*

The first four installments:

Monday: She had come to enjoy, amidst the scattered pleasures of that line of work, the arts of dressing and painting herself for a rendezvous.

Tuesday: A modern woman in the oldest profession. Fifteen hours, four thousand dollars.

Wednesday: A note of panic struck in her head as she realized if the photo appeared in a newspaper or any such place, her careful veneer of anonymity, vital to her job, would be endangered.

Thursday: Claudia sat at her kitchen table and sobbed as she felt all the muscles in her body grinding like gears on each other. Then came lucid emptiness, and it all seemed small, another of those daily absurdities life seemed to keep in store for her. Claudia dressed shortly after, donning her best, blackest dress.

Posted by Lou at 12:28 AM | Permalink

One Giant Step for Fishkind

Hello Mr. Steve Rhodes:

The following press release to announce the appointment of Scott Fishkind to the office of Chairman for Standard Tinsmith Supply, may be of interest to your audience. Any editorial comment or mention that you may give this press release would be greatly appreciated.

- - -

LEADING SHEET METAL AND HVAC SUPPLY COMPANY, STANDARD TINSMITH SUPPLY, APPOINTS A NEW CHAIRMAN

Dateline: March 29, 2007 ... Brooklyn, NY
Contact: Scott Fishkind
Web Address: www.tinsmith.com

BROOKLYN, NY - March 29, 2007 - Standard Tinsmith Supply, a leading company in the sheet metal industry that is based in Brooklyn, New York, announced Thursday that a new Chairman of the Board of Trustees has been appointed. Scott Fishkind accepted the office of Chairman on March 15, 2007.

The company cited Fishkind's years of experience and contributions to the company and his community in announcing his appointment. The company feels that Fishkind will be a tremendous asset. He has already established close working relationships with large building developers such as Burman Properties, BRT Realty, and Pinewood Developments. Through these relationships, the company has been able to gather valuable ideas, material, and market analysis.

"Within a relatively diverse market place right now, real estate building for old and new construction has seen its tremendous turns for space availability, price and materials. In the last three years, material costs have been the most unstable we have seen in the history of building. Prices in the past have held true for at least the quarter or half year. Today we are seeing price changes in material costs vary by the month. This has a great impact on purchase structure, inventory levels, and market trends," states Fishkind.

As a graduate of Hofstra University (Cum Laude), Fishkind has also volunteered his time at the Garden City Park Fire Department since 1999. He visits local elementary schools in his area to teach fire safety to young children. Standard Tinsmith Supply feels that his work ethic and stability promise a bright future as he takes the company to a new level.

"I believe Scott Fishkind has an excellent sense of business, dedication, and market knowledge. In this rapidly changing industry, Scott is ready, willing, and able to be the front runner in the trade. Many people react to situations where as Fishkind is proactive and one step ahead with his management decisions," says Danny Alveraz, operations manager for Standard Tinsmith Supply.

About Standard Tinsmith Supply:

Standard Tinsmith Supply has been serving the sheet metal and HVAC industries since 1914. The company is in its fourth generation of family ownership. As the largest stocking distributor of tin ceiling, cornices, custom shelving, counter-tops, bar-tops, and back-splashes, Standard Tinsmith Supply ships products around the world and has recently opened a new Web site to better serve its customers. The company also stocks stainless steel, aluminum, aluminum diamond plate, hot and cold roll steel, and galvanized steel.

#

See also "Foolin' Fish Spray."

Posted by Lou at 12:19 AM | Permalink

March 29, 2007

The [Thursday] Papers

Barack Obama "invited" CNN's Wolf Blitzer into his Senate office on Wednesday for an "exclusive" interview that proved unsatisfying - but revealing - on both ends.

* Blitzer showed a video of Obama speaking before the New Trier Democratic Organization in 2003 saying he would vote against an $87 billion Iraq war funding bill. As Blitzer noted, Obama actually ended up voting for it.

Obama's explanation? His particular concern about the bill was $20 billion in no-bid reconstruction contracts. But the video clearly showed Obama thundering that Congress should say "no to George Bush."

* Obama again said "I don't think gays and lesbians are any more immoral than heterosexuals."

In other words, we're all sinners? Why can't Obama just say "I don't believe homosexuality is immoral" - or say that he does in fact find homosexuality immoral based on his Christian faith?

Instead, he continues to dodge and weave - even blaming the media for the original New York Times story that got this ball rolling. "I'm not sure that the story got out there properly," he said, explaining that the reason he didn't respond to the question asking his position in the aftermath of Peter Pace's remarks was that he was getting into a car and not responding to any questions. The Times report, however, said Obama "sidestepped the morality question three times" before the campaign put out a statement later that night that did not address morality. That happened in a further statement a day later.

