Indomitable Elizabeth

Seriously, is Elizabeth Edwards not the most intriguing character crisscrossing the nation on a presidential campaign?

She's omnipresent, speaks out in a fashion none of the top-tier candidates can mimic. Yet in watching her, there is sadness .... everyone knows she might not live to see the start of primary season. Urgency changes everything. She soldiers on anyway, a bright example of the old Bob Dylan line, "(She) who's not busy being born is busy dying."

Even with inoperable cancer, her candor on the campaign trail is refreshing. Four years ago, she was barely visible, stuck in the background behind the flamboyant, outspoken Teresa Heinz Kerry.

Now, she's the only one gutsy enough to say her husband doesn't get the attention from the press because he's neither black nor a woman (Even though her husband looks like the love-child of JFK and Jimmy Carter. Prove that genealogy, then we have a story - just look at the resemblance).




But Elizabeth staked out territory left of her husband (she endorsed gay marriage) because she can. No one elects a first lady.

Just this week, Edwards:

* Told a fundraiser crowd that the Democrats ignore the South at their own risk, expecting to lose rather than trying to win;

* Slapped back at a California blogger who called her a "terrible mom" for keeping the couple's young children out of school and on the campaign trail.

The gist of Edwards' response - until you've walked in my shoes, don't dare dub me a terrible mom. The blogger later recanted the "terrible mom" portion of what she wrote. While I think it's fair to debate children's presences with their campaigning parents, Edwards' situation allows for wide leeway.

* Warned that nothing will unite Republicans like a Clinton nomination. No Dem has been so bold about that truth - among Republicans, few politicians polarize to such an extreme.

I just love the woman's frankness; she won't lie down and await the reaper. When this campaign goes off to the history books, I think history will turn a bright light on Elizabeth Edwards.

By barnstorming with her husband, she's illustrated the toughest campaigner in the field won't appear on any ballot.

Tarnished Jewell

With Richard Jewell's death, everyone involved in the field of journalism needs to remember how the rush to crucify him during the Olympic Park bombing in 1996 ruined the man's life.

If that name means nothing to you, I recommend a nice job making up quotes for "sun won't stop shinin'" press releases. Better yet, just read Kafka's The Trial- it might feel surprisingly familiar.

How quickly an ordinary man could stumble into the blurred crosshairs of the law should give us all pause.


Hailed as a hero for evacuating people from the bomb scene, Jewell quickly became Subject Number 1. His heroism was written off as a man setting off a bomb in attempt to turn himself into a hero.

I clearly heard Tom Brokaw make statements of Jewell's guilt that no journalism worth a dime would ever make without feeling dirty - let alone a primetime anchorman on a $7 million salary.

Sure, Jewell won a big settlement from those news corporations - except for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, which never settled - but he never should have been dragged through the mud in the first place.

Our paranoid nation turned a simple honest man into tabloid fodder, but reputable news outlets all over bought into this Jewell theft.

Running in LaVergne Without Gang Members Behind Me

Officially, we can call it a problem again.

Including my venture with Team Gordon, I'm now a four weeks straight with an organized run - and am contemplating a fifth upon my return from Chicago next weekend. A three-day weekend will keep the streak alive with Monday's Franklin Classic.

Friday's took a novel twist on how to beat the heat (Howl at the Sunrise doesn't have nearly the same impact), and thanks to towels soaked in icy water at the finish line, it worked - barely.

Combined with a road recently stripped of its crumbled asphalt, the night just broiled the runners ... well, at least this one. I've taken to running with a water bottle, for fear that a break in hydration might cut me down with a stabbing side stitch or hamstring cramp. Sunset takes much longer to dissipate the heat than the sunrise does in warming up.

But the darkness brought me howling to the finish line, with my first time below 30 minutes since July 4. I need to shed weight to push it lower, because the heat hasn't shown signs of breaking soon.

Around the world of reality shows in five minutes

Were I ever a fledgling chef on Hell's Kitchen, it would come to blows between Gordon Ramsey and I - and that's just my impression from the commercials. My Irish temper will not tolerate such abuse.

I have a longstanding gripe with reality shows and their LCD tactics.

Saturday, I found myself flipping and arbitrarily chose five minutes as my maximum viewing time without incurring brain damage

Thankfully, my neurons are still firing after watching what have to be the favorite shows of the lobotomized:

Rock of Love: Nasty strippers engage in questionable photo shoot while Bret Michaels is away. Lots of flesh, lots of ink o it. This snippet makes me long for Flavor of Love to take the bad taste of out my mouth. This guy went from a sex tape with Pam Anderson to stealing Flava Flav's idea. How the mighty of glam rock have fallen. (11 seconds).

