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Man Of Intrigue.

Source: Wikipedia

Back in 2013 when Doctor Who was celebrating its 50th anniversary the BBC ran a series of retrospectives with various stars and actors sharing their remembrances about the show. One dapper gentleman kept popping up. He intrigued me and everything he said made me laugh. That was my introduction to Paul F. Thompkins, who was, at the time, already a successful comedian, but I’m always behind the times myself.

It’s his birthday today and he still makes me laugh and still intrigues me with his strangely varied career: he entered the world of stand-up just as the ‘80’s comedy bubble collapsed but managed to find success anyway. He had a small role in the film Magnolia, which was cut, he worked on the VH1 show Best Week Ever, where he met Weird Al Yankovic (whom he thought he already knew), he’s cut several comedy albums, and he talked to fellow comedians and performers in 68 episodes of the long-running YouTube series, Speakeasy. And those are just a few of the things he’s done. The guy seems to be ubiquitous, which is one of the things that makes him so intriguing.

The Smell.

As soon as I got off the bus the smell hit me. It was musky, heavy, foul; the sort of dense smell that seems like it weighs down the air. There’s a small wooded area I pass by on my walk home. It was there, near the out-of-control bamboo stand, that I previously found an egg–what turned out to be a real chicken egg, as strange as that seemed–and it was the first thing I thought of, but rotten eggs have a distinct smell that’s sharp, prickly. This smell was more earthy, more like rotten meat, which is what it turned out to be. I recognized the scaly, metallic shell: it was a possum on the half shell, a Texas speedbump, an armadillo, flattened by a car and shoved onto the side of the road.

Not far from where I live there’s a place that used to be overgrown farmland. It was a buffer between the interstate and the neighborhood, and it was also home to all sorts of flora and fauna. The whole thing was sold and turned into a big shopping center and now the fauna has found its way into the neighborhood: mostly deer but also skunks, coyotes, and foxen. But armadillos are a relatively new arrival to Tennessee. So far we haven’t had enough that they’ve become a problem since they carry leprosy and dig up the foundations of houses . They’ve been pushed northward by climate change, which reminded me that they used to have a much larger cousin, the glyptodon, that was probably wiped out by a combination of overhunting by prehistoric humans and climate change. It could be as big as a Volkswagen Beetle, which is why whichever prehistoric kid spotted one first got to punch his friend on the arm and say “Glyptodon brown!” although the game got kind of boring because that’s the only color they came in, but that’s another story. Prehistoric people may have even used the glyptodon shell as a shelter, but I can’t begin to imagine what the smell was like.

 

You Gotta See This.

What defines a place, a city, a region? Nashville has a long history as a home of country music, something I first realized when I was a kid and at some family gathering up north and a man asked me where I was from. When I told him he said, “You got a lot of country music down there, doncha?” and I imagined my typical suburban neighborhood, completely devoid of banjo pickers and fiddlers, and yelled “No!” and he and I were both equally confused. Not long after that we took one of our summer trips to Opryland and my parents dragged me away from the rides and made me sit through one of the shows. It started with a woman who came out and said, “When folks think of Nashville they think of country music” and I felt like a schmuck.

Nashville has also become a food destination with innovative restaurants like The Catbird Seat where a chef will create food right in front of you and twenty-one other diners creating a custom meal based on your personal tastes, although I can create a custom meal based on my personal tastes at home for a lot cheaper.

Globalization and global communication mean that foods that were once strictly regional can be found far from their original destinations. Nashville now has three Ethiopian restaurants which I think is a really cool thing. It means we can get a taste of Ethiopia for much less than the cost of the trip, not the mention all the associated risks. And yet what is it that makes it Ethiopian food? It may have originated halfway around the world but now it’s part of the mosaic of this community, which makes it a little more beautiful. Also while KFC has stopped serving “Nashville hot chicken” now Red Lobster is advertising “Nashville hot shrimp” which makes me yell “THAT’S NOT A THING!” every time the commercial comes on, but that’s another story.

There’s also the time, shortly after my parents were first married, that my mother cooked okra for the first time. She’d made broccoli with cheese sauce and my father said, “This would be good on okra” and she took him seriously and the result was a slimy, cheesy mess. I told that story to an African American co-worker who laughed and said, “Your mother must be white!” Yeah, although there were other clues to that.

Anyway another thing that defines a place is public art, and while you won’t necessarily taste the food in a place you might see the art as you’re passing through, and that can be pretty sweet.

 

Swing And A Miss.

