied her otherwise.
All this meant less than nothing to a young group of nationalistic Bosnian revolutionary conspirators who detested the empire and were being trained and financed by a covert arm of the independent Serbian kingdom's military arm in Belgrade ("Black Hand"), and thus we are brought back to Sarajevo, where the motley crew of inflamed and malnourished terrorists plotted their tragicomic ambush of the Archduke.
To start, a bomb was inexpertly tossed. It bounced off the hood of Franz Ferdinand's car and ignited on the one following it, injuring a subaltern. The bomb thrower sought first to drown himself, jumping from an adjacent bridge into the two-foot-deep river, then, thwarted, tried to ingest poison that wasn't poison. He was quickly arrested and the group dissolved in panic, with Princip adjourning to coffee house to morosely consider the failures of the botched performance.
Meanwhile, in spite of the bomb attempt and further warnings that security could not be guaranteed, a supremely annoyed Archduke elected to finish the official visit to Sarajevo's town hall, resulting in one of the most incredible photos you'll ever see, with the bedecked Austrian royal visibly bursting veins while minor officials in vests and fezes offer tepid and embarrassed salutes. The fear in their eyes is palpable even in the ancient black and white photo. A bad moon is about to rise, and they know it.
But nothing can be done when it comes to fate, especially in the Balkans.
Sure enough, perhaps an hour later, the motorcade resumed without the Archduke's staff having communicated to the lead driver a slight change in route undertaken to make the return safer. Having missed the turn, the cars were halted on the street directly outside the coffee shop where Princip now emerged to find his original target stock still and seated only 20 feet away, posing for the crosshairs. Princip fired two shots, one each for Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, both inexplicably perfect in aim, and within moments, the heir and his wife were both dead.
Throughout my subsequent travels, I've visited the Archduke's "hunting lodge" in Benesov, outside Prague, consumed the beer brewed in his name nearby, returned to Vienna to tour the Belvedere Palace (his official residence), and finally in 2003, arduously climbed the steep side of the Danube valley on a bicycle for the privilege of seeing the ancestral castle at Artstetten, and being presented the key to the mausoleum by the lady on duty so that after twenty-two years, the couple's graves could at last be viewed and my respects offered.
But Sarajevo in 1987 remains the benchmark. The town hall, the bridge and the museum located where the coffee shop had been … the footprints in the concrete sidewalk to show where Princip stood when he struck his blows against the empire … and the ambience of this strange old town with minarets and church spires both Catholic and Eastern Orthodox, not to mention synagogues, nestled together on a hillside, with the sprawling newer town encompassing a winter Olympics complex.
How much of it remains today? I ask because I've not returned, and as you know, Sarajevo had a few big problems since my lone visit.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Jeff Main Street chili & beer bash rescheduled for Tuesday, April 1.
Jeff Main Street's first try at its 3rd annual chili and beer fundraiser was postponed by bad weather in early February, but they're set to give it another shot on April Fool's Day.
This is no joke! NABC, BBC and Upland will be there to pour beer samples, and if last year's event is any indication, there'll be an abundance of fine chili. I'm hoping to see a New Albanian contingent for this one.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Not quite weekend update
Mayor England delivered his State of the City address at last night's council meeting.
The Tribune provides the full text: 2008 State of the City Address - New Albany
Shadow5 provides additional coverage of the meeting and some commentary:
A Bright Night Follows a Rare Sunny Day
Friend and ranking NAC spiritual adviser John Manzo provides a more in-depth look at pastor Jeremiah Wright from a perspective of personal knowledge rather than relying on a three minute segment of a thirty-year career:
Different is not Deficient
Me? I'm content to leave all of the above open for discussion while I prepare to go see the first Louisville screenings of Sundance Film Festival selection FLOW, co-produced by Louisville locals Gill and Augusta Holland among others.
With an unflinching focus on politics, pollution and human rights, FLOW: For Love of Water ensures that the precarious relationship between humanity and water can no longer be ignored. While specifics of locality and issue may differ, the message is the same; water, and our future as a species, is quickly drying up. Armed with a thirst for survival, people around the world are fighting for their birthright; unless we instigate change, we face a world in which only those that can pay for their water will survive. FLOW: For Love of Water, is a catalyst for people everywhere: the time has come to turn the tide and we can't wait any longer.
