Reacquainted with old friends

I've picked up a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn for the first time since my junior year in high school and am enjoying it immensely, no, much more immensely than the first time around. The "reading snippets to teach a larger point about American literature/narrative structure" does a lot of damage to the work of art in the service of pedagogy. If we're going to have a "Great Books" curriculum, let's read the whole fucking book, no? At any rate, being able to take the time to read it slowly and savor its lyricism is proving to be especially pleasurable.

I've also rediscovered Tower of Power's epic Live and in Living Color, whose second side monster "Knock Yourself Out" powered many an acid-soaked dance party in my college days. The soul on this show is deep, the horns tight, and the funk ground-shaking. And it has a twenty-minute horn/organ showcase that is The. Shit. The only problem is that with a forty-five minute running time, it's far too short.

Be on the lookout for shifty looking purple people

I'm sure a copy editor will catch this, but I'll record it for posterity:

"The indictment of Christopher Paul paints a disturbing picture of an American who traveled overseas to train as a violet jihadist [emphasis added], joined the ranks of al-Qaida and provided military instruction and support to radial cohorts both here and abroad," Assistant U.S. Attorney General Kenneth Wainstein said in a statement.

Take me out to the public art at the ballgame

Let's be honest: we shouldn't expect great public art at the various municipal baseball stadia that dot the major and minor population centers of our nation. These venues most appropriately host Norman Rockwell-esque paeans to Anglo-Saxon nostalgia that are popular with the septugenarian set. Take this particularly bad piece of art outside the Double-A Portland (ME) Seadogs stadium, sussed out by King Kaufman:

So it looks like Dad is trying to scalp his tickets and Junior is arguing with him, trying to persuade him to change his mind. I'm guessing Junior mouthed off one too many times. Mom, dressed in an '80s shift that looks like it came from the free box and looking heat exhausted, annoyed and put upon, patiently waits out the battle while Sissy struggles in her arms.

It looks like the national memorial for the Unknown Unhappy Family.

For my money, however, the worst public sculpture in baseball resides in Chicago, where Harry Carey lords over the tormented, wailing souls that occupy Wrigley Field (otherwise known as "Cubs fans"):

Everyday

I'm about three months late to the party on this, but I just got turned on to this YouTube vid:

Watching this was, for me, one of those moments when I really grokked the new artistic vistas opened by emerging technologies. A truly inspired piece.