Scott Baio is 45 and Single: Chachi sends Johnny V packing to try to gain some control over his life. It goes poorly, with V pinning Baio's change of heart on his. I couldn't flip away; I was just amazed Baio still had a low-life hanger-on posing as a friend at this stage in his career. (One minute twenty seconds)

The Two Coreys: Corey Haim blames Corey Feldman for all his women troubles - except for the one introduced to him by Scott Baio. Anyone else sense a crossover coming? Apparently, Haim's troubles have nothing to do with being unemployed for the past fifteen years. (49 seconds)

Hogan Knows Best: Hulk's wife works out with arrogant Slovakian trainer, who flashes attitude the moment the former Terry Bollea walks through the door. Hulkster's jealousy emerged immediately and while his family life is eminently more interesting than the rest of these has-beens, we all know the young upstart will run afoul of the Hulk's temperature in short order. At least he didn't take it out on Scott Baio. (Two minutes forty seconds)

Through it all, the world keeps turning.

But I'll Burn 'Em for You Anyway (Bill's weekly rant on music)

An long-awaited letdown, a welcome bridge between albums, and the best line ever written about Richard Nixon. But enough intro ...

About that Rilo Kiley record
Let's see ... Derivative name (Under the Blacklight)? Check. Branching out into new styles that don't quite fit the songs that came before? Major label debut? Check. Much like the underwhelming Plans from Death Cab for Cutie, Rilo Kiley's first foray on a major feels awkward, symptomatic of a band trying too hard. The funky yet minimalistic opener, "Silver Lining," doesn't feel out of place with a previous opener like "Go Ahead."

But much of the album feels strangely out of character, trying to grasp all sounds for all listeners. It general succeeds when working in confines closer to Jenny Lewis' magnificent solo album from last year. "The Angels Hung Around" provides ample proof, sounding as if it were stolen from Lewis' next solo record.

This marks a huge change for a band that two songwriters once ruled. Lewis is now front and center, with Blake Sennett only getting one lead vocal ("Dreamworld"), making me wonder if the record portends his departure The Elected, his excellent side project. Likewise, Lewis' solo album stepped away from Rilo Kiley so much that reconciliation of the two might be impossible.

Instrumental bliss
If nothing else, Mariachi-spiced indie rockers Calexico prodigiously churn out new music, keeping fans busy between albums with EPs, singles and its anomalous tour discs.
The latest, Tool Box, collects lo-fi instrumentals from the band's primary musicians - Joey Burns and John Convertino. Often simple with a Southwestern flavor, the biggest grip is several peak and disappear too early. By nature tour albums are gap fillers, the carrot to draw the concertgoer to the merch table or peruse the online store.

This one fills a musical gap - Garden Ruin was notable for the strength of its songwriting and its lack of instrumentals, a Calexico staple. They were sorely missed, so Tool Box provides a welcome relief from words.


Final thought
With one listen, everyone knows Neil Young's politics - that's what happens with subtle songs like "Let's Impeach the President."
But he never struck those politic chords better than on "Campaigner." Neil and a guitar go a long way; they go that much with this stark ditty and it's unforgettable chorus of "Where even Richard Nixon has got soul."

He's more effective in that one tune than on the entirety of Living With War. Then again, maybe George W. doesn't have soul for Young to summon.

Just when you thought pro athletes were done with head-scratching defenses of Michael Vick

... New York Knicks guard Stephon Marbury steps forward to show the virtue of keeping idiotic thoughts to yourself. Let's take a closer look at this short but telling piece from the Associated Press. While every source and their mother has leaked details of Vick's plea coming Monday, I'll let the man slide until then.
His ilegal sport of choice gets no free pass, however.


"I think it's tough," Marbury said, according to Albany TV station Capital News 9. "I think, you know, we don't say anything about people who shoot deer or shoot other animals. You know, from what I hear, dogfighting is a sport. It's just behind closed doors."

Most of the people I know who hunt deer find a purpose for everything but the bones. Perhaps they're the rare ones, skipping the canned hunts for parks and untamed land loaded with deer. They truck hunters into Ohio parks to thin those herds.

Now to the dog hunting. The fighters condition these animals to show no mercy to other dogs, then underground networks of dog fans afficianadoes gather in some backroom to watch as the dogs tear each other to pieces.

What's left of the loser gets buried. The winner lives to try again. If they're badly injured, they quickly join the loser. When law enforcement breaks up a dogfighting ring, the "athletes" usually end up euthanized because the "sport's" damaging training prohibits their adoption.

Ironically, there is a way to claim dogfighting as a sport. These pit bulls have been warped by the training inflicted upon them; they live short, painful lives away from the ring.

