I wonder if Bishop Long still "cures" Gay-ness. So what would the scene be like when he gets a call at home? Your captions welcome. Of course tact and taste are paramount here. Also at stevebrodner.com
The corpse of Harry Truman has reportedly been so pissed-off by Obama’s tongue-tied, puny-spirited defense of his first two highly accomplished two years in office, that it dragged itself across the country and showed up at the White House last night. “Goddammit", it said. "What’s the matter with you?”
“Carry the battle to them. Don’t let them bring it to you. Put them on the defensive and don’t ever apologize for anything.”
Say: “It’s plain hokum. If you can’t convince ‘em, confuse ‘em. It’s an old political trick. But this time it won’t work. ”
Say: “To hell with them. When history is written they will be the sons of bitches – not I.“
PS Barry: “You want a friend in Washington? Get a dog.” More at stevebrodner.com
In it he lovingly pays tribute to the writers and artists of that great mag and the sensibility that made it possible. This is a major event, a bright spotlight for once on a kind of humor (hip, literate, political, sexy, sick) in print that may have reached its peak with the Nat Lamp. Rick was the signature artist of the Lampoon, doing some of its most famous images. But that doesn't prepare you for the insight and skill with which he compiled this work. An appreciation by Steve Heller is reprinted below from The Daily Heller.
Also tonight he and Maira Kalman unveil their latest New Yorker map at “You Are Here → Mapping the Psychogeography of New York City,” an exhibition of work by a selection of contemporary artists that will map the emotional terrain of the world’s most famous and influential urban center, New York City, and explore the effect of the city’s powerful moods on those who live and work here. “You Are Here” will run from September 24 through November 6, 2010, and will be celebrated with an opening reception on Thursday, September 23 from 6–8 PM. The exhibition and opening reception are free and open to the public.
Pratt Manhattan Gallery
144 West 14th Street, 2nd Floor
Gallery Hours: Tuesday–Saturday 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.
“Making people laugh is the lowest form of humor,” said Michael O’Donoghue, one of the wits behind The National Lampoon (and a substitute English teacher at my high school). But making people laugh hysterically was the goal and success of The National Lampoon, which picked up where MAD magazine left off.
Meyerowitz contributed a few of the Lampoon's most iconic covers, including Mona Gorilla. In this book, he documents the major contributions of the other writers, artists and designers and frames it in the free-wheeling, rule busting context of the times that Lampoon helped define.
Speaking of the Lampoon, I had a dream once:
What would I have given to become the art director of The National Lampoon? My left arm? My right knee? My pinky toe? Yes, yes, and yes. I would have slashed these and more essential body parts off just to land the best art direction job a poor boy from Stuyvesant Town in the backwaters of Manhattan could hope to get. I so loved the Lampoon when I first saw it – at least the concept – that it became my dream job. From the first issue, designed by Cloud Studios, I was confident I could do better – much, much, much better. In fact, I was already doing Lampoon-like things for underground newspapers, so I figured I was a shoe-in, if only I could get my shoe in the door.
It was not, however, ever to be. By the time I received my Doctor Martins, Cloud was out and Michael Gross was in. His art direction was cleaner and tighter than the previous anarchy, and his typography combined with visual acuity enabled the Lampoon spirit of parody to shine. Yet under his reign I longingly wanted even more to be hired by the Lampoon (in whatever high ranking design position I could get). So I did what any red blooded, ambitious, go-getter would do. I tried to copy it in other publications I was working on.
I became art director of Screw magazine, which published an offshoot zany rag called Mobster Times (subtitled “Crime Does Pay”). It was just before Watergate blew the top off President Richard Nixon’s administration. I tried so hard to make MT in the mold of NL. But lo and behold, I didn’t have the lightness of touch that Gross had. My hand was heavy, my type was crass, my attempts lacked nuance.
Nonetheless, every year for three years I took my portfolio up to the Lampoon anyway, where I was pleasantly rejected with one of those great “we have your telephone number” responses. Instead, I was hired as art director of the New York Times Op-Ed page – and the Times is where I remained for almost 33 years. Still, I often have a recurring dream that I was art director of the Lampoon after all – and with all my appendages intact.
Now that Republican Elites (yes the ELITES!) are confronting the prospect of their GOP becoming identified as the Party of Crazy, what will they do? Nothing!! “Pros” like Karl Rove are now completely under the spell of that captivating witch from Delaware. As the Wizard will tell them, they are f*cked.
In our time and place the humility of atonement and the calling to account has a deep imperative. Just open a newspaper or any news website. How fine a mass atonement and a dawning self-awareness would be.
This all brings to mind Cantor Yossele Rosenblatt. A recent Times piece about an intrepid audio amateur in Crown Heights who is meticulously restoring Rosenblatt’s old records said this about the cantor:
“Mr. Rosenblatt was born in Russia in 1882 and toured Eastern Europe as a child prodigy. In 1912 he immigrated to the United States and became the cantor at Ohab Zedek, an Orthodox synagogue then on 116th Street in Harlem. Blessed with a penetrating bell-like tenor with a range of two and a half octaves, and a gift for coloratura and falsetto, Mr. Rosenblatt had the ability to squeeze the pathos or elation out of every prayer.”
He was a celeb in his time and became most famous, perhaps, for singing in the first big sound film, “The Jazz Singer”. Here, playing himself, he reminds Jolson of his father and the huge tank-car of guilt he should be feeling (note: Jolson can’t quite get Bill Demerest into the concert. I’m sure Preston Sturges could do it, but that’s another movie). The Cantor would not perform Kol Nidre in the movie because he felt that it was a prayer and not appropriate for popular performance. In any case you can see and hear this man, called the Jewish Caruso.
I have included Max Bruch’s Kol Nidre below, performed by the incomparable Jacqueline Du Pré. Peace.