* Blitzer asked Obama about gay marriage. "Marriage has a religious connotation in this society," Obama said. "In our culture, that makes it very difficult to disentangle from the civil aspects of marriage. As a consequence it would be extraordinarily difficult and distracting to try to build a consensus around marriage for gays and lesbians."

But marriage is a civil act in our society. Anyone can go have a church ceremony, but it is the legal filing of the marriage certificate that bestows status on a union. And plenty of people get married before judges. In fact, I've heard that even atheists sometimes get married.

Now, if Obama wants to propose civil unions for heterosexuals too - and leave marriage to the religious - that might make sense. Somehow, though, I think that's an even tougher road to hoe than simply moving for gay marriage. [NOTE: A reader points out the proper phrase is "row to hoe," though "road to hoe" has taken on a life of its own. My bad.]

(Advocating a separate-but-equal status for gays and lesbians is also striking given his recent appearance in Selma, where the civil rights movement didn't find it prudent to wait for a "consensus" on voting rights and desegregation.)

* Blitzer failed to ask Obama about how his religious beliefs inform his view of gay marriage, despite Obama's past statements about just that.

* Obama also blamed the media for reports of a rift between him and Al Sharpton. But Blitzer failed to ask Obama about one of Sharpton's chief criticisms (which the media didn't exactly gin up): How could a candidate who is now bragging about his anti-war stance (but has been criticized by anti-war activists, as Blitzer alluded to, for falling silent once he got to the Senate) have gone to Connecticut to raise money and endorse Joe Lieberman?

Actually, it's not that Blitzer didn't ask, it's that he asked in one of those questions that actually included four or five questions, and it's not one Obama chose to address.

Fantasy Fiction
Before the interview, Lynn Sweet of the Sun-Times said of Obama's memoir, "When you read it you're not sure what's true and what's not."

Blitzer didn't ask Obama about that pesky little problem, illuminated in the Tribune's Sunday story about assertions by Obama in the book that simply are not true, according to the paper's reporting.

Hometown Discount
"[H]ow critical has the newspaper been in its coverage of Obama? Not very, at least thus far," the Tribune's own public editor concludes after what sounds like an exhaustive review. Just think if he included the Sun-Times - and the local TV stations - in his research.

Daley Dose
"Some of Mayor Richard Daley's most loyal supporters from his Bridgeport power base and from the business community have contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to a newly created political account for Daley-endorsed aldermen who face strong challengers," the Tribune reports.

Chicagonomics
* "The cost of building a new Westinghouse High School has skyrocketed to nearly $103 million, far beyond the original $63 million estimate for the school, according to plans approved Wednesday by the Chicago School Board," the Sun-Times reports.

* "Chicago aviation officials told members of a House transportation subcommittee Wednesday that an airline ticket tax increase of up to 67 percent is needed to help cover the costs of upgrading and expanding airports," AP reports.

* "The total cost to attend the University of Chicago will exceed $47,000 next year, the school announced Wednesday," the Sun-Times reports (unavailable online).

Three Links
* Hacking John McCain.

* Oompa Loompa.

* Just follow the instructions.

Charity Trust
I dug these excerpts about the Sun-Times Charity Trust out of the Breeden Report - a devastating portrait of what investigators called a "corporate kleptocracy."

-

"The Trust's Board of Directors meets twice a year to consider grant requests. Grants are awarded only if they meet strict requirements. For example, the Trust will not award grants to organizations aimed at furthering religious doctrines, for scholarships, medical research, benefit dinners, advertisements, or tables at fundraising events. The Trust raises money by hosting large Chicago-area fundraisers.

-

"Most donations funded by the Chicago Sun-Times are made by the Chicago Sun-Times Charity Trust, the mission of which is to provide "financial support to arts, cultural and social service programs in the Chicago metropolitan area." In accordance with the Trust's grant application guidelines, grants are typically small, ranging between $1,000 and $5,000.307

-

"Donations from this Charity Trust, however, were also vetted by the Radlers. Rona Radler, Radler's wife, was Chairman of the Trust's Board of Directors, whose members have also included the following Hollinger employees who reported directly to Radler: Helen McCarthy, Loye, Kipnis, and Radler's Chicago Sun-Times assistant Patti Dudek, who also serves as President of the Trust. Ms. Radler received approximately $126,000 in director's fees from 1998 through 2003 for her service on the Trust's Board. Radler also appears to have directed donations from the Trust's budget. In an October 3, 2000 memo, Kipnis directed Dudek: '[p]er David Radler's instruction, please have a check in the amount of $25,000 drawn from the Chicago Sun-Times Charity Trust made payable to "Project Excellence" in commemoration of Carl Rowan.'

