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/_/ /_/\__,_/_/ \____/_/\__,_/ /_/ /_/\___/_/ \__,_/_/\__,_/
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All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print
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APRIL 1995 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 4, Issue 2
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_____________________________________________________________________
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Now The Best Self-Published Newsletter
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in New England - Some Guy at the Boston Globe
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(Owens went belly-up)
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Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
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Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
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Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
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PR Coordinator: Donna Harris-Lewis
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Education Editor: Kelly Galligan
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Business Editor: Nicholas Leeson
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Expedience Editor: Ben Nighthorse Campbell
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Assistant Expedience Consultant: Richard Shelby
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Deputy Undersecretary of Expedience: Nathan Deal
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Spiritual Consultant: Mike Tyson
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Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald
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30 Deering St.
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Portland, ME 04101
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Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News
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38 Lafayette St.
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P.O. Box 997
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Yarmouth, ME 04096
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ARCHIVE SITES:
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fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
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etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
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Subscription requests to drose@fas.harvard.edu
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Hal-direct missives to hphillip@biddeford.com
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Funding for The Harold Herald is provided by our contributing
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readers including:
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Mrs. Charles Fowler... $5
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Barbara Reeves & Paul A. Phillips.... $10
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Tom, Abby, Bennett Rose... Stamps galore
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Rich Gibbons & Heather Moss... $10
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Gov. David McDonald... $10
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Bill 5'18" Paprocki... $25 (zoinks!)
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(All this, and still nothing from my own family!)
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Submissions welcome
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PHILLIPS TO LEAVE DEERING ST.; DRUNKEN MELEE PLANNED
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BY HAL PHILLIPS
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PORTLAND, Maine - Get to know me. Get to know the spirit of Thomas
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Brackett Reed. Get to know the lovely Sharon Vandermay. Get a measure
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of social religion. Get legless.
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Get while the gettin's good here at 30 Deering St. on April 22. A tri-
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level soiree has been scheduled for that particular Saturday night on
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the occasion of the fair Ms. Vandermay's birthday. Further, as I'm
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moving in with my betrothed birthday girl on June 1, attendees will
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have the opportunity to bid farewell to Thomas Brackett Reed house
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where I've resided for lo, these past three years - my longest tenure
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at any address since leaving for college. Upstairs neighbor "Aroo-
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stook" Mary Fowler has generously added her apartment for party use
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while access to the roof here at TBR house will allow wondrous views
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of Portland's Back Bay. [Let the record show the Herald Legal
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Department hereby warns invitees against getting drunk and falling off
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the roof.]
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All readers should consider this issue of the Herald an invitation to
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the party, almost certainly the last social event of any import to be
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staged at this 19th century historic landmark. Festivities should
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commence around 8 p.m. There will be nibbles, but big-eating folks
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would be well served to eat beforehand, if only to line your stomachs.
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Various libations - beer, spirits and NABs - will be provided, but
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even the most modest liquid birthday gifts (for Sharon, of course)
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would be much appreciated. Indeed, a six-pack or bottle of wine would
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spur our instant and endless devotion. Let's recap, shall we?
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What: A party on three levels
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Whose: Mine
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Where: Thomas Brackett Reed House, 30 Deering St., Portland; the
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corner of Deering and State Street (Route 77).
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When: Saturday, April 22 at 8 p.m.
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Why: Fair Sharon's birthday and goodbye to TBR House.
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Directions: Get to I-95. Get to I-295 towards Portland. Get off the
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highway at the Forest Avenue exit, going towards the city. Get right,
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into Deering Oaks Park. Get through the light, up the hill, through
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another light, and go left on Deering Street. Get a parking spot.
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Getting here from Cape Elizabeth is different: Get over the Million
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Dollar Bridge and go left on High Street. Get left as you pass over
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Congress Street and go left on Deering, across from the Royal Sonesta.
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Get a parking spot because 30 Deering is two blocks away. Got it?
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Good.
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/-/ \-\
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ENORMOUS ANTLERS AND FUSED METACARPALS: CHICKS DIG 'EM
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By MARK SULLIVAN
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The Irish elk that roamed Europe 12,000 years ago had enormous
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branching antlers that spanned a dozen feet. The deer-horn equivalent
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of the barbecued bronto ribs that upended the Flintstones' roadster,
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these cumbersome appendages were considered the most fetching by
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female Irish elks.
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The Hal Phillips who roams latter-day golf courses from Kennebunk to
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Kuala Lumpur was born with fused metacarpal bones, effectively leaving
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him without wrists. The condition makes swinging five-irons or typing
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a challenge for this golf magazine editor, but renders him nearly
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invincible at arm-wrestling.
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Science suggests the long-extinct deer and Hal have something in
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common. Hal's wrists and the Elk's antlers, physiological departures
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that seem to flout practicality, may in fact have enhanced the owners'
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ability to reproduce - a paramount factor in the Darwinian scheme.
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Further, the evolutionary significance and hereditary impact of Hal's
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wristlessness have drawn increased scrutiny since he announced his
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intention to wed later this year.
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Hal's curious condition is not readily evident. One is reminded of
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another famous Harold, the silent film star Harold Lloyd, who early in
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his career blew off one of his thumbs with a prop explosive; Lloyd
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successfully hid this fact from the camera by means of a flesh-colored
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glove fitted with a prosthetic thumb, which he wore even when dangling
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from clock towers.
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In Hal's case you don't notice his lack of wrists until he begins to
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type, in a paddle-paw fashion that suggests a circus bear playing the
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piano. On the golf course, Hal finds his fused wrists are "good for
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coming out of the rough - the club doesn't turn in my hands." But he
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has a difficult time with toll booths. "I can't lean back and make a
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smooth, easy transition palming the money," he explains.
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Impractical as their design may be, Hal's wrists may fill a unique
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role in the evolutionary scheme. In "Only His Wings Remained," an
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essay in his 1985 book The Flamingo's Smile, Harvard paleontologist
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Steven Jay Gould writes: "Our world overflows with peculiar, otherwise
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senseless shapes and behaviors that function only to promote victory
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in the great game of mating and reproduction. No other world but
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Darwin's would fill nature with such curiosities that weaken species
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and hinder good design but bring success where it really matters in
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Darwin's universe alone - passing more genes to future generations."
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Gould's favorite oddities of this sort are "the tail feathers of
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peacocks and the huge, encumbering antlers of Irish elks, both
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adaptations in the struggle among males for access to, or acceptance
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by, females, but certainly not contributions to good design in a
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biochemical sense."
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David Rose, PhD, a geneticist at Harvard Medical School, suggests
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wrist-lessness may increase the probability of Hal's having children.
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"It might make masturbation more difficult, so it increases the
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likelihood he will reproduce with something else," observes Rose, who
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added: "If we lived in a society where the probability of mating
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rested on arm-wrestling skills, maybe he would have an advantage.
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Perhaps that explains why he visits Bubba's Sulkey Lounge with such
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frequency."
