'BOARDWALK EMPIRE RECAP': THE WALLS CLOSE IN ON NUCKY

"Boardwalk Empire," HBO's Prohibition drama returned Sunday night after a year of critical acclaim and sweeping several awards. It's now 1921 in Atlantic City and although his fortunes have soared in the wake of the enactment of Prohibition, Nucky Thompson is paying a steep price for wielding ultimate power in The Queen of Resorts -- that's where we are in Season Two.

And while Nucky and his ward bosses may have solidified their hold on the city, enemies are watching. Just how long, though, before Nucky starts to figure it all that out?

Some key events:

♠ Chalky White's (Michael Kenneth Williams) life and livelihood are threatened by a vicious Ku Klux Klan attack on his bootlegging warehouse where there were many casualties. Chalky may be getting more than he bargained for when the Klan member he shoots in self-defense winds up dying.

♣ Margaret (Kelly Macdonald) copes with her son's (Rory and Declan McTigue) disciplinary problems and urges Nucky to talk to him.

♥ The Commodore (Dabney Coleman), Sherrif Eli Thompson (She Wigham) and Jimmy Darmody continue their plans for domination of the city. While Eli is nervous that the vicious KKK attack will be linked to them, no one is calmer than The Commodore who urges Jimmy to start making connections and meet with various politicos.

♦ Jimmy's wife Angela Darmody (Aleksa Palladino) vies with Gillian (Gretchen Mol) for Jimmy's (Michael Pitt) affections at home;

♠ Agent Van Alden (Michael Shannon) shows his wife Rose (Enid Graham) around town as an anniversary present and in the process raids a posh eatery while out with her.

♣ Nucky gets arrested by a deputy for the state's attorney -- not for bootlegging -- but election fraud.

For my full scene-by-scene annotated recap, historical footnotes, episode videos, tunes from the era and other thoughts, click HERE.



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A BURNING QUESTION...

... WILL IT BE THIS??

or THIS???

Decisions... Decisions...

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THIRTEEN MEN (#fridayflash)

Press play for some groovy mood music


I tended bar at Tony's Tap Room up on Biltmore Avenue.

The gig was good enough and while I wasn't a Rockefeller by any stretch, I didn't need much. At the end of the week, my rent was paid, the cupboard was stocked and if I was lucky, I'd be able to spring for some English Leather for the weekends.

That said, I sometimes felt I wasn't paid enough to deal with the occasional bullshit that came with the gig. We had our share of regulars. There was Shade, half-hustler, half lover; Tino, the cool cat with the cool car; O'Toole, the crazy mick that everyone seemed to love; Auggie, the portly everyman and Bobby C., who was plum convinced he'd be the next Frankie Valli. And then there was Linky... He was a fucking moron.

Taking care of the guys was usually Elsa. She was Danish and gorgeous. Being that I also managed the place, Tony threw in some extra cash for some eye candy and I only hired top-shelf. And why not? If I have to look at these mooks all day long, I should be able to stare at something that jiggled once in a while. Plus, this was just the kind of watering hole men where men escaped their wives and Elsa was the icing on this crummy cake.

Looking back, maybe Linky shouldn't have said what he said. But hey, that was Linky -- half stupid, half insensitive. It all started when he bet Elsa fifty beans that she couldn't dance a whole tune without spilling the drinks on her tray. He tossed her a coin and she trotted up to the juke, choosing a song and she cut her rug.

It was the best three minutes of my shitty week. in fact, there were thirteen of us in there and I think, they'd all agree. When she finished, we all clapped except for Linky, who told her that she had lost the bet.

Perplexed, she asked why. Linky told everyone that he had to pick out the song so it was a natural forfeit. We all groaned at him and it didn't take long for tears to well up in Elsa's big brown peepers.

She looked around the joint and recognition reared its ugly head. It was obvious that Elsa had enough. She charged toward Linky and hurled that plastic blue tray right at him. He ducked so most of the glasses hit my pinball machine -- which was on its way out anyway.

Elsa grabbed her coat, told me she was sorry and walked across the street to the diner, where I see her everyday waiting tables with a smile.

She was a good kid and I'm glad for her. I'm even happier that there's no jukebox in there.

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LET'S NEVER FORGET ...

... That glorious skyline...

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DECISIONS, DECISIONS (#friday flash)

Press play for some mood music

Aggie slipped into Nunzio's Tavern at about half past ten. The bar was one of those dark daytime joints where lost souls came to meet, greet and get behind that cork with a blinding vengeance. It all reeked of regret and shame.

