Run Katie Run: May 2021 Artist of the Month

Run Katie Run May 2021 Artist of the Month

 

RUN KATIE RUN

Running on Love

 

Among the things I admire about the band Run Katie Run is that their tunes never quite turn out the way you think they will. This Atlanta-based quintet consists of Kate Coleman (vocals), husband Corey Coleman (guitar), Adam Pendlington (guitar, banjo), Stephen Quinn (bass), and Ian Pendlington (drums). They often get classified as an Americana outfit, but that has a lot to do with not being able to find a peg with their name on it.

 

Kate Coleman–a Buffalo native–is the “Katie” at the center of things. “15 Minutes” opens like it’s a little folk ditty with Coleman playing the role of dainty chanteuse. Then you notice the lyrics are a bit skewed. Is this a song about how warmup groups only get 15 minutes to shine, a metaphor for a stale relationship, or both? Coleman’s voice shifts from fragile to probing and challenging. It’s not quite a boot in the backside, but the toe is arching upward. Coleman’s voice rises, jumps, and the emotions swell. And what do we make of the brief jam band-like electric guitar lines? Then we come full circle. Is Coleman having us on, or is something deeper unfolding? It’s a delight whatever else it might be. 

 

Coleman’s staccato cadences on “No Way Out,” an exploration of how the USA is on the fast track to nowhere, presages sprays of guitar notes and segues to ominous screams and near cacophony. But again, those big swells are followed by an amble back to a calmer place. “Stolen Time” is much gentler in theme–wanting to stay in that “stolen moment” that’s more certain than whether a couple is on a “staircase to the stars of freefall to Hell”­–but the arrangement is equal parts Dixie Chicks, nouveau punk, and indie rock.

 

The Run Katie Run is another opportunity for Coleman to air out her lungs. Its tune, like most on the six-track EP, is a pastiche that sometimes feels more San Fran than Nashville or Atlanta. Coleman lists Dolly Parton and Janis Joplin among her influences. She manages to capture a bit of each without sounding like either. Or maybe you’d prefer the funk/soul groove of “Stay or Leave,” or the uber-catchy hooks of “Kinda Hoping.” Your toes will tap to the latter no matter how hard you resist. And that’s another thing I like about Run Katie Run. They didn’t hook me at first, but they sure reeled me in.

 

Rob Weir

The Darkness Knows a Gripping Icelandic Mystery

 

THE DARKNESS KNOWS (2021)

By Arnaldur Indridason

Minotaur Books/St. Martin’s Press, 352 pages.

★★★★

 

 

Arnaldur Indridason is one of Iceland’s top crime fiction writers, and his newest novel, The Darkness Knows demonstrates why. Some readers might know his protagonist, Konrád, from Indridason’s The Shadow District (2017).

 

Konrád is retired, but he has trouble staying that way. To say that Konrád has issues is an understatement. Before his criminal father was murdered in an unsolved case, he sometimes used young Konrád as a foil in his schemes. With a background such as that, Konrád wasn’t always trusted by his colleagues when he became a cop and, given that he has a withered arm, he wasn’t exactly the usual physical candidate either. Konrád quit the force to care for his wife Erne, who died of cancer, but he’s still haunted from having cheated on her when she was ill. He also has a terse relationship with son Húgo, who is a cold fish, and is married to a woman Konrád finds overbearing, though he loves his twin grandkids. The latter are pretty much his sole joy.

 

To further complicate matters, a cold case–the disappearance of a man named Sigurvin in 1985–heats up when, courtesy of global warming, Sigurvin’s preserved body emerges from the melt on Langjökull glacier. This is especially unsettling as Konrád was part of the team that arrested Hjaltalín for Sigurvin’s murder 30 years earlier, though without a corpse, they couldn’t make the charges stick. Now Hjaltalín is back in jail and insists on speaking with Konrád. All the evidence then and now points to Hjaltalín, and though and he and Konrád don’t particularly like each other, Hjaltalín trusts him more than any other cop. Hjaltalín is dying from throat cancer, but he’s confessing to nothing. He wants Konrád to promise he will clear his name, though Konrád refuses as he’s sure the right man is in jail.

