I Got a Name

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It was getting late, and my brother and I had the billiard room to ourselves, an odd place for us to be, since, considering the day, neither of us felt like playing pool.

“You know,” I ventured, “I’d have invited Dad to the club, but I’m not sure he’d have come.”

My brother Jess, in the role of DJ Jester.

“He would have,” Jess said, chalking his cue.  “At least once, just because you asked him to.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed after he’d broken.  “But you have to admit, this really isn’t his kind of place.”

Jess chuckled as he lined up a shot at the nine-ball.  “Yeah.  He preferred places where the pool tables have quarter slots, there are no tablecloths in the dining room, there’s a jukebox in the corner, and the dessert cart is a glass case by the cash register.”

“And I’m pretty sure that’s why you and I are partial to those places, too.”

“I guess it just comes natural for us.”

“Environment, in my case.  I got his name, but you got his genetics, remember?”

Me and my dad, c. 1971. You gotta love our groovy curtains, right?

My parents adopted me when I was less than a week old, thinking that they couldn’t have children of their own.  Jess proved them wrong 10 years later.

I can’t ever remember not knowing I was adopted, and it’s always been a point of pride with me.  I have another adopted brother and a sister who came along after Jess, but Mom and Dad made a point of never using adoption as a distinction.  It was simply how our family came to be the way it was.

That isn’t to say I haven’t sometimes wished for a little more than the Roman numeral after my name.  My father was one of the most genuinely likeable characters I’ve ever known, a trait Jess inherited.  I’ve always come up a little short on personality.

It was still his turn, but my brother seemed in no hurry to take it.

“Genetics doesn’t count for everything.  What was the name of that science fiction show he used to watch, the one with Richard Dean Anderson?”

“Stargate, I think.”

“Yeah, that’s it.  I’d watch it with him, but I never could get into it like he did.”

“He always tried to get me to like it, too.”

I remembered the last time he did.  Dad hadn’t been well, so I was spending more time than usual back home.  He’d watch episodes of the space opera at night, having spent the afternoon watching The Food Network.  Dad was a good cook, and he always loved experimenting with new recipes and even making up his own.  I still insist that his onion dip should be its own food group.

“It’s been nice having you back around so much,” he told me during a commercial one afternoon.  “It seems like old times.”

I didn’t say anything.  I wanted to.  But I couldn’t.  Not then.

A few days before the end, Jess and I did have the conversation with him that all fathers and sons need to have.  I know my brother and I are glad we did.  I hope Dad was, too.

In his memoir, A Pirate Looks at Fifty, Jimmy Buffett dedicated a chapter to his father’s battle with Alzheimer’s disease.  He concluded it with a reference to Desdemona, a character in one of his novels who operated a bakery and rocket launching pad in a Caribbean pirate town:

“‘Her heart is in the kitchen, but her soul is in the stars.’  Change the pronoun, and you have my dad — J.D.”

I wish I’d written that line.  Change the pronoun, and you have my dad, too — Gordon E. Roberts Jr.

I Got a Name

At the Magic City Art Connection

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With BBVA Compass presenting the 29th Magic City Art Connection over the weekend, it seemed like a good occasion to add a few pieces to the decor at the club.

And, as the following scenes show, the festival — spotlighting the work of local artists and others from Oregon to Florida — didn’t disappoint.

Jeannie and Sam Maddox of Dothan provided the Connection with one of its most striking visual displays.  “Naples Swimmer” is an oil painting that vividly demonstrates their photorealistic style.

“Colleen” is also an example of how a Maddox painting provides “the ultimate in photorealism.”

“Taxi,” another amazing Maddox painting.  Put the Harry Chapin song of the same name on repeat, and I could look at this all day.

Here’s an atmospheric entry in Claire Cormany‘s terrific Magic City After Dark series.  The Birmingham artist, who works with oils and acrylics, is also a successful graphic designer and illustrator.

It was a busy weekend for my friend Christy Turnipseed, whose Lil’ Seeds creations were quite a hit.  By the end of the first day of the festival, patrons had even bought the jewelry she was wearing.

As shown by this selection of rings, Christy draws inspiration from Art Deco, classic literature, and vintage sheet music.  Lil’ Seeds transcends jewelry.  It’s art.

Jennifer Ivory’s 3D Insectworks displays are so lifelike that her exhibit includes disclaimer signs assuring that no insects were harmed during the creation of her art.  They’re so impressive that they earned a Magic City Art Connection Award of Merit.

A resident of Oregon, Ivory says she stumbled across the idea for Insectworks by accident while designing butterflies as a wedding present for a friend.  She was pursuing a graduate degree in architecture at the time and now is a full-time working artist.

The laid-back and personable Francisco Adaro describes himself as a painter of life’s pictures.  In his kaleidoscope shirt, jeans, and paint-stained loafers, he looked the part as he brought his colorful wood and canvas paintings to the festival.  Adaro is a native of Argentina who currently works in Florida.

“Out of the Box,” a painting on wood by Adaro Art.  The out-of-the-box portion is painted on a remnant of wine crate.  “My wife is a wine expert,” Adaro said.

Take some time to check out the soft, smooth sounds of international crooner Michelet Innocent.  Like the festival audiences, you’ll be glad you did.

Birmingham-based singer Jen Moody and her band had 20th Street North rocking during the festival’s second afternoon.

Up-and-coming artists were represented by such works as “Geometry.”  Created by art students at Mountain Brook High School, it was awarded second place in the High School Sculpture Project.

 

A quick (and painless) mathematics lesson

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The library at the Cobalt Club is one of my favorite places on the planet.  One reason is that its shelves contain all the books that should be part of every secular library.

Such as Gray’s Anatomy.  Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style.  Johnson’s Dictionary.  H.G. Wells’ The Outline of History.  Following the Equator by Mark Twain.  Tales of the South Pacific by James Michener.  All My Best Friends by George Burns.  One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss.

And The Books of the Elements.

On a recent evening, I’d taken a copy of Euclid’s greatest contribution to civilization from the shelf and gotten lost thumbing through it.  I’ve never enjoyed mathematics but have always been fascinated by the ancient geometric textbook.  Maybe that’s because Euclidean geometry is as much a study of logic as it is of integers.

