I found Leonardo da Vinci‘s original painting of “The Last Supper” on the Pomona College freedom wall.
My flagship typewriter: a Woodstock No. 5 from 1916. This WWI-era machine still works perfectly over a hundred years later. Amazing!
A photo of this typewriter was published in a book called SHIFT HAPPENS, which can be ordered through this website — https://shifthappens.site
The above photo is what will appear in the book.
Looks like some kind of stained glass display in this front yard.
These photographs showcase a classic Buick Riviera parked against a picturesque backdrop. The car, exuding vintage charm with its sleek body, gleaming paint, and distinctive rims, is from the mid-1960s, probably 1965. In the background, there’s a stately building with white pillars and large windows, framed by well-manicured lawns and towering trees. The scene evokes a sense of nostalgia, as if the car has traveled through time to grace this modern setting with its presence. The play of light and shade further enhances the timeless appeal of the image. And, yes, we really do have dark blue shadows in Southern California.
At the ripe age of 80, Sir John Eliot Gardiner, better known in some circles as “Jiggy” (though heaven forbid you call him that to his face), indulged in some decidedly un-knightly behavior. Fresh off a performance at the Berlioz festival in France’s sultry southeast, Gardiner decided that soloist William Thomas‘s stage entrance wasn’t quite up to snuff. The solution? A slap and a punch, naturally. This youthful bass, a mere 29 and with a Cardiff Singer of the World competition on his belt, found himself on the wrong end of Gardiner’s temper tantrum, all for a presumed misstep.
The BBC, not too keen on hosting a conductor with a penchant for physical corrections, relayed that Gardiner was bowing out of The Trojans at the Proms. But fear not, music aficionados, Dinis Sousa is on hand to wave the baton come September 3rd.
Gardiner, perhaps realizing that fists aren’t typically part of a conductor’s toolkit, issued an apology, admitting no excuses for his outburst. He’s taken a sabbatical from Les Troyens, wishing Sousa and crew a fruitful tour.
What sparked this backstage brawl? A slip by Thomas off the podium, some say. An incident hidden from the audience’s view, but one that rippled through the classical community. It took place after a performance of Berlioz’s The Trojans, with Gardiner leading his Orchestre Révolutionnaire et Romantique.
A rep for Gardiner blames the sweltering French heat and a possibly meddlesome medication alteration for his lapse in judgment. Thomas’s agent, meanwhile, is keeping mum, only confirming the altercation post-Berlioz performance.
Picture this: post-show, cast is jubilant, Gardiner approaches, beer in hand, and quips about drenching Thomas. The bass’s retort earned him a slap and a punch, leading to a short-lived shouting match. Management huddled up to check on their shaken performers, and Gardiner was soon London-bound.
Gardiner, handpicked by his pal, King Charles, for a royal coronation stint, has long been pegged as a tad tempestuous. A 2015 Spectator piece painted a picture of a maestro with monumental talent, yet lacking the art of courtesy. But hey, don’t take it from me, just ask the brass player from the London Symphony Orchestra.
Well tie me to a cactus and call me Prickly Pete, it seems this Nick McDonell fella has ruffled some feathers with his new book that’s part memoir and part critique of the hoity-toity upper crust.
Now I ain’t one to judge a book by its cover or a bloke by his bank account, but it does raise my eyebrows a smidge that ole Nick lays bare how much moolah he got paid for scribbling his personal reflections, even as he aims to interrogate the entitled elite he was born into like a baby blue blood. Makes me wonder if his conscience is as heavy as his wallet after cashing that fat check.
From what I gather, Nick regales us with tales of his rarefied upbringing among the impressively pedigreed – schmoozing at Harvard, crewing on yachts, and mixing with Ivy Leaguers whose folks have more money than Scrooge McDuck. He winces at the memories like he’s swallowed a lemon peel, making sure we know his eyes are wide open now to the highfalutin hypocrisy of exclusive clubs and such.
