Pull up a chair...

Here's to a new year

2012-01-09T11:40:00.004-05:00

Hi gang.

Hope you all are doing well. I took a little blogging break around the Christmas holiday and am now back to reality. Here's to getting through the first five-day week in awhile...

We had a good time over the weekend. I took Jenn to Ruth's Chris for her birthday. Talk about good. Talk about expensive!

But that's OK because it was a special occasion and the food really was something special. The filet was fantastic.

Saturday night Jenn's mom fixed cube steaks and roast. Winning!

Last night, my mom bought a Louis' spaghetti family pack for Jenn's third birthday dinner of the weekend. Ca-ching!

Today I'm going to go on one of my little rants. Most of you know how much I enjoy popular culture from yesteryear. One of my all-time favorite programs was the witty, urbane CBS game show of the 1950s and '60s, "What's My Line?"

GSN aired reruns for years. It was 30 minutes of genteel fun, a reminder of a time when celebrities didn't by and large dress and/or act like slobs and game show panelists and moderators could think and talk in complete sentences.

For some reason GSN suddenly stopped showing the reruns in 2009. And then, out of nowhere, they teased us around Christmas 2010 and Christmas 2011 by airing a week's worth of episodes around the holidays. You don't know how much I wish they'd bring this little gem back. Often it was an oasis in the desert, a diamond among the dregs.

Not all of us want to see Kim and Khloe in New York, whoever the hell they are, or the cast of "Jersey Shore," whatever the hell that is.

Christmas time's a-comin'...

2011-12-19T11:01:00.002-05:00

So, how are you doing on your Christmas shopping?

Well, I'm not doing too badly. Still have a few little things to pick up, which I hope to do today or tomorrow. I'm bound and determined to make this as painless as possible.

Sad it's come to that, isn't it? I really do enjoy giving more than receiving, but I hate waiting in lines. And you can forget seeing me at the mall.

I guess my favorite part is getting to spend time with family and friends. This year, my wife and I will spend our first Christmas together as a married couple. That will be fun.

However you spend the holidays, I hope they are extra warm and bright this year.

One last time...

2011-12-16T23:27:00.005-05:00

I may be the only 33-year-old in America with a hand-picked, self-created "Glen Campbell's Greatest" playlist on my iPod. So be it.

I am a fan. Have been for a long time.

I guess it probably started with "Rhinestone Cowboy," one of those songs you grow up with. And "Gentle on my Mind," which I think is brilliant, and "Wichita Lineman," which I think is poetry. Plus, I liked the fact he used to be a Beach Boy. Somewhere along the way, more than 20 years ago now, I saw "True Grit." You know, the real one, with John Wayne. And with Glen.

I finally saw him in concert in the 1990s. He'd lost his high register by then, no longer sounding like a Dee-light, Arkansas country boy on speed ("Hello, everybody, I'm Glen Campbell!")

All those Jimmy Webb gems were favorites, including the rarer ones, like "Where's the Playground Susie?" and "Still Within the Sound of My Voice." And he could pick a guitar like nobody's business.

Saw him again two years ago in North Carolina. That time around, I started collecting his vinyl records. I finally stopped when I ran out of room.

Last night, I bought one more Glen Campbell vinyl: his final studio album, "Ghost on the Canvas." The Rhinestone Cowboy stopped in Maryville to say goodbye. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in July. Sigh, sigh.

You can read my thoughts on the show in Monday's Shopper-News. For now, I'll say it was a bittersweet night and felt very much like what it was -- a final salute to an old friend.

You'll be missed, Glen. Thanks for the music.

'Here's that Rainy Day'

2011-12-15T14:35:00.002-05:00

Because it's raining here in K-town this afternoon, here is one of my favorite songs, by the late, great Mel Torme.

Smooth as silk, baby!

Funny, that rainy day is here...

Why do I like 'Storage Wars'?

2011-12-13T22:22:00.004-05:00

I am a self-described "Reality TV" hater.

I truly dislike the genre. The shows are bogus. The networks like them because they are cheap to produce; they don't have to pay writers. I've never watched an entire hour of "Survivor," not even when it was popular.

But, for whatever reason, I like "Storage Wars" on A@E.

My friend Dean Harned got me watching it. I didn't think much about it at first. But, the more episodes I watched, the more I found myself looking forward to it.

I particularly get a kick out of "The Collector," aka Barry Weiss. I admire a man who spends hundreds of dollars on a storage unit just to buy one or two items. Plus, he pulls up in a different vehicle in every episode.

It's a bit silly, but like "Pawn Stars" and "American Pickers" (which for some bizarre reason both air on the so-called History Channel) I like to see some of the vintage items culled from the units.

Heck, it's more amusing than most of the sitcoms on network TV.

(The same can not be said for the "Storage Wars: Texas" spinoff. Whoever came up with that cheap knockoff should be fired.)

'The Descendants' doesn't disappoint

2011-12-12T22:18:00.007-05:00

Well, here's something you can't say every day. I saw a movie and it was almost as good as the book.

When we were in Hawaii back in the fall, I heard some buzz about an upcoming George Clooney picture called "The Descendants." It was filmed on Oahu and Kauai and was getting good marks for showing "the real" contemporary Hawaii.

I read the novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings when we returned to the mainland and really enjoyed it. Hemmings writes in a fresh, 21st-century voice, and creates vividly realized characters. I remembered seeing the trailer for the film back in the summer and awaited it with some anticipation.

But, then, that old dreaded feeling crept into the back of my mind. What if, like so many others, this turns out to be a bad adaptation of a good book?

Didn't happen.

Clooney delivers a perfectly restrained performance as Matt King, a lawyer whose wife slips into a coma following a nasty boating accident. He suddenly finds himself reconnecting with his young daughters, Alexandra (Shailene Woodley) and Scottie (Amara Miller). At the same time, he's having to finalize plans to sell longtime family property on Kauai to a business developer. Oh, and he finds out -- and I'm not revealing anything you don't see in the trailer -- his wife was having an affair at the time of her accident and planned to leave him.

Yes, "The Descendants" is a bit depressing -- I don't know why it was released during the holidays -- but it's also seriously funny, shockingly so at times, and is a moving piece about family, priorities, mortality and responsibility.

This should give Clooney some serious Oscar buzz. He takes a role in which he could have overacted and delivers a nuanced, thoughtful performance. Woodley and Miller are also picture perfect. The images I had in my mind of these pivotal characters were almost exactly what these two young actresses bring to the screen.

Oh, and I can't forget about Nick Krause as Sid, Alexandra's amusing, bumbling, pot-smoking friend. He provides some serious comic relief.

A special treat for us was seeing neighborhoods and parts of Honolulu through which we drove in October. It also made us want to hop on a plane tomorrow afternoon and spend a few days on Kauai.

For some reason, critics are complaining about Clooney's voice over. I have no idea why. It's a perfect plot device and reminded me of the book's narration. I don't see the problem.

Don't go into this film thinking you're going to see a pleasant two hours in paradise. This is a serious movie that deals with some deep and at times disturbing issues. But it's so well done, and with its oddly perfect mix of morbidity and hilarity, you simply should take it for what it is, which is a really good motion picture.

"The Descendants" is rated R.

'Halls guy' finally makes it to the Waffle House

2011-12-11T17:41:00.010-05:00

OK, I have a confession to make: until today, I'd never once eaten at the Halls Waffle House.

I'm not sure why, really. I've been to the Waffle House at Emory Road and I-75 several times -- after a George Strait concert, for a mid-morning breakfast interview with David Hunter, on assignment with Don Dare years ago. Stopping by the Waffle House at the Clinton exit used to be a ritual for Drew Weaver and me when we'd go to the lake. And, yep, I've stopped at several of them throughout the South during my travels.

But I'd never eaten at the Waffle House that is literally within walking distance of my office. Go figure.

We wanted breakfast for lunch and were running behind. Jennifer suggested Waffle House. Those patented hash browns sounded super.

Place was packed. We sat at the bar. The food hit the spot.

So, too, did the conversation. Every Waffle House I've ever been to employs servers that are ripped right out of "Alice." I have to confess I enjoyed every "honey" and "sugar" and was only disappointed that nobody said, "Kiss my grits!" Best of all, I never once had to wait on or ask for a refill.

Sitting at the bar, we got to watch the servers. They are in constant motion, yelling orders, washing dishes, gossiping, cleaning this or that, counting change. In spite of the busyness, the service was superb. I think it's partially because unlike most everywhere you go these days the Waffle House, or at least this one, is staffed properly, almost as if -- stop the presses! -- they expected the Sunday noon crowd.

Our bellies full, we bounced into the boundless sunshine ready to go see the beauty of the Smokies. Color me satisfied.

I don't know why I waited this long.

'Old Soldiers'

2011-12-10T00:01:00.004-05:00

Last night was the first chance I've had since I heard about Harry Morgan's death to throw an episode of "M*A*S*H" in the DVD player and say good-bye to one hell of a great character actor.

I chose "Old Soldiers," a favorite from 1980, in which Col. Potter learns that he's the last surviving member of a group of friends and soldiers-in-arms from World War I. Yep, I'm not ashamed to say I teared up a little while the Colonel bid his comrades farewell.

I may have told you before that "M*A*S*H" made me a better person. The show's gentle humanism plucks the heartstrings like a violin virtuoso. When Potter says he wanted his new friends from the 4077th to be with him for the toast -- friends whom he said have come to mean more to him than even his old war buddies -- well, that just about does it, don't it?

My pal Charles Kincade says watching "M*A*S*H" is like spending a few minutes with an old friend. And he's right.

For my money, there will never be another show like it. Not a chance. Can't come close.

Here is a link via veteran "M*A*S*H" writer Ken Levine to Gary Burghoff's thoughts on Harry Morgan's passing.

'What about the shillelagh?'

2011-12-09T10:47:00.005-05:00

My friend J.M. called last night to tell me that one of my all-time favorite people, former UT football coach Johnny Majors, was on "SportsTalk" on AM 990 helping predict the winners of this year's bowl games (with David Keith!).

I chuckled when Majors picked North Carolina State to lose its bowl game, saying: "NC State's been kind of a yo-yo team all year."

For some reason, it made me think of one of the more bizarre and hilarious moments from his final "Johnny Majors Show" with John Ward in 1992. Near the end of the program, Majors had been quite serious, thanking a tearful Ward and others. And then, out of nowhere, he says what sounds like, "What about the shillelagh?" (pronounced "shil-lay-lee") and throws his pen.

Ward starts laughing and says something like, "Never again!"

I have no idea what Majors was talking about.

A shillelagh is an Irish cudgel or club, traditionally made of blackthorn or oak. Well, that doesn't tell me anything.

J.M. says he remembers the winner of some football game getting a "shillelagh trophy." That's exchanged by the winner of the Notre Dame/Purdue football game each year.

Sounds more plausible, but if that's the reference, I have no idea why Majors would bring it up during such a serious moment or why Ward then said, "Never again!"

Must have been an inside joke.

Godspeed, 'Colonel'

2011-12-08T11:25:00.005-05:00

The 4077th has lost one of its most beloved alumni.

Harry Morgan, the actor who will forever be known to me and thousands of other "M*A*S*H" fans as Col. Sherman T. Potter, passed away yesterday. He was 96.

Here is The New York Times obituary.

Morgan had been in a ton of movies and co-starred in at least two TV series (one being the revived late '60s version of "Dragnet") before being signed to play Potter after McLean Stevenson left "M*A*S*H"in 1975. Morgan had played a crazy general on the series the previous season and had left an impression on the cast and crew.

He later called Potter "the best part I ever had," winning an Emmy in 1980.

I'm one of the few people who actually prefer the later episodes of "M*A*S*H." Morgan is a big reason why. As much as I loved Stevenson's Col. Henry Blake, Morgan's Potter was wise, sardonic, amusing, sentimental -- everything you'd want in a CO. He loved his Zane Gray westerns, his horse Sophie and his wife, Mildred.

When he first got to Hollywood, he was known as Henry Morgan, but wisely changed his first name to avoid confusion with the jackass TV personality Henry Morgan. I can remember seeing him in one of my favorite westerns, the chilling mob psychology drama "The Ox-Bow Incident." Later, he had a colorful role in John Wayne's last film, "The Shootist."

I can still picture him as Col. Potter, riding off from the Korean War on Sophie, after sharing one final goodbye with Alan Alda and Mike Farrell. Loretta Swit's Margaret Houlihan called him a "dear, sweet man" and he was.

You'll be missed, "Colonel." Godspeed.

'Too long in the wind, too long in the rain...'

2011-12-07T00:54:00.005-05:00

Just heard that Dobie Gray has passed away. RIP.

Everybody remembers his monster 1973 hit "Drift Away."

Gimmie the beat, boys, and free my soul; I wanna get lost in your rock and roll...

But here is my favorite song of his, "Loving Arms," which was later covered quite well by Elvis Presley.

Thanks for the music, Dobie. Guess you're singing somewhere through the lonely night, too long in the wind, too long in the rain...

Having fun in Fountain City

2011-12-06T13:10:00.003-05:00

Well, no matter what happens from here, I've already had a great Christmas.

Here's what happened:

Last night was the annual Fountain City Lions Club Christmas party. It's one of my favorite events of the year.

Kaye Galyon cooked a fabulous feast. Yum, yum.

The Lions are a great bunch. I enjoy slapping backs and swapping stories and hearing Gib Galyon's jokes.

Lynn Bennett comes just about every year and sings Christmas carols. Like I've said in the newspaper, she can channel Mahalia Jackson when she wants. Last night, she sang one of the most soulful versions of "Sweet Little Jesus Boy" I've ever heard.

Well, the last few years they've goaded me up front to sing "Blue Christmas." I gave up my Elvis gig 15 or so years ago. But I always make this one exception as a Christmas present for Mary Sue Miller.

So, I jumped up and sang it last night. But, Lynn wanted me to do another one, so I threw in "Hound Dog." Paul Caton can play just about anything on the piano.

Then Lynn asked me to sing along with "Jingle Bells" and "Rudolph." So, I did.

On my way to sit down (I thought) I started mumbling about those old Andy Williams Christmas specials that used to come on TV. I said I guess I was a nerdy kid because I always wanted to do that -- be one of those crooners belting out the classics in a cardigan sweater.

Somewhere along the way, Paul started playing the notes to Williams' signature tune, "Moon River." I shook my head and laughed but the crowd clapped.

So, I opened my mouth and let it fly. Nobody threw anything, so I guess it turned out OK.

Hearing Lynn and Paul and spending time with the Lions have become as much a part of my Christmas season as anything else. Thanks for the early present, y'all.

'The Art of Excellence'

2011-12-05T00:01:00.002-05:00

The Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli was on PBS last night singing at a concert recorded in Central Park.

It was quite the show. We missed the first part of it, but managed to hear him sing "The Prayer" with Celine Dion and "Amazing Grace" and a few others. I looked up a nice version of "Ave Maria" on YouTube after the show ended.

I perked up when 85-year-old Anthony Dominick Benedetto, better known as Tony Bennett, strolled out on stage to help Bocelli belt out "New York, New York." For some reason, it made me think of Tony's "comeback" album, "The Art of Excellence" (1986), his return to Columbia Records, which kicked off a professional second wind that kept going through "MTV Unplugged" and "Live by Request" to the present day.

I'd never heard of the album until Jonathan Schwartz was playing it one Sunday on his radio show. I used to think my favorite track was "How do you Keep the Music Playing," but another listen drew me to "A Rainy Day" and the "Why Do People Fall in Love/People" medley and "I Got Lost in Her Arms" and "When Love was All we Had."

We started out as children on a carousel...

I sometimes wonder whether singing like this is on the verge of extinction, but I think it will endure. Both younger and established artists continue to draw from the Great American Songbook. Over the weekend, I saw Streisand and Michael Buble and a couple of others on TV singing from it.

Oh, heck. If nothing else, I have my tapes and discs and iTunes and records.

Sing it, Tony...

It really was worthwhile to live when love was all we had...

Maybe he needs to get out of the Beltway...

2011-12-04T19:04:00.010-05:00

Twitter is one of those interesting aspects of modern life that sometimes makes me wonder if it's just another excuse to waste time.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Twitter is a good way to find links to news stories you might otherwise miss, blogs, coupons, traffic tips, weather updates and amusing one-liners. I use it to plug my blog and my newspaper column. And I also follow a few celebrities, mostly news types.

Somewhere along the way I started following Luke Russert. I like his take on sports. I liked his dad, Tim, and still miss Tim's steady presence on "Meet the Press." Luke is a young man (born in 1985) who covers Congress for NBC.

Luke has made me give my Twitter feed a double take a couple of times, though. During one of the Republican presidential debates earlier in the year, he tweeted something like, "Where the hell was gas $1.59 a gallon in late 2008?" after one of the candidates mentioned it.

Well, I knew quite well that gas got that cheap here in Knoxville, so I told him so. He didn't reply.

Today he tweeted: "The entire #Bills bar including myself just went 'Who the hell is Michael Buble?'" No doubt they'd just seen one of CBS's previews for tonight's "60 Minutes" story by Lara Logan on the popular Canadian singer.

Dang, Luke, get out of the Beltway every now and then!

Buble is a Grammy Award-winning pop singer (granted that doesn't mean what it once did) who has sold more than 30 million records. He had a huge hit in 2005 with "Home" and his Christmas CD has roared to the top of the charts. I first saw him 11 years ago in the film "Duets" and enjoyed his concert at Thompson-Boling Arena in 2008.

(He's also hosting a Christmas special on Luke Russert's own network on Tuesday night.)

I can somewhat give Luke a bit of a pass on this one. I don't know much of anything about modern day music. But I do know Buble. He's a throwback in a lot of ways. He wears a coat and tie on stage and has a stronger vocal range than Frank Sinatra did. But he croons in that same style and actually has talent, which is more than one can say for most of what passes for popular music.

I will say that I did shake my head when I saw Logan was going to be profiling Buble on "60 Minutes." But, heck. It's Christmastime. And he can ring-a-ding-ding almost as well as the Chairman of the Board.

I hope you know who that is, Luke.

Christmas comes to Halls

2011-12-03T20:58:00.005-05:00

There we were, sitting on the steps in front of Halls Middle School, enjoying a remarkably mild December afternoon and watching busy people build floats.