That thought always reminds me of a conversation I had with Dr. Barry Spieler during his visit to the club.  At the time, he was professor of mathematics at Birmingham-Southern College, where he taught for 17 years before accepting a position at Montgomery College in Maryland.

Barry is anything but the stereotypical professor.  A personable man who dotes on his children, bakes his own bread, studies classical guitar, and has sung with the Birmingham Jewish Community Chorale, he’s a past Alabama Professor of the Year.  Seeming more comfortable to be “Barry” than “Dr. Spieler,” he’s the professor students hope they get or wish they’d had.  I learned more about mathematics during 10 minutes of conversation with him than I did during any math class I ever sat through.

“Did you always like math?” I asked him.

“I liked it a lot in elementary school and high school,” he said, sipping a latte as he settled into a comfortable chair.  “I was good at it, and it seemed to come easy.  My grandfather was good at math and puzzles and figuring things out.  He was a math major in college but left his last semester because of the Depression.  I got my math genes from him.”

“Mine must be on permanent holiday,” I replied.  “Math never came easily for me, and I’m sure that hoping to avoid it is one reason I chose to go into newspapers.”

“Well, a lot of people think of math as a field that is very specific, right or wrong. Those words carry a lot of emotional weight, as if it’s almost a moral issue. It’s something bigger than they are, so they’re afraid if they can’t get it right. But math is done by people. It’s all about ideas people have to understand quantitative things in the world. People who are afraid of math or shy away from it haven’t had the chance to see it that way. They see it as ‘always right or wrong, and I always get it wrong.’”

“Is math always scary?”

“The flip side is that some people take comfort in the right and wrong. It’s safe. It’s at least one thing that doesn’t waver. And that’s wrong, too. It isn’t just an answer to some question in a textbook.”

“So what is math really about?”

“Real mathematics is a combination of logic and reasoning and finding a precise language in which to describe your observations about things. You can think of it as a language that gives you an economy of thought. You make use of mathematical abstraction to process something efficiently.”

“Could you give me an example?”

“Sure,” he said, starting to look around as if he’d misplaced something.  “Actually, I wish I’d brought one of my visual aids.  That would make it easier.”

Emsworth suddenly appeared, proffering a multi-sided plastic object on his silver tray.  “Would this be helpful, sir?”

“Perfect.”  Barry took it and glanced up to smile at him, but Emsworth had already vanished.  He shrugged and pointed to the teaching tool.

“When you notice something that has a pretty symmetrical pattern to it, you can describe it in levels of precision. You could say it’s made up of shapes. Plastic pieces. Pentagons. Squares. Triangles. Equilateral triangles. How many there are of each. The more precise the description, the more mathematical it is. Mathematical abstractions, models, charts, graphs, and equations represent something that’s real and should be used to describe and understand things. There’s no need to make abstractions just to make abstractions.”

“So why do so many people – and I have to include myself — perceive mathematics as little more than pointless abstractions?” I asked.

“I think that, as teachers, we often underestimate people’s ability to have abstract mathematical ideas, while we over-expect them to be able to manipulate symbols.”

Then Barry told me about the math and music class he taught with voice professor David Smith at Birmingham-Southern. The Secret Life of Music and Mathematics explored how the two subjects are related.

“It’s really cool,” he said with the enthusiasm most people show when they’re speaking about anything other than math.  “They’re both abstract, they start with ideas in people’s heads, and they involve expressing complex ideas in a non-discursive language. We look at the role both play in society to find other connections between them, we look at the ways in which people make music (which, like math, has its own kind of logic and rules), the students write compositions without traditional instruments, and they learn some serious math and serious music in the process.”

That reminded him of how a guitar lesson prompted him to reevaluate his teaching methods.

“This is a good story,” he said as he finished his latte.  “When I’d go to a lesson, I’d watch the teacher play his guitar, he told me what to do, then told me to go home and practice, and I made no progress. Eventually I went to a new teacher, and he didn’t have a guitar. I sat down, and he said, ‘Barry, play something you like.’ I did, and he sat there and watched me. Then he moved my elbow about an inch and said, ‘Play it again.’ All he did was nudge my elbow, but I could feel a difference. It relaxed a tension in my hand I didn’t realize was there. The teacher was intently watching what I was doing and then suggested something to help me do it better.”

“And that was an epiphany?”

“It was. I went home thinking, ‘My gosh, instead of showing my students what to do and telling them to go home and mimic it, I want to be the teacher who says, ‘Show me what you do,’ and then nudge their elbows. That experience helped me realize what I was trying to do in my own classroom. Less lecturing, more listening. More showing them how to make things better for themselves, listening to their ideas and helping refine them.”

Ptolemy the First is reputed to have asked Euclid to identify the quickest and easiest way to study the postulates.  According to the account, Euclid’s answer was that there is no royal road to geometry.

There may not be, but I’m still rather glad I asked Barry Spieler for directions.

 For a full interview with Dr Spieler, conducted while he was still at Birmingham-Southern, click here.

 

The Final 48

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Covering the AHSAA basketball playoffs has kept me from spending as much time as usual at the club.  Basketball season always seems interminable until it wraps up in a whirlwind with area, sub-region, region, and state playoff games.

So there’s no conversation here tonight, but I hope you’ll enjoy looking at a few of the things I’ve seen through my camera during the past week while sitting on the hardwood.

Keith Washington of St. Jude savors a slam dunk during the Class 1A state semi-final.

Here he is again later, going in for a lay-up against Cedar Bluff.

 

Cedar Bluff's Levi Mintz.

 

Brian Bower of St. Jude clutches one of six rebounds he reeled in during the state semi-final. At right is Cedar Bluff's Evan McBurnett.

 

Frederick Hackett of Cedar Bluff scored six points against St. Jude.

 

Cedar Bluff's DeAngelo Hardy shares a laugh with St. Jude's Kiante Bell while waiting on a free-throw attempt.

 

Cedar Bluff's bench celebrates the 64-58 win that gave the Tigers a spot in the Class 1A championship game.