Opens today for a week at the Baxter
Daily Showtimes 1:10, 3:15, 5:20, 7:30, 9:40
Q&A sessions will be held following screenings on the first two days. Director Irena Salina, who was tear gassed and had a death threat against her while filming, will participate on Friday while Gill and Augusta will be present on both Friday and Saturday.
The Tribune provides the full text: 2008 State of the City Address - New Albany
Shadow5 provides additional coverage of the meeting and some commentary:
A Bright Night Follows a Rare Sunny Day
Friend and ranking NAC spiritual adviser John Manzo provides a more in-depth look at pastor Jeremiah Wright from a perspective of personal knowledge rather than relying on a three minute segment of a thirty-year career:
Different is not Deficient
Me? I'm content to leave all of the above open for discussion while I prepare to go see the first Louisville screenings of Sundance Film Festival selection FLOW, co-produced by Louisville locals Gill and Augusta Holland among others.
With an unflinching focus on politics, pollution and human rights, FLOW: For Love of Water ensures that the precarious relationship between humanity and water can no longer be ignored. While specifics of locality and issue may differ, the message is the same; water, and our future as a species, is quickly drying up. Armed with a thirst for survival, people around the world are fighting for their birthright; unless we instigate change, we face a world in which only those that can pay for their water will survive. FLOW: For Love of Water, is a catalyst for people everywhere: the time has come to turn the tide and we can't wait any longer.
Opens today for a week at the Baxter
Daily Showtimes 1:10, 3:15, 5:20, 7:30, 9:40
Q&A sessions will be held following screenings on the first two days. Director Irena Salina, who was tear gassed and had a death threat against her while filming, will participate on Friday while Gill and Augusta will be present on both Friday and Saturday.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Council takes on tax abatements
New Albany's City Council will hold a work session concerning tax abatements tonight at 6:00 p.m. prior to their regularly scheduled meeting with Thomas A. Pitman, a partner from the Indianapolis law firm of Baker and Daniels.
Council President Jeff Gahan says the Council has lacked consistency when dealing with the incentive and is attempting to be more fair. To that end, council members requested a training session to ensure evenhandedness.
Regular council meeting attendees might be surprised to learn that CM Dan Coffey has declared the Baker and Daniels firm "an acknowledged expert" on state taxes prior to the meeting. Given that Coffey once accused bond firm Ice Miller's Buddy Downs of not being as familiar as he was with some of the state finance rules that Downs himself helped to write, these guys must be the shit.
Other business, including the potential expansion of the Park East Industrial Park TIF district, will be handled during the regular 7:30 meeting. Both the work session and the meeting will be in the assembly room on the third floor of the City County Building.
New Albany examines tax policy by Dick Kaukas, Courier-Journal
Council President Jeff Gahan says the Council has lacked consistency when dealing with the incentive and is attempting to be more fair. To that end, council members requested a training session to ensure evenhandedness.
Regular council meeting attendees might be surprised to learn that CM Dan Coffey has declared the Baker and Daniels firm "an acknowledged expert" on state taxes prior to the meeting. Given that Coffey once accused bond firm Ice Miller's Buddy Downs of not being as familiar as he was with some of the state finance rules that Downs himself helped to write, these guys must be the shit.
Other business, including the potential expansion of the Park East Industrial Park TIF district, will be handled during the regular 7:30 meeting. Both the work session and the meeting will be in the assembly room on the third floor of the City County Building.
New Albany examines tax policy by Dick Kaukas, Courier-Journal
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
“Creative types don't want bourgeois homogeneity.”
The current edition of The Economist includes a thought-provoking essay on the rivalry between London and Paris, and surveys the reasons why London seems to be “winning” the race. An extended excerpt is provided.
The rivals: Two great cities are about to hold mayoral elections. Which has the brighter future?
Perhaps most important, the city (London) has adopted a guiding creed that belongs neither to the political left nor the right: openness to change. “London has flourished not because it has sorted out its transport, or its city management, but because it opened its borders,” argues Tony Travers, director of the Greater London Group at the London School of Economics. These days, there is nothing particularly British about London, bar its tolerance of chaos. It has embraced globalisation to become an international city, while Paris has remained unapologetically French.
