NYE Top Ten: A Most Depressing List for a Most Depressing Year

Louisville Metro's Top Ten Most Depressing Places in Town

Readers, I don't have to tell you how sucky the year 2009 was. I know that naming things--especially years, decades and eras--should be postponed until a reasonable amount of time has passed and a more clear-headed perspective (endowed with a healthy dose of context) can be applied...but don't you think we can all just go ahead and call this one? 2009 was awful, in any way you could possibly judge it for cultural, financial, political, etc etc etc purposes. I mean, maybe you can bust out some old fashioned 1990's optimism and come up with something good that happened for you personally--maybe you lost ten pounds this year, or you got married or beat your personal best record for something--but collectively? Nope, it was disappointing to say the least. The best we can do today is say "good riddance" and hope that 2010 couldn't possibly be any worse. Depressing today, aren't I?

So as a tribute to the chirpishly nostalgic new years top ten lists of times gone by, I decided to make my own--albeit with a decidedly 2009-kind of feel (read: shitty). I thought up the top ten places around town (Louisville, KY) that would make the most appropriate (i.e. depressing) venues for ringing in new years eve tonight. Dig:

10: The Louisville "Extreme Park"

This one gets points (if you want to call them that) for being a truly painful reminder of Louisville's very real inability to follow through on a pretty decent idea. Remember when Tony Hawk came to town and ESPN was here covering the prestigious X Games? Yeah, well, that was way back in the last decade (1999) when hopes were high and there was a promise of "phase two" (which consisted of a multi-million dollar indoor facility that would've really upped the ante for this place). But of course, any further plans that would've really made the park fully realize its potential (e.g. drawing more high profile events to town) have been indefinitely put on the back burner.

9: Waffle House, Preston Highway

Well, I guess it could really be Waffle House, Anytown U.S.A. right? Being on Preston Highway really sets this one off, though--like Dixie Highway (we'll get to that one later in the list), this is a major artery of depressing, industrial big box shit as far as the eye can see. I picked the Awful House simply as an easy reference point, but anything along this road really stinks of cheap booze and depression.

8: 4th Street Live

Say, how would you like to spend a minimum of $80 on a night out in an obvious tourist trap money vacuum populated with drunken, misguided bachelorette parties, teeny boppers high on Fun Dip and guffawing red necks dressed like Larry the Cable Guy? Truly truly truly awful.

7: The Unfinished West End of the "Louisville Loop"

The Louisville Loop is a pretty great idea that I've mentioned admiringly here before: it's a gigantic bike trail that will someday (maybe--probably not) encircle the entirety of the city(!). An impressive goal, but in typical Louisville style we've pretty much run out of steam over the whole idea. Portions were completed, which are very nice, but there are noticeable gaps--mostly in the West end of town. The funny thing is (and again, this is typical) there was a big ribbon cutting ceremony a couple of years ago when the downtown section was completed--the mayor came out in full spandex cycling regalia, promising more progress, police bicycle patrols, etc. Several years later no one really talks about it anymore, and it just kind of ends right in the scary part of town.

6: Corporate Campus

Back when I was delivering mail I had this route that made a few stops at this monstrosity near the world headquarters of UPS: Corporate Campus. The name alone is pretty depressing, evoking a labyrinth of cubicles and lame Dilbert cartoons. Everything is gray there, even the landscaping (and the people). It's pretty much a living (if you want to call it that) example of what you get when you cut art and music funding from the public school system.

5: The Jefferson Mall

I don't know what is up with that name because Monticello this aint. If Thomas Jefferson knew what kind of horrific 20th century architectural abominations would be named for him, he might have made some sort of amendment outlawing kiosks. The surly Hot Topic aura, clothing and skin-penetrating properties of the ever-present Cinnabon odor and gangs of pregnant teenagers are pretty depressing too.

4: Louisville Motor Speedway

I think I've already mentioned red necks. If you like them, then head on over to the Louisville Motor Speedway, located in the center of the toothless Kenny Chesney supporting district: Fairdale. If you love trucks, truck nuts, commercial country music, Dale Earnhardt paraphernalia and/or constant and repetitive entertainment (i.e. NASCAR), you will like this place. If not, then no, never go here.

3: Lake Dreamland

This is a sad story of a little resort town that was popular at the turn of the century (like, 1900) in Louisville. All the wealthy types would rent summery vacation homes and drive out to get some healthful country air and socialize. By the 1970's a dangerous motorcycle gang had moved in and burned it all down. Now it's nothing but prefab houses, dirt, and factories. And speaking of broken dreams...

2: Buechel Bypass

So, you may imagine there's a joke in that name somewhere. Buechel Bypass is actually home to a lot of ghosts from my past--the above picture depicts the deconstruction of the Bashford Manor Mall, where my mom took us to shop when we were kids, and also where I later had a hilariously bad job working for a divorced Iranian couple who owned a French themed coffee shop inside. There was an old movie theatre where my husband and I went on our first date (Rush Hour, as I recall). There was also a pretty decent Denny's nearby where me and my friends annoyed the waitresses by hanging out all night and ordering nothing but coffee. It's got a Wal-Mart and a Burlington Coat Factory there now. Sigh.

And, the NUMBER 1 worst, most depressing place to spend NYE in Louisville, Kentucky...[drum roll]...

1: The Dixie Highway Hooters!

Oh, man, is this place a depressing dump! Order up some salmonella wings, have a $5 Bud Lite and ogle your server's cesarean scar--now that's a good time! Dixie Highway, much like Preston Hwy, is a death trap of food poisoning, meth labs and Wal-Mart shoppers with distemper. Stay away, landlubber--ye be warned.

Auld Lang Syne, readers.

The River of Doubt, or: Oh, My Theodore Roosevelt Was Quite a Badass

Readers, I've been reveling in my new found ability to read whatever random book that strikes my random fancy, and this week I'm all in a froth over one called The River of Doubt by Candice Millard (a suggestion from my friend Kathy--thanks, Kathy!). It's about Teddy Roosevelt's ill-planned & near-disastrous expedition down the River of Doubt, a then-unmapped tributary of the Amazon River, on which he almost died of malaria and/or dysentery.

He was making the exploratory journey under the quasi-endorsement of the American Museum of Natural History--which reacted with horror after Teddy changed his plans just after arriving in South America. He had initially planned a relatively sedated tour which included only a minimal amount of exploration, but switched to the more dangerous, death-wish conjuring expedition at the last minute (ostensibly because he was still sulking over a thorough spanking in the 1912 presidential election, running as the Progressive Party candidate, losing to Woodrow Wilson. He was such a sore loser that he didn't even take consolation in the fact that he at least beat poor Taft...). Have you ever seen the Herzog film Aguirre, the Wrath of God? Roosevelt's plan evoked similar themes of peril, misery, madness and death on the Amazon.

The President of the museum was Henry Fairfield Osborn (the paleontologist who named the T Rex and velociraptor, for all you Jurassic Park nerds out there), and he had a shit fit over Roosevelt's new plan. My favorite Roosevelt quote so far is his response to his dithering pal Frank Chapman, who was nervously mediating between Osborn and Roosevelt:

"Tell Osborn I have already lived and enjoyed as much of life as any nine other men I know; I have had my full share, and if it is necessary for me to leave my bones in South America, I am quite ready to do so."

Snap!

All's Well That Ends Well...?

We here at MM have been on full alert since it was reported last week that the New Albany flood wall was stolen in what will surely be known as the crime of the year (in New Albany). Compare the theft to the usual criminal activity of underage boozing, meth-related hijinks and marginally-illegal fireworks smuggling across state lines and what you have is a crime that belies the otherwise Mayberry-esque township. This, readers, seems like a crime that necessitates a deliberate, organized and well-planned inside job--very different from the usual heat-of-the-moment type of post-meditated mischief the area usually breeds.