That doesn't sound so foreign from athletes juiced on steroids, pushing to new heights at the expense of their health and living poorly once weak joints and damaged organs consume the glory days.

Even then, the athletes choose their chemical advantage.

Fighting pitbulls lack that luxury.

Tired out on tour guide duty

Few events make a weekend like friends dropping down South for a weekend.

Just not every weekend. While zigzagging around the Parthenon's columns or dodging the Lower Broadway gawkers, I could only think, "Am I going to have to lead this same tour next weekend?"

As much as I enjoy riding the bike to Centennial Park only to circle the replica and its adjacent pond, Lower Broadway is a black hole - it sucks in every bad tourist trap trend, mounts them in a display window and posts a lifesize plastic Elvis at the door to lure the unsuspecting into their Gingerbread House of overpriced wares.

If my friends followed 71 south to 65 and landed at 51st Avenue, I would have rejoiced. But I am glad those other duties can collect dust until mid-September. The heat is oppressive, drought has browned over the entire region, and even the late afternoon 5K scheduled for Saturday was shoved back a month.

That said, all future guests will celebrate with a drink at the Greenhouse Bar. Tucked away near a suburban mall, it's one the tour guide never tires of.

"I figured that if you're going to take advantage of 80's nostalgia, you might as well do it in style."

Since all ideas in modern American are little more than an interchangeable mosaic with old pieces constantly restored to prominence, this bit of 80's nostalgia waited a long time for its resurrection. If the Associated Press is to be believed, these guys know their stainless steel cars:



Yes, you are seeing correctly. Doctor Emmitt Brown wanna-bes with $57 grand to spare now have an outlet. The DeLorean has returned, thanks to Stephen Wynne and his DeLorean Motor Co., which started as a DeLorean repair operation in the 1990's. Wynne bought a massive supply of DeLorean parts to outfit this new venture, and 80 percent of the new cars will be assembled from old DeLorean parts.

Don't wait to reserve yours. Even though the company only hand-builds two DeLoreans a month, trouble lies ahead - they only have enough doors for 500.

No word yet on that Flux Capacitor package.

Something's rotten in the state of NASA

No, I'm not talking about the diaper worn by that crazed astronaut thwarted from killing her supposed romantic rival.

The Endeavour landed safely this afternoon, following a week of worry about a tear in its heat shield. Also of worry was one of its crew members, a teacher. NASA traumatized a generation of elementary school kids the last time a teacher signed onto a mission.

Twenty-one years after the Challenger, this educator fared better, even as the space program increasingly resembles a spit and duct-tape operation.

Once again, a a shuttle mission raises eyebrows. One faulty heat shield four years ago was one too many.

The shuttle's showed their age in the instant Columbia split into a fatal display of shooting stars above Texas. With three years and 14 missions to go, every shuttle takeoff comes with complimentary crossed fingers.

Most missions include a spacewalk-and-repair session; the Endeavour's was cut short after an astronaut discovered a hole in his glove. If you're not familiar with the math, "Depressurized space plus leaky suit equals space disaster."

Every piece of NASA gear apparently comes with a hole, gouge or some mark of excessive use.

Yet the biggest worry at NASA, as portrayed by television media? Astronauts allegedly drank before strapping themselves onto a giant tank of volatile fuels. Who wouldn't want a belt of whiskey before rocketing into orbit?

Now they instituted a drinking ban for crews prior to launch.

With the equipment in its current state, I say no one boards a shuttle until the bottle is empty.

Team Gordon's newest member

Working with a team in a 5K or any old race usually amounts to "Who can I connive into running with me?" Aside from Teter, Photog Boss TJ and old friend Hollywood, it's largely an Arsenal of One.

Then, a few minutes before the starting gun at the latest weekend run, I found Team Gordon in Murfreesboro.

I ran into co-worker friend Ric, he of the righteously awesome 40th birthday part, and his wife, brother and nephew, all of them set to run. With them were the other members of Team Gordon and soon I got offered the team shirt as well. Four Tennessee running events, and I'm in a loop. Selling out never felt so good.

It was a natural fit for me - Democrat in mostly suburban and rural Tennessee, and a 12-term one at that? I couldn't wait to toss away my technical shirt and do my part for someone I never met and will likely have the chance to vote for.

Yeah, hard-boiled newsman Bill Melville ran in promotion of this fellow. At least he doesn't look like Pat Tiberi.


The joys of leaving the media behind .... my old roommate couldn't even put a political sign in the yard. Then again, I couldn't imagine running anything in a Mary Jo Kilroy T-shirt, much less cutting one into dust rags.

Team members crossed the finish line at paces split enough to keep the "In Touch With Tennessee" shirts in the minds of onlookers.

