Archives for 2004

Said to me over dinner last night: “So, am I going to read about this tomorrow?”

Here’s the funny part: the person who said it was a blogger….

OGIC and I have been busy, and will continue to be (though we did find just enough time for her to show me my first episode of Gilmore Girls, which I adored). You might hear from us again today, or not. If we vanish up the spout until Monday, assume we’re having fun, and do likewise.

Happy New Year!

“Half the great comedians I’ve had in my shows and that I paid a lot of money to and who made my customers shriek were not only not funny to me, but I couldn’t understand why they were funny to anybody.”

Florenz Ziegfeld (quoted in Ken Bloom and Frank Vlastnik, Broadway Musicals: The 101 Greatest Shows of All Time)

All’s well here, though I haven’t been able to nudge Our Girl into blogging yet. I think she’s having too much fun!

More as it happens. I have to finish up a piece, but I’ll try to post something later in the day once it’s finally written and moved.

Later.

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill

He sounds too blue to fly

The midnight train is whining low

I’m so lonesome I could cry.

I’ve never seen a night so long

When time goes crawling by

The moon just went behind the clouds

To hide its face and cry.

Hank Williams, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”

I’ve been longing for weeks now to pull together a huge post of cool links (while simultaneously updating “Sites to See”), and went so far the other day as to sift and prune my lengthy list of bookmarks in preparation for the Great Elsewhere Posting. But is this it? No, this is not it. Nor am I holding forth on recently consumed high art, for the good reason that I haven’t consumed any, at least not in the past couple of days. I got back to New York late Tuesday afternoon, and Our Girl showed up on my doorstep eight hours later. All I’ve had time to do since then is catch up with my accumulated snail mail, stay on top of the incoming e-mail, tinker with my theater calendar for January and February, and embark on the gratifying process of showing off my co-blogger to a select list of blogbuddies (as well a few culturally challenged no-blog types).

The one gainful thing I’ve managed to do is finish writing my next Commentary essay, which is about the letters of classical composers. I tried to write it in Smalltown, but my mother shifted into Full Distraction Mode With Deflector Shields when I spent a whole day writing my “Second City” column for this Sunday’s Washington Post, and the most I could manage after that was to read two relevant books, draft the opening section, and think through the whole piece in my head. In fact, I wasn’t able to get down to serious business until…well, er, one a.m. this morning.

First, OGIC and I watched a DVD of Near Dark after returning from Blogdinner No. 1 (we’re soooo into vampires). Then we listened to music and talked nonstop for a couple of hours (we’re still getting used to the simple pleasure of being in the same room). Then I sighed deeply, arose from my comfy berth on the couch, bid my guest farewell, took a scaldingly hot shower and a stiff dose of aspirin, and retired to my office. Four hours later the piece was done, after which I ascended to my loft, fell asleep instantly, and awoke without benefit of alarm at 9:30, wrenched into consciousness by what sleep specialists call my clock-dependent alerting (that’s what wakes you up at two in the morning the day after you fly to Europe). I found in my e-mailbox a note from the editor of Commentary, asking me what the hell I was doing sending him pieces at five-thirty in the morning (of course he knew–that’s just his way of being polite) and promising that he’d send me back galleys to read and correct later today.

That, my friends, is journalism.

As for my previous Commentary essay, a paean to Haydn, it’s in the issue that was just mailed out to subscribers, and I’ll be posting a link in the right-hand column as soon as it becomes available on the magazine’s Web site. In fact, OGIC and I will be posting quite a bit of other fresh stuff in the right-hand column between now and Monday–look for it. In addition, I’ll make her sit down at my desk sooner or later and blog about what a great time she’s having. And I do solemnly swear that the Great Elsewhere Posting will materialize at some point in the next few days.

For now, though, it’s back to living in the moment, or maybe slightly behind it. Our Girl, who was previously asleep on an inflatable bed placed in the middle of the Teachout Museum, is now making interesting sounds suggestive of potential wakefulness. We’re having lunch with an old friend–OGIC’s first boss in New York and my first book editor–followed by more schedule-tinkering and mail-answering, followed by Blogdinner No. 2, followed by more conversation and music and DVDs. Nor would I be even slightly surprised if a nap takes place somewhere in there. Sounds like a full day to me.

Slate asked an assortment of writers and other culture types to answer this question: “Which cultural happening most amazed or disappointed you this year?” Among those present are Hilton Als, Rachel Cohen, Stanley Crouch, Daniel “Lemony Snicket” Handler, Jim Holt, Neil LaBute, Jane Smiley, Dana “Liz Penn” Stevens, and me.

To see what we said, go here.

Artie Shaw, the clarinetist and bandleader who was the last great survivor of the swing era, has died in Los Angeles at the age of 94. Here’s a wire-service obit from NPR.

I profiled Shaw in the New York Times on his ninetieth birthday, and posted the text of that piece on “About Last Night” earlier this year. To read it, go here, where you will also find links to some of his finest recordings. (I’ve been told that Shaw himself liked this piece.)

UPDATE: The Washington Post appears to be the first major newspaper out of the box with a lengthy in-house Shaw obituary on its Web site. (The New York Times is still running Reuters wire-service copy as of this hour.)

MORE: The Times just posted its obit, a blandly institutional piece that was obviously written years ago by the late John S. Wilson and updated only slightly since then. We’ll see how they do tomorrow morning.

MORE: Not at all to my surprise, the Times opted to go with its stockpiled obit, a lame response to the death of a great American musician. I guess he was too old for anyone over there to care….