Of course, none of my theories have thus far been supported by any hard facts. Authorities claim the theft is still "under investigation," but according to today's Courier-Journal the flood wall has been recovered! A Louisville recycling plant called "Freedom Metals" had apparently accepted the 40 foot square, 1-inch thick aluminum panels that make up the wall for scrap, but recognized them as New Albany's flood wall after reading the story last week. But I guess they don't keep records of their "donors" because the thieves are still at large. Hmmm...the plot thickens! You can be sure we'll be keeping a close eye on this one, readers!

As always, anyone having information about who may have stolen the New Albany flood wall should call the NAPD tip line at 812-948-6273.

New Albany Flood Wall Stolen!

Perusing the local news sites at work on the night shift can get pretty boring, especially on Mondays during football season. After 7pm or so it gets really quiet, and I'm left pretty much to my own devices. That's why I'm always thankful to our neighbor to the North: New Albany, Indiana (AKA: "the sunny side of Louisville") for always seeming to have hilarious problems. Problems like people going out and stealing their flood wall.

According to investigators the wall is valued at around $9,000. Anyone having information as to the whereabouts of the wall should contact the New Albany Police tip line at 812-948-6273.

"We Must Have Bodies"

A passage I absolutely must share from The Devil in the White City that concerns: 1. my home state, 2. the University of Louisville, & 3. unabashed grave robbing!

"After a foiled raid on a graveyard in New Albany, Indiana, on February 24th, 1890, Dr. W. H. Wathen, head of the Kentucky Medical College, told a Tribune reporter, "The gentlemen were acting not for the Kentucky School of Medicine nor for themselves individually, but for the medical schools of Louisville to which the human subject is as necessary as breath to life." Just three weeks later the physicians of Louisville were at it again. They attempted to rob a grave at the State Asylum for the Insane in Anchorage, Kentucky, this time on the behalf of the University of Louisville. "Yes, the party was sent by us," a senior school official said. "We must have bodies, and if the State won't give them to us we must steal them. The winter classes were large and used up so many subjects that there are none for the Spring classes." He saw no need to apologize. "The Asylum Cemetery has been robbed for years," he said, "and I doubt if there is a corpse in it. I tell you we must have bodies. You cannot make doctors without them, and the public must understand it. If we can't get them from any other way we will arm the students with Winchester rifles and send them to protect the body-snatchers on their raids."

(Larson, 150)

Wow! I wonder if today's up-and-coming young U of L med students are in some way touched by this plucky, unapologetically brazen "yeah, so what?" attitude from a century ago. Maybe each student, upon passing the enrollment exam for entrance into the medical school, receives a ceremonial Winchester rifle to keep in their dormitory. The students accept this token with baffled excitement, wondering at the purpose of such an offering. Dismissing it as an eccentricity (perhaps a cryptic sort of reminder of the Hippocratic Oath?), they blow it off as something symbolic, whose meaning has been lost to antiquity, never guessing that they are functional: ready for service when the State's supply of medical cadavers dry up.

The Devil in the White City

Readers, I am very happy to report to you that my graduate school toilings in library school at the distinguished University of Kentucky are now at an end. I sat for my nerve-shattering comprehensive exam in November and just last week received word that I passed ("with distinction," said the letter) the final examination for the Master's Degree in Library and Information Science. Hurrah!

So what does this mean for you, the loyal readership of the Missiles of Mercy? Well, it means I now have much more time to devote to pleasure reading: an activity that has shamefully been pushed to the wayside since the beginning of the Fall semester to make way for the dry, dense foliage that is LIS literature. And of course, in the spirit of our semi-regular summer reading 2009 rap sessions, I will be reporting on the various singularities and curios that I find especially reminiscent of our mission statement here at MM.

Case in point: I began reading Erik Larson's the Devil in the White City this weekend, and am currently 150 pages in. It's one of those non-fiction-written-as-fiction types of books that have began cropping up in the last decade or so (see also: Swanson's novelized narrative Manhunt, about the search for John Wilkes Booth and the Lincoln assassination conspirators. It is excellent), and I have to say i'ts a trend I can certainly get behind. They are generally fun to read, packaging historically accurate information into a guess-what-happens-next kind of layout--this lends a kind of tension to the narrative that is lacking in your everyday biography or history book.

The story is, like so many about America at the end of the 19 century, pretty incredible. It concerns the conception, construction and operation of the Chicago World's Fair--including the architects who designed Chicago's "White City" (Daniel Hudson Burnham! Frederick Law Olmstead! Louis Sullivan!) and a handsome young sociopath who became America's first serial killer. Buffalo Bill Cody, Thomas Edison and Archduke Ferdinand also make appearances in the story(!) and you get to hear all about the grit & shit that accompanied the Gilded Age. Oh, Boy!

I am speeding through The Devil so I can start my next awesome non-fic pleasure cruise: Candace Miller's The River of Doubt, which is all about Theodore Roosevelt's crazy adventures exploring an unmapped tributary of the Amazon! You heard it here first! (Maybe!)

LOL Romance Novel Covers

Wow, in the course of doing some "research" (i.e. random internet surfing) I stumbled, Google image search style, onto a delightful phenomenon in the vein of the immortal LOL Cats: Photoshopped romance novel covers! Wow! It must be a pretty popular thing, because they actually made it difficult to find original, unaltered covers...

I will post a few of my favorites below:

Talking to Married Guys

I've noticed recently that some--maybe most--married men act sorta strange when a lady who is unknown to them tries to engage them in conversation. I've noticed this mainly in the course of my job at the local public library. Generally they'll be courteous, but there's something about the interaction that says "I can't talk to you! Lookit this ring!"

It almost comes off as insulting, but most of the time the guy is so obviously struggling to maintain some balance between stand-offish aloofness and polite discourse (and somehow failing on both accounts) that it actually has the opposite effect: I tend to want to talk to them more. I suspect it is this sort of thing that attracts women to married men in the first place--this kind of behavior could easily be perceived as adorable and nonthreatening (two things that girls like, btw, gentlemen).You've heard the old complaint: once a dude gets married he suddenly feels like women are hitting on him, women who would not have given him the time of day when he was single! My husband tells me stories all the time about women brazenly batting their eyes at him, willfully disregarding his fully-visible wedding ring. Well, readers, I think I may have busted this one wide open.

Case in point: I helped a guy find a book the other day. He was probably 35-40-ish, sensibly dressed, with a 6 or 7-ish little girl in tow (another cliche female turn on: fathering skills on display). The book I got for him was Manhunt by James L. Swanson. Anyone who kept up with my summer read list this year knows I was completely ga-ga for this novelized non-fiction narrative about the 12 day chase for Abraham Lincoln's assassin. So of course I was in "sell" mode to this guy--I really wanted him to read it! I should note that most people I talk to want to read Danielle Steel or the new Oprah hotcake--nobody wants me to flex my readers' advisory muscles in the direction of Lincoln lore, they just want me to show them to the mystery-solving cat novels (yes, mystery-solving cat novels. it's a horrifying genre all its own). So I was very insistent about him checking out this book, making not less than 3 statements about it's "readability."

This seemed to freak him out, and from then on he communicated to me exclusively through comments to his daughter. "Daddy would like to read this, don't you think?" he asked her desperately. "Daddy will check out the book now," "Daddy can't find his library card, do you think he can use his drivers license?" Girl: "Ask if they have princess books!" She did not appreciate the dramady unfolding in front of her.

John Williams and His Orchestra

Recently I obtained a couple of really great compilation CDs called John William's Greatest Hits 1969-1999 and Hollywood Hits: 70 Years of Memorable Movie Music. Both are composed of two discs that are loaded with the full orchestral versions of various well-known movie songs--everything from the themes from Dr. No to Midnight Cowboy to M*A*S*H*! It reminds me of this great CD my brother had when we were growing up of golden and silver age TV theme songs (Scooby-Doo, I Love Lucy, Laverne and Shirley, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, etc), so of course it has inspired a new thematic playlist over here at MM.