 

That last point is a Chekhov’s gun, of course. Against his better judgment, Konrád is sucked back into a case he wishes had stayed frozen. So how does a guy who has been off the force for six years even have the authority to investigate? He doesn’t, actually, though he calls upon a few favors. Even those are fraught: the pathologist with whom he had his affair, Reykjavik chief inspector Marta who puts him on a short leash, and several surly lower-level functionaries. Major obstacles remain. The lead investigator in 1985 despises Konrád and others on the force find him a nuisance. Plus, he’s an ex-cop so anyone who wishes to can simply slam the door on him and proceed to do exactly that. All the signs say that Konrád should walk away and if that’s not another Chekhov’s gun, old Anton was from Iowa.

 

Of course, Konrád doesn’t slink away, or this would be a 25-page novel. Things get messier when Konrád encounters a woman named Herdís who wants him to look into her brother Villi’s hit-and-run death in 2009. Herdís remembers that Villi met a man on the night Sigurvin disappeared and thinks something untoward occurred. If that’s not labyrinthine enough for you, Konrád imagines that perhaps his father’s murder in 1963 somehow connects to all of this. You might wonder how three killings spread over 46 can possibly be part of a pattern. Maybe they’re not. One of the intriguing things about the novel is that Konrád is the opposite pole from preternaturally prescient investigators. A big part of him still thinks that Hjaltalín is a guilty as an Icelandic summer is long. But it boils down a question of how he can possibly stay retired with three mysteries lying on the table like crack awaiting an addict’s nose.

 

By now you probably realize that Indridson favors complexity and damaged psyches over cookie cutter potboilers. Before The Darkness Knows wraps, it takes us many places. Hjaltalín’s dying refusal to provide an alibi for his whereabouts on the evening that Sigurvin was dumped into his glacial grave is evocative of the trial of the American labor troubadour Joe Hill. Indridson also steers us into fake spiritualism, seedy bars, the Boy Scouts, suicide, infidelity, and the Icelandic financial crash (2008-10). On that journey, Konrád encounters a gaggle of characters that range from the down-and-out and remorseful to the ominous and amoral. Like readers, Konrád is never sure what’s a real clue and what’s a red herring.

 

The Darkness Knows does employ several Chekhov’s guns that fire blanks. It stretches credulity that the mere discovery of Sigurvin’s body triggers memories that they did not 30 years earlier and with implausible vividness. As much as I appreciated the complexity of Indridson’s plotting, there is also a palpable sense that snipping several threads would have made for a tidier book. But I’ll take an intelligent mystery over one stuffed with clichés any day of the week.

 

 

Rob Weir

Despite Script Issues, The Big Sleep is Essential Film Noir

 

 

THE BIG SLEEP (1946)

Directed by Howard Hawks

Warner Brothers, 114 minutes, Not-rated.

★★★★

 

 

Raymond Chandler is among the most famous hardboiled detective fiction authors in American history. It was either his good fortune or curse–depending on your point of view–to have his 1939 debut novel made into a Hollywood movie. From the moment The Big Sleep hit the screen, Humphrey Bogart owned the role of private detective Philip Marlowe. This film is now regarded as both a film noir classic and one of the very best within that genre.

 

I’m not sure that I buy that assessment–the film version of Chandler’s novel was both tamed to comply with Hays Office censors and is often hard to follow–but there’s no denying its grit or the chemistry between Bogart and Lauren Bacall, who plays the role of Vivian Sternwood Rutledge. Speaking of the Hays Office, her sister and father bear the surname Sternwood. Vivian is divorced, but that’s scarcely mentioned as the subject was semi-taboo, so Hawks and a scriptwriting crew that included William Faulkner, simply wrote around it.

 

The Big Sleep is labyrinthian at times in part because it’s as much a pastiche of character studies as a murder mystery. Marlowe first appears at the Sternwood mansion to visit General Sternwood (Charles Waldron), who wants Marlowe to intervene in a mess involving his younger daughter Carmen (Martha Vickers). She has racked up considerable gambling debts with a bookseller named Geiger and there are also some incriminating photos of her being used by another lowlife, Joe Brody (Louis Jean Heydt) to extort money from the general. (In the novel, Brody’s a porn dealer and Carmen has been photographed nude.) Oddly, though, General Sternwood seems more interested in the whereabouts of Sean Regan, a missing associate he’s been grooming. (Regan’s storyline lacks depth in the movie.)