During this early hour there wasn't much going on except for a morning poker game buried under the neon fizzle of a Lowenbrau sign. Aggie's heels on the linoleum floor seemed to wake the place up for a moment until they realized she was there to make her own act of contrition.

At the bar, she ordered a rye. When Smitty asked what kind, Aggie replied, "The kind that'll do the trick." Then she smiled politely before placing down her purse and heading to the jukebox. No sense in drowning your sorrows if there's no song, she thought.

* * *

She thought of her three men and how they each weren't worth a squirt of piss between them. She also wondered which one was responsible. Dickie, a Salvation Army Santa, was good and honest enough but only seemed to show up when the gettin' was good. Then there was Louie, whose good looks and padded wallet didn't make up for the left hook and apology Aggie sometimes received. And Pete? He was her boss, a stoic leader who unfortunately came with a wife.

More rye. More quarters. More songs.

Lunch came in the form of a BLT ordered from the greasy spoon up the block that delivered. It was better than she expected -- as was her day at Nunzio's.

She marveled at the wisdom but wondered, though, at the same time. How could these dampened men give such great advice when they've made such poor decisions in their own life? By three o' clock she pretty much understood what was so very unspoken in that dark bar to begin with and through everyone's help, Aggie knew what she needed to do.

She kissed the men goodbye, thanked them and stumbled home.

Music: Sam Taylor - Harlem Nocturne

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TOM WAITS: BAD AS ME (AUDIO)

Listen to the title track from Tom Waits’ upcoming album "Bad As Me," due in stores on Oct. 25. on limited edition deluxe CD, CD, and LP.

Via Tom Waits.com: The disc is Waits’ first studio album of all new music in seven years and refines the music that has come before and signals a new direction. Waits, in possibly the finest voice of his career, worked with a veteran team of gifted musicians and longtime co-writer/producer Kathleen Brennan. From the opening horn-fueled chug of “Chicago,” to the closing barroom chorale of “New Year’s Eve,” "Bad As Me" displays the full career range of Waits’ songwriting, from beautiful ballads like “Last Leaf,” to the avant cinematic soundscape of “Hell Broke Luce,” a battlefront dispatch.

On tracks like “Talking at the Same Time,” Waits shows off a supple falsetto, while on blues burners like “Raised Right Men” and the gospel tinged “Satisfied” he spits, stutters and howls. Like a good boxer, these songs are lean and mean, with strong hooks and tight running times. A pervasive sense of players delighting in each other’s musical company brings a feeling of loose joy even to the album’s saddest songs.

BAD AS ME

You’re the head on the spear
You’re the nail on the cross
You’re the fly in my beer
You’re the key that got lost
You’re the letter from Jesus on the bathroom wall
You’re mother superior in only a bra
You’re the same kind of bad as me

I’m the hat on the bed
I’m the coffee instead
The fish or cut bait
I’m the detective up late
I’m the blood on the floor
The thunder and the roar
The boat that won’t sink
I just won’t sleep a wink
You’re the same kind of bad as me

No good you say
Well that’s good enough for me

You’re the wreath that caught fire
You’re the preach to the choir
You bite down on the sheet
But your teeth have been wired
You skid in the rain
You’re trying to shift
You’re grinding the gears
You’re trying to shift
And you’re the same kind of bad as me

They told me you were no good
I know you’ll take care of all my needs
You’re the same kind of bad as me

I’m the mattress in the back
I’m the old gunnysack
I’m the one with the gun
Most likely to run
I’m the car in the weeds
If you cut me I’ll bleed
You’re the same kind of bad as me
You’re the same kind of bad as me


Tom Waits - Bad As Me by antirecords

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THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM (#fridayflash)

Press play for some mood music

Havana, 1953.

I told her there was nothing worse than waiting for the hurricane. And this phone call.

She ignored me. Cracking her gum, she bopped around the room and looked for her beach towel.

"You comin'?"

I shook my head and blew her a kiss. She shrugged her shoulders, blew me a kiss and slammed the door. Suddenly the room was quiet. That glorious kind of quiet that almost hums. But man, the air was as heavy as my great Aunt Millie after Thanksgiving dinner.

