Kinky, Bjorn & Alwyn
Kinky Friedman is an American original, a country artist who has cut 18 albums, none of which have charted well, and the author of more than 20 books, fiction and non, including collections of his articles for Texas Monthly. A 1966 graduate of the University of Texas at Austin, where he majored in psychology, he served two years in the Peace Corps in Borneo. He claims to have been the first full-blooded Jew to take the stage at the Grand Ole Opry. In 1973 The National Organization for Women awarded him the Male Chauvinist Pig Award, which he accepted with pride. In 1975 Friedman and his band, the Texas J’boys (left out the ew in case an algorithm is scanning), taped an Austin City Limits show that never aired, the only time that’s ever happened in the long history of the program. The executive producer, Terry Lickona, has said: “I think it was a great show, and it might be as offensive today as it was back then.” In 2006 Friedman ran for governor of Texas as an independent, garnering 12.6% of the vote in the six candidate race. He has run unsuccessfully for other positions. I’d describe his politics as libertarian. He is a friend of both Bill Clinton and Bush II. His personal philosophy perhaps can be summed up in this quote: “You’ve got to find what you love and let it kill you.” I first became familiar with him through his association with radio legend Don Imus. So when a copy of Elvis, Jesus and Coca Cola came my way, I really looked forward to it. Published in 1993, it is a murder mystery set in NYC. Friedman himself is the main character, and several vaguely familiar names assist him throughout the narrative. A filmmaker friend has died and his final work, a documentary about Elvis impersonators, has gone missing, as has a former lover and a guy named Legs. The artist’s dad asks Friedman to find the movie. The trail leads to Little Italy, a snuff film studio, a gay nightclub, Sheepshead Bay and several other familiar places. The writing is first rate, witty, frequently profane and chock full of metaphors thick as the cigar smoke and booze that pervade it. Here’s an example: “The detritus of a lifetime was piled to the ceiling like the skyline of a small city suffering from urban blight.” There are many pop references and, demonstrating how well-read the author is, quotes from classical literature. The tone is one of existential angst, cynicism. I hoped the narrative would soar above other mysteries I’ve read. It does so only briefly, particularly in this one thought that comes late in the novel: “That was the trouble with truth, unfortunately. The supply always exceeded demand.” And this one about ten pages later that serves as an explanation as to how he’d missed the obvious and which tries to justify the story’s resolution, which strains credulity: “‘We come to see what we want to see… We come to see but never come to know.’” Friedman attributes it to an unnamed old song, perhaps one of his own. 30 users at Amazon have rated Elvis…, forging to a consensus of 3.7 on a scale of five. I’ll go with three, which must be taken with a grain of salt, as I’m not a fan of written mysteries. The 300 pages of the hardcover version read like 200, given the artistry and the many blanks between chapters. The first page of each chapter contained only three lines.
Here’s an excerpt from an op-ed piece by Bjorn Lomborg, a climate activist who believes the long-range problem is hampered by hysterics: “This past decade, California has seen an average burnt area of 775,000 acres. Before 1800, however, California typically saw between 4.4 and 11.9 million acres burn every year.” I guess the mainstream media won’t point this out because it doesn’t fit its narrative on the issue.
Pittsburgh Steelers’ lineman Alejandro Villanueva wore the name of a fallen Army hero on his helmet during Monday night’s game against the Giants, breaking from the team’s decision to wear Antwon Rose Jr.’s name the entire season. The former Army captain, who served three tours in Afghanistan and became an Army Ranger before joining the NFL in 2014, was seen covering Rose’s name with that of Alwyn Cashe, who was awarded the Silver Star for brave actions in Iraq that led to his death. Kudos, sir. Prepare yourself for a firestorm.
One of the biggest pain in the butts during the pandemic is trying to figure out if symptoms are Corona or a cold or flu or seasonal or just the weirdness of life at 70. It feels like I have a head cold, although it may simply be all the pollen in the air kicked up by yesterday’s stiff breeze. I feel funky from the nose up. I’m also challenging my all-time record for sneezes, whatever it may be… Back to abnormal today.
Fortunately I’d donned a jacket and long pants before leaving the apartment for today’s session of the floating book shop. It’s not unusual for the only sale to come while I’m packing up. Today four did. My thanks to the gentleman who purchased a manual on CPR, and to the one who bought a book in Russian; and to Wolf, who selected three of said; and to the couple who chose John Grisham’s A Time to Kill and Deepak Chopra’s The Spontaneous Fulfillment of Desire.
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