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Hal's fiancee, comely exposition organizer Sharon Vandermay, confirmed
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that Hal's wristlessness was a distinct attraction. "None of the other
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men I dated had no wrists," she said. "It was yet another unique
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characteristic that set him apart from my other suitors."
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/-/ \-\
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TERM-LIMIT DRIVEL DIES GENERATIONAL DEATH
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BY HAL PHILLIPS
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The term limit debate has peaked and will soon take on the importance
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of other burning issues like the House postal code and anything to do
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with Lamar Alexander - which is to say it won't matter a lick. The
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entire argument never made any sense. To wit, 80 percent of the voting
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public is said to favor term limits, yet only 45 percent of the same
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voting public participates in elections. Do the math. You can't.
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It appears nearly half of those favoring term limits don't bother to
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cast ballots - or lie about it - therefore forfeiting the right to
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comment on the length of political careers, much less alter The
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Constitution forever. Republicans claim the nation damn near demanded
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term limits in November. But how are we to interpret that message in
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light of so many established senators and congresspeople getting the
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sack? Tom Foley opposed term limits, a stand that definitely
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influenced his defeat by a virtual unknown. Yet the defeat of Foley,
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the first House Speaker to lose an election in 130 years, is also the
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most eloquent argument one can make against the need for term
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limitation in '90s America. Clearly, we already have term limits. It's
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called voting. In Ayn Rand's libertarian treatise Atlas Shrugged, the
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author makes it clear the common good is best served when individuals
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look out for number one. As much as they might crow about removing
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government restriction, only rarely does your ideologue Republican
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stumble into a defensible position on libertarian grounds. In this
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case, the former minority unwittingly employed libertarian self-
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interest to defeat a distinctly alibertarian ideal the GOP itself
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espoused - that is, restricting voter choice.
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Now in the majority, Republican will see to it the issue slowly dies.
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Bear in mind one thing during any debate on limiting the terms of
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elected representatives: Remember it has always been and will remain a
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minority issue. If the Republicans manage to retain their majorities
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for 10 years, a new generation of Democrats will pick up the term-
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limit mantle and ride the voter dissatisfaction endemic to a free
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society back into office. Once the cycle is complete, self-interest
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will continue to prevail and the term limit issue will die a new
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death.
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And that, Rush, is the way it should be, you fat frothing ideologue.
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/-/ \-\
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LETTER FROM BRITAIN
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(Loathe as we are to the idea of actually assigning stories, for this
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issue the Herald staff asked Mr. Ledger to examine the British
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phenomenon of Mr. Blobby, a sort of aggressive-but-guileless Barney
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jacked on ecstasy. The enormous appeal appears to center around
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impromptu meetings with celebrities who chat amiably with Mr. Blobby
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until the gourd-shaped polka-dotted mega-muppet becomes so excited he
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mauls his company with affection, often knocking them to the ground.
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During these "exchanges," the weebl-esque children's TV personality
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excitedly exhibits the limited extent of his vocabulary: "Blobby,
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blobby, blobby, blobby..." he burbles. Blobbymania has swept the
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normally reserved British landscape, triggering record deals and
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bemused features in American newspapers, one of which quoted an
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English sociologist as saying "Mr. Blobby reveals an aspect of British
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culture we're not particularly thrilled to discuss, especially with
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Americans." Contributor Trevor Ledger, who files from his Goose
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Cottage home in Victoria Lane, comments quickly on the Mr. Blobby
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craze before moving on to subjects further afield. We can ask, but we
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can't restrict Mr. Ledger's subject matter any more than we can insist
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he wash his knickers. On yet another subject he warns, "Stop the
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press: Interpol Alert - Adrian Praeter will be in the U.S.A. in July.
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Members of the public are advised not to lend him money or allow him
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anywhere near your stash of weed. You have been warned, by a victim.")
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BRITAIN CLOSES THE CULTURAL TRADE IMBALANCE
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BY TREVOR LEDGER
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MARKET DRAYTON, Shropshire - Ah! Revenge is sweet. So, Mr. Blobby has
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wheedled his way across the Atlantic and turned up on the hallowed
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pages of the Sunday New York Times. I'm sorry that you should been
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encumbered with a 7-foot,pink and yellow polka dot smegger whose
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vocabulary consists of "blobby, blobby, blobby," but let's be honest:
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You deserve it. It says something about the English, as a nation, that
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we let Mr. Blobby's debut single (adventurously entitled, "Mr.
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Blobby") sit atop the hit parade for a month or so. But we shouldn't
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be in the least bit apologetic considering the shit we've imported
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from Brother Yank for so long: McDonald's, rap, Knots Landing, Trident
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Missiles, the O.J. Trial...
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The fucking O.J. trial!! What is this shit? I don't know him. I don't
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know him. I don't know him, and I certainly don't care what happens
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to him (neither does his wife, tee hee hee). Now, if you lot are so
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crass as to want to court cultural suicide by making such a spectacle
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of a trial, then fine. But I object to having BBC2 programming
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disturbed by "Sonja Norbst with an O.J. Update." My proposal? Charge
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up the chair, fry the fucker (guilty or not), and let it be a lesson
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to 'im. Wanna be famous? Want loads of cash? Okay. But if you waste
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anyone, relatives or not, we're gonna shoot 100,000 volts up your
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jacksy live on TV. Now that, I'd watch.
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One of you better exports is baseball. How ironic, a nation that
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stamps all over trade unions for the underprivileged masses allows its
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national sport to be held ransom by a union! A union, mark you,
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comprised of the mega rich who, given a modicum of common sense, would
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only ever have to spend 5-10 years of their lives working (playing).
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"The Union forever, defending the right..." Out of interest, the
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average first-class cricketer earns L320,000 sterling per year. For
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the ignorant, cricket is an older, classier and better version of
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baseball.
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Stop Press: Is my son a genius? Having endured a very windy morning
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walk, the conversation went something like this:
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Ieuan: I'm going to kill the wind, daddy.
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Me: How are you going to do that then?
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Ieuan: I'll turn the low pressure into high pressure. Then the wind
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will stop and it'll be sunny.
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Me: *!X?*!!
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Ieuan David Ledger is four in June and, to my untrained eye, does not
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have "666" tattooed on his scalp. And yes, I am showing his
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intelligence off, proud father that I am.