Nearly 700,000 extra foreign-born people have made London their home since 1997, bringing the capital's total foreign-born population to over 30%. Not counting illegals, Paris has fewer foreigners (about 14%) and, crucially, it is the more educated ones, whether from India or Poland, who head for London. (In total, Britain has attracted more skilled and professional immigrants: 35% of them have a college education, according to a recent OECD study, against just 18% in France.) The energetic renovation of newly fashionable districts such as Hoxton and Shoreditch is not only spurred by sky-high property prices elsewhere; it also owes something to the friction and renewal of London's messy, cosmopolitan mix.
“Creative types don't want bourgeois homogeneity,” says Mr. Travers. “They want edginess, and space to grow.”
In the fashion typical of my favored news magazine, all sides of the coin are duly considered, and I’m not in lock-step agreement with every aspect of the story.
Also, it is worth conceding that analogies are treacherous, especially when considering two major world cities on the one hand and places like New Albany on the other.
Yet …
The last sentence in the preceding excerpt aptly summarizes the New Albany conundrum for me. Bourgeois homogeneity does not lend itself to creativity, which is what we need more than anything else, and in large measure this creativity must be pried from the cold, dead hand of bourgeois homogeneity, which has proven to be entirely unwilling or unable to offer solutions to problems beyond expressing eternal contempt for creativity and the necessary things that stem from it.
For me, there is nothing more indicative of bourgeois homogeneity than the recurring insistence that the sole value of a human being lies in his or her willingness to pay taxes.
Unfortunately, the past year’s public discourse in New Albany and in Indiana has been predicated on precisely this misreading of the social contract. New Albany’s bloc of Luddites will continue to babble phrases misappropriated from the likes of Ayn Rand, and I – quite possibly alone, which is fine by me – will continue to respond that the task of the local politician is to serve all the people, not just those whose participation in a civil society is defined solely by incessant threats to drown government in a bathtub if their narrow interests are not properly addressed.
The rivals: Two great cities are about to hold mayoral elections. Which has the brighter future?
Perhaps most important, the city (London) has adopted a guiding creed that belongs neither to the political left nor the right: openness to change. “London has flourished not because it has sorted out its transport, or its city management, but because it opened its borders,” argues Tony Travers, director of the Greater London Group at the London School of Economics. These days, there is nothing particularly British about London, bar its tolerance of chaos. It has embraced globalisation to become an international city, while Paris has remained unapologetically French.
Nearly 700,000 extra foreign-born people have made London their home since 1997, bringing the capital's total foreign-born population to over 30%. Not counting illegals, Paris has fewer foreigners (about 14%) and, crucially, it is the more educated ones, whether from India or Poland, who head for London. (In total, Britain has attracted more skilled and professional immigrants: 35% of them have a college education, according to a recent OECD study, against just 18% in France.) The energetic renovation of newly fashionable districts such as Hoxton and Shoreditch is not only spurred by sky-high property prices elsewhere; it also owes something to the friction and renewal of London's messy, cosmopolitan mix.
“Creative types don't want bourgeois homogeneity,” says Mr. Travers. “They want edginess, and space to grow.”
In the fashion typical of my favored news magazine, all sides of the coin are duly considered, and I’m not in lock-step agreement with every aspect of the story.
Also, it is worth conceding that analogies are treacherous, especially when considering two major world cities on the one hand and places like New Albany on the other.
Yet …
The last sentence in the preceding excerpt aptly summarizes the New Albany conundrum for me. Bourgeois homogeneity does not lend itself to creativity, which is what we need more than anything else, and in large measure this creativity must be pried from the cold, dead hand of bourgeois homogeneity, which has proven to be entirely unwilling or unable to offer solutions to problems beyond expressing eternal contempt for creativity and the necessary things that stem from it.
For me, there is nothing more indicative of bourgeois homogeneity than the recurring insistence that the sole value of a human being lies in his or her willingness to pay taxes.
Unfortunately, the past year’s public discourse in New Albany and in Indiana has been predicated on precisely this misreading of the social contract. New Albany’s bloc of Luddites will continue to babble phrases misappropriated from the likes of Ayn Rand, and I – quite possibly alone, which is fine by me – will continue to respond that the task of the local politician is to serve all the people, not just those whose participation in a civil society is defined solely by incessant threats to drown government in a bathtub if their narrow interests are not properly addressed.
