2007: So long, and thanks for all the fleas

If a speck of anything appears on the Orange and White Devil's fur, I immediately spring back into flea mode.

Perhaps I showed a little too much optimism in last week's post. Sometimes, in the chasms of the mind, we return to wounds too easily opened.

After finishing a workout, a small dinner and a vintage ale, my mind drifted when endorphins should have still propped it up somewhere tropical and breezy.

I thought about my little apartment with the huge closet, which led my mind to mad dashes across North High Street to quaff a few ales at Bob's, drinking wine in Fiala's kitchen, cooking out at Brown's, riding my bike to work on Sundays, the dinner rotation with the Stacey sisters, walking up to Olde Worthington or down to Whetstone, Thursday gatherings at Brazenhead, Grandview/The Winking Lizard, writing a weekly column which rarely earn a word of response, and so on.

Then I asked myself, "Was this rash experiment down South worth it?" and wept for a few seconds before the phone rang to rein it all back inside.

California .... California

I bought a plane ticket yesterday, finally fulfilling a promise made not long after helping my friend move from Columbus to West Hollywood in true Kerouac fashion. She's moved a few blocks from the water in Long Beach, but whatever. I like getting out of town in late February, when the onslaught of winter (or Colder Autumn, as it goes in Nashville) reaches unbearable proportions.

I'd been humming Zeppelin's "Goin' to California" all day when I stumbled upon this image and suddenly started humming another California tune. Ah, our 24-hours news world is not kind to the starlets of TV fads - it also reveals how much makeup people in Hollywood really wear, and what a toll a character's death takes on a young actress. This shot probably wouldn't make the cut for the wall calendar if The OC still aired.

On the average, Nashville is bearable

"We're having beers on my friend's porch, if you want to come over."

I'd been in Nashville less than a month when I first heard those words from a co-worker. They were sheer bliss. The beer didn't taste poorly either. For a string of parched Thursdays, I always had a railing to lean against, and a cold beer to wash away the relentless heat.

For all my little gripes in comparing Music City to my adopted Ohio home, I have not lacked for friends. On many Saturdays, I forced myself to go out, even when not feeling anywhere near sociable. A stern little voice reminded me that sleeping away the weekend would not help with meeting people, and there would be no squandered chances for that in Nashville.

I only lacked a haircut, as everyone from Columbus saw in November.

I'm ambivalent about 2007; the pitfalls and tragedies made 2006 too easy to call. But so many plotlines have yet to play out that I can't judge 2007. Yeah, I'm 30, unmarried and without prospects beyond the Russian roulette of online dating. But even on deadline, I enjoy going to work every day. I still haven't found a hangout bar to suit me. As for the ladies, I'm "O for Nashville;" on some days that end in "y", that hurts more than sharing an apartment with a borderline feral cat .... but I digress. When the weekend comes, I know I won't pine for good company, even if it isn't the company I tearfully left behind in Ohio.

Bhutto

The first time I caught sight of her, back in high school, I wondered how a woman could lead an Islamic country? She had her father's name and an Ivy League education, but possessed something even more important - the support of her nation's poor and middle class.

Bhutto later entered into exile and left the world stage while the U.S. feted its good buddy Gen. Musharraf, not exactly democracy's champion and more Chamberlain than Churchill when it comes to the extremists operating in Pakistan's tribal regions.

And Bhutto's legacy was more image than accomplishment - as prime minister, her resume is skimpy, aside from the corruption charges that toppled her twice. Of course, she lacked support of the Pakistani military and its intelligence service, the country's backroom rulers.

While no saint, Bhutto remained immensely popular among Pakistanis. That her crushed supporters broke the glass at the hospital entrance upon confirmation of her death just exhibits the zeal with which they backed her.

Why must everyone who give hope to the poor and hopeless end up showered in bullets?
JFK, Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, and I still worry about President Palmer ... I mean, Senator Obama.

But half a world away, it's hard to take seriously the elections coming up. Bhutto might have been the only person in Pakistan capable of swatting Musharraf out of the presidency. The anger and frustration shown on streets across Pakistan won't simply burn out once Bhutto is laid to rest.