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/-/ \-\
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THE HAROLD HERALD BOOK REVIEW
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Sarum: A novel of England, by Edward Rutherfurd
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The Shipping News, by Annie Proulx
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Mary Renault: Biography by David Sweetman
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The Cnamber by John Grisham
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SOMEWHERE OVER THE PACIFIC - The only discernible bright side to
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spending 24 hours in air transit to Singapore, and 24 back again, is
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the chance to read virtually uninterrupted by work, social obligation
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or, sadly, sleep. I can't sleep on planes so I had the opportunity to
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knock off four books and several periodicals during my late-March
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junket to the Pacific Rim. Brief reviews follow:
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* Finally finished off Sarum: A Novel of England, by E dward
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Rutherfurd, somewhere between Portland and Chicago-O'Hare. This 900-
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page historical novel tracks the community living on and around the
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Salisbury plain (an area known colloquially as Sarum) from the last
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ice age through the 19th century. While the premise at first sounds
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absurd in scope, Rutherfurd manages to pull us along with phenomenal
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coherence. Of course, English history provides a lengthy, intriguing
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timeline, which Rutherfurd decorates with all manner of interesting
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fictional devices while furtively slipping the reader not-at-all-dry
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details of social history. The birth of English parliamentarianism and
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the textile trade are explained as well by Rutherfurd as anyone I've
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read. Because virtually all the fictional characters are descendants
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of two iron-age men - one tall and dark with long fingers, another
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fair and stocky with stubby digits - the author continually strings
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eras together, connects Picts with Romans, and offers believable
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insight into the English psyche, such as it is. Rutherfurd makes it
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clear, for example, that Elizabethan Peter Wilson - with his long,
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delicate fingers - is related, however distantly, with the bronze-age
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river man, Tark. With these blood ties made clear, what could have
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been a awkward, disjointed history becomes, on another level, a pair
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of compelling family sagas. Good stuff.
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* When you win the American Book Prize and your novel is recommended
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by two such disparate characters as my mother and Mark Sullivan, you
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surely don't need my affirmation. But let the record show that I
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thoroughly enjoyed The Shipping News, Annie Proulx's quirky novel
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about growth through retreat on the briny frontier of Newfoundland's
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coast. Proulx's writing style is, to say the least, unusual. The
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sentence fragments alone are enough to roll the eyes, especially those
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of certain Globe columnists. Yet it's a measure of the author's
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storytelling skill and ability to craft dialogue that her novel can be
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judged on its considerable merits, thereby rising above her aversion
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to coupling subjects and verbs not to mention her loopy choice of
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character names. Luckily the reader comes to care a great deal about
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Tert Card, Billy Pretty and Quoyle, the mono-monickered central
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character. Quoyle is a 300-pound, long-suffering loser and widower who
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moves his family to The Rock, mysteriously depicted by Proulx as a
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sort of Island of Misfit Toys surrounded by the ever-present Atlantic,
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at once therapeutic and dangerous. Great choice of setting here.
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Quoyle marvels along with us at the prospect of waking up and seeing
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an iceberg float by the kitchen window. Quoyle is at first bewildered
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by the engaging but thoroughly imperfect Newfoundlanders and their
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ability to thrive in this bleak environment. Eventually it empowers
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him. He falls for a fellow widower named Wavey, transforms himself
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from a tentative, third-rate newspaper reporter into an insightful
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editor, and readers go home happy.
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* Mary Renault's The Charioteer and Gore Vidal's The City and the
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Pillar - both published in 1947 - debunked the myth that homosexual
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central characters were not capable of generating mass appeal. While
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Vidal went on to become America's foremost man of letters (when he
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wasn't calling William F. Buckley a crypto-fascist), Renault moved to
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South Africa and churned out an acclaimed series of historical novels
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set in Ancient Greece, including the Persian Boy, Bull from the Sea
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and Fire from Heaven.. David Sweetman's biography of Renault
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(pronounced re-nolt, not like the French car) isn't written with any
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great elegance or insight, but the author's life was so full the
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reader is sated. Born Eileen Mary Challans in 1905, the British author
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was among the first to integrate Oxford, trained as a nurse and
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published three rather light, romance novels before leaving for Durban
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and Capetown where she brought Theseus, Alexander and Alcibiades to
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life, chaired PEN International and actively worked against the
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institution of apartheid. All of this she did with a considerable
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amount of courage and controversy. Judging from Sweetman's text,
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Renault didn't have much use for women. Indeed, Sweetman opines that
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Renault honestly considered herself a Man. Though she was a lesbian
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and spent nearly all her adult life with a single companion, Renault
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clearly eschewed the company of women, much preferring social
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associations with gay men. In her novels, virtually all her lead
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characters are gay men. Female characters, usually some hero's
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overbearing mom, are notoriously bitchy, weak and irrational - not
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unlike her own mother. A consistent critic of Afrikaner nationalism
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from the outset, Renault ran afoul of fellow PEN members (including
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Nadine Gordimer) by opposing the free world's cultural boycott of
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South Africa arguing that small-minded Afrikaner needed outside
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influence, not a blind eye. * Read my first John Grisham novel, The
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|
Client, on the plane back from Hawaii. I was out of reading material
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and borrowed it from a colleague. Sure, it was a page-turner, but one
|
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is required to turn pages in the phone book, too. What a piece of
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rubbish! In addition to proving that he writes with all the flair of a
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tort lawyer, Grisham proves that it's damn near impossible to write
|
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good dialogue using flat, uninteresting characters. I wasn't expecting
|
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much, figuring I was unconsciously avoiding Grisham because everyone
|
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else seems to love him. I'm gratified to have a legitimate reason to
|
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avoid him further.
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/-/ \-\
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CD'S AND OTHER RETIRMENT STRATEGIES
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WATT GOES SOLO, STINSON GOES SOUTH
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By DAVID M. ROSE
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If you don't know who Mike Watt is - and most people don't - you've
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missed a lot. In the late 70s and early 80s, Watt came of age as the
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anchor for the seminal jazz/punk trio, the minutemen, breaking bass
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strings in booming counterpoint to singer/screamer d. boon's swirling
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guitar leads. After d. boon died in an auto accident in 1985, Watt and
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Brockton, Mass.-born drummer George Hurley teamed up with boyish Ohio
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native Ed Crawford. The new band, fIREhOSE, was less political and
|
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more subdued, but Crawford proved an able successor to d. boon, and
|
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they approximated the genius that was the minutemen about as well as
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anyone could reasonably expect.
