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@tsflynn
Peanuts
“Muhammad Ali was The Greatest. Period. If you just asked him, he’d tell you. He’d tell you he was the double greatest; that he’d ‘handcuffed lightning, thrown thunder into jail.’
But what made The Champ the greatest—what truly separated him from everyone else—is that everyone else would tell you pretty much the same thing.
Like everyone else on the planet, Michelle and I mourn his passing. But we’re also grateful to God for how fortunate we are to have known him, if just for a while; for how fortunate we all are that The Greatest chose to grace our time.
In my private study, just off the Oval Office, I keep a pair of his gloves on display, just under that iconic photograph of him—the young champ, just 22 years old, roaring like a lion over a fallen Sonny Liston. I was too young when it was taken to understand who he was—still Cassius Clay, already an Olympic Gold Medal winner, yet to set out on a spiritual journey that would lead him to his Muslim faith, exile him at the peak of his power, and set the stage for his return to greatness with a name as familiar to the downtrodden in the slums of Southeast Asia and the villages of Africa as it was to cheering crowds in Madison Square Garden.
'I am America,’ he once declared. 'I am the part you won’t recognize. But get used to me—black, confident, cocky; my name, not yours; my religion, not yours; my goals, my own. Get used to me.’
That’s the Ali I came to know as I came of age—not just as skilled a poet on the mic as he was a fighter in the ring, but a man who fought for what was right. A man who fought for us. He stood with King and Mandela; stood up when it was hard; spoke out when others wouldn’t. His fight outside the ring would cost him his title and his public standing. It would earn him enemies on the left and the right, make him reviled, and nearly send him to jail. But Ali stood his ground. And his victory helped us get used to the America we recognize today.
He wasn’t perfect, of course. For all his magic in the ring, he could be careless with his words, and full of contradictions as his faith evolved. But his wonderful, infectious, even innocent spirit ultimately won him more fans than foes—maybe because in him, we hoped to see something of ourselves. Later, as his physical powers ebbed, he became an even more powerful force for peace and reconciliation around the world. We saw a man who said he was so mean he’d make medicine sick reveal a soft spot, visiting children with illness and disability around the world, telling them they, too, could become the greatest. We watched a hero light a torch, and fight his greatest fight of all on the world stage once again; a battle against the disease that ravaged his body, but couldn’t take the spark from his eyes.
Muhammad Ali shook up the world. And the world is better for it. We are all better for it. Michelle and I send our deepest condolences to his family, and we pray that the greatest fighter of them all finally rests in peace.” —President Obama
Electric Fetus
November 2014
Minneapolis
Photo by TS Flynn
Returning Home to Ireland by Seamus Murphy
TheScene
I waited in line for 90 minutes Saturday night to see Cocksucker Blues, Robert Frank’s 90-minute documentary film of the second Rolling Stones tour of the United States. Disturbing, funny, vulgar, loud, sad, and beautiful are the first words that come to mind. It’s been more than 24 hours and I still don’t know quite how to express what an intriguing experience I had watching it on a big screen, surrounded by a few hundred people who, like me, alternately giggled, recoiled, and sighed at the grainy escapades offstage and then, also like me, tapped feet and nodded along every time the film cut to the band onstage.
It seems to me that every damn thing that there is to do that involves excellence is marbled with failure. In baseball, for instance, some one who hits safely three out of ten times--that means seven out of ten times he fails--is hall of fame material. That's a .300 batting average. Ted Williams, one of the greatest hitters who ever lived, batted .344 lifetime. Seven out of ten times, he failed. Trouble is when we're writing it's hard to see anything about a day's work as PRACTICE. But of course it IS practice; it's exactly that. So the wonderful little button I saw in the bookshop in NY in 1967 when I was playing and singing music, and I thought if I could become famous as a singer-songwriter they'd let me graduate to writing novels (and that's how dumb I was at 22)--that button that said "Go home, Schmuck, and practice," (and I laughed until the other band members had to carry me out of the store) that button was great advice. The best advice. If you can see each day's work as practice, and understand that the practice makes you better--better able to figure out what the thing you're working on needs to shine as it should, then a day's work is actually happy-making. One question at the end of the day. Did I work? And work constitutes being there for it in the days and nights even when you can't figure out what the next line is. "Did I work." If the answer is 'Yes,' no other questions. Right? Each day, a little at a time. And failure is what it's made out of. It's the force we lift through and from, like pulling free of the stresses of gravity.
Richard Bausch, 2012 via facebook
Blaine vs. Elk River January 16, 2016 Elk River Ice Arena Elk River, Minnesota
Decorah, Iowa
Photo by TS Flynn
Lost Highway:
Shady Dell is an oasis of 50’s and 60’s kitsch next to one of my favorite towns, Bisbee, AZ. I remember stopping there for a vanilla coke and fries and watching a hipster game of chess. Shady Dell makes you feel like you are on Gilligan’s Island in the Arizonian desert. Between the gloriously revamped Airstream’s and a boat and the amazing vintage finds in Bisbee, it is worth a trip to the middle of nowhere for Shady Dell (nowhere is just past Tombstone). You might just decide to stay!
Mrs. Flynn and I slept in a Shady Dell Airstream and breakfasted in the diner back in 1998.
Fargo Ethan Coen, Joel Coen. 1996
King of Clubs 957 Central Avenue Northeast, Minneapolis, Minnesota See in map
See in imdb
Bryce Harper, the celebrated Washington outfielder and slugger, doesn’t run out infield ground balls: they’re beneath contempt. His uniform shirt is oddly cut into a V, revealing the top of his pale chest. He has a thick comb-back, which he tosses like a lion when he comes back to the dugout after another home run and a teammate removes his helmet. But, O.K., he’s a great hitter with a terrifying arm. He hit two home runs in this series, both in the final game. So yes, he’s the National League M.V.P. this year and see you again at the end of September and maybe even in October, familiar expletive.
Roger Angell (The New Yorker) Read the rest: "Back to School" http://www.newyorker.com/news/sporting-scene/back-to-school
Checked out the new Bob Dylan mural in downtown Minneapolis today. Created by Brazilian artist Eduardo Kobra.
By JC Duffy
Argentine artist León Ferrari's "La Civilización Occidental y Cristiana" (Western Christian Civilization) at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis.
Photo by Gene Pittman/Walker Art Center via LA Times
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In 2004, the piece was shown as part of a survey of Ferrari's career at the Centro Cultural Recoleta in Buenos Aires. On that occasion, the local Archbishop, Jorge Mario Bergoglio — now better known as Pope Francis — described it as "blasphemy" and "an embarrassment" in a pastoral letter.
There were protests, some of Ferrari's pieces were attacked, a judge ordered the show closed, another ordered it to stay open — in the process launching a massive debate about freedom of speech in Argentina.
Ferrari's response over the future Pope's letter: "It's a type of favor that Bergoglio did for me," he told an Argentine daily. Never had a work of his generated so much publicity.
- Carolina A. Miranda (Los Angeles Times)
Read the rest: "Object Lesson"
vintagetribune: Two Chicago originals, author Studs Terkel, left, and columnist Mike Royko, discuss the bygone joys of the neighborhood tavern in a 1991 segment of the PBS series: The '90's.
Support your neighborhood tavern.
1913 Larimer, 1962
Arnold Gassan
Tuesday Weld & Ann-Margret The Cincinnati Kid, directed by Norman Jewison (1965)