-

"At least on a few occasions, Radler appears to have caused the Chicago Sun-Times to make donations outside the confines of the Trust and its guidelines. Disbursement information from the Chicago Sun-Times shows donations in 2001 for $35,000 and in 2002 for $25,000 to Haifa University, a college in Israel to which Hollinger's New York office and the Jerusalem Post Charitable Fund each also donated $25,000 in 2002. Haifa University bestowed an honorary degree on Radler in May 2002.

According to Tom Rose, former publisher of the Jerusalem Post, the Post operates three large charitable funds and a not-for-profit organization in the United States. The three charitable funds were created more than 70 years ago and are independently chartered.308 They operate under local laws and filing requirements, and make contributions consistent with the Jerusalem Post's mission or contributors' wishes, or to longstanding recipients.

-

"A June 19, 1997 memo from Radler responding to a request that the Sun-Times donate to the United Jewish Appeal states that the Jerusalem Post Charity Funds 'raise and distribute over $500,000 US per year.'

-

"According to Rose, Radler regularly recommended charity recipients. As mentioned previously, a section of a trauma recovery unit in the Herzog Hospital in Jerusalem named after the Radlers was, according to Rose, at least partially funded by the Jerusalem Post Charitable Fund. In addition, as also discussed above, the Jerusalem Post Charitable Fund paid approximately $25,000 of Radler's pledge to support a business program scholarship for graduate students at Haifa University.

"Rose sent a memo to Radler in May 2001 expressing concern about donations to Haifa University from the Jerusalem Post Charitable Fund:

'Your suggestion that we pay for the table at the Haifa U. dinner in your honor with monies from the funds might not be such a good idea. I have been advised that authorities are getting more serious about insuring [sic] that non-profit payment guidelines are followed.

'The problem, theoretically at least, is that the funds must be spent in Israel and this organization is not recognized in Israel.'

"Rose reiterated this concern in a 2002 e-mail:

'Avi has arranged to give Yael from Haifa University $50,000 later this week. The two checks from the CST funds arrived in the package you sent last week. And at your instruction we will pay the balance from our own charitable funds; roughly $25,000.

'Are you sure that you are OK with this? As I have indicated this makes me nervous. While I completely agree that you can argue you subsidize Israel to the tune of funding Post losses each year, I think that using funds from donors to our charitable funds sets us up for all kinds of problems.'

"The Special Committee has found no document reflecting that Radler ever responded to these concerns."

-

The Beachwood Tip Line: Accepting charity.

Posted by Lou at 07:24 AM | Permalink

Rockie Country High

This time in Don's Root Cellar, does anybody really know what "alternative country" is? And does it matter? Also, Nick Lowe croons again and we finally find a pro athlete whose musical taste doesn't suck.

1. What is "alternative country?"

The thing about it is, even though it's what I listen to most nowadays, I really can't answer that question. I just kind of know it when I hear it. The term encompasses so much diversity - much more than what would be reasonably included in, say, the terms "grunge" or "brit pop" or "garage rock" - that fans and music writers have been spilling blood over the question for quite some time now. I mean, when a "genre" can encompass everything from the austere, traditional acoustic laments of Freakwater to the Skynyrd-esque rawk of Drive-By Truckers, is "alt country" really a definable genre at all?

The "no" side has a lot of takers, and I'm one of them. They rightly say that rather than being a "something," alt country is really more about not being something - that something being corporate Nashville dreck. So, ultimately, I think, "alt-country" isn't a particular style of music so much as it is an attitude. I'd say that attitude predominantly consists of a rejection of the right-wing politics and phony TV preacher kind of sheen that Nashville has been reveling in ever since Reagan was king - along with a simultaneous embrace of real American values that have been all but lost, such as honesty, social justice and, yeah, even religion - but the old-fashioned kind that preaches love thy neighbor.

But still people try to categorize it, most often by inventing multitudes of cleverly named subgenres in an effort to impose some kind of order. I get a laugh every time I read the way the San Antonio public radio station KSYM-FM describes its Third Coast Music Network alt-country show: Americana / roots / Independent / blues / western / Cajun, Zydeco, Creole / Adult Album Alternative (AAA) / Swamp rock / Punk Bluegrass / Hillbilly-Surf / rock 'n' roll / Texas music / classic country / REAL country / underground Nashville / anti-NashVegas / Twang / alt.country / CRINGE?(country fringe) / insurgent country / cowpunk / psychedelic country / y'all-ternative / Eclectic . . .

