Editing out the cold, hard facts of history

I find it highly amusing that at a branch of Auburn University, we have an English professor so offended by the N-word that he has search-and-replaced it from the entirety of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn.

This when the parent institution, apparently, has plenty of room for an African-American quarterback whose own father sought to auction off to white athletic boosters.

Twain's 19th-century, culturally accurate (unfortunately) use of a racial slur is so bad that literature -- and history -- must be sanitized. All because, in the words of Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men, "You can't stand the truth!"

On the other hand, a black minister pimping out his own flesh and blood to the money men of some Southern college-football power . . . that's a truth we can stand just fine. Don't forget, it's Auburn vs. Oregon for the BCS national championship, 7:30 p.m. Central on ESPN.

But that's not important now. What's important is to sanitize literature -- and history, too -- because it sometimes shows us ugly things.

Historical ugly things, of course, are the worst ugly things because we're less likely to be entangled in them at the moment, thus making self-righteousness much easier -- and less conspicuous.

THEREFORE, we find ourselves at the point described in today's New York Times:

A new edition of “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” is missing something.

Throughout the book — 219 times in all — the word “nigger” is replaced by “slave,” a substitution that was made by NewSouth Books, a publisher based in Alabama, which plans to release the edition in February.

Alan Gribben, a professor of English at Auburn University at Montgomery, approached the publisher with the idea in July. Mr. Gribben said Tuesday that he had been teaching Mark Twain for decades and always hesitated before reading aloud the common racial epithet, which is used liberally in the book, a reflection of social attitudes in the mid-19th century.

“I found myself right out of graduate school at Berkeley not wanting to pronounce that word when I was teaching either ‘Huckleberry Finn’ or ‘Tom Sawyer,’ ” he said. “And I don’t think I’m alone.”

Mr. Gribben, who combined “Huckleberry Finn” with “Tom Sawyer” in a single volume and also supplied an introduction, said he worried that “Huckleberry Finn” had fallen off reading lists, and wanted to offer an edition that is not for scholars, but for younger people and general readers.

“I’m by no means sanitizing Mark Twain,” Mr. Gribben said. “The sharp social critiques are in there. The humor is intact. I just had the idea to get us away from obsessing about this one word, and just let the stories stand alone.” (The book also substitutes “Indian” for “injun.”)

Since the publisher discussed plans for the book this week with Publishers Weekly, it has been “assaulted” with negative e-mails and phone calls, said Suzanne La Rosa, the co-founder and publisher of NewSouth Books.

“We didn’t undertake this lightly,” Ms. La Rosa said. “If our publication fosters good discussion about how language affects learning and certainly the nature of censorship, then difficult as it is likely to be, it’s a good thing.”

I AM SO HAPPY that no one took it lightly when setting out to bring us one step closer to the information-management practices of an Orwellian dystopia. Maybe a long face is a moral disinfectant, after all.

Or maybe we're all just as squeamish as we are stupid and morally bankrupt. Or, perhaps, so open-minded that all our brains have fallen out.

I eagerly await Winston Smith's Wikipedia edits. "Nigger," you see, always has been "nigga," and it's just a term of endearment between African-Americans in the 'hood. White people aren't allowed to say it because it's, like, a fraternity rule or something.

And it's only a rumor (started by socialists or something, surely) that a society that can't look ugly in the face only grows all the more grotesque in due time.

The danger of birthdays with an '0'

You want to know what's dangerous in our neighborhood?

Birthdays ending in a zero, that's what. This was the scene late this afternoon next door. As you can tell, Laura turned 40.

People think Omaha is this boring white-bread place full of boring white-bread white people. This may be so.

But I would like you to consider the notion that this is just a disguise. Something to throw the rest of America off balance.

I would like you to consider that, beneath the rubber masks and makeup -- beneath the carefully constructed cover stories and meticulous impersonations of this country's stereotype of the average Midwesterner -- lies a city of 430,000 severely warped individuals.

The brassieres as tree ornaments, I thought, were a particularly nice touch. Then again, I'm a boob man.


I THINK much of the block was waiting for Laura to come home from work today. I know I was.

As she stood there, stunned, the family crowded around to take the obligatory pictures of the devastation. I yelled over that I wouldn't say a word, being that I get to turn 50 this year.