Every fall when school starts again I remember my time with high school golf team. When I started high school my parents informed me I would play a sport. They didn’t specify which one, but it wasn’t an option, so I looked through the school teams for something that would match my complete lack of any athletic ability and settled on golf. I’d played golf some and thought I was pretty good at it. Sure, it was played outside and there was plenty of walking required, but it was a game of slow, steady concentration. And I could usually get the ball through the lighthouse into the clown’s mouth sometimes in as little as five strokes. I also thought, given its Scottish origins, that maybe the team uniform would be a kilt, or at least a tam-o-shanter and some culottes. My parents also occasionally played golf and gave me a set of old clubs that I was able to get most of the rust off of. They signed me up for some lessons at a local golf club with an old guy whose face was so weathered it looked like it had been stretched out and then scrunched up back onto his skull. It was the middle of summer and yet every lesson we had together it was cool and overcast and after the lesson when I was riding home and it was suddenly warm and sunny I realized he created a miserable environment around him. He was a very hands-off kind of instructor, especially after the first time he saw me swing, when he backed up about ten feet and then, after staring at me for several minutes he said, “Walp, the first thing you need to know is the idea is to hit the ball with your club.” So I took another swing and felt the club skim the grass and then, after staring at me for several minutes, he said, “Walp, the next thing you need to know is the idea is to hit the ball with your club.”

I wish I could say the lessons went downhill from there but there was no downhill. If there were the ball might at least have had a chance of going somewhere.

I did a little better by myself hitting the ball around the backyard, maybe because I wasn’t standing around under a cloud of misery and we had a terrible neighbor whose windows gave me something to aim for, but that’s another story.

When school started I found the golf coach who told me practice would be on Wednesday afternoons and I should come to the lobby after school. I lugged my ratty golf bag and only slightly rusted clubs to school that day and when I went to the lobby after school I thought it was strange I was the only one there, but I waited and walked out to the parking lot to see if there was anyone out there. After half an hour I called my mother to ask her to pick me up. The next day the coach told me he’d forgotten I was coming. I wish I could say things went downhill from there but really they just rolled along. The next week practice was cancelled and the coach forgot to tell me. After half an hour I called my mother to ask her to pick me up. The week after that he said he was sure they’d just missed me. After half an hour I called my mother to ask her to pick me up. Finally I got permission to leave my last class early and caught the coach and the rest of the team just as they were leaving. The other four players let me squeeze into the back seat. When we got to the course the other players set up, teed off, and were off and running which surprised me. Who runs in golf? I stepped up to the tee, put my head down, focused, and made an absolutely perfect swing, managing to graze the top of the ball which rolled three feet, and only got that far because it rolled downhill. The coach came up behind me. “You’ve got to play fast! Come on, let’s go, we’re not going to wait for you.” All my ideas of golf as a game of slow, steady concentration were dashed. This was speed golf. We were expected to hit and run, and the coach didn’t want to hear that my handicap was twenty-seven even if it did mean I hit par on every hole.

Panting and sweating at the nineteenth hole I said, “Coach, thank you for the chance. Maybe I’ll try out again next year.” And then I went to the clubhouse and called my mother to ask her to pick me up.

That was the end of my strange and baffling golf career and my parents seemed satisfied with me joining the Latin club, although I never told them I got thrown out for wearing a tam-o-shanter with my toga.

The Confessor.

Source: shelleyberman.com

“My whole act is confession.”

-Shelley Berman, February 3, 1925 – September 1, 2017

Maybe the name Shelley Berman doesn’t sound familiar to you even though his first comedy album, Inside Shelley Berman, sold over a million copies and he was the first comedian to perform at Carnegie Hall, but even if you think you haven’t heard of him you have heard his influence in every whining, complaining comedian who turns anthills into Everests. He turned confession into comedy at a time when most other comedians were doing character monologues. He was obsessed with himself, but in a good way, because he portrayed himself as deeply insecure, worried about everything, so you felt sorry for him. He played, and could have even inspired, a ludicrously misanthropic character in the Twilight Zone episode “The Mind And The Matter” as a man who discovers he hates all of humanity but discovers he hates himself even more. As historian Gerald Nachmann says, “Something about Shelley Berman made you want to throw your arm around the guy and tell him that everything was going to be all right.” He was described as “everymanic”, and when Time did its infamous piece on the new generation of “sick comics” it’s surprising he wasn’t singled out as the sickest. Maybe it all started at the Chicago improv group The Compass Players, where Berman brought plenty of neurotic baggage and doing improv learned to unpack it. The Compass produced several other notable comics—in fact at one point Berman almost formed a trio with his fellow players Nichols & May, but they realized they worked better as a duo and he was too much of an individual to share the stage. And yet he also credits others for his success. Night after night he worked on a bit that came from an audience suggestion: a man waking up with a hangover from a party the night before. He kept repeating a line about throwing the host’s lamp out the window until one night a fellow cast member offstage whispered “Make it his cat”. “The Morning After The Night Before” became one of his funniest and most successful pieces and has a hilarious opening line: “My tongue is asleep and my teeth itch.” There’s also a prologue in which he assures the audience no cats were harmed, long before such disclaimers became standard.

