newsornotnews (noticiaononoticia)

The kingdom of Lear he decreeded

To his daughters the land should be deeded

Except for the youngest

The only among us

Who withheld the stroking he needed.

Glenda Jackson gave a classic performance last night, a vivid oration worthy of the Booths or the Barrymores. She cared not about being natural or pedestrian. No “R” went unrolled, no arm went unlifted, no “howl” went unhowled. It was stagey, it was retro, it was a chance for Ms. Jackson to play the part the way she undoubtedly saw it done by the giants of the prosceniums of her youth. Compared to her frighteningly realistic performance in “Three Tall Women” last year, she went a different way.

So how can you complain? She worked like a beast and deserved her standing O but was it one of the great Lears? It was not. Her first act worked well enough. The rejection of Cordelia was controlled and deadly. Her storm scene was properly blazing though the production gave it short shrift by playing it in front of the curtain which robbed it of the wild caged-animal movement it’s often performed with so effectively. The second act suffered from her slightness, her inability to show the strength that made her every bit a king and forget about carrying poor dead Cordelia around.

The rest of the cast was in a different play, one that was broad and conversational and, sadly, played for laughs at unfortunate moments. It was lazy. It had no point of view.  The set was a faux marble box. The sword fights were single gunshots. Gloucester, played by a woman, was pretty good. Edmund, who, I’m told, died a harrowing death on Game of Thrones, was the most ham-handed player. The woman (I’m sorry – I don’t have my Playbill here) who played Cordelia and the Fool dared a little more, thought a little more and had her moments.

As a whole, though, the production was a mess and yet, and yet…. A three and a half hour run time, a two hour first act – how did the Cognescenting Leg do? Pretty good, I’d say.  Not a twitch until Poor Tom’s appearance in  Act 3, Scene 4, more than an hour and a half in, and nothing after the intermission which means – it’s Lear. It’s always gripping. And it’s Glenda! She’s a miracle, a marvel, doing it, obviously, exactly as she chose to do it. Whatever age she is, she still has a huge appetite for the scenery.

My stepson Alex animates and he’s crazy good, if, perhaps, a tad on the grotesque side so I’m just going to put some links here. Enjoy.

Life was good for the happy natives of the tropical island of New Greenpert who ordered their lives around the predictions, written on paper, found within the eggs of the Oogle Boid until, one day, the boid disappeared. In need of a new prognosticator, the islanders dispatched a raiding party to Frostbite Falls, Minnesota and there kidnapped the oracle of the weather-forecasting-bunion which resided on the hoof of one Bullwinkle J. Moose.

Bullwinkle was a mighty moose, bestowed with a hallux valgus of extraordinary talent and yet it is my strong belief that is a mere footnote in the annals of sentient protoplasm when compared to my Cognoscenting Leg.

Dramaturge, maestro, connoisseur of the temporal arts – when a performance starts to flag, when it’s narrative goes astray, when the orchestra’s sensitivity wanders or the drummer becomes somnolent, when the entertainment ceases to entertain, when the depth of the moment is less than dermal, the Cognoscenting Leg responds.

As every modern filmgoer knows, with great power comes an origin story and so it is with the CL.

Many a time I will be walking, chatting with some acquaintance and she, the acquaintance, will ask, “Do you hear a maraca?” and I will be compelled to explain that the rhythmic rattle noted is the sonic expression of my morning psychomedications in motion.

As the pharmacology of mood elevation and mental constriction has advanced, the purpose of each drug has become increasingly specific and obscure. For instance, a take a black and yellow capsule daily to buoy my self-esteem on those occasions when my dining partner has ordered something more delicious looking than the plate in front of me. I take a little blue pill that restrains me from buying music files that I can listen to as easily on a streaming service. I take a large white tablet to avoid obsessing over the antiquity of the leading Democratic presidential aspirants.

One med I take is Duloxetine, marketed as, among other names, Cymbalta. Here’s what Webmd.com has to say about it:

“Uses

Duloxetine is used to treat depression and anxiety. In addition, duloxetine is used to help relieve nerve pain (peripheral neuropathy) in people with diabetes or ongoing pain due to medical conditions such as arthritis, chronic back pain, or fibromyalgia (a condition that causes widespread pain).