But some reviewers grumble that Nick’s personal stories don’t pack much of a revelatory punch or dig deeper into the whys and wherefores of elite entitlement than a kid shoveling sand on a beach. Shoot, I reckon Nick’s just doing what a fellow naturally does when he wakes up one day and realizes the cherry privileged bubble he grew up in maybe wasn’t the whole pie. No sin in feeling conflicted about your gilded youth once them golden blinkers come off.
Yet the cynical side of me (and Lord knows I’ve nurtured that ornery cuss) can’t help noting that Nick is monetizing hisnewfound conscience just as surely as he’s milked his status since his diaper days. He may have left the plush parlors of privilege for the straight and narrow, but cold hard currency didn’t get left behind. The more things change the more they line the same pockets, or so it seems to this plain old tax-paying Joe.
But who am I to judge? A man’s gotta make his way and Nick’s found his – scribbling about the good ole boy networks with one hand while cashing their checks with the other. At least the public’s getting a glimpse behind the brocade curtain of the upper upper crust, even if Nick’s personal revelation seems more soft whimper than deafening bang. But there’s value in coming clean about your conflicted past, and in reminding the pedigreed that their privilege casts a mighty long, deep shadow. Here’s to more light finding its way in, and a few more conscience-scrubbings all around. Now where’d I stash my copy of The Great Gatsby?
End times . . . White moisture from a hurricane in California and gray smoke from the NW wildfires. Plus, the Los Angeles area just had an earthquake.
In the quiet stillness of Marion County, a whisper began to resonate, a shifting narrative, a disturbance in what was known and familiar. On a Wednesday, when the weight of life and narratives hangs slightly lighter, Joel Ensey, the county attorney, revealed a moment of reflection: that perhaps the raid on the local newspaper, The Record, was one in haste, an act prematurely executed.
There’s a quietness to Marion, its streets a sanctuary of stories untold, and now, its press under scrutiny. Those officers and deputies, who under the harshness of their uniforms and badges once stormed the newspaper’s den and the private domains of the owner and a councilwoman, were tasked with an unsettling responsibility: to return the very tools they took. In a country built on the principles of freedom and voice, such an act was not just rare; it was unsettling.
Whispers turned to conversations, as the town that lay an hour north of Wichita found itself under a harsh and unexpected spotlight. The document, the heart of this controversy, pertained to a local restaurateur. Questions arose, doubts surfaced, and the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, with its omnipresent reach, signaled its intent to delve deeper.
Voices from beyond the county, custodians of the First Amendment, expressed their unease. Letters were penned, signatures were appended, and concerns were amplified. There was a shared resonance, a collective call for rectitude.
Yet, within the hushed tones and the ink-filled pages lay a tragedy. Joan Meyer, the matriarch of The Record, was no more. A life abruptly halted, shaken by the tremors of the raid. The disquiet, the anxiety, perhaps contributing to the dimming of her life’s light.
Marion’s police chief, in the aftermath, hinted at a greater narrative yet to be revealed, a story that might bring clarity, if not comfort. And as whispers became roars, Kari Newell’s accusations against The Record added another layer, another dimension to this tapestry of confusion and conflict.
Eric Meyer, with his seasoned journey through the realms of journalism, stood resolute, an unwavering beacon in this storm. His Record, not just a paper, but a testament to the spirit of journalism, balancing between the gravitas of fierce editorials and the simplicity of tales like that of a 10-year-old guitarist.
In the aftermath, in the sanctum of The Record, Meyer unveiled the new edition, a symbol of perseverance, “SEIZED … but not silenced.”
Bernard J. Rhodes, a voice of reason and advocacy, acknowledged the initial steps taken, but the void left by Joan was palpable, irreplaceable.
In the shadows and echoes of this episode, Eric Meyer reflected on the final moments of his mother’s life, a tumultuous end, juxtaposed with the surge of support and solidarity for The Record. Perhaps in that juxtaposition lay Joan’s legacy – an emblem of resilience, sacrifice, and unyielding commitment to truth.