Pakistan is pissed, and Musharraf's mix of appeasing al Qaida's leaders while staking his country to emergency rule won't usher in any newfound stability.

Bhutto knew the risks she faced in returning to Pakistan. Terrorists nearly killed her hours after she returned, and Musharraf's government didn't respond to her requests for greater security. Populism can only shield a leader so much in days marred by extremism.

Trash talking the tigers

Afraid to go back to the zoo now? What ravenous creature might escape its enclosure to turn you and your loved ones into dinner?

That holds true only if you buy into the hysteria over this Siberian tiger's rampage at the San Francisco Zoo. Tatiana, the Siberian tiger that killed one man and injured two others, hurt her defense by nearly disarming (literally) a zookeeper last year.

No one takes the time to look at this rationally, choosing instead to cave into the accusations and media-constructed image of a man-eating tiger loose in the zoo.

The first thing I don't what to hear is the cliche owned by most first-time cat owners: "The cat can't possibly jump up there." After a week or two with a cat in the house, it's glaringly obvious: cats jump impossible lengths with a twitch of their haunches and an unflappable demeanor.

The orange and white devil does it all the time; while prowling above the cabinets, he spans five or six feet of empty space 7-8 feet above the floor. He weighs 13 pounds; compare that to Tatiana's 350 pounds. The thought of a tiger leaping so great a distance lands much closer to reality. I'd be genuinely shocked if a bear or wolf broke free - cats defy expectations all the time.

But intelligence and natural attributes can't shake one feeling - Someone teased that cat, and it acted out of agitation. The Chronicle's sources see the police investigation heading in that direction.

A taunter might believe the barricades would protect them, but an animal that powerful just needs a small opening - say, a arm or leg dangled over the fence's edge - to mount its escape. When a 20-foot height decreases to 18 with a promise of meat, the equation changes drastically. Instinct kicks in, then the animal is on autopilot.

I only have scratches and tiny puncture wounds as evidence. San Francisco has one dead, two others mauled, a tiger's uncharacteristic rampage and few answers.

Apparently....

John Mayer is reading this blog, not leaving comments and shamelessly ripping off my posts.



That makes him - you guessed - a douchebag extraordinaire.

2007's Word of the Year

I give the hoist the honor upon: Douche. I think we all know the context I'm talking about; you run into at least one person everyday who earns that slur.

The award extends to its two big variations, douchebag and douchebaggery.

There have long been complaints about new male equivalent to the word "bitch," yet a perfectly good descriptor existed all along.

I haven't heard it much since my parents used it regularly to describe some of my friends in elementary school (yes, really).

It has cropped up a few times in the 21st Century, but declaring people guilt of douchebaggery has reached an all-time high.

Why? Because douchebags are everywhere.

In their simplest form, douchebags flash attitude and project arrogance reserved for cartoon villains. But their type has become so invasive because the species has branched out.

You can even gaze upon a menagerie of these types here - don't skip the commentary.

Although I don't watch them, almost anyone who appears on a dating/find your soul mate/hook-up reality show has to qualify. If you're resume includes "I Love New York," congratulations on Tier-1 douchebaggery.

We could even rewrite a few verses from an old Christmas ditty in their honor:

Cologne-bathed dunces braggin' 'bout their things,
These aren't a few of my favorite things.

I'd like the spotlight a few of my favorite douchebags:

The guy who starts the "O-H" cheer in any Columbus locale.

The guy who finishes it.

Anyone wearing V-neck undershirts as their actual shirt (you know what I mean).

People without a cell phone and no control of their voice. These subset is especially fun, because you can mock them from five feet away while they remain oblivious.

A 400-pound corporate knucklehead who strolls by with his head cocked to show off his blue tooth. His head won't move, but the rest of him jiggles hypnotically long into the night.

Anyone wearing a cowboy hat not working with horses or in ranching. Double douchebag points for the suede vest and chaps. These group frequents Lower Broadway in Nashville.

The fratboy lining up for a 5K in 38-degree weather and a rainstorm, wearing only goggle, shorts and running shows.

Those specimens can redeem themselves with a little clothing and less attitude.

