Police Cite Vikings Peterson for driving 109 mph

Do you follow Vikings football? Me neither. Honestly, who cares?

But I'm always stunned at the righteous tone the media takes on matters like Adrian Peterson getting caught hauling ass down a suburban freeway in the middle of the night in his Beemer. In the old days, when getting a car to go 100 was more difficult than it is now (Most modern Volkswagons can easily hit 100. In my day, perhaps only Dennis Conklin's could), we used to call it Doing the Ton.

There is a stretch of Route 66 in Virginia that, in the early 70s, was undertrafficed, four lanes wide and smooth as glass. And there were plenty of times that I, a simple boy channeling Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen, would take the 66 exit off 495, downshift my Triumph to 3rd, feel it wind out as I looped around the exit ramp... upshift to 4th... and before you knew it (actually that's not entirely true--it took a while), you were Doing the Ton.

And I'm here to tell you, the lines on the road just looked like dots.

My car was a 61 Triumph TR3. The kind with the cut down doors and the bizarre attachments that served as windows. Here's a picture of one:



Believe me, it never once looked as good as this. But it remains one of my two favorite cars, ever. Sitting at the wheel of this almighty contraption, you were so close to the road that you could comfortably reach out and trail your fingers along the pavement. Slide your hand back and you could stroke the side of the rear wheel.

I always wondered what would happen if you got your finger caught under the wheel at 100.

Thap...thap...thap. Shit, I'm inside the wheelwell.

Anyway, the speedometer of my car had long since stopped working, but I knew from experience that 5000 rpm equaled 100 mph. It was also the red-line of this ancient, in-line 4. So Doing the Ton in this thing was all you were going to do. Period.

And believe me, you didn't want to go any faster. There was a palpable sense of the car, at that speed, literally shaking itself to pieces. A car like this, you kind of took in stride the notion that it was constantly coming apart. But at 100, it seemed like a scarier proposition.

Some time later, when my brother was in Viet Nam, I did the same thing in his Alfa Romeo. The second car I ever drove at 100. And it was a revelation: it felt just like going 50, just twice as fast. No fuss. No sense of impending doom. Just going fast down a road.

Now, dear reader, consider for a moment the rocket-sled of a BMW that Adrian Peterson must surely own. He strikes me as an M-6 Coupe kind of guy. Consider also that the man is a world-class athlete, blessed with amazing hand-eye coordination and superb manual dexterity. Hell, he's way safer driving that car at 109 than most of the idiots clogging up the roadway are at any speed. He should have said THAT to the judge.

His statement, instead, goes: "I need to be more aware of the speed I was going and not let it happen again."

Honestly, what kind of a world are we living in?

Best guitar solo ever?

A friend of mine called me up the other night in a lather. Turn on Channel 13, he shouts into the phone. So I do. And this, courtesy of u-tube, is what I see:



Is this the best guitar solo ever? No. I can think of three by Nils Lofgren right off the top of my head. All from the same album, no less. But it is, my friends, Something. Capital S.

Briefest of parenthetical asides #1: Go here for a sample of Nils solo work. In this case, a jammed up version of his song Moon Tears. Nils is a little hard to take. That thing hanging off the end of his guitar reminds me of the tassles Ali wore the night Frazier kicked his ass. That said, I never felt like Nils got his due as a guitar god. Neither did he, apparently, but instead of killing himself over it (See: Roy Buchanan), he joined Bruce Springsteen's wife's band.

Now back to the matter at hand:

First of all, this is Prince's world and we are just living in it. This is not new thinking but nonetheless worth revisiting. We, as they say, hold this truth to be self-evident.

Second, there's the look on Dhani Harrison's face at the 4.50 mark. It's hard enough, no doubt, to be the child of a Beatle, much less the greatest of them all*. And this concert happened relatively soon after George's death. So to put a smile on that kid's face like that... well, that too is something. The look he gives Tom Petty reminds me of the look on Steve Cropper's face when Eric Clapton unhooked an extraordinary version of Don't Think Twice at Bob Fest some years ago.

Finally, Prince's exit is, simply, beyond belief. No--I mean, really!

Mozart--a guy who knew a thing or two about being really good at music--thought that his left the concert hall and went straight to heaven. Likewise, presumably, Prince's guitar. Straight to heaven, where George picks it up and starts weeping out a version of that Led Zepellin song about all that glitters not being gold. You know the one.

I mean, really. Where did that guitar go? This is a clip, in what passes for HD on u-tube, of just the solo. Study it like the Zapruder tape, then get back to me.



The guy you see holding a guitar after Prince exits (you may have to go back to the original clip for this) is not holding the instrument in question. The body on Prince's guitar was natural wood. The stage hand is holding a white guitar.

Me? I love theological explanations for secular events. I think it went straight to heaven.