It was almost time for the Christmas parade.

We'd at first sat on that concrete contraption in front of the high school gym, mainly so I could admire a guy's dune buggy. But I had a headache and the furious fumes weren't helping. So, we walked a ways and got a glimpse of the Loveland Baptist Church float.

One thing I like about taking pictures at the parade is that virtually everybody you meet wants to be in the paper. Even a girl who didn't seem too happy while her mother fixed her hair beamed when I asked if I could take her photograph.

Shannon Carey was busier than scavenging ants at a July Fourth picnic. She was running this way and that, telling folks where to turn, making sure the parade preparation, chaotic at best, didn't devolve into downright anarchy. Give her a gold star. She and Pam Jordan worked their tails off.

We admired a guy's Golden Jubilee Ford tractor, gave grins to a woman with the greatest holiday hair I have ever seen, and became all warm and fuzzy inside when Kenny Widener, the parade's perennial Santa, brought with him his three-month-old granddaughter.

Yes, my friends, the holidays have come to Halls. Frank Capra ain't got nothin' on our Christmas parade, I'll tell you that.

The New York Times and me

2011-12-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

Yes, I am a newspaper junkie.

Makes sense, I guess, given my vocation, huh?

But I always have been one, long before I ever dreamed I'd herd words for a living.

I started reading the local papers (we had two dailies then, alas and alas, an era gone with the wind) when I was in elementary school. It was addictive, even then.

I can remember the first time -- this was several years later -- I got hold of The (Sunday) New York Times. Oh, my. Now this was a newspaper! You could read it all afternoon -- heck, all week -- if you wanted.

It was once fairly ubiquitous at Kroger on the newspaper rack. But along the way most of the grocery stores in these parts, including Kroger, either reduced the amount of copies for sale or didn't carry it at all. At one time, the Weigel's gas station on Maynardville Highway at Ledgerwood carried a grand total of one copy. I once got there at 6 a.m., just as the doors opened, to snag one.

Home delivery of the Times didn't even make it to Knoxville until a few years ago. And finally -- finally -- it has made it to my zip code. I signed up for the Sunday Times and felt like a kid at Christmas the first morning I saw it at the bottom of the driveway next to the News Sentinel.

Some of my favorite columnists -- William Safire comes to mind -- are long gone. Maureen Dowd used to infuriate me. Now I agree with her more often than not, or am at least amused.

The Gray Lady has taken some tough hits over the past decade. Jayson Blair and all of that. But it's still the best daily in the country by leaps and bounds. And, every time I read it, particularly the arts section's Broadway reviews, it never fails to put me in a New York state of mind. It makes me want to hop a plane and wake up in the AM at the Milford, run out for a quick bagel and coffee, and work my way back to the room with a city edition to spend the morning with an old friend.

By the way, if you missed "Page One," the excellent documentary film about the a year at the Times, go find it. It's a powerful argument as to why, even in this age of smartphones and super bloggers, the ol' newspaper is still as important as it ever was. Maybe it's even more important now that any idiot with a computer and a camera begins to dream delusions of grandeur....

'The Death of a President'

2011-11-30T01:21:00.005-05:00

Hey there, y'all.

Sorry it's been awhile since I've ducked in here. The last couple of weeks at work have been nuts. It's the busy season for us, too. One of several.

Not too much to report. We had a great Thanksgiving. Hope you did, too.

Saturday night I was feeling well enough to take a jaunt to Johnson City. I hadn't seen Robinella since our wedding and we were overdue for a short and sweet road trip.

So, we went to the Down Home and heard some tunes and detoxed from all the turkey and tryptophan.

I've been neglecting my reading since finishing Tom Brokaw's new book. Tonight after work and a later appointment, I ducked into the Fountain City Branch Library and borrowed William Manchester's "The Death of a President." I thought about it last week when that awful anniversary came and went. Hate to admit it, but I've yet to read it. (Can you believe this one-time best seller is out of print?!)

Manchester writes in a distinctive style that is both anachronistic and charming. I have to keep a dictionary nearby. But I love it. His two books on Churchill are must haves for any student of history and I enjoyed what I read of "American Caesar," Manchester's biography of Douglas MacArthur.

Jenn tells me that sometimes I get submerged in whatever historical anniversary we're bumping up against at the time. Maybe so. This year, I stumbled onto a YouTube series of the CBS broadcast day from Friday, Nov. 22, 1963, beginning with "As the World Turns," which was interrupted about 10 minutes after its 1:30 p.m. (Eastern) start time when Walter Cronkite read the first of the fateful wire dispatches from Dallas.

I watched about 30-some installments of it over the course of a week and finally decided to dig up a copy of Manchester's book. I'll let you know what I think when I'm through.

Here is a link to a 2009 Vanity Fair story that tells the stunning, tragic story behind the book's publication, which was fought by Jackie Kennedy for a time.

Will film version of 'The Descendants' live up to novel's promise?

2011-11-15T20:59:00.005-05:00

When we were honeymooning in Hawaii in late September and early October, I read a hotel magazine article about an upcoming George Clooney film called "The Descendants."

Filmed on Oahu and Kauai, the film is based on a novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings about Matt King, a Hawaiian native who suddenly becomes a de facto single parent to his two daughters when his wife slips into a coma following a boating accident. He also soon finds out she was cheating on him. And he has to decide whether to sell long-held family land to a developer.

Matt has to deal with all this upheaval while trying to figure out how to be a better parent as well as navigating the divide between him and his oldest, estranged daughter.

I remembered seeing the film's theatrical trailer over the summer and was intrigued when the director, Alexander Payne, said in the article he wanted to "see Honolulu filmed (accurately) on the big screen."

I checked the book out of the library after returning from Hawaii. "The Descendants" is a charming, quirky novel. Hemmings writes with a fresh, contemporary voice. By the time I reached the final page, I felt like I'd spent some time with three-dimensional characters.

I could write 20 blogs about the film adaptations of favorite books that proved to be disappointments. (A much shorter blog could be written about the ones I like.)

Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to seeing this novel come to life, as well as seeing contemporary Hawaii on the big screen.

"The Descendants" opens nationally this week. We'll see if the film lives up to the novel's promise.

You can see the theatrical trailer here.

'In Flanders Fields'

2011-11-11T18:31:00.004-05:00

Happy Veterans Day to those who served.

Here is a special thank you to the men and women who have put themselves in harm's way to defend our freedom. Let's also pause today to remember those who didn't make it home.

In honor of Veterans Day, I'd like to share a favorite poem, from World War I. Written by Lt. Col John McCrae, it is titled, "In Flanders Fields."

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

I mean, really, how difficult can it be?

2011-11-10T13:55:00.003-05:00

How difficult can it possibly be to get a fast food order correct? (Read that sentence as if I'm saying it in the late, great Andy Rooney's high-pitched voice.)

I mean, really, how difficult can it be?

Here's what happened to me today. I pulled up to the drive-thru at a local fast food restaurant in Halls. I ordered what I thought was a simple selection: a hamburger with mustard only.

"Do you want a combo or just the sandwich?" the attendant asked.

"No, just the sandwich."

"Would you like cheese on that?"

Thinking to myself that "mustard only" should be self-explanatory, I cheerily replied, "No, thank you, just mustard."

I pull up to the window and am handed my order while the attendant rings up my card. I glance at the sandwich -- and see lettuce, tomato and a bunch of other stuff I didn't order.

"Uh, ma'am?" I said. "I hate to complain, but I ordered this with mustard only."

She takes it back and corrects my order. In the back, I hear another woman say, "That's the way I ordered it."

"No," another voice answered, "you just said no cheese."

The attendant at the window was apologetic. "Sorry about that. I'm normally working sandwiches."

I didn't get mad. I know these folks work an at times frantic job for a less than glamorous salary. But, I just marveled. Especially after repeating the order.

Here's a story that sounds like a joke, but it actually happened.

A woman pulled up recently to a drive-thru here in Knoxville. The exchange went like this:

"May I take your order?"

"Yes," the woman said. "Just give me about five dollars of whatever you think I should have."

"Excuse me?"

"Just give me about five dollars of whatever you think I should have."

"Uh, ma'am," came the reply, "we can't do that."

"I don't know why not," the woman answered. "You do it every damn time I come through here."

Point taken, on a day in which I can relate.

Thanks for memories, Mr. Keane

2011-11-09T20:32:00.004-05:00

Sad news tonight. Bil Keane, the creator of the popular daily comic panel strip "The Family Circus," died yesterday. He was 89. The story is here.

According to King Features Syndicate, which distributes it, "The Family Circus" is the most widely read syndicated panel. It's a delightful, if sometimes overtly sentimental, bright spot in the day. I've read it, along with two other strips, regularly for more than 25 years. It isn't "Peanuts," but it's pretty good.

Keane used the "Circus" circle to find humor in the adventures of his real-life brood. One I read just this past week had one of the kids yelling after the father, who was carting off two large bags of leaves, "Wait, Dad, here's some more for you," while shaking a few more out of the trees in the family's yard.

It was never irreverent or smug, just cute and warm, as comforting and familiar as an old friend.

"Many of my cartoons are not a belly laugh. I go for nostalgia, the lump in the throat, the tear in the eye, the tug in the heart," Keane told the Los Angeles Times in 1990.

Years and years ago, "The Family Circus" partnered with KOA Campgrounds. The family was featured in KOA literature, which I can remember reading while spending summers camping with my grandparents, dreaming about traveling the country by camper.

Keane's passing won't be the national mourning moment that followed Charles Schultz's death. But he'll be missed. His youngest son and longtime collaborator, Jeff, will continue the panel.

Thanks for the memories, Mr. Keane.

My favorite curmudgeon

2011-11-06T12:41:00.006-05:00

Sunday nights will never be the same.

Andy Rooney, America's favorite curmudgeon, whose commentaries provided the perfect period for the final moments of "60 Minutes," died Friday night. He was 92.

Barely retired a month (although he said, and I concur, that a writer never retires), Rooney passed away from complications following surgery. He will be missed.

Rooney got his start during World War II, as a reporter for the daily Stars and Stripes newspaper. He said later that being in the war, first as a reluctant soldier, altered his thinking about its necessity. "I saw the Germans," he said, "and I changed my mind."

He came to fame in the final installment on "60 Minutes," complaining about everything from women's hats to flights of stairs. ("They don't take flight.")

But he could also be serious, offering a touching tribute to D-Day, raging against the senseless 1995 bombing in Oklahoma City ("I could kill the bastards!"), mocking the lyrics to Michael Jackson's "Bad."

He said, though, that of all the things about which he could complain, he could never grumble about his life. It was filled with a loving wife, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Not to mention a career to remember, punctuated by those perfect periods at the end of "60 Minutes" on Sunday nights.

When October goes

2011-11-01T06:33:00.004-04:00

Shopper-News columnist Lynn Hutton filed a great column this week, her annual ode to autumn. It can be found here through Sunday (Nov. 6) and then archived here on Page A-7.

Lynn's piece, awesome and eloquent as always, got me to thinking how much I, too, hate to see October go.

Fall is fun, filled with football and falling leaves. Days are usually mild; nights are nicely nippy.

This month has been a bit of a whirlwind for us, roaring in like March's lion (or, if you will, like a luau) on our honeymoon in Hawaii, and ending more like a lamb, quietly, at home. Jennifer didn't feel well last night, so we canceled our Halloween plans. She stayed in bed much of the evening while I indulged myself in my favorite guilty pleasure from the '60s, the campy ABC daytime drama, "Dark Shadows." ("How can you kill a man who's already dead?")

We saw spectacular fall colors over the weekend at the lake, filled with gold and brown and blue, better than what Jennifer says she saw with her grandparents in the Great Smokies a week ago.

Now we creep toward the holidays, which, sadly, have become anxiety-ridden endurance contests. Dreary, gray winter days are soon to follow, that three-month misery when the sky won't snow and the sun won't shine. I've already told you about losing baseball until the spring.

So forgive me if I hum a few bars of Johnny Mercer by way of Barry Manilow today.

Oh, how I hate to see October go...

'Nightwoods' worth a look

2011-10-30T16:36:00.007-04:00

Had something of a "circle of life" moment over the weekend, at least in a literary sense.

Read Charles Frazier's new novel, "Nightwoods," while enjoying R&R out of town at the lake for the final trip of the season.

(P.S. I am still thawing out. Thirty-degree mornings will do that to you in lieu of central heat. But I digress.)

I flashed back to spring 1998 -- incredible as it seems, 13 1/2 years ago -- when I spent a week at the lake reading Frazier's breakout first novel, "Cold Mountain." I found the book by chance, before the hype. Back then I used to read USA Today while on campus at UT. A reviewer had raved. So, I put it on my Christmas list and saved it for spring break.

"Cold Mountain" was one of the first books I ever read for pleasure that I had to fight with. ("For Whom the Bell Tolls" is the other that comes to mind.) I needed a dictionary through half of it, looking up words on the internet in those quaint dial-up days.

Even though I thought Frazier was hitting the reader over the head with the Homeric parallels, I loved "Cold Mountain," though he tended to write like Thomas Wolfe on speed.

Over the weekend I finished Frazier's latest. Compared to "Cold Mountain," "Nightwoods" is downright slim at 250 pages. Unlike his Civil War-era novel and his somewhat disappointing follow-up, "Thirteen Moons" (to which I'm going to give another chance later this year), "Nightwoods" is set in the 20th century. Sometime in the early '60.

It focuses on Luce, short for Lucinda, who has been beaten down by small-town life and a traumatizing event from early adulthood. Her mother left her years ago, her father is a distant, deadbeat deputy, and her sister has just been murdered.

Luce is living a hermit's existence as the caretaker of a rundown, shutdown lake resort. It gets lonely, the 3 a.m. kind of lonely, but she has her freedom and the glow of the late night radio. That life is shattered when the state shows up with her dead sister's kids in tow.

She gets another unexpected guest in the person of the grandson of the guy who owned the resort. It's his inheritance and he's thinking of selling. But he does a double take when he sees Luce, suddenly remembering the teenage girl at a swimming pool who briefly but brightly stirred his pubescent soul.

Meanwhile, her sister's husband, who is also her sister's killer, shows up, thinking Luce might have some cash he thinks should be his. Then he learns the kids are around, too. Can't leave any witnesses.

The last thing I was expecting from Charles Frazier was a page-turner, but that's what he delivers with "Nightwoods," in the best sense of what that means. He reels in his literary flourishes long enough to craft a taut little thriller. Frazier fans will find plenty to cheer, as will any newbies.

I enjoyed spending the better part of Saturday with him, even if it also stirred up memories of a long-gone spring, and a novel I enjoyed a little better than this one.

'Moneyball' a winner

2011-10-27T01:41:00.006-04:00

My friend Matt Shelton summed up "Moneyball," the fantastic film starring Brad Pitt based on big-league baseball general manager Billy Beane and the unlikely success of the 2002 Oakland Athletics, by saying, "This will have to become a permanent second half of a 'Major League,' 'Moneyball' double feature."

I'll back up long enough to tell you that "Major League," the late 1980s baseball comedy, has been a staple at our laid-back get togethers for years. To put "Moneyball" in that slot, for us, is high praise, indeed.

And, of course, it's a better film. A wonderful film, in fact. Brad Pitt gives his best performance to date as the complex, self-conscious Beane. Jonah Hill manages to ditch enough of his "immature obese kid" persona to actually make himself likable as the Yale grad who helps Beane use player statistics to put together a winning team on a shoestring budget. Philip Seymour Hoffman is fine, if physically far-fetched, as manager Art Howe.

You probably know the film is based on a true story. Beane did take a Bill James-esque approach to fielding a team on a tight budget. The abridged version is he stressed the importance of on base percentage -- getting on base -- filling his roster with has beens, could bes and never was-es, looking for those who come cheap. The veteran scouts laugh in his face and manager Howe doesn't want to play along.

But, in its way, it works. Sort of.

Baseball movies have to be somewhat sentimental -- it is a romantic game, after all -- and I wondered how they'd pull that off in a movie dominated by data. I needn't have worried. The film digs into Beane's failed career as a major league player and the regret that haunts him over opportunities missed.

Pitt has been a likable guy for years but never anybody you'd name as a top-of-the-line actor. But he reaches down deep here and pulls off a grand slam of a performance. He makes this movie work, plain and simple.

The screenplay by Steven Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin is based on a story by Stan Chervin, as well as the Michael Lewis book "Moneyball." It zips and zings and holds your attention despite the film's longer-than-expected running time. You even get the ending you want without the usual sports film cliches.

About the only thing I can criticize is some of the casting choices. Stephen Bishop is supposed to be David Justice well past his prime, but looks like he's in his late 20s. Hoffman isn't going to fool anybody if he dresses up as Art Howe for Halloween. But, these misfires are minor and don't distract you too much.

I haven't enjoyed a baseball film this much in a long, long time. Even if you forget the sports angle, it's one of the best movies I've seen this year, second only to "Midnight in Paris" as my top pick for 2011.

Somehow I have a feeling that in the years to come this one will get pulled from the DVD shelf on New Year's Eve or Labor Day weekend or just on a lazy Saturday at Shelton's, when nothing's on TV and "Major League" has been given yet another look.

Heck, we might even watch it first.

"Moneyball" is now playing. It is rated PG-13.

'HOW-DEE!'

2011-10-25T10:59:00.003-04:00

Today would have been the 99th birthday of comedienne and "Grand Ole Opry" star Minnie Pearl, born Sarah Ophelia Colley in Centerville, Tenn., which is also the hometown of Shopper-News coworkers and sisters Carol Springer and Judy Tharpe.

Reportedly, her "Minnie Pearl" character was based on a real woman she met while touring in Alabama.

Here is a collection of "Howdys!" to remember Miss Minnie on her birthday.

I've stuck with the new 'Five-0' (and made it through the rain?)

2011-10-24T00:19:00.012-04:00

Last fall I had my doubts about the news that CBS had decided to reboot one of my all-time favorites, the TV police drama "Hawaii Five-0."

While it comes in second to "Magnum, p.i." in my book, the original "Five-O" is considered sacred ground. After all, it's the series that single-handedly created Hawaii's TV and film industry, thanks in large part to generous donations of time and money by the show's star, the late, great Jack Lord. Lord and his "Book 'em, Danno!" catchphrase are a cherished part of TV history.