I've needed an ever-increasing supply of new playlists for my newest endeavor: distance running! I've already registered and plunked down my 50 bucks to run in this year's Kentucky Derby Mini-Marathon, which means I've got roughly 20 weeks to get in shape to run 13.1 miles--readers, there's no way I can do that unless I've got some inspirational melodies to power me through. And I tell you what: John Williams, the United Artists Orchestra, The Universal Orchestra, et al are supplying quite the mother load. I've mixed in a few of my own things from years past to round out a pretty great working list, which I'll post below for your consideration:

• The Trio (from The Good, The Bad & The Ugly) : Ennio Morricone
• Dr. No : Monty Norman
• Am I Sexy : Lords of Acid
• Bachelor Pad : Fantastic Plastic Machine
• Star Wars (Main Title) : John Williams
• Olympic Fanfare and Theme : John Williams
• The Imperial March (Darth Vader's Theme!) : John Williams
• Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom : John Williams
• Jaws : The Universal Orchestra
• Carmina Burana : Atlanta Symphony Orchestra
• The Ecstasy of Gold : Ennio Morricone
• Rocky : United Artists Orchestra
• Superman (Main Title Theme) : John Williams
• Raiders of the Lost Ark (Main Title Theme) :John Williams
• Olympic Centennial : John Williams

Wow, readers--that's over an hour of quality, inspirational, LOUD, scary, orchestral cacophony pumping directly into my brain! Will it keep my feet moving? Maybe. Will it get me in shape? It couldn't hurt... Will it transfer a sense of foreshadow-y triumphant doom to my otherwise mundane runs? I should say so! How shockingly terrifying will it be to huff along in my superhero running tights and miscellaneous polyester athletic foofaraw to the machinations of The Imperial March, the Dante-invoking Carmina Burana and the f-ing theme song to Jaws?? Oh boy!

Like National Holidays? Be Thankful for Abraham Lincoln!

It seems weird, but before 1863 Thanksgiving was a rather eccentric, often ignored holiday only sometimes observed in America, and in only some states some of the time. The Pilgrims are usually credited with starting it (a holiday they themselves called "harvest home"), but most Americans didn't celebrate it regularly until Abraham Lincoln made a proclamation in 1863 that Thanksgiving be officially celebrated in all the states that year on November 19th.

The Battle of Gettysburg was fought in July of that year, and the Civil War had been raging for over two and a half years, so this was right in the middle of the bloodiest war ever fought on American soil. And lets not forget that when Lincoln said "all the states," he meant all of them--that is, including the secessionists who wouldn't have appreciated his insinuation. We don't always think of Lincoln as the dealer of a mean backhand, but in this case he got in a sweet burn on the Rebs while at the same time dropping a crowd pleasing mandate of a nice meal (even though Lincoln's original idea was for a national fast, not feast. Good try, Abe, now pass the stuffing).

Lincoln issued another proclamation the following year, and the tradition was upheld by every following president uninterrupted until Thanksgiving was officially declared a national holiday by an act of Congress in 1941. Before Lincoln came along, Thanksgiving was only sporadically proclaimed, and never on any particular day in all the sates--that's turkey anarchy, readers, and I'm glad Democracy (and Honest Abe) finally stepped in and kept us all from backsliding further into an unplanned holiday abyss.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cincinnati's Sports Teams: One of Them is Good This Year!

(Hint: it's not the Reds.)

Well, readers, after another disappointing season of Reds baseball, we here at MM are licking our wounds after watching the reviled Yankees win yet another series by doing two things:

1. watching our treasured VHS copy of highlights from the 1976 world series in which the Reds hand New York a resounding defeat in an embarrassing 4 game series sweep (narrated by Joe Garagiola!) over and over
2. turning to a different sport altogether in order to get that "my team is a winner" type of feeling: NFL football, and the Cincinnati Bengals! Hey, they're actually pretty good this year!

I should explain that I've always felt it imperative to root for teams geographically. That is, you should be regionally compelled to be a fan of whomever is closest to your hometown. Otherwise you tend to look like a fair weather schmuck (I'm looking at you, native Louisvillians walking around town in Red Sox jerseys and Green Bay cheesehats! Shameful!). In a country with a dizzying array of choice, I think it is sometimes refreshing to have to play a hand that fate has dealt you--I think that in the case of being a sports fan, that should be one of those non-choices. When I get fed up with watching them flounder yet again, I say to myself in a Darth Vader baritone: "You must support the Reds...it is your DESSS-TINYYY!"

I can remember growing up and driving to Cincy for Reds games and wondering who that dumb-ass in the Kansas City hat sitting in the next aisle thought he was; I'd think to myself "the Royals aren't even in the National League, moron!" And we all know that some teams more than others tend to attract these types. I generally divide them into two categories: the annoying egotists who love only winners, and the dopey masochists who only support (sometimes ironically) the hapless losers. There are many reasons for falling into either category, but I think it's shameful and more than a little disingenuous no matter what your excuse. For instance: I don't care if your daughter moved to Denver, or if your son is going to law school in Chicago: these things should not effect your sports allegiances! Steroids alone are not destroying professional sports, the loyal ambiguity of the hometown base is muddying the waters as well.

Anyway, so I was reading about the Bengals' most recent win against last year's Super Bowl winners, the Steelers, in the paper this morning, and Pittsburgh safety Ryan Clark was quoted saying that Cincy is "clearly the best team in the division." (!) After a disappointing baseball season, that is a pretty exciting thing to hear for me. And don't forget that the Bengal's have a player that legally changed his name to reflect (I assume) his love for his own jersey number--that's pretty fun! I'll always be a baseball fan first, but branching out a bit looks like it may help my sports-related inferiority complex--this year, at least.

(Go Ochocinco!)

Bush League Hijinks

Well, Readers, I know that the baseball season officially ended more than a week ago (grumble, grumble, Yankees, grumble, 27 times too many, grumble, grumble, *sob*), but I just watched the Will Ferrell one man Broadway show You're Welcome, America and it reminded me of the timeless dancing fake umpire shtick. In the play (in which Ferrell performs as former president G. W. Bush, from a too-long SNL skit into a too-long stage performance) there is this really great pudgy straight man (a comment on his stature and role in the performance, not necessarily his orientation, readers) who plays a secret service agent that stands center stage during intermissions (of which there are several). He basically does a variation on the classic "dancing umpire;" gradually--imperceptibly at first--dancing along with increasing fervor to the catchy technopop music that plays between acts.

This is an age old gimmick worthy of the name Charlie O. Finley, whereby we, the unsuspecting audience (lured into thinking this is a real umpire), are supposed to be entertained by the (hilarious) goofy mascot taunting the (lame) official. At least, that's what we think we're supposed to think--but there's another layer at work here. You see, this is not the official official--it turns out he is a payed dance professional (one assumes), and the joke is actually on us (and Birdzerk also, in the above case) because that dude can totally dance his regulation polyester pants off, and the cocky mascot instigator totally gets served by the underdog fake umpire's flashy moves set to the pop styling of C + C Music Factory! A rather elaborate scenario for a little between-innings palette cleanser, don't you think? Our farm teams try so hard to make us love them. (additionally, pay special attention to what the video takers are saying--I mean, this is old hat for me, a frequent minor league patron, but their comments make it seem like they are seeing this particular scenario for the first time. At one point a woman, incredulous, asks "Are you getting this??" and then later, as if she is worried others will not believe her stories: "We should put this on YouTube!!")

