Hello, folks, Fairweather here. Today I'm pitching a new organization that so far includes among its members only me and Willard; we're members of the loyal opposition to our present administration. Among our hillbilly ancestors that sort of political thought is called ornery as hell. We're neither conservative or liberal, just ornery. So it's called the Ornery as Hellfire Club: a homage both to our ornery hillbilly ancestors and to world-class party animal and political activist, Sir Francis Dashwood. (Willard and I technically are neither party animals nor political activists, but we think history has been unkind to Sir Francis.)
We have both been somewhat taken aback by Secretary Rice's comments comparing the situation in Iraq to the situation in Europe after WWII. I would not attempt to improve upon Keith Olbermann's special comment regarding those remarks except to say that his factoids were strictly WWII l0l. Myself, I think dear Dr. Rice needs a long nap and a short vacation (or a short nap and a long vacation).
I have to admit that my take on the origins of the Iraq war are colored by my hillbilly background. I was not in favor of the invasion in the first place because here in the hills we have a history of family feuds that turn ugly. One could argue for example that Dubya has taken up a cause that his father allegedly left unfinished; i.e. that Father Bush backed away from a feud with Saddam Hussein, which Dubya has taken up. Let's put it this way. The most famous, if least bloody, of all Appalachian feuds took place only a couple hundred miles from my little hometown. The Hatfields and McCoys feuded for a couple of decades for reasons lost to time and the mountains. However, there is one critical difference here; the Hatfields and McCoys kept the killing in the families and in the end they were both victimized by outsiders who tried to screw both families out of land and resources.
No, I am not comparing Father Bush to the immortal Devil Anse Hatfield, nor am I comparing Saddam to the hapless Randall McCoy. I am saying that the origins of Dubya's war are as obscure as the hillbilly feuds, and that the deaths of both American soldiers and Iraqis are as senseless as feud deaths. Also, the civil war that has broken out in Iraq has no parallel in any of our hillbilly feuds. The Hatfields and McCoys had already fought their civil war. Moreover, the families there eventually made up and have both friendships and family relationships nowadays. Don't see that happening among the Bushes and any Iraqis.
Hey, it's only my opinion and no doubt it's so far out there it would be mildly comical if the situation weren't so tragic. Till next time, fair thee well.

I learned from Bugs Bunny. Almost.
It's not as crippling a stretch from classic country to opera as it sounds. In l924, country's first million seller, "The Prisoner's Song," was recorded by a performer of light opera who used the name Vernon Dalhart. The result was predictably over the top, but the concept turned itself around decades later when Linda Ronstadt, whose country credentials are dubious at best, appeared in LA BOHEME. In l925, a radio broadcast of classical music with conductor Walter Damrosch was followed by a program of oldtime string band music, prompting Judge George T. Hay's fabled quip about grand opera being followed by the Grand Ol' Opry.
Unfortunately such appeals to history carried no weight with my father. Ours was an authoritarian household, and the rule about music was simple; if Dad didn't like it, NOBODY liked it, and Dad didn't like opera. Oh, no, he didn't like opera.
Fortunately my mom is not the snob Dad was. Mom was the one who pointed out how much classical music there was in Warner Brothers cartoons. My favorite of all those is of course "The Rabbit of Seville." My nephew and I learned to sing that one together almost as soon as he learned to talk. I never realized, though, how completely Elmer Fudd had subsumed Wagner--arguably to the benefit of Wagner, a composer I cannot work up an enthusiasm for--until years later, when a co-worker who was also a biology major came in to work and reported that she had dissected a rabbit in a lab session that afternoon, and the instructor had opened the session by playing what she called "the kill-the-wabbit music."
So for many years my favorite opera singer was Mel Blanc. That all changed one night when I watched GREAT PERFORMANCES AT THE MET on PBS. (Dad was asleep.) It was a Rossini gala, and I only half-paid attention until this enormous man walked out of the wings, singing "Largo et factotum" from THE BARBER OF SEVILLE. At first he wasn't facing either audience or cameras; he was flirting with the ladies in the chorus. Then he turned around and I got to hear that gorgeous baritone fully, and I was hooked before I even knew his name: Thomas Hampson.
I can't say that my life has become an obsessive search for Thomas Hampson's performances since that night. I've seen a few. I have a few of his CDs. (I'm still looking for WINTERREISE, a collection of Schubert lieder.) One performance I did find, though, remains aid and comfort to this day: on the Saturday after 9/ll I was privileged to hear Hampson and Heidi Grant Murphy sing Brahms's GERMAN REQUIEM, a lovely profoundly healing balm.
Otherwise I watch him when I can find him. Until I can, I make do with Mike Rowe of DIRTY JOBS, who breaks into opera in some damned peculiar situations. It's not such a hardship, doesn't leave me pining for Tom Hampson; Rowe frequently ends up shirtless. That's a country girl's dream, and I'm a country girl (who just set Carl Perkins spinning in his grave with that paraphrase).
Hey, it's just my opinion and no doubt way out there. Fair thee well.

