LISTENER CALL-IN FOR HOT PLATE RADIO

Ladies and germs--
We're getting close to recording the pilot show for Hot Plate! 120 Minute Radio Hour. . It will be pre-recorded before broadcast, and for the short term that's the way we will do the show. The plan is to evolve to where the show is live with call in, but for now I invite anyone who would like to call in to send me a recorded message on Facebook as if you were calling in to a show with a question or comment. You can include your name and location if you want to. Panel discussion on pilot will cover the current political situation, and all perspectives are welcome, so it's pretty broad. Conservatives and right wingers are encouraged to participate, if they are still following me here. Liberals and leftists also, of course. Etc.
  If you don't know how to send a prerecorded message on Facebook, message me on Facebook with typed words and I'll walk you through it. If you don't know how to do that, post a Facebook comment and I'll walk you through it here.

A LONG WAY TO GO, AND A SHORT TIME TO GET THERE

  The highbrow among you will have to wait patiently in your dens with the port for the day when I'm waxing about film in the vein of Welles, Bunuel, Murnau, Almodovar, Ozu, Eisenstein, and the rest of the highfalutin gang. This day is set aside for a more modest cinematic artisan-- Needham.
  I'm not sure what possessed me to screen "Smokey and the Bandit" last night, but it may have been my numerous failed attempts to find a movie our whole family could watch. My 12-year-old suffers from the media curse of this benighted era-- the blight of "animated" children's movies about adorable anthropomorphy has finally lost its charm for him, in part because of heavy exposure to the intermittently clever but mostly mean-spirited satires of the Seth McFarland empire, and his attitude about the kudzulike Star Wars franchise could best be described as tolerant, but despite his extensive internet-gleaned knowledge of everything under the sun, he has yet to make the jump to anything remotely adult. A trial balloon with Woody Allen's "earlier, funny" movies proved a bust, and in desperation I reached for a film that was like catnip for my generation. I'm talking about an exercise in cinematic storytelling that once upon a time fervently whispered to rednecks and middle schoolers alike-- "Smokey and the Bandit."
  Watching this film in 2017 on a DVD is both similar to and different from the 1977 experience. Subtitles thankfully drained some of the mystery from Paul Williams's Method acting as Little Enos,

CECIL, KERNELS, AND FLAN

  Last night, I drove to my dad's Senior Commune for dinner. On the way over, I listened to a Cecil Taylor album, and worked on my spiel about abstract music.
  On the Hot Plate radio show, I'll attempt to do something that may be even harder than getting Americans to talk civilly about politics-- I'm going to try to get people to accept abstract music. Or at least to learn to think about it beyond the "I hate this, therefore I question whether it's even music at all" response. I plan to demonstrate that abstract music can actually be a lot of fun, rather than the torture it's perceived to be by the uninitiated.
  By the time I got to my dad's, I'd gotten weary of the Taylor album I was listening to. The piece had done something many of Cecil's performances do-- gradually bumped up the dynamics and activity until by the end it's loud and busy. I was surprised at my reaction, because I like his work in general, and his work with the Feel Trio is some of his best. Willam Parker is one of the finest "avant-garde" bassists, and Tony Oxley is a spectacularly inventive drummer, with ideas on rhythm and texture that fit beautifully with Taylor's.
  Then I realized my error. You can't listen to music passively, drift away from it, and drift back in to dismiss it. I was rehearsing my talk about this very issue while I was "listening," and didn't really focus on the music while it was gradually building up. Cecil's high-energy climaxes are arrived at in an organic way, and if you're not onboard for the development, you're not going to enjoy the majestic clutter he's worked up to.

CAVETT EMPTOR

  Just as even the most unenthusiastic grain of sand must eventually make the jump to the bottom of the hourglass, we've at long last wound up here, plunked down by the merry fates into the thick of a day that seems likely to live in infamy, at least for some of us. (I gather that many of my fellow Americans are walking around in the throes of a kind of aggressive optimism, which is different from any I've ever felt in that its lucky sufferers are able to believe we are entering a golden age, while still feeling the need to angrily tweak those of us who don't quite buy it.)

I've been getting some minuscule solace from a book whose author is perhaps the tweediest man ever to wind up on a corrupt president's enemies list.
 On my choice of the word "corrupt," a word bandied about around the clock these days, I hasten to reassure the handful of Republicans who, despite their convictions that we'd all be better off without political correctness, are still inexplicably every bit as sensitive to criticism as the most entitled minority, that I am referring, I hope non-controversially, to Dick Nixon (long ago corrupt) and Dick Cavett (presumably still tweedy).

