I seem to be preoccupied, in my recent Facebook postings, with food. I think there are several reasons for this. For one, it's winter, and most of us are in hibernation, especially with the kind of deep freeze we've had this year. You can't always hit the sidewalks for a carefree stroll in the sun (especially when they're covered with ice), but you can always put a casserole in or bake some bread.
In just the last month, I've written posts about baking bread and cinnamon rolls, cooking chicken stew with escarole, making marinara and Bechamel sauce for lasagna, fixing Spanish rice, baking chocolate Valentine's cookies, re-creating a ravioli and broccoli dish I had years ago in Somerville, Mass., and trying to figure out how my grandmother made cornbread. Unlike other things that might eat up your day, a well-prepared meal can rarely be considered a waste of time. My only regret is that my circle of college friends, whom I used to enjoy cooking with, is now too far-flung to make group dinners possible.
OK, so it's winter, but I believe there's more to my food-mindedness than that. In addition to my own birthday, both my mother's and my father's birthdays occur in midwinter, so I've naturally been thinking more about the two of them than usual. Inextricably tied up with memories of childhood are memories of foodways and family meals. How I regret not finding out how my mother made certain things, like pancakes and meatloaf! How I wish I could be in my grandmother's kitchen again, eating her fried chicken. How well I remember the taste of a grilled cheese sandwich and Campbell's Tomato Soup, a common childhood lunch. How much fun it would be to prank my dad on his birthday one more time by putting hot pepper in the Jello!
If I were to self-analyze, I'd say that many of my kitchen adventures represent self-mothering, an attempt to take care of myself through culinary means. Gridlock in Washington? That's OK, here's a blueberry smoothie. Emperor has no clothes? Never mind, have some stew. Yet another inane conversation overheard in Starbucks? Time to make biscuits. Snarky relative? There's a recipe for Chicken Piccata around here somewhere.
I can tell that it really is self-nurturing and not self-indulgence by the judiciousness with which I (usually) weigh what I'd like to have with what seems most nutritious. I grew up in the meat and potatoes era, but I've branched out: I'm always looking for new ways to fix vegetables, including some I'm not used to using. I think I shocked some old friends the other day when I announced I making the potato soup I've been making for 30 years with celery instead of leaving it out as I've always done. "But you hate celery!" I heard, almost immediately. It's true, I always did; but then I vacationed in New Orleans, where the food was so divine and sometimes had celery in it, and there was that yummy tuna dill sandwich they used to have at the library that included celery, and so . . . there I was at the grocery store on Tuesday, eyeing celery on sale for $.77 and wondering why the bunches had to be quite so big. (The soup experiment hasn't gone down yet, but I can't imagine it will use more than a couple of stalks, which could mean ants on logs in my near future.)
You may not believe it, but I also have less of a tendency toward snacking and unrestrained dessert foraging than I used to have. That's not to say I've dropped it altogether, but I'll give you an example. I heard about a new type of Ben & Jerry's ice cream yesterday that apparently includes two different flavors in a single pint along with a core of something delectable like raspberry jam or fudge. My most immediate thought was, "Wow, that's extreme!" instead of "I have to see if Kroger has it!" (I will have to see if Kroger has it, but it wasn't my very first thought. See what I mean?)
So I can't, at the moment, do anything about unemployment, political intransigence, ignorance, incivility, dishonesty, or the rampant failure of so many schools to teach information literacy, but I can at least try to feed myself, which is saying a lot in a world where way too many people still go to bed hungry. We could all use an infusion of Demeter, which is probably why I'm so preoccupied with her. When I think about my parents, I think they'd be pleased that I invested the money a couple of years ago in all the kitchen basics I'd never bothered with before. Fake it till you make it, I can hear them saying. Fake it till you make it. And by the way, your biscuits are better than they used to be.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
In the Heartland, an Autumn Night
Sometimes it's hard to know what to write about when the time for doing the blog comes around. It's been an adventurous week. I've had home maintenance, a stuffy nose, a change of coffeehouse scenes, walks in the sun, and earlier this evening, a talk with two underemployed twenty-somethings who are just as frustrated with the economy as the rest of us. The perception about all the jobs going to the newly graduated? That's not really true, it seems. It's equal parts enlightening and sad to hear young people sound so disillusioned that early in their careers, though I remember being in a similar position once. Plus ça change.
So I was trying to decide on my topic and have been thinking about the events of the week. But having just had a long political discussion, my energy for current events is spent for now. You can only talk about the same thing for so long without getting bored, and I write the blog to have fun, after all.
What to do, what to do. Rather than write about anything tiresome, I find myself seeking a place of tranquillity. I know exactly where it is. I am thinking now about something that happened years ago, quite unexpectedly, at the end of what had been a very frustrating period, and it's there that I'll come to rest for the evening.
I was in a small midwestern town for a festival of world music. It was one of those events where you move around from place to place, hearing a Celtic band from the north of Spain in a church, a Cuban ensemble in a meadow, French cabaret in a theater, and an Afro-pop sensation in a bar. I was sitting in a small arts center somewhere off the main drag, having just been entertained by a flamenco performance (I can still see the dancer's flaming red dress and remember the drama of the singer's delivery). I took out my contacts between acts and had just put on some lipstick, who knows why, because we were all sitting in semidarkness. Reflex, I suppose.
There followed an Americana songwriter with whom I was not familiar at all. I had read the description of his music in the program, and he sounded interesting. When he took the stage, he did so with authority. During his opening banter, my anticipation was piqued even more. Something in his voice made you take notice.
His first number was a folk tune about love and betrayal, a grim traditional song, arranged by the artist, that I had never heard before. If you had been there, you would have seen my jaw drop and continue dropping until it hit the floor. Literally, I believe, my mouth was hanging open. My previous taste in music, while eclectic, had definitely tended toward the safer end of the pool. I had discovered a liking for the blues after a breakup with my first serious boyfriend years previously, but many blues songs seemed to deflect the harsh realities they revealed with humor. This was something else entirely, something so raw and honest it was almost painful to hear.
Song after song that night spoke of heartache, irretrievable loss, dreams that never came true, dangerous attractions, and loneliness. It sounds bleak, but strangely it wasn't. It was so human. Where you might have feared to wade into such waters with someone less capable, in this case you felt that you could go in there with him and come back out again and somehow be glad you had done it. I'm not going to get fancy with Aristotle on catharsis or anything because I'm not sure that's what it was. But talk about transformative! I could almost hear the people around me holding their breath. I have rarely, if ever, felt the same kind of hush take over a room. An unexpected thought came into my head: I seemed to sense angels hanging about. I now understand that something sacred actually was occurring, and that that was what I and no doubt everyone else was experiencing.