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|
|
A couple of months ago, Watt announced - in Rolling Stone of all
|
|
places - that fIREhOSE was no more. After eight years, Watt said, the
|
|
members had grown too comfortable with one another. It was time for
|
|
something new and on Feb. 28, Watt's first solo effort, "Ball-Hog or
|
|
Tugboat" was released. The title refers to two diametrically opposed
|
|
roles a musician can play: self-promoting prima donna or nurturing
|
|
team player. The solo album format, of course, is the ultimate ball-
|
|
hog playpen, so it's refreshing to see Watt take the tugboat approach
|
|
and make it work as well as he does.
|
|
|
|
Watt's metaphor for the process that yielded the album is wrestling;
|
|
by calling different participants into the ring for each of the disk's
|
|
17 tracks, he essentially ends up with 17 different bands, composed of
|
|
51 different performers. Participants range from relative unknowns
|
|
(Anna Waronker? Pat Smear?) to the heavyweights of post-punk arena
|
|
rock: Evan Dando, Eddie Vedder, King Ad Rock, and Flea. The obvious
|
|
danger here is the result will be a disjointed mess, but the thread
|
|
that runs through all this is Watt himself; he sings only three songs,
|
|
but he produces and plays bass on every track. By virtue of his
|
|
unmatched technical proficiency and clarity of artistic vision, he's
|
|
able to straddle the ball-hog/tugboat dichotomy as few others could.
|
|
Each track is unique, but the whole thing never stops sounding like a
|
|
Mike Watt record.
|
|
|
|
My personal favorite here is probably "Piss Bottle Man", Watt's
|
|
tribute to his dad's eminently practical means of avoiding unnecessary
|
|
pit-stops on long car trips. It brought back warm memories of the
|
|
lemon yellow bottle my parents kept under the front seat of our '64
|
|
Chevy station wagon, and it was nice to hear that we weren't the only
|
|
ones. Equally effective are "Against the 70's" (a treatise on the
|
|
dangers of mindless nostalgia) and the jazzy "Sidemouse Advice",
|
|
featuring a very capable Flea on trumpet. Some have criticized Watt
|
|
for including such luminaries as Dando and Vedder on the record.
|
|
Indeed, one such critic - Kathleen Hanna - appears on the disk,
|
|
deriding the project as a "white rock-boy hall of fucking shame" and
|
|
urging the arena rockers to get over their "big-white-baby-with-an-
|
|
ego-problem thing." Hanna's diatribe is funny, and some of her points
|
|
well-taken, but I don't think they have much relevance to BH/T; to a
|
|
man, the rock stars seem to have checked their sizable egos at the
|
|
door.
|
|
|
|
As to whether the inclusion of some big names constitutes a sell-out
|
|
on Watt's part, I think the music speaks for itself; you won't be
|
|
hearing these songs on MTV unplugged anytime soon.
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
There was some sad but not completely unexpected news this past month:
|
|
Bob Stinson, lead guitarist for the influential pre-post-punk band,
|
|
the Replacements, died of heart failure, presumably the result of drug
|
|
use. In their early years, the Replacements - devoted substance
|
|
abusers all - were perhaps best known for their drunken live shows,
|
|
during which they often abandoned their set list in favor of a long
|
|
string of top 40 covers that no one in the band had actually bothered
|
|
to learn. With this backdrop, Stinson's ejection from the band in the
|
|
late 80's for excessive drug and alcohol abuse was ominous, indeed. I
|
|
never saw the Replacements in the early days but my brother, Tom,
|
|
caught the original line-up at the now-defunct Channel in Boston. When
|
|
the band took the stage, Stinson was nowhere to be found, and the band
|
|
was forced to begin playing without him. During the third or fourth
|
|
song, Stinson was spotted in the crowd; members of the audience lifted
|
|
him up and he was deposited on stage, clutching a fifth of Jack
|
|
Daniels. He strapped on his guitar and played the rest of the set and
|
|
three encores more-or-less without incident before returning for the
|
|
fourth encore completely naked except for his guitar.
|
|
|
|
He will be missed.
|
|
|
|
|
|
/-/ \-\
|
|
|
|
|
|
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
|
|
|
|
Dear Hal,
|
|
|
|
Delighted to be on the list to receive your personal publication.
|
|
Thanks. I've read other issues at Mary's.
|
|
|
|
Enclosed is an article connecting Newt with Thomas Brackett Reed I
|
|
thought interesting. Didn't you mention in another issue some
|
|
fascination about T.B. Reed? Congratulations! And my best to Sharon!
|
|
|
|
Dawna Fowler
|
|
Fort Fairfield, Maine
|
|
|
|
Ed. Mrs. Fowler, mother of my upstairs neighbor Mary and frequent
|
|
visitor to Portland, was kind enough to enclose a Bangor Daily News
|
|
feature on Newt Gingrich, Thomas Bracket Reed and James Blaine, House
|
|
speakers all - though some with more impressive credentials than
|
|
others. The story noted that Gingrich on several occasions has
|
|
compared his own revolutionary tactics to those of Reed, who
|
|
masterfully rewrote House rules late in the 19th century. Of course,
|
|
Gingrich couldn't carry Reed's parliamentary jockstrap (Sorry, Mrs.
|
|
Fowler). Indeed, Gingrich bears more of an historical resemblance to
|
|
the wordy Blaine, whose political rise was similarly meteoric and
|
|
likewise studded with ill-considered off-the-cuff remarks and scandal.
|
|
Blaine went on to earn the GOP's 1884 presidential nomination and
|
|
serve as Maine's governor. In any case, the continued irony is that
|
|
Charles Fowler, Dawna's husband and Mary's dad, is a Reed - distantly
|
|
related to Speaker Reed, in whose Portland home Mary and I now reside.
|
|
|
|
Dear Hal, You pandering excuse for a newsman.
|
|
|
|
What a shameless display of begging and groveling in the last issue of
|
|
the Herald. Knighting the likes of Allan Jones (no offense, Allan) in
|
|
response to his mere $30 donation summed it all up. I suppose you have
|
|
the capability to boot QEII from her regal stature, drape your readers
|
|
in ermine and perch them on the throne were they to donate, say $60?
|
|
Monarchy should come so cheap. You make me sick.
|
|
|
|
On the other hand, I will laud you for having the courage to print the
|
|
caustic yet accurate "Letter from Britain." While I agree with
|
|
Trevor's insightful analysis of the Herald as a "shitty little rag",
|
|
"arsewipe (spoken like a true Brit) of a tabloid" and "self-serving
|
|
pile of shit", I add myself to that growing list of "dickheads who are
|
|
coughing up." I've been called a hell of a lot worse.
|
|
|
|
Enclosed find $10 from me and my beautiful wife, Heather. According to
|
|
your subscription rules, that should put us in good stead until the
|
|
year 2097. After a great deal of deliberation on our part, we will
|
|
accept the titles of "Duke and Duchess of Davis, California."
|
|
P.S. "Open the pod bay door, please Hal - Heather.
|
|
|
|
Rich Gibbons
|
|
Duke of Davis, California
|
|
|
|
Ed. Thanks, Rich, for the cash and, Heather, for the completely
|
|
original reference to 2001: Space Odyssey. Never heard that before...
|
|
Consider your new title and subscription status confirmed. As for the
|
|
authentication of Trevor as a "true Brit," you needn't refer to his
|
|
spelling habits. Just smell him sometime; or examine his teeth.
|
|
|
|
Dear sirs,
|
|
|
|
Enclosed please find a check to help with production and mailing
|
|
costs. I realize the high cost of doing business these days (it must
|
|
have cost a king's ransom to get the lovely Sharon Vandermay to change
|
|
her name to something as bland as Phillips).
|
|
|
|
I look forward to future issues of the Harold Herald and hopefully,
|
|
we'll be able to meet the fair Ms. Vandermay in the coming months, as
|
|
we the readers really need to talk to this woman. I am one reader who
|
|
became aware just how far Mr. Phillips will go.