I paced, played with the radio, and discovered a young musician named Tito Puente. The sweat now dripped down my neck. Even though it was barely noon, I was dying for some whiskey -- something from Kentucky. The way I felt, I'd even go for some of that rotgut hooch mixed with Passaic River sold during Prohibition. But all they seemed to have down here was Rum. Tons of it. To me, the swill tasted like coffin varnish.

But there was a storm coming and it was all I had.

* * *

Three hours later, I couldn't see a hole in a ladder. She'd been at Cafe' Sunburn all afternoon and trotted back into the bungalow looking like a ripe Jersey tomato.

"Did you fall asleep in the sun?" I asked.

She told me instead of tanning lotion she rubbed on some Cuban paprika to get some color. I'd say it worked.

"Whatcha doin'?" she asked.

I pointed to the phone. It meant that I was still waiting for the phone call that would bring me to him.

General Fulgencio Batista.

The magazine wanted me to find his human side. Whatever that meant. A dictator was a dictator any way I sliced it and this Clyde's tale was a common one: Seized power in a military coup, banned elections and followed up with right wing policies.

I was instructed by Esquire to specifically ask him about a charismatic young revolutionary named Castro and what's being discussed in hush-hush circles as 'The Movement.'

She noticed the music and started to bob her head. We were dime grinding a few minutes later when the phone rang.

I was expecting The General but instead, it was Castro's people. They, too, wanted to talk to me.

Before I left the shack, I couldn't help but notice the storm clouds roll in. I wiped the sweat off my brow and took one last swig of the rum. By now, it tasted like that Kentucky nectar.

"Will you be back for dinner?" she asked.

I assured her that I would be and kissed her on her head. "Here's hoping that Castro's not such a bad guy..."


Music: Tito Puente & His Orchestra - Timbalero

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THE BIGGER YOUR BUCKLE THE BETTER (#fridayflash)

Please press play for some mood music

Root Riley hitched all the way from Socorro, New Mexico.

Root was good at beatin' the devil around the stump -- which basically meant that he was lazier than a hound dog on a Sunday afternoon.

His father Buck arrived in Socorro in the Forties to con some money out of Conrad Hilton. That part worked. But when ol' Connie found out, Buck wound up on the clink and Root grew up visiting his poppa every other weekend at the pen three hours away.

Besides, it was time to leave Socorro. Just before he skipped town, some copper swore he saw little green men over a hill on top of a mesa. G-men, the Air-Force and every hack reporter from La La Land to the Big Apple swarmed into the small town.

It was too much action. Too much heat. So he split.

# # #

Laziness aside, Root sure knew how to cut a swell with the ladies. He asked the trucker he was hitching with where there was some good fandango.

That was easy, the trucker told him -- Collins, Texas. "It's as hot as a whorehouse on nickel night..."

"That'll do.." Root said.

He asked to be dropped him off in the town square. It was a Saturday afternoon and between the Gimbel's, coffee shop and pool hall, there'd be all sorts of townsfolk Root could scope.

The ride had him dragged out so he found a stool and downed a few cups of Arbuckle's. He bent an elbow for a bit, jabbering away with some bazoo who was in from Seattle. He was selling somebody something that didn't matter all that much to Bart. But it passed the time.

But then he saw them.

They were as fine as cream gravy. The two ladies looked like they were from the Old States... High-falutin. He watched them eat lunch -- one had a BLT and the other had some lemon meringue pie.

Another hour passed and Root knew that these two were it. They chirpily paid their bill and wandered across the street to the bus depot where telephone booths lined up like militia men.

The bank was all picked. That was the easy part.

All he needed now was an alibi and ditching one of these pigeons would be easy. Didn't matter which since they both looked the same.

Root entered the booth next to them and fiddled with the phone. He pretended to fuss about with the receiver before asking them, "Would either of you lovely ladies have another dime? This dang phone doesn't want mine."

He tipped his hat and let his smile do the rest.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HANK...

Charles Bukowski -- The namesake of this blog -- would have turned 91 today... Enjoy these two audio readings of his poems and pour yourself a stiff one in his honor.

Here's to you, Hank...

BUKOWSKI READS 'THE SECRET OF MY ENDURANCE'



TOM WAITS READS NIRVANA (stupendous, eerie and gorgeous)



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REX PICKETT, WRITING DOCUMENTARIES and more...

I'm a sucker for writer documentaries and I'll be the first to admit that I can't get enough of them.

I'm compelled to watch them because as a wannabe scribe, I know first hand how hard this craft can be. Anyone who says it comes easy, is full of horseshit.