Anyway, I was wondering where they recruit these fake dancing umpires: off-season dance companies? Dinner theater troupes in-between performances? Chorus line drop-outs? The random local misty-eyed dreamers? Or maybe this has become a professionalized niche demanding its own kind of training, certification and accreditation. So you could call up the Dancing Umpires Express, LLC in Chattanooga and they'd send you some headshots--you could choose from some average looking skinny guys (the lowest price range) and some huskier types (the priciest, as these would make for the best on-field deceptions). They show up, the picture of professionalism in their own standard-issue minor league regulation uniform, and the crowd totally goes for it--they are, for just a few seconds maybe, fooled into thinking that they are witnessing a pivotal moment in the life of an individual who, up until this very moment, only ever did things strictly according to the rules. For a brief moment our man would create a beautiful illusion of free spirit spontaneity breaking the surface of clench-jawed authoritarianism--like watching The Man light up a doob. Maybe Birdzirk is just the catalyst we all need to propel us into uncharacteristic fits of rule-breaking madness, throwing off the shackles of our preconceived identity roles and allowing the rhythm to take control.

Louisville's Wanna-be Mayor is King of Scandals

There's been a lot of shady behavior coming to light lately concerning metro councilman and mayoral candidate Jim King. He's always been an outspoken opponent of pretty much anything current mayor Jerry Abramson says or does, but of course he's been upping the ante ever since Jerr announced this summer that he would be running for Lieutenant Governor in 2010. All of a sudden King is in the paper almost every day, hustling some smack talk of one kind or another; but there's also been a comically steady stream of King-related scandals and ethical over-stepping.

Most if it has to do with his daughter, 29-year-old Katie King, who was elected as a judge in last years election. Wow, where to even begin with this one? Katie is what I would describe as "one of those treacherously bitchy rich blonde chicks who spent high school in a tanning booth plotting her rise to prom queen, and college in a giggly haze of Jagermeister and Rohypnol." Basically, she's 2nd generation new money, riding high after pimping out daddy's influence to (literally) buy herself a prestigious job appointment she is in no way qualified for. The Kings own a bank (King Southern Bank), and daddy got sort-of busted recently when it was made public that he gave Katie an illegal campaign contribution of $135,000 (it's currently unclear if this is going to have any consequences for anyone) that he claims was an "early inheritance." Riiiiight--after all, Princess shouldn't have to wait for daddy to croak before she gets to play dress-up on the public dime.

Earlier last month Daddy sent out an email to local lawyers asking them to grade Princess favorably on the Louisville Bar Association's current judicial evaluation. Experts are split on whether that was actually an ethical violation, but seriously: of course it is! Daddy is on the metro council, he owns a bank and he's a favorite in the mayoral pool: gee, do you think that he may have a bit of influence in this town? Do you think he might be able to collect favors from those in power? Do you think those being asked for said favor would feel pressure to oblige? Hmmm. Congratulations on your performance review, Princess. Oh, and of course Daddy has pleaded ignorance in any wrong doing in both cases--:"Gosh, I didn't know those things were wrong! I just love my little angel--no harm done, right guys?

And for her part Princess hasn't said so much as a word about not wanting or needing Daddy's help, or even acknowledging that any of this was wrong. Great judge, that one. Maybe she was too busy stealing other people's fiances on reality television shows to bother herself with issues of ethics.

And now there's yet another King family drama playing out: Daddy and the Ex-Mrs. King were recently rebuffed for trying to seal their 1988 divorce records from the public record. Other, more responsible and law-serving judges refused to cave and released the documents anyway. Apparently, according to the Louisville Courier-Journal, there was a good reason for the Kings' nervousness: the divorce records contained reports of domestic abuse. Now Daddy's attorney says King would like to "negotiate a settlement with the newspaper to keep certain documents private." For a bank president, that roughly translates into "how much should I make the check out for?"

Latest Innovation in Products for Creeps Who Look at Porn in Public Libraries

Readers, I work in a public library so I'm used to dealing with issues of privacy when it comes to what our patrons want to look at. The American Library Association instructs us to protect the privacy and first amendment rights of our users at all costs--so we don't disclose the reading history of our members unless the FBI goes and gets a subpoena (and even then, librarians tend to cause angry scenes worthy of the evening news when this happens), nor do we try to censor what information or content our patrons have access to. Intellectual freedom is the core value of librarianship, and it gets my heart all filled with anti-authoritarian don't-tread-on-me pride to think about librarians busting through a Harry Potter picket line.

That's why I was really, um, excited to hear about a product developed by designer Joe Malia: the Techno Privacy Scarf! (pictured above) Now our especially wacked-out, pervy horn-dog, or otherwise generally creepy patrons can surf those illicit sites in public without worrying about disturbing others. I mean, check out the Unabomber up there on the far right--wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with that one, right?

Baseball Armageddon

Readers, you may have noticed that there has been a marked drop-off in the number of baseball related posts here at MM (like, from several a week to...uh, zero). That may or may not be directly proportional to the suckiness rate of my beloved Cincinnati Reds this season. Well, I'm no sore loser or anything: you have to remember how long its been since the Reds were anything but a second-rate embarrassment--in fact, you'd have to go way back to 1995, when the Reds won the Central Division pennant (I was there, by the way, readers), and it was five years before that in 1990 the last time the Reds won the World Series, and way back in 1975 when the above picture was taken of the last Cincinnati club worthy of a nickname: The Big Red Machine. So you could say I'm used to Loser-ville by now.

I mention this because the other day I read a particularly whiny article in the New York Times by A. G. Sulzberger entitled Met's Fans Have Choice of Two Evils in World Series. Its all about how hard it is this year to be a Mets fan; how to choose the team to root for when you actively hate both, which team to hate less, how long its been since you got to celebrate a pennant win, blah blah blah boo-hoo-hoo. So the Mets haven't been any good for a few seasons, and it's been since 1986 since they won the Series--so what? The Reds haven't been good since that year in 1995...like at all. At least Mets fans had hope recently, like when in 2006 they came thisclose to winning their division--the Reds usually keep a close eye on third place until around the All Star break, then it's head first into the crapper for the rest of the season. And what about Pittsburgh fans? The Pirates are usually solid cellar dwellers by the 3rd week of the season--they haven't won a World Series since 1979. Washington D.C. just got their team a few seasons ago and it's been nothing but a shameful bloodbath for the Nationals thus far. The Royals, the Padres, the Mariners, the Orioles--all bottom-feeding fodder for teams like the Yankees, the Red Sox and the Dodgers to humiliate with their top-dollar talent season after season.

Popular Mets blogger John Coppinger (Musings and Prophecies of Metstradamus) is calling for Mets fans to boycott this year's Series, calling it, dramatically, "baseball Armageddon." Sheesh, simmer down, crybaby--the rest of us middle American die-hards have been dealing with our own squads of AAA losers for decades, so join the club. But of course it's not just Mets fans who get a bruised ego and have self-righteous hissy fits after a disappointing season--Cubs fans are downright scary when the subject of entitlement comes up, and don't they still burn Kenesaw Mountain Landis effigies on Chicago's Southside every October? Nobody holds a grudge like a real baseball fan.

So, not to sound bitter or anything, but I really can't spare the pity for the fella from Queens who ends Sulzberger's article by emoting: "I'm having a real tough time right now. They tell me the longer I wait, the sweeter it's going to be. But I was 3 years old in 1986, so I don't really remember. I want to know what it feels like to win." Well, I'm sure there are thousands of other fans of other teams who feel the same way every year the Yankees' newest permutation of ever-larger-muscled baseball millionaires buy their way to the top. There's a lot of disenfranchised fans out there who want to know what it feels like, just once, to be able to look down their noses at them and say "better luck next year, ya bums!" In fact, that popular sentiment demonstrates a real need that isn't currently being met in the consumer market that tends towards the ESPN demographic: sports therapy. Maybe I'll open my couch for business...

(Go Phillies!)

Sly, Like a Demon's Eye

Sly, Like a Demon's Eye!