CHEESE PYRAMID TRIGGERS POST-DEMOCRACY ENTITLEMENT

   Last night, my wife Lisa was at a private party in a D.C. hotel lobby. It was a few work friends, and a table with some catered food.
  There were a couple other private parties going on in the same lobby at the same time, and a prodigal guest from a competing soirée ambled over and started filling a plate with unearned food.
  At this point I should own up that I can see myself doing what that guy did. When I'm at virtually any gathering where tables are covered with food, I see the comestibles as essentially my reward for being forced to stand around making small talk with other humans. Baked puffs with stuff inside them? Don't mind if I do! Asparagus with bacon? Strange bedfellows, perhaps, but this is a brave new world we live in! A pyramid of Colby cheese cubes? I trust that no Egyptians died building this magnificent edifice! Ha ha! (Grudgingly uses cheese tongs, when my right fist would be much more efficient.)
  But the fellow's next move separates him from me. A lady explained to him that the food he was plating was not for him. Really? But I'm a Republican!, he countered.

YELLOW FEATHERS IN HER HAIR, AND A DRESS CUT DOWN TO THERE

  This morning I was fortunate to hear Barry Manilow's "Copacabana." My reaction to this item from a far off time surprised me. "Copacabana," a song for which I've never had any affection, emerges in retrospect as a weird example of a very weird mini-genre-- the cautionary tale that you can dance to. And as terrible as this song has always seemed to me, it's hard not to embrace the absurdity of it. These days when I don't like a pop song, it's usually because it has a threadbare emotional landscape that I can't enter. But Manilow's undeniable gift for Pavlovian melody, coupled with an elaborate gaggle of session musicians elaborately bringing the AM funk, pulls me in like quicksand.
  I think the Hot Plate Radio Panel, after we exhaust ourselves commentating on the political scene, may have to turn to more serious matters-- the dissection of this bizarre record, which is equally infectious and tragic (not unlike leprosy).
 

THE CONQUEROR EAR WORM

  I hope the folks who like my "serious" writing won't roll their eyes at this "less thinky" item.
  I'm attempting to keep a scientific record of all the pop songs that get stuck in my head. I have both love and hate for pop music, which has dominated my life and career, but endless exposure to it has driven me into the arms of jazz, classical, avant-garde music, international music where I can't understand the words, etc. This is partly because I can't stand it when songs get stuck in my head. Even after many hours of listening, Derek Bailey never gets stuck in my head, for which I thank the man.

  KARL STRAUB'S LIST OF SONGS THAT GOT STUCK IN HIS HEAD RECENTLY (A LIST HE WILL KEEP ADDING TO)
The first one is from the date of this post.


"Roundabout" by Yes
"Rocket to Stardom" theme from a sketch on  Fernwood Tonight
"Levon" by Elton John
"I'm Alright" by Kenny Loggins
"Silhouettes" by the Rays
"Bus Stop" by the Hollies
"Love Is All Around" by Sonny Curtis (Mary Tyler Moore theme)
"Eternal Flame" by the Bangles
song about how great white people are, from Family Guy (watched under duress)
"Eastbound and Down" by Jerry Reed (theme from Smokey and the Bandit")
"I Must Be In Love" by the Rutles (for some reason the bridge is bedeviling me)
"Whatcha Gonna Do" by Pablo Cruise
"Brandy" by Sugar Loaf

ICE CAPS MELT WHILE DIALOGUE STAYS FROZEN, THANKS TO SUPREME COURT PRO-OLIGARCHY RULING

 If you have any plans to listen to an old Peter Cook album while eating Ramen Noodles, I can no longer recommend it. I don't know if any of you know what it feels like to have a bunch of salty noodle broth go through your nose, but I can testify that it's not exactly pleasant; I understand people sometimes swim in the Dead Sea, and I imagine if any of that slim demographic are reading this, they're saying, "Yeah, this guy gets it."
  On the other hand, the Ramen-through-the-nose experience is preferable to what I'm feeling this morning. It's a typical morning for me in Trump's America. The paper reminds me of how fast things are moving, and how many things I should be processing, but they're just coming over the plate  too fast for a guy who's built more for chess than for baseball. And that's not to suggest I'm good at chess; I'm not. But chess makes it possible for a player to sit staring at a bunch of plastic without moving or making a sound, and convey the impression he knows what he's doing. Hand me a bat and lead me to the plate, and even the most charitable among you will have trouble remaining optimistic about my prospects.
  Thus, I approach the editorial page with the vain hope that nothing there will interest me. Others are apoplectically outraged by the day's events and their implications; I spent the Bush years in that state, and it took a toll on my health. (Lousy diet and sporadic exercise may have contributed, but it sounds better to cast myself as a victim of the GOP.)

