NickydocDocs

So yeah.  Home.  After 2 !/2 weeks in the greek islands, even the hell of deGaulle airport couldn't deconstruct the spiritual peace that had infused into me on an almost celluar level.  The pictures are on Joe's facebook page, and I won't bore the readers of these pages with a travelogue.  Suffice to say that it was full of languor, torpor, and more than a few new friends that, I suspect, we'll see again before the year is through.  There wasn't much time for immediate reflection as our flight was late from Athens, we missed our connection, and our bags are only god knows where.  The last time I was in deGaulle airport, a large portion of it had literally collapsed in on itself.  When we left  Athens, I attempted to warn Joe that, regardless of whatever preparations we were to make, flying through Paris was always a bit of a stretch.

We were having a slow dinner on the top of our hotel with a fabulous view of the acropolis lit up at night--he was having champagne and taking in the sight, seemingly unflappable.  We set out for the airport early the next morning (yesterday ?!), and found ourselves on the tarmac for approximately an hour and a half, ostensibly waiting for 'water for the coffee' to be loaded onto the plane.  We were getting a little nervous, as our connector in Paris was tight.  We finally made it to deGaulle, only to be loaded into a bus and left to sit for another 45 minutes.  The bus driver, as it turns out, simply left us all loaded up on a bus on the tarmac, leaving us to scatter into the maze of the airport once we finally hit the terminal.

Let me just say that the Charles de Gaulle airport is gargantuan.  In fact, it always reminds me of some post-apocalyptic movie set when I find myself there.  It's old, dirty, and mind-bendingly large; add about 100,000 implacably rude laissez-faire frenchman with absolutely no desire to help even those who attempt the language who are watching the clock and counting down the minutes until they can take to the streets for some reason or another--and you pretty much have the CDG airport.  When I found out we were being re-routed through Toronto, I jumped up and down with joy.  There was some concern over our actually getting on a flight in Toronto on the part of the Customer Service reps we'd finally chased down--I told Joe, 'As long as we're stranded someplace OTHER than Paris, I don't care if we have to hire a team of mules--let's get the fuck outta here...'  He quickly agreed.  In fact, he later informed me he would 'never. ever. in a million years. EVER. fly through Paris again. ever.'  

As I sit at home on the first night after having slept in my own bed for about three weeks, the hell of 30 hours of traveling has already started to fade.  We're cozy and snug on a chilly Kentucky morning.  As Joe makes coffee and I get ready to go pick up Jack from the vet, we've got a few days to decompress.  We've gone through the mail, straightened up, and are collectively waiting for our stomachs to readjust.  Other than a tan that will fade (and a suitcase full of scarves that I've apparently developed a penchant for), we're left with beautiful memories and a short-list of people that we'll likely visit before the next summer sun shines on our faces.  In fact, we're already planning a trip to either Stockholm or London for christmas, and then a trip to Amalfi in early summer.

What we're really hoping for is a visit here by a couple of wonderful new friends here in Kentucky.  As it turns out, Joe and I have learned to be ambassadors for Lexington.  In trying to entice folks to come to Kentucky as a tourist destination, it was interesting to listen to ourselves.  In short, I've realized that I love Lexington, and I love home.  I heard myself speak longingly and lovingly of central Kentucky, marking off all of the wonderful things our city has to offer.  I talked about our new public art initiatives, our beautiful countryside, and our genuine hospitality.  While sitting on our terrace overlooking the cauldera, we found ourselves excited about what we had to come home to.

In short, this trip was book-ended by enthusiasm for THIS place, full of wonder, gentility, and promise.  Home.

So yeah.  I'm officially one hundred years old.  Ancient. Walked the earth when God was a boy and all that.  I have stepped over some invisible (but solidly present) line; on one side of the line is my youth--on the other is where I now officially stand.  I stand in a land of cloudy vision, achy joints, and amiable forgetfulness.  If I had any illusions of me being the only human being to ever stop (or even slow) the process of aging, they haven't so much evaporated as just ceased to exist.  My best friend's nephew is visiting from Buenos Aires.  The last time I saw him was actually in Buenos Aires back in 1997.