* Note on the relative greatness of the Beatles. Ringo is the third greatest Beatle. John Lennon is second (and I know there are some that might debate that position). George is, of course, first. If for no other reason than that his post-Beatles solo album remains the highest seller of all the Beatles' post-breakup work. Whither Paul McCartney, you ask? McCartney, despite a fair helping of legitimate talent, is a girly man and comes in fifth, trailing Stu Sutcliffe closely. Pete Best comes in 6th.

And finally, while we're on the topic of guitar solos and the Beatles, check out Jeff Beck playing A Day In The Life.

Briefest of parenthetically asides #2: I find myself drawn to his bass player for all the wrong reasons.

My favorite commercial

This is my favorite commercial currently in circulation, even though I am not eligible for the product being sold.



First of all, I love how it starts with the host saying "okay, put up the number." Very meta. Whatever that means. And the slap-down of the guy at the end. Really, a very interesting piece of work. Clearly the work of Satan.

There's a longer version that's even more fun.

On Sabbatical

On Sabbatical. Rekindling the fires. Back soon. Talk amongst yourselves.

Pancho ... and Lefty

I found myself in central Virginia over the weekend. The foliage, while not fully turned, was colorful enough to merit a good deal of oohing and aahing. The game (Virginia vs. 11th-ranked Georgia Tech) was significantly less enjoyable. Unless you happened to have attended Georgia Tech.

It's bad enough to see the old Alma Mater get it's ass kicked on a nice day. Me? I spent most of the game huddled with my friends; each of whom (except one who inexplicably wore a jacket) spent most of the game huddled in his or her rain poncho watching the rain come sideways at us as ferociously as the Georgia Tech option offense came at the Cavaliers.

How, one has to wonder, if you are wearing a weather-resistant jacket with a hood covered, in turn, with a waterproof plastic poncho, also with a hood, does your shirt get completely soaked? Answer: it was a hurricane. It was a football game wrapped in a hurricane. The culinary metaphor would be, of course, a pig in a blanket.

This from Townes van Zandt:

Living on the road my friend
Was gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath's as hard as kerosene
You weren't your mama's only boy
But her favorite one it seems
She began to cry when you said goodbye
And sank into your dreams

Pancho was a bandit boys
His horse was fast as polished steel
Wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel
Pancho met his match you know
On the deserts down in Mexico
Nobody heard his dying words
That's the way it goes

All the federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him hang around
Out of kindness I suppose

Lefty he can't sing the blues
All night long like he used to
The dust that Pancho bit down south
Ended up in Lefty's mouth
The day they laid poor Pancho low
Lefty split for Ohio
Where he got the bread to go
There ain't nobody knows

All the federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him slip away
Out of kindness I suppose

The poets tell how Pancho fell
Lefty's livin' in a cheap hotel
The desert's quiet and Cleveland's cold
So the story ends we're told
Pancho needs your prayers it's true,
But save a few for Lefty too
He just did what he had to do
Now he's growing old

A few gray federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him go so wrong
Out of kindness I suppose

Now that, my friend, is a song! When I sing it (and I do sing it), I sing "Lefty, he don't sing the blues/all night long like he used to do." I like the notion of choice ("don't") rather than diminished ability ("can't"). But that's just a quibble. It's also easy to play on guitar, which is never a bad thing.

Were I a clearer thinker, or more motivated at this exact moment, I'd somehow weave into the narrative the fact that the Virginia quarterback, one Jameel Sewell (what a name!), is left-handed. But honestly, hoos got the energy?

I will say this:

The general plan, as it went once the weather set in, was to tailgate (if that's even the right word for standing in a kitchen eating deviled eggs and drinking beer) at my friend's daughter's apartment. Which we did.

Parenthetical aside: I'm not naming names for confidentiality purposes--one can only imagine the perverts and weirdos that read this blog and I'm a firm believer in better safe than sorry. Although I do believe that confidentiality can be taken too far--look what it has done to the practice of medicine today.

Then, as it went, we were to leave the apartment and go to the game. Which we did. Then, as it went, the young people with whom we were tailgating (if that's even the right word) were supposed to join us. Which they didn't.

About half way through the first quarter we received a text message informing us that they would remain at the apartment and watch the game from there. Dry, in one sense of the word, but wet, I can assure you, in another.

It felt like a blow to the head. A massive betrayal. What's wrong with kids today?

Anyway, once we recovered, we turned our attention back to the game. Which was a disaster. We left with a good bit of time to go in the 4th quarter and went back to what we assumed would be the scene of the tailgate, much as we had left it, but which turned out to be more like a scene from a Fellini movie.

Because let me tell you, dear reader--the young people were hammered. Which is fine, since they weren't driving and they weren't skipping class. But wow.