Obama: Practiced ignorance isn't an answer
During the 2007 holiday season, I found myself in a discussion of presidential candidates with a good friend and mentor, a staunch Democrat who's opinion, born of years of often thankless public service, I give substantial weight.
She expressed concern about Senator Obama; that, if elected, his relative youth would lead to near immediate evisceration by the mindless, inhuman machine we've come to accept as politics. He'd get knocked down quickly and may not recover.
My response at the time or, rather, on the way home in the car after the prescient moment had passed, was that I didn't care if he got knocked down. I expected him to. What I cared about was whether he'd get back up, point to his black eye, and have the courage to risk another punch by reminding us of why he took the first one.
"This is why they hit me," he'd say. "This is what they're afraid of." And, at least in my imagination, everyone who'd ever taken (or thrown) a punch in fear would have to pay attention to not just the violent result but their own enabling of the circumstances that led to it. For people of conscience, the type of avoidance and oversimplification I see almost daily in dealing with local issues would at the very least no longer be an option justified by a national example.
Quite frankly, I wasn't sure if he'd do it when the time came. I just couldn't shake the feeling that he was the only candidate that might.
Yesterday, Obama reassured me in a way that no candidate for the presidency in my adult life has ever even attempted. Pundits and paid consultants will spend the next few days excerpting, spinning, and explaining what they think or we should think he meant and how that meaning could impact the polls.
Here, however, are the words themselves in their entirety, presented because they deserve a position in local discourse well beyond the confines of a single election.
She expressed concern about Senator Obama; that, if elected, his relative youth would lead to near immediate evisceration by the mindless, inhuman machine we've come to accept as politics. He'd get knocked down quickly and may not recover.
My response at the time or, rather, on the way home in the car after the prescient moment had passed, was that I didn't care if he got knocked down. I expected him to. What I cared about was whether he'd get back up, point to his black eye, and have the courage to risk another punch by reminding us of why he took the first one.
"This is why they hit me," he'd say. "This is what they're afraid of." And, at least in my imagination, everyone who'd ever taken (or thrown) a punch in fear would have to pay attention to not just the violent result but their own enabling of the circumstances that led to it. For people of conscience, the type of avoidance and oversimplification I see almost daily in dealing with local issues would at the very least no longer be an option justified by a national example.
Quite frankly, I wasn't sure if he'd do it when the time came. I just couldn't shake the feeling that he was the only candidate that might.
Yesterday, Obama reassured me in a way that no candidate for the presidency in my adult life has ever even attempted. Pundits and paid consultants will spend the next few days excerpting, spinning, and explaining what they think or we should think he meant and how that meaning could impact the polls.
Here, however, are the words themselves in their entirety, presented because they deserve a position in local discourse well beyond the confines of a single election.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Fire Museum to Baptist Tabernacle downtown?
The Green Mouse says that at today's Board of Public Works meeting, New Albany's deputy mayor announced a steering committee composed of private citizens has been formed to work toward the relocation of the Conway Fire Museum (currently located off Mt. Tabor Road) to the Baptist Tabernacle building on Fourth, which was acquired by the city a week ago.
The building would be restored and house the museum and a proposed public meeting space, thus becoming both a destination for visitors as well as a functional space.
Have you heard anything about this? If so, weigh in.
A Napoleon complex?
St. Louis real estate agent and community affairs blogger Steve Patterson used his Urban Review St. Louis blog to highlight one of his listed properties included in last years' Big BIG Tour of available urban homes hosted by ReVitalize St. Louis'
The March 07 tour is long over, but the photos reveal the interior of what used to be a typical four room shotgun home.
As Steve explained, "I think this home may change your perceptions about what a shotgun house can look like. The owner of this house (which is not me, btw) relocated the kitchen from the back to the second room. This creates a public space in the front two rooms with a private bedroom area at the back. At just over 900sf, this is larger than some new lofts."
Though expired, the MLS listing with more photos is stillonline.
You may be able to fire a shotgun through one around here but you can't fire and not hit one. Which one should we start with?
The March 07 tour is long over, but the photos reveal the interior of what used to be a typical four room shotgun home.