 

Kaela Adams scored nine points during McIntosh's 65-58 Class 1A semi-final win against R.A. Hubbard.

 

Alexandria Gholston drives in for two of her 28 points against McIntosh. At right is Paige Barnes.

 

Ashlen McCoy secures a loose ball early in the Class 1A semi-final. Defending for McIntosh are Kaela Adams and Paige Barnes.

 

Madison Boyd of Oneonta is defended by Anniston's Quanetria Bolton and Apryl Lewis during the Class 4A Northeast Regionals.

 

Oneonta coach Amber Deline protests a call.

 

Childersburg's Tyrell Garrett maneuvers between two Guntersville defenders during the Class 4A Northeast Regionals semi-final game.

And the Oscar goes to…

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Sarah Miller lifted her sugar-rimmed glass from the table, a dreamy, faraway look on her face.

The creative Sarah Miller dreams of being a vintage bombshell for the Oscers. And that Johnny Depp's date cancels.

“If I were going to the Oscars,” she said after sipping the lemon drop martini. “First off, I would have to be on the arm of Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, George Clooney or some other stud of equal studliness.”

“Sweet,” Chandra Chakravarthi approved as she munched on one of the small chocolate reproductions of the Academy Award of Merit Marcel had prepared for Oscar weekend.

“I would wear a dark purple dress,” Sarah resumed.  “So dark that it’s almost black. It would have to have a totally vintage feel, perhaps 1940s or 50s.  I would wear my hair down in vintage-esque body wave curls, and the make-up would be a no-brainer.  Smokey eyes and red lips. Red, red, red!”

Chandra laughed and sipped champagne.  “Jewelry?”

“Onyx and diamonds everywhere! Maybe earrings and some bracelets.  Probably no necklace.  We don’t want to take away from that killer dress.  What about you?”

The stylish Chandra Chakravarthi imagines walking the red carpet in five-inch designer heels.

“I would probably wear a gown from Marchesa or Reem Acra. They are probably in my top five favorite red carpet designers. Both designers create glamorous yet oh, so elegant gowns which are rich in color, texture, and detail.”

“Sounds like wearing either of their creations would make you feel like a princess,” Sarah observed.

“What girl wouldn’t want to feel like that, right?  And I agree with you — accessories would be kept to a minimum, because when you’re walking the red carpet the gown is the star. And of course, I’d have to wear the 5-inch Christian Louboutin heels.  I’m vertically challenged.”

“Okay if I cut in on the pajama party, girls?” I asked as I joined them at their table in the lounge.

“Sure,” Chandra said.  “You’re just in time to tell us what you’d wear if you went to the Oscars.”

“Probably just your standard evening suit, although I’m afraid I have no desire to attend the Oscars.  I lost my interest in awards shows years ago.”

“You mean you’re not going to an Oscar party tomorrow night?” Sarah asked.

“I’ve no plans to.  I can’t even remember the last time I watched the broadcast.”

“There’s only one real reason I watch the Oscars: the clothes.”

“Don’t you get started on that again,” I said sternly.  “But, just out of curiosity, I would be interested to know what your predictions are for tomorrow night.”

“Well, I should probably tell you that my friends like to make fun of me for my lack of movie viewing,” Sarah said.  “Some of them say that if a movie isn’t Home Alone 2 or The Burbs, I won’t watch it.  In fact, I was recently scolded by my best friend, Ginger, for not having seen The Help.”

“She should have scolded you,” Chandra said as she gave Sarah a reproachful look. “I love The Help.  Naturally, the book is better, but Viola Davis gives a poignant and honest portrayal of Aibileen which resonates with people.”

“Will she win the best actress Oscar?” I asked.

“She should, but I could also see voters leaning towards Michelle Williams.  People are still fascinated with Marilyn Monroe. If Viola Davis hadn’t been nominated in this category, I’d want Michelle Williams to win.”

“Do you agree, Sarah?”

“I’d go with Meryl Streep.  I listened to an interview she did with Terry Gross on NPR about her performance in The Iron Lady.  I loved listening to her discuss her preparation for the role, specifically regarding her adaptation of Margaret Thatcher’s voice.  She did a great job portraying her.  Who wouldn’t love to see Meryl Streep win an Academy Award?  She is a timeless, classic beauty.”

“She is,” Chandra nodded.  “If Viola Davis or Michelle Williams don’t win, Meryl Streep will.”

“Best supporting actress?” I prompted.

“Melissa McCarthy was the. Best. Part of the movie Bridesmaids,” Sarah said.  “I never stopped laughing.  It was so surprising to see Melissa in this role, and she nailed it.  Since I haven’t seen The Help, my vote goes to Melissa, but I assume that the award will actually go to Octavia Spencer for The Help, based on what Ginger told me.”

“Ginger’s right,” Chandra said.  “It will. I loved Octavia’s feisty persona.  She had me laughing and admittedly getting a bit misty-eyed, and she gets cool points for being an Alabama native. If Octavia hadn’t been nominated in this category, then I’d want Bernice Bejo to win. Like her character Peppy, she was adorably peppy and charming. I remember when she was in A Knight’s Tale. She’s definitely come a long way.”

“Best actor?”

Sarah didn’t hesitate.  “Gary Oldman.  Gary Oldman needs an Academy Award.  He is a phenomenal actor, and he’s waited long enough.”

Chandra shook her head.  “Jean Dujardin.  He is so utterly charming in The Artist, and he managed to captivate audiences with just his facial expressions, body movements, and his one line in the entire movie. It may just be me, but I think he resembled Gene Kelly in some scenes. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s French, right?”

I sipped my drink.  “But what about all the buzz surrounding The Descendants?  It’s been called the best performance of Clooney’s career.”

“I read that too, but I have no interest in watching the film. Don’t throw tomatoes at me, but I feel like critics and normal people like you and me may have enjoyed his performance just because he was demonstrating that men have feelings too and can wear their hearts on their sleeves.  That being said, he is a fantastic actor, and he’d make a great red carpet escort for Sarah, but I’m not sure if this is his year to win.”

“Okay, I’m going to pass right over that men-have-feelings remark and ask about best supporting actor.”

