Name:Randy Country:United States State:Illinois Metro:Chicago Gender:Male
Interests:God. Life, love, and a beer. Literature, music, film, the relevance of the little man in the giagantic world of today, and the relevance of the gigantic world of today in the little man. I love writing, as well, but these days, its so subjective to know if you're even good at it anymore. Fortunately, I know the AP Stylebook, so I know I'm at least a good journalist. Expertise:I'm good at asking questions, I think. Writing, being faithful, being honest, beer knowledge, literary knowledge, remembering things that happened probably before I was even born. Occupation:Other Industry:Media
I wasn't wanting to make this a public thing, but I feel like it is the only way I can really let out my feelings on the matter.
Today, I lost someone near and dear to me that I have loved my whole life. My Aunt Lynn died today from complications from the cancer she had been suffering for the last eight years or so. Besides my father, mother, brother and grandmother, she was the closest family member to me. She was only 62.
She was the comedical genius of the family. The Hofbauers have never been people to display very good humor, and, in fact, Hofbauers have been rather depressing people. It's a shame, since so many of them die young.
My Aunt Lynn was amazing. She should've died five years ago, and the doctors have been astonished. She had breast, bone and brain cancer, and even after a brain operation to which they said she may never speak or walk again, within a few days, she was her same old self, telling jokes and walking around restlessly.
She was my godmother. I have memories as a child playing with her daughter, my cousin, and spending time at her home in Chicago. I still have memories of spending time with her, even up to recently, of her telling me jokes and listening to how my life is. The doctors called her their poster child of a person with cancer who beat all odds against her with her sense of humor and wit. Even to her final days, my Dad would tell a corny joke and she'd wake up from her nearly comatose sleep, saying,
"Yeah, Doug, you're not funny!"
Which is hilarious, given that my Dad is really not a funny guy. He's more corny.
I've been preparing for this moment for the last couple of years, and yet it still is something I'm not ready for.
In her final testament, I've been named the honor of being a pallbearer of her casket. It is an amazing honor which I feel so blessed to have. I can't begin to tell the memories of all the times I spent with her. Often times, the word "Aunt" doesn't connotate much for a person, but she was an amazing person in my life.
She went through so many troubled moments in her life and still kept her sense of humor and her zeal for life. Her birthday was only a few weeks ago, and I called her at her home and got to wish her a happy birthday. While it wasn't the last time I saw her, it was the last beautiful time I will remember with her. She was so excited to go to the Olive Garden with her sister and her mother. I ran into them later on at Borders, and it was so coincidental, we all laughed.
She's gone now, though. It's something that I still am trying to accept. My family is so small now, and it will feel even smaller with her gone.
Here's to you, Carolyn Hofbauer. I love you so much. Though I know you wanted to go, I will still wish you were with the family.
I read 125 pages into "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers today, and am finally enjoying his work. Before I read it, I read several reviewers debating on whether it is strictly autobiographical, or whether it contained pieces of fiction (memoirs, fantasies, breaking down the fourth wall, etc.). I realized this conclusion:
Flannery O'Connor once said, "The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it emotionally." I would take that a step forward to say that the truth, even if it is emellished emotionally, is still the truth, and does not change.
Eggers presents scenarios where I do not believe he really said the things he said or did the things he did, even if he says he said or did them. In the past, I would've passed that off as fantasy, and therefore, not credible as fact and not necessary in understanding the narrative as a whole.
However, this time, I tried to take it seriously, even as fact.
Trusting narrative is a hard thing in our culture. Perhaps that is why so many people I know pick up biographies and memoirs before they pick up fiction. But what if biographies and memoirs contain fictions indistinguishable from facts? What is the worst case scenario? It adds to the narrative.
It doesn't matter in this case what is really true or not. It matters that the author has a strong enough emotion to include it in the narrative in order for the reader to feel and understand the fact more.
The truth does not change. It does not change according to our ability to stomach it. Even if it is containing fiction.