Duloxetine may improve your mood, sleep, appetite, and energy level, and decrease nervousness. It can also decrease pain due to certain medical conditions. Duloxetine is known as a serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor (SNRI). This medication works by helping to restore the balance of certain natural substances (serotonin and norepinephrine) in the brain.”

Wow! I didn’t know half of that. I’m diabetic! Can you believe it? What a drug! What a boon to mankind. Because of some confusion, I went without for six weeks or so but, Duloxetine, you know I can’t quit you. Life just lacked a certain pizzazz without you. The world was less bright, my step less springy.

Duloxetine, though, is a cruel, cruel mistress. She demands her price. What of value comes without a price?

“This medication may increase serotonin and rarely cause a very serious condition called serotonin syndrome/toxicity. The risk increases if you are also taking other drugs that increase serotonin, so tell your doctor or pharmacist of all the drugs you take (see Drug Interactionssection). Get medical help right away if you develop some of the following symptoms: fast heartbeat, hallucinations, loss of coordination, severe dizziness, severe nausea/vomiting/diarrhea, twitching muscles, unexplained fever, unusual agitation/restlessness.”

Gevalt! That’s one very attractive medicant. Imagine the blind date. “He seemed like a nice guy but he tripped walking to the table, he twitched and the red wine he was holding splashed all over me, he gave our order to an invisible waiter and then he puked on my cacio e pepi and yet he maintained a very positive mood throughout.”

Apparently I dodged a bullet. I got away with the sole affliction of a spastic leg and that manifests only on particular occasions.

Join me for an imaginary performance New York Philharmonic. We’re in seats N23 and N25, close to the doors for quick access to the liquor, the ladies and the exit. The program this evening will be Haydn’s Symphony No. 96, “The Miracle”. The first movement is a tricky Adagio, with two different themes played serially and then in counterpoint as a sonata with three key changes, all to engaging effect. The second movement begins, an Andante in G minor.

You’re out, you know? A night out, the tickets paid for, you’re in the middle of the goddam audience and you’re thinking to yourself, “It’s fine, a little slow but pretty enough. I love live music.” Well, the Cognescenting Leg is having none of that.

It begins as a kind of tickle under your thigh, a hypersensitivity localized at a mere spot initially, a delicate spot that begins to grow inside your leg along the length of your leg (The symphony is reduced to a minor annoyance in the back of your head. All your focus is on your knee and there aint no medication nowhere that will reduce the anxiety you are experiencing, anticipating and unable to prevent what is about to begin).

The elastic, electric rod in your thigh jumps. Your shin rises. Your ankle twists involuntarily. It lasts a very durable second and the electricity surging through your neurons is discharged for a moment but you can feel that sensitivity still, that little ball of energy which is not quite so little now, that little ball that will grow to a band shocked as if exposed to live wires, larger this time so your ankle doesn’t just jerk to the right but it jerks back to the left also.

Do you know what happens when I have to endure an endless kasekai that keeps you at the counter for hours? Nothing. Do you know what happens when I attend a three hour show at City Winery? Nothing. You know what happens in the second act of a costume drama concerning a king who falls in love with a castrato? Twitch, twitch, twitch, twitch, twitch.

Mexican nanny? Twitch. Einstein on the beach? Twitch. A former serial killer tells the story of a bee sting, a boy with a dog that died, and his experience with a woman? Twitch. A group of alcoholics waiting for a visit by a man named Hickey? No twitch. A couple of guys waiting for Godot? No twitch.

The Cognescenting Leg is discerning. It’s judgments are subtle. It will brook no meek acceptance of the mediocre. It will not let you justify an inferior piece of work. It will not let you go along in hopes the piece will improve. It cares not for the wattage of the star, the eminence of the creator, the huzzahs of the crowd. The Cognescenting Leg is never full of shit. There are no rationalizations.

I am cursed with no alternative to the truth.