Amid all the seriousness, there were humorous songs (one of which might even have offended me fifteen minutes earlier), more banter, and a sense of direct connection between performer and audience. It was as if we were sitting around in someone's living room. The artist had blue eyes and a very direct gaze; if you happened to find it trained on you it was rather electrifying. I knew from past experience with this festival that the people around me were undoubtedly well-versed in not only the genre but the artist's entire repertoire, but it was all new to me. I couldn't believe I had never heard of him before. I guess the answer to that is that some things only come to you when you're able to hear them.
I read a review of the performance afterwards in which someone noted the rapt attention in the crowd that I had noticed, mentioning that a few silly people actually chose to leave early. I was one of the people who left, though as the performance was so truly remarkable, that may sound surprising. I did, however, have a plan to catch as many acts as possible during the festival, and at a certain juncture, listened to an internal imperative to get up and move. I slipped out and made my way to Main Street, thinking distractedly of the other acts I intended to hear and where I might find dinner. And so it was, fifteen minutes later, that I was standing in the middle of a crowded festival street, munching on something spicy, and realizing that whatever else the festival held in store, for me, at least, it had peaked. I was also wondering just what in the hell had happened in there, a question that has never been answered to my satisfaction.
As a mythologist, I can venture some good explanations, but as I said before, I'm not doing that. I sometimes think back to that night, though, and can feel myself once again in that room. I recall the sensation of thinking, wow, we're getting in pretty deep here, but somehow it only seems right. It was the experience of seeing sadness and pain turned into art that then had the power to change you. It was artistic honesty, not someone trying to sanitize messy things or make them seem better than they are. And yet, at the end of it, you felt more hopeful. I felt more hopeful. It was such a paradox, and so it remains. And I think about it still.
So I was trying to decide on my topic and have been thinking about the events of the week. But having just had a long political discussion, my energy for current events is spent for now. You can only talk about the same thing for so long without getting bored, and I write the blog to have fun, after all.
What to do, what to do. Rather than write about anything tiresome, I find myself seeking a place of tranquillity. I know exactly where it is. I am thinking now about something that happened years ago, quite unexpectedly, at the end of what had been a very frustrating period, and it's there that I'll come to rest for the evening.
I was in a small midwestern town for a festival of world music. It was one of those events where you move around from place to place, hearing a Celtic band from the north of Spain in a church, a Cuban ensemble in a meadow, French cabaret in a theater, and an Afro-pop sensation in a bar. I was sitting in a small arts center somewhere off the main drag, having just been entertained by a flamenco performance (I can still see the dancer's flaming red dress and remember the drama of the singer's delivery). I took out my contacts between acts and had just put on some lipstick, who knows why, because we were all sitting in semidarkness. Reflex, I suppose.
There followed an Americana songwriter with whom I was not familiar at all. I had read the description of his music in the program, and he sounded interesting. When he took the stage, he did so with authority. During his opening banter, my anticipation was piqued even more. Something in his voice made you take notice.
His first number was a folk tune about love and betrayal, a grim traditional song, arranged by the artist, that I had never heard before. If you had been there, you would have seen my jaw drop and continue dropping until it hit the floor. Literally, I believe, my mouth was hanging open. My previous taste in music, while eclectic, had definitely tended toward the safer end of the pool. I had discovered a liking for the blues after a breakup with my first serious boyfriend years previously, but many blues songs seemed to deflect the harsh realities they revealed with humor. This was something else entirely, something so raw and honest it was almost painful to hear.
Song after song that night spoke of heartache, irretrievable loss, dreams that never came true, dangerous attractions, and loneliness. It sounds bleak, but strangely it wasn't. It was so human. Where you might have feared to wade into such waters with someone less capable, in this case you felt that you could go in there with him and come back out again and somehow be glad you had done it. I'm not going to get fancy with Aristotle on catharsis or anything because I'm not sure that's what it was. But talk about transformative! I could almost hear the people around me holding their breath. I have rarely, if ever, felt the same kind of hush take over a room. An unexpected thought came into my head: I seemed to sense angels hanging about. I now understand that something sacred actually was occurring, and that that was what I and no doubt everyone else was experiencing.
Amid all the seriousness, there were humorous songs (one of which might even have offended me fifteen minutes earlier), more banter, and a sense of direct connection between performer and audience. It was as if we were sitting around in someone's living room. The artist had blue eyes and a very direct gaze; if you happened to find it trained on you it was rather electrifying. I knew from past experience with this festival that the people around me were undoubtedly well-versed in not only the genre but the artist's entire repertoire, but it was all new to me. I couldn't believe I had never heard of him before. I guess the answer to that is that some things only come to you when you're able to hear them.
I read a review of the performance afterwards in which someone noted the rapt attention in the crowd that I had noticed, mentioning that a few silly people actually chose to leave early. I was one of the people who left, though as the performance was so truly remarkable, that may sound surprising. I did, however, have a plan to catch as many acts as possible during the festival, and at a certain juncture, listened to an internal imperative to get up and move. I slipped out and made my way to Main Street, thinking distractedly of the other acts I intended to hear and where I might find dinner. And so it was, fifteen minutes later, that I was standing in the middle of a crowded festival street, munching on something spicy, and realizing that whatever else the festival held in store, for me, at least, it had peaked. I was also wondering just what in the hell had happened in there, a question that has never been answered to my satisfaction.
As a mythologist, I can venture some good explanations, but as I said before, I'm not doing that. I sometimes think back to that night, though, and can feel myself once again in that room. I recall the sensation of thinking, wow, we're getting in pretty deep here, but somehow it only seems right. It was the experience of seeing sadness and pain turned into art that then had the power to change you. It was artistic honesty, not someone trying to sanitize messy things or make them seem better than they are. And yet, at the end of it, you felt more hopeful. I felt more hopeful. It was such a paradox, and so it remains. And I think about it still.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
The Slippery Slopes of Sochi
"What are you going to do? Dice me, slice me, or peel me? There are so many choices!" --Jim Carrey, The Truman Show
It's wintertime in Kentucky, and this year we haven't had to travel to have a bit of the Olympic experience. In my back parking lot we've been plagued by black Avalanches with dark windows and fast-moving vehicles with unfriendly drivers in just the last week alone. When I'm not skating across a slippery lot to move my car, I'm pushing the recycling bin down an icy incline while hoping not to get brained, like the hockey coach who was recently hit by a puck, by something falling from the fire escape (I'm told it had a loose bolt a while back).