“Christopher Plummer will win,” Chandra said, “but I think Max von Sydow should. I never saw Beginners or Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, but I’d actually be happy to see either of these actors take home the Oscar. Not to sound morbid, but both these fine actors may not have another chance to be nominated for another Oscar.”

We both looked at Sarah, who was scarfing down one of the chocolate Oscar miniatures as if it might bestow her with oracle powers.

“The only one of those actors I have heard of is Nick Nolte, and I can’t bring myself to vote for him,” she offered finally.  “Not Nick Nolte.  I just can’t.  I pass.”

“Fair enough.  Okay, girls, the big one:  best picture.”

Sarah blushed slightly.  “I would like to see Midnight in Paris win, even though I didn’t see it.  I have been told that every artist or creative spirit needs to see this film.  It’s on my list to watch; it just hasn’t happened yet.  However, I would predict that The Help will win.  It seems to have everyone’s vote.”

“Not mine,” Chandra said.  “The Artist will win, and it should. It’s a feel good movie which deserves all the accolades which have come its way. And there’s a scene-stealing dog in it.  Who doesn’t love a cute dog?”

She partook of more champagne.   “And here’s a fun fact for you: If The Artist wins on Sunday, it will be the first entirely black-and-white film to win the best picture since The Apartment in 1960.”

“But wait,” Sarah began.  “Wasn’t…”

“No, Schindler’s List was not entirely in black and white.”

“Do you think Hazanavicius will win for best director?” I asked.

“Easily. He made a daring move in making a film that is black-and-white and has only one spoken line. Might be a novelty to some, but by making this film, he has introduced silent films to a new generation of people who may or may not be aware of the fact that movies weren’t always talking pictures.”

“Sarah?”

“For best director, on a whim I’m going with Woody Allen for Midnight in Paris.  Seems like a smart wager.”

I smiled the nonchalant smile of he-who-couldn’t-care-less, but for the sake of sport, I was more curious about who would win – and whether Chandra or Sarah made the best picks — than I cared to admit.

As it turned out, the score was 4-1-1.  Chandra correctly predicted that The Artist would be named Best Picture, over Sarah’s choice of The Help.  She also correctly named Michel Hazanavicius as Best Director (Sarah chose Woody Allen), Jean Dujardin as Best Actor (the artist was pulling for Gary Oldman), and Octavia Spencer as Best Supporting Actress (Sarah liked Melissa McCarthy).

Sarah did, however, correctly choose Meryl Streep as Best Actress, and while Chandra’s prediction was right that Christopher Plummer would be named Best Supporting Actor, Sarah believed that Nick Nolte would not win, which was good enough for a tie.


Once upon a midnight dreary

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With a storm raging outside and a good conversationalist in the opposite wingback, I had no desire to leave my comfortable chair in the library on a recent evening.

The eccentric and glamourous Laura Griffin

The eccentric and glamorous Laura Griffin

Laura Griffin had sought refuge in the club shortly after the storm started brewing and was now draining a glass of the cosmopolitan it contained.  A Birmingham-area blogger and authority on beauty and glamour, she also has an affinity for historical mysteries, which somehow became the substance of our discussion.

It was a fitting night for such a chat, and having considered the problem of the Highgate Vampire and the even more singular business of the hidden room at Glamis Castle, the topic drifted to a more domestic puzzle.

“You’ve heard by now, I suppose, that the mystery of the Poe Toaster has been laid to rest unsolved, right?”

“No, I hadn’t,” Laura said.  “That would be the man who leaves flowers at Edgar Allan Poe’s grave, right?”

“Every year on his birthday, right.”

The mysterious author

It’s an intriguing tradition that’s gone on for three-quarters of a century.  Each Jan. 19 since sometime in the 1940s, an unidentified man dressed in black with a white scarf and wide-brimmed hat has placed three roses and a half-empty bottle of cognac at the author’s grave in Baltimore.

Except for the past three years.  The mysterious mourner who has come to be known as the Poe Toaster hasn’t shown since 2009, prompting the Poe Society of Baltimore to officially call an end to the tradition.

“That’s a shame,” Laura said.  “It was such a touching tribute, but, considering it’s Poe, maybe there’s something fitting about it remaining a mystery.”

“He is the father of the modern mystery story,” I agreed, “and even if he’d written nothing more than The Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Purloined Letter, and The Mystery of Marie Roget, that’s no small legacy.”

A server appeared with another cosmopolitan for Laura.  “Do you need another?” she asked, indicating my glass of rum and Dr Pepper.

“No, thanks, Sarah, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said, taking in both of us with a wide smile.  “I’ll check on you later.”

“She’s new here, isn’t she?” Laura asked as the raven-tressed server vanished.

I nodded.  “Sarah Miller.  She’s in marketing for a local company and is an exceptionally talented artist.  She thought it might be fun to work here on the side.  This is her third night, but if Baxter has his way, she’ll be gone by the weekend.”

“Why?”

The classy and artistic Sarah A. Miller

“Well, let’s see.  Her first night here, she bumped into Currie, causing him to drop a plate of beef stroganoff into Scott Wilson’s lap. Two nights ago, she wiped out a tray of martini glasses on the bar with a sweeping gesture while giving Sherri Ross directions to the ladies’ room.  Then last night, she accidentally knocked a bottle of 27-year-old Glenfarclas out of Baxter’s hand.  He threw his back out diving to catch it.”

“Oh, no.  Poor Sarah.”

“Baxter might choose a different adjective at the moment.  And since I gave her a recommendation when he hired her, he’s no happier with me.  But back to Poe.  Do you remember the first time you read him?”

“I memorized Annabel Lee in sixth grade, not for a school assignment, but because the structure of the poem is so beautiful.  For me, it was like learning the words to a song.  I simply had to know it.  Although I knew who Poe was from pop culture references, that was probably his first actual work I read.  Mr. Poe, pouring out his grieving and tortured declarations of love despite death, was already immensely appealing to me even at age 12.  When did you first read him?”

“At about the same age, oddly enough.”

Rodney White introduced me to Poe when I was a student in his seventh grade literature class.  The famous author looked down on us every day, the first in a line of posters that decorated almost the entire length of one wall in Mr. White’s classroom.