As Steve explained, "I think this home may change your perceptions about what a shotgun house can look like. The owner of this house (which is not me, btw) relocated the kitchen from the back to the second room. This creates a public space in the front two rooms with a private bedroom area at the back. At just over 900sf, this is larger than some new lofts."
Though expired, the MLS listing with more photos is still
You may be able to fire a shotgun through one around here but you can't fire and not hit one. Which one should we start with?
Monday, March 17, 2008
"The Ballad of Ronnie Drew."
It's St. Patrick’s Day, and with it those tasteless annual outbursts of shamrock-mounted hokum and green-colored beer that the genuine Irish themselves somehow manage to tolerate with good humor and grace, although the fact remains that the vast majority of American revelers on amateur’s (day and) night out never give a thought to the history and culture of the island.
(See ERIN GO BLAH, posted last year at my beer blog.)
If there’s a drop of Irish blood in me, I can’t prove it, and yet raw facts never stood in the way of a good story or a good song, and during the handful of times I've counted myself fortunate to visit Ireland, it was an absolute imperative to stop, smell the malt and learn. If you haven’t been there, try to go. Listen, and let the place grab you.
It seems that everyone in Ireland has a tale to tell or a tune to sing, and I suspect that the country's recent prosperity hasn’t changed the paradigm one single bit. To listen to our native tongue spoken like the Irish do is both magical and downright sensual, and it’s damned hard not to love a people with poetry running so vivdly through their veins.
And so I’ve tried to love the Irish while detesting the way that St. Patrick’s Day has come to symbolize the very worst about the American custom of distorting reality for the sake of commercialism, and it has seemed to me axiomatic that I’d not experience anything to melt my heart come March 17, but as so often is the case, a piece of music has gotten my attention and it won’t let go.
Specifically, it is a loving tribute to Dubliners founder Ronnie Drew, the grand old man of Irish folk music, who has been suffering from cancer. Participants include U2, the Dubliners, Shane McGowan and Sinead O’Connor. Yes, the sentimentality is way over the top, but it is accompanied by a sincerity that moves this cynic to the bar for another Guinness. Enjoy the video, and remember: Friends don’t let friends drink green beer.
Direct link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGNxz7zeU10
(See ERIN GO BLAH, posted last year at my beer blog.)
If there’s a drop of Irish blood in me, I can’t prove it, and yet raw facts never stood in the way of a good story or a good song, and during the handful of times I've counted myself fortunate to visit Ireland, it was an absolute imperative to stop, smell the malt and learn. If you haven’t been there, try to go. Listen, and let the place grab you.
It seems that everyone in Ireland has a tale to tell or a tune to sing, and I suspect that the country's recent prosperity hasn’t changed the paradigm one single bit. To listen to our native tongue spoken like the Irish do is both magical and downright sensual, and it’s damned hard not to love a people with poetry running so vivdly through their veins.
And so I’ve tried to love the Irish while detesting the way that St. Patrick’s Day has come to symbolize the very worst about the American custom of distorting reality for the sake of commercialism, and it has seemed to me axiomatic that I’d not experience anything to melt my heart come March 17, but as so often is the case, a piece of music has gotten my attention and it won’t let go.
Specifically, it is a loving tribute to Dubliners founder Ronnie Drew, the grand old man of Irish folk music, who has been suffering from cancer. Participants include U2, the Dubliners, Shane McGowan and Sinead O’Connor. Yes, the sentimentality is way over the top, but it is accompanied by a sincerity that moves this cynic to the bar for another Guinness. Enjoy the video, and remember: Friends don’t let friends drink green beer.
Direct link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGNxz7zeU10
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Red Stars, Black Mountains: Raddy and what came after (Part 4).
A continuing Sunday series. See also: Red Stars, Black Mountains: Mellow Ljubljana (Part 3). Red Stars, Black Mountains: Welcome to Slovenia (Part 2), Red Stars, Black Mountains: Roger in Yugoslavia ’87 (Part 1) and Red Stars, Black Mountains: Roger in Yugoslavia ’87 (Introduction).
----
In January, 2008, I searched the Internet for the name of Radojko Petkovski and was mildly surprised to see his name surface in a handful of listings, each attesting to his collaboration on fairly recent seismology studies, fully befitting an apparent post-Communist career advancement for a man whose 1987 business card identified him as an earthquake engineer from the city of Skopje, Macedonia.