I slogged through the heat, once again shaking my head at how far I'd fallen from my best race times. But I met the basic goals - never stop, never walk, save the cramps for later and don't lost your breakfast on the course (too many couldn't hold that promise Saturday).

Next year is an election year, so Team Gordon's organizer hinted the advertising budget might have room for performance technical shirts.

As long as Gordon runs for Term No. 13, I'll jog the mean streets of Murfreesboro again in '08.

Down and drought in Music City

My old friends from Cleveland called just after 8 p.m., telling me they returned safely to the West Side, where people donned coats for a night of 50 degree temperatures and hurricane leftovers. Weather envy, take me away.

Moisture sounds so mythic when every breeze strike up brittle rustling from the half-dead trees looming over browned lawns. Every morning I glance at the weather radar, where clear skies surround all those three-digit numbers. As floods turns fatal elsewhere, we can't entice a sprinkle even when clouds actually roll in.

But shortly after 11 Sunday, lightning fell on the far side of Interstate 40; those storms pounding the Gulf and the Great Lakes threatened to trickle over into Middle Tennessee.

When I saw first drops, I sprinted from the porch, lost my T-shirt and provided a little Irish jig for the passing SUVs. Arriving in rough sheets that instantly flooded out the Delaware-51st Avenue intersection, I shivered in delight, enjoying the simplicity of rain for the first time in (non-intoxicated) ages.

Today, it's headed toward the high 90's and expected to be the cool day for the week. Lawns remain burnt, spiky fields and rain goes back into mythic territory - for those who didn't revel in it.


Shawshank Redemption, eat your prison-escaping heart out.

Music Miscellany for your weekend pleasure

With Cleveland guests en route, I will continue my routine of no weekend posts yet again. But while I'm entertaining the few people who knew The Old Bill Melville, the poet we never found, I'll leave you with a few musical thoughts that rambled through my head this week:


"Jolene" might qualify as one of the most desperate songs ever. The speaker pleads with the ravishing Jolene, who can have any man she wants, to skip over hers. What a great three-minute lesson in how point of view shapes us - the unnamed man means everything to her, yet Jolene's desire for him is more a passing fancy. Take note, feminists - the man is the object here, a rag doll stretched between the speaker and Jolene.

We never find out whether Jolene moved on, but in the spirit of reserve psychology, I'm guessing that she wants him all the more knowing how badly the speaker also does.

The White Stripes version is pure kitsch, and can't possibly hit the emotional note of Parton's classic. Plus, Jack White's voice cracks roughly on those high notes.


Best Geezer Album Ever ... and I Don't Mean Butler. How could I pick anything but Time Out of Mind? Who knew Dylan had anything left. He proved he still had a contribution left after four decades of trailblazing.

The whole album is steeped in remarks of aging and death, but its swampy textures never grow too downtrodden. "It's not dark yet/But it's getting there" -- just try to shake that line.

Plus, it wasn't a part of the Artist Revitalization Trend that shook the rust off of Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Neil Diamond, Solomon Burke and so on. Those projects usually bear the stamp of a zealous producer-disciple and a tracklist donated by renown songwriters.

In the tradition of his 60s classic, only Dylan could go epic at the record's end,= with "Highlands," a gentle, longing tune that runs 16 minutes and never once feels stale or overwrought.

Final Thought

I'm glad you don't know who Richard Thompson is ... or if you do, that you won't let me taunt you into buying one of his records.

The king of someone else's stereo

Elvis died 30 years ago today, brought down by his own appetites and the cadre of sycophants who surrounded him. Last night I tipped a commemorative pint glass with a work friend at the Flying Saucer, so we toasted in memoriam. To avoid a lawsuit, the Flying Saucer's glass bore no trace of Elvis, only the date and a G.I. Blues theme for the soldier-musician.

From my end, that was about it. We shared 11 days between my birth and his death, so there's not much to say. As Mia Wallace astutely observes in a cut Pulp Fiction scene, there are Beatles fans and Elvis fans, and while people like both, no one likes them equally. My Elvis love doesn't go much past "That's Alright" and the Graceland scene from Spinal Tap.

Fans still weep for him. Although I don't get into all of that, I suppose it's not so far removed from how I felt when George Harrison died. But a slow cancerous death for the fame-shunning Harrison blunted the impact. And I doubt a tour of Beatle landmarks in Liverpool would draw the tears out of me (Harrison was cremated, so there's no manicured grave to weep over).

But don't even start on the "Breaking News" announcement from that December 1980 Redskins game, when Mark David Chapman's horrific fandom took aim at John Lennon.