At this point, Laura's dad -- Did I mention he lives across the street? -- inquired as to when that was, exactly.

"I'm not telling you," I replied.

And I'm not. It's bad enough that my severely warped wife and friends have that information. God help me.

Gerry Rafferty's dead-end street

Without the darkness, we cannot perceive the light.

Without grief, we cannot cherish joy.

Without pain, where is the blessedness of relief?

And without darkness, grief and pain, can we truly produce the art that brings light to our souls? Joy to our hearts? Relief from the pain of every day?

With the passing of Scottish singer-songwriter Gerry Rafferty -- found dead today somewhere at the bottom of a bottle -- I'm thinking of all the souls who took their pain and gave us joy despite never managing to, ultimately, embrace it themselves. I'm thinking of Janis. Of Jimi. Of Jim. Of Judy. Of Donny. Of Kurt. Of Sid and Syd. Of Elvis.

I'm thinking of the light that pierces the darkness of our world, only to be consumed by it.


TODAY, I'm thinking of Gerry. Of Stealers Wheel and "Stuck in the Middle With You."

I'm thinking about "clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right."

And I'm thinking about "Baker Street," which I believe never actually left the airwaves for even a moment my junior year of high school -- that and "a lad in his place."

He's got this dream about buyin' some land
He's gonna give up the booze and the one night stands
And then he'll settle down there's a quiet little town
And forget about everything

But you know he'll always keep movin'
You know he's never gonna stop movin
Cus he's rollin'
He's the rollin' stone

And when you wake up it's a new mornin'
The sun is shinin' it's a new morning
You're goin'
You're goin' home.

My daily post about posting daily

WordPress, known on this blogging platform as Brand X, is challenging its users to do a post a day.

To that end, it's posting helpful daily suggestions to get the ol' creative juices flowing. Like, for instance, avoiding pathetic clichés like "get the ol' creative juices flowing."

Or, for another instance, avoiding overused ironic devices like inserting a blatant cliché into one's post, then making fun of that fact. It's to literature what eating a can of Van Camp's and farting "Dixie" is to the natural-gas industry.

ANYWAY, yesterday's helpful topic from Brand X was this:

Share something that makes you smile. (Can be a photo, an idea, a memory – anything that comes to mind).

If this suggestion doesn’t fit your blog’s general topic (e.g. Your blog is about the air speed velocity of unladen hyperactive swallows), that’s ok. Simply apply the question to your topic, by adding or changing some words.

(Reminder: Do not answer this in the comments. That would be very silly. You should grab this topic and write a post about it on your blog).

FRANKLY, I don't see how anyone can apply this idea to blogs about the air speed velocity of unladen hyperactive swallows unless we have some concrete indication of whether the referenced swallows are of the European or African variety.


THEY'RE such a bunch of booger eaters over at Brand X.

That kind of makes me smile.

Someone had to do it

I'm with Mom.

Beware this New Year's resolution

We're screwed.

Omaha's embattled mayor, Jim Suttle, has a New Year's resolution as he steels himself for a recall vote this month. It's to better listen to us, the citizens of this fair city.

Like I said, we are so screwed. I mean, we thought the city was broke. That things were bad enough to recall Suttle for, among other things, not listening to us. Wait until he does start listening to the vox populi -- we ain't seen nothin' yet.

Trust me, the city will be bankrupt in a week if the mayor is sincere about all this listening stuff.

FOR YEARS, the Omaha taxpayer has railed about high property taxes. The Omaha driver has railed about high wheel taxes. The Omaha consumer has railed about our high below-average sales taxes.

During all those years, nobody cared that city hall was making sweetheart deals with the police and fire unions to buy labor peace (and defer pay raises) in the name of holding the line on property taxes, because that's what the voters wanted. It was the municipal version of taking out a home-equity loan to pay down the credit cards -- after all, what could go wrong?

We're entitled, don't you know? Since the last economic slump -- the one before this, the mother of all modern economic slumps -- the Omaha voter has demanded, and gotten, almost-annual property-tax cuts. And then. . . .

Chickens. Homaha. Roost.