Topping them all is the 24-hour douchebag, someone for whom those traits are so ingrained, they can't possibly shed them without A Clockwork Orange level of brainwashing. Even when they sleep or brush their teeth, it's inescapable. Example: Johnny DiLoretto of Channel 6 in Columbus.

The 24-hour douchebag deserves it tattooed on their forehead, and wouldn't hesitate if they thought it would help them get laid.

Remember, this isn't free license to act like a douche in the new year - I reserve the right to make it the word of 2008.

A word that good is worth repeating. And if you encounter the people like the one I find around Nashville, you repeat it frequently.

10 Keepers from 2007

What will I still pull from the shelf in five years? Too many year end lists cling to the moment and line up picks that will clog the used bins within a year.

For the big releases, disappointments and retreads reigned. The Foo Fighters cobbled together a stale bunch of soft-loud-soft-really loud tunes they been writing since 1997 (although "The Pretender" is wonderful). Interpol packaged “The Heinrich Maneuver” with 10 goth snoozers. Rilo Kiley managed a few sharp tunes on an artificial, genre-jumping major label debut. Ryan Adams sobered up and it shows on Easy Tiger; at least he's still a total prick in concert. The Dude still sums up The Eagles better than I ever could.

The Boss was close with his dose of Magic, but his mid-career splurge of strong albums will roll on. So were Modest Mouse, Spoon and Kevin Drew, whose impressive Spirit If ... just made me wish for another Broken Social Scene record. Ted Leo grew on me as the year progressed.

So here are my picks, and keep in mind, their order is meaningless. I won't play a numbers game with my top picks.

Wilco ~ Sky Blue Sky
This time, the critics and hipster doofus brigade savaged Wilco for finally turning out the straight-ahead rock record demanded of them for years. The first time I heard Sky Blue Sky, the track order was reversed – every track still resonated. Here’s to Jeff Tweedy for jettisoning the nonsense arty lyrics of the past few records – here, simple sounds better. It will be years before I give up on “On and On and On,” What Light,” “Impossible Germany” or “Either Way” – they formed a soundtrack for the Nashville move.

Robert Plant/Alison Krauss ~Raising Sand
I’ve crowed enough about this oddball pairing that navigates two vocal giants to new terrain. For as familiar Plant and Krauss are, this T Bone Burnett-helmed project plows into rustic blues and never looks back. Forget the Zeppelin tour rumors – I want to hear this album live before Plant hits the road with those other guys.

The White Stripes ~ Icky Thump
Jack White only spends a few weeks on each album, yet the Stripes age well. The title track has been played to death, “Effect and Cause” showcases Jack’s lyrical prowess and “I’m Slowly Turning Into You” and “Bone Broke” are the blues leviathans lacking from Get Behind Me, Satan. The due earn bonus points for the fun tracks on the Conquest EP, especially the mariachi version of the title track. Too bad they cancelled their tour ...

Iron & Wine ~ The Shepherd’s Dog
Sam Beam has moved off the edge of your bed to join five of his friends for a front porch jam. He fleshes out his sound with some Latin rhythm, thumping folk and juke joint blues. Nothing is as haunting as “Carousel” below a harvest moon. “White Tooth Man” drives through a savage town where you don’t dare stop. Consider my expectations met.

Richard Thompson ~ Sweet Warrior
Thompson finally turns out a rocker. At nearly 70 minutes, he could have lopped off a track or two, but better to let the old boy go while he’s feeling frisky. A top-notch set of anthems, protests and British jigs from the sharpest guitarist you’ve never heard of. “Sunset Song” might be my track of the year (and one of Thompson’s best ever).

Dinosaur Jr. ~ Beyond
The joyously distorted riff that kicks “Almost Ready” was the most refreshing noise I caught all year. The band’s original lineup sound pleased to bash out a few tunes. Lou Barlow offers two tracks and sticks to his bass for the rest; J Mascis resumes his blend of balls-out rock, white hair and all. Any band considering a reunion should digest this one first, so they know how to do it properly.

Feist ~ The Reminder
It’s a hit, but Leslie Feist’s seductively soulful record deserves all the praise. Her pop experiments (try to forget “My Moon My Man”) are a far cry from typical pop fare.