To give the Olympics their due, watching on TV is almost as hair-raising at times as real life. I've been a little less immersed in the Games this time than I sometimes am, and I'll tell you why. I usually enjoy the Olympics for the sportsmanship, the sheer athletic ability, and the sight of competitors coming from all over the world to participate. Pierre de Coubertin promoted the modern Olympics as a "festival of human unity," hoping to imbue them with some of the sacred purpose they originally served in ancient Greece. While one strains at times to detect qualities of brotherhood, sisterhood, and unity amid the commercialism and hype of today's Games, it's still there in the sincere efforts of athletes who push themselves to achieve more than they thought possible. It's there in the sight of competitors applauding others who have won honestly, appreciating their accomplishments in a sportsmanlike way. It's there in the human interest stories.
This year, though, I seem to detect even more politics than usual swirling about the Games. There's also a bit more showboating, many oddly dramatic costumes, mannerisms, and speeches, and a stilted quality to some of the commentary. Huh? Say what? All I want to do is enjoy athletic feats, not feel like I'm being asked to figure out what someone is trying to sell. I'm reminded of the scene in The Truman Show (in its own right a hilarious commentary on the blurring of real life, entertainment, and marketing) in which Truman's wife stops in the middle of a scripted conversation, looks at the camera, and pitches a particular brand of cocoa.
Is this the future of product placement? Is it mass hysteria? Something in the water? It's as much like watching Kabuki theatre or opera as it is an athletic competition, and the Olympics don't need that, in my opinion. The things skilled athletes can do on skies, sleds, boards, and skates don't need enhancement, which just gets in the way. The crux of the problem is that--to borrow John MacAloon's performance categories once again--there seems to be much less ritual and festival and much more spectacle and gamesmanship this time around. Just an impression on my part.
So my enjoyment has fallen off, and I've found my attention straying at times. I've even watched some of the competition with the sound turned down. When I can forget all the histrionics and distractions and become absorbed in the sheer mechanics of the athleticism, I'm still amazed at what people can do. The scenery is gorgeous and provides more than enough drama as a backdrop to all the action. I have to think the atmosphere of hyperreality surrounding the Games must be terribly trying to the competitors, who have enough to do to keep their concentration focused. Possibly they're used it.
The charm of the Winter Olympics lies in watching someone careen down an icy mountain at top speed, or twirl through the air and land gracefully on skates, without having to do it yourself. It's largely a vicarious thrill; I'm content to tune in from the relative safety of my couch. I've even been known to drink a mug of hot cocoa while watching, but it's usually not the brand someone else is selling. I like to reserve those decisions for myself.
It's wintertime in Kentucky, and this year we haven't had to travel to have a bit of the Olympic experience. In my back parking lot we've been plagued by black Avalanches with dark windows and fast-moving vehicles with unfriendly drivers in just the last week alone. When I'm not skating across a slippery lot to move my car, I'm pushing the recycling bin down an icy incline while hoping not to get brained, like the hockey coach who was recently hit by a puck, by something falling from the fire escape (I'm told it had a loose bolt a while back).
To give the Olympics their due, watching on TV is almost as hair-raising at times as real life. I've been a little less immersed in the Games this time than I sometimes am, and I'll tell you why. I usually enjoy the Olympics for the sportsmanship, the sheer athletic ability, and the sight of competitors coming from all over the world to participate. Pierre de Coubertin promoted the modern Olympics as a "festival of human unity," hoping to imbue them with some of the sacred purpose they originally served in ancient Greece. While one strains at times to detect qualities of brotherhood, sisterhood, and unity amid the commercialism and hype of today's Games, it's still there in the sincere efforts of athletes who push themselves to achieve more than they thought possible. It's there in the sight of competitors applauding others who have won honestly, appreciating their accomplishments in a sportsmanlike way. It's there in the human interest stories.
This year, though, I seem to detect even more politics than usual swirling about the Games. There's also a bit more showboating, many oddly dramatic costumes, mannerisms, and speeches, and a stilted quality to some of the commentary. Huh? Say what? All I want to do is enjoy athletic feats, not feel like I'm being asked to figure out what someone is trying to sell. I'm reminded of the scene in The Truman Show (in its own right a hilarious commentary on the blurring of real life, entertainment, and marketing) in which Truman's wife stops in the middle of a scripted conversation, looks at the camera, and pitches a particular brand of cocoa.
Is this the future of product placement? Is it mass hysteria? Something in the water? It's as much like watching Kabuki theatre or opera as it is an athletic competition, and the Olympics don't need that, in my opinion. The things skilled athletes can do on skies, sleds, boards, and skates don't need enhancement, which just gets in the way. The crux of the problem is that--to borrow John MacAloon's performance categories once again--there seems to be much less ritual and festival and much more spectacle and gamesmanship this time around. Just an impression on my part.
So my enjoyment has fallen off, and I've found my attention straying at times. I've even watched some of the competition with the sound turned down. When I can forget all the histrionics and distractions and become absorbed in the sheer mechanics of the athleticism, I'm still amazed at what people can do. The scenery is gorgeous and provides more than enough drama as a backdrop to all the action. I have to think the atmosphere of hyperreality surrounding the Games must be terribly trying to the competitors, who have enough to do to keep their concentration focused. Possibly they're used it.
The charm of the Winter Olympics lies in watching someone careen down an icy mountain at top speed, or twirl through the air and land gracefully on skates, without having to do it yourself. It's largely a vicarious thrill; I'm content to tune in from the relative safety of my couch. I've even been known to drink a mug of hot cocoa while watching, but it's usually not the brand someone else is selling. I like to reserve those decisions for myself.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Film Noir, Cars, and the Super Bowl
Sometimes January and February usher in a feeling of boredom, a letdown after all the holiday activity. Not this year. What with the Golden Globes and other awards shows, my birthday, and the Super Bowl, on top of the build-up to the Olympics, there's hardly been a minute to spare. That's what happens to mythologists trying to keep their ear to the ground without falling prey to background noise. You may have run into the same thing.