 

Again, The Big Sleep is more about characters than linear plotlines, but what a collection of on-the-razor’s-edge toughs and wannabe toughs they are. Carmen is a piece of work to say the least. She cavorts with gangsters, parties hard, and is as moral as a rabbit in mating season. The first time she sees Marlowe she does everything except rip his pants off, though Marlowe sees her as the bad news she is and has eyes for her older sister Vivian. It seems our surly detective finds Vivian’s tart tongue and bad attitude a much more seductive form of foreplay than short skirts, home-hither glances, and sex kitten purring that would make Lolita blush.

 

What’s going on? Don’t ask the dame who runs Geiger’s bookstore/front (Dorothy Malone). She’s furtive, and she too likes the cut of Marlowe’s jib. The plot thickens when Geiger is murdered and Marlowe pulls a drugged Carmen from Geiger’s home just before the cops arrive. Liberties are taken with details, but in any Chandler novel the corpses tend to pile up. Carmen’s driver also meets him maker and it seems that all of the lowlife punks have connections to a bigger one, Eddie Mars (John Ridgely). Eddie has other axes to grind. His wife Mona (Peggy Knudsen) ran off with Regan. Somehow everything connects, though the only one that you can follow without your note cards is the connection forged between Marlowe and Vivian. As in all the best screen romances, though, theirs is a series of attract-repel dances.

 

Bogart and Bacall redeem what might otherwise have been a head-scratching film. As you might have inferred, the script is often muddier than a mutt rolling on a riverbank, but it’s easy to overlook in a film in which Bogart defined Philip Marlowe and Bacall embodied steaminess and exhaled cool air. As in most noir films, certain outcomes are dictated by the production code enforced by the Hays Office. Nonetheless, there is a rather surprise turnabout as the film draws to a close.

 

Even though I’d judge The Big Sleep as a cut below a masterpiece, it is essential viewing for anyone interested in film noir. It certainly looks the part in that it’s a lot more shadow than sunlight. You’ll also see how strong leads can compensate for script inconsistencies. And maybe you’ll learn that a big literary reputation (Faulkner) doesn’t always trump a great pulp writer (Chandler).

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

The Glass Kingdom: Intrigue in Bangkok

 

 

THE GLASS KINGDOM (2021)

By Lawrence Osborne

Random House, 304 pages

★★★

 

  

Tales of Westerners out of their depth in foreign climes spark comparisons to Graham Greene. That's unfair, given Greene’s exalted standing in the literary canon, but inevitable. The Glass Kingdom is a psychological mystery set in Thailand, presumably in recent times, though author Lawrence Osborne prefers inner histories to collective ones.

 

Because of its strategic importance during the Cold War, Westerners like to pretend that Thailand is a benevolent monarchy. That’s not true, but the romance of Bangkok and the pristine beaches of Phuket add to the tendency to ignore Thailand’s kleptocratic royals, the military’s iron grip upon the populace, and its seedy underbelly. The latter quality is why the novel’s thieving central character Sarah Mullins, finds it a good place to hide out as she plots her next move. The title derives its name from a once-posh-now-fading apartment tower complex. The fragility of glass is, of course, an obvious metaphor for things that easily shatter. Another is that what is seen clearly is often out of synch with what goes on behind drawn shades or in the shadows in the streets.

 

Sarah is a con artist who won the trust of April Laverty, an august but ageing novelist. Mullins forges documents, disguises herself, and absconds to Bangkok with a suitcase filled with an ill-begotten $200,000 from fake Laverty papers she sold to collectors. In Thailand, Sarah spends a lot of time on her own and it would have been better had she kept things that way. Instead, Sarah befriends several other women: Ximena, a Chilean-born chef; Mali, a Thai woman of uncertain virtue whose current beau is a Japanese businessman named Ryo; and Natalie, a British manager of Marriot properties married to Roland, a womanizer who might be some sort of diplomat. Several other characters come into Sarah’s orbit: the widowed Mrs. Lim, who owns the Glass Kingdom; Pop, the Kingdom’s Mr. Fix-it; a (maybe) blind woman who might or might not own a dog Mali claims is hers; and Goi, a local maid who also dabbles as a spy for anyone who wants to pay for information.