Still, Hawaii looks good in HD, that catchy theme song is back and Grace Park has been thrown in as an added bonus. What the heck, I thought.

It took a few episodes, but I quickly came to look forward to 10 p.m. (Eastern) on Monday nights. I particularly enjoyed the so-called "carguments" between the new McGarrett and Danno, as well as the latter's glib sense of humor (wonderfully played by Scott Caan).

And then somewhere toward the end of the first season, something seemed to be going horribly, horribly wrong. Out of nowhere, the last episode of the first year blew reality right out of the water. McGarrett was arrested for "murdering" the governor (try to imagine that happening to Jack Lord), the Five-0 team was disbanded, Grace Park's Kono had her badge taken away and I had no idea where all this had come from.

"Don't panic," I said to myself. "Maybe all this means Danno dreamed the entire last episode." (See "Dallas" circa the fall of 1986 if you don't get the reference.)

Season Two premiered last month and I temporarily forgot my frustration because we were headed over to Oahu on our honeymoon. In fact, we were staying right next door to the Hilton Hawaiian Village (where a lot of the new show is filmed) and would be visiting downtown at both the old and new Five-0 headquarters. So I wanted to see some scenery to whet my appetite.

SEMI SPOILER ALERT

Sure enough, they quickly explained last season's cliffhanger away (it wasn't a dream, thank God), but it also appeared the writers had no idea in which direction they wanted to take the show. Kono was apparently disillusioned, off the force, in league with bad ex-cops. New characters were popping up left and right while Grace Park's screen time had been vastly diminished.

What the heck 'em, Danno?

"I don't know if I'm going to stick with this or not," I kept telling my wife, who is also a fan. Had it not been for DVR, I probably would have given up.

"I think you and I could do a better job writing for this show," I emailed a pal, David Romas, in Michigan, who likes all things Hawaii but isn't keeping up with the "Five-0" redux.

FINALLY, last week's (10/17/11) episode explained a few things and righted the ship, so to speak. I won't give away too much more other than to say all is right in Honolulu, we were treated to a great, old-fashioned shootout at a bank, and it seems the show can take back up where it left off, mainly trying to nail McGarrett's arch enemy Wo Fat (Mark Dacascos, who's pretty slimy here, but can't hold a candle to the original's Khigh Dhiegh).

I'm glad I've hung around, if only to see what happens from here. I've heard the ratings for this season have been shaky, and if nothing else, I'd hate to lose an opportunity to spend an hour solving crimes in Hawaii each week. (New York, L.A., Philly and Miami, or what passes for them on other network cop shows, just don't have the same appeal.)

More importantly, despite trying to fill some big shoes, the new "Five-0" has shown promise. It could still survive these relatively early bumps and go on to have a decent network run.

But the next few weeks will probably tell the tale. Now that the aftershocks of the first season finale's misfire have simmered down, it's time to get back to business. Be funny, argue in the car, kick some butt, show plenty of Grace Park and even more of Oahu's natural beauty, get rid of the guy from "Lost" and any more appearances from either Billy Baldwin or Tom Sizemore. Work your way toward Wo Fat while keeping our most beautiful state safe from the bad guys.

Do all that, and "Hawaii Five-0" can catch a nice, big wave. Get sidetracked again and, well, you know what will happen. Aloha.

By and large I've always thought a hit belongs to its day, particularly in television. Does anybody remember the "Dark Shadows" revival in '91? Probably not, partially thanks to the Gulf War, partially thanks to mediocre writing and a time slot that never seemed to stand still.

Who stood enraptured over "The New Gidget"? "The New Odd Couple"? The early '90s remake of "WKRP in Cincinnati"? FOX's revival of "Get Smart" in the mid 1990s (even with Andy Dick!) lasted a mere seven episodes. Has anybody watched that horrible "update" of "Charlie's Angels" on ABC?

I want "Hawaii Five-0" to be the exception. It's a decent show, maybe as good as we're going to get in this disappointing new century. It's revived interest in the original series to the point that CBS/Paramount has released all but the 12th and final season of good ol' "Five-O" on DVD in a short four and a half years. I know it's kept some guys and gals employed after "Lost" wrapped in Hawaii a couple of years ago. Scott Caan has been an unexpectedly likable Danno. It's been great to see Al Harrington and some other old friends back on the tube again. And anytime you're filming in Waikiki is a good day.

New "Five-0" has reached a crossroads. We'll soon know whether all this was a good idea or whether the whole thing should have stayed back there with Jack Lord somewhere.

Herding words is in the genes

2011-10-21T11:21:00.004-04:00

You know, I got to thinking yesterday that, other than from my mom, my love of words probably originates at some level with my Grandmother Mabe.

I thought about this a couple of Sundays ago, when I went up to Mamaw's (as she's affectionately known) house to see relatives in from Indiana. I spotted her crossword puzzle books from across the room.

Of all the things I could tell you about Lydia (it's pronounced LIE-DA) Mabe, it's that she loves crossword puzzles. She's worked them as long as I can remember. It's one of the reasons why I believe her mind is just as sharp in her late 80s as it's ever been. And it's one reason why I think she's done so well living by herself since my grandfather died in May 1988.

I've given her crossword puzzle books as presents for birthdays and at Christmas. Her eyes light up; it never fails.

Every time we chat, I learn my grandmother knows more about current events than I do, I think. She and I love to talk about local history and politics, so when we do talk on the phone, it's usually a 30 minute or hour-long conversation. She likes to tell me about relatives I've never met and stuff that happened during World War II. FDR is still her hero.

My mom and stepfather also love to work crossword puzzles. I took it up as an on-and-off hobby a few years ago. Even bought myself a crossword puzzle dictionary. It's a good mind exercise and doctors say it also helps stave off memory loss.

Years and years ago, I sat at the long, thin green table in my grandmother's kitchen (she calls it the snack bar) and composed my own newspaper. I called it the Pony Express. Mark Padgett and Dean Harned still like to laugh about the fact that I used to sit on the playground and write about the kids and the various goings on during elementary recess.

Guess I was meant to one day do my best to herd some words.

Thanks, Mamaw.

Baseball blues

2011-10-17T13:08:00.002-04:00

Well, the Braves and Red Sox choked and the Tigers just got beat by a better team. My baseball dreams are dead for another year.

But, I'll tip my cap to the Cards. Several of my friends love 'em.

The ALCS, when it didn't get ugly, was actually quite a contest. Extra innings, tension, clutch hits, everything you want in a playoff series. Bottom line is I ain't complaining. I can remember very clearly back to when the Tigers were losing 100 (and sometimes 119) games a year.

Ditto with the Braves. And the Red Sox? Well, they're the Red Sox. Late season choke goes with the territory.

I'm bummed they let Tito go. I don't know what to make about all those allegations of drinking in the dugout. I do know that anytime an "all-star" team is assembled, it usually falls flat.

Guess it will be a bleak fall on the sporting scene. Tennessee is terrible. The Colts are Manning-less and we don't get 'em on TV too much down here anyway. I might mosey over to an Ice Bears game or two and probably catch the Preds on the dish from time to time. I'll have to watch Cuonzo ball out of curiosity.

Otherwise, I'll slip into sports hibernation mode and see y'all in the spring.

Haleakala

2011-10-16T03:10:00.004-04:00

We were stopped at one of those roadside scenic lookouts that seem to populate Maui's coastline.

Jennifer was looking for a fishhook necklace for bruddah Keith. I had a headache and just wanted to sit in the car and ogle the ocean.

I'd tuned the radio to KPOA, an FM station that plays what it calls "Hawaiian music...Maui style." A most beautiful song began to play.

A young woman sang about going one summer morning to see the sun rise at the top of a mountain. It haunted my heart.

Sista Val, the popular DJ and music director, was kind enough to end my week of frustration and send me the name of the song ("Haleakala Medley") and of the artist (Kendra). Feel free to surf over to iTunes and check it out. You'll be glad you did.

Sitting in the car, overtaken by the Pacific, overwhelmed by Kendra Fischer's haunting harmony, I vowed then and there I wasn't leaving Maui. And, well. You know how that goes. I'll have to sell the Great American Novel about as well as Stephen King can roll out another spine-tingler, or pop the Powerball prize, in order to make that dream a reality.

And, yet, here I sit at 3 a.m., finishing an excellent novel set in Honolulu (I'll tell you more about that later), listening to Kendra's sweet song on my iPod, yearning to see the sun rise on Haleakala.

As it was rising, I could see all of my dreams, on top of that mountain, called Haleakala.

The way Kendra shares it through her song, I'm up there on the mountain, too, clearing my head, dreaming my dreams.

I have a bad habit of getting caught up in the moment, declaring that whatever I'm reading or hearing or watching at the time is the best, gosh-darn, greatest thing I've ever read or heard or seen. Well, let me tell you this as I check the hyperbole at the door: Hawaii is the most beautiful paradise I've ever seen.

It may be sooner, it may be later, but we'll be back one day, climbing the mountain, seeing the sun rise on Haleakala.

Until then, I have my memories, my contentment here at home, my loving wife and my words and rhyme.

Just don't be surprised to learn my daydreams are filled with sunsets and ocean waves, out there somewhere beyond the reef.

Still livin' and dyin' in Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time

2011-10-12T19:02:00.004-04:00

Last night after work the wifey and I met at Downtown Grill and Brewery for dinner. I was in South Knox for a late afternoon meeting, so I thought it would be a good excuse to eat downtown.

It was a nasty night, rainy and dreary, the kind of thing fall and winter usually bring with them. And, yet, it seemed to fit.

We sat by the front windows. I watched business types hurrying home in their three-piece suits, glad I could sit and enjoy myself during rush hour.

Bo Pierce, on Facebook, told us to pretend we were looking over the Pacific. As much as I still have Hawaii flowing through my veins, what I actually thought of was Manhattan. We were in such a spot where the buildings could have been skyscrapers and the hustle and bustle could have been ripped right out of Gotham. The rain added to the effect.

It put me in mind of that early February day we ate lunch at just such a brewery at the Empire State Building.

I want to go back to New York when we have more time to stay. Up and back was OK, but not enough.

After spending 10 days in paradise, though, I can tell you I'm still livin' and dyin' in Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. A New York state of mind will have to wait.

I do have one question, though. Why does the Downtown Grill NEVER have the State Street Stout in stock?

Paradise found, and lost, and found

2011-10-11T08:18:00.007-04:00

Well, it's back to reality this week, after 10 days in paradise.

And, I guess I'll be back to blogging regularly now that the wedding is behind us. It's funny. You spend the better part of a year preparing for an event that's essentially over in 15 minutes.

Oh, well. Can't complain. Love of my life. Great weather. Great backdrop. Bunch of friends. Best family. Even WBIR-TV showed up.

Hawaii was heaven, paradise found, perfect. I'll tell you more about it in two stories running in the Shopper-News next Monday. Meanwhile, let's just say it would take Shakespeare to do it justice and I'm not so sure the Bard wouldn't have trouble telling you just how beautiful it really is. Don't take my word for it. Go see it yourself.

But, I gotta tell you about a brief moment yesterday that made me grin.

I was actually doing a pretty good job of shaking off the Monday malaise. Life is good. I enjoyed getting back into routine. You can do that when you love what you do.

But, I could still feel the islands calling, taunting, enticing me to return to its sanguine shores.

So, I flipped on the online audio feed of a station we got to listening to while on Maui. Made it worse. Turned it off.

But, as I was walking to the car last night, a woman stopped me.

"Are you Jake?" she asked.

"I sure am," I said, flashing my best Monday afternoon smile.

"I just love to read your work. We just love reading this paper so much."

I thanked her profusely, grinned again and headed home happy.

Paradise Hawaiian Style may be hard to beat, but being back home ain't too bad, either.

My farewell to Netflix DVDs

2011-09-02T00:41:00.006-04:00

Yes, the time has come to say so long. Cue Carol Burnett.

I made the plunge the other day. I cut back my Netflix account to streaming only. I can't justify the extra cost. Plus, I'm going to be busy getting married during the month of September.

I remember when my first batch of movies arrived in the mail back in 2005. I was recovering from surgery to remove a kidney stone. The upstairs air conditioning unit at my grandparents' house was low on Freon. My first discs were the first batch of "Upstairs Downstairs" episodes and "Eight Men Out." I can't for the life of me remember what the third disc was.

Somewhere along the way I dropped back to the one-out-at-a-time unlimited plan. I finally got the streaming option as part of that plan but I didn't use it much until earlier this year when Jennifer brought over the Wii she'd never taken out of the box. I didn't like watching movies on my laptop. I do like being able to stream them onto the TV set.

Tonight I watched what is probably my Netflix DVD swan song -- the documentary "Hey, Boo: Harper Lee and 'To Kill A Mockingbird.'" Great flick. Everybody from Tom Brokaw to Oprah Winfrey to Mary "Scout" Badham reads portions of the novel. Writers, actors, TV stars and even Harper Lee's 90-year-old sister take turns talking about the book and the film and what it all means. The director even unearthed an audio recording of the last interview Harper Lee gave, to a radio station, in 1964.

It's long been suggested that Lee isn't Scout. She's Boo Radley. And why not? If I had the cash and had produced such a fine work of art, I'd tell the world to leave me alone, too.

It also makes me wonder what's in the water down in Monroeville, Alabama. Harper Lee and Truman Capote grew up next door to one another. The guy who wrote "Crazy in Alabama" is from there, too.

It's funny. Browsing my Netflix queue, I see films I put on the list back in '05. Never got around to them. Yeah, I'll probably miss the occasional episodes of "Perry Mason." No, I don't think my life will be any poorer because I didn't make it down to "Danger Man."

I'm not happy about the price increase. But it's obvious that streaming video is the wave of the future. Netflix is pumping more money into it. They don't have to worry about the skyrocketing cost of postage. Plus, the streaming video feeds our modern desire for instant gratification.

I like old movies and documentaries. Streaming Netflix offers a plethora of both. Life goes on.

Still, I'll miss seeing those red envelopes in the mailbox. It was always nice to get something in the post besides a bill.

What would John Adams do?

2011-08-31T22:00:00.006-04:00

Tonight I turned off the Yankees/Red Sox game to watch a few episodes of "John Adams," HBO's epic, excellent 2008 miniseries.

I needed to believe again, methinks. After watching the CBS Evening News, I was reminded of just how much of a joke our current government has become.

It seems President Obama and the Republicans in Congress are arguing over when, or whether, to hold a joint session of Congress the president has requested to talk about his jobs plan. The president wants to hold it next Wednesday night. Republicans don't like that because that's the night of the NBC GOP presidential candidates' debate. Speaker of the House John Boehner suggested the president wait until the following night. Some don't like that because it will conflict with -- I'm not making this up -- an NFL football game.

I first gained a greater appreciation for Adams after reading David McCullough's biography 10 years ago. His intelligence, his sacrifice, his steadfast morality -- if Jefferson was the river of independence, Adams was its rock.

If you haven't yet seen the HBO miniseries, get it on DVD and savor it. This is television at its finest -- smart, grand, beautifully shot and wonderfully acted.

It gives you such an appreciation for the sacrifices the Founding Fathers (and Mothers) underwent to make the American experiment a reality. It highlights the stirring love and abiding bond between John and Abigail Adams.

And, in its way, it's a reminder of just how petty -- and pathetic -- American politics has become.

(Oh, by the way, I peeked -- the Red Sox are winning 9-5.)

Fighting insomnia with Randolph Scott

2011-08-30T00:05:00.005-04:00

Made the mistake of falling asleep earlier on the couch.

It's just after midnight as I type this. I can't sleep.

So, I'm doing the next best thing, which is watching Randolph Scott and Lee Marvin in my all-time favorite B western, "Seven Men From Now."

They really don't make 'em like this anymore. Everything has to be politically correct.

But, beyond that, this is just a darn good movie. Taut, fine storytelling. Solid performances from Scott (in a role that was intended for John Wayne), Marvin and Gail Russell.

There's a scene between Scott and Russell, in which he's lying underneath a covered wagon in the rain talking to Russell through the floor board, that gives me chills every time I see it. Scott's final showdown with Marvin is another classic, unexpected in its shocking brevity.

As usual, Scott rides away tall in the saddle, and his parting shot with Gail Russell is enough to make the heart ache, although the final scene just before "The End" (spoiler alert) gives us a little hope that the lonesome cowboy might be getting some company sooner than he thinks.

I love this movie. I guess I've seen it 10 or 15 times and never tire of it. Scott made seven fine films with director Budd Boetticher, but none near as good as "Seven Men From Now."

Not a bad way to lose sleep.

'A Walk in the Spring Rain'

2011-08-26T22:00:00.010-04:00

Tonight I am watching a movie that was partially filmed in my hometown.

The picture is "A Walk in the Spring Rain." It was shot in Knoxville, Cades Cove and Gatlinburg, Tenn., in 1969 and stars Fritz Weaver, Ingrid Bergman and Anthony Quinn. Aside from getting to see a beautiful Bergman in the twilight of her career, and glimpses of what several familiar locations looked like 40 years ago, there's not much to say.

This movie could have been something of a classic. According to the Turner Classic Movies website, Bergman was intrigued by the film because she liked the story, wanted to work with Quinn again (they'd starred together in "The Visit" five years earlier) and had complained that few film roles were then being written for women of her age (she was 54 at the time).

The film focuses on a professor (Weaver) and his wife (Bergman) who travel to the Great Smoky Mountains so the professor can write a book during a year-long sabbatical. Quinn plays the man who rents the couple a home. He also falls in love with Bergman.

"A Walk in the Spring Rain" is an old-fashioned film even for 1970. In an era of raging sexual revolution ("The Graduate," for example, looks like soft porn compared to this), the film treats the extra-marital affair rather conservatively. Bergman was radiant even in middle age and Weaver and Quinn do the best they can. But the movie suffers from a weak script and careless direction by Guy Green, best known as being the cameraman for David Lean on "Great Expectations" and "Oliver Twist." One neat cultural note is that actor and martial arts legend Bruce Lee choreographed the fight scene between Quinn and his "son" (Tom Fielding, aka Tom Holland).

