Cool Mom Picks had high praise for a book satirizing the competitive parent in many of us, the wryly named "Perfect Baby Handbook." From thingamababy, musing on a memoir, "Where did you go? Out. What did you do? Nothing," that suggests, first, that kids these days really wouldn't know what to do with themselves without all the high-falutin' gadgets and, second, that you should all go and buy your child a knife.
All the more irritating is how all these trolls purport to be part of some grassroots movement, when it appears they're often coordinated attempts by partisan think thanks to create the appearance of a "just plain folks" appeal. I'm sure organizations on both sides of the political fence do this type of "astroturfing," but can we please do away with the outright reactionary and, frankly, racist stupidities?
Rob Vanstone does much better with his unsung artists column that appeared two weeks earlier. You see, his is a biweekly jazz column that appears in the Regina, Saskatchewan newspaper. Ron writes this when he's not covering sports in the provincial capital and Canada's 24th most populous city. Anyway, first and foremost among Rob Vanstone's unsung artists is Oscar Peterson (A Canadian! I call Canuckery!), a choice that I would agree with completely. Oscar Peterson is truly great.
I'm disappointed that Rob Vanstone's editors at the Leader-Post didn't discourage such an obvious troll as his "overrated" column. I'm not sure that it really engages debate when you lump Kenny G into the same category as Miles Davis. Is this how you troll in Regina, Saskatchewan, Rob Vanstone?
I know I'm not supposed to feed the trolls, Rob Vanstone, but you had me from the phrase "designed to engage and enrage." I'm in.
I mean, I might not be one of the seven people who read your magnum opus on the 1966 Roughriders, but I feel pretty confident in writing that even you, a prominent journalist in a city that plays second fiddle to Saskatoon -- even you could do better than your conservative grumblings about free jazz, commercial jazz, and fusion. But I suppose coming up with lists like this is something to pass the time when you're stuck indoors at the Ramada Inn bar, trying to remember what sunlight feels like on your skin, yearning for the hijinks of Gainer the Gopher and grousing with the local musicians about Ornette Coleman.
A fine fall book season is shaping up as far as jazz literature is concerned, highlighted by a big biography of Louis Armstrong and a jazz encyclopedia from Scott DeVeaux and Gary Giddins. I'll be sure to review most of these titles here over the coming months. Here they are, sorted by month.
by Scott DeVeaux and Gary Giddins – October 2009, Norton 
by George E. Lewis – October 2009, University of Chicago Press 
by John Sinclair – October 2009, Headpress 
by Robin Kelley – October 2009, Free Press 
The freaky comics team Doom Patrol returns to active publication this week with a (hopefully) fresh take from by Keith Giffen and Matthew Clark. In honor of the return of Robotman and company, Comics Alliance has put together The Most Insane Moments of Doom Patrol.
The broader question arises: Does the current scandal tarnish the 2004 and 2007 championships ? In my informal survey of everyone down at the general store, the answer cuts both ways. The championships are tarnished, of course, because everyone – including many die hard fans – would like them to be pure. On the other hand, the championships happened at the end of the Juiced Era, when everyone is suspects and few people tell the truth. The most important thing now is for Ortiz and the Red Sox to be as forthcoming and transparent as possible and get this behind them. And the best thing to happen would be for the Red Sox to win another championship. I got your PED right here!
But think of baseball’s color line -- not fully broken, I would argue, until the 1960s. Of all the players in the major leagues between 1868 and 1947, the year Jackie Robinson broke in with the Dodgers, they never had to complete with African American or Latin players. Are all those individual and team records and championships invalid because, in truth, those white players never competed day-in-day out against all the best players? After all, it was the more integrated National League that started winning All-Star Games and World Series as the 50s and 60s continued. How do you reach a conclusion as to who was better, Josh Gibson or Babe Ruth? As I said, in a systemic problem, we all lose.
This notion of what is fake and what is real lies at the root of the questions I keep asking myself about Michael Jackson, and the radically unreal world that mega-fame creates, the world he lived in from the age of five. A man with Jackson’s talent, imagination, and passion having reached a degree of fame and material means that few of us can understand, well, MJ must have gone crazy; that is, his relationship with the world fundamentally 
shifted, and, over the years, made him less and less like the rest of us. Like Kurtz in Heart of Darkness, he went up the river and never came back. He became the God of Pop. The surgeries, the money problems, the questions of sexual misconduct, the increasingly extraneous new music – all of it at the end became grotesque and simply tragic. Jackson’s death made me sad and anxious. Still sadder was the fact that he appears to have been on the verge of a comeback, and we all know how America loves a comeback.
It was strange that weekend to watch Mickey Rourke, another – albeit far lesser -- pop icon from the eighties, an actor now scarred and wrinkled and grotesque. Part of The Ram’s appearance is craft, I realize, but Rourke himself is a distorted – not just aged -- version of the man he was some 30 years ago. In high school and college I remember Rourke as a cool, handsome
-but-not-pretty, intense actor who had roles I admired in films I liked a great deal: Boogie Sheftell in Diner, Harry Angel in Angel Heart, and Henry Chinaski in Barfly. And as fame touched him, Rourke he may have gone a little crazy as well. But after his early 90’s boxing career and some sketchy plastic surgery, Rourke has found his way back to relevance in his craft. There’s still a lot of wildness in Rourke, even if it is tempered now by a sense of humility and even faith in God. One wonders how much of Rouke was talking about himself when, in The Wrestler, The Ram tells his estranged daughter that he’s little more than “a broken down piece of meat.”
Many years ago, I finally bought Ezz-thetics after my friends at WDNA kept telling me about Russell. Although here and there I'd heard the name and seen a writing credit ("Cubano Be/Cubano Bop"), I suppose that because he lacked the star power of Miles or Coltrane, I remained plainly ignorant of how important and interesting Russell's work was. I was truly blown away by the album's third track, "The Lydiot," and always made a point of playing something from George Russell every few weeks. I had joined that club, I suppose. I invite you to do the same.
Looking back now, when I condsider the years during which Jim Rice played, I understand much more clearly why he kept had a quiet, intense persona in the midst of the Boston sports world. In 1974, the year Rice, a young man from South Carolina, broke into the majors, the Supreme Court also handed down its decision on the appropriateness of busing as a means to desegregating schools. In 1976, the year after Rice helped the Red Sox reach the World Series, Boston was one of the many cities in the United States struggling with civil unrest as it tried to integrate its schools. What's a guy like Rice to think when he opens his Globe in the morning and sees this image on the front page?
One Saturday in 1982, though, I remember most clearly. The Red Sox, in the midst of not quite winning the AL East title that year, were playing Saturday home game versus the White Sox one hot August afternoon. The game was on national television. Rice, who wasn't having a great year, did hit a double in the bottom of the third to tie the score 2-2. In the bottom of the fourth, a hard line drive went foul into the first base stands. A 4-year-old boy named Jonathan Keene was struck in the head by the ball, which caused serious and severe trauma. Rice climbed into the stands, picked up the little boy, whose head was bleedling badly, and carried him into the dugout, through the clubhouse, and out to a waiting ambulance. As the legend persists now, it was Rice's action that saved the boy's life. That may or may not be so, but there's something in Rice's urgently human action on that afternoon that made so many of us love and respect him.
by Ben Ratliff – October 2009, Times Books