Although I'd travelled europe in the late 80's and early 90's, it wasn't until the late 90's that I discovered South America.  It first pricked my interest when I'd seen "The Mission"--the Robert Diniro/Jeremy Irons flick about the Jesuit Missions above the Igazu Falls during the slave wars between Spain and Portugal.  The soundtrack by Enio Morricone is still one of my favorite pieces of music and the scenery looked absolutely gorgeous.  When I finally got a chance to see the falls myself, I realized that the film hadn't really done them justice.  At any rate, when I met my best friend during my medical residency at UK, I jumped on his offer to come visit him and his family in Buenos Aires (BA).  It was during my first trip to BA that I met 'Niko', the above-mentioned nephew.  

I'd kept up with him over the years, but you know how it goes.  I mean, I understood academically that he had started driving...and THAT seemed pretty unbelievable.  When he graduated from high school, and then college....well, I'd talk to him on the phone occasionally, and send him words of greeting over the phone in my broken spanish.  He'd say thank you 'Neek' in his broken english.  It was pretty much the way I communicate with all of my nieces and nephews.  I've got a niece of my older sister's side who's about Niko's age, but I see her much more frequently.  At any rate, Niko is in for his first trip to america.  I actually had seen his grandmother (my friend's mother) more recently, having taken her to Walt Disney World seven year's back.

I was really excited to see him earlier tonight.  His uncle had just taken him to Vegas.  Niko's 25 years old now, and it was high time, his uncle reckoned, that he see Vegas.  He loved it, as it turns out.  I can't quite see Niko in Vegas, at least for any extended period of time.  When I saw him tonight, he was still the shy and amiable kid, except he was like the man version.  He has retained the gangly and languorous grace of the soccer player he'd always been, but it was just incredible how he'd, plainly and simply, grown up.  I was absolutely and tee-totally shocked.  And then I busted out one of my Aunt Erma's moves, rest her soul.

Now I loved my Aunt Erma.  Still do in fact.  She was one of those timeless characters that will always grace my memories.  Some of the fondest memories I have are going over to 'The Property'.  Although I'm not exactly sure I ever understood how it all came to pass,  my dad and his three sisters had sort of this weird (but definable) little building company that, oddly, would go on to spur the development of what is still one of northeastern Kentucky's most rarefied and fancy little neighborhoods--Bellefonte, Kentucky.  The houses on 'The Property' were all built one by one, each with exacting standards and with an architecture that lived in perfect harmony with the slightly rolling but intensely lush landscape.  It was on the heels of my father and his sister's completion of their own personal homes, each lined up one beside another at the end of a winding drive my Aunt Katherine named 'Stoneybrook Drive', that Ashland Oil established it's international headquarters in Ashland, Kentucky.

All of a sudden, national executives were looking for a little piece of bucolic heaven to settle into.  It was about this time that Ashland Oil became HUGE on an international scale, establishing 'Super America', 'Valvoline', and making billions in oil and petroleum products around the world.  So what started off as a place that my sister Melanie and I used to have dirt clod fights with all of our first cousines (and I mean apocaLYPTIC dirt clod fights), soon turned into this absolute HAVEN, filled with families of international executives.  They built a golf course and a country club (it's still there to this very day), and, as I was walking through my yard today, I noticed that when I'd done my landscaping, I'd unconsciously fashioned it to look like any old yard you'd see in Bellefone, Kentucky.

So my Aunt Erma.  She lived in Bellefonte (the Shire)  When she passed, she left her home to her eldest daughter, Joan.  During 'The Property Years', every time she saw me (which was pretty often), she'd always bust a move and hold her arm out.  She'd say, "Nicky, the last time I saw you were were about THIS tall.'  She'd always hold her arm out at just my present height, and then she'd give me a hug and offer me something to eat.  I LOVED it.  She also got me an 'Invisible Man Anatomy Kit' once for Christmas.  I honestly think it was that see-through anatomy kit that made me want to be a doctor, and if that's not the word of God then God never spoke.  This evening, when I saw Niko, I busted out my Aunt Erma's move.  And I remembered her completely and entirely, in one of those odd spaces in time that are entire and they are complete and they take approximately six seconds.  It was pretty amazing.