My old friend and former teacher Rodney White

An ascot at his neck, his eyes melancholy, and his hair slightly unkempt, Poe was with us as we read about the old man with the pale blue eye in The Tell-Tale Heart and listened to Mr. White read to us from Poe’s melodious poem about the black bird with a penchant for repeating itself.

Poe was a fascinating study.  A brilliant writer who was haunted by personal demons, misfortune, and ill health.  Orphaned before he was three, he was educated in England and at the University of Virginia and the U.S. Military Academy. While finding small success as a writer of poetry and short stories, he went through a series of jobs as an editor and critic for literary magazines.  His work was popular, but it didn’t make him rich.

When he was 27, he married his cousin (she was 14), but he was a widower 11 years later.  Two years after his wife’s death from an exhaustive illness, the 40-year-old Poe was found unconscious on a back street in Baltimore.  He died a few days after being admitted to Washington College Hospital, apparently the victim of alcoholism and his own bleak perception of life.

“That bleakness may be why I’ve often refrained from openly admiring Poe’s work,” I told Laura.  “There is some of it I definitely don’t like, but he was a gifted writer.”

“I know,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.  “Take The Pit and the Pendulum.  We never learn exactly what unspeakable horror lurks in the pit, do we? You’re left to your own devices and imagination, crafting your very own worst nightmare.  Alfred Hitchcock once said, ‘There is no terror in the bang, only the anticipation of it.’  I read this story and physically start to panic.  Is there anything more horrifying than the walls beginning to close in around you?  I re-read this tale, and while I admit to forgetting a few details, I’ll never forget how it made me feel.”

Still apparently feeling the effects of literary terror, Laura was startled by the reappearance of Sarah — which timely coincided with a thunderclap and flash of lighting at the window — with another cosmopolitan.  “Thank you, Sarah, but I’ve barely touched the one you brought me earlier.”

“No, this is for me,” Sarah said as she settled into a nearby plush bergere.  “I don’t work here any more, so I thought I’d join you.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I spilled a beer all over a guy in the bar.”

“Oh, no,” Laura said commiseratively.

Sarah sipped her drink.  “Yeah.  It was quite a scene.  I mean, I don’t blame him for being upset, but he kept going on and on about how would he ever be able to replace so magnificent a garment.  It was just a t-shirt.”

“Did it say anything?” I asked.

“Have Okra, Will Travel.”

“That’d be Wade Smith.  Serves him right.  According to house rules, they’re not even supposed to let him in the door wearing that thing.”

“Anyway, my career as a cocktail waitress is over now.”

“But that leaves you free to help us talk about Edgar Allan Poe,” Laura said brightly.

“Well, I’m sure I’ve read some of his work, but I don’t claim to be a Poe fan.  My friend Tripp loves him, especially one of his stories called The Cask of…”

“Amontillado,” Laura supplied.  “That’s definitely my favorite, too.  The story is so chilling.  Poe is a master at getting inside the mind of a murderer.”

“Do you have a favorite Poe quotation?” I asked.

“’And neither the angels in heaven above/Nor the demons down under the sea/Can ever dissever my soul from the soul/Of the beautiful Annabel Lee’.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sarah said.

“Oh, it is.  You’ve got to read that poem.  What’s your favorite quote, Buddy?”

“The opening line of The Fall of the House of Usher:  ‘During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung ominously low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.’”

There was another thunderclap and a slight pause before Sarah said, “That has to be one of the finest sentences ever written by a human being.”

“And it’s never sounded better than the first time Mr. White read it to us in class 30 years ago.”

Note:  No martini glasses or t-shirts were actually harmed during the writing of this post.

 

 

 

 

 

Media Okra’s experiment in surrealism

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Occasionally, visitors report having strange experiences at the Cobalt Club.

I don’t find that surprising, but not because the club claims any supernatural associations.  It is, however, very much a place of the mind, and when creative people drop in, the atmosphere and their already-active imaginations often combine to produce situations that simply wouldn’t develop elsewhere.

That seems to be what happened when Billie Dupree, a new talent in the Birmingham art scene, visited recently.  I wasn’t there that night, but here’s her account of her unusual experience as she shared it with me later.

 

Magic City artist Billie Dupree displaying examples of Media Okra Art.

The bartender was stacking martini glasses and nodded as I walked in. I could hear the clinking of the glasses as he slowly placed each one on top of the other.  Other than that, I wasn’t hearing any other sounds. It was too quiet. We made our introductions, and his name was Baxter. He and I had the place to ourselves.

I decided to keep him company at the bar. Maybe I wanted him to keep me company. It didn’t matter. Baxter headed to the stockroom to bring in more liquor. I wondered who he was expecting. Spann had predicted a wintry weather mix around dusk, so most folks headed out early from work before the traffic chaos. Except for the ones like me who weren’t ready to go home yet. I needed a drink. The Cobalt Club seemed like a good place to go. For my first visit, it was Baxter had seen that my needs were met before he ventured to the back. Before me was a Washington Apple. The Crown, Sour Apple Pucker and cranberry was like an iced cider. Nice and cold going down but warming my wintry weather woes.

I’m not sure how much time had passed, but my glass was now empty. Where was Baxter? I was ready for my second. The napkin under the glass was damp from the condensation, and I didn’t think Baxter would appreciate it if I started making little spitballs from the wet paper. So I controlled my compulsion and just sat and waited.

Time was not my friend. I didn’t have a watch, and the old Grandfather’s clock on the far wall seemed stuck on 6:20 p.m. I waited a few more minutes and glanced back. No way, it still said 6:20 p.m. The pendulum was swinging left to right, right to left, and suddenly I could hear the ticking across the room. How long had the loud ticking been going on? I did not hear it when I arrived.

“Hello, Billie Merle.” The soft voice whispered to me from behind the bar. Where is Baxter? The old man in the white apron obviously knew me, but who was he? He called me by my traditional two-part Southern name, Billie Merle, so he knows my past. Only ancient relatives and grammar school friends call me that. I figured I would give him the once over and see if there was something familiar I would recognize. I glanced down to his hands, and on his right hand there were only three fingers and a thumb.