“Hokey smokes!” exclaimed the little brown squirrel. “We have adventure after adventure, we go to the Isle of Lucy to find the Tooky Tooky Bird, we fly to the Upsidasium Mountain, we even rocket to the Moon with Gidney and Cloyd to vanquish the Metal Munchin’ Moon Mice and yet we always end up right back here in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota. It all seems so pointless, it fills me with an existential torpor that can only be answered with stasis or suicide.”

“You said it, little buddy,” the mighty moose replied. “It’s enough to have you believing in a malevolent universe.”

“Right. I find no pleasure in anything. When I sail the skies, I scan the wide vistas altitude provides me and always, always, I discover anew all that man has destroyed by his arrogance and menace. All I see is misery. I’ve lost hope.”

“Yeah, and the homoerotic subtext of our relationship is starting to make me itchy.”

The squirrel abruptly stopped walking. “Say, what’s the message on that sign?”

“‘Dr. Sigmund Freud…’”

“That’s not what it says. It’s ‘Dr. Sigmund Fraud…”

“I guess he watches the show,” the Moose interjected.

“… Psychiatrist, Philosopher, Bestower of Hope to the Hopeless’ Gosh!”

***

“Roskolnikov!” exclaimed the little mustached man in the black suit and hat, as he carefully glued the pointy beard to his chin. “Our plan is working. They’ve succumbed to a soul-crushing ennui so profound only death will relieve their intolerable sadness. Have we arrayed our subliminal influencers?” he asked the tall raven-haired beauty in the purple dress.

“Don’t worry dahling,” she replied. “Everything was put where they could see them.”

“The photos of abandoned puppies?”

“Yes dahling.”

“The cities turned to rubble by war?”

“Yes dahling.”

“The starving refugee children in interment camps?”

“Dahling, everything has been taken care of.”

“Bwah-hah-hah-hah,” the little man laughed. “Finally, we have them. Potsylvania, oh my Potsylvania, I long to come home to you, your malarial swamps, your arid plains, your sputtering volcanoes, like pathways direct to the ninth circle of hell, but I am a slave, a slave I tell you, indentured to this homicidal obsession of mine. I hate them. I hate them! I can’t go home and I will never have peace – not until moose and squirrel are dead.”

There are so many guys in the real estate who negotiate like Trump does.  They think of it as a contest of wills, that their tenacity is going to carry the day. They think starting big is overwhelming and that being insistent is the same as persuasive. It’s a “Game of Shlongs – who’s got the bigger palace?” situation for sure which may win the pharmacist the price of a box of condoms but is no way to get a deal signed. First off, anyone is potentially a guy who thinks his is the biggest and then you’ve got no edge on him. And the outlandish demands? Everybody knows from the moment you utter them that you’re going to back down and then when a real deal breaker comes along, you’ve lost your credibility. It helps to take risks, to have balls of steel, but there’s better ways to spend your courage than pointless brinksmanship. It also helps if you have a ton of successful experiences, earlier discovered templates you can repurpose for the deal at hand and, in that respect, he’s made a terrible mistake bringing all these novices to the table with him, more arrogance and disrespect for actual expertise. The best negotiator, though, is the one who can make the justice argument, the argument that your position is the fairest. It’s really about problem solving and finding opportunities for everyone to get their dealbreakers satisfied which is to say YOU’VE GOT TO KNOW THE DEAL! From top to bottom, all the details. You’ve got to read every somnabulant syllable of the document. THE BEST DEALMAKER IS THE ONE THAT KNOWS THE DEAL BEST. Guys like Trump, they think they can wing it, that no matter how thin you slice him, each saluma is chock full with potent peppers of preternatural persuassion power. With Kim, with McConnell (not a fan of either, btw), he is as impotent in diplomacy as he is esteemed by Congress as he is ignorant of health care. His satisfaction with being a moron is a dangerous thing.