Fairweather Lewis here. I said I would not blog about political or social issues unless some politician or pundit really ticked me off, but that has happened.
Yesterday, purely out of boredom, I tuned in to watch TUCKER on MSNBC. Tucker Carlson is at the best of times a pain in the ass, but his wardrobe is occasionally good for a laugh. This time I wasn’t laughing. Carlson went off on one of his O’Reilly -style high lonesomes on the topic of abortion. In the process he not only essentially demonized those who support choice; he dismissed the bulk of supporters of choice as irreligious single women, living on the West Coast, who have wasted their childbearing years earning MBAs.
For the record, my blog name notwithstanding, I am a single woman; I emphatically do not live on the West Coast; and I have only a humble bachelor’s degree. I do not describe my political and social beliefs as feminist or liberal; nor do I consider myself irreligious, although I do not adhere to any particular religious tradition. My beef here is that Carlson, who gets totally bent out of shape when people apply labels to his beliefs, so blandly applies them to those of us in the pro-choice camp.
I am not in sympathy with the right to life movement, in which Carlson is so obviously and proudly a foot soldier. I have found its tenderness for the unborn manifestly does not extend to the living. Carlson has in the past dismissed such programs as Medicare D as "one more entitlement." He is apparently unaware, or doesn’t care, that without Medicare D to take up the expense of medications for her multiple health problems, my mother—and others like her—would not be alive. Nor would he approve of a government program that is enabling her to have repair work done on her home that she could not otherwise afford. According to his mindset, it seems, no living person, from children living on the street to the elderly poor, has any right to the services of government, but the unborn should be entitled not only to the overturn of Roe v. Wade, but to protection by constitutional amendment.
I speak only for myself here: there are circumstances in which no movement or government agency should interfere in a woman’s choice to terminate a pregnancy. To members of the right to life movement, it appears to me, the issue will never be more than an intellectual exercise, however deeply held the belief, until the choice affects them directly. To women in some situations, the issue is visceral. To a victim of rape or incest, being forced to carry a child to term can become an extension of the original violation, and to deny her the right to choose for herself whether to continue the pregnancy or not is likewise a violation. When the life of a mother is endangered—especially that of a mother who already has children—the matter should be private. A woman’s life and health should never be hostage to a social movement that is biased in favor of the unborn and holds the mother’s life of less value.
Carlson has a tendency to talk out of both sides of his mouth. On the one hand he prattles that he has the greatest respect for women and actually prefers to work with women; on the other he does his damnedest to display his distaste for those who do not share his right-to-life beliefs or who choose, for whatever reasons of our own, not to reproduce. Those of us who do not choose to reproduce are not by definition man-hating radicals. I daresay there are many like me who regard parenthood neither as a right nor as an obligation, but as a privilege, and who have by choice or circumstance not exercised that privilege. Nor do those of us who support choice to terminate a pregnancy in particular circumstances necessarily support choice as a form of birth control or a matter of convenience. Many of us in fact feel compelled to defend choice in all circumstances because the right to life movement insists that abortion should never be an option.
Moreover, to characterize all supporters of choice as California MBAs who are unwomanly because we have delayed or bypassed parenthood, or irreligious because we do not identify ourselves with any religious group, is outrageous and contemptible. We aren’t. We’re just opposed to government interference in certain matters; our matters are different from those of others opposed to government interference, no less, no more. We’re all over the place, and we resent labels as deeply as Carlson does.
I have added nothing to this debate; I do not expect to change minds or hearts on this issue, nor do I invite comment. Yesterday just happened to be a day when a pissant pundit with no filter between his brain and mouth got on the wrong side of my Irish temper. Until
next time, fair thee well.