|
|
|
|
One evening while visiting 30 Deering St., I was led out for a few
|
|
brews and a fair game of pool. Well, Mr. Phillips really took
|
|
advantage of this. First, he pointed out all these really cool clubs
|
|
only to take me to this basement [Leo's Billiards] where someone such
|
|
as my 5'18" self could only hope to survive a walk through this head-
|
|
crushing maze. Later we drank what proved to head-crushing, rot-gut
|
|
beer. My point is, I lost at pool, hit my head many times [on low-
|
|
hanging pipes], and was late for a meeting the next morning.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Phillips, on the other hand, was on time for his meeting, never
|
|
came close to hitting his head and, of course, won in pool. And lest I
|
|
forget - he did not appear to be hung over the next morning. In any
|
|
case, please keep the Harold Herald coming, and let us meet the lovely
|
|
Sharon Vandermay. She needs to know.
|
|
|
|
William 5'18" Paprocki
|
|
Vernon, N.Y.
|
|
|
|
Ed. This letter arrived in promising fashion - inside an Augusta
|
|
National envelope. I opened it and noticed the check, figuring the
|
|
boys down in Georgia had finally considered my offer to serve as paid
|
|
press-tent czar at the Masters. Unfortunately, the author, a devoted
|
|
reader of Golf Course News, has a sick sense of humor. While we
|
|
appreciate his generous contribution to our Circulation Endowment, we
|
|
must point out that Leo's was built for homo sapiens of normal build,
|
|
not for those who played hoops for Syracuse in the mid-70s. As for the
|
|
quality of beer, you'll have to take that up with Mr. and Mrs. Geary.
|
|
Besides, "All's fair..." Just ask Sharon, who's keeping her surname.
|
|
|
|
/-/ \-\
|
|
|
|
PEJORATIVE CORNER
|
|
(Like Homer's Kerouacian central character, Briton Tim Monaghan began
|
|
his oddysey on a once-proud island off the coast of a more populous
|
|
continental landmass (It could be argued Ithaca has come through its
|
|
cultural upheaval with more dignity). In any case, Monaghan's
|
|
professional route - he's now an editor at the Springfield Union-News
|
|
- has been no less circuitous, beginning in Sudbury and looping
|
|
through suburban Boston before heading ever more west. While toiling
|
|
at the Middlesex News in Framingham, his lovely wife, Lynn Hatch,
|
|
decided to go for her economic doctorate at UMass: "One of the few
|
|
North American universities still harboring left-wing economists who
|
|
believe that Marx, on the whole, got it right," Tim explains. "As a
|
|
sensitive New Age kind of guy, I immediately suppressed any unhealthy
|
|
reactions about income loss or life disruption and began searching for
|
|
suitable economic bondage in the western part of the state." According
|
|
to Monaghan, the Union-News and Sunday Republican are "about as left-
|
|
wing as American papers tend to get, and the unfortunate name of the
|
|
Sunday edition comes from the earliest history of the paper, when the
|
|
founder helped set up the Republican Party and get Abe Lincoln
|
|
nominated for president. A very different kind of GOP back then, and
|
|
an uncanny Springfield connection.")
|
|
|
|
By TIM MONAGHAN
|
|
|
|
Ah, western Massachusetts. Home to more crunchy- earthy types than
|
|
you can shake a daikon at, the People's Republic of UMass (PRU), the
|
|
Island of Lesbos (Smith College Chapter), and the car-theft capital of
|
|
the state, Springfield - also known for its cheerful gang-related
|
|
drive-by shootings. Having only lived in the Pioneer Valley for six
|
|
weeks and as the only known reader of the Harold Herald ever to have
|
|
been a card-carrying member of a socialist party, I am more than ready
|
|
to offer judgment on this politically correct, alternate Hub. It
|
|
sucks. But not for the facile reasons you might imagine... I began my
|
|
bondage in January. It was soon pointed out to me that if I wanted to
|
|
go out for a drink after work, at one of the less-uninhibited imbibing
|
|
establishments dotting the city, I had better bring cash to work with
|
|
me. Going to an ATM machine in the early hours of the morning was an
|
|
invitation to robbery, rape and murder.
|
|
|
|
Surely not? In this socialist paradise? You betcha, bub. Springfield,
|
|
it was quickly pointed out to me, is one of the toughest cities in the
|
|
Northeast. Holyoke runs a close second, barely surviving its current
|
|
white flight. If it's not gang members shooting you down because they
|
|
think you're a member of a rival gang or an innocent bystander, it's
|
|
the cops drilling you with a 9mm because they mistake you for a gang
|
|
member (I learned today that wearing a bulletproof vest while
|
|
committing a crime is a felony. Makes it too hard for the cops to nail
|
|
you, I guess).
|
|
|
|
A brief example of the depravity prevalent in urban western
|
|
Massachusetts: Immediately across from the card-key exit to the
|
|
supposedly secure Union-News parking lot - only last night we were
|
|
told not to leave the building until given the all-clear, because the
|
|
police were brutalizing some kids found breaking into employee's cars
|
|
- a constant procession of vehicles turns into a small parking lot
|
|
outside the local Blue Cross-Blue Shield offices. They don't stay
|
|
long. Someone gets in or out, there is a brief conversation, the car
|
|
speeds off. Innocent me, I thought this must be a local car pool drop-
|
|
off.
|
|
|
|
No way, I was told. That's the local male prostitute pick-up spot.
|
|
Guys hot to get HIV are in and out all night looking for the perfect
|
|
blow job. Hardly dangerous to sensitive New Age guys with monogamous
|
|
life partners, you might argue. As I did.
|
|
|
|
Think again, my mentors warned. Street bums and gang hoodlums prey on
|
|
the male hookers and find it hard to distinguish between cock-sucking
|
|
entrepreneurs, their johns, and hardworking lackeys of the imperialist
|
|
press. I was regaled with horror stories of colleagues being robbed at
|
|
knife- and gun-point as they tried to leave work.
|
|
|
|
The cops don't patrol the area because they hate the Union-News. The
|
|
paper recently published their salaries and asked what they were doing
|
|
to earn them. No one cares.
|
|
|
|
Therein lies the reason why western Massachusetts really sucks. Up in
|
|
Amherst and Northampton, the sons and daughters of the relatively
|
|
privileged spout their neo-socialist dogma. They indulge in
|
|
predilections for ethnic food from countries their parents would never
|
|
let them visit and strange tastes in music, recreational narcotics and
|
|
sexuality, oblivious to the real world around them. To the south,
|
|
working people are struggling to build ordinary lives amid chaos akin
|
|
to that of downtown Mogadishu. And never the twain shall meet. But
|
|
hey: The Weld administration is too far away to hear the handguns a-
|
|
poppin'. And academia is on another planet, zip code lost. My life
|
|
partner excepted, of course.