 

The strength of Osborne’s novel lies with his vivid descriptions of Thai society, Bangkok’s various pulses, and smoldering political intrigue. He also makes us see what Sarah, Ximena, and Natalie only glimpse: smiling exteriors of locals masking deep disdain for privileged, clueless Westerners who somehow believe money insulates them. I imagined parallels between Osborne’s Bangkok and Casablanca during World War II. Let us simply observe that morality, loyalty, and unimpeachable “official” reports were not the principal products of either locale.

 

All four women are imperiled, though not all realize it. Do we care? Not always. Sarah is very difficult to like. As if being a thief isn’t enough, she’s also vain and incredibly oblivious. On the last score, she’s an out-of-touch mammothrept that some readers may not find a credible character. That’s one reading; another is that she’s the Ugly American in heels; that is, an archetype of a Westerner who thinks she understands more than she does and desperately needs a weatherman to tell her which way the wind is blowing.

 

Osborne gives us numerous reminders that most of the book’s non-Thai characters are at sea, though their interactions with each are equally murky. In essence, Osborne surrounds shady people with shadier ones. The novel erodes with the monsoon floods when The Glass Kingdom ventures into things­ such as murder, disappearances, blackmail, multiple double crosses, and a gathering coup. As the Thai heat and sunshine begin to yield to torrential rain, are we to infer that glass kingdoms will be washed away? There is a stochastic quality to the last quarter of The Glass Kingdom because Osborne doesn’t close enough of the gap between the psychological interiority of his characters and the external capers, mysteries, and dangers into which they are immersed.

 

Call this one three-quarters Graham Greene. This makes it a very good effort, even though The Glass Kingdom doesn’t rise to penthouse level.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

 

Promising Young Woman: Mulligan is Great, the Film is Uneven

 

PROMISING YOUNG WOMAN (2020)

Written and directed by Emerald Fennell

Focus Features, 113 minutes, R (sexual situations, drug use, violence)

★★★

 

 

 

This one could be subtitled “How Cassie Lost Her Mojo.” On paper, Cassandra Thomas (Carey Mulligan) has it all. She’s brainy, quick-thinking, beautiful, and comes from a good family. So why is she a 30-year-old medical school dropout, living at home, with no partner, and working in a dead-end job as a barista?

 

Promising Young Woman tackles the serious social problem of spirited girls and young women hollowed out by trauma. In Cassie’s case, it’s not she who was victimized, rather her best friend Nina. We never meet Nina, but we know that something bad happened to her that so scarred Cassie that she chucked her promise and withdrew into a cynical shell. Her parents (Clancy Brown and Jennifer Coolidge) can’t crack that shell, and even her boss Gail (Laverne Cox), the closest thing she has to a friend, finds her perplexing. Nor do they know about her extracurricular activities. Cassie goes to clubs and bars, feigns extreme drunkenness, goes home with strange men, and scares the crap out of them when they discover she’s stone-cold sober and psycho-like menacing.  

 

From this we infer that Cassie fancies herself an avenging angel. Promising Young Woman deals with a he said/she said situation in which “she” isn’t believed. Not by a female law school dean (Connie Britton), not by men Cassie once considered friends, not by her female colleagues, and certainly not by the attorney (Alfred Molina) who eviscerated the victim and made her look like the little girl who cried wolf. Some of you might recognize the name Cassandra from Greek mythology. She was the Trojan prophetess whose curse was that she always told the truth, but no one believed her. Cassie has a tale to tell, but no one wants to hear it.

 

Maybe Cassie should do as another character (Molly Shannon) tells her to do: move on. When she meets the quirky, take-it-slow Dr. Ryan Cooper (Bo Burnham), she starts to do exactly that. But when she hears that Dr. Al Monroe (Chris Lowell) is getting married, things go very, very wrong. Cassandra morphs into Pandora and opens dangerous boxes filled with things that she would have been better off not knowing.

 

Mulligan was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar for her role as Cassie. She didn’t win, but she certainly deserved to be considered. She strikes two contradictory chords. When she dons her nighttime warrior princess battle paints to haunt bars, she’s slutty and crazed; when she moves through the day, she is alluring and has just enough radiance peeking through that everyone wants to help her out of her rut. Maybe the real Cassie consists of both sides, but Mulligan keeps us guessing which part of her will prevail. Burnham also walks a thin line. In his case, we wonder if he’s an adorable goofball, or a man who is too good to be true. Promising Young Woman is essentially a two-person dance in which the rest of the cast contribute flesh-out-the-script cameos.