Gatlinburg was already beginning to become cluttered with the touristy clap-trap for which it's famous (yes, the Old Smoky Candy Kitchen is still there) and Ayres Hall on the UT campus looks exactly the same! (I wonder if the heat and air actually worked back then.) The Smokies are beautiful in any decade.

"A Walk in the Spring Rain" premiered in Knoxville at the Tennessee Theatre on April 9, 1970. Bergman sat next to Rachel Maddux, the author of the novel on which the film is based. Bergman later remembered that Maddux kept saying things like "What is this?" during the screening and at one point went to the restroom and cried.

Bergman wrote in her memoirs: "I went after her and tried to comfort her...The film had been a good try. We'd started off with such high hopes. I thought maybe we could do a film with that elusive feeling which 'Brief Encounter' [1945] had. We'd worked hard. We'd done our best and at the end of it we'd made Rachel Maddux cry."

I have had a crush on Ingrid Bergman since I first saw "Casablanca" as a kid. This film could have been so much more, a touching tale of broken dreams and middle-age regret. But as it is, it's a wasted opportunity, a classic example of a director biting off less than he could chew.

With this cast, he should have had a goldmine. Instead, he fell down the shaft.

No place like home

2011-08-02T21:08:00.003-04:00

Pulled out of the driveway in a bad mood.

It was 9,000 degrees outside, my stomach hurt, and if I had my way I'd probably have curled up on the couch with the mystery I'd checked out of the Halls Branch Library earlier today.

But, I had work to do. National Night Out at Stewart Ridge subdivision. It's a livin'.

I was still grumbling, mostly wishing I was sitting in the sand somewhere on Maui, when I got out of the car and broke out into a big grin. There sat Faye Heydasch, one of my second grade teachers.

Here came Maggie Meyers, who went to school with me, her young son in tow. I smiled and marveled for the millionth time that my contemporaries are old enough to have kids.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Jim McManus sitting in the shade, making a Popsicle disappear.

"You're getting married?" he exclaimed. "Congratulations! It will make a better man out of ya."

Jim said he really appreciated the fact that the Shopper came out to Stewart Ridge to cover the event.

"This is what I like reading about," he said. "My friends and neighbors and what's going on in the community."

We talked awhile, about the lack of mass transit in the county, about the fact that his grandfather worked on the so-called Dummy Line, the electric trolley that used to ferry folks from Fountain City to downtown. We talked about the weather and the World's Fair and the way the stores have left the 'burbs.

"But regardless of everything, this is still the best place in the county to live and raise a family," Jim said.

I blabbed for a few more minutes and finally made my way to dinner. Coming back up Cunningham Road, seeing the sun slip toward its slumber, I realized Jim was right. I guess the famous line from that corny film is true after all.

Wherever ye may roam, there's no place like home.

The '80s

2011-07-23T21:51:00.011-04:00

What I remember is lying on my stomach in my grandparents' living room, watching television on that big brown piece of furniture.

Too much of it, truth be told. "Scooby Doo" and "Inspector Gadget" and "The Dukes of Hazzard" at first. Stuff like that. Peanut butter dipped straight from the jar.

I can remember watching "The Greatest American Hero" one Friday night with my sister. Somebody broke in to a neighbor's house across the street. "Don't go outside," they told us, just before they went outside. I can remember suspecting that somebody was creeping up the back steps.

Seems like it was always Saturday, cartoons, chocolate milk and egg sandwiches eaten from a Pac-Man TV tray. "Captain Kangaroo," "Muppet Babies," Bugs Bunny and Pee Wee Herman. Mr. Wizard and "Mr. Ed."

I never minded it when the president would interrupt my favorite shows. I loved the man. I really did. I thought he was everybody's grandfather and this was before I was old enough to understand or care about Republicans and Democrats. I liked the way he talked. I think I could sense his confidence. No matter what happened, we'd be OK. Ronnie would make sure of that.

It was never more stark than that cold and awful Tuesday, the day the shuttle fell. We were off from school. But the weather cleared enough so that just before noon we were at Pardon's Jewelers on North Broadway. My grandmother came back to the car.

"The shuttle exploded," she said.

My aunt screamed and I became agitated and we watched Dan Rather when we got home. I can still see him trying to explain what happened while holding that miniature model. I remember seeing the explosion, over and over again, blinking every time. My aunt sat in front of the TV for most of the afternoon and cried. I thought about that teacher. It made it real. It brought it home. I can remember being bothered by it all and wondering if maybe their ghosts would return to earth and haunt my dreams.

But Reagan told us that they had slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God. That made me feel better. It really did.

Wednesday nights were with my dad. We'd watch "Head of the Class" and "Growing Pains" and, for awhile, "Magnum, p.i." I can remember staying up late to see the finale. Was Higgins Robin Masters? Yes. No.

More than that, I remembered when Magnum got shot, went into a coma and walked around unseen while the show wrapped to its end. "Sometimes I fly like an eagle; sometimes I'm deep in despair." It was supposed to be the final episode, but they renewed the show unexpectedly, probably because Tom Selleck's "Three Men and a Baby" had become a hit. It should have been the end, my friend, because what ultimately became the last episode didn't tie up a damn thing, even though they called it "Resolutions."

When I didn't like what was on I'd curl up on the couch with those blue-spined "Hardy Boys" books. I wanted a boat and a jalopy, even if I wasn't quite sure what one was, and I really wanted to be a detective. I got my mom to buy me a magnifying glass and baby powder to find fingerprints. Mostly I made a mess.

Radio was WIVK and U102, "We Are The World" and "We Built This City." Kenny Rogers and the Oak Ridge Boys, George Jones and John Conlee, Elvira and All the Gold and I'm a Common Man, Drive A Common Van. (My dog ain't got a pedigree.)

Early memories recall Cronkite's farewell and the "M*A*S*H" goodbye. I can remember the aftermath of "Who Shot J.R.?" and the outrage when Victoria Principal dreamed the 1985-86 season. Nobody talked about "Dallas" much after that.

It took forever and it was gone in a flash and it seems like a long time ago.

'McPaper' still gets it...

2011-07-19T22:07:00.010-04:00

Stumbled across a copy of Peter Prichard's "The Making of McPaper," a 1987 look at the founding and early days of USA TODAY. Read it a couple of weekends ago and had a good time.

Which wasn't a surprise. I've always enjoyed the newspaper once derided as "McPaper." Founder Al Neuharth just seemed to "get it." He read the surveys that said readers rarely made the "jump" whenever a front page story was tagged to an inside page. So he forced his writers to write concisely. But he also made sure they jammed the stories full of information.

OK, so maybe the graphs are basically pointless, but USA TODAY was the perfect paper for the TV generation. Heck, Neuharth even had his circulation guys design USA TODAY paper boxes to look like TV sets.

I made it a habit to read the paper when I was in college. You could get it anywhere on the UT campus in those days. It was always a quick, fun read. Plus, it gave you a nice summary of the news in the days before the internet really got going.

The other day I picked up a copy of USA TODAY at the gas station. And, I noticed what I thought was a mistake.

In a story about Betty Ford's funeral, the writer appeared to be saying that Mrs. Ford's husband, former president Gerald Ford, died in 2007. I remembered that he'd died in December 2006, so I sent an email to the corrections editor.

About a day or so later, I got a personal response from somebody on the news staff saying that the writer had constructed an awkward sentence, thereby "creating" an error. She thanked me for the email and said a clarification would run in Friday's edition. Sure enough, it did.

Not only was I impressed with the newspaper's commitment to accuracy, but I was blown away by the personal response. Over the years I've sent letters to reporters, editors and writers at newspapers of much less reputation and significance than USA TODAY -- and never heard a peep! And yet, despite all the correspondence Gannett's national newspaper must receive daily, here came the note.

Quality customer service is hard to find. Getting that email made me feel good about forking out a buck to spend valuable time with the USA TODAY. The paper's smartphone app is the best one of its kind. Its website has gone interactive with polls, video, bells and whistles. I hear its iPad version is pretty cool, too.

After all these years, McPaper still gets it.

UPDATE: After I posted this blog, USA TODAY's social media team found it on Twitter and responded with thanks and kind words. USA TODAY, you have a reader for life! As I said in the tweet, reading your paper is like spending time with an old friend.

Guess I never was meant for glitter, rock and roll...

2011-07-15T00:08:00.005-04:00

Nope, I didn't go stand in line to see "Harry Potter."

What did that Piratehead poet say? Guess I never was meant for glitter, rock and roll...

It's crowdin' midnight as I type this and I'm in my PJs, listening to Vic Damone sing "Till There Was You" on Peter "Hollywood Squares" Marshall's radio show.

Channeling his best game show host, Peter proffers bits of trivia. The year Doris Day delivered a song. The name of the guy who conducted on Sinatra's "At Long Last Love." (Yep, it was Nelson Riddle.)

Peter says today (well, yesterday) is the late Gerald Ford's birthday. He asks if we knew what Gerald Ford's real name was. I remembered enough to recall Leslie King Jr. Found that out when we visited Mr. Ford's museum in 2005.

After I wrote an article about the trip I received an email from a reader who once met one of Ford's half brothers on the King side. Small world.

Peter's playing Dionne Warwick, live on the Sullivan show circa '69, singing "This Girl's in Love with You." Man, you just can't top Bacharach/David. If not I'll just die...

I can only imagine the chaos at the cinema tonight. Channel 6 was going to do a live remote from one of the Regal multiplexes.

Me? Well, here I sit, me and the oldies, the music of my life, 40 years too late.

The day it all began

2011-07-05T12:08:00.003-04:00

The greatest career in the history of popular music began, rather unassumingly, on this date on 1954.

A young truck driver named Elvis Presley had gone to Sam Phillips' Sun Records in Memphis to record a couple of tracks with guitarist Scotty Moore and bassist Bill Black. He really wanted to be a singer, you see.

Their first two efforts, "Harbor Lights" and "I Love You Because," weren't working out too well. So, or so goes the story, the guys took a break.

One of them started riffing on Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's 1946 blues song "That's All Right." The other two jumped in and the joint started to hop.

Phillips stuck his head out of the recording booth and said, "What are you all doing?"

Moore reportedly said, "Uh, we don't know."

"Well, whatever it is, figure it out and do it again," Phillips replied.

"That's All Right" became a regional hit on the Sun label and by 1956 Elvis had signed a huge contract with RCA and was on his way to superstardom.

All because of a little jam session on a hot summer day in Memphis...

The greatest country song of all time

2011-06-29T14:23:00.003-04:00

On this date in 1980, George Jones hit No. 1 with what is generally considered to be the greatest country song of all time, "He Stopped Loving Her Today."

And there's a funny story behind the song. Jones didn't want to record it.

The Possum's career had hit something of a snag when he came across Curly Putnam and Bobby Braddock's weeper about a man who loved a woman who didn't love him back -- until it killed him. Jones' producer at Epic Records, Billy Sherrill, loved the song and just knew it would be a smash. Jones wasn't so sure.

Sherrill kept after him, going so far as to make a monetary bet with the Possum. Jones finally recorded it, snarling as he walked out of the studio, "Nobody will buy that morbid son of a bitch!"

It proved to be Jones' first No. 1 hit in six years and served as a "comeback" single. Jones won a Grammy Award in 1980 for Best Country Male Performance. The song also took home the Academy of Country Music's Single of the Year and Song of the Year. It also helped Jones win the CMA's Best Male Vocalist of the Year for 1980 and 1981.

Oh, and yep, Jones paid his bet.

Screening a classic movie at a classic venue

2011-06-27T14:09:00.005-04:00

Yesterday Jenn and I headed downtown to see a classic movie, Alfred Hitchcock's "North by Northwest," the way it should be seen -- on the big screen -- at Knoxville's 1920s movie palace, the Tennessee Theatre.

I loved the fact that the Tennessee showed this 1959 film via 35mm print. I was a little confused that the projectionist had to keep realigning the film every time the reel needed changing. But I'll take it. Classic movies should always be seen in 35mm. Too often theaters are using digital prints these days, like when we went to see "To Kill A Mockingbird" in Maryville earlier in the year.

My friend Dean Harned ran into one of his former students in the lobby. He'd taken Dean's film studies class at Gibbs High and said the two movies he enjoyed most that Dean showed that semester were "Citizen Kane" and "Dr. No." I think Dean had inspired him to become a movie usher at the majestic Tennessee.

"North by Northwest" isn't my favorite Alfred Hitchcock film -- I like "Shadow of a Doubt," "Rope," "Dial M for Murder," "Vertigo" and "Rear Window" much better -- but I can think of a 1,000 worse ways to spend a rainy Sunday than with Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint chasing after James Mason and Martin Landau.

Outside, we ran into my friend and fellow scribe Lola Alapo. Lola says that she finally got power restored to her house in the aftermath of last week's storms. She was ducking into the Regal Riviera to "see something that doesn't make me have to think."

We ducked into the Downtown Grill after the show. Shock of all shocks, they actually had the State Street Stout in stock. So, I enjoyed a sampler while downing a burger.

Classic movie at the classic venue. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

GREAT blog

2011-06-26T05:58:00.006-04:00

Don't miss what has become a daily read for me, writer Ken Levine's fantastic blog, which can be found here.

Named one of the best blogs of 2011 by Time magazine, Ken's daily musings will make you laugh just as hard as his scripts did for classic shows like "M*A*S*H," "Cheers" and "Frasier." Usually working with his writing partner David Isaacs, Levine co-wrote some of the best episodes of "M*A*S*H" and the duo later served as executive story editors for television's best (and only) situation tragedy. Yes, they also had a hand in the promising debacle "AfterMASH."

But, they also had a hand in creating that classic episode of "Cheers" called "Breaking Out is Hard to Do," in which Frasier and Lilith's kid finally speaks his first word.

In his spare time, Levine fills in on Seattle Mariners TV coverage as a play-by-play announcer. I think he's got my dream job -- writer of classic sitcoms, creator of an award-winning blog, baseball announcer, possessor of one fantastic wit.

Levine is also the author of a book I just bought for a whopping $2.99 on Amazon's Kindle store called "Where the Hell Am I? Trips that I've Survived."

Don't miss this blog. Ken will make you appreciate even more than you already do the days when sitcoms were intelligent and witty and TV networks actually shelled out a few dollars for good writing.

Woody, 'Scoop' and 'Midnight in Paris'

2011-06-25T22:16:00.009-04:00

Sorry I haven't ducked in for awhile. Things have been kinda crazy.

Gotta tell you about a couple of films I've seen lately. Good stuff. Lots of fun.

A couple of Saturdays ago, my friend Matt Shelton and I caught the delightful new Woody Allen film "Midnight in Paris," starring Owen Wilson as Gil, a shameless dreamer in love with 1920s Paris. The ever-fetching Rachel McAdams plays his bitch of a fiancee Inez (sorry, but there's no other way to say it) who is most concerned with becoming a member of upper class California society.

I don't want to give much away, because the film's plot is basically a spoiler, but this has to be the best flick I've seen in several years. Whatever else you might think about him -- and God knows there's plenty to think -- Woody Allen makes consistently smart movies. Even the obnoxious people sitting around us at Downtown West (one guy showed up late and actually shined a flashlight into our faces) couldn't ruin it.

If you want to go see that rare film that won't require mental flossing after screening it, run don't walk to your nearest multiplex for "Midnight in Paris." And if you love old-fashioned movie making in the best sense of what that means, or majored in English or creative writing in college, you'll really love it.

Woody has been on something of a roll of late. I watched "Match Point" when I was laid up with kidney stones back in '06 and also loved Woody's "Vicky Cristina Barcelona," both starring that lovely Scarlett Johansson, a couple of summers later.

Tonight I'm catching up with "Scoop," released in between those two, again starring Scarlett, this time as a budding reporter visiting London, who stumbles into what might be the scoop of the title when a dead reporter (Ian McShane) tells her the identity of a serial killer while she's in the midst of a magic act perpetuated by Woody's Sidney Waterman. Off to hunt the guy, Scarlett subsequently falls in love with him -- the aristocratic Peter Lyman (Hugh Jackman).

I love Woody's hilarious one-liners ("I was born into the Hebrew persuasion but when I got older I converted to narcissism") and engaging characters.

Perfect way to unwind after work on a Saturday night.

Larry McMurtry, 'Lonesome Dove' and a quixotic trip to Texas

2011-06-03T11:32:00.011-04:00

Years ago, back when my biggest concerns were final exams and which film to watch on Friday night, I picked up a whopper of a novel called "Lonesome Dove." And, well, life has never been the same.

Larry McMurtry's sprawling, nearly 1,000-page western saga was such that he managed to both demystify and romanticize the American cowboy of our national imagination. Or, at least the last great cattle drive.

At its heart, that book is the story of the bonds that hold together two unlikely buddies, former Texas Rangers Augustus McCrae and Woodrow Call.

And here's a funny story about the fleeting moments of fame. McMurtry won a Pulitzer Prize for the book in 1985. While staying at a hotel on a book tour, the management put up on the marquee "Welcome Larry McMurtry, Author of 'Terms of Endearment.'" He glanced back up at the marquee as he was leaving, the day after he'd won the Pulitzer. It now read: "Fried chicken dinner, $3.99."

McMurtry's fame exploded in 1989 when "Lonesome Dove" was made into a highly successful TV miniseries starring Tommy Lee Jones and Robert Duvall. But he was already a prolific novelist by then, having written, among other things, "Terms of Endearment," "The Last Picture Show" and "Horseman, Pass By," all of which were made into successful motion pictures.

I had something of a religious experience when I first read "The Last Picture Show" and subsequently saw the 1971 Peter Bogdanovich film. I then quickly devoured the other two books McMurtry had written about Thalia at that time ("Texasville" and "Duane's Depressed").

Somebody called the cinematic adaptation of "The Last Picture Show" "the best American film since 'Citizen Kane.'" It's difficult for me to disagree.

I was so taken by it all that I set off on a quixotic quest to meet McMurtry during the summer of 2004. We eventually made our way to the tiny town of Archer City, Texas, where art met real life in a way that still causes chills to run up the back of my spine.

I'd never been there before, but, then again, yes I had -- through McMurtry's work and by watching "Picture Show," which was filmed there. As we made our way from Wichita Falls into Archer City, I started describing the town for my friend Drew Weaver.