I was afraid to look up at his face. I didn’t understand why he is behind the bar. Fear had me locked down. You see, the man I recognized was dead.  Passed away on my birthday, seven years ago, December 12, 2004. Finally I held my head up, looked at him and said, “Hey Daddy.”

He smiled. That grand old smile and the laughing eyes I had come to love so dearly. Then he spoke again. “I figured you needed a little company, so I thought I would drop in for a bit. I know you don’t understand what you are seeing, and rightly I can’t say that I do either. But here I am!”

I still couldn’t speak. My mind was racing, but my mouth felt like hardened Super Glue. I never imagined my Daddy behind the bar at The Cobalt Club, and all this was just too much to process. “You don’t have to speak, just listen as I talk,” he told me. As he began to speak, he picked up the martini glass that Baxter had stacked earlier and began to polish it. I guess now the well of bartender wisdom through my Daddy was about to be thrust upon me. Which was fine by me. My father was the most fair and most well liked man by his peers, colleagues, friends and family. He had that knack for always knowing what to say at the right time. He was a man to be respected, revered and loved.  I’m proud he was my father.

“Billie Merle, I know there are things you don’t understand and question why they happen. They just do, with no rhyme or reason. It’s how you handle them that determines the person you are. Always remember that.” I thought about that for a moment, and then Baxter walked in.

“Hello, Baxter,” my dad said to the bartender.

“Hello, Bill.”

Now wait a minute. “Baxter, you know my father?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Baxter.

Okay, this is just too weird-o-rama. I started laughing. What was in my drink? What time is it? I glanced back at the Grandfather’s clock, and now it said 6:52 p.m. Thirty-two minutes had passed. The ticking had stopped.  All was quiet again. I looked back to the bar, and Daddy was gone.

I asked where Dad went. Baxter looked at me and said, “Who?”

I said, “My daddy.  Bill.  The guy you just spoke to.”

Baxter looked at me as if I was nuts. I know I heard and saw Baxter speak and acknowledge him, but there was no way Baxter was going to ‘fess up now.

Okay, I give up. Yes, I did get a little nugget of inspiration earlier. Whether I made it up, or it really happened, well, who’s to say? I figured it was time for me to head home. As I got up, I noticed the spitballs on the bar.

I must have lost to the compulsion during those 32 minutes.

“Sorry, Baxter.”

He simply smiled and nodded at me again.

 

 

The Birmingham Bad Movie Club

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The Cobalt Club was filling up nicely as I walked in, pleased to see Christy Turnipseed sitting at the bar in the lounge.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I told Baxter as I took the chair next to her.

“Gin and tonic,” she said, displaying her glass.

“Then I won’t have what she’s having.  Make it a rum and Dr Pepper instead, would you, Baxter?”

“Not a very sophisticated cocktail,” Christy observed.

“It is in Texas.  Eakin with you?”

“He’s meeting me here for dinner.”

“I thought you might be scouting out a new home for the Birmingham Bad Movie Club.”

“No, we’re not likely to leave Lou’s any time soon.”

Lou’s Pub & Package Store is a Magic City landmark on 29th Street South.  Once recommended by Esquire as one of the best bars in the South, it was opened in 1987 by the late Lou Zaden and has hosted the group’s gatherings since Christy turned a social media conversation into an IRL event earlier this year.  The club usually screens a double feature showcasing the art of film at its laughable, lovable worst.

Lou's Pub

“You know, drinking this gin and tonic reminds me of Lou,” she said reflectively.  “I’ve lived here in Birmingham my whole life and knew stories about the history of the place, and on my 21st birthday, my friends and I went to Lou’s because I wanted him to serve me a drink for the occasion.  A gin and tonic with lots of lime.  That was the first time I ever met Lou.”

I smiled as she remembered the respected, larger-than-life icon who died three years ago.

“He had this catchy line he used on all the women who came in.  He’d always say, ‘Hey, baby.’  The guys he treated like crap.  ‘Whaddya want?’”

“Sounds like a colorful guy.”

“He was.  And he’s still there.  When Mike Carpri bought the bar, he kept everything the same.  Nothing’s changed at all, and I love that about it.  There are pictures of Lou all over, and people still tell stories about him.  He is still very much alive in that bar.”

“So how did it come to host the Bad Movie Club?”

“Well, you remember how the thing started on Twitter, right?”

“Sure.  A late-night conversation about one film somehow turned into an ongoing symposium about our favorite bad movies.  At the start, it was you and me and Donnie and Scott and Deon, and I think Randy and Karla might have been there, too.  Eventually the thread got its own hashtag, #BHMBadMovieClub.”

“Right.  We always talked about getting together, but I knew it was just say-so.  It was never going to happen.  I knew Mike showed movies on Monday nights at the bar anyway, and he’s been a friend ever since the Blue Monkey days, so I told him I had a group of people who love bad movies, and he was all for it.”

“Do you have a favorite bad movie?” I asked Christy.

“Hmm.  Probably Howard the Duck.  Right behind that would be Masters of the Universe.  I’m a child of the ’80s.”

Good comic book, bad movie. It's still one of Christy's favorites.

“Well, this is good timing.  Here’s a fellow founding member,” I said, waving to Donnie and Melanie Garvich as they entered the lounge.  They took seats beside us, and Baxter produced two beers.

“We were just discussing our favorite bad movies,” Christy said.

“Oh, please, don’t get Donnie started,” Melanie said.  “He could go on about that all night.”

“Let’s see, Donnie, your favorite is Plan 9 From Outer Space, right?” I asked.

“Absolutely.  Edward Wood‘s greatest contribution to civilization, almost universally regarded as the worst movie ever made.”

“And Bela Lugosi‘s last film.”

“It was?” Christy asked.

“Yeah.  He actually died before filming even started, but Wood used some old film clips of him and hired his wife’s chiropractor to run around holding a black cape over his face whenever Lugosi’s character was in a scene,” Donnie said, demonstrating with an imaginary Dracula cape.  “That way, he could bill Lugosi as the star even though he was dead before they’d shot a frame of the movie.  That’s cinematic genius.”