 

Would that the film matched its central performances. This is 35-year-year-old Emerald Fennell’s directorial debut and she has a good-but-not-great grasp on her task. Aspects of the story, central mystery, and lead performances are strong, but the total package is a neither fish nor fowl production that ultimately tantalizes but disappoints. I’m being literal about its essential lack of identity. You will see Promising Young Woman labeled as a feminist movie, a thriller, a drama, and a black comedy. It has dimensions of each, but let me ask this question. If you tried to make a mash of The Brave One, 9 to 5, Hard Candy, and the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, what would it look like? And what if I asked you to add elements of Thelma and Louise and Joker?

 

Promising Young Woman is too good to dismiss, but you’d have to stretch the definition to call it feminist, rachet the fear factor to label it a thriller, smooth out its tone for it to be a drama, and the subject matter doesn’t lend itself to laughter. I’d add that lord knows men have a lot to answer for, but I’m not convinced that replacing stereotypes against women with those directed against men is much more than polishing a different boilerplate.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

  

 

Dark Pasage a Lesser Appreciated Bogart-Bacall Film

 

DARK PASSAGE (1947)

Directed by Delmer Davies

Warner Brothers, 106 minutes, Not-rated (Pre-ratings system)

★★★ ½

 

 

 

Dark Passage is a film noir offering that’s better regarded now than it was in its day. It stars Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, which you might assume would assure box office success. It might have been, had Bogart been more visible, but more on that in a moment.

 

Vincent Parry (Bogart) has just escaped from San Quentin, where he’s doing time for the murder of his wife. As he flees, he catches a ride with an affable man named Baker (Clifton Young), who is instantly suspicious of his passenger’s dirty clothing and soggy shoes. When a radio broadcast describes Parry–who we do not see–Parry knocks out Baker and desperately makes his way toward San Francisco. He catches a ride with Irene Jansen (Bacall), who knows exactly who Parry is but has followed his case and is convinced he is innocent. She helps him avoid a roadblock and takes him to her apartment, but Vincent won’t stay there until he is less recognizable, lest he put Irene in jeopardy. He sneaks out and is picked up by a cab driver (Tom D’Andrea), who also recognizes Parry but isn’t the sort to rat. In fact, he takes Parry to a plastic surgeon friend, Dr. Walter Cooley (Houseley Stevenson), who completely alters his looks. Parry hopes to hole up with an old friend, George Fellsinger (Rory Mallinson), but finds George has been murdered.

 

He this returns to Irene’s apartment to finish recuperating. Irene has her reasons for helping–her father was falsely convicted–but mainly she’s a sassy, independent gal with a sometimes boyfriend named Bob, who she is decidedly not in love with. Keeping Parry hidden from Bob (Bruce Bennett) or her prying neighbor Madge Raft (Agnes Morehead) takes some serious fancy maneuvering, though the prodnose Madge suspects something fishy is going on and Vincent needs to avoid her as she once came on to him, was rebuffed, and she ended up testifying against him at his murder trial.

 

Irene plays nursemaid and we only see Bogart for the first time when his bandages come off. Dark Passage evolves into a mouse and several cats drama. The plot thickens when, the on-the-loose Vincent is the prime suspect in Fellsinger’s murder. This becomes a meandering mystery in which not everyone is who they appear to be. Is Vincent really a murderer, or was he–as he claims–framed? Watch and learn.

 

At the time, Bogart was considered a real heartthrob which, in retrospect, made it a bad gamble to think that his name alone would compensate for not seeing his mug for the first third of the picture. Today, Dark Passage seems innovative for its point-of-view shots, but maybe that's also because not many people continue to think of Bogie as devastatingly handsome. In many ways, it’s Morehead who steals the picture. She plays the role of the woman you want to hate. She is nosy, acidic, duplicitous, and ten kinds of nasty. Bacall is, as always, quick with a quip and magnetic. By 1947, everyone knew that she and Bogart were an item–they married two years earlier–and this was the third film they made together. Still, those expecting a storied on-screen romance would have been disappointed by Dark Passage, which is a much grittier movie.