Of course it lead me to think about time and the usual denial of it's passage until it slaps you in the face.  Hard.  And it did.  It was surprising.  I think the thing that surprised me most about the whole thing was that it made me smile.  I realize that's incredibly inarticulate, and this blog post is a sort of a cliche'--but it really did.  The whole thing--the experience, the reflection, and the narration, ALL of it--it made me smile.  Yeah.  I busted out my Aunt Erma's move.  And I'm totally cool with it.

(In a brief follow-up to the story below, Jim Clark, President and CEO of LexArts, has issued a press release revealing that all of Lexington's non-profit arts group shall be eligible to participate in the epic upcoming Americans for the Arts national Economic Impact Study--one of only 200 cities across the nation who will basically issue a 'report card' on the arts economy across America. Interested parties who are also willing to put their money where there mouth is in getting behind this city-wide (and national) event include Christine Huskisson on behalf of a Bluegrass Community Collaboration grant, Lisa Broome-Price (the Associate Director) over at the Gaines Center Center for the Humanities at the University of Kentucky), and, of course, yours truly.)

“The most exquisite folly is made of wisdom too fine spun”

Benjamin Franklin

Great things are happening right here in River City! Jim Clark announced that LexArts would become a Study Partner with Americans for the Arts' national arts economic impact study.  The study is undertaken every three years by Americans for the Arts, the nation's largest arts advocacy group.  Having actually used the AFTA economic impact calculator on a previous blog post of mine as it relates SummerFest, I was thrilled to hear that LexArts  had undertaken a contractual commitment to facilitate the study for the city of Lexington.  in fact, in an initial email from Ben Davidson, an AFTA Senior Research Director, Jim Clark had initially shown interest in becoming a national Study Partner, but hadn't signed the contract.  As luck would have it, the contract was signed the very next day.

Christine Husskisson had also been inquiring about the Economic Impact Study on behalf of a grant she had received.  There was some initial confusion about who was paying for what.  As I understand it, LexArts has signed the contract on behalf of the city.  Now, Lexington gets to have a bright shining light thrown at it from the most powerful arts advocacy group in the land.  The economic data gathered from Lexington will go into what essentially boils down to as a national arts report card.  This data will be used to make arguments for everything from national, state, and local funding to what models work and which ones aren't sustainable in todays economic apocalypse.  The findings will be used to demonstrate, to cities large and small across the country, what is the very best we have to offer.

The local arts groups will reap incredible benefit from participating in the study as well.  This is a chance for organizations to gather priceless data about their audience sizes, demographics, spending patterns, and patronage.  These numbers are the sorts of things that clinch very big funding grants from groups like the Kentucky Arts Council, the National Endowment for the Arts, and state legislatures.  In effect, the actual process of BEING studied is an incredible resource.

As it turns out, the arts organizations I'm the most excited about: the 'Change For Art' Program and SummerFest, aren't eligible.  According to a recent email Jim Clark sent Christine and me, only arts organizations who raise money for LexArts will be eligible for the study.  I find that a little ironic.  I started advocating for an Economic Impact study to try and quantify the value of grassroots programs like 'Change' and SummerFest.  As it turns out, the city is going to get the survey, but SummerFest and 'Change For Art' don't get to be counted.  We miss out on all of the data that is absolutely essential for community-based arts programs to survive.  I'm thinking, 'Let me get this straight...unless I agree to raise money for LexArt's annual campaign, the organizations that I support and believe in somehow don't count?"

That's kinda crazy.  Look--I'm on record all over town as having gotten both of the current mayoral candidates on the record in the Lexington Arts-Related mayoral forum that they would support at least maintaining current funding for LexArts.  In fact, Jim Clark graciously sent me an email thanking me for that fact.  If I'm going to stand up in a public forum and advocate for LexArts, I want to be absolutely certain that they're being as inclusive and as truly representative of the arts community here in Lexington as is humanly possible.  At the end of the day, that's what these organizations represent--just us folk.  So when I read an email that tells me that I, as a board member of SummerFest and Change for Art, have to raise money for LexArts during their annual campaign in order for my organization to participate in something as epic as this impact study, that puts me between a rock and a hard place.