My birthday? Oh, thanks, for asking. There was an unexplained visitation from someone who appeared, despite a locked outer door, to knock on my own personal door at the same time as a scheduled but cancelled appointment that morning, but as we (or at least, I) like to say around here, whatever. I got some work accomplished and enjoyed an evening out; at or around midnight, I was eating Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie with a friend, and I call that a success.
Social media has presented its own challenges this week, on top of the usual cultural churn. I had the intriguing experience of seeing a comment I'd posted to someone else's Facebook page disappear not only from her page but also from my own activity log, as if it had never been (actually, the entire thread disappeared). I'm not sure how that happened, and neither was the page's moderator. It smacks a little of Hermes, the god of communications, commerce, and tricks -- or it could be gremlins. I'm not sure whether Mercury is in retrograde at the moment or not, so perhaps we can't blame him.
As for the Super Bowl, I actually am not a great football fan, but after hearing about the game and its commercials from others who were watching, I decided to stick my toe in the water and at least check out the advertisements. (I recognize the Super Bowl as an important cultural ritual -- I just don't enjoy football.) I didn't see all the commercials, but of the humorous ones, my favorite was the Radio Shack spot with the '80s icons clearing out the store as Loverboy wails in the background. I commend Radio Shack for its sense of humor.
And who else showed up but Bob Dylan? Weren't we just talking about him? I've not only watched his spot several times, I've also read reviews of it, including a couple from The New Yorker, which, it seems to me, royally missed the point ("Close Read" indeed). Some reviewers acknowledge Mr. Dylan's enigmatic nature but take the ad itself at face value, as a "jingoistic" (one reviewer's term) tribute to Detroit and American-built cars. On a simple reading, this might appear to be true, but I doubt that's all there is to it because, after all . . . Jingoistic? Bob Dylan? There's also the fact that, as of last month, Chrysler is wholly owned by Fiat, an Italian company, and Fiat Chrysler is soon to be tax resident in Great Britain, according to The Wall Street Journal. I thought I detected a slight British intonation in Mr. Dylan's final pronunciation of the word "car," though it could, of course, be accidental.
Wordplay finds itself traveling some interesting byways -- weren't we just talking about foreign acquisitions of American brands? With the above facts in mind, I'm wondering whether there isn't a certain amount of irony in Mr. Dylan's delivery of the Chrysler message. This is not to take away from the pride in American craftsmanship he refers to in the commercial; I judge that to be quite real enough. But taken with the film noirish darkness permeating some of the ad's scenes and the somber rendering of Mr. Dylan's "Things Have Changed" that forms the soundtrack, I sense something more complex at work.
What one reviewer took as a pastiche of typical scenes of Americana seems a bit more ambiguous to me. Someone peering through blinds at a darkened street . . . a pair of eyes seen in a rearview mirror . . . a person draped in a flag, at the ocean's edge . . . a diner customer whose smiling thanks looks a bit like a grimace . . . a rather anxious-looking baby in the arms of its mother . . . oh, look, there's Marilyn Monroe . . . a tattoo customer attempting to duplicate on her own skin the original Rosie the Riveter . . . a rather savage young woman, running wild along a ridgeline . . . a cowboy falling from a horse . . . fast traffic in a narrow tunnel, seen from two angles . . . scenes of the road (I've been out there. It does look like that.) . . . a city viewed from above . . . a partially thawed river.
And there's the finale, which features Mr. Dylan, in character as the auto spokesman, leaning on a pool table and declaring, with a group of workers behind him, that "We will build your car." One of the workers, nodding slightly, wears a big hat and bears a weird, blurry resemblance to an officiant in clerical garb as the background goes out of focus. Those scenes of baseball pitches and athletic cheerleaders might seem more innocent if it weren't for glimpses of characters and situations that seem to have strayed out of Double Indemnity, The Hustler, or The Road more than Norman Rockwell.
So while some reviewers seem dismayed at this commercial's "boosterism," which they see as shallow, I take it instead as a rather layered statement. The opening question, "What's more American than America?" Does it mean, simply, that many have imitated but none have duplicated the spirit of America? Or does it refer, more darkly, to something else? It's an open question, one I think the viewer is invited to actively consider. A commercial that makes you think? Apparently so, since viewing it merely as a simple attempt to sell cars creates some puzzling questions. It's really more like a poem, I think.
My birthday? Oh, thanks, for asking. There was an unexplained visitation from someone who appeared, despite a locked outer door, to knock on my own personal door at the same time as a scheduled but cancelled appointment that morning, but as we (or at least, I) like to say around here, whatever. I got some work accomplished and enjoyed an evening out; at or around midnight, I was eating Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie with a friend, and I call that a success.
Social media has presented its own challenges this week, on top of the usual cultural churn. I had the intriguing experience of seeing a comment I'd posted to someone else's Facebook page disappear not only from her page but also from my own activity log, as if it had never been (actually, the entire thread disappeared). I'm not sure how that happened, and neither was the page's moderator. It smacks a little of Hermes, the god of communications, commerce, and tricks -- or it could be gremlins. I'm not sure whether Mercury is in retrograde at the moment or not, so perhaps we can't blame him.
As for the Super Bowl, I actually am not a great football fan, but after hearing about the game and its commercials from others who were watching, I decided to stick my toe in the water and at least check out the advertisements. (I recognize the Super Bowl as an important cultural ritual -- I just don't enjoy football.) I didn't see all the commercials, but of the humorous ones, my favorite was the Radio Shack spot with the '80s icons clearing out the store as Loverboy wails in the background. I commend Radio Shack for its sense of humor.
And who else showed up but Bob Dylan? Weren't we just talking about him? I've not only watched his spot several times, I've also read reviews of it, including a couple from The New Yorker, which, it seems to me, royally missed the point ("Close Read" indeed). Some reviewers acknowledge Mr. Dylan's enigmatic nature but take the ad itself at face value, as a "jingoistic" (one reviewer's term) tribute to Detroit and American-built cars. On a simple reading, this might appear to be true, but I doubt that's all there is to it because, after all . . . Jingoistic? Bob Dylan? There's also the fact that, as of last month, Chrysler is wholly owned by Fiat, an Italian company, and Fiat Chrysler is soon to be tax resident in Great Britain, according to The Wall Street Journal. I thought I detected a slight British intonation in Mr. Dylan's final pronunciation of the word "car," though it could, of course, be accidental.