2007: Year of the Recall

Children exposed to lead by the world's largest toymaker. Dogs and cats poisoned by contaminated food. Toxic toothpaste. Rotten fish.

Anyone hedging bets on what tainted goods from the Far East will be plucked from U.S. shelves next?

Mattel's revelation was the seventh modern plague (product recall) brought from Chinese products in 2007, yet another sign everyday items are assembled under less-stringent eyes than we expect.

What is most telling - how many everyday items come courtesy of Free Market Communists (really, the People's Republic is Communist only in its dictatorial style, not in its thriving capitalist economy). Foreign oil is hardly our only addiction; we barely manufacture anything in the 21st century, and sooner or later, that habit leads to unpleasant consequences. It's cheap now, but America has farmed out so much that it has little choice but to count on those Chinese standards.

How reliant we've become on Chinese products. Is anything made in American anymore? Even the Vise Grip, which one proudly displayed its "Made in the U.S.A" stamp, will soon embark to the Far East. Pop your iPod out of its case; though Apple touts its U.S. design, it can't hide the "Assembled in China" stamp immediately below. For as full of pride as Americans are, they generally gloss over the Second and Third World origins behind almost every purchase. During the Tax Holiday, I bought shirts from Indonesia, Thailand and Bangladesh at one store; I have to confess some pangs of guilt, even as they hang in my closet.

Cheap labor and parts are a cog in this industry migration. Americans demanding prices of good defy inflation also factors in. We can't handle the rising price of anything, which led to companies rooting out cheaper labor to soothe costs.

As much as I hate and/or disregard the bulk of conspiracy theories, I look at the facts here and shake my head at the possibilities. We're at the mercy of our trade partners. No amount of corporate damage control can change that. And our leverage to force improvement in Chinese inspections is minimal, virtually setting the stage for the next recall. With tighter standards, the manufacturers would incur new costs to pass onto the consumer, neutralizing the advantage of setting up shop with a cheap/slave labor workforce.

A bankrupt country that leans so heavily on emerging ones better learn to brace itself before it's left with no choice but a hard fall.

Lying liars and their inflated forecasts

It all goes back to the airport. The biggest number flashed by TV weatherpeople on any given night comes from the airport.

Perhaps it has something to do .... with all that blacktop on the runways and taxiing lanes? Also, no one lives at the airport outside of that idiotic Tom Hanks movie. Since 9/11 the bums, can't even go there to sleep. Yes, no people means no one around to take a baseball bat to the weather station, but what good comes from a temperature where no one lives?

Of all the airports I flown to or from, save the Kona Airport on Hawaii Island, enclosed terminals are the norm. You wouldn't notice the air temperature at the airport, because good odds place you in its climate-controlled concourses. It might be 102 near the jet engines and simmering asphalt, but it's lucky to hit 60 at any spot in the terminal.

Yesterday, the weatherman touted another triple-digit day, with "101 reported at the airport." I left work at 5, usually the hottest point of the day, to hair-drier weather, but crossing the 100 mark? Middle Tennessee came close to it, but to call it 100-plus makes me wonder if the heat hasn't gotten to area thermometers.

I think these weatherman are looking to artificially inflate their stats with "close enough to 100" days and portraying them as the real deal.

They're as meaningful as garbage time touchdowns in football, but quite a bit steamier.

Hide and cower, all you sinistrophobes... but only today

Once again, International Left Handers Day is upon us.

This self-proclaimed one-percenter (when it comes to pop culture references) is reminded again of being in the 10 percent who rely heavily on their left arm in a world designed by the right-handed. Can openers, scissors, desks and devices of all sizes are a hardship; the left-handed surrogates invented by marketing departments are more abomination than helping hand. I'll struggle with right-handed scissors any day before picking up the pair designed for the right-brained.

Latin declares the left side of the body sinister, doesn't it stand to reason that those who act from the left side of their brains are the truly sinister ones? Think about it.

At one time during my SNP days, we lefties populated an entire row in the newsroom, but what planetary alignment brought about that might never come again.

Fast left-handed fact: Hall of Fame New York Yankees manager Casey Stengel chose baseball over dentistry because he experience troubles with the lack of left-handed tools. His minor-league contract got picked up, and per his autobiography, the rest is history.

A controversial study noted that left-handers live shorter lives than the right-handed, but given the societal handicaps lumped upon us by the righty majority, that doesn't seem so suspect. The machines of our world are built to confound our personal wiring; such stress can only subtract minutes off our mortal clocks.

Should I ever lose the use of my left arm, difficult days will follow. Aside from a little guitar or mandolin strumming, the right one is as essential as my appendix.