I was actually working on the SummerFest Program yesterday.  On my boards, I work.  In fact, I'm out there at the Arboretum every year putting up chairs.  So when I see this great opportunity fly right by us out in a field we're getting ready for over 20,000 Lexingtonians to come out and enjoy some really great theater, it makes me think something's amiss.  Quite frankly, I'm trying to raise money to help SummerFest pay the lighting guys.  In other words, groups like SummerFest can't AFFORD to raise money for somebody else.  Or participate in the LexArts annual campaign.  We're just trying to keep the lights on.

"I love the noise of democracy."

         James Buchanan

Election day--nothing like it.  For a political junkie like me, it's like Christmas, Halloween, and my birthday all rolled up in one.  As the primary is upon us, I've decided to do a little recap of my take on the mayoral race.  This is my very own personal opinion, based upon having attended what seems like a cool thousand mayoral forums, community discussions, and question/answer sessions.  It goes something like this:

Skip Horine

Mr. Horine has some issues to work out.  While I laud his commitment to public service, he'll be lucky if he gets 2% of the vote.  Wild accusations of murder and mafioso-style brutality running rampant in Lexington seem off kilter.  

Teresa Isaac

Teresa has run a good campaign (as she always does) but, at the end of the day, her tenure as mayor speaks for itself.  City government was poorly run and her leadership skills simply do not lend themselves to the office of mayor.  She is folksy, charming, and grassroots savvy.  However, Lexington invariably suffers under her administration.  While she rallies fire and law and has an outstanding record in sustainable housing, her managerial skills are non-existent.  As a friend of mine says of her, 'If your basement was flooded, she'd be the first person there to help you with a bucket.  Unfortunately, she has absolutely no idea of how to keep your basement from flooding in the first place...'  I think that sums her up pretty darn well.

Jim Newberry

Jim Newberry started out of the gate the strongest.  He meticulously attempted to chip away at Vice-Mayor Gray's base, cozying up to several downtown arts and culture lieutenants.  He said the right things at the right venues regarding the importance of supporting the local arts community.  Unfortunately, he's had the misfortune of making more waffles than the local International House of Pancakes--first he was all for CentrePointe and now he supports 'design guidelines'; first he obstructed Gray's call for an investigation into criminal spending at the airport and now he's made 'decisive' changes in the way citywide boards operate; first he lined his pockets with money from lobbyists and THEN calls for an effective ethical moratorium on the act; first he goes to bat for the water company and THEN pushes a tepid petition backtracking on his record.  Newberry has really shot himself in the foot in the last couple of months.  The Vice-Mayor must be polling extremely well on his jobs creation platform--Newberry is coming across as afraid (in spite of a clearly flawed poll that has him up on Gray by 9% points--the same poll that has Isaac trumping all of the candidates among Republican voters)  The specter of all of Isaac's voters flipping to the Vice-Mayor's column will certainly be keeping his staffers up for many nights to come in the general election.

Vice-Mayor Jim Gray

Jim Gray has influenced the dialogue in this city more than all of the other candidates combined.  He was an early champion of concepts like meaningful design, environment, and artistic cultivation.  When you add this to his unimpeachable experience with creating jobs not only in Kentucky but, quite literally, around the world, his experience and vision makes him, hands down, the best candidate for the mayor's seat.  Gray has an innate sense of how business works and what is Lexington (or any city, for that matter) if not a business?  In any business, the better parts of success are things like job creation, resource management, and open dialogue.  Vice-Mayor Gray essentially started the conversation on these matters here in Lexington.  As a longtime resident of Lexington, I can honestly say that Jim Gray is a mentor of mine.  in fact, he (along with Council Member Diane Lawless) are the ones I credit directly with inspiring me to get involved in the community and attempting to do something meaningful.  Through their mentorship, they taught me the value of inclusion.  As a direct result of that inspiration, I helped facilitate an arts program in Lexington for children with special needs; a program that would go on to win a state MediStar Award and an award from the Kennedy Center in Educational Excellence; a program that would go on to serve as a model for a statewide program for children with special needs across the state of Kentucky.  This is but one personal example (from one individual) that can attest to Gray's long and broad history of inspiring citizens across this city.  Vice-Mayor Jim Gray is the best candidate for mayor.  I believe this with absolute certainty.