Wordplay finds itself traveling some interesting byways -- weren't we just talking about foreign acquisitions of American brands? With the above facts in mind, I'm wondering whether there isn't a certain amount of irony in Mr. Dylan's delivery of the Chrysler message. This is not to take away from the pride in American craftsmanship he refers to in the commercial; I judge that to be quite real enough. But taken with the film noirish darkness permeating some of the ad's scenes and the somber rendering of Mr. Dylan's "Things Have Changed" that forms the soundtrack, I sense something more complex at work.
What one reviewer took as a pastiche of typical scenes of Americana seems a bit more ambiguous to me. Someone peering through blinds at a darkened street . . . a pair of eyes seen in a rearview mirror . . . a person draped in a flag, at the ocean's edge . . . a diner customer whose smiling thanks looks a bit like a grimace . . . a rather anxious-looking baby in the arms of its mother . . . oh, look, there's Marilyn Monroe . . . a tattoo customer attempting to duplicate on her own skin the original Rosie the Riveter . . . a rather savage young woman, running wild along a ridgeline . . . a cowboy falling from a horse . . . fast traffic in a narrow tunnel, seen from two angles . . . scenes of the road (I've been out there. It does look like that.) . . . a city viewed from above . . . a partially thawed river.
And there's the finale, which features Mr. Dylan, in character as the auto spokesman, leaning on a pool table and declaring, with a group of workers behind him, that "We will build your car." One of the workers, nodding slightly, wears a big hat and bears a weird, blurry resemblance to an officiant in clerical garb as the background goes out of focus. Those scenes of baseball pitches and athletic cheerleaders might seem more innocent if it weren't for glimpses of characters and situations that seem to have strayed out of Double Indemnity, The Hustler, or The Road more than Norman Rockwell.
So while some reviewers seem dismayed at this commercial's "boosterism," which they see as shallow, I take it instead as a rather layered statement. The opening question, "What's more American than America?" Does it mean, simply, that many have imitated but none have duplicated the spirit of America? Or does it refer, more darkly, to something else? It's an open question, one I think the viewer is invited to actively consider. A commercial that makes you think? Apparently so, since viewing it merely as a simple attempt to sell cars creates some puzzling questions. It's really more like a poem, I think.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
A Mythologist, a TV, and the State of the Union
The State of the Union address is a political ritual--or purports to be. I say "purports" because in a true ritual, what occurs is transformative. The ritual makes something happen. With the State of the Union, the idea is that the President outlines his views on where the country is and where it needs to go, thus galvanizing the troops to join him in creating change. The speech is incantatory, you might say.
While listening to the President speak on Tuesday, I found myself agreeing with a lot of his stated goals. He spoke forcefully and enthusiastically about environmental protection, helping the middle class, education, and other matters. I think he did a good job of striking a tone of optimism and creating the sense that America is in a good position, soon to be even better (whether or not it's true, he made a good case for it).
I've often been impressed with President Obama's intelligence and verbal ability; he is a quick thinker on his feet, a trait that's especially obvious during debates. Tuesday night's speech was largely the work of a speech writer, of course, which puts it in a different category than debating, but we know the President approved both wording and content. His style was evident in the address. I wouldn't put the President's rhetoric on the same level as that of, say, John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln, but, truly, how many can aspire to that? That kind of eloquence is rarely seen.
What about the transformative power of the speech? Was this a true ritual? Well, we don't know yet. We heard the address, and now we await events. There has to be something genuine behind the words in order for them to have power. Certainly, there was a lot of energy in the House Chamber last night, and the assembled politicians and guests greeted most of the president's proposals enthusiastically.
I disagree with the President on some things. I was disappointed in his recent defense of the NSA data collection programs (which he only touched on Tuesday night), a position I find astonishing. His advocacy of those programs was very articulate, but seriously, are we supposed to believe, especially in light of recent data breaches like the one at Target, that yet more large collections of private data are a good idea? Some officials keep saying it's only metadata, not content. That may be true, but can no one envision ways in which even that information could be (and possibly is being) abused? If you're not involved in criminal activity, why should the government be able to find out who you've been talking to? Some analysts have said of 9/11 that it was not lack of intelligence that led to the attack, but failure to use intelligence already available. I have no doubt of the government's ability to track criminals and terrorists, but the average American is neither and has done nothing to forfeit the (by the way, constitutional) right to privacy.
I guess this issue of overreaching and secrecy overshadows, for me, a lot of the other (laudable) goals and achievements the President outlined. Take the Affordable Health Care Act, which was featured prominently in his speech. I see affordable health care as a positive thing and have heard people I know say they now have coverage for the first time in years. This is a big deal, despite all the snafus with the website and that oh-so-secure information applicants had to entrust to the government. On the other hand, I've been reading about negotiations the administration has tried to keep out of the press concerning the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade agreement. It would reportedly give foreign corporations the power to challenge laws and regulations that protect, among other things, food safety and environmental quality. As in our laws and regulations. Our food safety. Our air and water. If foreign corporations are granted the ability to challenge, in international court, laws designed to protect us, then you're going to need that Obamacare. (Many Democrats and some conservative Republicans alike oppose the TPP and/or the extreme lack of transparency surrounding it. I say, good for them.)
The President portrayed himself in his speech as willing to charge ahead and act on his own to accomplish his policies if Congress isn't willing to jump on board. A lot of political hay was made last year of Congressional intransigency. Naturally, the public is angered when the failure to reach agreements results in government shutdowns and lack of progress on important issues. However, I wonder if there isn't another side to the story, one involving Congress's frustration with an administration that shuts them out of decision-making in which they should be involved. Apparently, it even keeps tabs on who they've been talking to (a privilege not reserved just for the masses, it seems).
I'm suspicious of attempts to point the finger (or, as Jungians say, project the shadow), just as I'm suspicious of attempts to change the subject, do things secretly, or divide people. Ditto attempts to circumvent or lean on the press. I know there are good, hard-working people on both sides of the aisle in Congress. I suspect many of them would be glad to work with the President to achieve the goals he laid out Tuesday night. The question is, why isn't it happening? If they were candid--parties, partisanship, politics aside, just for one moment--I wonder what members of Congress would say about their views on the lack of progress. Maybe we should ask them.
So, you may be wondering, if, by chance, Tuesday night's speech wasn't ritual, wasn't transformative, what was it? There are other possibilities for what we saw, but I like the approach of anthropologist and historian John J. MacAloon, who has applied the categories of festival, spectacle, ritual, and game to no less an event than the Olympics. Ritual we've talked about. Spectacle is something designed to impress by reason of a powerful display; it's what the Olympics became in the hands of the Romans; it was Michelle Obama's odd appearance at last year's Oscars. A festival is a celebration, like a Fourth of July party. Games are, well, games. They, too, are a type of performance, one that requires roles, rules, and established goals.
