Cleopatra Jones, Cornel West, and Cleopatra Jones

Cleopatra Jones, Cornel West, and Cleopatra Jones,

The DP and I spent a lovely evening at home eating farfalle and sauce Bolognese.  We also watched Cleopatra Jones.  It’s a 70’s period piece, but it’s an important period piece.  Tamara Dobson plays Cleopatra Jones as a black James Bond with a conscience and fabulous clothes.  Sure, the plot is nothing, the stereotypes of black and white characters alike are, ehm, broad, but the movie is fundamentally optimistic.  Jones works for good – to see that people are free from the threat of crime, drug abuse, and intimidation – and does it with compassion, style and panache.  Is it cheesy?  Sure.  But it completely lacks either the nihilism or the saccharine sanctimony that has come to dominate popular culture.  And that was unbelievably refreshing to see.

A lot of people think of the 1970’s as a string of hopeless clichés and embarrassments.  I disagree.  People tried to make things better.  A corrupt Presidency was removed from office by good journalism and the efforts of courageous and principled Legislators.  As a nation, we continued to work towards greater equality of opportunity for all Americans, and attempted to balance our great military and diplomatic resources with a dose of conscience.  And people were free to express themselves artistically, intellectually, and socially in a way consistent with being citizens in a liberal democracy.  Hell, the “decadence” of, say, Studio 54 seems downright wholesome when compared to the behavior seen any night at clubs in any major city.  And compare Chic to 50 Cent.  No, really.  Or Brittany.  Or, if you want wholesome, maybe Shania Twain.  See – nihilism or sanctimony.  No wonder snarkiness is a preferred mode of discourse!

Watching the movie, the DP asked what seemed on the surface to be a trivial question: whatever happened to Afros?  Now, as someone whose hair naturally approximated an Afro in the 1970s, I have been delighted to see the acceptance of progressively shorter and shorter hair.  (I inherited from my father hair that was once described as “curly as fire”.  I’ll leave you to ponder the image, and pray that no photos of my high school and college years are floating around on the internets.)  But I know of at least one person who proudly maintains his Afro:  Professor Cornel West.

I tremendously admire Professor West for his elegant prose, his impassioned teaching, and his intellectual project of work towards a synthesis of Marxist materialism and Christian teleology.  I respect Brother West for his singular understanding of the economic, ethnic and racial issues that cleave America and many other nations.  And finally, I am in awe of a man who can as easily stand on the corner of a street in Harlem, bring calm and understanding to a crowd, acknowledge me (hearing him call out “Brother Scott – what are you doing here?” was one of the proudest moments of my life, and made my job that day much, much easier) and look so fine in his black suit, French cuffed shirt, and the aforementioned Afro as he can show up President Bill Clinton by saying more in five minutes than WJC can in an hour.  But apart from the Afro, what ties together Cleopatra Jones and Cornel West is the stand against nihilism.  West’s constant goal is not to say “no”, but to say yes – yes to hope, yes to belief, yes to tell truth to power, yes to making the world a better place.  And we need more, not less of this.

Now, finally, the other Cleopatra Jones: it’s a song Mark Eitzel wrote and recorded on Sixty Watt Silver Lining.  While much of Eitzel’s music  is within a hair’s breadth of Morrisey-mopey, Cleopatra Jones is a brilliant, chiming tribute to “a great couple of films and a woman I met in a bar” (his words, not mine).  And it features a stunning, shimmering trumpet solo by Mark Isham in the bridge that moves a four minute pop song into something altogether different. Which brings us back to hope.  Always a good thing to end on.

More songs thoughts about buildings music and food

The Talking Heads entire catalogue has been remastered and reissued. For those of us of a certain age and disposition, this is a major event. And if you have any doubts about the influence of the contribution of the band and its members, look no farther than here, here, and here. Yours truly will be purchasing, though I already own all but “Sand in the Vaseline” on vinyl.