"Now in this world there's a lot of self-righteous

hypocrites

That would call me bad

And criticize Mama for turning me out

No matter how little we had

But though I ain't had to worry 'bout nothin'

For nigh on fifteen years

I can still hear the desperation in my poor

Mama's voice ringin' in my ear."

Bobbie Gentry

Growing up as the son of one of the biggest bookies in this part of the country had its advantages, particularly when it came to meeting interesting people.  On any given day, the mayor, local elected officials, sneak thieves, doctors, lawyers, and priests, tended to make their way through the doors of my dad's bookie joint.  Me and my dad were buddies from early on.  I idolized him in a way that sons are heir to only.  He was my first and greatest hero.  As such, I pretty much begged him to include me in anything and everything that he was doing.  Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn't.  One of the things he let me do was hang out with him at the bookie joint.  By day, I'd go to high school, go to football practice afterwards, and, by all external measures, live  a pretty ordinary life.  On the weekends, summers, and after school, I'd race to my dad's bookie joint and hang out with some pretty extraordinary folks.  I took bets at the counter, listened to gamblers and rogues spin their tales, and learned to count cards.  Dad taught me how to look at people--really look at people--in a way so as to determine their 'tell'.  A 'tell' is an often involuntary signal that every human being develops under pressure; my daddy could tell when someone was bluffing in a poker game from across the room.  Some folks would open their eyes widely; some will fidget; others could be as cold as the grave, but their pupils would dilate.  Needless to say he figured mine out before I learned to walk--I wiggled my fingers.  As such, I always told my dad the truth when he asked me something.  Bobby Valentine had so many 'tells' that he used to drink at the poker table to disguise them.

Bobby Valentine was sort of a ladies' man.  He had a soft baby face, wore fancy jewelry, and was predisposed to open affection.  He wasn't really a dandy as much as a man of deep emotion and true gentility.  In all the years I knew him, I never heard him raise his voice or say a cross word about another living thing.  When he was drinking at the poker table, he'd more often than not get on a crying drunk but kept his teary eyes on his cards.  I never really knew what Bobby did for a living but he always came to the poker table with plenty of cash.  Poker players are notoriously superstitious.  For instance, my dad used to come with salt in his pockets, in his hair, and in the cuffs of his pants.  "Salting" was something all the old school poker players did to one another.  Some took it more seriously than others; Bobby took it alot like my father did--he'd laugh and carry on in good humor.  However, if Bobby or dad ever ran into a streak of bad luck, they'd be the first to sprinkle salt into someone's pockets when they weren't looking.  I was 16 when I went to the last poker game my dad ever took me to.  Bobby Valentine was there sitting squarely across the table from my dad.

It was a Friday night and I had just come from football practice.  I had on a pair of cut off camouflage sweatpants on and an old ratty tee shirt I wore under my football pads.  Dad had been a little leery of taking me because some of the bigger poker games were getting robbed around the area.  On any typical night, it wasn't unusual to see fifty or sixty thousand dollars in cash cross the table.  These poker games would typically go on for days with each player resting or napping for a while every 12 hours or so.  I'd rub my dad's shoulders, fetch him coffee, and run out to get him whatever he wanted to eat.  I remember they were playing in someone's house out in some holler, making it more difficult to find and, by extension, less likely to be robbed.  The first day, dad lost $20,000.00 in cold hard cash.  He'd sent me home twice to pick up $10,000.00 in cash.  Mom asked me about the lay of the cards while she put the cash together.  I told her that Bobby was getting drunk, but he'd been on a lucky streak that was just beyond belief; he'd drawn to not one but TWO small straight flushes and was catching cards like it was nobody's business.  Dad was just trying to hold on, just knowing that his luck would change.

The next day dad broke even.  He sent me back to the house with the $20,000.00 I'd just brought him, leaving him a 'bankroll' of about $5000.  Through the course of the second day, Bobby got drunker and drunker.  Dad tried to get him to push back from the table, but Bobby was determined to either win it all or lose it all.  One of the things that I always liked about Bobby is that he could lose a flat FORTUNE and he never got angry.  He kept that same dreamy smile on his face, regardless of his winnings or losings.  In retrospect, there was a resignation about him--an acceptance--than was almost zen-like.  Bobby was running low on cash and was pretty much all-in.  It was turning into Sunday and Bobby made a phone call.  They took a break from the game and Bobby asked for the spectators to leave.  It was still dark, but dawn was just breaking over the hills of the holler.  It had basically come down to Dad and Bobby.  A couple of the old-school regulars were allowed to stay, but they knew that this game was about to get bigger.