In the freshly uncorked trailer for Focus Features’ “The Holdovers,” we see the wine-rich reunion of director Alexander Payne and his muse of ‘Sideways’ fame, Paul Giamatti. But don’t raise your glass just yet. Whereas “Sideways” swirled with notes of bitter introspection and merlot-infused comedy, this upcoming affair seems, at first glance, to be a lighter pour, a nuanced blend of the idiosyncrasies of New England prep life and the velvety undertones of human connection.
As the camera pans, there stands Giamatti, with his signature hangdog demeanor, playing Mr. Hunam — a prep school professor who seems more suited to a Truffautian world of contempt than a snow-covered New England haven. He’s the instructor you avoid eye contact with, the one whose reputation precedes him, manifesting in the subtle tightening of the lips of both students and faculty alike. His winter sentence? Babysitting the left-behind students during the break.
Yet, as the snow blankets the old school grounds, so too does a potential warmth creep into Hunam’s heart. When Angus, a young ember glowing with a rebellious spark from a turbulent home, and Hunam find their lives intertwined, it becomes an almost Dickensian exploration of two souls converging in the frosty twilight. “I find the world a bitter and complicated place,” Hunam intones, every syllable dripping with Payne’s brand of weary wisdom. “And it seems to feel the same way about me. I think you and I have this in common.” Ah, a seasonal brew of Yuletide redemption.
For those expecting another Payne-esque cynical jaunt, “The Holdovers” promises something more — not just a road trip through vineyards but a journey of spirits amid the winter snow. One can’t help but anticipate a tale that, like a good wine, balances its bitterness with notes of unexpected sweetness.
What’s The Holdovers About?
In the freshly unspooled trailer, the school’s waifs and strays left behind during the Holidays get tagged as “the holdovers.” Isn’t it just the aptest term? Those leftovers of society, of family gatherings, those uncorked and unfinished bottles left on the periphery. Mr. Hunam, played with a gnarly gusto by Giamatti, is a kind of holdover himself – perhaps not so much left behind as consciously avoiding, a self-imposed exile from yuletide cheer. The prep school, usually a bustling Eden of education, stands bleak and desolate during Christmas, and here we find Giamatti’s character, grumbling and stumbling in his solitude.
But Payne, ever the alchemist of human relationships, doesn’t let the man wallow for long. Enter Angus, a tempest in the teapot of a 15-year-old, played with raw, frenetic energy by the fresh face, Dominic Sessa. The lad’s fire juxtaposes deliciously against Giamatti’s ice, and one can’t help but be reminded of a moody New England landscape, painted in chiaroscuro. Thrown into this mix is Da’Vine Joy Randolph, the school’s head cook, marinating in her own tragedy — the loss of a son to the distant lands of Vietnam.
There’s an art to blending flavors, both in cuisine and in life. This film, it seems, will dish out both — sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, and always richly layered. Would it be too cheeky to expect a cinematic feast? One waits with bated breath and a palate piqued for intrigue.
Details
Last year, Focus Features, with their discerning eye, clinched the distribution rights at the celebrated Toronto International Film Festival in an expansive deal with the mighty Miramax.
Payne, the maestro of nuanced human tales, draws from the inkwell of David Hemingson’s script, an undoubtedly robust foundation. And one can’t discuss the film’s genesis without tipping their hat to the powerhouse troika of producers: Mark Johnson, Bill Block, and Hemingson himself, with the keen oversight of executive producers Andrew Golov, Thom Zadra, and Chris Stinson.
Mark your calendars and prep your critique, darlings: “The Holdovers” graces select theaters in the culture hubs of New York and Los Angeles come October 27. If you’re not in those epicenters of art, fret not. A limited release is set for November 3, crescendoing to a nationwide curtain rise on November 10. While waiting, satiate your cinematic appetite with the latest trailer just a click away.
Two things of note I spotted today: a pitchfork someone left on the sidewalk and a metal yard flamingo.
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