“And you can be sure that Fellini, Antonioni, and Orson Welles are still kicking themselves because they didn’t think of it first,” I said. “Here’s a question, though, guys:  Why do you think we like bad movies?  If a movie is bad, why do we want to see it again and again and again?”

Christy looked into her glass, as if the answer might be there.  “I don’t know,” she said finally.  “What do you think?”

I also took a moment to consider.  “I think we feel a certain familiarity with bad movies that’s rather comforting.  It’s like visiting with an old friend.  Something about it makes us feel better.  My favorite bad movie is Dangerous Money, an old B-picture murder mystery from the ’40s.  The screenplay is awful, the mystery is so uninteresting and complicated that you don’t even care whodunit, the acting is wooden, and the comedy parts are more moronic than funny, but I’ve seen it more times than I can count.  If I’ve had a bad day or feel kind of down, as often as not, I’ll sit down with Dangerous Money, and I feel better.”

My favorite bad movie.

“I think I know what you mean,” Christy said.  “Maybe it’s nostalgia.  A movie we grew up watching as a kid and thought was awesome might be really bad when we watch it as adults, but we still love it because it reminds us of where we were and who we were with when we saw it years ago.”

“It becomes a guilty pleasure,” Melanie added succinctly.

“Exactly,” I agreed.  “And that’s something we all need a good dose of every now and then.”

As the evening whiled away, Eakin arrived to join Christy, Carrie arrived to meet me, and over dinner the six of us debated the dubious cinematic merits of such classics as Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, Catwoman, King Cobra, Ishtar, Waterworld, and Labyrinth, which Christy insists is a Jim Henson masterpiece rather than a bad movie.  I never had occasion to meet Lou Zaden, but I rather suspect he’d have approved.

Family Night

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With my wife’s brother and his family in town, their trip would not have been complete without a visit to the Cobalt Club.

So Saturday evening found us in the library, Carrie, Ted, and Angelle ensconced in comfortable chairs and engrossed in conversation while I finished the story I was reading to our niece Elle, “The House of the Peacock” from G.K. Chesterton’s underappreciated masterpiece The Poet and the Lunatics, one of my favorite books.

“And he continued his walk along the suburban road, unconsciously taking in the new tint of the lawns by moonlight,” I read.  “But he did not see any more peacocks; and it may be accounted probable that he did not want to see any.”

I closed the book and looked down at Elle, who looked back at me with her big blue eyes, blinked twice, and emitted an ear-splitting cry as only an upset eight-month-old can.

Angelle was already halfway across the room as I scooped the child up and tried to provide her with some comforting words.

It's never too early to introduce children to the classics.

“I agree it’s one of the finest paragraphs in the English language, but it’s not often someone finds Chesterton so moving.”

“She prefers Jane Austen,” Angelle said as I made the handoff.

“Or The Official Ferrari Magazine,” Ted added.

“Elle got off easy,” Carrie said.  “Remember Leslie’s daughter Meghan?  Buddy once read to her for half an hour from a biography of Charles de Gaulle.”

“I could try that, if it would help,” I offered, turning to the shelves.   “I don’t know that we have de Gaulle here, though.  She might have to settle for Basil Rathbone.”

“No,” Angelle said, cradling the now-calmer Elle over her shoulder.  “She’s probably hungry.”

Currie suddenly appeared at her elbow.  “What shall I bring for the young lady?”

“That’s okay,” Ted answered.  “We should have some prunes for her in the bag.”

The waiter’s left eyebrow raised an eighth of an inch, a clear sign of disapproval.  “Prunes, sir?  May I recommend instead the blended pasta with lentil Bolognese?  Or the puree of Cornish hen with rosemary and broccoli?  Both are very popular with our infant guests.”

“Currie, how about bringing the Cornish hen for Elle and some iced tea for the rest of us?” I suggested.

“Very good, sir.”

“It’s really too bad you guys don’t live closer, Budman,” Ted said as Currie disappeared.  “You’d get a lot more experience at baby-sitting.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing for Elle that we don’t,” Carrie said.  “Her life is probably less stressful this way.”

“You make it sound as if I have no idea how to entertain children.  Remember when we took care of the twins?”

Carrie chuckled.  “Oh, yeah, that was a great night.”  Turning to Ted and Angelle she explained, “Vince and Gladys went out for their anniversary and asked if the twins could stay with us.”

“Right.  And after that experience, the charge can no longer be brought against me that I haven’t done my part for the enlightenment of youth and the betterment of posterity.”

Angelle’s impish grin appeared.  “Been worried about getting hauled in on that charge, have you?”

I gave her the glare I reserve for sarcastic sisters-in-law while the sage Ted, as always, got right to the real point.  “I wonder who would haul someone in for that.  Come to of think of it, where would you get hauled in to?”

“If you recall,” Carrie resumed, “the twins weren’t babies.  They were 10.”

The perfect age, I thought at the time, to expose them to a gem from my video collection:  More of the Best of the Hollywood Palace, a television special from the early 90s hosted by the saccharine Suzanne Somers which featured clips from the variety showcase that aired between 1964 and 1970.

Great stuff, even if Ed Sullivan did it better.  All the old comedians were on the show, as were the singers, dancers, and novelty performers of the day.  Some of the clips are now almost half a century old, and I must confess to some uncertainty about how the kids would enjoy it, but my faith in good entertainment remained intact at the end.

The twins stayed with it from first minute to last.  Starting out on the sofa and moving to the floor halfway through, lying on their stomachs with elbows propped on pillows, they watched John Byner do impressions.  They listened to Jimmy Durante sing with Ella Fitzgerald.  They laughed at Milton Berle.  They recognized Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, and The Temptations.  Sid Caesar and Sergio Franchi did a sketch – mostly in Italian –that had them rolling on the carpet.  They sang along to “For What It’s Worth” while seeing Buffalo Springfield for the first time and with Johnny Rivers on “Secret Agent Man.”

Bless their blood vessels, they even laughed at Groucho Marx as he bantered with Margaret Dumont.  Kathleen didn’t get one of Groucho’s jokes, and her brother explained it to her.  It was great.

