All content copyright 2009 by Holly Gleason. Web design by Lauren Carelli.
The notion that there’s a gap between what we believe and how it is isn’t new, but Jesuit priest/Buddhist embracer Anthony De Mello makes a case that is so straightforward, one’s denial of reality would have to be triple thick and made of solid marble to miss it. There are some notions that one could quibble with (all people are motivated selfishly, love is a self-denying fiction), but as a light to see things for what they are, to be truly present in the moment, to maintain one’s composure in any firestorm, to become more actualized no matter one’s state of evolution, this is jaw-dropping stuff—as much for the utter simplicity as the nowhere-to-hide truth-telling. Found on a hillbilly tour bus, absconded in the name of higher learning, it changed my life—a dug-in, stubborn life—for sure.
Maybe the best no-frills, no rabbit-up-one’s-sleeve dessert ever. White cake with a sour cream frosting that has coconut mixed into it. Not cloyingly sweet, not sickeningly rich. The cake is moist and light, airy almost, but dense enough to have some body—and the icing I could almost imagine being covered in and dying happy.
Got mine at Canal Street Jeans in the Village too many years ago to admit to, and there’s been no more constant companion in my adult life. Black leather, kinda beat-up, broken in to the point of moving with me before almost I do… with lots of zippers, the pockets to hold everything and the je ne sais crois that allows it to transcend from evening clothes to short skirt and a sweater to jeans and a Keith Richards’ “patience please a drug-free America takes time” t-shirt without blinking. This season, biker jackets are back. Now you can go high end designer, follow the Ralph Lauren approach of expensive co-opting of lifestyle by running to Harley Davidson or just go find some “down” place that deals in this sort of thing—and be the most authentic on your block. Shudder to think who made mine (the label has long since come out), but the name isn’t what matters, just the attitude of the person wearing it—whether it’s Danger Muffy, Easy Rider, blue collar icon or someone practical enough to understand.
Comic Harvey Pekar came to national prominence as one of David Letterman’s odd little regulars. But the cartoonist’s true gift was his ability to channel real life foibles into a comic strip that captures the agony, ecstasy and irony that is real life as lived by a file clerk at a hospital in an urban Midwestern center that’s long on ethnicity, dogged people and an often gray reality.
They discontinued my hair color! The trauma. The drama. The need to worry we were never going to get close to the alchemy that merges claret with eggplant for a vibrant color. And then the lovely Mr. Bill Green—of the very “Steel Magnolias” Continental Coiffures—announces that he thinks he’s got it. And does he ever… brighter even and redder, but more purple, too. If Prince was ever gonna wanna turn one of his vixens into a Lambrusco Princess, this is the box he’d reach for. After all, with “Torrid Brilliants” being the line that the Outrageous Cherry comes from, what else needs to be said?
Like I care! But it’s nice to see people getting so excited about something, even something I care not one wit for. Parties are being planned, debates are heating up, the level of engagement has exponentiated. For someone who just likes to see passion in action—even as a disinterested observer—this is a wonderful time of year. Oh, and y’all’ll all be glad to know that Titan Eddie George has committed to return to driving through the defense this season, rather than dancing and maneuvering. His deal is gonna be to take that field rather than evade… and what that means beyond ground acquisition in the personal sense, I have no clue, but thought it should be passed on to people who would know, care and understand!
They’re out, fluttering… reminding us not only what natural beauty looks like, but the possibilities for rebirth making us even more lovely, even lighter than air, far beyond our earthbound selves. After all, if a caterpillar can turn into THAT, what transformations can the human heart hold?
A-men, Oh, Brother. Amen! Now let’s actually—all of us entrusted with people’s precious, precious dreams—start trying to incorporate this into what we do. Believing: there’s no substitute.
Sometimes you just have to. Let go. Stop thinking. Allow everything to clear—like the mist going out to sea. There’s no substitute—and ignoring it could be hazardous to one’s (mental) health.
Even more than a rock star with hooks that’ll take you down. Even more than a legend with a catalogue of work that walked the line between big hits and a survey of the basic human condition, reporting from the way it is in the world where real people live. Even beyond his commitment to Farm Aid, ability to paint, need to press forward—whether it’s reclaiming the blues and Lucinda Williams, dueting with India.arie or Meshell Ndgecello—the Indiana-born’n'raised resident knows how to hit it hard. A taut body that is all electric wire looking for some place to discharge, he is as (or more) ferocious now than ever… and with that lean, mean machine of a band, they lean into a song without mercy: keeping it direct, relentless, focused and primed for penetration of one’s mind, soul, body. His “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” on CMT’s recent “Crossroads” taping that melted into a positively erotic funk breakdown of Mitch Ryder’s obscure “I Get Hot” from the ignored 1971 Detroit Memphis Experiment [thanks Bob Merlis!] alone hows connections between the head and the hormones that’re hard-wired and far more than mere reflexive animal response. Equally compelling was a holy, slowed down take on “Small Town” that was a prayer for the life that will ultimately save you and keep you.