That covers a lot of ground, but may still not define it. Recently I came across one of the best attempts at an alt-country definition ever. It comes from Darrek Anderson, a Canadian twangster from Edmonton whose band, Darrek Anderson and the Guaranteed, plays a well-written and heartfelt kind of country - nothing spectacular, but real and satisfying in a way that makes you feel connected to something simple but somehow very right. His singing voice reminds me of Roger Clyne, formerly of the Arizona band the Refreshments.

In an interview with the Gateway, the student newspaper from the University of Alberta, Anderson had this to say about what "alternative country" means to him:

"I don't think I could sell the country genre as a whole. There are parts to it that I really like and there are parts that I can't stand at all. I like the honesty and the angle that a lot of the newer alt-country is taking. It's just really honest music, and it can be a little bit mean and pretty much anything you need it to be. It's not fake and it's never commercial and it's not written with any kind of marketing in the back of anyone's mind. It's just true music. I appreciate any kind of music that's like that.

"I guess it's an alternative to the mainstream. Mainstream country music is one of the best examples of pop culture, marketing and image right now - the makeup and the glossy photos and writing with a team. Alt-country is just an option that's against all that. It's pretty much the opposite, but still soul-driven music, simple and defined by an acoustic guitar."

Very, very true. Soul-driven, rather than market-driven. I like that. It's nice to hear someone make some sense out of all the nit-picking and incessant debating over semantics that goes on in the music blogosphere and press all the time about alt country. Hey, if it feels like you're kicking Alan Jackson in the ass, and if makes your soul feel better, then it's alt-country. Let it go at that!

2. Excellent news. Nick Lowe is coming out with a new album.

Why this isn't cause for a national holiday I don't know, but I will celebrate in my own little way every day until June 26, when the fine folks at Yep Roc Records will release At My Age, the British roots master's first studio album in six years. Finally.

Lowe's last album, 2001's The Convincer, also on Yep Rock, completed his mid-life transformation from rockabilly hellion to a laid-back lounge crooner who somehow was able to bring his signature wit and perfect songwriting touch into a considerably different arena. The new Nick certainly won't make you forget the bash and pop of the Rockpile Nick, or the proto-alt country/Carlene Carter/Cowboy Outfit-era Nick of the '80s. But what it does allow the listener to do is focus in unimpeded on the expressive instrument that is his voice, and on how he's now been able to use it to enter that Johnny Rivers world of country soul singing. Like all great "alt" music both rock and country, you aren't quite able to tell if the work is a homage to the genre it's working in or a subtle send-up of it . . . probably both, and that's the genius.

According to the label, the new Lowe effort will brandish "a nuanced musical palette, colored with horns, strings and country flourishes." That, I'm sure, means he'll still be in a crooning mood. Later on in the album will be banjos and "even more horns." The lyrics will also continue in his "diary set to music" style seen on earlier Yep Roc albums, which is good news because few living masters can turn a lyrical phrase like Nick, with one song, the album's closer, described by him as "a bit like a Dean Martin country record." Little Ole Wine Drinker Nick?

There will also be covers of Charlie Feathers and Farron Young and guest shots from Chrissie Hynde and Bill Kirchen. With that kind of pedigree, I have to say I'll be extremely disappointed if this long-awaited disc turns out to be a mutt.

3. Being a former sportswriter, and having read more pro sports media guides than I care to acknowledge publicly, I can tell you that the most hilarious/depressing parts of those things are where they list "personal information" about the athletes, including their favorite music and/or bands. From having to study them, I know for a fact that if Dave Matthews ever becomes desperate for a gig (a vain hope, I know), there are about 12,000 millionaire jocks who'll gladly rent out the local VFW hall for a command performance and pay him whatever he wants.

To give you a better idea of what I'm talking about, here's a sampling of some jock faves I dug up on the Internet, which to me really about sums it up: Toby Keith (Kevin Millwood of the Cleveland Indians); Metallica (Pavol Demitra of the Minnesota Wild); George Strait (Brad Eldred of the Pittsburgh Pirates); Rascal Flatts (Josh Brown of the Seattle Seahawks); etc., etc. There are a few Led Zeppelins, Coldplays, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jams thrown in there, but for the most part, it's the Matthews band and "anything country." And by "country," none of them mean Uncle Tupelo . . . or don't they?

An interesting exception seems to be (hold it, hold it . . . ) Colorado Rockies Manager Clint Hurdle. Really. Clint, according to one blogger, is an alt-country fan. This vital information is gleaned from Mark T.R. Donohue writing on the Denver section of the Baseball Toaster blog (called "Bad Altitude," I love it). Mark says:

"Saturday night, I was at Denver's Oriental Theater engaged in conversation with a comely young record store manager who counted Clint Hurdle among her regular customers. I don't know about you, but I feel much better about the guy holding the reins in the Rockies' dugout now that I know Hurdle likes alt-country. Every time he sacrifice bunts in the second inning with the Rockies already down three this year, I'm going to be saying myself, 'Oh, it's OK, he's into Uncle Tupelo, he can't be all bad.'"