|
|
|
|
MORE PEJORATIVE CORNER
|
|
BY HAL PHILLIPS
|
|
|
|
KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia - Centuries before the birth of Christ, Indian
|
|
and Chinese traders fought for hegemony of the Malaysian peninsula
|
|
that lies at the crossroads of Asia's lucrative trade routes. The
|
|
Portuguese took control of the area in the late 16th century, only to
|
|
be supplanted by the 19th-century English, who stayed on until 1957.
|
|
Once you arrive here, you wonder why anyone bothered. Kuala Lumpur,
|
|
the modern capital of Malaysia, means "confluence of two muddy
|
|
rivers." An updated interpretation might read Kuala Lumpur Schmeg, or
|
|
"confluence of two extremely muddy, polluted rivers." It's a filthy
|
|
place that lacks the old world charm of Melaka, the old Portuguese
|
|
capital to the south. KL is a new city, founded in the 1840s, and one
|
|
can only imagine how decrepit it might become 200 years down the road.
|
|
Speaking of roads, the master plan of Kuala Lumpur could only have
|
|
been laid out in an opium den. Despite the city's relative modernity,
|
|
the arteries have no rhyme or reason, which results in a rush-hour
|
|
traffic nightmare the likes of which Bostonians have never seen.
|
|
Nineteen-century Malaysian planners appear to have set a few cows
|
|
loose on the plain and followed them anxiously with buckets of yellow
|
|
paint.
|
|
|
|
* KAUAI, Hawaii - Hard to be pejorative about our 50th state, which is
|
|
fairy-tale gorgeous and brimming with outstanding golf courses. It's
|
|
even harder not to see the truth in stereotypes about the number of
|
|
Japanese there. When I flew in, seven of the eight flights at baggage
|
|
claim originated in Japan. There were thousands of backpacked Japanese
|
|
milling about with camcorders, filming loved ones as they a) waited
|
|
for their baggage; b) pulled baggage off the carousel; or c) walked
|
|
away from the carousel with bags in tow. I saw one father filming his
|
|
son drinking from a water fountain. Get a life! I traveled in Europe
|
|
when the dollar was strong, but I never saw American acting so
|
|
unabashedly like tourists. I blame MacArthur.
|
|
|
|
/-/ \-\
|
|
|
|
HAL, INK.
|
|
ALTERNATIVE NEWSWEEKLY SEES THE LIGHT
|
|
By RUDY MARTSKE
|
|
|
|
"In the low-budget, low-visibility, low-literacy world of electronic
|
|
'zines, the Harold Herald stands out as an example of how someone with
|
|
an education, a sense of humor and a modem can make a small dent in
|
|
the cybersphere."
|
|
|
|
So wrote Dan Kennedy in the Feb. 24 Boston Phoenix. How happy my
|
|
parents must be that my expensive Wesleyan education has been
|
|
justified by the city's alternative weekly. Mind you, this was no
|
|
back-page blurb buried beneath classified ads for sinewy mixed-race
|
|
males with a taste for cool whip and randy adventure. No, Kennedy's
|
|
contribution to our growing cult of personality lead the page 2
|
|
feature, This Just In, under the headline, "Welcome to Hal's World."
|
|
"Informed by a nihilistic political sensibility and sophomoric
|
|
crudity," Kennedy continued, "the Portland, Maine-based Herald is
|
|
nevertheless one of the funniest, best-written journals on the Net."
|
|
Nevertheless?
|
|
|
|
The staff here was nevertheless flattered by the write-up.
|
|
Especially well chuffed was political reporter Mark Sullivan, whose
|
|
prose was featured prominently. Turns out he's a friend of Kennedy,
|
|
who was particularly taken with Loid's account of the November
|
|
Republican sweep and its likeness to a "noxious Old Testament plague
|
|
that stopped at every door without an 'R' swabbed in lamb's blood on
|
|
the door." Sullivan's breadth of coverage drew considerable praise -
|
|
enough to move Phoenix editors to include headshots of Mark's targets
|
|
du jour, Lydon LaRouche, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and Mickey Mouse.
|
|
Conspicuous by its absence was mention of Virtual Editor Dr. David M.
|
|
Rose, whose Net acumen electrifies the Herald and prompted the Kennedy
|
|
column (examples of Dr. Rose's haunting prose were surely victimized
|
|
by the bane of every writer's existence: space considerations). The
|
|
Phoenix commentator, who has never seen the print version, bumped his
|
|
head on the electronic Herald which floated head and shoulders above
|
|
an ash-like collection of motley 'zines. By all rights, given their
|
|
off-beat, underground professions, Phoenix editors should have been
|
|
first to notice the Herald's innately earthy qualities. Who better to
|
|
appreciate self-absorptioin as high art? Instead they are the last of
|
|
Boston's journalistic cognoscenti to "get it." We're not even waiting
|
|
for Murdoch's Herald, where the buffoons who endeavor to formulate
|
|
editorial tone will almost certainly never le comprend.
|
|
|
|
Boston? Done that. It's time for us to heavily market in uncharted
|
|
waters. I've got a feeling they're going to love us in Cobb County.
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
A pre-nuptial congratulations-in-print was discovered in The Highly
|
|
Esteemed Howl, that barely post-pubescent newsletter whose suprisingly
|
|
conservative staff is secretly pleased as punch to have been called
|
|
"little fucks" in a recent Herald. In any case, I thank you for the
|
|
warm wishes and generous contribution to our Circulation Endowment
|
|
(which is, as always, locked in "accept" mode). However, I must invoke
|
|
the memory of Winston Churchill who said something like, 'If you're
|
|
old and liberal, you have no head. But if you're young and
|
|
conservative, you have no heart.' In these reactionary times rife with
|
|
revisionism and xenophobia, never has this been more important to
|
|
remember. Nixon was an ineffectual domestic leader, the most
|
|
conniving, duplicitous politician of his generation, and a perfectly
|
|
monstrous human being. Indeed, crypto-fascist is about the nicest way
|
|
to describe Dick Nixon, the most aptly named president of all time.
|
|
In any case, your kind words and money have warmed the cockles of my
|
|
heart. I call for a respectful truce and would interpret as an act of
|
|
naked aggression any posting of Tracy Chapmen CDs. And for the record,
|
|
all my pants are happy once I've donned them.
|
|
|
|
/-/ \-\
|
|
|
|
|
|
(Tim Dibble, a venture capitalist and freelance body shaper, lives in
|
|
San Francisco with his wife, Maureen, a shaper of young minds and
|
|
would-be society hostess. A Wesleyan graduate, Mr. Dibble comments on
|
|
current cinema for the Herald in between cups of expensive coffee and
|
|
equally pretentious discussions on the nature of free will.)