A friend of Bobby's came to the door and dropped off a package.  I remember it was a small manilla envelope, about 6 inches by 12 inches.  Bobby's friend also brought a sub-machine gun with him to drop off.  By this time, it was me, dad, Bobby, Paul, and Junior.  Everybody else had left.  What with the recent poker-game robberies, nobody wanted to be around in a stick-up.  Paul and Junior were good old boys and there was absolutely no way in hell they were going to miss the showdown between Dad and Bobby Valentine.  They did was seemed to be the most natural thing in the world for both themselves and me:  they left me at the door with the submachine gun to guard the game.  They showed me the safety on the Uzi, told me not to accidentally shoot myself, and walked back inside.

I followed them back in for a minute.  There was absolutely no way in hell I wasn't going to get a peek at what was inside of that manilla envelope.  Bobby put the envelope on the green felt table and tipped it over.  What poured out were about 30 of the biggest diamonds I'd ever seen.  They were emerald cut and I remember thinking they looked like little ice cubes sitting there on the felt.  Bobby was a straight-up guy so when he told my dad that they were all internally flawless and none less than 2 1/2 carats, my Dad believed him.  I walked out to the door with the cold oily submachine gun in my hand; in my cut off sweats that I still had on from 3 days before, I planted my feet and scanned the tree line.  I watched for cars and, thankfully, none came.

The game was over in about an hour and dad walked out of that poker game with a hand full of those diamonds.  He told me on the way home that Bobby was bound and determined to lose every one of them, but dad pushed away from the table.

Needless to say, news of that poker game spread quickly.  Dad was at a poker game the following week over in Ironton, Ohio, when a couple of guys came in with guns.  They all emptied their pockets and one of the robbers said, 'Let's kill one of these motherfuckers."  Nobody got shot, but it jangled my dad's nerves a little bit.  Consequently, that was the last poker game he ever took me to.  I begged and pleaded over the years, but he thought it was just getting too dangerous.

I look back now at that last poker game, and I can remember just about every detail.  It didn't seem at all odd to me back then; it was just the life I was born into.  It was a life full of love; it was a life full of adventure; and it was a life full of risk.  At the end of the day, it was the life of a family that has continued to survive the test of time, heartache, and tragedy.  Me, my sisters, my niece, and my Mom continue to talk on the phone just about every single day.  They all live within two blocks of each other on the banks of the Ohio River--a place that I will always call home.  I go there as often as I can--it's still a place of sanctuary; but it also still holds the magic of home for me.  When I pull into Russell, I don't reckon time the way I do in my rather ordinary life here in Lexington.  It has always been (and always will be) a place of magic, mystery, adventure, and safety.  Home.

I sat in the packed-to-the-gills Downtown Arts Center along with just about every arts aficionado I've ever met here in Lexington.  To my right was Allison Kaiser, the Executive Director of the Lexington Art League who'll be moving over to the Lexington Philharmonic in August. To her right was Charlie Stone, the progenitor of the Lexington Chamber Music Festival, and to his right was the maestro.  In front of me was Natasha of Balagula Theater.  Joe Artz and Trish Clark, two members of the SummerFest Triumvirate members were to my left.  The grassroots activists were there in full force--it was a sight for an arts geek like me.  Jim Clark, President and CEO of LexArts opened with a strong clear call for advocacy--things were teed up beautifully and I think it's safe to say the audience was ready to be impressed.  The Creative Cities Summit coupled with the unqualified success of the 'Now What Lexington?' follow-up sessions had everyone galvanized and ready for action.  What followed was, by turns, surprising, comical, and confusing.  Here's my personal take on how it went down.

Teresa Isaac

Isaac is the easiest to comment upon because she wasn't there.  While she tweeted her responses to each of the questions some hours later, I really couldn't comment on her arts agenda because I am simply not familiar with it.