Makes me wonder what kind of music Sweet Lou likes. Who was the Dave Matthews of the '60s? God, I wouldn't even want to guess.

*

See what else is in Don's Root Cellar. Contact him at don@beachwoodreporter.com.

Posted by Don at 12:51 AM | Permalink

Tawdry Weeping Confusion

The fourth in an exclusive excerpt series from Claudia, the author's as-of-yet unpublished fifth novel.

In March of that year, four months prior to Claudia's birthday, Rémy Gaston Larquey had been given the honour of a solo exhibition at the Herbert Bourne Memorial Wing of the New South Wales Art Gallery, to celebrate the occasion of his sixtieth birthday. It was a special event for the art community in general and Rémy Larquey personally, the crowning achievement of a long career riddled with both great success and abysmal interludes of private and commercial failure. Despite years of proven worth as a seller and exhibitor of paintings world-wide, Rémy had not yet become truly fashionable in his adopted homeland. This event was destined to make him at last highly popular with the mass-media whose gears he had failed so conspicuously to grease by reducing his work or himself to a fine homily, and his art retained its savage dignity so that even phrases like 'enfant terrible' still seemed apt, indeed could hardly encompass him. Rémy was now finding acceptance, perhaps because he was passing into a grandee age few had expected him to reach, and he could be safely categorized even as he remained a terrifying, terrific sage. The floodgates of society page money would now open to him.

Claudia Rossi had received her invitation by mail a week before the event. She had glanced at it casually, wondered how she had made it on that mailing list, then noticed it had been signed by Rémy himself, a detail which started Claudia's belly boiling. Rémy meant very little to her and she had built good things for herself without him. She would not go. It would be easy not to go. Too easy, perhaps. It could not bring much pleasure, although the event might be looked upon as little more than an excuse to filch hors d'oeuvres and explore the finer entrails of the social scene. She had surely hovered around the edges of many of such events. There was the chance to inspect Rémy's art, which defied all her anger. She still worshipped Rémy as a creator. She would at some point go to the exhibition, so it made sense to take this opportunity and step into a social centrifuge. The price she did not know yet. There was certainly a price.

At seven-thirty Claudia approached the gallery. Rain was forecast for later but now the evening air sloshed and swam with slow-bleeding heat, air from the gardens welling pregnant with blossom and humus and foliage damp from sprinkler spray. The evening was flushing deep blue through which harbour lights throbbed, the far shore gleamed like coals spilt from a fireplace. Throughout the gallery sounded a rippling groan of gathering guests. Cars passed by in regular procession. Claudia walked from St. Mary's Station, her high heels swinging in her fingers until she neared the entrance. She donned the shoes there, opened her purse and withdrew the invitation, which she presented to the suited security guards. They ushered her on with deferential smiles. She was marked by the card as an especially important person.

Inside, she followed amusingly hand-drawn, hastily-tacked signs that directed guests through the white twisting walls of the gallery interior, closing in on the streaming sounds of a string quartet that sat in one corner of the new wing's large, bustling space. Claudia felt her wits centring, her poise engaged. No, there was nothing about this she could not handle. She could be the perfect animal for this rarefied atmosphere. As she removed a glass of champagne from a tray, a flare of light caught the rim of her vision and she looked rapidly to see a photographer turning away from her with a pleasant, thanking smile. Claudia smiled in return, feeling intensely flattered, then a note of panic struck in her head as she realised if the photo appeared in a newspaper or any such place, her careful veneer of anonymity, vital to her job, would be endangered. The panic quickly dulled to mild concern and she was careful of the further photographers and TV cameras scattered around the function.

"Claudia!" came a cutting Darlinghurst accent. Claudia was faced by a young woman stepping forward, taller than Claudia by several inches and erect with studious pride. She was a girl with model looks, radiant blonde hair and an expression of studious boredom.

"Isla Munroe." Claudia cried as the pair fell into a sisterly embrace.

"I didn't think I'd see anyone as cool as you here." Isla breathed as they parted.

"How did you get here?"

"Friend of ours, Alec, he invited us. He's part of the show. I don't know where he is. Probably out screwing one of the platter girls or having a toke. How about you?"

"Special invitation."

"Oh, you snotty bitch. How'd you get that?"

"Mysterious contacts. Are you still with that guy, the filmmaker, Ben?"

"We got married last month."