You know what started to fly then. In fact, it started to hit the fan. The tax revenue stopped flowing, and the bills kept on coming. The city pension fund was about broke.

"Cut the budget!" the angry voter says. "Not THAT part of the budget!" a hundred angry neighborhood associations and civic groups demand.

"Where's my property-tax cut?"

"Fill the damn potholes!"

"Don't close my library!"

"The cops and firefighters are making out like bandits! Stop giving away the store!"

BUT WAIT . . . the cops and firefighters won't agree to that. The contract fight will end up in arbitration. Omaha will get screwed in arbitration -- it always has. Take the concessions the mayor got.

"The cops and firefighters are making out like bandits! Stop giving away the store!"

No, really, this is the best we can do. We bargained the Cadillac owners down to a nice Chevy.

"The cops and firefighters are making out like bandits! Stop giving away the store!"

You're not making sense. The Commission of Industrial Relations will not rule kindly for the city. That's almost a lock.

"Recall the cop-coddler!"

IF IT were me in the mayor's office, I'd be tempted to resign and let the next sucker try to figure out -- after carefully listening to the fine citizens of Omaha -- exactly how one goes about letting the people have their cake and eat yours, too.

Good luck to Mayor Suttle. He's going to need it, particularly if he survives the recall election.

Happy Boxing Day!

Here's a little something that's appropriate viewing for sitting back and reflecting on a most excellent Boxing Day.


Now . . . on to New Year's!

Et Joyeux Noël, aussi, cher!

God bless you, Tee Jules, wherever you are, and God bless us every one. Joyeux Noël, mes amis, et bonne année, aussi!

A blessed Christmas

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Hip-hop all the way to hell

Culture precedes politics . . . and everything else.

Music both produces and is produced by a culture.

A culture centered on titty bars -- music deemed stripper friendly before it can burrow into your children's brains -- is no culture at all. It is an anticulture.

NPR was on the anticulture beat Thursday. I'm not so sure the reporter would have been this bemused had she known what she was dealing with. Then again, maybe the NPR report is part of the anticulture just as much as titty-bar-tested hip-hop singles -- I don't know.

JUDGE for yourself:

Hip-hop producers have been breaking records in Atlanta strip clubs for a long time now — at least as far back as 2003, when Lil Jon was doing it with songs like, "Get Low." He's been quoted as saying "the butts don't lie," meaning if the strippers can dance to it, the song has potential. In Tamara Palmer's book, Country Fried Soul: Adventures in Dirty South Hip Hop, Lil Jon says "Get Low" had a slow start: the dancers "didn't feel it at first." But eventually it grew on them and several dancers at different strip clubs asked the DJs to play it during their stage sets. "Get Low" took off — in mainstream clubs and on radio and TV across the country.

What attracted us to this story was that the strippers seemed to have a lot of power in the hip-hop hit-making process. Obviously they are the focal point when a new song is being played. As DJ Scream told me, "There's nothing like seeing a woman dance to a record. There's records that I hate and when I see a woman dancing I think, 'It's not that bad.'"

Another reason strip clubs are the perfect place to test out a song is the clientele. In Atlanta, I'm told nobody thinks twice about going to strip clubs for a bite to eat or just a night out. They're so popular that some of the dancers are treated like local celebrities.

On any given night you might find record label execs and radio programmers, other professionals, college students and couples watching the booty shake.

The dancers have an incentive to make a song exciting: They get paid when the patrons 'make it rain,' or throw money on the stage while they're dancing. I asked Sweet Pea, one of the main dancers in the Snack Pack at Magic City, if she'd ever refused to dance to a song she didn't like. She made it sound as though that just doesn't happen. "If it's got a good beat, you can dance to it," she said. In other words, even if she doesn't think a song has potential, she'll give it a try because she knows the folks from the record label will make it rain extra hard when she's dancing to their song.

As for the strip club DJs, they get paid when the dancers tip them at the end of the night. So it's in their best interest to keep the dancers happy and play whatever songs they request. Record label executives usually spend a lot of money on those nights they're trying to break a record, not just on the dancers but on drinks and food. When the song is working, and the dancers are happy, it might rub off on the patrons who — it's hoped — will spend even more money. So the strip club owners fully embrace the process. Sweet Pea says, "It's like a little promotional circle." One DJ told me, "We're all just hustling each other."