Now that I have torn apart that quote and probably added something O'Connor may not have intended (or meant), I am open to comment.
Side Note: Perhaps I will move this American Music feature blog section to a new blog somewhere in order to not break my concentration when I write on other topics. Hmmm.
I picked up a copy of "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, as recommended to me by author/historian Erik Larson in an interview I did with him Monday afternoon.
For those of you who don't know McCarthy, he is one of the four major living writers whose works are deemed to be classics in decades (perhaps centuries) to come as named by Harold Bloom, along with Don Delillo, Phillip Roth and (though I don't know why), Thomas Pynchon.
I wrote a note some weeks back about the "Great American Zombie Novel." Well, I think that "The Road" is the closest to it I've ever seen. It won the Pulitzer, but if McCarthy threw in a few zombies in this post-apocalyptic tale (though some characters may questionably be zombies), I'm sure it would be deemed as much of a potential classic as it already has been.
The story begins as curious and confusing, goes into absolutely, downright disturbing and dark, and ends tragically beautiful. I recommend anyone who is a fan of dark, post-apocalyptic and even Southern Gothic literature to read this book.
A tear came to my eye as I finished it. Not many works of literature have done that to me.
American Music Fans Gotta Know Their Roots... Part 2
This is Muddy Waters (a.k.a McKinley Morganfield) at the 1960 Newport Jazz festival, which was where he became famous among white audiences nationwide. Before this, he was only popular among black fans. He's performing "Got My Mojo Working," one of the most famous blues pieces to this day, which he reworked from the original version written by Preston Foster and originally sung by blues singer Ann Cole, before it was made a standard by Waters.
The two key members of his band here are James Cotton (who I got to see at a bluesfest in Chicago some years ago and had a chance to meet) on harmonica (using the amplified, "electric harp" sound invented by Little Walter, who also played with Muddy and enjoyed a solo career), and Otis Spann on piano.
The song was performed twice after Muddy asked the audience if they wanted to sing more of the tune, or "sumptin' else." Everyone cheered for a reprise. Watch as Muddy does his dance with Cotton in the middle of the tune.
Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf were enemies in the Chicago blues scene, both hailing from Mississippi and bringing electric blues. However, while Wolf demonstrated a more primitive, early blues style (which I prefer), Waters recreated the 12-bar blues progression made famous by Robert Johnson, who influenced him greatly. He also reworked some of his songs in his early plantation recordings, such as "I Can't Be Satisfied" (which drew from Johnson's "Preachin' Blues, (Up Jumped the Devil)) and "Walking Blues." Muddy Waters was more of the giant, and definitely the most famous blues musician that ever lived, sporting more famous members of his band that went on for solo careers, such as Little Walter Jacobs, Pinetop Perkins (another great musician I caught in concert), Jimmy Rogers, Otis Spann and more.
It's fun to watch the stiff, white folk get down to this music;)
Note: While most people think of the phrase "mojo" as meaning a man's sexual allure, a "mojo hand" is a small bag filled with seeds, roots and metal charms that can bring luck in any number of matters, including wealth, misfortune upon an enemy, or even, as it is known today, love. It is a common element in voodoo spells.
This is the late, great Howlin' Wolf (a.k.a. Chester Burnett), Charley Patton's protoge, performing Robert Johnson's "I Believe I'll Dust My Broom," as made famous in Elmore James' "Dust My Broom." Notice Son House slightly dancing at the bar to the song in the background while Hubert Sumlin (Wolf's faithful guitarist) blueses it up alongside the master.
I've known several musicians who have played and toured with this master before he passed in the '70s, and I've walked the same sidewalks this man walked in Chicago, where he made his home and career after Mississippi, so many, many years ago. What an honor.
As legendary record producer Sam Phillips said about Wolf, "This is where the soul of man never dies."
(Note: The term "dust my broom" is a blues colloquialism for leaving one's home, in case anyone is confused about the lyrics.)