"Oh, congratulations!" Claudia kissed Isla's cheek. "I thought you said never get married."

"And now I'm an unrepentant hypocrite. Ben!"

Isla had shouted over her shoulder towards her husband, a man with that familiar look of the inner-city intellect, all insect limbs and ascetic face and glasses that looked like a prop. But Ben Cohen's smile was always genuine, his mouth had a wry twist that seemed to letting you in on a joke. He looked up briefly, waved for patience to Bianca, gave that smile, and concluded his explication to the girl.

"He's pretty good-looking when you get past the poseur uniform," Claudia said.

"He's not just that. He's just a damn fine man, and there's few of those."

"You're happy," Claudia bestowed.

"Yes I am."

"I'm very glad to see it."

"I'm very glad to be it. Truly. No irony. Anyone on your horizon?"

"I don't see Claudia Rossi settling down getting married yet"

"Seen Selena lately?"

"Selena? She went to London, with the band, months ago."

Isla shook her head. "Oh god I'm starting to sound like some smug married. Please, forgive me, shit."

"I absolve you, sister."

The two women stared at each-other, trying to read un-stated truths behind their words. Ben approached from his coterie of females and drew to Isla's side.

"What's up darl?"

"Ben, do you know Claudia? My old school friend?"

"No. Good evening Claudia. You have a remarkable face, I just gotta say."

"Thank you. So do you."

Isla explained for Ben. "Claudia put together that mob of anarchists I used to run with, the Wayside Chapel Marching Choir. What are you doing these days, Claudie? Anything like that?"

"No, I decided I had zero artistic talent."

Isla protested: "Hell no, you were a terrific dancer."

Claudia shrugged: "I have no regrets. I freelance. I do well for myself."

"I'm glad someone does." Ben sipped champagne. "What kind of freelancing?"

"I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you."

"Go ahead. The rate we're getting finance for this short we're working on it'll be a posthumous work anyway."

"If you'd stop playing solitaire and listening to old Bruce Springsteen records I'm sure it'd go much faster," Isla suggested.

"Darling, pretty please, shut up. Hang on a moment Claudia, I'll see if I can find Alec, you might like to meet him."

Ben turned and marched off purposefully.

"Who is this Alec?" Claudia asked exasperated.

"Alec Wakefield. The poet."

"Poet," Claudia nodded firmly. "He was in an anthology of bright young things I bought last year. Yeah, he's good."

"And he'll agree."

Ben returned, shaking his head.

"The ego has bolted."

"Pity, I'd have liked to meet him." Claudia said. "So what are you making at the moment, Ben? I saw one of yours at last year's Tropfest."

"Did you like it?"

"It had promise."

"Thanks," Ben's mouth rolled its wry way, "The one I want to make next, I want to get that whole Truffaut - Jules and Jim - New Wave vibe. I think I'd better stop now before I sound even more like a pretentious shit."

"I'm sure it won't be worst we hear tonight." Claudia turned an apologetic face: "I do have to go and find someone. I'll call you, I promise, Isla, if I don't see youse again."

Claudia swivelled and moved on through the crowd. She liked Isla and Ben. They were pleasant and intelligent people, and she was not interested in pleasant, intelligent people at this moment. She swiped from a passing tray another glass of champagne and shot half its contents down, bubbles burnt the back of her throat and stoked her cheeks. She was hungry and her hunger always had need for spunk and blood. She scanned the suits and silk for a central knot of usurers, dilettantes, sightseers and luminaries that would probably be fixated on Rémy. She caught sight of him, being shielded from a scrum of such eager types by his art broker, Evan Baldwin, and Rémy's current wife, Helena Morton-Parkes. Rémy himself stood well apart, conversing with the gallery administrator and one of the money-men, Daley Strafford, whose height, white hair, tired-looking skin, deeply stained by sun that looked to have been picked up on the decks of yachts, all spelt a certain majesty of presence, even as his eyes, with their globulus, weepy aspect, spelt subtle exhaustion and cynicism.

Rémy Larquey leaned against a metal rail, that rich painter with his flesh painted like plaster-of-paris mixed from cocaine sludge across his razor-tight cheekbones, the large eyes with irises of green washed to a ghostly pale fire, providing insight into a soul truly burning itself up and its fleshly frame long since wasted. Yet he remained upright, lucid, curiously buoyant, as if his body weighed so little his head with helium genius could keep it floating. Claudia stood watching him for some moments, she could not yet make that short walk over to him, and used his being obviously occupied as the excuse. She leaned against a vaulted U-shaped roof support, in the centre of which sat a young man, legs propped up idly, staring at the ceiling in an assumption of distracted reverie. Claudia studied the face of Helena Morton-Parkes as she conversed in poise-perfect arrogance with a noted art critic as they were filmed by an ABC crew. Now there was a tough bitch behind the powder-puff grace. Not that the woman she was confronting was a difficult target, Fenella Stevens, who had that hard-lacquered look of a bloodless dilettante. Helena Morton-Parkes had the look of someone raised to deal with difficult statesmen and captains of industry, and Claudia began to suspect this lady of having done the work that had resulted in this public embalming of her husband's art.