|
|
|
|
FROM SAN FRANCISCO SANS QUENTIN
|
|
By TIM DIBBLE
|
|
Cinema Critic Ad Eundem Gradum
|
|
|
|
Not since the arrival of the half-caf/half-decaf double latte has the
|
|
nation in general and San Francisco in particular been so enamored and
|
|
bamboozled by propaganda as is found associated with Plump Diction,
|
|
the latest film from Quentin Tarantino. "Genius violent comic fantasy"
|
|
is a label that can be applied to H.G. Phillips' collegiate sexual
|
|
tenure, but is not apropos with regard to Plump Diction.
|
|
|
|
To give credit where credit is due, not since the American Oval Office
|
|
has there been a better utilization of unemployed, washed-up
|
|
thespians. However, this does not overshadow the glaring holes and
|
|
weaknesses found in the film:
|
|
|
|
Plump: What has happened to John Travolta? He hasn't been the same
|
|
since Jamie Lee Curtis dumped him at the end of Perfect. Someone get
|
|
that guy a treadmill.
|
|
|
|
Diction: Why is it, in this age of cultural literacy, that for a film
|
|
to smack of art its actors and actresses must express themselves as if
|
|
they were attending a Teamster's bachelor party?
|
|
|
|
Sodomy: It is not the specific act that I find reprehensible. Rather
|
|
if Tarantino wants to sell-out the joint, he should make Bruce Willis
|
|
the recipient while forcing the Moonlighter to hum the "Battle Hymn of
|
|
the Republic."
|
|
|
|
Pugilistic Carnage: If Bruce Willis is going to kill a man with his
|
|
bare knuckles, have it be Mickey Rourke.
|
|
|
|
Uma Thurman: Uma, after your pied-a-terre in Henry and June, why
|
|
bother doing anything else?
|
|
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Rosanna Arquette: One question: Were you acting?
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Harvey Keitel: Harv, you've had a good run lately. But if we can't
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tell the difference between you and Tommy Lee Jones, you are not ready
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for weak Brando-esque cameos.
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Samuel L. Jackson: "Senator, you're no Laurence Fishburne!" (I
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actually thought that he was great but was dying to use that line.)
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Foot Massage: Quentin, in such a public forum, how could you possibly
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divulge the second-best trade secret of the sensitive, pseudo-
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intellectual Cambridge bachelor (second only to the Dali restaurant)?
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The only positive to the film is that every time I see Amanda Plummer,
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she makes my wife look like Lady Di. In sum, any moviegoer with a
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modicum of cinematic expertise (and who leaves their latte-sipping
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pretensions on the cutting-room floor) will agree that Plump Diction
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is an over-hyped, rich man's Dr. Giggles. Boy, you'll be a director...
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soon!
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/-/ \-\
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HAROLD NOTEBOOK...
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IN SINGAPORE, YOU DO WINDOWS OR ELSE!
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SINGAPORE - Perhaps you've heard of Flor Constacion, the Filipino maid
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executed by officials here shortly after being convicted of murdering
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another maid and the four-year-old on her watch. It's the latest in a
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series of diplomatic flaps generated by the hang-'em-high-but-
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whatever-you-do-hang-'em-now regime here in the cleanest, greenest
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most orderly and productive totalitarian state in Asia-Pacific.
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|
Michael Fay, his butt and any hackles they may have raised here in
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hypocritically righteous America are small potatoes compared to the
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indignant snorts now traded between Singapore and The Philippines,
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who've recalled their ambassadors and dug in for a political siege.
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Defiant Singaporean officials could care less, but the Philippine
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government is seething, and ASEAN countries have publicly quarreled
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quite this testily.
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Word on the street in Singapore, something tendered and received with
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trepidation here, sides with the indignant Filipinos who note that Ms.
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Constacion had no motive at all. Indeed, no plausible motive or
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scenario has been forwarded by any Singaporean official - and it'll
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snow on Orchard Avenue when the island nation's only newspaper, the
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government-controlled Straits Times, offers anything by the party
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line.
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Only when I traveled to neighboring Malaysia did I hear confirmation
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|
of the unofficial conventional wisdom:
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Apparently, the four-year-old drowned in the Chinese family's swimming
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pool. When Dad came home, discovered the body and flew into a rage, he
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killed the maid who presumably had been charged with making sure bad
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|
things (like drowning) didn't happen. The desperate father offers Flor
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|
a couple hundred thousand dollars (U.S.) to take the rap, arguing that
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- with the grieving family's support - she will only receive
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|
manslaughter and a two-year sentence. She confesses, but the zealous
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judicial system in Singapore rules for the death penalty, swiftly
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|
administered. Filipino pleas for a stay, if only to establish some
|
|
sort of motive, are ignored.
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Despite the country's self-promotion as a peaceful melting pot,
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|
there's an underlying suspicion there are two sets of rules in sunny
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|
Singapore: One for those of Chinese descent and another for everyone
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|
else, and that latter group includes Singaporeans of Malay, Indian and
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|
Tamil descent, not to mention actual foreigners like Filipino maids,
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|
Thai prostitutes and American teenagers. And, of course, anyone at all
|
|
engaging in dissent.
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***
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|
Encountered a promo for the "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" while foolishly
|
|
interrupting my channel surf on NBC the other day. The 10-second spot
|
|
dramatically teased an upcoming episode in which Prince Fresh was
|
|
tragically but oh-so topically swept up in the growing urban
|
|
phenomenon of gunplay. The closing voice-over was grave: "The French
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|
Prince has been shot." "Finally," I muttered with relief. I'd like to
|
|
think I spoke for everybody.
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***
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One Man's Baseball Strike Retrospective:
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|
It was like sitting around in post-Alarick Rome reminiscing about when
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|
you could watch Christians disemboweled by large ravenous animals.
|
|
Even though it's on the way back, apparently, baseball has been on the
|
|
fritz for so long, it seems so far away as to have been before our
|
|
time. Just pictures, statistics and film clips of past glories.
|
|
SportsChannel America has been running an otherwise fascinating series
|
|
of "Baseball's Greatest Games," full-game tapes of various World
|
|
Series and playoff thrillers. Always a game of significance, but you
|
|
always know who won ahead of time, too. All of baseball has taken on
|
|
this nostalgic quality as we rave and moan by turn about foregone
|
|
conclusions and negotiative snafus of the past. When we're not
|
|
militantly vilifying both sides, we lazily indulge in the maudlin
|
|
jingoism/marketing plan that preaches baseball as a kind of group
|
|
worship to the pagan god of leisure. Rubbish! If there were a baseball
|
|
deity (an American deity, mind you), it would be a benevolent god; a
|
|
god that wouldn't subject us to TV contracts that don't show National
|
|
League Championship Series games in American League cities. Agrippa,
|
|
God of Rosin, would not have allowed Marty Bystrom to come back and
|
|
pitch in a major league baseball game.
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|
|
|
The Christian equivalent is akin to a New Yorker cartoon I clipped and
|
|
saved somewhere: Sitting at his desk in Hell, Satan reaches to his
|
|
pager so as to call his secretary - "Ms. Clark, find Joe Stalin and
|
|
tell him that communism is dead."