ANTICULTURES CANNOT long endure. They're either going to collapse utterly of their own societal, dysfunctional weight, or they're going to fold like a cheap tent before some opportunistic onslaught. See Visigoths, The.

Decline and fall -- one way or the other.

Laugh if you like. The ancient Romans did.

3 Chords & the Truth: The Big (Christmas) Show!

I understand you've been kinda stressed out this Christmas, Cap.

Hear tell that you've been the Target of lots of hype by desperate retailers -- it Sears your brain, really -- to Shopko till you dropko, because you're somehow less of a great American (Nay! Less of a human being!) until you make that Best Buy this holiday season.

Over and over again.

Why don't you just buy the wife a new Beemer? Yeah, that's the big ticket!

And then there's the lights. And the tree. And getting the house perfect. And the kids to the Christmas parties. And you to your Christmas party. Where the magnifying glass is upon you as you lift a glass or three. Where that scrutiny would never impact your career, noooooo sir, nuh uh.

THEN THERE'S the bell ringers, and the Christmas Eve wingding you're throwing, and the kids wanting new cell phones -- and laptops and iPads -- and appearances that have to be kept up. Despite your mortgage that's under water.

Merry Christmas, all!

Now . . . just stop. Why are we doing all this, again? Is there something we might be missing here, something buried beneath all the desperate consumerism and corporatism and overextendedism and general "festive" mayhem?

Could it be . . . Christmas?

Stop. Look. Listen to 3 Chords & the Truth, and the sounds of the season.

This Christmas, we at the Big Show give you a break. We give you the chance to just stop, grab a hot cup of something, take a load off and relax for 90 minutes. No commercials, no urgent calls to consumeristic action.

It's Christmas. Don't forget the joy, or the opportunity to just be. Don't forget to just stop for a while and appreciate the things that really matter this time of the year.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Alo-ho-ho-ho-ha.

Your Daily '80s: Remember Ma Bell?

In 1983, there was the phone company. Singular.

Her name was Ma Bell.

Life was so simple then.

Merry Christmas from the E Street Band

If you don't have time for the whole concert, go to the 23:00 mark.

Bruce Springsteen.

Live.

A couple of weeks ago.

In Asbury Park.

"Blue Christmas."

As the Bear would have said: My limited vocabulary doesn't permit me to say how damn awesome this is.

I'll just say this: The King is dead; long live the Boss.

The city that forgot to care

If New Orleans were a dog, the humane society might classify it as unadoptable.

We all know what happens to all the poor dogs that are too sick, too crippled or too mean to be adopted out, don't we?

New Orleans, look on the rest of America (such as it is) as the dog catcher, and be afraid. Be very afraid.

You, too, Louisiana.

The United States of Tea Party America is no longer a no-kill shelter. In fact, it's no longer a shelter at all. And what goes around for the poor strays of the Crescent City, just may come around for a people too uneducated, unemployable, unruly and ungovernable to be adopted.

WWL television reports:

The Louisiana SPCA started discontinuing animal control services for the city of New Orleans Monday, and the group now says they'll stop taking strays from the public on Friday.

It's the latest in a controversial battle over how the city will provide animal control services without their 60-year partners.

From animals surrendered by their owners to strays to abused animals to animals that have bitten someone, the Louisiana SPCA has taken them all, unable to turn any away because of the group's contract with the city of New Orleans.

“Since October, we've had 500 stray animals brought to the shelter by the public,” said LA-SPCA Communications Director Katherine LeBlanc.

In October, the SPCA stopped going out to retrieve strays, saying the city stopped funding animal control.

But since they decided not to submit a proposal to the city to continue the contract for $300,000 less then they had wanted, the SPCA will now stop taking strays all together.

“We asked the city if they would like for us to extend our services through January, the end of January, in order to assist in that transition period. We have not heard back from the city about that transition period,” LeBlanc said.

REMEMBER, boys and girls, fat, drunk and ungovernable is no way to go through life. In fact, it's sure to be the death of you.

A strange planet, far away

I can't resist these old Bear Bryant Show clips. I can't.