Me? I thought it was charming. Of course I have a high tolerance for stuff like that. But c'mon--although I have never been that drunk, I can assure you that my friend Earl has. So one has to be careful where one throws one's stones. I thought it was charming. I'm smiling even now as I think about it.

I spent much of the time eating deviled eggs and listening to the story of how one young person's horse used to like to eat wood. And I'm not talking Ronnie Wood. I'm talking the barn and such. They finally had to get rid of it. Which I think was for the best.

Then it was time to go, but I didn't want to leave. Because as Ronnie and the rest of the Stones like to say: Childhood living--it's easy to do.

Girding my loins

I'm girding my loins for Georgia Tech. More specifically, the miracle that is Virginia playing Georgia Tech in Charlottesville.

Assuming one has two loins, one is already girded; the second is being tended to as we speak. We may not speak again until Monday.

Change of life

I need to change my life.

Actually, my life is pretty okay, by and large. My life is alright, Paul Simon might say, in a sort of a limited way for an off night. So don't take this as complaining.

But what it doesn't contain--my life, that is--is room for this:



I want to own a Redbone Coonhound.

The one you see here is named Lena. The photo was nabbed from Wikipedia. The one I'm most familiar with lives somewhere in the Wall Street area. I saw it walking its owner a couple of weeks ago and thought it was about the most beautiful dog I'd ever seen. In real life, the dog seems to be a richer, deeper red than the photo suggests. I asked the guy what breed it was and he told me.

Then I saw it again today and I was just stunned by the majesty of the thing. Plus, given the right conditions, who doesn't want to hunt raccoons? According to descriptions of the breed, it's also adept at treeing bears and cougars. I'm less keen to be interfacing with bears and cougars, but still...good to know.

I was talking to a cop outside the Stock Exchange today and, at some point, asked her if I could pet her horse.

Interesting sentence.
Why so?
Well, you start out by saying 'I talked to a cop..."
Right?
Which is the most normal thing in the world, assuming you need to talk to a cop.
Right?
But then you just let slide the fact that the cop is a woman.
They make 'em that way too, you know.
Of course I know. But when you say the word cop, the mind defaults to the male version.
Okay?
And then, just when the reader is reeling, you slip the fact that you 'asked her if I could pet her horse' into the mix.
She was a mounted police officer.
You almost said policeman, didn't you.
Yes, I did. But what's the point?
The point is, that's an interesting sentence from such an otherwise uninteresting person.
We're all gifted in our own way.
Apparently.
Like snowflakes.
To a degree, yes.

Anyway, so I tell the cop that I'll hold her horse if she'd like to go write something on the painting. I mean, she's a big fan. I mean, we're really talking about the painting. She tells me the holding-the-horse-thing ain't gonna happen, but I knew it wouldn't even before saying it.

Sometimes when the NYPD SWAT guys wander around to take a look at my paintings I offer to hold their M-16s if that would make it easier for them to write something. Not one time has one of those guys handed me their rifle.

Must be a rule.
Prolly.
Same thing, I guess, with the horse.
That's my guess.
I mean, imagine the uproar if the cop's supervisor were to come around the corner just as you are screwing around with the guy's assault rifle.
Exactly.
Same thing, I guess with the horse.
I haven't ridden in years.
Me neither. We should go sometime.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I am, at some point, thumping this beautiful auburn horse (I'm using the word auburn here, perhaps incorrectly, to describe the standard reddish-brown color of your basic horse) and thinking that a man needs a dog he can thump on the side.

Then, not moments later, the Redbone Coonhound strolls by, smelling for 'coons, I guess, and I'm feeling like it's a sign from God to go get one.

sometimes you feel like a nut...

Today's pop cultural reference is the theme song from the ads for Peter Paul Almond Joy and Mounds candybar. Which goes, as you may remember, "Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you don't."

This, from twenty-nine years ago:



The point of the story is that I spent part of the weekend sitting in my studio talking to people who wandered in. They were participating in A.G.A.S.T. (Annual Gowanus Artist's Studio Tour). Chuck came by. I took him down the hall and tried to sell him a photograph.

Anyway, as is always the case, you get your share of bizarre characters. And there's something about my particular brand of painting/public history taking (if that's what I do) that brings them out of the woodwork.

And let me tell you, dear reader, you can tell the nut-jobs a mile away.

So a woman walks in. Starts talking politics. Five minutes in we're talking about death panels.

"Do you know what people don't know?" she asks me.
"No, what?"
Already my eyes are so glazed over I might just as well have cataracts.
"The death panels aren't mentioned in the health-care reform bills."
"Okay..."
Sotto voce: "They're in the bail out bills!"

Okay, lady. Move along. As if I didn't have enough shit going on in my life that I have to listen to your crap.

I should have said that to her face, but I'm too polite.