. . . we mostly give my two-year-old daughter chicken to eat because we've read about the vagaries of the beef industry; typically it's even "organic" chicken. After reading this piece, we're running out of options . . .
(via Keith Law)
Mark Bittman on the latest outbreak of salmonella in chicken (it's not encouraging in the least):
a little Tom Waits, some Greg Brown, and then a dash of Simon and Garfunkle to soften the edges just a bit--here's Jackson C. Frank on his "Tumble in the Wind."
Pandora has a good mini-biography on him if you're interested (see below). Enjoy--
(from Richie Unterberger on Pandora)
One of the most interesting and enigmatic cult figures of 1960s folk,
Jackson C. Frank's reputation rests almost solely upon one hard-to-find
album from the mid-'60s. A stronger composer than a singer, he
nonetheless had an appreciable influence on many more famous performers
of the decade, including Paul Simon, Sandy Denny, and Nick Drake.
Trauma and misfortune dogged Frank throughout his life. At the age of
11, a fire in his elementary school killed many of his classmates, and
left him with burns over most of his body. He eventually recovered and
learned to play the guitar, and hung around the early-'60s New York
coffeehouse scene with John Kay, later of Steppenwolf.
A large insurance settlement enabled him to travel to England after he
turned 21, and it was there that he made most of his impact.
Frank shared a London flat with fellow American expatriates Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, who were briefly based there in the mid-'60s prior to their first hit, "The Sounds of Silence." Simon,
then a struggling folk singer/songwriter himself, was impressed enough
to produce Frank's self-titled album, released in the U.K. only. While
Frank's voice was tremulously earnest, the quality of the compositions
was often impressive, with a reflective, melancholic air that most
likely influenced Simon, Al Stewart (who made his recording debut on one of the LP's tracks, "Yellow Walls"), and Nick Drake
(who covered one of the songs, "Here Come the Blues," on late-'60s home
tapes that have been extensively circulated as a bootleg).
Frank's album was well-received in British folk circles, and several of
his songs made their way into the repertoire of his friend Sandy Denny,
who recorded a couple, "Milk and Honey" and "You Never Wanted Me," on
her own debut LP. (She also recorded a version of "You Never Wanted Me"
with Fairport Convention,
and a 1966 demo of "Blues Run the Game" appears on her Dark the Night
bootleg.) Frank, however, was unable to come up with a similar quality
of material for a follow-up. This, combined with stage fright,
depression, and an end of the funds from the insurance settlement that
had enabled him to travel in high style, meant that he returned to the
States in 1969 without releasing another album.
Based in Woodstock, New York, Frank continued his songwriting, but
family and depression problems resulted in homelessness by the mid-'70s.
For most of the next two decades, Frank lived on the streets or
hospitals, too discouraged to contact old friends and family. He was
further hobbled by arthritis, inappropriate medication for his mental
problems, and a shooting incident that left him legally blind in his
left eye. In the mid-'90s, a sympathetic folk fan, Jim Abbott, helped
Frank regroup from his setbacks by helping him gain more appropriate
medical assistance and settle back in Woodstock, where he resumed
songwriting, and occasionally performed. A 1995 profile in Dirty Linen
magazine effectively "rediscovered" the missing legend, and legendary
vintage recordings were finally issued on CD in 1996. Stricken with
pneumonia, Jackson C. Frank died in March 1999 after a heart attack; he
was 56 years old. ~ Richie Unterberger, Rovi
Diane Ravitch on charter schools--the link sorta gives you a sense of where she's going . . . btw, I have noticed an interesting trend of folks w/ charter school interests running for public school boards of education. Color me skeptical.
Torii Hunter ended up flat on his back in the Red Sox bullpen.
A
nine-time Gold Glover in center field, the 38-year-old patrols right
field now, and had run hard after a tracer heading 380-plus feet from
where wood had met leather a handful of seconds ago. Hunter missed his
quarry by a foot...no, less, six inches at most. His hard charge had
taken him into the low bullpen wall at full speed, had flipped him,
dropped him hard. He got up, and stayed in the game, a visible
strawberry on the back of his head before he snugged his cap back down.
When Hunter hit the wall, his Tigers had a four-run lead. By the time he landed on his back, the game was tied.
The
man who had hit the ball is a former teammate of Hunter's, and is
exactly four months younger. He's already had three walk-off hits in his
postseason career, the most of any player in the history of the sport.
In the present spot, he technically couldn't add to that unique total.
Nothing he could do with one pitch, in the eighth inning of this game,
could tarnish his legend. Nothing he could do with one pitch could add
to it. With the possible exception of what he did.
Baseball is the sport that's the hardest on its
greatest players. Ty Cobb, Ted Williams, Ernie Banks, Ken
Griffey...they're all ringless. Banks and Griffey never even played in a
World Series. No matter how great you are, you have to wait for your
turn at bat, for the ball to be hit within the outmost ranges of a dive
or a mad dash. Torii Hunter is playing in his seventh postseason, and he
hasn't been to a World Series yet. He might finally make it this year,
but he might not.
His former teammate, by virtue of his position, has
to wait even more than most players. Even when he gets his chance, he
doesn't always get his chance; he was intentionally walked a
league-leading 27 times this year. He needs a moment, and a pitch, and
he's not guaranteed either. He's not even guaranteed to do anything with
the chance if he gets it. He's just made it seem like he is.
Red Sox fans know waiting, and we've learned to resent it even as we could do nothing else but embrace it.The
litany that marked our longest, sourest wait--Gibson, Dent, Buckner,
Stewart, GradyBoone--was a weird badge of honor/Kick Me Sign hybrid. One
might have made the argument, prior to nine years ago,that the team had
better fans than it deserved. A fair number of Red Sox fans would have
told you so, unsolicited. No longer. We've reached the point where David
Ortiz, no matter what happens the rest of this series--hell, the rest
of his career--is pretty clearly better than Sox fans deserve.
another takedown by Glenn Greenwald--this time on the BBC (I almost felt bad for the interviewer at one point). Bust this one out the next time one of your conservative relatives asserts that Edward Snowden (or Bradley Manning) is a traitor or has made us less safe.
GG, again, at his most clear, concise, and consistent self:
here's a band that pops up all the time as an influence on artists that I've listened to for years (Jayhawks, Tim Easton, The Byrds, Hank Williams III, Emmylou Harris, The Everly Brothers, Graham Parsons, et al.). Here are a couple of their tunes--this first one taken from a radio broadcast on WCML. Enjoy-- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xyy_8067o8