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|
|
|
***
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|
It occurs to me that if you have trouble reading the bottom-left
|
|
credits on MTV, it's either time to get glasses, or it's time to stop
|
|
watching MTV... The Young Ones are back. After a solid run on MTV
|
|
(they laudably broadcast all 10 episodes over and over again), the
|
|
ultimate British comedy series is back on cable thanks to Comedy
|
|
Central. Talk about sophomoric crudity! Even the crudite is sophomoric
|
|
on The Young Ones. I was first exposed to the lads (listen!) at the
|
|
University of London in 1985, two years after it had established its
|
|
cult status in England. My flatmates - Adrian Praeter, publisher of
|
|
the clever but rarely circulated Adrian's Oracle, and Herald columnist
|
|
Ledger - quoted liberally from the show and a Young Ones book, which I
|
|
never actually saw (if anyone is familiar with this and knows where to
|
|
find one, contact me immediately). In any case, the show finally
|
|
surfaced on MTV in 1989, then disappeared in 1991. If you've never
|
|
experienced the Young Ones, set your VCR to Comedy Central on
|
|
Saturdays at 11 p.m.
|
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|
|
/-/ \-\
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|
|
HEY, IT'S MY JOB!
|
|
A COMPENDIUM OF THE GRATIS GOLF EXPERIENCES OF OUR ESTEEMED EDITOR
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BY HAL PHILLIPS
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HOMMASSASSA SPRINGS, Fla. Played my last round here with , the
|
|
temperamental clubs Ive used since my old set were stolen from the
|
|
back of my car at 11th and Independence, in the shadow of our ,
|
|
nations capital. That was 1988. Delta Airlines, not street crime, was
|
|
responsible for the latest debacle.
|
|
|
|
While visiting Orlando in late January I played here at World Woods, a
|
|
nice 36-hole Tom Fazio design two hours northwest of Shaqville, near
|
|
the Gulf Coast. The last round with the ill-fated clubs - a custom set
|
|
of extra-stiff shafted Wilson Staff bootlegs - was a typical gag-job
|
|
80 that included bogeys on four of the last five holes. A birdie on
|
|
the 18th was all that prevented me from choking to death right there
|
|
on the putting surface.
|
|
|
|
Anyway, clubs were checked in at Orlando International, may have made
|
|
it to Cincinnati but definitely never arrived at the Portland Jetport.
|
|
After three days they still hadn't shown up, so I called the contrite
|
|
Delta baggage guy:
|
|
|
|
"They're gone, aren't they."
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|
|
|
"Yeah, I'd say so."
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|
|
|
Sad, but Delta was clearly forcing me to buy a brand new set of golf
|
|
clubs, which I did, with their money: Tommy Aaron irons with stiff,
|
|
graphite shafts; Big Bertha War Bird driver; Ping 3-wood; and a Ray
|
|
Cook putter.
|
|
|
|
I will miss my Wesleyan golf bag, which contained several items of
|
|
sentimental value including the five-year-old, orange Chanukkah
|
|
lighter that refused to run out of fluid. Truly miraculous.
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia - Played my first legitimate, 18-hole round of
|
|
night golf here at - are you ready? - Kelab Golf Sultan Abdul Aziz
|
|
Shah. Pretty nice course actually; a hilly, smartly bunkered designed
|
|
by Australians Peter Thomson and Michael Wolveridge. First round in
|
|
the former British colony of Malaysia, too. But the cache lay in the
|
|
idea of golf after dark: Tee time at 8:15 p.m ., drinks in the bar at
|
|
12:30 a.m. Lights line the fairways and continually cast a distracting
|
|
four shadows at all times. It is important to keep the ball away from
|
|
dark, out-of-the-way places but the mandatory caddies are very good.
|
|
They speed along on these special caddie buggies which hold two bags
|
|
but no golfers, who are free to walk. The loopers also indulge in a
|
|
fair amount of betting on players in the foursome. Interesting because
|
|
it's instantly apparent when you've cost them money.
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
KAUAI, Hawaii - Played the newest addition to my personal top five
|
|
here during my first-ever trip to America's 50th state. The Prince
|
|
Course at the 45-hole Princeville Golf Club is sweeping romp through
|
|
the canyons above Honalei Bay, where holes rise and fall 100 feet or
|
|
more by turn and Peter, Paul and Mary smoked some really good weed
|
|
apparently. With its gratuitous use of out of bounds stakes, tight
|
|
fairways and trade winds blowing at their traditional 25-30 miles an
|
|
hour, this Robert Trent Jones Jr. design can be downright
|
|
Machiavellian - but still elegant, inconspicuously woven through a
|
|
near jungle complete with waterfalls and lush ravines. Wow. I lost at
|
|
least five golf balls and shot an 87, the scorecard for which I
|
|
wouldn't sign under tournament conditions. But I had a great time!
|
|
Sometimes, when I know I'm going to play an historic or scenic course,
|
|
I bring along my camera but rarely do I take the time to use it. Many
|
|
pictures of The Prince on file here in the Golf Course News/Herald
|
|
Photo Archive.
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
Old friend George Howe, who met brother Matthew during his short stay
|
|
at UMass-Amherst and later hung with Phresh & the Claymoss crowd, has
|
|
resurfaced in San Diego. Out of the blue, George called me in February
|
|
to report his stunning double-eagle ace at Steele Canyon Golf Club in
|
|
Jamul, Calif., southeast of San Diego. For those of you unfamiliar
|
|
with the ultra-rare double eagle, let's put this feat in perspective:
|
|
A birdie is one-under par; an eagle is two-under; and a double-eagle
|
|
(or albatross) is three-under par! A hole-in-one on a par-3 (a green
|
|
you're supposed to hit in one shot) is rare, indeed. An ace on a par-4
|
|
(a green you're supposed to hit in two shots) is damned near unheard
|
|
of. Bravo, George! I played Steele Canyon, a 27-hole Gary Player
|
|
design, in early 1993 while attending to Golf Course News business in
|
|
Southern California. Howe recorded his double-eagle at the first hole
|
|
on the Ranch nine - a downhill, dogleg right. George was so keyed up
|
|
by his Herculean accomplishment, apparently, he whiffed his drive on
|
|
no. 2... Now, that's the George I remember from Glen Ellen in Millis!
|
|
The Southern California lifestyle has done wonders for Howe's game.
|
|
Always a big hitter who struggled around the greens, George reports
|
|
shooting 78 the day of his double-eagle, which gave me the chance to
|
|
mimic Herb Kenny, my golf coach at Wesleyan. I eagled a hole at our
|
|
home course, Lyman Meadows, during a match with Central Connecticut
|
|
and Trinity. I shot 79 in the process and was pretty pleased with it.
|
|
When Herb heard about the eagle, he bellowed: "You had an eagle and
|
|
only shot 79?"
|
|
|
|
copywrite 1995 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's
|
|
worth
|