The State of the Union address might have been more than one of these performance types. Certainly, it was impressive to watch, and I found it moving to see the mechanisms of our democracy laid bare in the House Chamber, with Supreme Court justices, members of Congress, and the President and members of his administration all coming together like that. It was a little like the Fourth of July, wasn't it? I hope it will give us reason to celebrate, but that remains to be seen. Words are powerful, but in politics, they too often seem to be merely that: words.
Rhetoric is nice, but sometimes homespun philosophy is more to the point. To put it another way, maybe what we need is, as Toby Keith says, a little less talk and a lot more action. Of the G-rated variety, of course.
While listening to the President speak on Tuesday, I found myself agreeing with a lot of his stated goals. He spoke forcefully and enthusiastically about environmental protection, helping the middle class, education, and other matters. I think he did a good job of striking a tone of optimism and creating the sense that America is in a good position, soon to be even better (whether or not it's true, he made a good case for it).
I've often been impressed with President Obama's intelligence and verbal ability; he is a quick thinker on his feet, a trait that's especially obvious during debates. Tuesday night's speech was largely the work of a speech writer, of course, which puts it in a different category than debating, but we know the President approved both wording and content. His style was evident in the address. I wouldn't put the President's rhetoric on the same level as that of, say, John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln, but, truly, how many can aspire to that? That kind of eloquence is rarely seen.
What about the transformative power of the speech? Was this a true ritual? Well, we don't know yet. We heard the address, and now we await events. There has to be something genuine behind the words in order for them to have power. Certainly, there was a lot of energy in the House Chamber last night, and the assembled politicians and guests greeted most of the president's proposals enthusiastically.
I disagree with the President on some things. I was disappointed in his recent defense of the NSA data collection programs (which he only touched on Tuesday night), a position I find astonishing. His advocacy of those programs was very articulate, but seriously, are we supposed to believe, especially in light of recent data breaches like the one at Target, that yet more large collections of private data are a good idea? Some officials keep saying it's only metadata, not content. That may be true, but can no one envision ways in which even that information could be (and possibly is being) abused? If you're not involved in criminal activity, why should the government be able to find out who you've been talking to? Some analysts have said of 9/11 that it was not lack of intelligence that led to the attack, but failure to use intelligence already available. I have no doubt of the government's ability to track criminals and terrorists, but the average American is neither and has done nothing to forfeit the (by the way, constitutional) right to privacy.
I guess this issue of overreaching and secrecy overshadows, for me, a lot of the other (laudable) goals and achievements the President outlined. Take the Affordable Health Care Act, which was featured prominently in his speech. I see affordable health care as a positive thing and have heard people I know say they now have coverage for the first time in years. This is a big deal, despite all the snafus with the website and that oh-so-secure information applicants had to entrust to the government. On the other hand, I've been reading about negotiations the administration has tried to keep out of the press concerning the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade agreement. It would reportedly give foreign corporations the power to challenge laws and regulations that protect, among other things, food safety and environmental quality. As in our laws and regulations. Our food safety. Our air and water. If foreign corporations are granted the ability to challenge, in international court, laws designed to protect us, then you're going to need that Obamacare. (Many Democrats and some conservative Republicans alike oppose the TPP and/or the extreme lack of transparency surrounding it. I say, good for them.)
The President portrayed himself in his speech as willing to charge ahead and act on his own to accomplish his policies if Congress isn't willing to jump on board. A lot of political hay was made last year of Congressional intransigency. Naturally, the public is angered when the failure to reach agreements results in government shutdowns and lack of progress on important issues. However, I wonder if there isn't another side to the story, one involving Congress's frustration with an administration that shuts them out of decision-making in which they should be involved. Apparently, it even keeps tabs on who they've been talking to (a privilege not reserved just for the masses, it seems).
I'm suspicious of attempts to point the finger (or, as Jungians say, project the shadow), just as I'm suspicious of attempts to change the subject, do things secretly, or divide people. Ditto attempts to circumvent or lean on the press. I know there are good, hard-working people on both sides of the aisle in Congress. I suspect many of them would be glad to work with the President to achieve the goals he laid out Tuesday night. The question is, why isn't it happening? If they were candid--parties, partisanship, politics aside, just for one moment--I wonder what members of Congress would say about their views on the lack of progress. Maybe we should ask them.
So, you may be wondering, if, by chance, Tuesday night's speech wasn't ritual, wasn't transformative, what was it? There are other possibilities for what we saw, but I like the approach of anthropologist and historian John J. MacAloon, who has applied the categories of festival, spectacle, ritual, and game to no less an event than the Olympics. Ritual we've talked about. Spectacle is something designed to impress by reason of a powerful display; it's what the Olympics became in the hands of the Romans; it was Michelle Obama's odd appearance at last year's Oscars. A festival is a celebration, like a Fourth of July party. Games are, well, games. They, too, are a type of performance, one that requires roles, rules, and established goals.
The State of the Union address might have been more than one of these performance types. Certainly, it was impressive to watch, and I found it moving to see the mechanisms of our democracy laid bare in the House Chamber, with Supreme Court justices, members of Congress, and the President and members of his administration all coming together like that. It was a little like the Fourth of July, wasn't it? I hope it will give us reason to celebrate, but that remains to be seen. Words are powerful, but in politics, they too often seem to be merely that: words.
Rhetoric is nice, but sometimes homespun philosophy is more to the point. To put it another way, maybe what we need is, as Toby Keith says, a little less talk and a lot more action. Of the G-rated variety, of course.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Showing Up in Person at the County Clerk's
So, here we are, magically transported to Lapland, courtesy of a new mini-polar vortex, or bombogenesis, or whatever it is this week. Seriously, didn't I say you could never tell with these beckoning spirals? Instead of Coppertone and sand in our shoes, we're facing salt trucks and extra layers, at least where I live. So be it. Sometimes you just have to wait, relying on delayed gratification to deliver spring the same way it always does, by the calendar.
But a winter storm has its merits. I was thinking about that yesterday while warming up my car and knocking off the snow prior to a trip downtown. I could have mailed in my auto registration fee, but what fun would that be? Instead, I was multitasking: clearing my car and moving it off the street, getting some fresh air, saving the mail-in fee, beating the deadline, and, less prosaically, preparing to enjoy a walk in the snow.