"Are you as bored as I am?" the secreted young man drawled in her ear. Claudia turned with dismissive dignity to take him in, and looked into eyes of cool blue insight. He had his back against one side of the 'U' and feet cocked against the other, the black jacket he had worn for admittance folded on his lap, only a navy-blue sweater now on his body, the pitch of which suggested latent, lazy inspiration, but it was the crisp intelligence of his face that made him worth answering.

"I enjoy studying people."

He groaned, tilting his head back to view the ceiling. "If you dig a whole lot people who think they're more interesting than they actually are."

"Like you?"

"Maybe," he shrugged unfazed. "Why are you here? Just a gawker?"

"I was invited. I don't know why yet."

"Oh, a mystery," he sat up attentively. "I came for the free champagne. You know a friend of mine once told me to frequent art galleries because there you find the most beautiful women."

"Was he right?"

"He was right. Of course, he was a lawyer so his observations are rightly suspect."

Claudia released a small bark of amusement. The young man lifted a triumphant finger.

"I got a laugh!"

"Why are you here, if I can ask?"

"Oh, I'm being shown off. Pet artist, do not feed. I'm supposed to read a poem to this lot."

"Must be intimidating."

"Oh, I'll hold up my end. It's what I do. So what are you? You're too well-dressed to be an artist. Unless you're famous or your daddy's rich."

"Oh, boy, you're pretty full on aren't you."

He placed his blue eyes on her directly, without a hint of patronisation or ire. "I'm just being . . . playfully impolite."

"Well, both my parents were painters. I know art. And I know enough to know I'm not good enough to make money at it."

"Shows remarkable self-perception."

There was a supercilious surface to him, but also a glimmering of real anger and real elation in him that was challenging. It was like being a boxer's sparring partner, her opponent planning for the ring. She decided to throw a sneaky jab, to suggest perhaps this was the bout that mattered.

"Your friends are looking for you, Mr Wakefield."

"Apparently you know me."

"I know Isla Munroe."

Alec Wakefield's head lolled back on the pillar. "Ah, Isla. I have a mild crush on her. Which isn't a good idea. Her husband's my best friend. It's not diplomatic."

"Ben's your best friend?"

"Since university. Which I only attended briefly. I've done lots of things briefly. So, since you're not an artist, what do you do?"

"I freelance."

"That leaves a lot of room."

Claudia knew Alec Wakefield for his fine work, and reputation for combativeness with journalists, literary figures, and editors, which had supposedly endangered his standing even as he gained it. This was not quite the man she had expected. There was some of the slouching, mock-aristocratic half-Irish irony familiar from his photo in the book. He was larger than expected, his humour clean and easy, not aggressive, his face dryly expressive, but with some withheld quality.

"What do I strike you as?" she asked, a half-smile suggesting nothing was unwelcome if artfully phrased.

Alec Wakefield considered her.

"I don't know. It's like you're watching everything through a telescope. You've got that tilt of woman of great sensual intelligence and also the ah, the pitch and tension of someone who's very easily bored with dithering and men who lack sensual intelligence. You prize mental agility but you respond to the physical variety first."

Claudia stared without expression for some moments, then nodded slowly.

"I see why your poetry always seems to describe people I know. You know everyone."

Alec Wakefield kept eyes on her with a half-smile. He seemed to be deciding how genuine she was. Claudia felt the pressure of his study attractive as gravity. She could feel her bending half-willingly towards him, and a rigidity in his pose suggested the same pressure was working on him. With sudden consciousness, Claudia drew back her left foot, feeling awful resistance, but she managed to step back two paces.

"I've love to continue this, but really, I'm dithering myself. I hope I see you again, Mr Wakefield."

"Call me Alec please. I hope to see you again, too."

*

The series:

Monday: She had come to enjoy, amidst the scattered pleasures of that line of work, the arts of dressing and painting herself for a rendezvous.

Tuesday: A modern woman in the oldest profession. Fifteen hours, four thousand dollars.

Wednesday: A note of panic struck in her head as she realized if the photo appeared in a newspaper or any such place, her careful veneer of anonymity, vital to her job, would be endangered.