It's just so, so, so . . . quintessentially the South of my youth. Only, back in the South of my youth, I'd have said "my limited vocabulary doesn't permit me to say" stuff like "quintessentially."

But there you go. One . . . two . . . three . . . take a swig off that Co' Cola and sing the praises of Golden Flake corn chips before Charlie Thornton falls silent to make way for the Bear's five minutes of pure stream of consciousness as the coach's cigarette sends clouds toward the ceiling from under the desk.

TODAY, kids would see this and take it for a Saturday Night Live skit. Children, I grew up in a Saturday Night Live skit.

And speaking of that 1979 LSU-Alabama game -- I was there. In the student section. It was miserable.

It was as miserable of a game as I ever stayed all the way through. It rained -- hard. It was cold . . . probably in the upper 30s. I remember huddling under some plastic sheeting that some folks abandoned when they gave up the Tiger Stadium ghost.

And I remember 'Bama winning on a last-minute field goal, the only score in the whole frigid, soggy affair.

Didn't even get any Golden Flake corn chips for my trouble. Or a Co' Cola.

Your Daily '80s: I wanna play fer yew, Bear

Even legends didn't win every week.

Here's a bit of Paul "Bear" Bryant's weekly Alabama football show from 1980. Y'all, this is self-evidently 30 years and a universe away from the world we inhabit today.

I don't know that today is any improvement.

By the way, I think we know what killed the Bear a couple of years after this show -- washing them chips down with Coca-Cola.

Every time a bell gets rung. . . .

You knew it would end like this, didn't you?

I think it was Clarence, the angel in training, who said that every time a bell gets rung, a washed-up quarterback texts pictures of his junk. Or his career flies out the window.

Or something. Cue Zuzu.

Anyway, Christmas bells were jing-jing-jingling Monday night during the Minneapolis mugging that probably means curtains for the latest incarnation of Everybody's All-American. And the end came at the hands of a rookie, no less.

The Associated Press gets a head start on the latest remake of the Frank Deford novel that became a Taylor Hackford film, this version starring Brett Favre as Dennis Quaid as Gavin Grey:

Bundled up on the sideline in a heavy, gray coat, Brett Favre could only watch as Devin Hester and the Chicago Bears sped through the snow to the NFC North title.

Favre's surprise start ended with a concussion, perhaps putting him out for good, and the Bears spoiled Minnesota's first outdoor home game in 29 years.

Hester set the NFL record with his 14th kick return touchdown, running back a punt 64 yards for a score shortly after halftime to help the Bears fly past the Vikings 40-14 on a frosty, hard-hitting Monday night.

"You play long enough, you're going to get your bell rung," Favre said.


In the second quarter, the Vikings lost Favre - possibly for good.

On third-and-4 from the Bears 48, Wootton got in the backfield and grabbed Favre by his non-throwing shoulder, slamming him to the cold turf players had worried about in the days before the game. The career leader in almost every major statistical category for quarterbacks, Favre lay motionless for a few seconds before climbing to his feet and walking off with his head hung down.

BRETT'S GONNA spend some time at home now and "cut a little grass"? That's what Gavin Grey did a lot of -- beer in hand -- once his playing days were done.


GRASS CUTTIN' never turns out positively.

Your Daily '80s: Sic semper (Argentine) tyrannis

The spring of 1982: Britannia rules the waves . . . and, once more, the Falkland Islands.


In Argentina, things weren't going so well. Thus always to tyrants, Gen. Galtieri.

If Nash said it. . . .

If there are Marks-a-Lots in heaven, we're gonna be all right. Nash Roberts will have the weather covered.

The legendary New Orleans weatherman and hurricane guru got promoted to the ultimate Weather Center this weekend at age 92.

If it was a storm, and if it was in the Gulf of Mexico, Nash Roberts had it covered, and he pretty much always knew where it was going to end up -- and this in the age of doing math on paper, peering into World War II-vintage radar scopes and drawing TV weather maps with a black, felt-tip marker.

If Nash said it, it must be so -- that's what about three generations of folks in south Louisiana came to think of the fixture on Channels 4, 6 and 8. May the Good Lord see things the same way as ol' Nash -- the poor, sunken city of New Orleans' meteorological guardian angel -- gets sent up to the majors.