When all else fails, cobble together a Tom Waits costume

It's not often that the guy dressed as Tom Waits will find his hobo chic in the running for Hottest Costume.

But three layers, the top one being a wool flannel jacket, sent me up the ranks, and left many a guest wondering when I would pass out as the 90-degree temperatures clung to Middle Tennessee.

Short of a police bullhorn or other odd prop, I had the look down down to the details thanks to a little thrift store shopping and four days away from the razor.

For Saturday's Choose Your Decade Costume party, I could settle on a decade and spun a barebones outfit into Tom Wait circa 1999. I knew my crowd, and the idea was not lost on them. Hell, at one point a brief circle of revelers and I wound up in the middle of an a capella medley of Waits songs ... I'm still not sure how that happened.

There are no photos or raw video to my turn as the Gravel-Voiced one - I'm not our good friend Merlin with the camera ... heck, I'm not even Merlin Olsen). Hold on for Halloween, or another costume party. With two in three weeks, a third costumed gathering might soon appear.

I would not have looked out of place firing rifles in rural Ohio, but I chose this fate, and somehow stumbled upon like-minded people working wonders for weekends otherwise wasted on long siestas.

Asphalt eggs over easy

When I moved, I never expected to look at a high temperature of 98 as a cool streak.

Then again, Nashville topped out at 40 Celsius/104 Fahrenheit around 5 o'clock yesterday.

Yet, I find myself less affected by the heat here. I sat on the porch during rush hour Tuesday without breaking a sweat; usually once the mercury crosses 80, I look like I walked off the set of Cool Hand Luke.

Nor have I had to go to the drastic step of tying a fan to the cat's tail and having him stand next to an ice block. he spend most of his day rooting out the house's coldest spots, and even a short romp with the catnip mice leaves him winded.

Still, a little basement would go a long way right now. Triple-digit heat permeates all its surroundings and forces people to flock indoors.

Of course, even indoors, the swelter held sway. I checked out Gillian Welch and David Rawlins at the Cannery Ballroom last night. When I walked in, the blast of cold chilled me. I had to keep walking or risk shivering in a roomful of strangers.

By showtime, the ballroom grew full with bodies, and any effects of recirculated air vanished. Nowhere was it more obvious than on stage, where the pair wiped themselves with towels at the end of each song, the light material of Welch's turquoise dress saturated with sweat.

After an hour, they showed signs of wear. Welch said they'd take a short break before the second set, but her early exuberance fell on hard times. How Rawlins persevered in a suit and long-sleeve shirt I'll never know. Between their heat, mine and already hearing "Miss Ohio," the only song I needed to hear, I called it a night. Stepping out of the ballroom, hours before a refuge from the heat, the night now offered refuge --- and the temperature still stuck in the 90s.

I'll Count, If You're Down

Save hit-and-miss indie broadcasts from Vanderbilt and the beast-soothing classical channel that wards off my commuting road rage, I am radio isolated in Music City U.S.A. I keep myself going with new releases and an occasional package from Worthington or Hilliard with Jeff Tweedy performances, unknown studio sessions and Bob Dylan radio programs.

Here's my latest batch of unavoidable songs:

"Love in the Harbour," Band of Bees ~ with pieces of folk-rock and psychedelia sewn into a tuneful collage, this track could have been torn from the California airwaves in the Sixties. Few bands understand "retro" as well as this English collection of multi-instrumentalists.

"Boy with a Coin," Iron & Wine ~ Yeah, I gnash my teeth in anticipation of anything Sam Beam does, and this full album preview sets a high bar again. With the acoustic bars more buried in the mix, some of the intimacy of his earlier efforts evaporates (Did I actually hear studio magic dressing up Beam's aching, wispy vocals? I hope not).
Two lesser non-album tunes accompany it, but a catchy riff and strangely spiritual vocals give listeners another lesson from Iron & Wine's Southern gospel.

"The Underdog," Spoon ~ Horns sometime make the song; frontman Britt Daniel shows off how well he knows this here. While Spoon walks blissfully from album to album, playing their brand of indie rock, this jaunty number jumps off the tracklist.

"Rest My Chemistry," The Heinrich Maneuver," Interpol ~ Rolling Stone didn't think much of "Chemistry" but I think little of this turgid snoozer of a record that rehashed this Joy Division wanna-be's worst qualities. Except for these two tracks.

Theme Time Radio Hour (any episode, but "Prison" and "New York" are keepers) - If it's been recorded, you might hear it on this show - But don't hold out for any radio-friendly crap from the 21st century. Dylan's selection always have scratchiness of vinyl to deepen them.

How can you beat a weekly mixed tape that spans a century of music, spliced together with a theme courtesy of Bob Dylan? Other claim having planted the flag of satellite radio, but Dylan throws every style and drops his dryly humorous banter inbetween songs - not something his concerts are known for.