The National ~ Boxer
“Somehwere all my friends are getting wasted.” Amen, boys. The National finally earn their moment, shifting from the poignant to surly rocks with the thunderous percussion and Leonard Cohen-esque vocals. I wish I was trapped in the “Guest Room” they envision.

Radiohead ~ In Rainbows
There goes my top album of 2008. The story’s been repeated ad nauseum, but I gladly plunked down my 5 pounds. They don’t tear down sonic walls, but put together consistently challenging songs, sometimes missing from Hail To The Thief. In the digital age, it performs a rare task – it holds together best as an album. More than any 2007 release, In Rainbows played uninterrupted.

My last dose of new music in 2007

While I still might grab the Walk Hard soundtrack, the White Stripes Conquest EP will likely be the last purchase of the year. I blame our good friends at NPR, broadcast a Jack White interview with snippets of two songs.

Five minutes and a trip to the iTunes store later, I had the four new songs, which the Stripes recorded with Beck. The Stripes usually record a full-length album in two weeks; that they put extra time into their B-side should not surprise.

The must-have gem is the mariachi version of "Conquest," which pulls the song out of the Zeppelin-esque waters and drops it in Nuevo Laredo. Somehow, it's just as heavy. But mariachi splices well with rock and roll.

Jack lets the paparazzi and obnoxious celebrity-lovers have it in "It's My Fault For Being Famous." The track rivals "Honey, We Can't Afford to Look This Cheap" for the most personality among these new cuts. "Cash Grab Complications on the Matter" is a little piano stomper that descends blissfully into blues anarchy. The couple in "Cheap" are living the high life while coasting home on fumes in their brokedown pickup; White knows they can't keep it up without sacrifice.

These tracks are fun, loose, don't quite fit on a proper album and are further proof B-sides need not righteously suck.

Caring about your football team in Week 15? Priceless.

What a great feeling – the Cleveland Browns control their own playoff fate.

What a terrible burden wrapped in the same statement. Win out, and go to the playoffs. Lose one, and watch the privilege be stripped away. The Tennessee Titans sit anxiously behind the Browns, one game off the the pace. They beat the Chiefs, we beat the Bills and Phil Dawson beat the snow with two unorthodox field goals.

Personally, it doesn't matter to me how far they go, not after the season thus far. The Browns have taken one hell of an unexpected ride after a painful opening week and too many narrow victories. This could be the first time in my lifetime that all three Cleveland sports teams reach the post-season.

I can't believe I wrote that. The jinx is on.

When you're from Cleveland, no lead ever feels safe, and John Elway is always pinned inside his own 50-yard line with the clock winding down.

Jose Mesa's glassy eyes peer out from the pitcher's mound with three outs preventing a World Championship.

I'll stop there, and hope for Biblical snowfall in Cincinnati this Sunday. In that case, advantage ....(dare I say it?) Browns.

The 2007 Tally

The long run in short weekly doses ended in Clarksville, at 28:32 whipped by rain with temperatures in the high 30s, my hands nearly magenta by Mile One. My legs were a few shades lighter – I stick with shorts until the mercury falls below freezing.

The finish-line announcer told the thinning audience I crossed the line, as he did for a random runner every 30 seconds. Forty-five miles from Nashville, there wasn't a soul to care. I too just wanted warmth after the hilliest course I'd run.

Now, any race in Nashville must include at least a few challenging hills – downtown Nashville thrives on little shifts in elevation and adds a minute to my normal race time. But that's the Cumberland Basin.

Clarksville is a world away from the farmland of Central Ohio; almost the entire route sloped and twisted. I could see the finish line from one mile out, but it sat in Clarksville town square, atop a steep hill.

At least it lacked the unavoidable pools of icy water space that pitted the course for the 2006 Dead Celebrities 5K Run in Uptown Westerville. A wet course doesn't need to become an obstacle course.

Since the 5K circuit dried up during the holidays, I'm calling it a year with two weeks to go.

For everyone keeping track, here's the final rundown for 2007.
12 Tennessee 5Ks, seven Columbus 5Ks, two 10Ks, one Five-Miler, two Four-Milers, one 15K and a Half-Marathon in 80-degree haze and enough T-shirts to choke a closet.