"Now, if the books are any indication, the courthouse will be here, and the war memorial will be there, and the Dairy Queen will be here and the picture show will be over here, with a hole in the wall."

Sure enough, there it all was, one stoplight and everything, just as McMurtry had described. It was a delicious moment.

Alas, McMurtry wasn't lurking among the volumes in his huge antiquarian bookstore that takes up much of "downtown" Archer City. All we found was a bored clerk who never even looked up, a fantastic Barry Goldwater political poster from 1964 ("In Your Heart, You Know He's Right") and a pristine first edition of James Reston Jr.'s biography of former Texas governor John Connally that I left sitting on the shelf, a regret I hold to this day.

We thought about stopping at the Dairy Queen that figures so prominently in "Texasville," the one in which McMurtry sat while reading Walter Benjamin. But, I wanted to beat the Dallas/Ft. Worth rush hour traffic (fat chance), so we headed on.

I have to tell you one other aside about "Texasville." I made the mistake of rewatching the 1990 film version, which reunites much of the cast from "Picture Show," up at the lake the night after my 10 year high school reunion. Big mistake.

In the movie, Duane (the ever-likable Jeff "The Dude" Bridges) had gotten old, broke and fat. Sonny (Timothy Bottoms) had lost his mind. Coming on the heels of surfacing memories I hadn't thought about in more than a decade, the film hit me smack dab in the gut. I felt old and depressed.

McMurtry has concluded the "Picture Show" saga with two other novels, "Rhino Ranch" and "When the Light Goes." I read and liked them both, but was sad to see Duane meet his fate. As all good writers do, McMurtry had made Duane a flesh-and-blood character. I felt like I'd lost a good friend.

Larry McMurtry is 75 years old today. My hat is off to him. His books aren't as good as they used to be (his latest memoir on Hollywood felt rushed and was in desperate need of an editor), but several of his earlier works are treasures I keep close to the vest and remember on rainy days. If all you know of him is the TV version of "Lonesome Dove," he's worth a closer look.

'The Homecoming'

2011-05-27T13:01:00.005-04:00

Last night I watched "The Homecoming," the beloved 1971 CBS Christmas special that spawned "The Waltons."

I had read Earl Hamner's novella, but had never seen the movie and was intrigued by it because the role of Olivia Walton was played by Knoxville native Patricia Neal in her second performance ("The Subject Was Roses" was the first) following a 1965 stroke.

Neal brought a weary reality to the role that Michael Learned never matched. Her face, worn with pain, exuded the hardship of the Depression through which the character endured. The movie also contained an edge the series lacked.

Most of the later TV cast is intact. All of the kids came back, as did Ellen Corby as Esther Walton and Richard Thomas as John Boy. Edgar Bergen makes a rare late career appearance as Grandpa, much more subdued than Will Geer later was, and Andrew Duggan (who shows up at the end) plays John Walton Sr., the role that would be better played later by Ralph Waite.

"The Homecoming" is an excellent film that has been ignored in recent years. I have no idea why CBS or somebody doesn't show this each Christmas. It's a great testimony to Neal's talent. She is missed.

Cameron's graduation

2011-05-20T11:22:00.002-04:00

So my little brother graduated last night.

Pomp and circumstance. Turn the tassel. Good-bye and good luck.

I can remember the afternoon my dad and I walked down to Wendy's on the Strip for dinner while Cameron was coming into the world at Fort Sanders. The Braves were playing on TV when we returned. I held him and told him we'd end up as brothers from different mothers singers like David and Shaun Cassidy.

Yeah, that didn't work out.

Eighteen years slipped away when I wasn't looking. Eighteen years! Damn.

Halls High principal Mark Duff said some good words before graduation. He told the Class of 2011 to expand their horizons, to travel, to read books, to never let their education end. Amen and amen.

I thought about the day I graduated and the trip we took to Florida and the laughs that are but memories.

And the sand passes through the hour glass and time marches on.

Reassessing Jeremy Brett

2011-05-18T15:24:00.006-04:00

Being the nerd that I am -- about some things, at least -- I once got into a passionate online debate about who was the better Sherlock Holmes, Basil Rathbone or Jeremy Brett.

Rathbone, you may remember, starred in 14 beloved black-and-white Holmes films from 1939 to 1946. Brett starred in a series of episodes produced by Granada Television that originally aired on Britain's ITV network from 1984 to 1995.

In my mind, Rathbone was the clear winner. His cool, confident style fit the times, the films were by and large a lot of fun, and Holmes just seems ready made for monochrome.

Brett, I felt, was too bizarre, too hypomanic, too eccentric. His Watsons -- David Burke and Edward Hardwicke -- weren't nearly as lovable as Nigel Bruce.

A discussion at work about the revamped "Sherlock" made me think again about Jeremy Brett and the Granada series I hadn't seen in 15 years. And, since the episodes are streaming online via Netflix, I thought it was high time to watch them again and give Brett another chance.

After watching every installment of the Granada "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" and the first episode of "The Return of Sherlock Holmes," I've come to the conclusion that, by and large, the Granada series is more consistent and more faithful to the Arthur Conan Doyle stories from which the character originates.

Granada must have spent a fortune on the series. It's a beautifully done period piece -- complete with gaslight, cobblestone and London fog -- that stays true, more or less, to the books. And, if you use the original source material as a guide, Holmes is indeed bizarre, eccentric and manic-depressive. Brett had nailed it. And the Watson of the stories was anything but a buffoon. Burke and Hardwicke had done their homework.

The Rathbone/Bruce series has some wonderful moments, and Rathbone remains my favorite, but the installments suffer from inconsistency, an increasingly buffoonish Watson and a decided drop in quality after the switch from Twentieth Century Fox to Universal.

Brett's Granada series also does not live up to its brilliant earlier episodes. He became increasingly and noticeably ill -- some say the character of Holmes was driving him mad -- and the quality of the writing dropped substantially in the later episodes, most of which tend to be downright bizarre.

So, I guess where I've landed is the Rathbone series isn't the Holy Grail I once thought it was and Brett's Granada episodes, especially the first two series, are quite enjoyable.

But, heck, it's Sherlock Holmes. Put me with him and Watson in a hansom as we clip-clop along the foggy streets of Victorian London toward our latest adventure and I'll have a good time no matter who's in the starring role.

How one phone call can make your day

2011-05-12T12:06:00.000-04:00

Rarely does a newspaper writer hear from pleased readers. We normally just get the complaints.

That's OK. It's human nature. Goes with the territory. Frankly, I'm glad to know somebody cares enough to call.

But, this morning, I had a message waiting for me on my office phone. The woman identified herself as a reader from Luttrell.

"I just got around to reading your articles about the Vietnam veterans and the Korean veterans. I enjoyed them so much. I just had to call and tell you. Keep up the good work."

Folks, this is going to sound corny as all get out, but that means more to me than a raise or a Pulitzer Prize. And I mean that.

My colleagues finally talked me into entering my work in the Golden Press Card Awards this year. I had hesitated from doing so for several years, mainly because like George C. Scott said about the Oscars and actors, I don't believe that writers should compete against one another in such a manner. Plus, the story isn't about me, it's about your friends and neighbors, the people I write about. They deserve the awards.

I was quite humbled to receive an honorable mention in the feature writing category. But, the reader's phone call this morning means more to me than all the gold in California.

And you can take that to the bank.

Henry James, John Boy Walton and a few other things on my mind...

2011-05-09T20:18:00.006-04:00

I hadn't read Henry James since college.

But, I was so inspired by this blog post from film critic Roger Ebert, I picked up a couple of his books while at McKay's a couple of weeks ago. Last week, I downloaded "Daisy Miller" for free on my Kindle and read it in one sitting.

My friend and colleague Larry Van Guilder describes James quite well. "Writing has changed so much since he wrote that you have to change gears to read him."

The way his words flow and his picture-perfect character portraits are well worth the shift.

I like to watch "The Waltons" sometimes in the evenings. It helps me relax and satisfies my need for nostalgia. I have always identified with the lead character. Like John Boy, I yearn to write about the human condition and live in New York and linger awhile with the literati.

And sometimes, when life gets a little blue, I pull a volume off my shelf (or click on an eBook in this crazy, wonderful century), and spend some time with a genius like Henry James.

It's enough.

One more silver dollar...

2011-05-03T13:04:00.006-04:00

You never know what you're going to find at the lake. Or, in this case, hear.

I pulled up to my little version of Walden Pond just as the sun was reaching its slumber. It had been a long, if rewarding, Saturday of work. Nothing existed on my agenda but to sit on the back porch, read a little, contemplate the universe and smoke a cigar.

Groceries safely in the icebox, gear securely stored, I eased out onto the back porch to sit and think awhile. The workweek was over. It was time to rest.

Echoing from somewhere around the cove came a song. I knew it. But I couldn't quite make it out.

Then it came.

Well, I've got to run to keep from hiding,
And I'm bound to keep on riding;
And I've got one more silver dollar,
But I'm not going to let them catch me, no...

Well, it wasn't midnight yet, but I guess somebody needed a little Allman Brothers to chase away the dark. I could hear someone singing along, very loud and very drunk.

So much for solitude. At least it was Southern rock.

Here's to the Duke...

2011-04-29T11:03:00.004-04:00

I'm sitting here on one of those spring mornings that makes your eyes ache with its beauty, listening, appropriately, to "In A Sentimental Mood," and wishing a happy birthday to Edward "Duke" Ellington.

He earned his nickname, it is said, because his mother taught him to be mannerly. As Garrison Keillor has written, "(It) came from his dapper demeanor and easy grace."

Ellington was my first serious exposure to jazz, a perfect starting point for what has proven to be a life-long love affair. I'll never forget the feeling of rapture after listening to the Newport '56 album -- particularly Johnny Hodges' solo -- and thinking, "oh, yes, this is music."

I went nuts over the "Anatomy of a Murder" soundtrack -- perfect for Otto Preminger's motion picture. I played it over and over one summer, remembering Lee Remick's sultry sexuality and Jimmy Stewart's quirky charm.

So today is Duke's day, and here's to him, "Mood Indigo" and all that marvelous music, a Schubert tune with a Gershwin touch, "Prelude to a Kiss."

Where have you gone, Hawkeye Pierce?

2011-04-26T13:29:00.010-04:00

I've told you about it before...

How I found "M*A*S*H" because of my dad, watched that last episode with him in February 1983 (its 77 share is still a record), came to love it as a teen and young adult, and grew to adore it for the spirit it represents.

Last night, while fighting the usual three rounds with insomnia, I surfed over to YouTube, and found some memories of "M*A*S*H."

I started here by watching a trip someone took to Malibu Creek State Park, where exteriors for the TV series were filmed, on the 25th anniversary of the series finale in 2008.

Then I found this clip of the cast rehearsing scenes from the final 30-minute episode, "As Time Goes By." It touched the heart to see Loretta Swit's tears.

After that, I uncovered one of the many tributes that aired the week leading up to the big "Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen."

Somewhere I've bookmarked an online archive of the 1981 PBS special "Making M*A*S*H." Google it. It's worth a look.

What I loved about this show was its humanism, its intelligence, the quality of its writing and the talent of its cast. Unlike virtually any entertainment program on TV today, "M*A*S*H" stood for something, commenting on the dehumanization of war and how those who were there coped with it, mainly by acting crazy to keep from going insane.

Alan Alda says in the PBS special that if "M*A*S*H" were developed as a pilot "today" (he was speaking in 1981), it couldn't be sold. That goes triple for 2011.

I prefer the later, more serious episodes, but I love it all, this situation tragedy about doctors in Korea.

If I can quote Harry "Col. Potter" Morgan, "M*A*S*H" made me a better human being -- and there aren't many shows you can say that about.

Thinking on it now, I can't help but ask, "Where have you gone, Hawkeye Pierce?"

'Music Man' triumphs at UT

2011-04-25T19:41:00.009-04:00

I told you last week that I went to see "The Music Man," Meredith Willson's triumphant musical, at the Clarence Brown for its preview show. But, I didn't get around to telling you about the show itself.

Oh, what fun. I think I just needed to hear and see one of those good, old-fashioned productions, you know, the kind that makes you laugh and smile and go home happy.

The UT production (which runs, on and off, through May 15) is filled with a cast of 40 and jam-packed with all those great tunes, "76 Trombones" and "Till There Was You" and "The Wells Fargo Wagon."

And, of course, "Ya Got Trouble," which presents itself in the persona of con artist Harold Hill (David Kortemeier) when he gets off the train in unsuspecting River City, Iowa. You no doubt know the story. He's all set to take the yokels for all they've got until he meets music teacher Marian (Katy Wolfe Zahn). Then, gosh darn it, Harold finds his heart.

It's great fun and it's done so well here, as directed by Risa Brainin and conducted by Terry Silver-Alford.

Kortemeier was such a star as Don Quixote in UT's production of "Man of La Mancha" last spring. He shines again here, likable and honest, knowing as all good actors and con artists do that nothing sells like sincerity.

He and Zahn play off one another quite well. Add to the mix wonderful turns by Neil Friedman as Mayor Shinn, Carol Mayo Jenkins as Eulalie Mackecknie Shinn and Karns Middle School 7th grader and scene snatcher Maggie Kohlbusch as Amaryllis.

Brainin says in the program notes that "The Music Man" is the perfect musical in that it contains not one wasted song. Amen and amen. Plus, it's all so wonderfully, deliciously infectious, guaranteed to raise your spirits and sing away your spring funk.

Yes, that was me humming and skipping back to the parking garage.

O-ho, the Wells Fargo wagon is a-comin' down the street...

For more info on UT's production of "The Music Man" visit here.

How I finally met West Hills Sybil

2011-04-22T10:15:00.005-04:00

So, I'm sitting on a bench outside the Clarence Brown Theatre waiting to see "The Music Man."

I had purchased a cheap ticket to the preview show because I love this musical. Jenn couldn't go due to a prior commitment; I was there by myself.

The doors weren't open yet, so I'd stepped outside to wait, since it was such a pretty night. A minute or two later, up walks an old woman using a walker.

I glance up. She looks familiar. I can't quite place the face.

We make small talk at first, about UT, about the play, about the director. She tells me she sold tickets for years at UT's Carousel.

Then she proceeds to tell me her life story.

Her husband ran a store down in the Old City. She's from New Jersey, met him in Miami Beach, at the beach. She had a hip replacement a few years ago and all of her children came to be with her. Her youngest is now 57.

"I'm famous," she says, and pulls photos out of her purse of her with Bruce Pearl and Russell Biven. She says Ken Schwall has had her on WBIR. She says Bill Snyder has had her up on stage at the Tennessee.

She tells me about the regulars down at the food court at the mall, including, "one of those Elvis Presley jerks." She tells me she grew up on a chicken farm in northern New Jersey. She tells me she misses it.

I'm thinking, "This woman would be a story."

It's getting close to curtain, so I ask her her name.

"Sybil," she says.

And it clicks.

"You're not West Hills Sybil, are you?"

"Yes, I am!"

West Hills Sybil has been a fixture in our West Side Shopper-News for several years. She is a regular at Long's Drug Store. I had never met her.

Pulling out a card, I say, "Wait until you see which paper I write for."

She pulls out a Shopper clipping of herself at Long's, grins, and asks if she can keep my card.

"Of course!" I say. "You are famous! I can't wait until I tell Sandra Clark about this."

"Sandra Clark?" she says. "The writer? I know her!"

"That's my boss!"

West Hills Sybil grins.

"I hope you enjoy the show," I say, and I go into the theater, shaking my head, amused and amazed and affirmed again that Jake Mabe is right where he's supposed to be.

For whom the bell tolls

2011-04-21T12:11:00.003-04:00

The guy behind the counter at the Fountain City Branch Library recognized me when I handed him a book ("In the Lake of the Woods" by Tim O'Brien) to check out.

"Are they keepin' you busy?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, but that sure beats the alternative," I said.

"Any day spent above ground is a good day," he replied.

His words continued to bounce around in my brain as I stepped outside to a heartbreaking, beautiful spring morning. I could smell the budding flowers. I could see the blooming Dogwoods.

A church bell began to toll. And, as it chimed, I remembered some lines from the pen of John Donne, a poetic companion to the words from the clerk at the library.

Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls.
It tolls for thee.

The speech

2011-04-20T11:02:00.008-04:00

I joked that I'd shown up because I'd seen a light on and was looking for food, but guess who was asked to speak to the senior citizens at Beaver Dam church last night?

Yeah, I know. They must not have been able to get anybody else.

I love speaking to seniors. They're nice. They cook well. They get my references to radio shows and Lawrence Welk. They applaud even when I try to sing.

So, I told them about the time I got all tongue-tied when I met Tom Selleck in New York. And I said that I used to want to be an Oak Ridge Boy when I grew up. (I still do, come to think about it.)

And I told them about Catfish Dave and Bruce Blakely and Ed Byer and several other super stories it's been my privilege to share over these past 11 years.

I told them that the thing I loved most when Sandra Clark sold the Shopper to Scripps five years ago was being able to say that I work for the same company that once employed my hero, war correspondent Ernie Pyle.

I like Ernie because he hung out in the trenches with the troops. And he wrote well. A favorite observation: "When you go long enough without a bath, even the fleas leave you alone."

My other hero, the late, great Charles Kuralt, who worked for CBS News, has a great quote. "The everyday kindness of the backroads," he said, "more than makes up for the greed in the headlines.

I told the seniors at Beaver Dam that, too. And I believe it.

Thanks for having me, y'all.

Might not be your first rodeo, but you can still get bucked...

2011-04-19T00:00:00.001-04:00

Got to tell a good one on myself.

The other night Mom and I were headed down I-640 from East Towne Mall (I don't have it in me to call it Knoxville Center) to Oak Ridge. Mom figured the quickest way to get there was to cut up Clinton Highway. I concurred.

I was driving in the far right lane.

"You need to make a right turn, but I'm not sure about this lane," Mom says, trying to be helpful.

"Just watch," I replied with confidence.

Sure enough, it brought us right to the off ramp.

Feeling smug, I grinned like a goober and said, "This ain't my first rodeo."

About that time I realized I was merging into oncoming traffic without slowing down.