The best of a symposium hosted by New York, The Guardian and the New School. The best of the media analyzing the war coverage from every aspect, whether considering jingoism, the reality of the Fox audience, the nature of being embedded, the impact and meaning of slain Wall Street Journal reporter Dan Pearl, the reality lying, if Tony Blair and George Bush were… Enlisting powerbrokers from Time, Newsweek, The NY Post, Wall Street Journal, NY Post, The Guardian, The World Policy Journal, plus CNN, Fox News, the BBC and Al-Jazeera, this are the people who did the covering… and who know how and why the decisions got made. Utterly enlightening.
Cheap. Cute. Simple. With Indian summer just around the corner, check out their Exhileration line, which should be getting some serious marking down. Why end the summer with a wore out, stretched out memory of what was? For less than $25, you don’t have to.
Spewing, hurling, staccato raving on paper. For Bukowski, Dog was a volume of his raw poetry about the obsessions, rejections, lusts and at times flawed loves that made his somewhat unconventional life so impossibly intense. Captured in rhyme, no reason, cadence and often time-honored forms, this is Bukowski demi-reined in, but utterly free-falling through the world that made “Barfly” a film one couldn’t look away from. Mainlines is the second Bangs’ reader (Psychotic Reactions & Carburator Dung being the first and more tautly compiled), and it probably captures the ferocity of the erstwhile critic’s free-for-all, emotional spewage a bit more honestly (read: unevenly). Bangs was not an orderly person, subject to bouts of intense reaction to music, life, whatever—and it’s all here: warts, rage and candor about self at its most unflinching. Read it for a whole other weep.
A demi-Yummy-perennial, but when invoking Lester Bangs hyperkinetic rock crit attack, one can not forget Philip Michael Hoffman’s performance as the cough-syrup-swilling Motor City Madman who made criticism as much a manic jazz exercise as anything ever written. To see what criticism can be when it’s unrelenting, read the above book; to get the sense of the sweetness beneath the raging critic, see this—because rarely are people so passionate about music as cold as you may believe from what you read. Deified through the lens of the young boy (grown into Oscar winning director/screenwriter/life chronicler Cameron Crowe), there could be a skosh of Disneycizing to protect the illusion, but it’s a truth beneath the veneer that matters: someone who cares desperately about the music and the human heart. And as always noted, “Untitled” shows the humanity and complications of these characters’ realities—a much closer portrait of the desolation, terror and price extracted for chasing these rock and roll dreams, even during a far more innocent age.
Weightless. Gracefully falling over itself to the earth and the water, so many streams of celadon green, offering up a visual touchstone for the fluidity of matter if we’ll refuse to be rigid. Sure, the notion is sorrow, but it’s also something akin to the way a ballerina moves, emotion carried and moving through sinew and flesh—and it suggests as much that bittersweet is something that will pass through you if you’ll be as supple at the bows, while maintaining the strength and dignity of the serious trunk that holds up all those branches reaching for the sky and relinquishing the fight in the arms of the green outgrowth falling to earth gently, quietly.
Subtle. Nuanced. Everything that tea is when it’s not so bitter and strong. White tea is the rarest of all; it was used as a high honor for the emperor’s most exalted guests. Figures the good folks at Republic of Tea would come up with a way to make it available to those of us who don’t boast Sino-royal bloodlines. A bit pricier than even their regular teas, but as a treat or empiric understanding of the most refined option of Oriental caffination, this is an excellent way to experience it without going all the way to Marriage Frere in Paris.
At a time when the member has been removed from country music—both in terms of song content AND the lack of deep voiced men—Jeff Bates, as old school redneck singer as they come, digs in for all things carnal. Got a voice that’s Conway Twitty channeling Elvis at Barry White’s funeral, which means all bedroom promise, coil and release with a depth, a gravel and serious know-what-to-do confidence that reads as lie-back-and-let-me-do-everything, and a look that’s bargain Waylon-over-Springsteen, which makes him someone anyone can imagine taking home. But what really makes this work is the frankness of what he sings about —getting it on. The New York Times leaned full-on into the slow jam nation that was being mined, especially when the Mississippian talks his way through the open of “Kisses.” We’re not talking full-on gynecologic reportage, but promises meant and kept, fulfillment delivered in straight forward language—and the notion that (as country once was) we do more than hold hands, beam at each other and think about love eternal down South. And yes, I do mean that literally and figuratively.
