Tinfoil + Raccoon

And Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

Anne Bancroft gave one of the best film performances, IMHO, as the delightfully lecherous Mrs. Robinson, in The Graduate.  I've been thinking about getting my own grey streak lately, but it's coming along nicely on its own.  Anyway, sadly, she's passed on. She also played Anne Macy Sullivan (Helen Keller's "Teacher") in 1962's "The Miracle Worker," for which she won an Oscar. If you haven't seen The Graduate, what the heck are you waiting for?

Larry "Red" Creevan, 33

There's a nice picture of Larry Creevan in Saturday's paper. He's wearing a suit and tie, and grinning, looking like he could be a bank teller or Sunday School teacher or somebody's dad.  The first time we saw Larry in the suit was a few years ago.  He came in to the library late on a Saturday morning, looking downright spiffy, and we remarked to him that he looked sharp. Larry, also known as Red, smiled and shone, ducked his head and blushed, which is a remarkable thing to see on someone who is perpetually some shade of red.  He was going to a family wedding, and didn't have any place to go until the ceremony, since the shelter was closed during the day. He wanted to stay crisp, and so he sat, looking alternately mortified and pleased, as other folks admired and ribbed him for his snazzy outfit.  That suit was also Larry's going-to-court suit, because he knew it was important to look respectable when going before a judge. 

A colleague stopped by my desk today to say that she thought she'd seen Larry's picture in the obituary section on Saturday.  I dug out the paper, and verified that it was him.  Red was one of our favorites, sometimes a regular, sometimes gone for months at a time.  Mostly, he'd sit quietly and read when he was in.  We knew he had a horrible alcohol addiction and could tell when he'd been drinking by his level of effusiveness.  He was painfully, cripplingly shy, and it seemed that alcohol was the only thing that would make it possible for him to look you in the eye, and say more than hello.  He may have gotten a little loud once or twice, but we tended to cut him slack because he seemed so good-hearted and fragile.

Artrice Kilgore, Can Collector

You don't know Artrice Kilgore, and really, neither did I.  I knew him only by sight, as an inexplicably cheerful canner who pushed a shopping cart around my neighborhood, making his living by digging through trash, in search of homeless gold--aluminum cans.  I last saw him a couple weeks ago as I was walking up to buy beer at the convenience store we call Monster Mart.   It was one of the first truly gorgeous spring days of the year, and I pulled out my green straw hat for the occasion.  As I turned the corner at the end of my block, I saw a couple of men pushing a shopping cart, right down the middle of the road, headed in my direction.  They were enjoying the day every bit as much as I, and I offered them a "howd'ya do" as we met each other.  The man I now know as Artrice paused for a second, said "good afternoon," and added with genuine enthusiasm, "I like that hat!"  I thanked him and we headed off in our opposite directions.

This morning, I went for coffee and grabbed today's paper. On the front page was a story that explained all the sirens I heard in my neighborhood last night.  The driver of an SUV that police were attempting to pull over fled and tore through my neighborhood, trashing two other cars, someone's house, and at least one life, that of Artrice Kilgore, who happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Another person, also a bystander,  remains in critical condition.  The driver, who had an outstanding warrant for selling drugs to an undercover officer, and was intoxicated last night, is in the county jail, and apparently unharmed by the chaos he caused.

Artrice, according to what little documentation I could find about him, lived most of his adult life on the street. It's a shame he had to die there. 

Photographer Josh Ritchie captured this image of Artrice while documenting homelessness in Bloomington, IL.

UPDATE 4/16: Skully points us to a story in today's Pantagraph about Artrice.

Thompson Tribute from Corpse

There are lots of Hunter S. Thompson tributes and remembrances floating around right now, and here's another one from the literary magazine, Exquisite Corpse.  Imagine Thompson, Andrei Codrescu, Amy Carter and Douglas Brinkley all playing pool in New Orleans.... 

Hunter S. Thompson, Author, 67

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
    --Hunter S. Thompson

Wow.  Hunter S. Thompson, father of Gonzo journalism, died Sunday, February 20, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, according to this CNN story.  I'd like to nominate him as the patron saint of bloggers. Thompson's last column, Shotgun Golf with Bill Murray,  is here at ESPN.

More links about Thompson at the NYT, Wikipedia,  and Disinformation. 

I have spent half my life trying to get away from journalism, but I am still mired in it - a low trade and a habit worse than heroin, a strange seedy world full of misfits and drunkards and failures.
--1988, Generation of Swine

I've never tried to pose as a goddam reporter. l don't defend what I do in the context of straight journalism, and if some people regard me as a reporter who's gone bad rather than a writer who's just doing his job--well, they're probably the same dingbats who think John Chancellor's an acid freak and [Walter] Cronkite is a white slaver.
--1974, Nov. "Playboy Interview: Hunter Thompson." Playboy.

Quotes source: Hunter S. Thompson by Arthur J. Kaul

"That Foot is Me:" John Vernon, Actor, 72

Character actor John Vernon, perhaps best known for his role as the much reviled Dean Vernon Wormer in the movie Animal House  (which is the Raccoon's favorite movie, ever), died this week at the age of 72.

"Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son." (Animal House soundboard)

Jerry Scoggins, 93: Y'all Come Back Now, Y'Hear

Jerry Scoggins, a country-singing stockbroker whose claim to fame was the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies, passed away on Dec. 7 at the age of 93 according to this AP story via Yahoo! News. Backed by bluegrass legends Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, Scoggins sang his way to an instant (and his only) hit with The Ballad of Jed Clampett in 1963.  He came out of retirement in 1993 to reprise the tune for the big screen Beverly Hillbillies movie.

Gorillas Hold "Wake" at Zoo

Although I'm a "raccoon" I've always been deeply affected by our cousins, the apes. I'm not a huge fan of zoos, but seeing primates at the zoo especially breaks my heart.  Here's a story about a community of gorillas who recently mourned their matriarch, Babs, at the Brookfield Zoo.   It's too bad that they had no choice but to mourn in public. 

This story reminds me of one the best books I read this past year (really, in a very long time): Songs of the Gorilla Nation: My Journey Through Autism by Dawn Prince-Hughes. Prince-Hughes grew up with undiagnosed autism, struggling to make sense of the world and her place in it.  It was only by observing, and later working with gorillas at a zoo, that she learned how to become a part of a human community.  It was an awesome and beautiful book in every way. 

Walter Bock, Artist. 85

Last night, I attended a memorial service for Walter Bock, a prolific artist who passed away in October at the age of 85.  I met Walt  when he was younger--maybe 20 years ago--at my first grown-up dinner party.  He was there with a much younger woman, Chris, and I didn't quite get their relationship.  Nonetheless, I enjoyed their company and remembered them.  About a decade later, I read an article about Chris, who was the principle violist for two symphony orchestras, and learned that she and Walter were husband and wife.  A few years ago, I had a daughter in need of viola lessons, and ran into Chris and Walter at a coffee shop. I re-introduced myself  and found Walt and Chris to be every bit as warm and cordial as I remembered them.   We arranged for my daughter to take lessons at Chris' home studio, and I got to know Chris and Walt, and their much-loved kitties, as I sat in their living room, reading or writing during lessons. 

Walt seemed a little frail when Olivia first started lessons, but he still had a studio and would get out for walks by himself.  When he passed through the living room, he'd always stop to chat, offering to turn on a light or wonder if I'd be more comfortable on the couch.   Mostly we'd chat about the weather or the cats, and Walt never made me feel like I was intruding.   I truly enjoyed these quiet little moments with Walt, brief though they were, and had no idea about the rich 80 + years held inside this quiet, gentle man. 

In the past year, it became apparent that Walt's health was in serious decline. I recognized symptoms of dementia, and Chris was fiercly protective of his health.  Any sniffle was enough for us to postpone a lesson.  Walt developed what was likely aspiration pneumonia a couple months ago and spent his final days in a nursing facility. Chris put her professional life on hold and was with Walt as much as possible, talking to him, washing his face, and playing the concert of her life, as she worked through a repetoire of Walt's favorite music, even as he appeared to be unaware. 

Last night, I got a much fuller picture of Walt's life: as a young man who body surfed off the coast of St. Augustine, as a competent leader of a Navy crew in World War II, as a professor of art, as a friend, as a father and as Chris' partner. One by one, friends pieced together Walt's life last night.  Each knew him in slightly different way, but it was clear that everyone cherished his presence in their lives.  One of the last people to speak was Walt's son, John, who knew his father mostly through thousands of letters, and through his art.  I talked to John later, wondering if it was hard for him to hear stories from other people who had a more immediate knowledge of his father.  Although John did not spend  a great deal of time with Walt, he didn't appear to feel cheated by this physical absence and spoke with great love and respect for his father.

I was most struck by comments made by a professional colleague of Walt's, Doug Hartley, who taught with Walt at Illinois State.  He talked about Walt's utter lack of pretension, and how he had to be strong-armed into doing a one-man show.  It seems that Walt didn't have much, if any, ego tied up in his considerable body of work.  Hartley talked about the thousands of canvases that Walt amassed, rolled up and tucked away.  It seems that Walt didn't create art so that he would have a finished product to show the world.  He was just so full of life and experiences, that his canvases served as a drip cloth for all that spilled out. 

I wouldn't call the Walt I knew a shadow, exactly. He was faded, certainly, but with flashes of outline and color that gave me a glimpse of what he once had been.  Last night, the canvas was unfurled and restored.  We all stood back and admired it.   

Shortly before he died, Chris began to organize and collect his work for presentation on the web. You can learn more about Walt and see his work at Waltbock.com

Old Dirty Bastard, Rapper, 35

Wu-Tang Clan founding member Russell Jones, aka  O.D.B., Old Dirty Bastard, and Big Baby Jesus, died after collapsing at Roc-a-Fella recording studios.  More here from CNN  and BET .

In his honor, go git yo' sef a Wu Tang name over at RecordStore.com.  Bonus points to anyone who gets tagged with "Old Mucky Terrahawk."   

Word  to Embryonic Crusadah, my fellow cave bitch. You know who I'm talking about.

Peace,
New Fast Automatic F-REEK