Applying our craft, throwing ourselves into a project (both physically and metaphorically), is something that only other scribes can identify with. We don't just sit in front of a computer ... and type. These films usually explore the creative process and what goes on inside an author's brain... That's prolly why I find solace in these films.

Some favorites include:

• "Gonzo" (Hunter S. Thompson)
• "Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride"
• "Dominick Dunne: After the Party"
• Ken Burns' "Mark Twain"
• "Trumbo" (the prolific Dalton Trumbo, a blacklisted scribe of many Hollywood classics)
• "Tales from the Script" (various screenwriters - recommended)
• "Harlan Ellison: Dream With Sharp Teeth"
• F. Scott Fitzgerald: Winter Dreams)
• "Hubert Selby, Jr.: It'll Be Better Tomorrow"
• "Rod Serling: Submitted for Your Approval" (in my top five)
• "To Write and Keep Kind" (a Raymond Carver PBS documentary, included on the Criterion edition of "Short Cuts"
• Born Into This (Charles Bukowski)

# # #

I stumbled across "My Life on Spec" on the blog of "Sideways" novelist Rex Pickett. While the video is just a conceptual promo, (shot by Marco Mannone and his brother Al), it hits every note. If you're a writer, you need to watch. If you're a fan of "Sideways," even more so... Check it out:



Says Rex on his blog: "I had an idea last December to do a kind of quasi-documentary on my writing life — my life on spec, as it were — and the promo uses footage from what would end up being the going-back-to Sideways-turf segment. Then, things just got so busy we had to put it on hold. ... We shot for three days up in Sideways country, visiting many of the locations in the movie, and some that were only in the book. It’s well-edited and moves, I think, pretty quickly. Saying anything more about a documentary on me would be too self-aggrandizing, and I’m not that guy."

He's not... But I am!

After roughly 13 minutes, I must say that I'm jonesing for more. "Sideways" was an important book and film for me and the story of Miles and Jack transcends that of "Oh, isn't that the wine movie." Pickett's book (and subsequent film adaptation) is about friendship, loss, pain, yearning, love and yes, writing... In fact, the tale has spawned a forthcoming play (staged at the end of the year at the Ruskin Group Theater) as well as an interesting 9and gorgeously bizarre) foreign language Japanese adaptation -- "Saidoweizu."

Pickett's road-novel sequel "Vertical," published earlier this year, follows Miles and Jack once again. It flashes-forward seven years after "Sideways" and Miles has written a novel that has been made into a wildly successful movie (sound familiar?) Jack is divorced (no shock there), has a child and is on the skids. Miles's mom has suffered a stroke that's left her wheelchair-bound and wasting away in assisted-living. She desperately wants to live with her sister in Wisconsin. When Miles gets invited to be master of ceremonies at a Pinot Noir festival in Oregon, he hatches a road trip. Needless to say, hi-jinks ensue.

While the novel started out at Alfred A. Knopf (a lit division of Random House), there were creative differences when Pickett decided he wanted to write a sequel. As a result, Pickett said 'sayonara' and found equity funding from private investor Tim Moore to go the intrepid self-imprint route.

The guy keeps busy -- currently he's writing an HBO wine-themed show and there's even a fun new Facebook page 'Miles and Jack' that's dedicated to the interaction of the beloved characters. Definitely check it out.

For even more Pickett, the fine folks at Mahalo have shot several quick vignettes where the scribe fields questions from fans. It's chock full of great stuff... Here's the PLAYLIST.

Some favorites:






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'TOM WAITS ON TOM WAITS'

Next on my reading list and released about two weeks ago.

Via AMAZON: Tom Waits, even with his barnyard growl and urban hipster yawp, may just be what the Daily Telegraph calls him: “the greatest entertainer on Planet Earth.” Over a span of almost four decades, he has transformed his music and persona not to suit the times but his whims. But along with Bob Dylan, he stands as one of the last elder statesmen still capable of putting out music that matters.

Journalists intent upon cracking the code are more likely to come out of a Waits interview with anecdotes about the weather, insects, or medieval medicine. He is, in essence, the teacher we wished we had, dispensing insights such as: “Vocabulary is my main instrument;” “We all like music, but what we really want is for music to like us;” “Anything you absorb you will ultimately secrete;” “Growth is scary, because you’re a seed and you’re in the dark and you don’t know which way is up, and down might take you down further into a darker place . . .;” and “There is no such thing as nonfiction. ...People who really know what happened aren’t talking.  Show More

"Tom Waits on Tom Waits" is a selection of over fifty interviews from the more than five hundred available. Here Waits delivers prose as crafted, poetic, potent, and haunting as the lyrics of his best songs.