Skip Horine

The Skipster provided comic relief.  For reasons unclear to me, Mr. Horine somehow got stuck on two seemingly unrelated but altogether hysterical points of digression.  I have to confess that I love going to the mayor's forum.  One of the reasons is to watch the train wreck that is Skip.  I knew I wouldn't be disappointed.  When asked about his experience in the arts, Skip harkened back to his days as a child model.  I sat in the audience feeling like I'd been whacked with a big old goofy stick.  In what could have possibly been the non sequitur of the decade, he quickly veered from THAT to reiterating the story of how he'd inherited his father's advertising company and proceeded to fire everybody.  He would continue to pepper his answers to the moderator with little references to said modeling years throughout the session.  If I had been sitting at home watching on the television I would have hit the DVR record button immediately.  It wasn't just 'funny haha'--it was a real three stooges knee-slapper.  I wouldn't have been more surprised if he had stood up and started dancing The Charleston he'd learned for his high school cotillion.  The second thing he sort of got stuck on was his stance on 'free speech'.  Now let me say for the record that I'm a huge fan of free speech (given that it's in the Constitution and all).  Somehow, it became an overarching theme for him.  However, given the context and theme of this particular forum, it was sort of like harping on about how he's a big fan of photosynthesis.  ("Photosynthesis is GREAT!  Photosynthesis is real important!  We all need to get behind photosynthesis!")  The real shocker came when he stood up and said he couldn't remember the last arts event he attended in the city.  I tweeted the hashtag, Australopithecus and was done with him.

Mayor Jim Newberry

Mayor Newberry pretty much hit it out of the park.  If I am to be fair, his performance was steady, clear, and admirable.  He committed, yet again, to his unwavering commitment to maintaining current funding for Lexarts.  (In fact, he even took the calculated risk of advocating for what could essentially be called a Cultural Bureau consisting of grassroots arts organization to function outside but alongside LexArts.  A lot of people have complained for years about LexArts' inability to represent all of the different arts constituencies in the community.  "With all due and great respect to Jim Clark," the mayor stated, "this could be something of great benefit for Lexington."  He went on to reiterate his support of the eco-Arts program; to advocate for a destination-level museum in Lexington; and to present a meticulous and well thought out arts agenda for the city.  He spoke clearly and cohesively, articulating what he had done and what he envisions for our city.  I found myself nodding in agreement with him more than once.  I had the occasion to speak with the mayor at the recent gallery hop opening for the Lexington Art League's 'Side by Side' program at city hall.  This particular program actually inspired me to get involved in arts advocacy on a state level.  In fact, I had the honor of working on a similar program with Representative Kelly Flood.  I took the time to walk up and shake the mayor's hand, thanking him for his support.  He looked me straight in the eyes and said (and I quote him directly), "You know, out of all of the things I've done as mayor, this is truly one of the most personally meaningful."  I absolutely agreed with him.  I thanked him for his unwavering support.  The mayor, I believe, truly supports the arts.  While it is politically expeditious to support the arts during an election cycle, Mayor Newberry has proven over the course of his term that he believes in the power of the arts; as an economic driver, as a cultural enhancer, and as a means of tying a city together.  One of the things he said at the forum that impressed me the MOST was that the arts are important in and of themselves, not just as a means to some economic end.  It was a simple, elegant, and incredibly powerful statement to make.

Vice Mayor Jim Gray 

Let me start off by saying that Jim Gray is a personal mentor of mine.  He and council member Diane Lawless steered me to the Lexington Art League's Board of Directors years ago.  I have long been inspired by Jim's enthusiasm and absolute devotion to the arts; the way he incorporates the arts into every aspect of his daily life and business; and his long and deep history of arts patronage.  He has influenced the way I live my life and that is the strongest endorsement I could ever offer anyone.  Ever.  He doesn't just talk the talk--he's walked the walk long before I stepped onto the arts scene.  From gallery owners in Manhattan to artists on the streets of Lexington, people trust Jim and his artistic pedigree invariably precedes him.  However, if I hadn't known the man before taking my seat in the Downtown Arts Center, I would have been a little confused by his presentation.  I found myself filling in the spaces in his presentation with facts, anecdotes, and direct personal observations gathered over the years.  When Mayor Newberry started advocating for a museum in Lexington, I felt like I was watching 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers'.  It was like 'the Jims' had changed bodies or something.  It was just surreal.  I've heard Jim Gray talk about the subtleties of the Lexington arts community for years with a clear and inspirational voice.  It was a bit confusing to sit in the audience and to be familiar with his absolute devotion to the arts and not hear it articulated as clearly as I have heard it done hundreds of times before over hundreds of previous conversations.  