"Oh, crap," I said. (That wasn't the word I used.) I glanced in the rear view, saw I wasn't going to slam into anybody and eased into the lane.

Without missing a beat, Mom says, "I think this was your first rodeo."

It wasn't, but that didn't mean I couldn't get bucked. Just goes to show what happens when you get all puffed up.

God bless an American hero

2011-04-18T12:54:00.003-04:00

On this day in 1945, war correspondent and Scripps-Howard columnist Ernie Pyle was killed while covering the conflict in the Pacific.

His last words, to Lt. Col. Joseph B. Coolidge after the Jeep in which they were riding had been shot at by Japanese machine guns, reportedly were, "Are you all right?" The Japanese machine gunner opened fire again. Ernie was fatally wounded.

God bless a true American hero.

Sue me, I'm a bibliophile

2011-04-18T00:00:00.005-04:00

I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them - with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. - Eudora Welty

Call it an illness. Maybe it is an addiction.

OK, I'll 'fess up. I love books.

Take this past week alone. I'm already juggling Bruce Catton's centennial history of the Civil War, John Laurence's Vietnam volume, "The Cat from Hue," and Douglas Brinkley's book on John Kerry's "Tour of Duty" in that crazy Asian war.

Sitting on the corner of my coffee table is another 'Nam story, "...And A Hard Rain Fell." On the book case is colleague Joe Rector's debut novel, "Baseball Boys."

Somewhere I spot a reference to a Civil War story I wanted to read last year, "Walking to Gatlinburg." So, I surf over to the library's web site. Three days later, I'm picking it up at the Halls branch.

Wednesday night, Mom and I stopped at the Books-A-Million in Oak Ridge. I found a Lincoln book for five bucks and the one Larry McMurtry I didn't own for three. Out front, we stop to skim the bargain bins. And, yeah, I come away with a coming-of-age novel centered around baseball and Bob Schieffer's collection of his commentaries. Hey, they were only a buck apiece.

Yesterday afternoon, Dean Harned and I bounced over to Barnes and Noble before taking in Robert Redford's excellent new flick, "The Conspirator." I found "Breakfast at Tiffany's," which I'd wanted Wednesday, and another Lincoln book in the bargain bin. Oh, I also threw in a magazine about a 77-day stand at Khe Sanh.

Last night I surprised my fiancee with a sick gift. Yes, that meant a return trip to Barnes and Noble. No, I didn't buy anything else. Just wait, though. It gets better.

Jenn has an appointment. I have time to kill. So, I bounce over to, you guessed it, Books-A-Million.

"Be good," I tell myself. "Just browse."

But I spot a History Channel documentary on Lincoln in the bargain bin. Four bucks. Then my eye wanders over to a paperback I'd seen the other night, "How to Read Literature Like A Professor." $13.99. What the heck.

Almost forgot to tell you. Already sitting in my pile is a Pete Hamill, a book on Ike as in Eisenhower, two more Lincolns, a study on the war in Afghanistan and "1861." Oh, yeah, and Dean brought by a book he'd ordered for me on Thomas Jefferson's travels to wineries, a presidential "Sideways," if you please.

Call it what you will. Knowledge is a good addiction.

'Moon River' and me

2011-04-14T00:16:00.008-04:00

Maybe it was the hues that streak across the sky before sunset.

Maybe it was the music and the memories and the magic of "Moon River."

Maybe it was the beer.

Whatever the case, Henry Mancini's hit popped up on my iPod the other night while I sat on the back porch.

I listened awhile, stared off into the twilight, and darn near teared up.

I thought, too, about Holly Golightly, and awesome Audrey Hepburn, and Truman Capote's triumph. I looked for a copy of the tome tonight at Books-A-Million (oh, excuse me, the store's been given the Orwellian acronym BAM), but it wasn't there. The story is better than the movie and the movie is sublime.

But it sneaked up on me, hit me in the gut when I wasn't looking, caught me unawares. Hasn't happened in awhile.

Who knows why we react the way we do to music or memories or smells or sunsets? I have learned the song remembers when.

But I have no answers for "Moon River" and me.

Maybe I, too, want to eat breakfast at Tiffany's and chase away those mean reds. Oh, dream maker, you heart-breaker...

Maybe it was the beer.

What we haven't learned in 150 years

2011-04-12T19:57:00.014-04:00

At 4:30 a.m. on April 12, 1861 -- 150 years ago today -- Confederate Lt. Henry S. Farley fired a single 10-inch mortar round that exploded over Fort Sumter, S.C.

Inside the fort was Major Robert Anderson and his small Federal command. They had been there since December, waiting for reinforcements that never made it.

The Confederate barrage continued. Rabid Virginia secessionist Edmund Ruffin, who had come to Charleston that spring to witness history, fired one of the first shots.

Anderson waited until after dawn to retaliate. At 7 a.m., the first Federal shot came from Captain Abner Doubleday, the man whom would later be given credit for "creating" the game of baseball. The only casualty was a Confederate horse. It was a bloodless beginning to a very bloody affair.

They didn't call it the Shot Heard Round the World -- that, you see, is relegated to important things like home runs -- but Fort Sumter touched off what would become known as the Civil War, a strange moniker indeed, given that this conflict was anything but civil. From then until even after Lee surrendered to Grant in April 1865, Americans went to war with one another. Nearly 620,000 would perish. So would an American president.

William Faulkner said perhaps more than he knew when he noted, years later, that "the past is never dead; it isn't even past."

To this day, Americans argue over what caused the war. To this day, they argue over what to call it, what to make of it, what to learn from it.

Abraham Lincoln is a hero to some, an anathema to others. Take a look at a presidential electoral map -- particularly from 2000 or 2004 -- and tell me that we still don't have a sectional divide. (2008 was an exception; it remains to be seen whether it will be an anomaly or a watershed.)

Civil War books continue to roll off the presses month after month. Civil War roundtables and societies can be found in virtually any American city of any size.

American political discourse in 2011, yes, still includes talk of secession.

Everything -- and nothing -- has changed.

I watched the first part of the Ken Burns documentary last night. Before drifting off to dream, I read a few pages from Bruce Catton's centennial history of the war, written 50 years ago. (He's better than even Shelby Foote, folks.)

I thought about that bloody pond at Shiloh, about the hallowed ground at Gettysburg, about the gentle spirit now belonging to the ages that left us while the man to whom it belonged lay dying in a small bed at the Petersen House in Washington on Good Friday, April 15, 1865.

I thought about those moving Mathew Brady images, about the dingy daguerreotypes of forgotten men and boys who didn't make it home, about the loved ones they left behind.

I thought about "Dixie," that sweet minstrel tune; and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic, the stirring stanza about the terrible swift sword; and the melody to the maudlin "Lorena."

I thought about the myths and the mysteries, the ugly truths and the damnable lies, the good, the bad, heaven and hell, and how the weather was.

And I thought, too, about the waste -- the utter, horrible waste of it all -- and wondered for the hundredth time how we ever came to think of this godawful bloodbath as anything remotely resembling romantic.

Old times there, you see, will never be forgotten, though His truth is marching on.

Doors open again at 165 Eaton Place

2011-04-11T12:43:00.015-04:00

It was such a delight to hear the strains of that familiar theme and see the doors fly open again at 165 Eaton Place.

Yes, "Upstairs, Downstairs" is back. For those who have managed to miss it up till now, "Up, Down," as its known by its fans, was for years the most popular British import ever shown on what used to be called "Masterpiece Theatre" on PBS. Airing originally in the 1970s, "Up, Down" focused on the lives and intrigues of the Bellamy family at 165 Eaton Place in London -- both the upstairs, upper-class Bellamys, and the downstairs, domestic servants of the house.

It was a runaway hit on both sides of the pond and then, suddenly, it ended, shockingly, just like that. The final scene was of parlor maid Rose Buck (co-creator Jean Marsh) taking one last look around the house, hearing its voices rise from the mists of time for one last bow.

Rose and "Upstairs, Downstairs" have returned for a brief three episode run on what PBS now calls (sometimes) "Masterpiece Classic." The first episode aired last night. And, well, it was a mixed bag.

I almost teared up in the opening scenes, hearing that music, seeing that grand old house again. I found myself smiling. But what I was smiling about was the original series.

I first found the show in re-runs back in the 1990s on PBS. On a trip to Ohio, I happened to catch the famous episode in which the King visits 165 Eaton Place. I was enthralled. When I subscribed to Netflix in 2005, the first series for which I looked was "Up, Down." I spent the next five years, on and off, watching the original show's five seasons. What a delight it was.

The new show isn't bad. It's fresh. It's got a great, good-looking new cast. Marsh is a sight for sore eyes as Rose, this time around working to populate the new house with servants for its new owners, who arrive in the series timeline about six years after the first program ended. Co-creator Eileen Atkins shows up as well, in the delicious part of the unexpected and unwelcome mother-in-law.

It's OK -- but it's not "Upstairs, Downstairs." You must forgive me, though. I am an unapologetic nostalgic. I kept waiting for Mr. Hudson to burst through the doors, getting onto Edward the footman for some lapse in his work while the cook Mrs. Bridges fussed at Daisy for the hundredth time. In the upstairs morning room scenes, I halfway hoped to see Richard Bellamy sipping his brandy while Captain James mulled over his latest crisis while Prudence popped in for her usual tour de force.

(Anybody wanting to revisit the original series can find the DVDs at Netflix or for sale here from Amazon.)

The new series has the unfortunate task of following a legend. And, like the Timothy Daltons and Ray Perkinses of the world have found out, a successor rarely ever fills the big shoes left behind. I much prefer "Downton Abbey," another hit "Masterpiece" series, which felt a lot like a thinly-disguised "Up, Down" to me when I watched it earlier in the year. It's coming back for another run next season.

But, I'll watch the other two episodes of the new "Upstairs, Downstairs," if for no other reason than even when they misfire, programs shown on PBS are almost always better than the proletariat poppycock that populates American television.

Creaks and cobwebs and all, it's good to see the doors open again at 165 Eaton Place.

"Upstairs, Downstairs" is currently airing on "Masterpiece Classic" Sundays on PBS. Check local listings.

Song snippets

2011-04-08T01:11:00.006-04:00

It's 1 a.m. and Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash are pining away for the girl from the north country.

She once was a true love of mine.

I'm tired. But I can't sleep.

Now Connie Smith is singing about the only time she wishes he weren't gone.

Once a day, every day, all day long.

I sat on the back porch after dinner and watched the sun sink to its slumber. Van Morrison provided the soundtrack, sailing into the mystic.

And, I wanna rock your gypsy soul, just like way back in the days of old...

Just before bed, or what passes for it, William Lee Golden and the Oak Ridge Boys go with me on the Frisco Silver Dollar Line, takin' our time, headed toward that "Ozark Mountain Jubilee."

Oh, how the years have flown by; oh, how I realize how much of me is gone...

'Body of Proof' worth a look

2011-04-05T13:37:00.006-04:00

Anybody else watching "Body of Proof," ABC's new crime drama, starring Dana Delany as a neurosurgeon turned medical examiner?

Caught the first couple of episodes -- it has to be the first episodic show I've watched with any kind of regularity on ABC in at least 20 years -- and it's pretty good.

I've gotta admit that the only reason I initially tuned in was because of Delany. She's been a favorite even before her underrated turn on the underrated "China Beach" (why isn't that show out on DVD?) in the late 1980s. I first spotted her in a couple of episodes of the seventh season of "Magnum, p.i." It was love at first sight.

Here she plays a hard-charging, sarcastic ME named Dr. Megan Hunt ("Quincy" with legs, as one reviewer said, in a sexist moment), with a keen mind and a Sherlock Holmes-like ability to diagnose much from one glance. She also has a past. She's divorced, estranged from her daughter, and was forced to leave neurosurgery after complications from a car crash caused numbness in her hands.

Jeri Ryan (the sexy co-star of "Boston Public" and the only good thing about "Star Trek: Voyager") plays her boss, Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Kate Murphy. Nicholas Bishop is Megan's partner, medicolegal investigator Peter Dunlap. John Carroll Lynch and Sonja Sohn are the put-upon homicide investigators who have to deal with Megan's interference during their cases. Geoffrey Arend and Windell Middlebrooks (the Miller High Life guy) provide comic relief as a forensic pathology fellow and the deputy chief medical examiner.

Wikipedia tells me that although the series is set in Philadelphia, it is filmed entirely in Providence, R.I.

One critic got it wrong by writing that Megan is an unlikable character. Not true. She's tough, sure, but life has made her that way. She's sarcastic, but that's part of her charm. The bluster barely hides her vulnerability. That's both plausible and appealing.

Network TV has way too many police procedurals on the air, but this one is pretty good. I guessed the wrong killer in the first two episodes, so that has to say something.

Watch it for yourself. See what you think. "Body of Proof" airs at 10 p.m. (Eastern) Tuesdays on ABC.

Frankie and Debbie fall into 'The Tender Trap'

2011-04-04T21:00:00.007-04:00

Seemed like a good night for one of those fun comedies from the '50s. Rain and thunder and floods, oh my.

So, I slipped in my latest film from Netflix, "The Tender Trap," 1955, with Francis Albert Sinatra and Debbie Reynolds. I really wanted "Mad Men: Season Four," but I guess everybody else did, too. Short wait. Oh, well.

Frankie plays theatrical agent Charlie Y. Reader, playboy, God's gift to women, or so he thinks. Debbie is Julie Gillis, the charming, young actress who falls in love with him.

Charlie has it all -- a posh place in Manhattan, a snazzy wardrobe, a steady stream of lovelies parading through his pad. Like T.G. Sheppard, he loves 'em, every one. But that proves to be a problem when Julie falls for him. With her, it's all or nothing at all, to coin a phrase.

Those eyes, those sighs, they're part of the tender trap. And when it's Debbie Reynolds' laughing eyes, it's quite the trap, indeed.

David Wayne plays Charlie's best buddy and Celeste Holm plays the lovely lady to whom Charlie won't commit. Of course, he falls for her. Carolyn Jones pops in every so often as the chick who walks Charlie's dog.

"The Tender Trap" was originally a play by Max Shulman and Robert Paul Smith. It opened in October 1954 at the Longacre Theatre on Broadway. I saw Tom Selleck there, in a revival of Herb Gardner's "A Thousand Clowns," in September 2001, right before the towers tumbled.

It's fun fluff, perfect for a rainy Monday night, when you have the blues and don't know why. I've put it on pause to look in on the NCCAA Tournament final. Go Butler! How can you not be for Cinderella? It's "Hoosiers" come to life...

Well, I just spotted some lightning, so I guess I'd better go. Hope you're having a good night. I'll see you soon.

The Lost Weekend

2011-04-03T20:45:00.012-04:00

Well, it wasn't perfect.

You've already read about my Thursday. Friday morning I was standing in Kroger by 11 to grab grub for the weekend. Jimmy, the guy at the counter, recognized my name. He said some nice things about the Shopper.

"You're a busy man."

"Well, I'm just glad to have a couple of days off."

"Did the Tigers win their opening game?" he asked, noticing the Old English D on my jacket.

"Nope," I said. "They lost to the Yankees."

"Oh, no."

"Well," I said, "that's nothing new."

Friday afternoon, Ken Lay regaled me with stories of being "Kenny the clubhouse boy" for the old Knoxville Sox.

We began watching games at 1 p.m. and didn't stop until 1 a.m. Twelve straight hours of the national pastime. It's a personal best. Hey, don't laugh. This is my vacation!

The Sox stunk up the joint in Arlington. Bard was bad. It was ugly.

Ken and I welcomed Saturday with the velvet voice of Vin Scully.

"He's still got it," Ken says. "He didn't slip at all."

Later that day, I got up early -- well, early for a guy who didn't get to bed until 3:30 -- waiting for the AT&T tech who didn't arrive until mid-afternoon. Got him squared away just in time to see the Braves get nipped by the Nats and the Tigers get yanked by the Yankees.

Pal Mike Hermann showed up in time to see the Sox stink it up again. But, the steak was good and we found our chuckle for the night, about the batter hitting in the No. 2 hole.

John Lackey was even worse than Jon Lester. We didn't even have the distraction of the two girls who sat behind home plate during the opener. Mike did a dead on Jerry Remy impression. That helped. Some.

This afternoon, I fell asleep while Clay Buchholz served up four solo homers en route to a 5-1 loss to Texas. Swept on opening weekend. Say it ain't so!

There are a few bright spots amid the falling Red Sox sky. Yo, Adrian, for one. The kid can hit. Here's what Dan Shaughnessy says about him.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I did switch it over to CBS long enough to see Connecticut stave off a Kentucky comeback. Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Tonight I'm watching "The Kennedys" on ReelzChannel to see what all the fuss is about. Have had enough baseball -- at least until tomorrow night.

It may have been a Lost Weekend, but at least we had some laughs.

Winter lingers on Opening Day

2011-03-31T20:29:00.003-04:00

Opening Day, baseball is back, spring has sprung.

So why is Marvin West lighting a fire?

The bank thermometer flashed 42 degrees as I drove through Maynardville in the pouring rain this morning. A freeze warning? Really? On Opening Day?

Welcome to East Tennessee, where they say the weather changes every 15 minutes. (It's supposed to be 70 on Saturday.)

"This is an inauspicious start to spring," I tell Sarah as I come through the door.

But today is a day to spring forward, so I put winter behind me anyway and get all giddy as Curtis Granderson makes a diving catch in center field. A quick check tells me that the weather is equally as bad in the Bronx as it is on Norris Lake. Guess that explains all the empty seats. At least the rain stays away...

Marvin tells me about the pleasantries he exchanged with Bob Knight, years ago, when he was president of the Basketball Writers Association. It seems Marvin was too busy to attend a luncheon. Which meant Knight didn't get to give Marvin an award. Which meant Knight also didn't get to beat up on a sports writer for two minutes.

Michael Kay and Ken Singleton repeat virtually everything Marvin and I notice about the game -- about three minutes later. It's not much better over on SportsSouth, where Joe Simpson actually says that the pitcher's job is to get balls over the plate. No kiddin'...

Marvin threw a log on the fire. I threw a candy bar in my mouth.

Ahh, yes. Opening Day. Baseball is back.