Not only am I whitey aphrodite (I can burn through zinc oxide, and have the witnesses to prove it), but my skin is sensitive to the point that touching it can make it turn red, which makes sunscreen in general a challenge. Never one to bake myself into old leather, you can never be too careful in these days of diminished ozone—and who doesn’t like the occasional basking with those warms rays penetrating one’s dermis? Neutrogena, the ultimate hypoallergenicists, have once again hit it and quit it—with this high filter sunscreen that has no cosmogenic elements, fragrances, colors or skin clogging ingredients. FINALLY something for the fair-skinned that won’t create a pre-prom nightmare of break-outs and blackheads that return us to puberty without the lack of responsibility.
Girly, but sexy and smart. Never pandering. Always smoldering. And the luxe fabrics are yummy, while the cottons and twills are the best you can find. Boutique in NYC’s Village, but smart retailers all over the country carry the fashion forward, but timeless designs that make you goddess capable of the grocery store or self-service existence.
An institution on Lower Broadway, where they’ve made wood-cut type live event posters from back in the day of Hank Williams. In a city of few truly distinguishing landmarks, these postcards speak volumes about Nashville’s history, almost folk-art-as-commerce and in the intersection of what makes this culture vibrant with a tourist attraction that packs dignity into a big storefront with very little ventilation. They also have a wonderful coffee table book, mugs, t-shirts and posters for sale. But these are the lick-and-send to the folks back home that will grace the fridge for years to come.
A stylish old school r&b singer embraces one of the most timeless Tin Pan catalogues ever. What you get feels classic in a way that is immediately familiar, elevating in a way that reminds you the difference between good songs and manufactured for marketing group consumption—and a voice that’s as world and world-weary encompassing as they come. Produced by Scott Billington and Mac Rebennack (Dr. John for those who aren’t music geeks), this was a gem found while cleaning out the garage and worth the hunt for the realization of what soul really is.
Cut them under very cold water. Strip all the leaves that will be beneath the water line. Don’t fall for the notion that warm water will help them absorb (a not-very-good-wives’ tale), because that’s only when wilting has begun and you must jumpstart absorption. Otherwise, warm water starts the process of dying—whereas the cold shocks their little xylums and floems to where they begin to take on the water as if they were still working off their root systems.
Stupidly expensive. Instantly absorbed. Incredibly hydrating without greasiness or that heavy feeling. And a teeny bit gets it done. Figure it doesn’t have to come off… so that tells you how pure it is.
Proletariat songwriter who finds hope among the shards of real life. Girl gets pregnant, boy gets dead-end job but he sees love where others see diminished opportunity, making him a “Lucky Man,” ne’er-do-well looks like a guy who robbed a bank, gets railroaded but kills a guard and runs because his freedom won’t be relinquished for “Another Man’s Crime” and a soon-to-be well-middle-aged man faces the inevitable but is drowned in the solace of love by a woman who’ll always be “Your Ruth.” Gently strong, populistically rocking—the place where (actually) Springsteen merges with Mellencamp, as humanity finds a higher ground, the common becomes desirable and dignity is given to anyone who’ll stand tall and be who they are. Staggering how clear honor can be amongst the people who sweat for a living, who inhabit the fringe and refuse to swallow—even if in defending their girl’s honor they become an “Outlaw For Sure” or the solace that releases their friend comes via a needle and the damage done in the gently rocking “Your Secret’s Safe With Me.” Cover’s cheap, not free—apt metaphor really.
Sure, he sang “Mr Bojangles,” but Jeff Hanna’s real gift is his ability to brew a wicked cup of coffee. And now, his oh-so-easy trick is ready for the world: two or three healthy shakes of cinnamon on top of the ground coffee before you close the basket into the coffee maker. Suddenly whatever you normally brew takes on a subtle undertone that’s teasing to your tongue. With so little effort. Speaks volumes about the ingenuity of three decades on the road, don’t it?
Maybe the Symphony album wasn’t such a great idea, but the band that brought you the ultimate troglodyte party anthem “I Wanna Rock & Roll All Night (and Party Every Day”)” has found a way to connect responsibility, hedonism and their cartoon reality base. True confessions: I laughed out loud. Gene “The Tongue” Simmons is bright red, while Paul “The Love Child” Stanley goes for something a bit more textural for (obviously) her pleasure. How you use these with a straight face may not be my problem. But it’s kinda worth the moment, if you were once part of the legion that was the KISS Army way back… Imagine if these had existed in the days of Love Gun; a first KISS woulda taken on a whole new meaning.