So I just can't help myself.  There are some things that stick in my brain, like a gleaming treble fishhook set somewhere near the hippocampus, that I just have to get out of my cranial vault.  The only precious sanctuary I find is in writing about it.  That typically unsets the hook and 'POOF"--just like magic, I can go on about my daily business.  I don't know how to preface what set me about other than to just be 'out with it', so here it is:  a friend of mine had a 'date-but-not-a-date' with a Marxist.  I was on my lunch break at the office when we began exchanging texts.  During the hour, I quickly realized two things, the first being that I needed to pull out my dusty copy of "The Gulag Archipelago".  Somehow during my college years at Centre, I had come to associate Marxism with Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's epic (and incredibly moving) tome.  The second thing I realized was that neither one of us had absolutely any idea what to serve a proud member of the proletariat class.  He was stopping by later on that evening and the only thing she had in the fridge was some moldy sangria left over from what was attended by, in retrospect, a complete and perfect example of the local bourgeoise.

While my inclination is to decompress potentially volatile conversations and discussions with levity, I have to admit that I was somewhat startled when I started thinking about the cultural clash playing out not only nationally, but also in my own back yard.  What started off as casual research to educate myself about my friend's new friend (someone I am bound to meet and interact with, potentially on a regular basis), I realized that the american political landscape has changed.  I'm not talking about a subtle shift in the terrain; I'm talking about an earthquake.

I saw my friend (and her self-proclaimed proletariat friend) at one of a string of mayoral forums last night that we both regularly attend.  This particular forum was on, of course, environmental sustainability.  I had just attended the "Now What Lexington?" conference here in Lexington, and was interested to see how the local mayoral candidates would address the green issue.  Each of the candidates (excepting Skip "Bring the Crazy" Horine) had obviously prepared for the tough questions asked by the moderator from the Scripps-Howard First Amendment Center, local university professors, and community activists.  While sitting in the audience trying to tweet from a friend's Blackberry (my iPhone was dead); sitting directly behind my friend and her friend the Marxist; I reflected on the goodwill and energy I was still feeling from the weekend conference I had just blogged about.  Then the oddest thing happened.  I realized that I had heard these arguments before.  Back in the 90s, my interest had been piqued by the Green Party movement in Germany.  I remember reading a headline somewhere about how the Green Party had actually become a political force with which to be reckoned.

So I came home thinking about Marxism.  And the Green Party.  And ProgressLex.  And it all still bothered me.  Like a fishhook in the brain.  So I got on the American Green Party website, and compared it to the ProgressLex website (to which, incidentally, I was asked to submit my take on the Creative Cities Summit follow-up and upon which those comments currently reside).  It would appear that I have become a Green Party supporter without actually having realized it.  It startled me.  From a microscopic standpoint, the political and social turmoil emanating from the HUGE nationally political pendulum swing from 'right' to 'left' has left me a little out of sorts.  From a macroscopic standpoint, these changes have funneled different people who have felt repressed for so long under the Bush administration into these political enclaves and niches.  I just happened to end up, apparently, in the Green Party.  The thing that surprises me the most is that it had never even OCCURRED to me that this is who I am.  It's like waking up in Paris without remembering how I got there.  I don't even remember getting on the plane.  I like Paris as much as the next guy, but I'm not sure I want to live there.  I feel like Donnie Darko when Frank-the-six-foot-tall bunny rabbit says, 'Wake up.'

The point I'm trying to make(at least to myself), is that populism and indignation; repression and activism; they all conspire and inform each of us in different ways.  There are historic paradigms that can inform us as communities, as individuals, and as nations.  In times of political upheaval, I usually pull out my copy of Hannah Arendt's "The Origins of Totalitarianism".   Although the german-to-english translation  is dense, it reminds me to take care.  While I'll not disavow my recent foray into going green, I'll need to get the lay of the land.