He was such an intense individual he even did standup his own way—sitting down.

The tragedy of Berman is that the nervous, irritable, insecure character on stage was a nervous, irritable, insecure man in real life. He was an obsessive worker for whom every detail had to be just right, which earned him a bad reputation and cost him work. A 1963 documentary that showed him screaming backstage because a phone had rung during one of his routines almost destroyed his career, forcing him to take smaller and lower paying gigs. In fact it was the second time a phone had interrupted him that night, but the documentary was edited to show him melting down after just one. Some think the producers also had the phone ring deliberately to set him off, making him an early victim of “reality” television. Such obsessiveness might have been forgiven from a well-known actor interrupted in the middle of Hamlet’s soliloquy, but audiences and critics were surprised and turned off by a nightclub comic who took being funny so seriously. Maybe success—which, no matter how hard he worked, some who knew him said he didn’t feel he deserved—magnified his own personality, but it also magnified how others perceived him. Years later he’d say, “people are still surprised when I say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and that I don’t have saber teeth.”

Yet he never entirely dropped out of the limelight. He would also turn his attention to writing books and teaching, and while he’d still do some comedy performances he focused on acting, which is what drew him to The Compass Players in the first place. A quick glance at his IMDB page shows him working steadily, and in his influence he may never be forgotten.

Hail and farewell Shelley Berman.

 

 

 

Riding The Route: Number 50.

One of my goals has been to ride every one of Nashville’s bus routes from end to end. Well, it’s been more of a vague idea than something I’ve actively pursued, but anyway it’s something I’ll try to do. The route numbers go up to 96, but some of the routes have been eliminated, like unlucky number 13, and rather than recycle them they’ve just been left blank, but that’s another story. Recently I took a trip on the number 50 route because I thought I’d start more or less halfway and it was also convenient.

After a couple of turns out of the downtown station the number 50 bus drives a straight east-west line down Charlotte Avenue all the way to a Wal Mart. When I got on it was crowded and I figured almost everyone would be riding all the way to the end of the line, and yet there’s quite a bit along the way. The first thing I noticed as we were just barely out of downtown was a Krystal on one side of the street and the Fattoush Cafe on the other side. Then there’s a long stretch of not much, and then a Red Cross Blood Donation Center and, on the opposite side of the street, where there’s been an abandoned school building for decades, there’s now a Starbucks, which is kind of weird. I’m not used to seeing a Starbucks standing alone in the middle of an otherwise empty block.

Past where Charlotte passes under I-440 there’s Bro’s Cajun Cuisine and then things start to pick up a little closer to Murphy Road, where the ill-fated number 13 bus used to run. A few years ago someone on an internet message board where I hung out asked, “What’s fun to do in Nashville?” and I was surprised to realize several things I recommended were in clustered together on or near Charlotte Avenue. There’s a funky little consignment store called Cool Stuff, Weird Things, right next to Headquarters, my personal favorite coffee shop, and across the street is the Richland Park Library where there’s a small farmer’s market every Saturday. Since the person who asked was into comic books there’s The Great Escape. And also Bobbie’s Dairy Dip if you want an authentic ’50’s burger and milkshake–authentic because it’s been around that long.

A few more people disembarked after we crossed White Bridge Road, and that’s when a variety of restaurants pop up: Middle Eastern, Indian, Mexican, Vietnamese, a Chinese place that offers dim sum on Sundays, and a little place that promises Peruvian cuisine–I made a note of that for later.

Because the number 50 is an express bus it only stops at selected points, unlike the regular buses that’ll stop pretty much anywhere. Maybe that’s why most of the people on the bus, even the ones getting off at points in between, slept. One of the two guys who rode all the way to the end with me was snoring when we pulled into the Wal Mart parking lot. I guess he’s a regular rider.

In Passing.

All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.

–Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), Blade Runner

A recurring theme with graffiti for me is that it’s transient. It seems like most artists want their work to be seen, even if it’s only for a short time but also an expectation that it won’t last, which is probably one reason they use the same tag over and over again. It’s a personal identifier—and graffiti is a very personal art form—and it’s the artist’s way of asserting their existence even when their work is destroyed. It’s all something I thought about when I was looking through some pictures of graffiti I’d collected and this picture I took in early July came up:

Not a real exciting piece, but the building, which had been a restaurant, is now gone. Here’s a picture of the same spot taken just yesterday, in the rain:

There’s a special poignancy to this. Once a week the owner of the restaurant that was there would serve a free meal to the homeless.