WWL-TV in New Orleans announced the sad news Sunday evening:

During a career that lasted more than 50 years on local television, New Orleans viewers came to trust his calm and accurate forecasts so much so that the question “What does Nash say?” was the way many gauged the potential impact of an impending weather system.

“Sometimes I wish I knew myself why I am right,” Roberts said in a 1998 interview with The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. “But a portion of it is just instinctive. It’s just a talent I have.”

Roberts retired from meteorology and his on-air role at WWL-TV during hurricane season in 2001. Throughout his career, he was the informed and educated voice of calm and reason, and his forecasting with felt-tip pens (which served him well, years into the high-tech age of broadcast meteorology) helped illustrate the direction of hurricanes since 1947. When he was inducted into the Greater New Orleans Broadcasters Association’s New Orleans Broadcasting Hall of Fame, the group commented that Roberts had been on the air longer than 95 percent of the stations in the country. By the time he retired, Roberts had worked at three of the city’s television stations.

For over five decades, the New Orleans native was a rock of stability during trying times: the horror of Hurricane Audrey in 1957, the devastation of Hurricanes Betsy and Camille in the 1960s, and the heart-stopping threat of Hurricane Georges in 1998. Roberts was there through it all, with his simple map, felt-tipped pen and lifetime of weather wisdom.

The Times-Picayune summed up Roberts’ impact in 1998, in a special issue commemorating 50 years of television in New Orleans: “His power is tremendous. Some of us won't go to sleep until Nash says it's OK. His strong suit is personal forecasts - a mix of hunch and 50 years of knowledge - mapped out in Magic Marker.”

NASH ROBERTS is gone. Now the Gulf Coast is stuck with those damned computer models, none of which was produced by a supercomputer with even a fraction as much processing power as a certain meteorologist's brain.

Your Daily '80s: Good eggs on breakfast TV

When Australian funny lady (and psychologist) Pamela Stephenson went on Britain's TV-am in December 1986, no one knew eggs-actly what the hell she was doing.

But at least weather presenter Wincey Willis was an egg-cellent ducker.


THAT YEAR, the independent-TV morning show crew got off easy.

On BBC 1, there were firearms. Enough said.

Using Auto-Tune for good, not evil

You know how I said this was the one awesome use of Auto-Tune ever? I was wrong.

This one is better. In fact, this is the best thing to come out of Kansas City since Big Joe Turner and the jump-starting of Karrin Allyson's jazz career.

In fact, this is to awesome what the Kansas City Royals are to suck. Trading Zack Greinke? Really? Two words: Johnny Damon.

Anyway, as I said back in September. . . record labels, you are so over. Buhbye!

Your Daily '80s: Apathetic in Omaha, 1988

You're a young man in Omaha, it's 1988, and you just want the hell out.

You just want out of Boringsville, where it's just so . . . so . . . so . . . Midwestern. And not cool.

You're a young man in Omaha in 1988, and you want to see the world. Which, coincidentally, is Not Omaha. What do you do?

Well, you always can put together a punk band and get popular. Make a record album. Get noticed. Go on tour. Get big.

Real big.

Voila!


OR . . . you can become a theology professor. One way or the other, it's all good. And not necessarily in Omaha.

All of a sudden, it's 20 years later. Life is what happens between wanting to get the hell out of Dodge -- or away from cruising Dodge -- and coming back for the reunion show at the kind of Omaha club that was more or less unthinkable in 1988.

Oddly enough, the Omaha of 1988 was the one I came to. Fled screaming in the night to, actually.

It looked pretty good to me at the time -- I'm from Baton Rouge. (Ignatius Reilly may have had a point.) And everybody's always running from -- or to -- somewhere.

Upon the damn . . . oh, damn

Captain Beefheart is dead. Sh*t.

I happened upon the news tonight on NPR. I wonder whether it'll get a mention on MTV. I wonder why I wonder, since even back when Music Television actually played music videos, the Captain wasn't in the mix.

Capitalism is one thing. Genius is another. You don't get to be a good capitalist trying to sell people genius. Usually.


HERE'S SOME of what the NPR story said:

Avant-garde musician Captain Beefheart died this morning in California from complications of multiple sclerosis. He was 69.