People seemed to be driving cautiously, and I arrived downtown without incident, parking behind the old Carnegie Library. Gratz Park is pretty in any season, and swathed in snow, it looks like a Victorian Christmas card. On foot, I headed down Market Street, past the Gothic church with the pretty little hedge garden, and turned left on Short. I walked past the little clock shop, which doubles as a magic and novelties emporium, and encountered a parking lot attendant shoveling snow. I found myself in a wind tunnel, with icy air whipping around the buildings and hitting me head-on, the Lexington mini-version of Chicago. I was now thinking less about fresh air and more about getting warm and actually jogged around a slower moving pedestrian near the courthouse.
After a brief stop to warm my hands and get cash for the County Clerk's office, I was out again in a white world of big, swirling flakes. I was by no means the only person out; walking, while requiring more energy than usual, was not especially hazardous--just cold. Once inside the Clerk's office, I saw that my calculation had paid off and that the line for auto registration had only a few people. Waiting for my turn gave me a chance to warm up again. A few minutes later, new sticker in hand, I glided back into the snowstorm, doing my own version of the Waltz of the Snowflakes, minus the toe shoes and a little of the grace.
The park in front of the main library, on warm days, is full of people lounging; there was none of that yesterday, as anyone who was out was moving with purpose. I noticed the construction zone across from the park before I slipped across Main Street, sallied past the courthouse, and turned left. After seeing my reflection in a store window and deciding that I could pass for an extra in either Doctor Zhivago or The Snow Queen, I stopped under an overhang to brush off snow and stamp around a little. Pressing on, I turned right on a quiet, pedestrian-free Upper Street and enjoyed the fact that I was out of the wind.
Along the little street next to the church, past the brick wall and the perfume shop, and there was Market Street once again. I took a minute to notice the stateliness of the Carnegie Library as seen from the front, solid and elegant amid bare trees and snow, and reflected that if I were a visitor, I would be exclaiming over the loveliness of this town. What's commonplace often fails to impress because it's so familiar, but catch it from the corner of your eye, or from a different angle, or with the context slightly altered, and you see it anew. If I had been hoping for a moment of beauty on my little walk, this was it.
I glissaded the rest of the way to my parking spot thinking about the fact that I'm (unavoidably) always affixing a new license plate or sticker to the back of my car on a cold winter day, often an icy or snowy one, and this year would be no different. But now that I had walked and driven the snowy, bombogenesed streets of home, which took a little more work than usual, that chore in the parking lot would seem less of a burden. A little fresh air will do that for you.
But a winter storm has its merits. I was thinking about that yesterday while warming up my car and knocking off the snow prior to a trip downtown. I could have mailed in my auto registration fee, but what fun would that be? Instead, I was multitasking: clearing my car and moving it off the street, getting some fresh air, saving the mail-in fee, beating the deadline, and, less prosaically, preparing to enjoy a walk in the snow.
People seemed to be driving cautiously, and I arrived downtown without incident, parking behind the old Carnegie Library. Gratz Park is pretty in any season, and swathed in snow, it looks like a Victorian Christmas card. On foot, I headed down Market Street, past the Gothic church with the pretty little hedge garden, and turned left on Short. I walked past the little clock shop, which doubles as a magic and novelties emporium, and encountered a parking lot attendant shoveling snow. I found myself in a wind tunnel, with icy air whipping around the buildings and hitting me head-on, the Lexington mini-version of Chicago. I was now thinking less about fresh air and more about getting warm and actually jogged around a slower moving pedestrian near the courthouse.
After a brief stop to warm my hands and get cash for the County Clerk's office, I was out again in a white world of big, swirling flakes. I was by no means the only person out; walking, while requiring more energy than usual, was not especially hazardous--just cold. Once inside the Clerk's office, I saw that my calculation had paid off and that the line for auto registration had only a few people. Waiting for my turn gave me a chance to warm up again. A few minutes later, new sticker in hand, I glided back into the snowstorm, doing my own version of the Waltz of the Snowflakes, minus the toe shoes and a little of the grace.
The park in front of the main library, on warm days, is full of people lounging; there was none of that yesterday, as anyone who was out was moving with purpose. I noticed the construction zone across from the park before I slipped across Main Street, sallied past the courthouse, and turned left. After seeing my reflection in a store window and deciding that I could pass for an extra in either Doctor Zhivago or The Snow Queen, I stopped under an overhang to brush off snow and stamp around a little. Pressing on, I turned right on a quiet, pedestrian-free Upper Street and enjoyed the fact that I was out of the wind.
Along the little street next to the church, past the brick wall and the perfume shop, and there was Market Street once again. I took a minute to notice the stateliness of the Carnegie Library as seen from the front, solid and elegant amid bare trees and snow, and reflected that if I were a visitor, I would be exclaiming over the loveliness of this town. What's commonplace often fails to impress because it's so familiar, but catch it from the corner of your eye, or from a different angle, or with the context slightly altered, and you see it anew. If I had been hoping for a moment of beauty on my little walk, this was it.
I glissaded the rest of the way to my parking spot thinking about the fact that I'm (unavoidably) always affixing a new license plate or sticker to the back of my car on a cold winter day, often an icy or snowy one, and this year would be no different. But now that I had walked and driven the snowy, bombogenesed streets of home, which took a little more work than usual, that chore in the parking lot would seem less of a burden. A little fresh air will do that for you.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Spirits of the Corn
I read a few days ago about the pending acquisition of Beam Inc. by the Japanese company Suntory Holdings. Beam is the producer of Jim Beam and Maker's Mark, both legendary Kentucky bourbons. (Jim Beam is made in Clermont, KY, and Maker's Mark in Loretto, KY.) But what, you might ask, does bourbon have to do with mythology?
Actually, a lot, especially when it comes to Kentucky. I don't know if all the stories you hear about bourbon are literally true, but they are certainly colorful, like the one about bourbon being invented by a Baptist preacher, Elijah Craig. If it isn't true, it ought to be. (What is a fact is that Heaven Hill Distilleries in Louisville and Bardstown produce a bourbon named for Elijah Craig.) Other facts about bourbon: it's made from a corn-based mash requiring a very painstaking distillation and aging process, and it's aged in charred oak barrels.