In a surprise move, President Donald J. Trump has fired a large portion of his gastro intestinal tract for failing to perform according to his demands. ” It’s grandstanding, making all kinds of disruptive noises. I made it clear that all I wanted was for it to digest my food. No acid, no gas. It was disloyal.” Associates of the President indicated that he intended to go on eating but it remains unclear what the effect of the abbreviated guts would be. According to expert sources, one possibility is that feces would accumulate within the President until he was completely full of shit while others have posited that the result would be an oversized orange windbag akin to a giant whoopie cushion. Administration officials attempted to allay any fears of an explosion. They pointed out the President’s facility in spewing the same verbally. “It’s generally those who offer assistance to the President who end up covered in it.”  Supplementary Secret Service agents have been assigned to make sure none of the Presidents digits are pulled.

Considering her pedigree, Lucinda Williams has always seemed to have a chip on her shoulder but, then again, maybe her pedigree is the chip on her shoulder. There was no denying the achievement of her fifth album, “Cars Wheels on a Gravel Road.” It was a breakthrough, her “Highway 61,” but I also remember thinking, “What happened to that nice girl who recorded the first four albums?” Maybe I would have yelled “Judas” at Albert Hall too. I can be very contrary. In any case, “Car Wheels” and most of the subsequent albums seemed to me to be working hard at maintaining her dirty rock cred (except for a couple where she didn’t seem to be working at all). It’s fine. She’s obviously talented enough to be whatever she wants. I’ve seen her live a few times and it’s always been hit or miss. She was great at City Winery last year, full of energy and even fun (fun is not a word that is often associated with Ms. Williams). It wasn’t quite the same thing last night. She didn’t play quite as hard but maybe in the long run, that’s better. She seemed at ease, comfortable, relaxed. I think she’s kind of grown into herself and she’s okay with that. The most recent album, “Ghosts of Highway 20,” is one of the good ones with a nice storytelling vibe. She announced that she and the current band (a three-piece, all excellent) have rerecorded “Sweet Old World,” the loveliest of the early records, and that will be released soon. That also speaks to the easy self-acceptance of last night. It’s a good way to go, a way to abide.

Setlist:

Can’t Let Go (Randy Weeks cover)

Crescent City

Prove My Love

Drunken Angel

Those 3 Days

Can’t Close the Door on Love

Ghosts of Highway 20

Side of the Road

Driving Down a Deadend Street (formerly He Never Got Enough Love)

Fruits of My Labor

Dust

Steal Your Love

Protection

Come On

Bleeding Fingers

Changed the Locks

Foolishness

(What’s So Funny ’bout) Peace, Love and Understanding (Nick Lowe cover)

Honey Bee

Joy

Amazon offers a three pound bag of low-sodium, extra dark pretzels. I strongly suggest you purchase one. I have. Pretzels have always been my preferred snack. It’s true, in recent years I’ve favored the microwave popcorn (just shake a couple of tablespoons into a brown paper lunch bag and zap), initially for it’s low caloric content but then for it’s diabetes-friendly qualities. Still, it’s hard to argue – there’s nothing like the right pretzel. Ahh, but finding the right pretzel – it’s not so easy. What’s really driving my current pretzel-eating revival is the discovery of Uncle Jerry, fine purveyor of pretzels. I found Uncle Jerry browsing through the Max Delivery website (In case you’ve never used Max Delivery I recommend it without reservation – there’s a very broad selection of items they carry – including liquor – and they bring it to your door in less than 90 minutes [sometimes a lot less]). I’m eating more cheese now for the same reason. Max carries Murray’s Cheese Shop wares. A few days ago I made the conjecture that Uncle Jerry, pretzel artisan that he is, might have a salt-free version of his delicious burnt-dark pretzels and undertook to search for the same, first on Max, then on Amazon where I discovered the aforementioned three pound bag. I’m a lot less careful about the diabetes than I should be. Early in life, seven or eight years of age, I discovered, through much trial and error, the absolute most gratifying way to eat a bag of pretzels. First, don’t go for the fully intact pretzels on the top of the bag. Those are the best ones. Save them for later. Fish around on the bottom of the bag to retrieve the broken pieces of pretzels, the pretzel shards and eat those first (If you’re like me, you’ll eat the not-too-salty first, the saltier after, because I’m not a fan of the too-much-salt). If you have any spreadable cheese, the pretzel shards are a perfect cheese-delivery system. Then you go for the mostly intact pretzels, pretzels that are not complete but still have their knots, and last, the fully complete pretzel, the uber pretzel. Here is how you eat a pretzel: first thing bite off those two little crispy nipples formed by the ends of the pre-knotting pretzel rod. Next, bite off the bottom loop. What you should have now is the knot and the two pretzel-shoulders. Now, eat the shoulders sequentially, leaving nothing but a nice tight crispy knot in your fingers. Then eat the knot. There, you have completed your pretzel. Why save the knot for last? It’s the crispiest piece, that’s why. You’re biting down on this fabulous helix of crunch and the noise sends your head a-vibrating which, I believe, is why people love to crunch – the sound waves resonate the brain pan which, in turn, acts as a massage for your brain. A good pretzel you feel all the way to your scalp. Altogether, a very special experience. Now, potato chips I’ve never understood.