Today has been about finishing. Yesterday was about starting. After a shopping trip to the world’s DC’s best coffee roasters, DC’s best market, and the temple of yuppie pulchritude, I set about making chili and spaghetti. Now, while I’m not a slow food enthusiast, per se, I do work up my food from scratch. And in the case of both chili and spaghetti, I think you need to cook ‘em for a lllooonnnggg time. So after an hour of prep work (dicing much garlic and onion, cutting up racks of ribs, cubing steak, decasing sausage), four plus hours of cooking, and ongoing cleanup (so as to spare the DP the nightmare of a kitchen pillaged used by me), I had two vats of chili and spaghetti that a normal person might think were finished. Not so. After resting overnight (and allowing me time out to go here and here – see below for more details), I had to finish the chili – which was easy: skim off the fat, and make sure the whole tomatoes were fully broken down into sauce, and finally thickening the chili with corn flour. (Please note that my definition of “easy” cooking has been ridiculed the DP as the culinary equivalent of “bait and switch” advertising.) The finishing of the spaghetti is somewhat more involved and, ehm, tactile. Once you’ve cooked five pounds of pork ribs and two pounds of bone-in chops until the meat falls off the bone, there are lots of bones, collagen, sinew, fat, and other stuff that need to be removed, tomatoes to be mashed, fat to be skimmed, tomato sauce evened and thickened, and the whole thing put back together again. And then everything packed up and labeled, and tucked into the freezer so we can eat very, very well for some time to come.

So back to Saturday night and Sunday morning: Bob and Rich have been playing music that they like for their friends and fans for over two years. Blowoff is an event the likes of which I always wished for, but never imagined could happen. I called it the basement party you always wanted to have the first night I went, and I haven’t changed my mind since. It’s never the same twice, and the crowd is what it is: people who like music and eschew the trappings of the usual gay and straight clubs – that is, they’re human (and the pretense that you too often feel in DC isn’t there). Bob and Rich have “golden ears” and networks that bring them the best of new music – and they share it, wrapped up in a sexy, intimate way. And, finally, Backbar is the working home of my favorite. bartender. ever.

Last night the blogoratti were out in force. I saw him, him, him, him and I think I saw him – and I was spanked scolded by my blog daddy for not posting more often. It’s been a slow, grinding haul of the last two weeks, bud. More will be forthcoming. If you’re wondering why I didn’t talk to ya, well, I was catching up with the other Shawn, back from Madagascar. And I was out before the alleged shirt swapping or boyfriend macking on my way to see Miguel Migs.

I like lots of different kinds of music; a trip to the record store can be a harrowing experience for the bank account. However, I’m pretty selective, and in some genres can put me off in a big way. Dance and house music fall into that category – but there are some artists (Ben Watt, Justin Martin, Jon Clausell) who can overcome my objections and create great music and amazing events. Migs is one of those artists, and even solo I found myself shakin’ my groove thang. Five is not my favorite venue – the space sucks, and the crowd can be, well, the pretentious lot that inhabit clubs all over the world. But last night people were shakin’ ass and having a good time to Mig’s great percussive mixes. And ya gotta love seeing straight boys dancing with their hands in the air (like they just don’t care they look just like the gay boys at Nation)!

When I left at 3:30, people were still pouring in! No available cabs lead to a refreshing walk up the street to the treehouse. Debriefed with the DP (who’s not much for big crowds or the claustrophobic confines of Backbar). Sleep followed, though not encouraged by the various caffeinated beverages added to the liquor along the way.

A short editorial note and a statement of purpose

I've been a computer user for far longer than I care to admit, and have made a career in and around information techology. But for reasons far too complicated to explain, I've chosen never to learn how to code in HTML. So I apologize at the outset of this endevor for the low-tech appearance of the blog. Change is coming, in the form of a custom template courtesy of my tremendously talented domestic partner (known in these parts as Gsquared), whose business it is to make digital media appropriate for the purpose it is to serve. Bear with me as I come up to speed.

This project is meant to be fun -- fun for me to write, and fun for you to read and comment on. When it stops being that, it will stop. That being said, like a good dinner, there should be lots of variety of taste, color and texture, served first with a cocktail and followed with dessert and coffee. Wine, of course, will match the courses. Beer may be substituted when appropriate.

Once more a virgin ...

Honestly, I never expected this would happen. I've been loathe to think that I could add anything to the blogosphere. But peer pressure is an amazing thing. And really, all the cool kids are doing it, so ....

Don't expect much. In an age of lowered expectations, lower again what you expect for good writing and intelligent commentary. Posting will be infrequent, if consistent. I've kept a journal for 26 years. That being said, six months may pass between entries. You've been warned.