The history of bourbon-making in Kentucky goes back to the 1700s, with even George Washington playing a role. When his administration levied a tax on distilled liquor, farmers and producers in western Pennsylvania protested, and the Whiskey Rebellion was born. Many distillers moved west to Kentucky. Unlike their compatriots back east, Kentucky distillers used a mash based on corn rather than rye or wheat, thus creating the special type of whiskey called bourbon.
Many of the companies that make Kentucky bourbon have been doing it for a long time, and their websites are full of facts and lore. You learn about things like the Angel's Share and the Devil's Cut, barrel staves drying in the summer air, "Old Tub," and a lot more. According to the people at Maker's Mark, a previous company chief, Bill Samuels, Sr., ceremonially burned the family's original bourbon recipe and set the drapes on fire in the process. Heaven Hill was founded by five brothers after Prohibition ended. Jim Beam's site says that when Ulysses S. Grant, a bourbon aficionado, was called a drunk, Abraham Lincoln told the critics to "Find out what he drinks and send a case to my other generals." Woodford Reserve's current Master Distiller is only the seventh in Brown-Forman's 140-year history.
You find many recipes for bourbon drinks on these websites, including one for After Midnight in Kentucky, which gets my vote for "Best Name." There's also the famous Mint Julep, the traditional drink of the Kentucky Derby. I had a Mint Julep once and didn't like the combination of bourbon and mint, but bourbon does go well with other flavors, especially chocolate. Bourbon balls, which consist of a bourbon-laced cream candy coated with chocolate, are a specialty around here. A lot of home cooks make them for Christmas, and I've seen them on the dessert menu at a well-known Louisville restaurant. Also, you really haven't lived until you've had bread pudding with bourbon sauce. It's just that good.
As it is, the Beam corporate headquarters are in the Chicago area, not Kentucky. Although these acquisitions happen all the time in the global economy, the news that a company on the other side of the world is acquiring two such iconic Kentucky brands is still a little startling. Suntory is featured in the film Lost in Translation, in which Bill Murray portrays an American actor filming a commercial for Suntory's liquors. While in Japan, he meets Scarlett Johannson's character, and they develop an unusual friendship. As I remember it, the film explored the problems of communication between individuals against the larger backdrop of a cross-cultural adventure. It seemed to make the point that some of the worst misunderstandings occur between people who can't use language and cultural barriers as an excuse.
It's fascinating to think that an enterprise with such humble origins as bourbon is now a global commodity. One thing bourbon doesn't have and seems to need at this juncture is its own god. The gods of wine are Dionysus and Aphrodite, but they really don't jibe with bourbon, which has nothing to do with grapes or lofty elegance. I imagine someone like Elijah Craig. I don't know what the real Craig looked like, but my mythical one is fiery and bearded, with piercing eyes and a commanding voice. He cusses like a sailor but can explain the finer points of corn, winter wheat, barley, rye, and Kentucky spring water like nobody's business. He's like an Old Testament patriarch, except that when he strikes his staff on the rock, 90 proof comes out instead of milk and honey.
Actually, a lot, especially when it comes to Kentucky. I don't know if all the stories you hear about bourbon are literally true, but they are certainly colorful, like the one about bourbon being invented by a Baptist preacher, Elijah Craig. If it isn't true, it ought to be. (What is a fact is that Heaven Hill Distilleries in Louisville and Bardstown produce a bourbon named for Elijah Craig.) Other facts about bourbon: it's made from a corn-based mash requiring a very painstaking distillation and aging process, and it's aged in charred oak barrels.
The history of bourbon-making in Kentucky goes back to the 1700s, with even George Washington playing a role. When his administration levied a tax on distilled liquor, farmers and producers in western Pennsylvania protested, and the Whiskey Rebellion was born. Many distillers moved west to Kentucky. Unlike their compatriots back east, Kentucky distillers used a mash based on corn rather than rye or wheat, thus creating the special type of whiskey called bourbon.
Many of the companies that make Kentucky bourbon have been doing it for a long time, and their websites are full of facts and lore. You learn about things like the Angel's Share and the Devil's Cut, barrel staves drying in the summer air, "Old Tub," and a lot more. According to the people at Maker's Mark, a previous company chief, Bill Samuels, Sr., ceremonially burned the family's original bourbon recipe and set the drapes on fire in the process. Heaven Hill was founded by five brothers after Prohibition ended. Jim Beam's site says that when Ulysses S. Grant, a bourbon aficionado, was called a drunk, Abraham Lincoln told the critics to "Find out what he drinks and send a case to my other generals." Woodford Reserve's current Master Distiller is only the seventh in Brown-Forman's 140-year history.
You find many recipes for bourbon drinks on these websites, including one for After Midnight in Kentucky, which gets my vote for "Best Name." There's also the famous Mint Julep, the traditional drink of the Kentucky Derby. I had a Mint Julep once and didn't like the combination of bourbon and mint, but bourbon does go well with other flavors, especially chocolate. Bourbon balls, which consist of a bourbon-laced cream candy coated with chocolate, are a specialty around here. A lot of home cooks make them for Christmas, and I've seen them on the dessert menu at a well-known Louisville restaurant. Also, you really haven't lived until you've had bread pudding with bourbon sauce. It's just that good.
As it is, the Beam corporate headquarters are in the Chicago area, not Kentucky. Although these acquisitions happen all the time in the global economy, the news that a company on the other side of the world is acquiring two such iconic Kentucky brands is still a little startling. Suntory is featured in the film Lost in Translation, in which Bill Murray portrays an American actor filming a commercial for Suntory's liquors. While in Japan, he meets Scarlett Johannson's character, and they develop an unusual friendship. As I remember it, the film explored the problems of communication between individuals against the larger backdrop of a cross-cultural adventure. It seemed to make the point that some of the worst misunderstandings occur between people who can't use language and cultural barriers as an excuse.
It's fascinating to think that an enterprise with such humble origins as bourbon is now a global commodity. One thing bourbon doesn't have and seems to need at this juncture is its own god. The gods of wine are Dionysus and Aphrodite, but they really don't jibe with bourbon, which has nothing to do with grapes or lofty elegance. I imagine someone like Elijah Craig. I don't know what the real Craig looked like, but my mythical one is fiery and bearded, with piercing eyes and a commanding voice. He cusses like a sailor but can explain the finer points of corn, winter wheat, barley, rye, and Kentucky spring water like nobody's business. He's like an Old Testament patriarch, except that when he strikes his staff on the rock, 90 proof comes out instead of milk and honey.
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