An all-time favorite of rock critics — and known to readers of lists of the best rock albums of all time as the guy with the hat and the fish face — Beefheart earned a reputation for making challenging music. But his work was, at its root, well-executed blues-based rock.

His given name was Don Vliet — he added a Van in between his first and last names later. He was one of those musicians who sold fewer records than his best-known fans: Tom Waits, members of R.E.M. and New Order are just a few of dozens. The late British DJ John Peel called Beefheart a true genius, possibly the only one rock ever produced.

Mark Mothersbaugh, of the band Devo, calls him one of the all-time greats.

"The Beatles and The Rolling Stones would definitely be in that group of what turned me on about music," Mothersbaugh says. "But I have to say that he made me want to be an artist."

Born in a Los Angeles suburb, the only child and art prodigy was featured on a local television show making animal sculptures as a child. When he was 13 years old, his family moved to the Mojave Desert, where he befriended a young Frank Zappa.

In 1966, Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band signed with A&M records and scored a regional hit with a cover of Willie Dixon's "Diddy Wah Diddy." Pretty soon, Van Vliet was writing original material for his band. In a 1980 interview with the BBC, he insisted he was a composer, not a songwriter. And in his band, he was exacting.

"I play the drums. I play the guitar. I play the piano," he said. "I want it exactly the way I want it. Exactly. Don't you think that somebody like Stravinsky, for instance — don't you think that it would annoy him if somebody bent a note the wrong way?"

DON VAN VLIET is dead. Sh*t.

I miss the days when "avant-garde" rarely was a euphemism for "can't play their damn instruments" or, more simply, "noise." And I will miss Captain Beefheart.

Thank God for record albums.

3 Chords & the Truth: Ho! Ho! Ho!

Ho! Ho! Ho!

In the festive, yuletide sense of the term, as opposed to the festive, misogynistic sense.

It's the week before Christmas, and 3 Chords & the Truth is giving the gift of music this year! Of course, that's exactly what we gave last year, too.

And the year before.

As a matter of fact, the Big Show gives the gift of music every single episode, and we don't need a special excuse -- like Christmas, for example -- to do it. That is truth.

Public relations, however, dictates that we make it sound like giving the gift of music is a special Christmas thing. You need a good peg for proper public relations, and the promiscuous consumption and self-indulgence of the holiday season fills the bill for pimpin' the Big Ho . . . er, Show.

SO CONSIDER yourself sold. And remember to tell your mom that you absolutely, positively have to have a whole bunch of 3 Chords & the Truth this Christmas, or you'll just die! I mean, all the other kids are getting the Big Show this Christmas, and she just can't let you be some kind of freak.

What will everybody say about you on Facebook, after all?

I swear to God, everybody is downloading the thing -- this 3 Chords & the Truth -- and if she doesn't get it for you . . . YOU . . . WILL . . . JUST . . . DIE.

You'll hold your breath until you turn blue.

You'll throw a tantrum.

You'll cry forever.

You swear to God.

OF COURSE, this is one case where getting what you want will actually be good for you. Unlike all that Easter candy last spring.

3 Chords & the Truth actually will expand your mind and, as an extra added bonus at no additional cost, feed your soul.

Some have even reported developing good musical taste. Your mileage, however, may vary.

So ask your mom for lots of the Big Show this Christmas. You -- and she -- will be glad you did.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

Your Daily '80s: Miley, listen to this guy

Jon Bon Jovi had something to say about drugs back in 1987.

He was against 'em. After having been for 'em, which didn't work out very well.

Me, I'm against both illegal drugs and cell phones that shoot video. I bet I'm not the only one.

Your Daily '80s: Plus ça change . . .

. . . plus c'est la meme chose.

1989.


2009.

I couldn't have said it better myself

Do you think the National Organization for Marriage just might have been reading this blog?

Reading this MSNBC story and watching the above video, I would have thought that I couldn't have said it better myself . . . if I hadn't remembered that I already did.

I don't care what you think on the gay-marriage issue (obviously, as an observant Catholic, I'm against it), and I don't care what you think about "big government." But I do think that before people get all paranoid about the power of big government and its potential to sow tyranny, they need to realize that big business is just as capable of reducing us to serfdom . . . and perhaps far more likely to try.