Since last Friday, I've been overwhelmed by memories that are not my own. The death of Hank Bauer of the New York Yankees flooded me with my dad's reminiscences.
My father was a man born out of his time. As he aged and the world changed around him he sank into a bitter nostalgia that took the form of mourning for "the good old days." Among his fondest recollections were baseball games played decades ago, mostly by men who retired from the game before I was born: games heard on the radio or seen on early black and white TV broadcasts. He told me all about those men. The players he cherished most all wore Yankee pinstripes, and he remembered them this way:
Joe DiMaggio, the demigod who played the game with the same grace and elegance with which he lived.
Mickey Mantle, the brilliant country boy who never quite outgrew the ways of a troubled adolescent.
Phil Rizzuto, small, neat, who once called a timeout while he laughed about being walked so the opposing team could try to pitch out the next man in the lineup.
Whitey Ford, the star of a frighteningly deep bullpen.
Allie Reynolds, who could pitch the first game of a doubleheader, then come on as a relief in the second game.
Ed Lopat of the wickedly slow "fastball."
Billy Martin, the loudest and proudest man ever to put on a Yankee uniform.
Yogi Berra of the long arms, short legs, and barrel chest, attributes that morphed, once he hunkered down behind the plate, into the lethal grace of a cat.
Casey Stengel, the goofball genius who made the Yankees repeat world champions and the Mets amazing.
And then there was Hank Bauer. I think the thing Dad admired most about Hank Bauer was his workaday quality. As I recall it, Dad often cited Bauer as the linchpin of the great Yankee teams of the l950s. Hank Bauer was the working man's player. While others got the headlines, he got the job done, day in and day out.
I cannot say for certain that Dad's memories of those players were accurate; I cannot say for certain that my memories of his memories are accurate. I can say that, although chronologically my father died young, in his heart and soul he was a very old man. Although Hank Bauer died at 84, he still died younger than my dad. My store of good memories of my father is small, but his respect and admiration for Hank Bauer are in that store.
Mr. Bauer, go play on that field of dreams. God bless you.
Thanks for reading, and fair thee well.

Hi guys. Fairweather here again. Thank you to Mr. Knowlton for his kind comment about the "missing verse" from "El Paso." To be honest I would never have thought of Bob Weir or the Grateful Dead; I'm not that familiar with their work. A new area to branch out into!

Now for something a little farther off the wall. Last wk. the tempest in a teapot about San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom's affair with a lady named Ruby provoked a comment from MSNBC's Keith Olbermann about "Kenny Rogers' old tearjerker 'Ruby (Don't Take Your Love to Town)'." As a fan of classic country I paid more than passing attention to that remark, in part because I've never regarded that song as a tearjerker. Angry, frustrated, pained, and slightly disturbing, yes. Tearjerker? My standard for a tearjerker is the six-hanky number "He Stopped Lovin' Her Today," so I would say NOT.

Also, I have never been a big fan of Kenny Rogers' rendition of the song. It's been recorded a number of times, including by the late great Faron Young (another favorite). I'm gonna go out on a limb and say unequivocally that the best recording of "Ruby" is a live version by the song's writer, Mel Tillis, in the early l970s. Played at a speed only ever matched by some Bill Monroe sides, with a blistering steel guitar solo, and with a half sung half growled vocal, that version showed me what power a different reading can bring to a classic. I've never heard it done better. Hey, it's only my opinion,and I'll admit it's way out there. Till next time, fair thee well.