There's something to say for music giants with nothing left to prove: Put them in the booth, and let them run wild.

"Green Gloves," "Gospel," The National ~ Rightfully, Boxer as a whole should make the list, but these piano-tinged
There's an oddly gorgeous line from "Green Gloves" about "all my friends are somewhere getting wasted."
I can only say, "God, I hope so."

Common Sense Patrol hits the streets

(A new semi-regular feature at DCMI where I shake my head at the moronic depths of humanity - even more than usual.)

Take One: Superfluous Studies and Anonymous Comments

Media everywhere flocked to cover the results of a study which said - I'm still amazed at these results - toddlers and preschoolers strong prefer McDonald's.
Children will rate any food that comes in a McDonald's wrapper as better tasting than food sealed in plain white.

I'm glad someone tossed grant money at this. With Ronald McDonald, its simp "I'm Loving It" motto, aggressive advertising twisted toward children and its other collections of logo feces splattered across the world, I am shocked to hear that McDonald's so strongly impacts youth. I'm glad television and Internet news brought this earth-shaking revelation to the fore.

Who knew?
I wouldn't have any inkling of that from my own childhood in the 1980s, when the mere mention of "Happy Meal" or McNuggets sent a buzz through the Melville house. I got over it, having yet to eat McDonald's in this century.

Nor would I have learned about the efforts of McDonald's to target children with marketing or of the food industry's subversive dedication to developing better tastes and smells from Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation, which somehow became a feature film last year

Apparently the study's architects were too asking why the children were "lovin' it" to go into any McDonald's on six continents, stand in line and watch children's reactions.

But that wouldn't be clinical enough.


Speaking of common sense, check the reader comments left the end of web stories on any major print daily's web site. You will learn astonishing facts from uninformed, nameless posters, many of whom are the same denouncers of reporters leaning on anonymous insiders. Some papers draw the same five housebound pachyderms day after day; they treat the "Comment" section as message board, stabbing or patting their digital backs depending on the subject.

Anyone can say anything behind the cloak of anonymity. And the news goes against its goals of accuracy by hiding under a disclaimer and letting the Goon Squad Roundtable hold court.

As for the common sense among these posters, if you find a thimble full of it, signal victory.

Maybe you should treat that whooping cough before signing up for the race?

I spent 41:18 from the last day of my twenties churning sweat from this flabby physique. That's a full five minutes slower than my time in the 4-miler I ran on December 11, when the mercury barely beat the freezing line. On Saturday, at an almost-comfortable 75 degrees, I barely passed the mile marker when my mouth felt as if I downed a block of sea salt for breakfast.

More importantly than the time decline , the Goodlettsville 4-miler was the last act where I could honestly write "29" as my age. I have plans for five more before autumn officially clicks in; all the rest will be run in a new age group.

As usual, there was no stopping, but I struggled. The heat kicked me early and I never recovered. None of the usual motivations were there; even the finish line barely enticed me.

Up in Goodlettsville, Whooping Cough Man provided all the motivation I needed.

Before the colonial re-enactors opened the run with a musket volley, I heard a stunted bark from a large dog, possibly a German shepherd. But when it sounded again, I turned to find a middle-aged man, who then unleashed a string of more human-inflected coughs. Just before the 2-mile marker, I heard the cough gaining on me, and for about 30 seconds, led me by a pace.

Until I decided childhood vaccination or not, I won't risk catching what germs this Typhoid Mary is spewing on the trail. So with a little burst, I scurried in front by ten paces and stayed there through the finish line.

Today, I'm still not coughing.

Other observations:

* Columbus is the flattest place to run on the planet. This race advertised its flatness, which compared to the July 4 race, it rolled across every slope in Downtown Nashville. But the topography held more curves than almost any Columbus run.

* I struck up a conversation with an older man at the starting line. It was the inaugrual line for his church's running group. I mentioned I just moved and when I told him from where, it was all downhill.

"Columbus? Rod Parsley's from there."

One awk-ward moment followed. "Yes, yes he is," I replied, stopping the conversation dead.

People, never doubt I went through the looking glass on May 19.

The Simpsons Movie: Somewhere around Season 10

Finally, I found a free 87 minutes (107 counting the ludicrous advertising blitz) for The Simpsons Movie. As an overly biased fan who would have seen even if critics skewered it as Ishtar- or Gigli-bad, I was going to see it.