The reason this idea of transience keeps coming up with me is the idea of art that’s not supposed to last goes against something I’ve spent most of my life believing about art, specifically that it’s supposed to last. Art is supposed to outlive the artist, rather than the other way around, a message passed on to future generations. And yet there are plenty of known and respected artists who put works in galleries that are only meant to be there a short time. Whether you consider, say, an unmade bed strewn with trash a work of art is a whole other discussion, but there are literally dozens of stories of art gallery janitors who’ve accidentally “cleaned up” various art exhibits, usually consisting of beer bottles, cigarette butts, and other detritus. And the fact that art gallery janitors mistakenly assume these collections of trash are just trash says something about the kind of people who attend art gallery galas, but that’s another story.

Anyway art that breaks the rule that art is meant to last also jives perfectly with something else I’ve spent most of my life believing about art, specifically that the very nature of art is that it breaks the rules. There are no absolutes in art. Everything’s ambiguous and subject to personal view.

Interpret that how you will.

Just Saying.

According to an old saying fish and houseguests start to stink after three days, although that seems like a pretty fishy saying to me because ideally fish should be cleaned, gutted, and served all in the same day and the same goes for houseguests, and neither should be warmed up in the office microwave. That saying obviously predates modern refrigeration and freezing techniques which mean you can keep fish for a lot longer than three days, especially if it’s the stick variety, and if your houseguests are stinking after three days that’s when you should start dropping really strong hints that they’re welcome to use the shower and they can even use those fancy little soaps that are there for, you know, guests.

That saying has been attributed to Benjamin Franklin who also famously said that a penny saved is a penny earned which is even more ridiculous because the only way you can earn a penny by saving a penny is if you’re getting a one-hundred percent return on your investment, and if you are I’d really like to know where you’re putting your money because I’d like to put in my two cents.

Also while we’re on the subject I’d like to change it entirely and point out that just because you lie down with dogs you won’t get up with fleas and even if you do maybe you’re the one who had the fleas to begin with and now you’ve given them to your dogs. And while most of what goes up will come down sooner or later so far the Voyager spacecraft is zooming along through space with no sign of coming down, and also to get back to the fish there’s another saying that if you give a man a fish he’ll eat for a day, although I think it depends on the size of the fish because if it’s a really big fish then maybe you can feed him for up to three days before it starts to stink. And the saying goes on that if you teach a man to fish you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Maybe that was true at one time but now if you teach a man to fish you’ll just encourage him to need to buy a permit and a rod and reel and if you’ve been to the sporting goods store you know there’s at least fifteen different kinds of fishing line and expensive lures and flies, depending on what kind of fishing we’re talking about. And also that same guy you taught to fish is going to get tired of fish sooner or later and want to use that fishing rod for something else like maybe stabbing small mammals.

All this is just a reminder that everything is relative, especially when your relatives have been staying with you, and that everything you think you know is subject to change. At least that seems to be the case for now. It may be completely different tomorrow.

 

Pay It Forward.

Back when the bus was my main method for getting around I quickly picked up on tips and tricks for riding the routes. Transfers, for instance, would allow me to hop from one bus to another, although usually only after they’d stopped moving. A transfer was only ten cents or, if you took long enough searching your pockets for a dime the driver would sigh and hand you one. A transfer was only good for one change, though, and not long after I figured this out they discontinued them anyway, although if someone claimed to have gotten on the wrong route by mistake or offered up a sad enough excuse the driver would sigh and write them a note, but that’s another story.

By then I’d already figured out that the best deal was the all-day pass. Regular bus fare was $1.75 and an all-day pass was $3.50 so it saved me a whopping twenty cents. And while I rarely changed buses more than once I liked the comfort of the all-day pass which would allow me to ride as many buses as I wanted and didn’t expire until 2 a.m. the next day, unlike the transfer which expired after half an hour although even if you handed over an expired one the driver would usually sigh and just take it.

Since I rarely rode the bus after dark, much less after midnight, my all-day pass would still be good for twelve or more hours even after I was done so I’d leave it behind or pass it on to a fellow rider. They’d have already paid one fare but I always hoped I could save them having to pay another, or at least save them a whopping ten cents for a transfer. And then on one occasion I did what I always wanted to do: as I was leaving I handed the pass off to someone, a woman with a baby stroller, who was just about to board so she wouldn’t have to pay. I tried to do it discreetly so the driver wouldn’t see it, but I wasn’t discreet enough.

“You’re not supposed to do that!” he yelled behind me.

Then he sighed and let her use it.

 

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