By the end of 2008, I'll need an armoire solely for racing T-shirts.

It's the end of baseball as we know ... and I feel fine

Baseball's All-Syringe Team just got large enough to stock a small league.

The list of names in George Mitchell's report on steroids in baseball leaked -- surprisingly, it's a mix of paupers and MVPs (most were previously out by Jose Canseco), Cy Young winners (Paging Mr. Clemens), young guys with cannon arms who flamed out from injuries (Kerry Wood and Mark Prior), and at least 12 guys who merited Hall of Fame consideration. Some we knew, some we never saw coming -- well, not really. With players of all talent already outed, no one went suspicion-free.

People wanting to act surprised about Roger Clemens can, although they're completely off base. The Red Sox let him go in the mid-1990s, with their GM at the time referring to Clemens as being in his twilight. he rattled off 2 Cy Young seasons in Toronto, then a few more with the Yankees. A slight from his old team leads a player to do whatever it takes to restore his dominance. He's not so far removed from Barry Bonds, who supposedly starting juicing in extremis after the home run race between fellow juicers Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire.

There is some good from all this - some of the sport's biggest names didn't make the list. No Ken Griffey, Jr. No A-Rod. No David Ortiz. No Manny Ramirez (although he's so out there, he could have taken B vitamins he thought were really steroids). No Todd Helton (Denver's altitude really caused all those gaudy numbers). Despite all the conditioning and training in the modern game, I see a chance for an older, purer baseball to reemerge.

Bud Selig is quick to insistent this closes the sorry tale, but really, we've got a few chapters to go. It begins in the minutes and hours after the Mitchell Report goes public, when dozens of players issue denials and rip the report. The doors at Cooperstown slammed shut on any number of players. Having your name on the list might blackball a player in free agency, effectively ending his career. These names span 15-plus years of baseball - think of all the tainted numbers and honors. We knew of some, now Mitchell filled in more blanks.

The end? Please. This game isn't close to its final at-bat.

To Sum Up Tuesday

I finally became a Tennessee driver, mostly from fears that if I were mugged while still packing Ohio ID, I would have to undergo driver's ed at age 30. Minus the 40 minutes in line before the driver testing station opened, I traded my slim Ohio headshot for my long-haired, pudgy Tennesse shot in 25 minutes. And I registed to vote while waiting for the photo to publish.

Anyone up for a meat-and-three for lunch?

Also, it's two weeks until Christmas, and we hit 75 degrees today.

The air carried no trace of fall or winter, if you discount the leaves still fleeing their trees.

I could get used to that.

Daunting Dossier

Usually the comic book geek in me knows better than to ask for blog space.
But with the release of Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neill’s overdue third volume of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen adventures, I had no choice, because Black Dossier isn’t anyone’s idea of a comic book.

Few comic books require easy access to the Oxford Companion to English Literature.

Moore and O’Neill push past the limits of the genre in their latest League tale, Black Dossier. You might remember a craptacular film about the same characters; its script butchers bluedgeoned Moore’s dense epic and tried to reassemble it into a vanilla action film. If you only know that ... film, you know nothing of the graphic novel.

The film adaptation’s outcome was never it doubt given the way Moore constructed his Victorian superhero team from the era’s fictional characters – Mina from Dracula, adventurer Allan Quatermain, Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde, the Invisible Man and Captain Nemo – and peppered the narrative with dozens of others (They square off with Sherlock Holmes foe Moriarity, then the Martian invaders from War of the Worlds).

There’s not much from the early volumes can prepare the reader for this one. At first it seems a stretch that these characters still live a half century after their last adventure - however, Alan Moore or not, this a comic book we're talking about.

Conceived as a sourcebook on the history of the League, Moore decides to tackle modern English literature. Framed with Quatermain and Murray’s acquisition of the dossier, the pair are pursued adversaries from James Bond to Harry Lime from The Third Man. Our Victorian leads are operating in a 1950s Britain recovering from Orwellian dictatorship and frantic to escape with the document of their league's long history.