Even if spring has yet to sprung...

'Wunnerful! Wunnerful!'

2011-03-29T11:48:00.005-04:00

OK, I'll admit it. I like Champagne Music.

And, by that, I mean that I like Lawrence Welk. And Ava Barber. And "Bubbles in the Wine." And all that cheese.

From time to time, I'll tune in to "Welk" re-runs on PBS. I'm not alone. As of 2004, "The Lawrence Welk Show" was the highest rated program on public television. Its three million viewers are higher than those watching MTV, VH-1 or BET at that hour, according to a great article in The New York Times.

I guess my favorite (not counting Ralna English) is Knoxville's own Ava Barber. She joined the Welk show in the early 1970s -- she chased him all over a golf course in Nashville to get a tryout, or so Welk used to tell it -- and stayed until production ceased in 1982.

Found a great clip of her singing "The Teddy Bear Song" better than Barbara Fairchild.

I sang with Ava once, up in Pigeon Forge, when she was appearing with Eddie Miles. She asked for volunteers. I jumped up and faked my way through "Y'all Come." It must have gone over well. People clapped. Somebody even stalked me into the bathroom to tell me I did a good job.

Ava runs the Powell location of Steamboat Sandwiches. Stop in and say howdy if you're out that way.

Welk's show was pure corn -- but a lot of fun. His band was solid, if stodgy. But that was by design and it worked. Welk's show ran nationally from 1955 to 1982.

Doc Severinsen hosted a clip show during PBS's recent pledge drive dedicated to Welk's tributes to the Big Band era. On and on it went -- Glenn Miller, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, all the rest. In one clip, Doc even played his trumpet and Johnny Carson did the drums while the Welk band played "Johnny's Theme."

It's square and it's nerdy and, by god, I love it.

"Thank ya, thank ya, boys-a! Wunnerful! Wunnerful!"

My birthday wish to Tennessee Williams

2011-03-27T15:13:00.009-04:00

Yesterday, between work appointments, I watched "The Night of the Iguana," my two dollar birthday wish to playwright Tennessee Williams on what would have been his 100th birthday.

Based on Williams' 1961 play (which was itself based on his 1948 short story), the film focuses on the breakdown of Episcopal minister T. Lawrence Shannon (Richard Burton) and his relationship with three different women (Ava Gardner, Deborah Kerr and Sue "Lolita" Lyon) over one long night at a cheap Mexican hotel. It's a heck of a picture, also starring Grayson Hall, who was nominated for an Academy Award for her portrayal of a sexually frustrated Baptist school vocal teacher.

Gardner is her usual sexy self. Hall gives the performance of her career. Lyon exudes sex appeal, maybe more so (and less creepily) than she did in "Lolita."

Kerr steals the picture with her quiet, dignified portrayal of the chaste artist Hannah Jelkes. Cyril Delevanti gives a meaningful turn as Nonno, Hannah's grandfather poet, who delivers the film's denouement with the reading of his final poem.

Burton's performance is more complicated, more difficult to critique. It's good -- not great -- but a bit overdone, almost distracted. That might be because his real-life lover and future wife, Elizabeth Taylor (who passed away last week), visited him on the set in Mexico -- while she was still married to Eddie Fisher. The paparazzi followed.

So, too, came Williams himself. Rather than causing a distraction to director John Huston, Williams made himself useful, rewriting part of the script that wasn't working. According to film historian Lawrence Grobel, Huston thought that what Williams created, the scene between Burton and Lyon in his hotel room involving the broken glass, "was genius" -- and went with it.

Williams has a connection to Knoxville. In his column this week, Jack Neely tells you all about it, about Williams' father's funeral, and about the playwright's meeting with the writer David Madden at the Andrew Johnson Hotel.

"The Night of the Iguana" doesn't get the attention that other Williams works, say "A Streetcar Named Desire" or "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," receive. Maybe it's because it's not as good a play.

But, it's a heck of a movie, one to see. I liked it much better than the film adaptation of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."

Williams biographer Donald Spoto says "The Night of the Iguana" is "a film that is unashamed to be a meditation on human need, and human frailty, and enduring a dark night. And all we have in this dark night, by God's grace, the great thing we have, is one another."

A little night music...

2011-03-24T00:32:00.011-04:00

Isn't it rich? Are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground; you in midair.

Stayed home last night, while the thunder rolled and the lightning struck.

Watched Stephen Sondheim's "A Little Night Music," the 1990 revival, from Lincoln Center, starring Sally Ann Howes as Desiree.

I drank some Roncier. Smoked a La Seleza. Seemed the thing to do.

You know the song I love. "Send in the Clowns." Well, maybe next year...

I heard Sinatra do it, once for Reprise, again at Caesar's Palace. His is the definitive version, but Howes hits it, puts it in perspective, lamenting the lover that is no longer hers.

It's sad and it's poignant but it's wonderful and it's honest. Sondheim says he intended no existential imagery. The clowns are not from the circus. They are the jokes, the one-liners you use when the show stinks.

Don't bother, they're here...

I blew a smoke ring and thought about the past and was glad it was gone. And I thought about timing, how difficult the whole damn thing is, making a connection, finding a rhythm.

Just when I stopped opening doors; finally finding the one that I wanted was yours.

Who knows why we react to music? To a little night music. On a night when the thunder rolls and the lightning strikes.

Isn't it rich?

Quote of the day

2011-03-21T18:22:00.007-04:00

I'll save my thoughts on Bruce Pearl, UT and this coaching change mess on the Hill for another day, when passions have cooled, when we know more.

Meanwhile, I'll share a quote from former UT football coach Bill Battle.

"When they're running you out of town, make it look like you're leading the parade."

Battle, who was forced out in 1976, had the last laugh. He got into the licensing of collegiate products and is now a millionaire. Oh, and he's still a nice guy.

My March Madness

2011-03-20T15:09:00.009-04:00

It's beautiful outside, but I'm lying on the couch, sick, listening to Sinatra at the Meadowlands circa March '86, and watching a Duke shooter sink a three-pointer.

I guess this is my version of March Madness.

Sinatra is telling me to take it nice 'n' easy, and that's good advice. I'm headed down what I hope is the back stretch of the flu, frustrating, forgettable.

Jenn has gone to a bridal show. Shelton has gone to Bristol. I have gone from the bed to the sofa.

It's OK. It's been a long, long time since I've been this ill. Plus I heard yesterday that my good friend and A-Number One dobro player Phil Leadbetter may have lymphoma. Put it in perspective. And pray for Phil.

I've been feeling so good lately. I'm in love with a wonderful woman who will become my wife in six months. Work has never been better. The words and rhyme keep playing in time.

This is but a detour. I'll rest awhile then get back in the game.

Y'all excuse me now. I'm going to pull the covers closer and take a nap.

Mel mania and the last long, hot summer

2011-03-18T00:58:00.011-04:00

In many ways, it was the last long, hot summer.

I was still in school, crowding in on my last year at UT, working at a book store to pay what few bills I had then, and taking a jazz history course -- for credit! Those were the days.

Seems like I heard the news, appropriately enough, on the radio. Mel Torme, the Velvet Fog, was dead.

I had found him through, of all people, Harry Anderson, and "Night Court." Being the weirdo kid I was, I bought a cassette tape of Mel's classic "Swings Shubert Alley" when I was in the 5th or 6th grade, while the other kids were into rap or Wilson Phillips or whatever.

Man, could that cat scat. Like somebody once said, "Shubert Alley" swings with a power that rock and roll never could.

I found the tape and played it in the car the morning Mel died.

Too close, too close for comfort, now...

Keith Brown played a cut or two of Mel's music in class. I've forgotten what, but I think it was from the Shubert album. Of course. What else?

After I graduated, I shot up into a Mel mania, buying a pristine copy of his peerless autobiography, "It Wasn't All Velvet," on eBay, along with several CDs and a rare VHS copy of Mel's 1982 TV special. There he is, scatting and swinging, knocking out "Here's That Rainy Day" and "New York State of Mind." Yeah, baby.

I stumbled across the tape earlier and slipped it in the dust-covered VHS player to forget about the flu. It made me think of that last long, hot summer, and about an era long gone with the wind, at Shubert Alley, or "On the Street Where You Live."

Here is a link to a Torme tale I like very much.

By the way, I am on a quixotic quest to find Mel's cover version of "Good Time Charlie's Got the Blues." Shoot me an e-mail if you have it or know where I can get it. JakeMabe1@aol.com

Hag twangs at the Time Warp

2011-03-16T15:57:00.005-04:00

I was the first customer to darken the doors of the Time Warp Tea Room late this morning.

I was meeting a source for coffee and conversation, doing research for an upcoming column. I spot the joint as I creep along North Central, pulling into a place just past the front door.

I go in, make sure my cell phone is on silent, and order an espresso. I laugh at the note on the counter. Those talking on cell phones won't be served until the conversation is ceased, it says.

"That's one of my pet peeves," I say.

The man behind the bar laughs and nods.

"It (the sign) doesn't work," the server says.

I say I'm not surprised.

I grab an alternative weekly I didn't know existed off the news rack. I look at the photos placed here and yon on the walls. I sip my espresso. I wait.

Country music, the real, good ol' classic kind, starts to play. I recognize the first song, but can't now remember what it was. Too busy talking. A bit later, the Hag begins to twang.

"I'd like to hold my head up, and be proud of who I am," Hag sings, a Branded Man, out in the cold.

Losing it with Garbo and Gilbert

2011-03-14T00:24:00.012-04:00

Did something quite special for my birthday yesterday.

Jenn and I traveled through time, back to the '20s, thanks to Ron Carter, Clarence Brown, Greta Garbo, John Gilbert and the Tennessee Theatre.

Knoxville's grand old movie palace is hosting an excellent Silent Film Sundays series, honoring Brown, our fair city's most famous director. Today's picture was "Flesh and the Devil" (1926), a good ol' good one, starring John Gilbert and the stunning, sensuous Greta Garbo.

The movie alone would have been enough to get me there, but the icing on the cake was Carter, a renowned organist and retired Georgia law enforcement official, who played the silent film's original score on the Tennessee's Mighty Wurlitzer. What a treat.

They showed a digital print, which I normally hate. Call me crazy, but movies on the big screen are meant to be seen in 35 millimeter. In this case, however, it was perfect. The digital print had been restored. It looked fantastic.

"Flesh and the Devil" was the first picture to pair Gilbert and Garbo, two of Hollywood's biggest stars during the Roaring Twenties. And it's easy to see why they were so hot. Their onscreen chemistry is palpable enough to cut with a knife.

Both were destined for lonely lives. Garbo successfully made the transition from silents to talkies, but became more and more reclusive. She retired for good in 1941, having made only 27 films, and lived in seclusion until her death in 1990.

Gilbert notoriously crashed and burned during his first talkie, "His Glorious Night." Audiences reportedly laughed out loud upon hearing his voice. Here is a clip. Judge for yourself. (I don't think it's all that bad.)

Some swear his decline had nothing to do with his voice. He reportedly feuded for years with Louis B. Mayer, even by one account going so far as to hit the MGM boss during Gilbert's aborted marriage ceremony to Garbo (who didn't show). Gilbert died, of complications from alcoholism, at age 38 in 1936.

The surprising thing about "Flesh and the Devil" is that Gilbert's acting outshines even the great Garbo. She was one of the most beautiful women to ever grace the silver screen, but Gilbert had everything it took to be a silent film star. His emotive and inspired performance needed no words.

Carter pointed out before the picture that Brown's trademark was getting natural performances out of his actors, even during the silent era. Silent film acting almost by definition is melodramatic (one has to make up for the lack of sound) but Brown's style was such that the performances in "Flesh and the Devil" are as realistic as a silent film is going to get. (Compare them to, say, those in "The Birth of a Nation.")

Carter did a masterful job on the Mighty Wurlitzer. Ten minutes into the picture, I forgot he was there.

It was a trip to yesteryear, a memorable moment, a perfect period to a perfect birthday weekend. Like Pauline Kael, I lost it at the movies a long time ago, anyway.

With Garbo and Gilbert, it's easy to get lost.

Nuggets of New York

2011-03-12T00:49:00.012-05:00

I am thinking now of the Italian joint on Restaurant Row, in the city of right angles and tough, damaged people.

I stole that line from Pete Hamill, so you know I'm talking about New York. The City. Manhattan.

We were there on a cold and clear Tuesday in February. The sommelier brought his list, but I knew I wanted Pinot. And ravioli. And garlic.

The service was superb, as it must be, and the food was fine. I can remember the two women, out for the evening perhaps, and the man in the black coat and the child who didn't chatter.

I have forgotten the conversation. But I want to go back. I want to feel the pulse of the pavement, the staccato of the sidewalk, the rhythm of the ride.

I want to see James Earl Jones "Driving Miss Daisy." I want to awaken in Times Square and sip an espresso at the cheesecake factory. I want to buy a Daily News from the guy behind the glass and hope that Denis Hamill has written today about the borough of Brooklyn.

I want to give my regards to Broadway and remember me to Herald Square. I want to hum "Harlem Nocturne" as the sun slumbers. I want to fall asleep in my room at the Milford and dream of the day to come.

I want to do a lot of things, but instead here I sit, in my chair, living vicariously through the poet's pen, dreaming of the Italian joint on Restaurant Row, in Pete Hamill's city of right angles and tough, damaged people.

To be Daniel Okrent for a week...

2011-03-10T15:41:00.005-05:00

OK, I've finally found another job I want. At least for a week.

If you've seen the incomparable Ken Burns "Baseball" documentary or read the New York Times the last few years, you know the name Daniel Okrent. And if you've ever played fantasy baseball, you owe him thanks.

Okrent created Rotisserie League Baseball back in the late 1970s. He was one of the best talking heads on Burns' ode to our national pastime. More importantly he is an accomplished writer and editor.

He has written a blog this week for Paris Review's website. As if I needed yet another reason to want to be back in Manhattan...

Godspeed to David Broder

2011-03-09T13:17:00.006-05:00

Godspeed to longtime Washington Post political columnist (and big baseball fan) David S. Broder, who has passed away at age 81.

The Washington Post obit is here.

And here is Broder's last column, which ran in the Post on Feb. 6.

Music brings back memories

2011-03-09T11:14:00.008-05:00

Funny thing, music.

Sometimes I think it, and thus hearing, can conjure up memories much quicker than the other senses. You can have your smells. I'll take my tunes.

Woke up about an hour early this rainy Wednesday morning. Had some time to kill, time to contemplate. So I grabbed my iPod and clicked on "top rated" tunes.

Up popped the Oak Ridge Boys, "Ozark Mountain Jubilee," from 1983. Suddenly, I was 5 again, back in the house on Norris Freeway, back in my bedroom, playing that single on my Fischer Price record player.

Let me get on the Frisco Silver Dollar Line, take my time, to see all I can see...

That memory merged into another one, from about a year later. Mom and Dad had divorced by then and we were living in an apartment in Halls Heights. It is a credit to both my parents that what could have been a difficult development wasn't.

Dad dropped by one night to bring me the Oak Ridge Boys' full-length LP, "Deliver!" I can still remember running to the record player (I had upgraded from the Fischer Price) and ever so gently easing the needle over to the correct track.

Fiddler rosin up your bow; we'll have our own, Ozark Mountain Jubilee...

I lay there at first light, lost in my music, lost in my memories.

Maybe he needed some protein...

2011-03-08T13:44:00.005-05:00

Stupidity strikes again.

It seems some wayward soul with nothing to do decided to rob the new feeders at Fountain City Lake. (Yeah, I still call it the duck pond, too.)

The thief managed to get away with the top half of the feeder. But all he got for his trouble was a bunch of protein pellets. Todd Howard, who installs and maintains the feeders, was smart enough to store the coins in concrete.

Times are tough. Maybe the moron needed the protein to balance his diet.

Photo is a Shopper-News file photo of Fountain City Lions Club member Mark Campen checking out the feeder shortly after its installment.

'Gatsby' house to be razed

2011-03-08T00:00:00.002-05:00

Too bad I don't have $30 million lying around.

Read today here that Land's End, the Long Island mansion rumored to have inspired Daisy Buchanan's estate in F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby," is scheduled to be razed.

When I heard the news, I immediately thought of that big house in the 1974 film. But it was actually a set at Pinewood Studios in Buckinghamshire, England. Scenes at Gatsby's cinematic home, by the way, were shot at the Rosecliff and Marble House mansions in Newport, R.I.

I am an unapologetic fan of the 1974 film. It goes without saying that I love the novel.

I still think about that blinking green light on occasion. It stirs memories from long ago that are best left behind.

How would Fitzgerald put it?

"And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Snow on Sunday

2011-03-07T00:00:00.003-05:00

Thought spring was just around the corner. After all, March 20 is now just 13 days away.

Woke up Saturday morning to 70-degree, if rainy, weather. The Red Sox and Marlins were playing on MLB TV.

Woke up Sunday morning to snow. Forty degree temp drop in 24 hours.

Well, it is East Tennessee, after all. Remember that 10-inch snowstorm on April Fools Day?

But it was nice to lie on the couch in my robe and pajamas and hear Don and Jerry break down this year's Sox. Seeing Dustin Pedroia slam a single was a sight for sore eyes.

If gas keeps going up, I'll be spending more and more spring and summer afternoons on the couch. Won't be able to hit the road and fill up that Xterra.

Which is fine. Baseball is my balm. Plus, I'm getting married this fall. I need to save all the pennies I can.

But snow? Really?

Send me sunny Sundays. I'm ready for spring.

Iwo Jima: 'It was slaughter'

2011-03-06T18:41:00.002-05:00

In this week's column on page A-6, World War II Marine Ralph Lewis recalls the Battle of Iwo Jima.

Says Ralph, "It was slaughter."

He also recalls seeing the raising of the first, smaller American flag on Mount Suribachi.

Deadline day

2011-03-06T01:17:00.005-05:00

A little experiment with stream of consciousness. Contains a little adult language.

Where the hell is my tie?

I want to wear it with the "Bear Bryant" shirt. The crimson one. Bought it at the evil Walmart, the old one, the one that sits empty now. Apt metaphor. Low prices, my ass.

Can't find it in all this clutter. How does a room get so ridiculous? Whose clothes are these?