In honor of Halloween, as with most other holidays, we here at Mercy Missiles are commemorating the occasion by inventing an appropriately themed cocktail. The potent potable is inspired by the song Demon's Eye by perennial Halloween soundtrack contributors: Deep Purple! Just listen to that organ solo! (Can you imagine the kind of irreparable damage that would've been done to our space-time continuum had Jon Lord and Ray Manzerek formed a psychedelic dueling organ solo band?)

Anyway, here's the recipe:

• 1/2 can Diet Cherry 7-Up (with antioxidants!)
• 1 oz Bourbon
• a dash of orange bitters
• 1 maraschino cherry (the demon's eye!)
• a dash of Tabasco sauce (although I'm not completely sold on this yet...)
• 1 cherry gummi worm for garnish

Pour ingredients into chilled glass over ice, stir. I may also experiment with a little sweet vermouth, but I don't think Deep Purple would really want me to complicate things too much...

ACTUALLY, I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS: The Wonderful and Baffling World of Wishmaster 2: Evil Never Dies.

Readers, we've been experiencing some technical difficulties here at MM lately (the kind of "technical difficulties" that leave us huddled in a weeping mass in front of our lifeless husk of a computer, bemoaning our tragic lack of data backups...), and while I know such lame excuses doesn't make up for the kind of value-added entertainment you've come to expect from us, I hope this reblog from my pal Andy over at South Twelfth will do the trick. He has written a very excellent essay on one of my very favorite guilty pleasures: Wishmaster 2: Evil Never Dies. In the spirit of Halloween--and to celebrate my return to the warm embrace of the internet--I was going to write my own homage to one of the most wonderful ineptly made horror movies ever sent directly to cable, but honestly, there's nothing I can really add to what Andy so eloquently captures here. I wish all of you a happy Halloween!

southtwelfth:

For Halloween Week at Filmosophy, a wildly unreasonable short essay on one of my favorite movies of all time.

There are a lot of trashy made-for-cable horror flicks out there, but there is only one where a socially awkward Persian genie kills Tiny Lister in a mystical prison dance-off and then possesses his body in order to bust his secret Russian boyfriend out of Los Angeles County Jail. That flick, ladies and gentlemen, is Wishmaster 2.

Read the whole essay here!

R.I.P. Guy Who Wrote Wonderful Theme Songs for Television Shows I Liked

Vic Mizzy passed away yesterday and TV Land/Nick at Nite had best get off their 1990's crap-fascination (Roseanne is NOT classic television! Passable entertainment sometimes, maybe, but a pale shadow of shows like All in the Family, which did the drama/comedy/serious social issues thing earlier and better, thankyouverymuch) for a few nights and re-rerun some blocks of Green Acres and The Addams Family, whose iconic theme songs Mr. Mizzy (great TV name, eh?) was responsible for. When I was a kid you could measure your coolness by how many TV show theme song lyrics you knew by heart--well, that's how I assumed it was measured, anyway--and I did great! So rather than pursue a tangent about how upsetting it is that modern television has eschewed the theme song (which is very nearly the direction in which this post was heading--closer than you may realize, reader), let's instead bask in the nostalgia of a list of sitcoms whose theme song lyrics I had memorized at one point or another (and in some cases, still know):

• Green Acres
• Mr. Ed
• The Mary Tyler Moore Show
• WKRP in Cincinnati
• Welcome Back, Kotter
• Cheers
• The Jeffersons
• Happy Days
• Good Times
• The Golden Girls
• Gilligan's Island
• Laverne and Shirley

There's probably more, but I'd say those are the main ones--the core collection of the most influential. Of course, there's also the purely instrumentals to consider--they're just as influential, just as catchy, and sometimes haunting:

• M*A*S*H (yeah, I know there were lyrics made for the movie, I choose to ignore them)
• Barney Miller
• Get Smart
• The Bob Newhart Show (the one where he's a psychologist in Chicago, not an innkeeper in Vermont)
• The A-Team (technically no lyrics, although I had also memorized the spoken word dialog at the beginning at one time)
• Bewitched
• The Munsters (zany garage rock at its best)
  
• Star Trek
• I Love Lucy
• Sandford and Son

My brother once owned a CD with nothing but TV theme songs on it--needless to say it was invaluable to my early mixed tape efforts. Anyway, a good theme song is hard to come by these days, and they almost never have lyrics besides. The cop/investigator shows sometimes use screamy rock songs, but mostly subscribe to super-serious sounding riffs of a few seconds or so--the spooky shows have oft-inappropriate techno scores or just a few bars of a creepy sound flailing around the background while the credits roll, and the sitcoms are much too timid to lay anything on us but a couple seconds of self-conscious audio noodling. In short, the TV theme song business is being run by upwardly mobile music technology majors with soulless Midi systems who graduated from Berkley or wherever, while the energetic ad men like Vic Mizzy have faded into obscurity.

Oh well, readers--the next time you're sitting down to an episode of CSI: Miami, just plug your ears and sing quietly to yourself: "Greeeeen Acres is the place to be!/Faaaaarm livin' is the life for me!/Land spreadin' out so far and wide/Keep Manhattan, just gimme that country side!" It gives David Caruso the kind of quiet yearning I think his character is missing--just insert Eddie Albert's altruistic back-to-nature naivete where Caruso's hard nosed cynicism is and you'll realize that all those dumb puns are really just a crude representation of his anguished pining for the simple life.

Ask Your Physician if Louisville is Right for You

Some of you may recall an earlier post of mine about my hometown's theme song, Look What We Can Do, Louisville by Hazel Miller. That was part of a civic pride/local tourism campaign way back in 1982, presumably going by the title name (I'm not entirely sure, I was like 2 years old at the time and not yet aware of my love for local media campaigns). Anyway, our newest re-branding is all about Louisville's potential--which seems awfully unspecific--and is captured in the open-for-interpretation moniker: "Possibility City". What I love about our local branding efforts is our apparent inability to really pin down a meaning for our slogans. I mean, Possibility City sounds positive at first, but it doesn't really specify--one assumes that it would also be possible to have a terrible time here, or have just about anything happen to you, good or bad. Get food poisoning and be falsely imprisoned in Louisville? Well, it's possible...

This new campaign just reminds me of our old license plates, which were pretty much universally reviled: they had a cheery, smiling cartoon sun (in fact, the entire scene is a cartoonish landscape reminiscent of the Teletubbies set) and the words "It's That Friendly" printed at the top. Well, okay, that also sorta seems like a positive thing--until you start searching for sarcasm, putting emphasis on different words ("Oh, "it's that friendly," I see.") or spot a few whose owners slapped one of those faux-bullet hole stickers on the sun's face. That's the problem with leaving the interpretive optimism up to the viewer: locals are quick to apply hipster irony-with-a-dash-of-snarky-cynicism (to compensate for the raging inferiority complex) to just about anything.

Anyway, check out this video of our latest tv spot...I have to say, it is pretty entertaining--it seems like the ad agencies our esteemed mayor is hiring are getting hipper. Thanks goes to Andy over at South Twelfth for making me aware of this, a shining ray of goofy hometown forced optimism. So is this my favorite bit of pro-Louisville propaganda? Well, it's possible that it is...

That Finger's Been in Somebody's Pie

OOOkay...I tend to post a lot about Jim Bunning here, and even the occasional rap on Mitch McConnell, and it usually has a humorous tone to it because, well, these guys are usually hilarious. They're a couple of good old boys from the GOP who Kentucky just can't seem to get rid of, and they're usually so hung up on calling each other names and double-dealing their inter-party smack talk that they typically miss any real opportunity to: A. get anything else accomplished, B. say anything nice (or rational) about anyone, C. make Kentucky look like anything other than a raving hillbilly hotbed, and D. seriously rankle my ire. Besides the acute embarrassment they cause for the state, they're just a couple of regular, harmless blow-hards.