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MEET THE NEXT POET LAUREATE - PHILIP LEVINE (video)

Philip Levine, the Pulitzer-Prize winner known for his brooding and personal verse about the working class, will be the country's new poet laureate.

The 83-year-old Levine will succeed fellow Pulitzer winner W.S. Merwin this fall. The laureate, who receives $35,000 and is known officially as the Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry, serves from October through May. Richard Wilbur, Joseph Brodsky and Robert Pinsky are among the previous appointees.

"I'm a fairly irreverent person and at first I thought, 'This is not you. You're an old union man,'" Levine told the Associated Press. "But I knew if I didn't do this, I would kick myself. I thought, "This is you. You can speak to a larger public than has been waiting for you in recent years.'"

Receiving pretty much every literary honor, Levine is a Detroit native who has worked in automobile plants and for decades chronicled, celebrated and worried about blue collar life. Levine's awards include the Pulitzer in 1995 for "The Simple Truth" and the National Book Award in 1991 for "What Work Is."

We'd say Bukowski would be proud of him...


For more on Levin, click HERE. Examples of his work can be found HERE.

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WATCH LUCILLE BALL'S 1942 FILM 'THE BIG STREET' ...

... That I've posted in celebration of her 100th birthday.

Here's the scoop: The Big Street is a 1942 American drama film, starring Henry Fonda and Lucille Ball, based on the short story "Little Pinks" by Damon Runyon, who also produced the movie. The film was directed by Irving Reis. The screenplay was written by Leonard Spigelgass from Runyon's story.

The film focuses on busboy Augustus Pinkerton II (Henry Fonda), known as "Little Pinks," and his relationship with heartless singer Gloria Lyons (Lucille Ball), who is crippled in a fall after her boyfriend, New York City nightclub owner Case Ables, pushes her down a flight of stairs in a fit of jealousy. Left penniless by the expenses she incurs during a long convalescence, Gloria is forced to rely on the kindness of Pinks, who invites her to stay with him in his apartment.

Enjoy!



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FULL CIRCLE (#fridayslash)

Press play for some mood music

Patsy was born under a bad sign. That was painfully obvious.

His mother, a runaway, gave birth to him near a dumpster that she would eventually abandon him in. It worked out, though. She eventually would hitch her way into a cocaine overdose and he was handed over to a nearby soup kitchen on the down low. Turned out Patsy owed his life to a bunch of bums in the alley who, in between whiskey sips, noticed the wails of a crying newborn. For the record, they all thought it was a cat in heat -- all except for Rufus. He knew what a crying baby sounded like since he had around 20 of them scattered from Chicago to Tallahassee.

Back then, there wasn't a system set up to protect kids. Sure there were adoption agencies, but in Patsy's case, salvation came in the form of Madame Martha, headmaster of the soup kitchen. A former Army WAC, Martha didn't take shit from anyone and saw to it that Patsy had three meals a day, a place to sleep, dry socks and Sunday clothes.

Around the bums he fit in quite well and by the time he was five, Patsy served them cornbread with a smile. By thirteen he was in charge of certain delicacies -- namely a concoction he invented called 'Chicken Ball Soup.' At 19, he all but ran the place when Madame Martha fell ill from a foot infection that eventually took her leg. She was gone a year and a half later and for a while, her kids and Patsy tried to keep the kitchen open but it wasn't the same.

Patsy's only choice now was to hold a rifle but for whatever reason, the army didn't want him. Chalk it up to flat feet, bad eyesight or the possibility of being just plain ol' batshit.

There was only one thing to do. The only question was what brand?

* * *

He woke up drunk, disoriented and piss-stained and for the life of him, he swore he heard the wails of a dying cat. But it was no cat...

Patsy walked up to the dumpster, looked at the newborn, saw himself and wept. He watched the baby a bit more, its wails growing louder and more pathetic. He thought of his own life and how nothing much had come of it and Patsy knew what he had to do. He left the baby where he was, stumbled on home to his flophouse and called the Police.

That sad baby, Patsy thought, will get it's own family. He'd make goddamn sure of it.

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