Pull out the hanger. Throw the ties on the bed. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

It's gone. Hell. My favorite tie.

Figured the red would go well at the Honor Society thing. School colors and all. Fifteen years removed and I'm still there. Or here. Whatever.

I'm late. OK, I'll just wear the white shirt with the other black tie.

Too much starch. Damn dry cleaners. Hell.

It's falling apart. Don't dare pull that thread. The whole thing'll go.

OK, where's the tie clasp? With the coins. Penny. Penny. Nickle. Dime. Quarter, quarter, penny, nickle, dime. There it is.

Not too big. Not too small. Balance to the belt. OK. Close enough. I'm gone.

One last story. Don't forget to spell check the man's name. It's not Lindbergh, like the fascist flier. No H.

$3.35 a gallon for gas? You've got to be kidding me. If this keeps up, I'll just go to work and come home. Maybe I'll buy a horse. Hay and oats. Hall and Oates. "You can rely on the old man's money; you can rely on the old man's money."

Have to dump those photos before Carol gets here. Good. There's Ruth's car. Good.

Where the hell is my tie?

Elvis comes home!

2011-03-05T09:51:00.003-05:00

It was on this date in 1960 that Elvis Aron Presley was discharged from the U.S. Army. In honor of the anniversary, here is my favorite song from his return LP, "Elvis Is Back." It's called "I Will Be Home Again" and is a duet with the late, great Charlie Hodge.

Have a good Saturday! Thankyouverymuch!

Song of the day...

2011-03-04T10:51:00.003-05:00

...from the great, underrated Johnny Rodriguez, here.

'Cause I believe in happy endings, too.

Have a good day, y'all.

Moonlight Beethoven and a star spangled song

2011-03-03T11:47:00.004-05:00

March 3 holds a special place in musical moments.

According to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac, on this date in 1802, Ludwig van Beethoven published his Moonlight Sonata (No. 14 in C Sharp Minor). Have a listen here.

And, on this date in 1931, Congress passed and President Herbert Hoover signed into a law a declaration making "The Star Spangled Banner" the official National Anthem of the United States.

Two of my favorite versions are unorthodox.

Here is Jose Feliciano's performance of the song during the 1968 World Series.

And here is Marvin Gaye's stunning soulful version at the 1983 NBA All-Star Game.

Finally, here is what is considered to be the best performance of the song, sung by Whitney Houston at Super Bowl XXV in 1991. A single version was later sold to raise money for soldiers fighting in the 1991 Persian Gulf War and their families.

Long live 'The King's Speech'

2011-03-02T00:00:00.003-05:00

Jennifer and I took in "The King's Speech" last night after a fine dinner.

I'd been wanting to see it even before Sunday's big buzz. Didn't make it. I rarely get to the cinema anymore. By the time I turn around the bloody picture's on DVD anyway.

With "The King's Speech," director Tom Hooper and screenwriter David Seidler have crafted a good film. Stirring and thrilling and all of that. I admit to feeling a few chills run up my spine. Whether it was by manipulation or merit is moot. They were there. That is enough.

I cannot tell you whether this is the Best Picture of the year. I haven't seen "The Social Network." (It's in my Netflix queue, but the entire country must be renting it, because it keeps slipping into second place.)

But it is a solid piece of a storytelling with fine acting by Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush. To tell you the truth I liked Rush the best. Firth was fine, though. He deserves his Oscar.

I'm not going to bother with synopsis. You either know the plot already or can find it elsewhere. Short and sweet, "The King's Speech" is about a stutterer who happens to be King George VI and the elocutionist who assists him.

Yes, the film has the added attraction of being true, more or less. It's a movie, which means it takes liberties with history. For some reason, this has driven Christopher Hitchens nuts. He's right, but then again, he's an ass. An intelligent ass, but an ass nevertheless.

Word surfaced this week that an edited version of the film is being planned to cash in on the Oscar glow. From what I understand, the new cut would remove a scene or two involving the f-word in order to downgrade the MPAA rating from R to PG-13.

This is a travesty on a number of tiers, the main one of which is that the f-bomb scene is one of the film's best. The crowd at Regal Cinema Downtown West laughed loudly, and appreciatively, at it. To cut it in order to make more money is shameful. This film has already proven it can stand on its own. Leave it alone.

Speaking of the crowd, I'd almost forgotten how pleasant it is to see a good movie on the big screen with a group of adults. Nobody talked. Nobody texted. Such behavior has kept me at home in recent years and that's too bad. Movies are meant to be experienced, together, on a big screen.

My friend Matt and I plan to watch "The Social Network" on Sunday after the NASCAR race. I will let you know what I think about it.

For now I'll say that this film is grand indeed. It's a throwback to the Golden Age of Hollywood in the sense that it offers a solid story and awesome acting and an ending that will make you feel, well, like a king.

Long live the King.

This one's for the Duke

2011-03-01T00:00:00.001-05:00

In honor of the passing of the legendary Duke Snider, here is a 2005 New York Daily News piece by the peerless Pete Hamill on the Boys of Summer and their big finish in '55.

Reading, instead, on Oscar night

2011-02-28T00:00:00.006-05:00

So I skipped most of the Oscars in favor of a good book.

What can I say? Most of my favorite movies were filmed before 1980 anyway.

Reclining in a chair, alternating ice and heat on my aching back, I read instead. The book is "The Lady Upstairs," about former New York Post publisher Dorothy Schiff.

I learned all about the great newspaper strike of the '60s, about how the Post came out of it as the No. 1 P.M. newspaper in New York. I learned how Dolly, as she was known, became fascinated by Jackie O. I learned that she liked to ride the elevator alone to the Post's penthouse office in part because she was afraid she'd forget someone's name.

Page after page tells a familiar tale. Schiff bothers over the bottom line, lamenting losses, doing this and that to get the paper to turn a profit. (It eventually did, by the way.)

I haven't reached the grand finale, in which the liberal crusader sells her beloved Post to an Aussie who promptly flips its editorial pages 180 degrees. Only in America, right?

Reading about the Post's declining readership way back when makes me ponder over the present. I worry that we do not read anymore. Sound bites and social networks have all but obliterated our attention spans. The day may soon arrive in which metropolitan areas might not have even one daily paper.

But a sentence from the book stands out. Musing over why the Post endured, someone said it was because the paper had a POV, a strong, uncensored voice, one that stood for something, shouting from the figurative rooftops, even, when it was needed.

Seems like there's a lesson in that somewhere.

Oh, and yeah, I finally turned on the Oscars. I do wanna see "The King's Speech."

Bredesen gives Haslam some advice...

2011-02-27T15:54:00.003-05:00

In today's New York Times, Phil Bredesen gives some advice to his successor, Tennessee Gov. Bill Haslam.

'The American Sphinx'

2011-02-26T01:52:00.006-05:00

Forgive my absence for a few days.

Low back pain. Doctor. Please don't let it be a kidney stone. Good news. Inflamed sciatic nerve. Really? At (almost) 33? Oh, well. It's not a stone. Thank God.

Watched for the first time since its 1997 premiere the Ken Burns Thomas Jefferson biography. Our third president is an enigma, indeed.

One can't help but admire Jefferson. One also can't help but marvel at his contradictions. The author of the American Scripture, the Declaration of Independence, who never freed his slaves. The man with an organized mind and cluttered, chaotic personal habits.

Joseph J. Ellis calls Jefferson the American Sphinx. That's as apt a description as any.

I am always moved by the story of Jefferson's reconciliation with John Adams during the last decade of their lives. Their letters are elegiac -- moving and monumental.

Perhaps this spring or summer I can return to Virginia, to Monticello, to the house Jefferson never quite finished. I would love to stroll the campus of the university he designed and dream again of living the scholarly life.

I stand in awe of his intellect and am frustrated by his public (that terrible embargo) and private acts. And, yet, I forgive him somewhat, too. Even the great Jefferson was a product of his time.

Of all the great moments in the American experience, surely Jefferson's and Adams' deaths on July 4, 1826, 50 years to the day after the signing of our Declaration, soar among the stars.

If Washington is the father and Lincoln is the savior, Jefferson, then, is the soul -- encompassing both the light and the darkness, the good and the bad, the great American dilemma between ideals and reality.

A portable garden; let it grow!

2011-02-22T00:00:00.003-05:00

I guess the whole thing started with "Danny and the Dinosaur."

My parents read it to me again and again. I can still see the pictures, still see the words on the page. I remember the dinosaur hiding in the museum. I remember thinking that was funny. Clever, even.

I don't know if you could call me a precocious child -- that seems pretentious -- but I could read before I ever stepped into a classroom. I loved it, yes, I did.

Somewhere in the second or third grade, neighbor Marilyn Johnson gave me a copy of her son Ben's Hardy Boys mystery, "While the Clocked Ticked." And I was a goner.

Thus the dominoes began to fall -- more Hardy Boys and "Where the Red Fern Grows," when the boy falls on the axe. Joyce Hill showed us the movie; my pictures were better than Hollywood's. Then came Encyclopedia Brown. Books on meteorology and football and politics.

By 9 or 10, maybe before, I was reading the papers -- the stories, the comics, the Mini Page, the TV guide.

Looking back, it seems inevitable that I would one day herd words. I was writing stories by the third or fourth grade. I can remember sitting on the playground at the old Brickey school, looking, learning, lamenting. When I got to Virginia Rains's fifth grade class, she would have me write one story a week to share with my chums. It continued that next year, Roy Andrews and the "Snood" mysteries. He put them up on a board at the front of the class. Jon Wright drew the cover.

These memories floated out of the mist of time last night while I was reading Roger Rosenblatt's "Unless it Moves the Human Heart," about the craft of writing. He says that all good writers are readers. I agree.

I would worry, fret even, over a writer who doesn't read. The late, great Wilma Dykeman once gave me great advice. To be a writer, she typed in an old-fashioned letter, write, write, write and read, read, read.

And so I did. Whenever I was happy or sad or lonely or fulfilled, I would write. And read.

I stayed with mysteries for a long time. Agatha Christie and Conan Doyle and Nero Wolfe. A bit later came Ian Fleming and Dorothy Gilman. I tried to read Spillane but didn't much care for him.

The summer between my eighth and ninth grade years I read Harper Lee. "To Kill A Mockingbird." Brilliant in its simplicity, that little girl's story.

Still later came Hemingway and Faulkner, Larry McMurtry and John Grisham. And Charles Dickens, the best and worst of times, and the New York Times. I can still recall the absolute thrill, the shiver that ran up my spine, when I first held a Sunday Times in my excited little fingers. Sunday afternoons were never the same.

I was assigned John Updike in college, the one about that boy at the A&P, and knew I'd stumbled onto something special. I could see the ringleader and her two sidekicks. I was there, in the store with them. I could see it, dammit. I could see it!

Then Sandra Clark introduced me to Pete Hamill. For the first time I became cognizant of language as rhythm, music keeping time with the metronome. I read "A Drinking Life," the perfect memoir with not a wasted word, and I knew. Yes. This was writing.

Other discoveries have been gold nuggets sifted out of the soil. Shiny. Sublime.

Pat Conroy and the broken sand dollars. Jay Gatsby and the blinking green light.

"In Cold Blood." That awful, awful night in Kansas.

A bit later I read Capote's novella "Breakfast at Tiffany's," evidence, if you need it, that even the cinema can't top a super scribe.

I remember the night I read "The Old Man and the Sea," in one sitting, a can of Coors hidden behind the chair. I could smell the saltwater and the sea air and see the look of grief on the old man's weathered face. I could see it, dammit. I could see it!

Reading is such a pleasure. It isn't passive, for one thing. The author sets the stage. You get to be the casting director. The pictures are in your head. And what's wonderful about it is your pictures are different from mine.

Someone once said that a good book is a garden carried around in one's pocket. Let it grow, I say. Let it grow!

My regards still belong to Broadway

2011-02-21T20:46:00.006-05:00

Manhattan is but a memory, yet my regards still belong to Broadway.

Our trip to New York was oh so short. Up and back. One and done. Blink. It's over.

But well worth it. I'd forgotten how much I love The City, with its busy sidewalks and blinking lights and big skyscrapers and bustling cacophony.

My mind drifts back there. I make it a point to read the New York section of the Times on my Kindle. Surfing the web means stops at the Daily News and New York Magazine websites. I sneak in a page or two of Pete Hamill while taking a break from Roger Rosenblatt's book on writing.

I tell everyone how much we loved Radio City and Rockfeller Center. I think back to the marquee advertising "Driving Miss Daisy," and wish for the 100th time I could have stayed one more day to see James Earl Jones and Vanessa Redgrave play opposite one another.

Scrolling through the DVR list, I'm tickled to see I recorded an old favorite, "Sunday in New York," a few weeks ago. I'll give it a look later in the week.

Home is happy but my heart remains in Herald Square.

Now, it seems, I need a little give and take. The New York Times; the Daily News...

In a New York state of mind...

2011-02-18T10:54:00.007-05:00

Hi gang.

Sorry I haven't ducked in this week. Took a quick jaunt to Manhattan to see "Elvis in Concert" at Radio City Music Hall. Great trip. Great time. More on that in an upcoming Shopper-News.

Weather is wonderful, isn't it? False spring has sprung. I only wish it would last, which you know it won't.

The fun had even hit Herald Square. A blustery 30-degree Tuesday gave way to a warm 50-degree Wednesday.

"Enjoy this weather while it lasts," said our server at Heartland Brewing Company, located at the base of the Empire State Building. I didn't even need the warm overcoat.

Manhattan is fun, feisty, forever alive and flashing. Too bad Jenn and I didn't have another day in the Big Apple. Saw the theater at which James Earl Jones and Vanessa Redgrave are appearing in "Driving Miss Daisy." Spotted a sign for another show devoted to the "Million Dollar Quartet" -- Elvis, Jerry Lee, Carl (as in Perkins) and Cash (as in Johnny). If only, if only.

Took the train from Penn Station back to Newark, back to reality. Woke up in Times Square, went to sleep in Tennessee.

I don't have any reasons, to quote Billy Joel. I've left them all behind.

I'm in a New York state of mind...

'Nixon in China': An opera, an experience

2011-02-13T14:55:00.009-05:00

So I watched "Nixon in China," the stunning, curious opera by John Adams, seen the way it should be -- in living HD -- on a big screen at Regal Cinema West Town Mall yesterday. (The only thing better, of course, would be experiencing it at the Met itself.)

And this is an opera to be experienced. I still don't know what I think about it. One thing is certain. Adams and that whirling dervish of a director Peter Sellars, who has the most colorful coif since Don King, have produced the most important American opera since "Porgy and Bess."

In the current Met production, James Maddalena sings Nixon in the role that he created in the opera's 1987 debut in Houston. Janis Kelly plays a sympathetic Pat Nixon, Russell Baun is Chou En-lai, Robert Brubaker is Mao Tse-tung, Kathleen Kim is Chiang Ch'ing (Madame Mao) and Richard Paul Fink is Henry Kissinger. Composer Adams also conducts.

The best scene is the rather faithfully adapted meeting between Nixon and Mao. Nixon tries to talk pragmatic politics; Mao mumbles in generalities. The worst scene is the opera-within-an-opera in which Kissinger is reduced to a strutting buffoon. It isn't Fink's fault; he does a superb job with what is scripted. For some reason, Adams decided that Kissinger would provide the comic relief and it doesn't work.

"Nixon in China" made me think of the work of composer Philip Glass. Maybe it's its minimalism. Maybe it's because I downloaded and listened to Glass's "Violin Concerto No. 2" last week. I don't know. I do know that I'm glad I saw it.

The second act is the weakest link, but the third act, also surreal, nearly redeems the mistake, as the main characters muse on mortality, reality and what-might-have-beens.

Read about the current Met production and other related material here.

The New York Times review is here.

Gay Talese gathers former Kissinger aide Winston Lord's reaction to the opera in a "Talk of the Town" piece for the current anniversary edition (2/14 and 2/21/11) of The New Yorker.

The best book on Nixon's 1972 China trip to date is "Nixon and Mao: The Week that Changed the World" by Margaret MacMillan.

Chet, Don, "Vincent"

2011-02-11T11:49:00.002-05:00

Submitted for your approval here is Chet Atkins and Don McLean performing McLean's perfectly poetic song "Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)."

"They would not listen, they're not listening still; perhaps they never will..."

Bon voyage to the best show on TV

2011-02-10T14:27:00.010-05:00

So, I have watched the final episode of "Friday Night Lights," the best show on television, the one most of you don't watch.

That is a shame, but it's a story for another day. Today is time to say so long, farewell, thanks for the memories, adios. For five improbable years, "FNL" has treated viewers to smart, realistic, funny, touching television. We've witnessed superb acting, even better writing, a gritty sense of realism and a rare sight in modern network television -- realistic, deeply realized character arcs.

Other than one major exception -- the silly "murder" plot in the second season -- this show has held true to itself, felt more like a documentary than drama, and offered fans wonderful moments in American television.

Oh, how I can brag -- about Kyle Chandler's Coach Eric Taylor, about Connie Britton's Tami Taylor, about their perfectly portrayed marriage; about Taylor Kitsch, and Zach Gilford, and Jesse Plemons and Minka Kelly and Michael B. Jordan and Gaius Charles and so many other fine young actors.

But, I have to brag about the best -- Brad Leland as Buddy Garrity, the most honest and perfectly played character on the program. Every community in America has a Buddy Garrity hovering around its high school football program. You know who they are. Watching Brad's Buddy, week after week, season after season, has been a true treat.

It was a show about high school football, but then again, it wasn't. It was about life, loving your family, growing up, overcoming adversity, making choices and learning to live with them. It was good, darn good, something to be savored.

I won't give away anything about the series finale in a nod to you poor souls who have to wait for the NBC spring broadcast or the final season DVD release. Don't want to spoil it. (I saw it on DirecTV's exclusive fall broadcast.)

This show has been so awesome, so authentic, so apt for this chapter of the American experience. In case you missed it, surf now over to Netflix or Amazon or somewhere to get the DVDs, or hold tight until the NBC airing of season five starts soon.

Forgive the trite analogy, but "Friday Night Lights" has been five years worth of forward passes, all thrown for touchdowns, proof positive that terrific television isn't a thing of the past.