All in all, the movie came out pretty well, undoubtedly due to the time and the writing staff (they had John Schwartzwelder, which says enough) devoted just to the film. With some rotten episodic stretches for most of the 21st century,

Granted, no one would consider it the classic Simpsons tale ("classic" defined as the almost flawless Seasons 3-7) that was widely expected with four years of lead time, a mob of writers and Phantom Menace-esque hype.

Triumphs
Not merely three episodes smashed together: Somehow, it flows as a movie and never felt like something written for the small screen. Its epic nature and computer animation pushes The Simpsons into Futurama territory.

Green Day: I never thought I'd enjoy anything related to these guys, but their appearance worked out really well. Plus, even a non-fan has to love a pipe organ version of "Jesus of Suburbia."

Refreshing lack of guest stars: Green Day. Albert Brooks. Tom Hanks. That's it for celebrities, although spots from a half-dozen more were cut (they should have found time for Kelsey Grammar - Sideshow Bob cannot go to waste). Twenty-two minutes episodes often contain four or five times the celebrity cameos as a feature film. Not here. It's just the primary cast at most times. But that has its flipside ...

Problems
Focus on the Family: For the most part, the films reduces Springfield's other residents to props good for one-liners and the occasional hilarious visual. Only George Lucas could waste a cast this rich. Grandpa Simpson is the only second-tier player to receive major screen time and it amounts to more than he's received in years on the show. But he's virtually the only one among the dozens given the short straw.

PG-13: Nudity? Homer flipping the double bird? The constraints of TV often force the writers to work around Springfieldians' more colorful moments in clever ways. Plus, Bart's nude skateboarding venture felt like a lazy, CG update of the infamous Marge and Homer nude escape in their "dangerous sex" episode. The "How many objects can we use to hide Bart's exposed privates" aesthetic fell flat.

Ending: I give nothing away to say in the show without continuity, the conclusion is foregone. Except for Dr. Nick ... whoa, I've said too much.

To reiterate: Not quite classic, yet more or less essential. Like Season 10, its highs rival the show's peaks, just as its lows stick in your craw.

Like it or not, you're going to feel sad

NBC went a little overboard with its musical cue for the Minneapolis bridge collapse this morning.

Rather than let the moment speak for itself, they opted to spruce it up with "Adaggio with Strings," better known as the theme of Platoon, the music played when Seinfeld's Frank Constanza served rancid beef in the Korean War and (drum roll) the saddest classical piece ever by a BBC program's listeners.

This being the always cheery Today, "Adaggio" segued directly into the show's overly upbeat opening fanfare.

Now anyone who's ever driven across a bridge (roughly 98-99 percent of people with driver's licenses) can sympathize with commuters suddenly plunging to the river.

But looking at the chunks of bridge blocking the Mississippi, all I could think of was Jerry Stiller's face frozen in horror.

If yours is the only house on the street, the downtrodden have nowhere else to stop

In the 5100 block of Nashville, only one house stands - a middle school, an insurance agency and vacant lot sporting an ancient foundation fill it out.

Across the other alley of our corner lot lies a gas station. Foot traffic is heavy; there are interesting and shady characters traipsing this corridor at all hours, though their population dwindles at twilight. In almost three months, only one - an old man foreseeing torrential rain - even turned toward The Wide Porch.

Somewhere after 10, I drifted off with the latest Christopher Buckley perched on my chest, warming to the merits of voluntary geriatric suicide, when a determined pounding erupted on the front door.

The door rattles sickly when knuckles pound on it, every blow letting me know that if the caller really wanted him, they could crush the thin wood separating the door's glass panes and leave me with no exit except the bedroom window.

The stranger at the door was no hood-covered wolf, but a bald, goateed black man with a story of autogeddon, a trip to Chattanooga and dead credit cards. Heart racing, ready for anything, I listened intently as he asked for help, all the while adjusting my legs to block Percy from squirming to freedom. "I'll get right back to you," I said, locking the door main door, not the deadbolt.

Twenty seconds later, clearly stating "I don't keep much cash in the house" in case my visitor contemplated rushing the door, I handed him a five spot. He thanked me profusely, then departed as I wished him good luck and I shut off the last light in the house wrapped myself in the blackness broken only by interstate lights.

Somehow, I don't think this guy was lying. He offered me a paper with his personal information (I refused it), was a little too clean-cut for a panhandling sob story, and once he returned to the sidewalk, I realized I saw him walk under the interchange less than a half-hour earlier, possibly to the bank where the credit card also declined. I've heard too many sob stories to just hand out cash to random people running headfirst into life (or telling me they have to score some beer or crack).

Now, if word passes that the guy at 5100 will toss out Lincolns for the privilege of being left alone, my budget for wayfaring strangers will grow drier than the Mohave.

I'll guess it won't.

In fact, the odds are almost as good that my paranoia will abate.