Tomorrow: She had long known she wore her outsider status like a jailhouse tattoo, but something new had provoked her now. Too many ghosts had just waved their rag-and-bone scriptures in her face.

Posted by Lou at 12:27 AM | Permalink

March 28, 2007

The [Wednesday] Papers

Chicago police chief Phil Cline says he is "sickened and embarrassed" about the Anthony Abbate incident, but it's not at all clear that he recognizes or is willing to acknowledge the depth of the problem with the department's throwback culture.

It's not clear either that the oldstream media has a firm grip.

While the Tribune has done fantastic work in recent years on the death penalty, prosecutorial misconduct, and other failings of the criminal justice system, it was John Conroy at the Reader who did Pulitzer-worthy work laying out the horrific tale of torture that occurred under Jon Burge that still festers - and that the mayor still refuses to speak honestly about.

More recently, Jamie Kalven has been documenting the incredible rarity of Chicago police officers actually being disciplined for their abuses.

It's of a piece. Chicago's version of community policing is a sham. The mayor refuses - for reasons that can only be interpreted as racist and political - to sanction beat redeployment to actually put the most cops where the most crime occurs. His alternate solution to a murder rate that became the nation's worst among big cities on his watch was to create an elite tactical unit that has, predictably, turned out to be a problem in and of itself.

For the most part, though, these sorts of issues don't get hashed out in the media. The city's never looked better, you know.

(Even a John Calloway interview of Cline recently broadcast on Chicago Tonight was an exercise in puffery. I'd link to it but it doesn't seem to be available online. A lot of questions like "Did you always want to be a cop?")

But here comes Cline now to say that Anthony Abbate has "tarnished our image worse than anybody else in the history of the department."

Huh?

Worse than Burge? Worse than Hanhardt? Worse than Miedzianowski? Worse than the officers in the Ryan Harris case, or the police rioters of '68?

(And how easily has Cline's predecessor, Matt Rodriguez been forgotten? Consider: the mayor's police chief had to resign for consorting with a felon and onetime murder suspect.)

Abbatte's bartender beatdown looked ugly, but it hardly compares to the cases the city settles each year with other abused citizens.

The Sun-Times found Cline's outrageous claim valid enough to plop on its front page this morning in a presentation framed around our "top cop" cracking down on "thug officers," instead of asking where Cline has been all this time.

You can bet Cline is a lot angrier that Abbate was captured on videotape than about the fact that a drunk loser on his force blew his stack while off-duty.

Carol Marin, as usual gets it right.

"We don't need one more promise. Or one more policy to protect us from wayward police officers," Marin writes this morning.

"What we need, once and for all, is a true accounting of just how big this problem is and how much it's costing us. What we need is a comprehensive plan to deal with police brutality, not to mention torture, in a holistic, sensible, truthful way. That's something nobody, not the mayor nor superintendents of police nor state's attorneys, have ever been willing to do."

Cline Time
Cline is demoting a captain and investigating other officers for giving Abbate special treatment yesterday at a Cook County courthouse that included harassing the media and using police vehicles to hide Abbate as he left from his courtroom appearance, the Sun-Times reports.

Cline said he was stunned by the special treatment of Abbate, the paper says.

Yes, I wonder where those officers got such an idea.

Loop Hole
"More than 13 percent of the math and reading tests taken by Illinois students last year were not counted under the No Child Left Behind law, more than three times the percentage exempted the previous year," a Tribune analysis of state data shows.

"There is nothing I can say except this is insane and ridiculous," a representative of the Education Trust told the paper.

Just the latest in a series of insane and ridiculous news from the school testing front.

Test Case
From a recent Week in Review panel questioning the implausible rise in Chicago test scores.

Andrew Herrmann, Sun-Times: If the testts are what children should be learning, it seems like a good tool to me.

Kate Grossmann, Sun-Times: [The scores are] an illusion. Principals could not say what they did differently.

Herrmann: Maybe the tests from last time were faulty.

Joel Weisman, moderator: Yeah, they were too hard.

Barack's Boo-Boos
* "Rookie Mistakes Plague Obama."

* "Obama's Gaffes Start To Pile Up."

* "Is Obama All Style and Little Substance?"

* "Clinton Doubles Obama Sum in Hollywood Fundraiser."

On MSNBC's Tucker yesterday, Lynn Sweet said the Obama campaign's response to the discrepancies the Tribune found between reality and what Obama wrote in his memoir was "defensive."

"People outside the Beltway don't care," Sweet says she was told. "That's just Washington talk."

So the campaign apparently isn't questioning the Tribune's reporting; they're just hoping nobody notices.

Tilton's Take
United's unions are livid about CEO Glenn Tilton's $23.8 mil