It started with Jeff Woods, followed by Memphis Steve Ross, then anonymous T3 dude*, and then Braisted. All are up in arms either about Mike Turner’s defense of Curry Todd or up in arms about people being up in arms about Turner’s defense of Curry.
But everyone seems to be leaving out the enormous detail that makes this whole thing all make sense. Remember? Turner’s little “I had to call the fire department for a ride home” incident?
I could be wrong, but it seemed obvious that Turner is taking the high road in contrast to the mud that was flung at him. Who could have blamed him for wanting a little of the Big Get Even? But I actually respect that Turner didn’t take the opportunity to dish out what he’d been fed by Republicans.
It wouldn’t work as a general Democratic response to Republicans, but in this specific case, considering the history, I think this is a little bit of Mike Turner killing some folks with kindness, taking a little personal revenge.
And I’m fine with that.
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*Anonymous dude, please. This? “In fact, given the reception my last posts generated, I would have preferred not to blog again.” That’s not going to cut it. You think what you got was bad? You should have been around in the Gilbert/Kleinheider era. Buck up, youngster. We’re going easy on you.
Today was the first day I walked after falling into the grave and it didn’t go well. My ankle didn’t hurt. It just didn’t work. I was lurching around the neighborhood like some kind of horror movie zombie. Finally, finally towards the end it hurt in a way that suggested that it still had some flexibility in it. But man, I tell you, I was afraid it was just going to seize up on me and petrify and that would be the end of it.
I’m probably going to have to make sure they have a stool or something at the Southern Festival of Books on Sunday (1:30, Chapter 16 stage) because I’m not sure it’ll hold me for a whole hour and I’m not sure it’ll give me any warning about when it’s about to give out.
I was suspicious, the moment I fell, that this was too easy. That’s the ankle I jacked the fuck up in grad school and, by the end of that, all of the doctors agreed they should have just broken it and set it so it would heal right. I honestly expected, when I fell, for that fucker to have shattered into a million pieces. It held, but apparently because every ligament and tendon is tough and inflexible and unforgiving now.
On the one hand, good. On the other hand, I wonder if I should be doing those old foot twists just to try to get some mobility back.
I was working on my Ben and Sue Allen piece for the Scene which hopefully they will like and watching the Americana Music Awards in the background and Robert Plant came out on stage and kissed everyone. Most stunningly, he looked old. Like delightfully and wonderfully old. His skin has thickened up on his face and he’s got some wonderful creases in his cheeks. His eyes look wrinkly and his skin is kind of ruddy.
It’s one thing to kind of know everyone on TV gets work done. It’s another thing to see someone who’s letting his face be a lot more natural (I don’t know that he’s never had anything done) than most men his age in Celebrity-ville do. It was refreshing to see it.
He looked good. And lord almighty, he still wiggles like a fucking sex good.
But he looked human. He looked like an old man in a way that read to me as vital and assured and knowledgeable. And kind of bad ass in a way that took me aback when I realized that’s what I was feeling.
I just can’t think of a lot of Celebrity-ville dudes that grow old in a way that feels so vital and artistic to me. They seem to become parodies of themselves. I guess, like my ankle, they stiffen up into what they think their audience expects.
But Plant, on stage, came across as truly delighted by this new stuff he’s doing. Honestly, I think Americana is a good fit for him.
And I swear, when he thanked Gillian Welch and David Rawlings for letting him use their studio? Oh, lord, I had a vision of him and Welch singing together. I don’t know what they would sing. But I feel like there’s a sharp edge they both can put into their voices that makes me wonder if there’s not some bluegrass song out there they could blow my mind with.
Oh, lord.
Let me just toss this out there. Robert Plant and Gillian Welch doing “It’s Just the Night.”
Tiny Cat Pants 