So they made fun of the pants the guys in The Fifth Dimension wore.  (So did I.)  So they thought John Phillips and Denny Doherty could’ve done with a visit to a good barber and a better haberdasher.  (Again, so did I.)  They were still entertained by the old masters:  the singers who were around years before anybody’d heard of Star Search or American Idol, the flat-out funny comedians who could make people laugh without resorting to raunchiness, entertainers who paid their dues before they were stars and are still entertaining years after they left the scene.

The Hollywood Palace, a variety showcase that transcends time.

“Sounds like you just took advantage of a captive audience,” Angelle said as Elle ate Cornish hen.  “You don’t still have that video, do you?”

“Certainly.  After all, Elle will be ready for it in a few years.”

“Your concern for your niece is very touching.”

“Hey, what are uncles for?  Somebody has to bring these kids up right.”

 

 

Hotel horror stories

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Carrie gazed into her martini glass before taking a sip of the citrine liquid it contained.

“That is really good,” she said.  “What’s it called again?”

“A blueberry lemon drop martini,” Christina said as she wrapped fettuccini around her fork.  “It is good, isn’t it?”

“Very.  I’m glad you recommended it.”

“You can’t order one just anywhere.  Another reason I’m glad I finally came by.”

Carrie and I had just been seated for dinner when Christina dropped in for her first visit to the club.  A Georgia refugee like us, she readily joined us for some home-state story swapping.

“I grew up in Blue Ridge,” she told us.

“Fannin County,” I said, adding some extra ketchup to my burger.  “I’ve been there many times.  Wherever you are, you can’t get to Blue Ridge from there.”

“That’s the place,” Christina laughed.  “I don’t ever go back.  Small-town life is not for me.  I like the city.”

The author of the bright and bouncy blog UGA Bama Belle, she left her hometown to settle in Birmingham after graduating from the University of Georgia.  She’s presently the Magic City’s leading self-proclaimed hotel snob.

“Are you sure snob isn’t overstating it?” I asked diplomatically.  “Perhaps it’s just that you have standards that are difficult to meet.”

“No, I’m a snob.  And very proud of it.  I insist on at least 450 thread count sheets and a personal concierge that’s a phone call away.  I don’t care how tired I am, I will drive an hour out of my way down the road to find a Marriott if a hotel doesn’t meet my standards.”

“Wow.  I thought I could be tough on a hotel,” Carrie said, clearly impressed.  “You must have had a really bad experience somewhere.”

Christina finished her martini.  Currie appeared with a replacement before she’d returned the glass to the table.

“I’ll tell you about a trip I took when I was 19 or 20, and this may be where my snobbery comes from.  It was a road trip with friends, and we stopped at a hotel along the way, a local motor inn.”

“Bad?”

“It was horrid.  It had orange shag carpet on the floor and the walls.  The linens were stained.  I don’t think the room had been cleaned in a year.  I know the carpet hadn’t been cleaned since 1972.  I can vividly remember the way the room smelled.  There are no words to describe it in any language.”

One of Hugh Pentecost's excellent mystery novels featuring Pierre Chambrun, resident manager of the Hotel Beaumont in Manhattan. Even though people are always getting killed there, the luxury property would still likely meet Christina's snobby standards.

“You probably didn’t sleep at all that night.”

“Absolutely not.  We were all on edge because we didn’t wan t to lie on the bed, but we didn’t want to lie on the floor either because we were sure at any moment that bugs would come crawling out from everywhere.  And besides that, the hotel was right beside a railroad track.  When a train came by, it would shake the whole place.”

As it was evident our friend still carried scars from the experience, Carrie allowed her a moment before offering a sympathetic remark.

“No, wait, there’s more,” Christina said after some blueberry lemon drop fortification.  “My rule of no outside doors also comes from that hotel.”

“No outside doors?”

“I decided on that trip as a broke college kid that I would never again stay at a place where the room doors opened to the outside.  To get to that room, we had to walk around to the back, go under a dark stairwell, and by the time we got there, I fully expected to open the door and have a man jump out with a chainsaw.”

“But they don’t let chainsaw killers stay at the Marriott, huh?” I asked.

“Haven’t met one there yet.  I’ve never gone wrong at a Marriott property, and I love the Elite Member upgrades.”

I don’t know that such a perk would have made my worst hotel horror story any better.  I was in London for a three-night stay at The Crofton, a converted flat in a quiet Kensington neighborhood a few doors down from the Iraqi Embassy.

It was my first experience with a typical European hotel, and its shortcomings were all the more apparent because I’d spent the two previous nights at The Ellersly House, a charming hotel in a glorious old Edwardian country house in Edinburgh.

The Ellersly House Hotel in Edinburgh. Highly recommended.

I wasn’t thrilled about having to share accommodations at The Crofton with two traveling companions, Chuck and Jeff, and was even less thrilled after we’d dragged our luggage up three flights of stairs and saw the room.

It wasn’t much larger than a broom closet, but a bigger problem was that, while there were three of us, it only contained two single beds.  Jeff, who was more concerned about making time with a girl he’d met in the bar, dropped his bags off and left to find her, leaving me and Chuck contemplating sleeping arrangements.

“How about this?” Chuck proposed.  “First two people in the room get the beds.”

“Fine by me.”  I wasn’t planning on going anywhere that night, so I knew I’d be guaranteed one.  Chuck felt good about his chances too, since rooming with Jeff earlier in the trip had acquainted him with Jeff’s penchant for staying out until 4 or 5 a.m.

Another recommended Pentecost novel set at the Beaumont.

Before Chuck left to go out, we pushed the room’s two hardback chairs together, threw a sheet over them, and added blanket and pillow, thinking that having to sleep on the chairs would really teach Jeff a lesson.

I read until midnight and didn’t wake up when Chuck came in later.  In the morning, we found Jeff covered with the blanket and stretched out across the hard chairs, fast asleep.

“What time did you get in?” Chuck asked him when he woke up.

“About 4:30.  And thanks, guys.  I really appreciate you fixing this up for me.  That was nice.”

He slept on those chairs until we left London.

Christina smiled and shook her head as she skewered more chicken fettuccini.

“You should’ve stayed at a Marriott.”