 

There are aspects of the film that don’t hold up well. Stevenson’s role as Dr. Coley played much better in 1946 than it does 75 years later, though I suspect that even then Coley came off as more of a mad scientist than a surgeon. Young and Bennett are rather wooden and, though Young does what he could with the character of Baker, the script did him no favors. But the black and white film stock does for San Francisco what it would do for Tijuana 11 years later in Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil. In both cases, it’s the shadows that matter more than the light.

 

I won’t claim that Dark Passage is pathbreaking film noir like the masterful Touch of Evil, but it is an underappreciated and lesser-known effort that deserves a new look. I’d say it’s Humphrey Bogart as you’ve never seen him before, but it would be wrong of me to stoop that low!

 

Rob Weir

Can You Speak American? Don't Be So Sure!

 

SPEAKING AMERICAN (2016)

By Josh Katz

Houghton Mifflin, 224 pages.

★★★★

 

 

 

I have been asked if there is anything I wanted to do in my academic years that didn’t happen. Leaving aside the fact that anybody in any career could answer “yes” to that question, there is one very cool thing I wish I had done. I wish I had been a field researcher for the Dictionary of American Regional English (DARE).

 

It’s no longer PC to quote Bill Cosby, but he once wryly observed that he never had any regret about not knowing lots of languages like cheek-by-jowl Europeans. The punchline: “I’m from Philadelphia, but I can speak Cleveland.” That’s a funny line, but it’s not a very accurate one. The reality is that where you live in America determines how you speak about, consider, and negotiate daily life. Want a long sandwich stuffed with vegetables and cold cuts? Is it a sub(marine), a grinder, a hero, a hoagie, or a po’(or) boy?

 

You might protest there is a difference between several of these; grinders and poor boys are usually hot sandwiches, for instance. Or not! It really depends on where you live. Want a milk- or ice cream-based drink to go with it? Do you order a milk shake, a malt(ed), a frappe, or a cabinet? The last of those is seldom used outside of Rhode Island and it is coffee-flavored–unless you’re in bordering parts of southern Massachusetts where you should specify the flavor. And don’t assume a frappe will have an egg in it, or that it won’t.

 

The DARE is a massive six volumes that were released over a 38-year period. Josh Katz’s Speaking American is a sampling in a compact 224 pages with maps and illustrations. It’s more of a coffee table book than a serious read, but it’s a delight nonetheless. It’s the kind of book that you and a friend or partner can read together on the sofa. Or is it a couch? Or a davenport? Maybe a divan. Furniture people will tell you those terms differ as well, but ignore them because whatever they say won’t wash in vast sections of the nation.

 

In the southcentral Pennsylvania of my youth, we used the term you’uns as a collective noun. In much of the South, it’s y’all; in sections of New York youse. But if you live in the greater Pittsburgh area it’s yins, which is almost never used anywhere else! What do you call the strip of vegetation that divides lanes of a highway? A median strip? A verge? A parkway? A lawn? Something else entirely? When you slip a pair of denim trousers, are they jeans, dungarees, chaps, overalls, or perhaps Levi’s in a non-copyrighted sense? Is a swirly frozen treat from a machine a creemee or soft serve? Do you ask for sprinkles or jimmies on it? And where do you keep the money for pay for it, in your wallet or your billfold? When your younger self wanted to raise Cain the night of October 30, did you call it Cabbage Night, Devil’s Night, or simply Mischief Night?

 

You get the picture. Cosby joked about it, but in many ways, speaking Philadelphia isn’t at all the same as speaking Cleveland, and it surely isn’t the same as speaking Birmingham, Houston, Little Rock, or San Francisco. And for heaven’s sake, never bring a casserole to a potluck in Minnesota; it’s a hotdish, thank you very much.

 

I’ve not even touched on the book’s discussion of pronunciations and accents. Sometimes it’s a wonder that Americans manage to talk with each other at all. Speaking American is, simply, a fun book. Grab a soda, pop, tonic, or (generic) coke and leaf through it. Or, if you’d rather, grab something alcoholic, if you can decide whether to purchase it at a packie, a beer barn, a party barn, a beverage barn, or a brew thru. Get good and soused, shit-faced, fried, blitzed, or tipsy and you can be outraged that the terms Katz identifies don’t match what you think. Whaddya want from 224 pages? You can always read all six volumes of the DARE, if you’d rather.

 

Rob Weir