A conservatively dressed (weren't they all in Communist countries?) and well-groomed man in his forties had been sitting quietly opposite me in a not too terribly crowded second class car on a Yugoslav "express" train from Ljubljana (Slovenia) to Zagreb (Croatia), and when the conductor passed through to check tickets, there was momentary linguistic confusion.
The man smiled and spoke to me in heavily accented English, and then answered the conductor, and as the door shut, enclosing us again in the claustrophobic old-fashioned compartment, I was handed a business card. An elemental conversation ensued, which is to say that Raddy spoke a bit of English, and of course, I spoke none of the local Yugoslav languages. There were to be future implications to the fractured dialogue, but for the moment, it was quite pleasant to engage the mind.
Soon we pulled into one of the intermediate stations, and on a siding adjacent to us was a train filled with dazed young soldiers looking out their windows. I tried to explain the scene at the station in Ljubljana, and Raddy nodded; he'd seen it, too, and proceeded to explain what I'd witnessed, noting that the specimens in question were now being shipped out for basic training, as were the soldiers outside our window.
Soon we had arrived in Zagreb, and Raddy made it a point to invite me to Skopje for a visit. I told him it might not be for a couple of weeks. His card was filed in my pouch, and we said goodbye.
---
At some juncture, discerning readers will ask a perfectly reasonable question:
Roger, seeing as you were in Yugoslavia in 1987, only four years before the tragic and murderous civil war began, can you tell us all about the rampant warning signs you noticed?
Actually, no. I can't. I was entirely oblivious.
It should have told me something about Yugoslavia that in the 1980's, Rebecca West's "Black Lamb and Grey Falcon," a survey of travel and history in the region published in 1941, was still considered essential pre-trip reading. I'd read it, and came away from the 1,000+ pages with an image of the Balkans as territory not dissimilar from Appalachia, Hatfields and McCoys.
So, on the one hand, I didn't arrive in Yugoslavia without a passing knowledge of the country's history as a Great War afterthought, a jumble of multi-syllabic Balkan peoples, religions and languages cast together into a "kingdom of South Slavs," and poverty-stricken, turbulent and rent with divisions from the moment of conception.
On the other, apart from the stock hellos, goodbyes and how much, I came utterly without communication skills … and, apart from people like Raddy and a handful of other closer to my age, Yugoslavia in 1987 was not the exact patch of Europe where one could find great numbers of English speakers.
Consequently, although it was always possible to get by, and sometimes even deeper insights could be gleaned, conversations of greater depth with natives were seldom possible. I met other tourists, but when one communicates with another tourist, especially an English speaker, there is a natural tendency to reinforce what already is known, rather than to ask questions and learn the score … and most of us had read from the same elementary tour guide playbook.
Accordingly, we'd all been taught that Marshall Tito had put an end to the bickering, and in many respects he genuinely had, partly through an instinctive understanding of the human terrain in a difficult neighborhood (the Balkans), partly through an aptitude for vicious totalitarian methodology, and partly through the common Communist trick of keeping ordinary people so relentlessly busy in pursuit of the tiniest details of reasonable life that they were too tired to rebel.
But, yes, Tito kept things together for so long as his heart was beating. When it stopped, in the early 80's, the genies began creeping from their prison bottles. Those few short years later, when the country went up in flames, and an unbelievable stream of abuses and horrors unseen since World War II took a crumbling Yugoslavia back to medieval times, I asked myself the question dozens of times: What happened to make these seemingly ordinary people leave their homes and go berserk?
There are hundreds of answers, but the point to me is that when I was there, the question wasn't being asked, and if it was, I didn't hear it.
Shame on me.
---
The youth hostel in Zagreb had a bunk bed for one night only, after which a school group was coming to fill all the spaces. I recall having a few mugs of cheap lager beer on the patio outside the train station, and watching the commuters at day's end. There was time for a walkabout.