Kris Kristofferson started off set to dark Sunday night and pretty well kept it there all night. Dissolution, betrayal, lost love. Songs filled with regret. He seemed to struggle through his hoarseness to get the words out, his range more limited than on the old records (which are the only records I know and barely those) and range was never his strength to begin with. His playing was rudimentary. I had no idea how consistently great his lyrics were, how vernacular, how poetic and how tragic. I wonder how much of the material is relatively contemporary.  It all sounds like the last croaks of an 80 year old man who’s had a lot of bad luck (except for the song about living in a gated community). I know nothing about the man. For all I know, it’s all been swimming pools and movie stars. He looked to be in pretty good shape and I hope he keeps performing for another 40 years but the evening had the feel of a swan song. I’ve seen Alberta Hunter, Anita O’Day and Little Jimmy Scott (and more – I can’t remember) in each of their respective last years of performing, when their pipes were gone but their intimacy with their own material, their singularity with it, and the phrasing honed over decades elevated the performance to glorious and heartbreaking both. That’s the file I’m putting Kris in.

Set 1:

1. Shipwrecked in the Eighties
2. Darby’s Castle
3. Me and Bobby McGee
4. Here Comes That Rainbow Again 
5. Best of All Possible Worlds
6. Help Me Make It Through the Night
7. Billy Dee
8. Rocket to Stardom
9. Casey’s Last Ride
10. Nobody Wins
11. Feeling Mortal
12. From Here to Forever
13. Broken Freedom Song
14. Loving Her Was Easier (Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again)
     Set 2:
15. Just the Other Side of Nowhere
16. Duvalier’s Dream
17. I’d Rather Be Sorry
18. They Killed Him
19. Jody and the Kid
20. The Pilgrim, Chapter 33
21. Jesus Was a Capricorn
22. To Beat the Devil
23. Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down
24. The Silver Tongued Devil and I
25. For the Good Times
26. A Moment of Forever
27. Why Me
     Encore:
28. Please Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends

As the Real Estate industry has become increasingly corporate, MBA’ed and spreadsheeted, mythic honor is granted to the “back of the envelope” as in, “he made the offer from the back of the envelope,” or “no due diligence; just the back of the envelope.” You’re a gunslinger if you’re willing to make a deal relying on back of the envelope calculations, a gambler who’ll take a chance on whether financing will be available so that he may get in there fast and tie it up. They’re also thought to be a little dumb (“more balls than brains”) and a little archaic which conveys nobility but also tragedy, like contemplating the disappearance of the dinosaurs. And they are becoming extinct. The prices have gotten so large and the layers of financing so complex, what lender is going to take a risk on anything less than a ream of analytics. Big risk takers lose at an alarming rate. I mention this because DJT is clearly a back of the envelope kind of guy. When your tax plan is about 250 words, it’s because you haven’t done enough of what you need to do in order to have more to say – crunch the numbers. It’s a hint as to why all of his development projects have failed. He’s stuck in the envelope when he should be pushing it.