Most sections of the dossier fit snugly into the narrative. Moore strings the league concept from Elizabethan times to the 1950s with relative ease - he adds a new play to the Shakespearian canon, plus new history for Virginia Woolf’s gender-jumping Orlando and a new chapter in the life of sexual adventuress Fanny Hill.

Ultimately, Moore overreaches in trying to connect the League to every literary period from the past five centuries. While stylistically on the mark, the Tijuana Bible section does little for the story other than wedge in a little more graphic sexuality.

The faux Kerouac section is pure unpunctuated crap; Moore coughs up the worst of the alcoholic slop from Kerouac’s later years. After a few nonsensical lines, I moved on. Later, Quatermain stares through the fourth wall and alludes to its poor quality.

Moore also amps up the sex from earlier volumes, with the near-rape of Murray by Bond, the Fanny Hill section and the Tijuana Bible set in the world of 1984.
My eyes hurt after reading the 3-D finale, but not from the quality - the graphic novel includes the glasses necessary to fully capture the fanciful, shimmering designs of the Blazing World.

Given that its Moore and O’Neill’s depiction of the fourth dimension, looking at those pages in three dimensions is only slightly taxing. Viewed through the 3-D glasses, the volume concludes with some of the most beautiful images ever rendered in that style.

Impossible to read in a single session, Black Dossier blows the notion of a sourcebook out the water. It collects so many different literary styles that it often trips up the story it attempts to tell. Some of those styles would have been better omitted for a smoother story.

Black Dossier is definitely an achievement – just not entirely a success.

Still wildly inappropriate after all these years

(Names have been redacted for no good reason)

When weekend visitors arrive, I have no qualms about introducing them to the Nashville friends. Most can handle being thrown into a place filled with sociable strangers.

This was not one of those weekends.

Thursday was my fault - fighting a cold all week, I told him I'd check in after the Predators game. But when I woke up from an unexpected yet much needed nap at 2 a.m., I didn't feel too badly.

Following the nighttime 5K on Friday, I picked up _____ ____, who watched the Nashville Christmas Parade after a hop through the honky tonks of Lower Broadway (not to be confused with East or West North Broadway). I took _____ _____ to The Flying Saucer, a 200-beer-plus pub chain with an upper crust attitude, where several large men in San Diego Chargers jerseys kept chanting "Chargers." I guessed they were looking for a fight, as did the irritated barmaid.

One wandered to the bar for shots, and ____ _____ immediately chatted him up, talking Buckeye football to someone obviously unconcerned. Maybe that happened for the best reasons -- after some small talk, he really had nothing to say to each other. Maybe it wasn't, because I sure as hell didn't have his back if the usual Buckeye attitude (You know - "On the eighth day, God created the Scarlett and Gray") got him into trouble with the hulking San Diegoans.

The bigger hurdle came Saturday, and my desire to stamp a free pass to the local country music ... museum. It doesn't help that I was going to a place steeped in a subject that _____ _____ imagined himself an expert, even though he didn't know Doc Watson or Gram Parsons.
While watching a film on country music history, he started singing one of the 80's pop-country songs - completely off-key. I was not the only one to cast a glare as he entered a second verse.

In the middle of a presentation recounting some pivotal nights in Nashville history, an elderly woman in a wheelchair said she saw one of those shows. After announcing she came from Ohio, I hear loudly in my ear "Where in Ohio are you from ?" The woman continued talking to the moderator about how her friends wouldn't miss the last night of the Opry at the Ryman for anything, so a busload of people drove from Columbus.
Before she went any further, I heard, "Well, I'm from _______."

I just lowered my head and closed my eyes and imagined myself at the museum alone. A half-hour later, I was; in the Yazoo Taproom, I wiped away the sharp edges of the visit with a strong ale.

On the fourth day, I cut my losses after refreshing my memory on ____ _____. Back in the day, a few of us covertly met outside and then discussed lunch plans so he would not catch the scent of our intentions. At one point, I developed an escape plan if _____ ____ ever went postal - my monitor was going through the front window.
I watched him hem and haw about covering breaking news time after time, mostly notably when he wanted to hit the bar for afternoon baseball instead of covering a hostage standoff.

