Several major news outlets erroneously reported that Gordon Lightfoot was dead. None thought to perform the basic journalistic task of confirming the news against, oh say, a medical examiner or a coroner. Perhaps everybody wanted to believe that Gordon Lightfoot was dead. His music, after all, has fulfilled some marvelous need for schmaltz.
But I’m very pleased to know that Gordon Lightfoot is still alive, still determined to honor us with his unique brand of cheese and sensitivity. Let us all then celebrate the magnificent force known as Gordon Lightfoot, letting the inspiring message of “If You Could Read My Mind” and “Sundown” bask our souls in this grim economy.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Though, conversely, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald is a pretty good metaphor for this grim economy. Down with all hands aboard.
both are very good songs, two of my favorites. long live lightfoot, fuck the media.
So which medical examiner or coroner did you consult?