These two fishing vessels were riding out the fog in New Bedford and I liked the juxtaposition of colors and names.
Today’s edition is less political and serious than the last couple or so.
First, Cormac McCarthy’s book The Road has now won the James Tait Black award, having already won the Pulitzer Prize. I’ve sort of panned this book by one of my favorite modern authors, and it appears that it’s time to say: “But what the heck do I know about fiction?” Good on ya Cormac.
Second, a while back my older brother started a project to list his favorite 100 pop/rock songs (no Beatles). He’s continued with this, and, after a year or more (I forget how long) is up to 40. I’ve forgotten the exact criteria escape me right now. I am a lover of popular music, and have lots of songs which I just can’t ignore when they pop up on the radio, or in random play, on my iPod. I may be driving along, or reading, or whatever, and one of these numbers will pop up and demand my attention. Some songs resonate so well with me that I (if it isn’t the radio!) play them several times in a row. My taste in music has little to do with the coming of age years, teenage angst, memories of my first kiss, first love, etc. It’s much more visceral than that. It has nothing to do with what Rolling Stone may think are the most worthwhile numbers. If it moves me, it’s in, if it don’t, it doesn’t. It has nothing to do with who is famous and/or a superstar. It has, to all intents and purposes, nothing to do with the lyrics (I soft-pedal this criterion because words, their shapes and sounds and rhythms, contribute to the overall sound of a piece of music, and the manner of singing them does too, of course, the human voice being the lead instrument in vocal pieces–but the best lyrics in the world can’t save a song which doesn’t rab me by the short hairs when I hear it–does that make sense?). A few instrumentals might make the cut. Oh, I don’t exclude music for intellectual reasons, meaning that even if the artist/song falls into what might be called the “bubble-gum” category (or any other put-down classification). I suppose if Britney Spears, or Tiffany, or an American Idol did a number that rocked my world, they’d have their shot (to the best of my knowledge and memory it ain’t happened yet). There ain’t no “ought to” in this popularity contest. Covers have as good a chance as original songwriter-performed songs. Hell, the same song could make it twice (but then I’d have the same problem as counting Presidents, wouldn’t I?), for example, it would be hard to pick between Rick Derringer doing his song “Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo” and Johnny Winter’s cover version.
So, even though I’m not a “list” person, I think I’ll get cracking on mine.
Third, Mia Farrow has offered to be a stand-in for some rebel leader being held by the government of Sudan. I am not making this up. Ms. Farrow is willing to abandon her 97 children and booming acting career to undertake this altruistic step, risking permanent imprisonment, torture, and death. Who says there is no real comedy these days? I split a gut when I heard this on the news, tears were running out of my eyes. My sweetie thought I’d need oxygen.
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