But...

The recent amendment to the Defense Appropriations bill introduced by freshman senator from Minnesota, Al Franken, has given our boys a plum opportunity to stand united against something that, for once, we should all be able to agree on: the amendment proposes punishment for contractors who "restrict their employees from taking workplace sexual assault, battery and discrimination cases to court." This was prompted by the recent news that a 19 year old female KBR employee (KBR, by the way, is a subsidiary of Halliburton) was gang raped by her co-workers, then locked in a storage locker, threatened, and later told that she would not be able to take legal recourse because Halliburton thinks it is above the law (and, apparently, so do 30 senators--um, all republican--who voted against Franken's amendment). One could assume that Bunning and McConnell agree with Senator Jeff Sessions (R-Ala.) who said that the amendment was a "political attack directed at Halliburton." Wow. Yes, poor Halliburton. Way to tow the party line, there, fellas. Now that you've done your job on that, feel free to get back to railing against ACORN and working on your derisive belly laughs.

schmucks.

"A Traitor to His Class"

Well, as you may have noticed from my earlier post, it's Archives Month here in the Bluegrass state (as well as the rest of the US of A), and I implored you all to act like it: go forth and celebrate archives in whatever way seems appropriate to you. So you may then be wondering what we here at MM are intending to do to support our own favorite archival repository (the Filson Historical Society). Well, as a new member of the FHS I have the privilege of attending their sponsored lectures, like the one coming up this Thursday: the Gertrude Polk Brown lecture series will feature H.W. Brands, author of the new FDR bio Traitor to His Class: the Privileged Life and Radical Presidency of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who will discuss the book.

I would be pretty excited about this no matter what, and I know there's plenty of other FDR biographies already out there, but this is a book I'm especially anxious to read for one particular reason: Brands is the first historian to write a book about FDR without actually having lived through his presidency. He has no memories of his own to burden the trip--no nostalgia to squint through, no feelings to filter owing to living through the Great Depression and World War II. It's the first biography about what has been called the most influential presidency of the 20th century written by someone outside the "Greatest Generation," and that seems noteworthy. My FDR knowledge definitely needs bolstering anyway, and what with all the Depression era parallels being drawn to our current-day economic 'sitch and partisan fuss-bucketing about New Deal programs, I think this 900+ page tome will give me (and everyone else who gets through it) an excellent brush-up on my 20th century American history.

So I'll be attending the lecture this Thursday and thinking about other ways to celebrate Archives Month...what will you be doing?

Claude Elwood Shannon 1916-2001

That handsome fella there has a lot to do with my mood this week. In fact, I'd say he'll have quite the influence on me for the rest of 2009, maybe even the rest of my life! Claude E. Shannon was the mathematician responsible for information theory; he was also a great utilizer of Boolean logic in experiments with electromechanical relays, which became the foundation of practical digital circuit design, the basic concept underlying all modern electronic digital computers (blah, blah, blah: it's a concept I only sort-of understand--I think it had something to do with old timey phone circuitry and using algebra to get electronic relays to perform logic...or something...) The guy hung out with Albert Einstein and did the first experiments with artificial intelligence so...yeah, total smartypants. I guess you can thank him for that fancy computer you're using right now.

Anyway, I'm all set to take my big, make-or-break comprehensive exam for my library science masters degree (November 20th!), and I'm in the process of going back over 3 years worth of Li-Sci-related notes. My favorite brain-scrambler from this degree program came courtesy of Claude Shannon, on the day in my second semester when I found out that I had no real idea of what "Information" really is. It's one of those ambiguous terms that people do seem to use interchangeably: is it data? knowledge? truth? wisdom?? is it a physical thing, ethereal, an electrical impulse that exists only in your brain?? Can information be created? Think about it too long and hard and you'll find yourself questioning everything. Information-with-a-capitol-"I" is an ever present theme in the program, and it's a concept ready-made for the brand of OCD over-thinkers who tend to gravitate towards the field.

There are about 5 major scholars who are ubiquitous in the Li-Sci literature, and they all disagree with what information really "is". I guess the debate is librarianship's own special brand of self-indulgent, professional navel-gazing. I'm not totally sure it even matters what "it" "is" (and even worse: I'm not sure if that thought is going to make me a lousy librarian!). So I'll be thinking a lot about Claude Shannon in the next couple of months, and I imagine he'll surface again sometime in the future--he's a spectre that looms over all library school students: a spooky, transcendental math nerd who makes you wonder if you've been callously missing the point your entire life.

Happy Archives Month!

Readers, one more reason to love October (as if you needed another one): It's American Archives Month in the USA! This means that it's appropriate to visit, support, or otherwise promote your own favorite local archival institution. Kentucky has decided to expand its Archives Week into a full, month-long celebration to coincide, and this year's theme is especially exciting: the Lincoln bicentennial! Check out that poster!

Kentucky has a (somewhat tenuous) Lincoln connection which we tend to exaggerate--er, focus on--he was born here, and though he only spent a few years of his early boyhood in the state before his family moved to Indiana, we get to claim those great legendary Honest Abe, log cabin, teaching himself to read on a dirt floor stories. Plus, an added Lincoln bonus for the state: his wife Mary Todd was born and raised in well-to-do Lexington society (a distant relation, Charles Todd, was the very first Kentucky Colonel). So, yeah, Kentucky's Lincoln fixation may be a bit much sometimes--yet another bid for fame and relevance--but in a lot of ways it's legit.

Anyway, it's October 1st and you all have 30 more days to figure out how you will celebrate American Archives Month. I recommend making that visit to your local archives that you've been putting off--research your family in a genealogical collection, ask to see some awesome primary resource, or even just subscribe to a mailing list so you'll be informed of things like interesting lectures, publications, and new collections in your area. Support your local archives--read a book, make a donation, and/or buy an archivist a drink--you'll be doing your part.

Happy October!

As you may be able to guess going by the above picture, not only is October my birth month, but this is the year I'll be turning thirty! Yikes, readers, if we were living in the dystopian future world of Logan's Run my lifeclock would be gearing up to flash red-black-red-black and I would have to report for "final sleep" at carousel! For those of you not familiar with LR: that means "voluntary euthanasia"! Good thing those "death panels" we've heard so much about apparently only apply to grandma--I guess that means a few more decades for this soon-to-be triagenarian.

That's kind of like "good news, bad news" in that now I have to figure out what to do in my middle age. In LR there's no question what you'll be doing with your life: either you'll be a Sandman (a future-cop sort who kills anyone who refuses to submit to carousel) or you'll devote your doomed existence to the pursuit of awesome sexy fun. It's a sort of melding of 1960's era swinging grooviness and a post-fall Roman decadence, so what could possibly go wrong, right? Plus: haute couture color-coordinated togas that would make Donatella Versace blush...I love the future! No need to worry about grad school, internships, career assesments, job fairs, resumes or what to tell your estranged cousins at the next family picnic: the pressure's off! The only thing you need to worry about is getting directions to the next LSD orgy--hurrah!

Oyster Shooters: the Home Version

Well, Readers, after posting earlier about my oyster shooter mandate I of course ran straight out to the store to gather supplies and started experimenting. My husband informed me that he has actually NEVER HAD a bloody mary before(!) so I decided to remedy that first thing. Here is the recipe I used after a careful review of the literature available from the finest cocktail recipe websites:

Basic Bloody Mary

• 6 oz tomato juice
• 1 oz vodka
• 1 tsp Worcester sauce
• dash of Tabasco
• dash of prepared horseradish
• 1 Tbs fresh lemon juice
• 1 Tbs fresh lime juice
• fresh ground pepper to taste
• celery stick for garnish

This turned out pretty good, my husband seemed to like it, and they also limbered up our courage for the main event: the raw oysters I got at the store were HUGE! They were also disconcertingly wiggly and slimy--like some kind of sci-fi movie alien spawn--and the jar they came in had a warning printed on it about it being unsafe to eat raw oysters--like, it says you should consult your physician first...! I don't remember being warned last night at Flabby's about this! Anyway, it was a good thing we had already had a stiff drink, so we went ahead and assembled the shooters: oysters on the bottom, then covered with the bloody mary mixture describe above. I put a little more Tabasco on top for good measure, then down the hatch they went...