CONSERVATIVES DEDICATED TO MAKING THEIR CHILDREN LOOK LIKE BUTTON GWINNETT

    Here's another example of spin from the National Review. This particular issue-- childhood obesity and school lunches-- bugs me in a way a lot of more talked-about ones do not.
  A mocking article about Michelle Obama casts her as a person who wants to treat Americans like children. And some statements from her do in fact use metaphors that open her up to criticism of that sort. So, while I don't share their feelings about her, I can at least understand their perspective.
  Except when this narrative control exercise is used to justify ignoring Michelle's suggestions about feeding less shitty food to our children in school. This may be another example of how liberalism and conservatism are fundamentally different. To many conservatives, business is good, government is bad. In this context, that means that if a corporation can make a bunch of money producing shitty fucking food for school kids, we love it. But if the federal government tries to fix this, that's bad because it's treating us like children who can't make our own choices.
  Well, I don't like it when The Man (or, as in this case, The Woman) tells me what I can or can't read, or think, or what have you. But treating this like another one of those mockworthy examples of government overreach reveals a disturbing reality about conservatism-- where's the outrage over state/local governments collaborating with corporations to fatten our kids up like Christmas geese?

THERE'S NOTHING MORE AMERICAN THAN NARRATIVE CONTROL

  As I make the rounds of various news and opinion media, I feel increasingly like a tragic figure naively carrying a lantern into parts unknown-- we've heard lately from various comedians and commentators that liberals live in a bubble, and I don't deny that, but the implication that conservatives are bubble-eschewers is entirely fatuous. I go from one bubble to another, it seems. As I carry out my investigations into a series of news stories and how they are treated by different journalists and pundits, a picture emerges of a network of hives and cubicles, a honeycomb of buzzing professionals whose job it is to control the narrative on behalf of their side, or their boss's side.
  As always, I confess up front to my own considerable left wing bias, but I also confess that I'm becoming less interested in policy and issues and more interested in the carnival of pitchmen and rubes that tuck us in at night so that we'll vote the way one party or another wants us to vote, until Death sneaks in and removes us from their grip.

POT CALLS OUT KETTLE FOR WILLFUL LACK OF CLARITY REGARDING VARIOUS SHADES OF BLACK

  National Review is an interesting phenomenon; it's one of the few remaining loud conservative voices that hasn't drunk the Trump Tang. Over at the Post, columnists George Will and Charles Krauthammer have retreated a bit from their pre-election anti-Trump tone. I'm reluctant to slam them on this; others won't be shy about it, of course, but I don't plan to forget how Will and Krauthammer stuck their necks out several times a week during Trump's candidacy.
  To their credit, National Review is sticking to their story. A recent appeal to subscribers addressed them this way:

  "You represent a broad spectrum of opinion about our president-elect: Some of you are devoted Trump supporters who "forgive" us; some of you are reluctant Trump supporters who appreciated seeing our various writers grapple with the Trump phenomenon in real time and so honestly; some of you are still Trump skeptics."

  I haven't read any of the anti-Trump pieces they refer to here; but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. NR is one of many print media veterans desperately trying to figure out how to evolve in our post-print world. After thirty seconds of effort, I lost patience trying to access their archived stories. To put it in perspective, the New Yorker frustrated me for years with their various bunglings and missteps in this area, but their current online presence is greatly improved, to the point where it's now difficult to STOP reading New Yorker articles. Possibly the liberal elites who read the New Yorker have sped past their conservative brethren in this regard; I'm still trying to help my dad learn how to use his cell phone, but that's anecdotal evidence at best.

MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION-- TO BE DISGUSTINGLY INFORMED

So it's come to this-- in order to be more informed about the thinking of people I don't agree with, I am now reading the following:

National Review (they offer a free year's digital subscription)

Henry Ford's "The International Jew-- the World's Foremost Problem"
(Thanks to George Greene for recommending this. A quick scan of the contents page reveals this fascinating chapter title-- "Jewish Jazz Becomes Our National Music")

 Celine's "Trifles for a Massacre"
(This one's an especially weird experience for me because Celine is one of my favorite writers despite his indefensible antisemitism)

I suppose I'll be rereading Will Eisner's book about the Protocols, and I think I have another book by him about jew hatred in America.

And I'll need numerous palate cleansers. My various collections of Milt Gross seem like a good choice, and I'll also need to dip into the intriguing recent book about Krazy Kat auteur George Herriman that suggests Herriman was actually black, passing for white.

WHEN YOU WISH UPON A TAR

Son: Dad, want me to show you how I put pine tar all over my baseball gear?
Dad: (looks up from some stupid thing he was doing) Huh?
Son: For example, see how I put it all over my batting helmet?
Dad: What does that do?
Son: It makes the helmet easier to pick up.
Dad: I thought people put pine tar on their bats.
Son: They do. Check out my bat. It's got pine tar all over it.
Dad: I thought pine tar was illegal.
Son: It is. But only if you put it on the barrel. It's ok to put it on the handle. Makes it easier to grip the bat.
Dad: And why do you put it in this middle area of the bat, the part that's neither barrel nor handle? What does that do?
Son: I don't know.
Dad: Isn't that stuff all sticky?
Son: Only if you touch it.