So in conclusion, it's hard to know how to fell or react when people you never had a relationship with show up on your new territory.

But for some reason, I feel like interrupting old lady's reminiscence with inane comments.

Stil redundant after all these months

Sometime around 3 a.m. Friday, the White Devil descended on my cubicle and I got my severance package from SNP's new owners.

Yeah, I dreamt it, and after hearing so many people recount that Black Thursday in July, my mind reassembled it. To those who are knew here, I was the first employee to give notice under the new regime - I literally walked from the initiation meeting to my boss' office and declared my Music City intentions.

I left of my own free will in May, but not in this vignette conjured out of all those recounts (we should have Gabriel Garcia Marquez adapt it into a novel --- Chronicle of a Corporate Plague, or something like that).

After a meeting laid out that the cuts were coming, the corporate hangmen stood grinning at the entrance to my cubicle, and beckoned me to their gallows. In the conference room, they indifferently informed me that they had no further use for a commentary editor. I was being put out to pasture like an aging police horse.

"But ... I already have another job," I pleaded. The man with the bullfrog chin agreed only to let me finish out the day, then reminded me that "some people are leaving as soon as they finish here," as if giving me three more hours were some great merciful act.

I wish I knew what possessed me to dream that so long after the fact. Maybe getting fired was a better alternative to beers with ( deep painful sigh) Kevin Corvo, who visited Nashville over the weekend.

Missing your daily dose?

The spike in temperatures around Middle Tennessee is playing foul with my sinuses and throat; it was T-shirt weather Saturday afternoon, and down into the 20's the last three mornings. Tuesday my whole body ached and only phone interviews kept me at work.

So to wrap, I haven't felt much like writing, and don't know when I will again.

Discomforting 'Country'

Driving away from the movieplex, the first thing I saw was a SUV with an "Everything is Good" bumper sticker.

Not for me - I'd just seen No Country for Old Men, a film every bit the downer as the book from which the Coen Brothers adapted it.

I read the book this summer, and aside from Cormac McCarthy's framing device - the sheriff goes deeper into how the world has taken a crueler turn. The Coens nipped and tucked pieces, but largely left the story intact (Moss doesn't simply walk away from his shoot-out with Ciguhr in the book; a second shoot-out erupts with new players, and Moss escapes in the confusion).

Too bad I was the only one in the crowd who bothered with the book - not surprising, since it only showed at an upscale theater in suburban Nashville. Every action of the relentless Ciguhr drew gasps, shocked exclamations of "Jesus!" and people jumping in their seats as he blazed a path toward the money stolen by Moss. As I walked out, pleased with how well the Coens adapted the book, the guy in next to me complained to his girlfriend that No Country "was too arty for him." I swallowed hard and contained my laugh.

Javier Bardem is pretty well brilliant as Ciguhr, who kills savagely yet follows a warped code of ethics. As good old Dennis wrote, the tension never eases, and he's the main reason for it. He's defining feature of American literature - a force of nature, now portrayed in human form. Much like Moby Dick, Ciguhr cannot be reasoned with, slowed down or understood. He is a distillation of the country's direction, and it isn't a pretty one.

Tommy Lee Jones didn't work quite as well as Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, since I keep picturing his relentless U.S. marshall from The Fugitive, not McCarthy's worn sheriff,who's ready to concede to the drug violence on his stretch of Texas border.

The Coens capture a bleak ride, but one worth taking.

Dead daredevil sparks old memory

I can't say I felt anything about Evel Knievel dying. He made peace with Kanye West days before dying, and I care too little to read too much into that.

The original shark-jumper, he largely disappeared following his 70s stunts. If you know daredevil Lance Murdock from The Simpsons, you know Knievel.

But I remember our Evel Knievel pajamas as kids. Yes, they were fireproof.

Our parents didn't have much money then, so when we were young, clothes passed through the wardrobes of all three Melville children. My sister was the last, and I remember her, all or three or four, thumb in mouth, walking through our rural Georgia home in those PJs.

A daredevil who jumped everything except diabetes doesn't hold much meaning for me.

A memory from 20-plus years ago, that I alone remember, means a whole lot more.