I have to say, it definitely reminded me of the ocean. We may steam the oysters next time, or at least cut 'em in half--but I felt pretty good about eating them...it's been a half hour and I don't feel like calling the doctor yet, so I guess I'm in the clear. I also purchased some shelled oysters, which I am planning on grilling later tonight and eating on the half shell with more bloody mary. I will of course document this experience and report back to you...

Oyster Shooters from the Heart of Schnitzelburg

Readers, I attended the Schnitzelburg street festival last night in the Germantown neighborhood. The big draw is not so much the FIVE confirmed cover bands playing simultaneously(!), or the unofficial uniform for females over 200 pounds (spandex), or even the less-hostile-than-usual neighborhood camaraderie: it was the suspension of the open container law for the evening. Several streets were blocked off and festival goers were encouraged to go from bar to bar with their beverages, spreading that special Germantown brand of drunken goodwill everywhere along the way. The fest is centered around some of the best dive bars in town: Flabby's, Check's and the Zeppelin Cafe.

Pictured here is an example of what was definitely one of the highlights of the evening for me: oyster shooters from Flabby's on Lydia Street! For 1.99 you can have a raw (I think) oyster swimming in "hot sauce" (which tasted more like a bloody mary mix to me) to slurp down your gullet. It was AMAZING! So amazing, in fact, that I have decided to devote my Sunday to recreating it at home. My go-to resource for all my culinary adventures, allrecipes.com, has a couple of promising leads for ingredients and preparation, but I'm going to check the cocktail sites for an especially tasty-sounding bloody mary recipe--I think that is the best way to go about this. I'll of course be posting the outcome here...Cheers!

More Cringe-Worthy News from Ky...

Well, readers, after discussing the story earlier this week about the convicted sex offender who was ordained a minister in my hometown I didn't think there would be a worse bit of news out of Kentucky this week. Boy, I should stop thinking those things out loud.

A U.S. Census worker was found dead in Clay County Kentucky, hanged from a tree with the words "Fed" carved into his chest. W-O-W. The body was found on September 12, but the story is just now breaking for some reason--although it is notable (maybe) that I learned of this story not from our local rag (which I read everyday), or our local tv news (which I watch sporadically), but from the Huffington Post. That's like hearing the news about your crazy uncle screwing a horse (again) from your dentist.

Clay County is well outside the jurisdiction of my metropolitan oasis of Louisville Metro, but only about 80 miles South of an area in which I frequently camp and hike in the Daniel Boone National Forest--a bit too close for comfort, maybe. The area in and around the park is what I would call very Bible Belt rural: lots of pick up trucks, mullets, country music, and the type of lazy-eyed possum hunters you'd expect to see wearing some type of merchandise officially licensed by Larry the Cable Guy. Every time I visit the area I lose count of the number of Confederate flags and "Don't Tread on Me" tattoos I see. Living in Louisville--a fairly liberal, center-left-ish minded place--I tend to forget that the rest of my home state is filled with an ocean of seriously undereducated bat-shit crazy Fox News disciples. So with this mind-numbingly scary crime squarely in mind, I feel somewhat justified here in assuming that the magical tears of Glenn Beck had something to do with this.

The Most Interesting Man in the World

It's becoming more and more rare these days, but I have always had a thing for really well-done television ad campaigns. I guess I pay too much attention, because a great commercial really can influence my future purchases, while a terrible commercial can incite me to great heights of indignant passion: yelling and cursing at my tv included. The ability to read between the lines is a great asset,unless you unconsciously assign meaning to the most meaningless things...like tv commercials. For example: you can see the erosion of youth in Verizon commercials, a personal attack on the Everyman's intelligence in a come-on for the Blue Collar Comedy Tour DVD, and, especially troubling, the post-modern anti-feminist movement in a Swiffer Wet Jet ad. Love 'em or mute 'em, commercials can influence more than just your buying potential...if you pay attention to them.

It's mostly local commercials that are particularly endearing to me. They're just so hapless, stiff, amateurish and oddly offensive--like a space alien with no public-relations experience landed on earth in your hometown and began half-heartedly filming a hot tub commercial. The local tv ad is a reflection of urban isolation and the sad, empty ennui of the consumer condition in your very own Everytown, USA. From the supremely self-aware local ambulance chaser (Daryl Isaaks: The Kentucky Hammer), to the unfortunately-named RV salesman (Tom Raper's RV World), I really love our stupid local flavor.

That said, every once in a while a national ad campaign touches greatness. Like the current one for Dos Equis beer with The World's Most Interesting Man. I love these spots, and am surprised when I bring them up to friends and acquaintances who don't know what I'm talking about (FYI: it always ruins the joke when you have to explain your frame of reference). I guess it's a testament to how fewer people are being reached through television, which is sad when you think about the universal power to unite inherent in a notable ad slogan (remember those "where's the beef?" jokes? Almost everybody got a laugh from using that one, including Ronald Reagan).

Anyway, The World's Most Interesting man is basically just that--he's a silver fox: virile, adventurous, macho without seeming like a pig, vaguely European, suave, and into doing really REALLY interesting things. The commercials incorporate this vintage stock footage type of look, injecting a james bond-ish feel with exotic looking locales and bevies of glamorous, formally-clad ladies. There's also shorter ads they've started playing--now that the character has been established--that feature TWMIM holding court in a dark, swanky bar. Topics appear on screen, and then TWMIM locks eyes with the viewer and gives you his thoughts in a velvety, gravitas-injected baritone: on life: "It's never too early to start beefing up your obituary." on careers: "Find out what it is in life that you don't do well, and then don't do that thing." on rollerblades: "no."

I really enjoy these commercials. It's not just that they're off-beat and appeal to a certain retro-hipster aesthetic--they are and they do--it's also that it is pretty darn refreshing to see a beer campaign that is asking--expecting--for its customers to aspire for sophistication. That is a change from the usual standard of desperate, pick-up line infested foam fests touting spokesmen who are boorish, thick-witted losers, taking consolation in their brand of choice after the inevitable rejection from the hot chick. So finally: a beer commercial for the ladies! Yes, you say, but does that work? Well, I can tell you this: there's some Dos Equis in my fridge that says it does.

Stay thirsty, my friends

Wow...

Whenever my hometown (or homestate) makes the news--before I even hear the details--I reflexively wince, knowing that whatever it is, it can't be good (or reasonable, or redeemable, or intelligent...) It turns out that my instinct to cringe first and listen second was correct, as usual:

A local independent church in Louisville's Germantown neighborhood has ordained a convicted child molester as a minister...WOW, indeed. The affirmed pedophile Mark Hourigan was sent to prison for three years and has been put on the sex-offender registry for life after repeatedly sodomizing an 11-year-old boy when he was a minister at Beechfork Baptist Church in Gravel Switch, KY (wherever that is). But never mind all that: the church, City of Refuge Worship Center (sounds pretty generic, like it should be corporately sponsored by Gatorade or something), is into forgiveness in a big way...so much so that it has decided to put more kids at risk for the sake of giving this one creep yet another shot at abusing a position of authority. Or, as Rochelle Fournier and David Clohessy (with the support group SNAP) put it: "We want authorities to err on the side of safeguarding the physical, emotional and spiritual safety of children, over boosting the self-esteem of one criminal adult." well...yeah.