Next morning, I was aboard the train into the interior, out of Croatia and into the rugged mountains of Bosnia. My destination was Sarajevo, and a date with Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
----
In January, 2008, I searched the Internet for the name of Radojko Petkovski and was mildly surprised to see his name surface in a handful of listings, each attesting to his collaboration on fairly recent seismology studies, fully befitting an apparent post-Communist career advancement for a man whose 1987 business card identified him as an earthquake engineer from the city of Skopje, Macedonia.
A conservatively dressed (weren't they all in Communist countries?) and well-groomed man in his forties had been sitting quietly opposite me in a not too terribly crowded second class car on a Yugoslav "express" train from Ljubljana (Slovenia) to Zagreb (Croatia), and when the conductor passed through to check tickets, there was momentary linguistic confusion.
The man smiled and spoke to me in heavily accented English, and then answered the conductor, and as the door shut, enclosing us again in the claustrophobic old-fashioned compartment, I was handed a business card. An elemental conversation ensued, which is to say that Raddy spoke a bit of English, and of course, I spoke none of the local Yugoslav languages. There were to be future implications to the fractured dialogue, but for the moment, it was quite pleasant to engage the mind.
Soon we pulled into one of the intermediate stations, and on a siding adjacent to us was a train filled with dazed young soldiers looking out their windows. I tried to explain the scene at the station in Ljubljana, and Raddy nodded; he'd seen it, too, and proceeded to explain what I'd witnessed, noting that the specimens in question were now being shipped out for basic training, as were the soldiers outside our window.
Soon we had arrived in Zagreb, and Raddy made it a point to invite me to Skopje for a visit. I told him it might not be for a couple of weeks. His card was filed in my pouch, and we said goodbye.
---
At some juncture, discerning readers will ask a perfectly reasonable question:
Roger, seeing as you were in Yugoslavia in 1987, only four years before the tragic and murderous civil war began, can you tell us all about the rampant warning signs you noticed?
Actually, no. I can't. I was entirely oblivious.
It should have told me something about Yugoslavia that in the 1980's, Rebecca West's "Black Lamb and Grey Falcon," a survey of travel and history in the region published in 1941, was still considered essential pre-trip reading. I'd read it, and came away from the 1,000+ pages with an image of the Balkans as territory not dissimilar from Appalachia, Hatfields and McCoys.
So, on the one hand, I didn't arrive in Yugoslavia without a passing knowledge of the country's history as a Great War afterthought, a jumble of multi-syllabic Balkan peoples, religions and languages cast together into a "kingdom of South Slavs," and poverty-stricken, turbulent and rent with divisions from the moment of conception.
On the other, apart from the stock hellos, goodbyes and how much, I came utterly without communication skills … and, apart from people like Raddy and a handful of other closer to my age, Yugoslavia in 1987 was not the exact patch of Europe where one could find great numbers of English speakers.
Consequently, although it was always possible to get by, and sometimes even deeper insights could be gleaned, conversations of greater depth with natives were seldom possible. I met other tourists, but when one communicates with another tourist, especially an English speaker, there is a natural tendency to reinforce what already is known, rather than to ask questions and learn the score … and most of us had read from the same elementary tour guide playbook.
Accordingly, we'd all been taught that Marshall Tito had put an end to the bickering, and in many respects he genuinely had, partly through an instinctive understanding of the human terrain in a difficult neighborhood (the Balkans), partly through an aptitude for vicious totalitarian methodology, and partly through the common Communist trick of keeping ordinary people so relentlessly busy in pursuit of the tiniest details of reasonable life that they were too tired to rebel.
But, yes, Tito kept things together for so long as his heart was beating. When it stopped, in the early 80's, the genies began creeping from their prison bottles. Those few short years later, when the country went up in flames, and an unbelievable stream of abuses and horrors unseen since World War II took a crumbling Yugoslavia back to medieval times, I asked myself the question dozens of times: What happened to make these seemingly ordinary people leave their homes and go berserk?
There are hundreds of answers, but the point to me is that when I was there, the question wasn't being asked, and if it was, I didn't hear it.
Shame on me.
---
The youth hostel in Zagreb had a bunk bed for one night only, after which a school group was coming to fill all the spaces. I recall having a few mugs of cheap lager beer on the patio outside the train station, and watching the commuters at day's end. There was time for a walkabout.
Next morning, I was aboard the train into the interior, out of Croatia and into the rugged mountains of Bosnia. My destination was Sarajevo, and a date with Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
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