I get that Christians are supposed to be turning the other cheek and all...but does that count for pedophiles? Especially when the recidivism of pedophiles is so commonly, consistently high (i.e.: he's going to do it again if he gets the chance)?? Shouldn't Jesus have put some sort of clause in there about the Golden Rule applying to everyone (your mom, your best friend, your enemy, your enemy's mom, etc) except that child rapist down the street? Maybe if Jesus had been raised by a lawyer instead of a carpenter the folks down at City of Refuge wouldn't be putting Creepy McGee in a situation where he would be tempted to screw up yet another kid's life.

Of course, all this makes it sound like I'm surprised that this happened in my hometown. Well, that's not completely true.: ask me about the summer during college when I worked at the local amusement park and they accidently hired a convicted sex-offender...to work in kiddie land! um, oops.

The Filson Historical Society

This photo is of the main building of the Filson Club, a 125 year old local historical society of which I am now a proud member. I've been wanting to join up for several years, but I finally decided that now's the time: I'm only going to be in school for a few more months, so I had to act soon to take advantage of their student rate. Plus, I'm taking a class called Archives and Manuscript Management this semester and will need access to a local archives.

Anyway, my first visit was a rousing success: I have a paper due in which I have to write about being a patron at an archive, so I randomly decided to do a bit of research on the Civil War battle of Perryville, Kentucky (also known as the Invasion of Kentucky). The anniversary of the battle is coming up in a few weeks on October 8th (1862), and there is quite a bit of material at the Filson concerning the war, as well as the state's role in it. I spent some time in the library, getting oriented by the friendly reference librarians, and finally worked my courage up to go upstairs and visit the rare books and manuscripts room.

Readers, it was REALLY awesome: I got to page through the ACTUAL field report penned by Confederate General Hardee on the battle at Perryville. It was written on your basic-looking ruled notebook paper (sans spiral fringe, of course), and the General's penmanship puts us 21st century slobs to utter shame. It described, with poetic flourish, how the Confederate path "was marked by the crushed lines and disordered battalions of the enemy. Our troops displayed higher qualities than mere discipline can confer. The furor of freemen and the enthusiasm of patriots animated thier valor: whenever they advanced, the enemy recoiled before the shock: when they retired he dared not venture to pursue." I wonder how modern military reports compare to that.

Anyway, I was astounded that they brought it right out for me and left me alone in the reading room with it--free to ogle and page through it for as long as I liked! W-O-W! Here I am, just a random schmuck, and they treat me like some book writing historian--being taken seriously by strangers is kind of a new experience for me.

I plan to make a return trip next week to look at random awesome things: maybe I'll ask to see the letter penned by Mary Todd Lincoln to her cousin Emily in 1864...oh, boy!

Welcome to the Wardroom

Hi there, you don't know me, but I'm willing to bet that you like to read about the subjects that interest you. Even if you find that the content here is sometimes not what you would normally classify as such, I'd like to think that it will inform and maybe entertain you nonetheless. No specific theme or clever hook here, gentle reader, just a collection of intriguing/shocking/funny/inappropriate/appropriate/and/or notable in some other way items for your consideration--a frequent offering in a soup du jour, catch of the day kinda fashion: FYI & FYP (for your information and for your pleasure). Tasty, fortifying bits of protein from the salty, turbulent sea of the internet.

I am in the process of moving a lot of content from my former place of residence over at Tumblr, and I'm still trying to figure out the best way to do that, but when it all gets archived you'll have a virtual bombardment of Mercy Missiles to get through, should you choose to accept that challenge. For now you can just accept me, sight unseen, as your own personal entertainment gopher--or information stylist, if you like, and check back often for new content. Welcome aboard!

It's time again to revisit the land of mix tapes--or "thematic playlists" as we have to more accurately call them now (thanks to the "awesome" new technologies that have taken away my beloved magnetic tape and made it impossible to purchase a tape deck in any legitimate electronics store--seriously, next time you're in a Best Buy ask one of the blue shirts if they have a stereo with a double tape deck, then watch as the look of bewilderment spreads across their youthful face, thus signifying that they have ceased to take you seriously as a customer and now see you as a possible escaped mental patient who could not possibly REALLY want something like that, I mean, "ma'am, haven't you heard of MP3's??")

Anyway: I do have to admit I like making the playlists on my computer, and my latest one is devoted to songs that I can listen to while running. Running (for exercise, but I'm also keeping it in mind for things like: bear attacks, the zombie apocalypse, lava, etc.) is a recent addition to activities here at Mercy Missiles as we have allowed ourselves to be talked into running a 5k race on October 3rd. That leaves just 3 more weeks to get it together, and I cannot hope to do that without a little musical accompaniment. So! There's a few elements that have to be involved in a list like this: songs have to be uptempo, loud, and include appropriate lyrics about such subjects as kickin' ass, tryin' real hard, bein' awesome, space travel, speeding, and other generally reckless behavior. Here's the list:

1. We Are All Made of Stars: Moby
2. Cannonball: The Breeders
3. The Final Countdown: Europe
4. Wheel in the Sky: Foreigner
5. Eye of the Tiger: Survivor
6. Jump: Van Halen
7. Rocky: Carol Connors/BillConti/Ayn Robbins
8. Ch-Check It Out: Beastie Boys
9. Hey Ya!: Outcast
10. Army of Me: Bjork
11. Extreme Ways: Moby
12. Speeding: The Go-Go's
13. Highway Runner: Donna Summer
14. Queen Bitch: David Bowie
15. Shining Star: Earth Wind & Fire

Battle of the Wilderness

Readers, I'm winding down my obnoxious parade of Washington D.C. vacay photo essays, I swear. I just wanted to tell you a few things about the Battle of the Wilderness area, which we drove through on our way to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson (also the B-side of our very own 5 cent piece: the fabulous U.S. nickel!).

The battle took place over three days in May, 1864, in the dense forest region of Spotsylvania, Virginia. Lee's army was vastly outnumbered (61,000 Confederates against Grant's 101,000) and had inferior artillery, both of which would be somewhat nullified in the confusing close quarters of the Wilderness, which played host to the most bloody fighting in the most brutal conditions of the war. Accounts vary, but it is generally agreed that the Union lost close to 17,000 men to the Confederacy's 8,000. While Grant's losses were greater and he was the one to disengage from fighting, it was not a true victory for Lee as Grant continued his aggressive offensive on towards Richmond rather than retreating North.

It was in this battle that a Union surgeon, William Chester Minor, saw much of his war action. Along with his (often futile) efforts trying to save the lives of the wounded, Minor was also charged with the duty of punishing those that tried to flee, branding their skin with the letter "D" for deserter. He survived the battle and the war, but in 1868 began exhibiting signs of mental instability. He was institutionalized at St. Elizabeth's hospital, an asylum in Washington D.C., for a year and a half with no improvements to his condition reported. He was then allowed to retire from the army and collect his pension, and in 1871 wandered to a slum in London, where his paranoia led him to fatally gun down a random man in the street.

Minor was found not guilty on grounds of insanity, and committed to Broadmoor asylum. Because he had an income (his army pension) and he was not judged to be dangerous, he was allowed to live in comfortable quarters along with his massive collection of books. It was during this time that he began corresponding with the creators of what was to become the most ambitious attempt to collect and document the English language: the Oxford English Dictionary. England's Philological Society had called for volunteers to help collect notations for words (their definitions and origins), and Minor devoted the rest of his life to the project, compiling over 10,000 entries, becoming the most prolific of the OED volunteers, and in the meantime befriending one of the project leaders, Dr. James Murray (who was, incidentally, unaware of Minor's situation until, believing that Minor was the hospital's administrator, he visited the asylum himself--only to discover his pen pal was an inmate, not its director).

By 1902 Minor's condition began to deteriorate further, his health failed, and he was eventually allowed to return to St. Elizabeth's in Washington, where he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. He died in 1920.