Thanksgiving Etiquette: Don’t Be a Turkey

 

In movie terms, a “turkey” is a flop; in slang it means a foolish or obnoxious person. Thanksgiving is my favorite American holiday because it is the most democratic. It doesn’t overtly involve religion, gift-giving, commercialism, or anguish (beyond properly timing the bird). It’s devoted to food, friends, family, and thankfulness. Yet, a non-edible turkey can ruin the day. Here are some tips for hosts and guests, the common denominator being: Don’t be a turkey.

 

If you are hosting, advise guests in advance that politics are off the table for everyone. It’s not exactly breaking news that Americans are deeply divided, which is true even for those who think they’re on the same side. For instance, many liberals disagree vehemently about the Israel versus Palestine conflict. A metaphorical show of hands if an angry argument over politics ever made wish to emigrate to Mongolia. Hosts should remind everyone to avoid politics and shut down anyone who violates that wish. You don’t have to get huffy about it; just a friendly-but-firm reminder that everyone has agreed to leave political battles for another day.

 

If you’re a guest, remember that you are in someone else’s home and they get to set the house rules. Bringing up contentious topics when asked not to is just as rude as passing gas.

 

Guests should adopt a mind-your-own-business (MYOB) attitude for the day. Chances are good that someone will be gay, lesbian, transgender, an aluminum siding salesperson, have green hair, have ugly tattoos, or possess some other quality that makes you uncomfortable. It is hypercritical to MYOB if it’s a relative or friend of one. Poet Robert Frost once sagaciously observed, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Codicil: That doesn’t give you the right to be a jerk.

 

Whether you are host or guest, if you invite someone to dinner who might stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, stick close to them and sit with them. Every family has the equivalent of Oscar the Grouch, so don’t set up that person for a miserable experience unless that guest is comfortable dealing with cranks. Surprisingly, many people are, but let that be their choice not the product of some anal seating arrangement.

 

Never criticize the food– even if it sucks! If you’re vegetarian, vegan, or subsist on road kill, stay home. There was a recent Boston Globe article about a man who has hosted Thanksgiving for decades and has grown so sick of guests who announce their food preferences as they walk through the door that his invites come with the advice that if you are vegan or vegetarian, “Bring your own disgusting food with you.” That’s harsh, but we’ve all been there, yes?

 

Hosts, be chill; it’s a real bummer when the host collapses with a nervous breakdown. Get a large bunch of people in one room and chances are good something will go wrong–a spilled drink, a broken plate, a gravy spill…. These are trivial things. Don’t try to be Martha Stewart perfect. Even if you pulled it off you’d make your guests uptight. The point of the day is to be grateful for one another’s company.

 

It’s not necessary for a host to make so many dishes that a solid oak table bows in the middle. If you have enough food for all, it’s fine to make just a few side dishes instead of trying to replicate a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post Thanksgiving. For the record, the Saturday Evening Post ceased publication in 1969, about the time standards became less formal. It’s also not a good time to experiment with recipes you’ve never made before. Plus, inevitably numerous people will bring a favorite Aunt Edith recipe, even though you’ve said, “Just bring yourself.” Men will bring myrrh, which is actually a bottle of Johnny Walker.    

 

Guests, offer to help, be it carrying items to the groaning board or volunteering to wash the dishes. Chances are approximately 99.43 to 1 your offer will be politely refused, but it’s a nice gesture. 

 

Turn-offs for most: (1) Hogs at the trough. (2) Thinking your young kids are so wonderful that everyone will think so. (3) Young kids preparing food. (4) Discussing medical issues at the table. (5) Using cellphones at the table.

 

Guys, no football until the meal is done, the table cleared, and you are banished to the TV room. Rushing to the TV with your plate in hand makes you an inconsiderate gobbler and a sexist in the eyes of many women. You’re a double turkey if you see everything related to the feast as “women’s work.” 

 

Getting plastered or stoned is an absolute no-no. It’s not a bad idea for the host or a trusted friend to designate someone to deal with such an unfortunate event. Don’t let a loud-mouthed lush or rambling space cadet ruin everyone’s day. You can and should drive that person home, but first separate the person from others, perhaps a room where the turkey can return to the planet. 

 

Non-negotiable: You can have as many kinds of pie as you wish, but one of them must be pumpkin. Not squash. Not sweet potato. Not yam.  P-U-M-P-K-I-N. If you disagree, we can’t talk. Ditto if you think carob is “just as good” as chocolate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Calendar Needs a Makeover

 

At the end of June a series of blue skies, tempering breezes, and long evenings made me think, “Why can’t we have more late spring?” Maybe we can! Let’s trash the old grade school mnemonic rhyme: “Thirty days has September, April, June, and November.” I have a better idea.

 

We should admit the calendar is screwed up and fix it. After all, climate change is real and it’s here. I’m probably asking for trouble with my next statement. Here goes: It’s been years since these parts (Western Massachusetts) have seen an old-fashioned New England winter.

 

Here's what used to happen. We got several light snows (2-3 inches) in early November just to toughen us up. By Thanksgiving, when darkness fell around 4:45 pm, bets were off for when the first Big One would hit. We’d start staring at the skies, look for halos around the moon, check in with the guy who plows the driveway, and make sure shovels and boots were at the ready. Roughly three of four Christmases were white, and count on cold and snowy Januarys and Februarys. With luck, a minor thaw around Groundhog Day brought brief respite. But as sure as the uncontrollable urge to read seed catalogs, a Nor’easter or two–known in the local parlance as “getting hammered”–buried anything shorter than the John Hancock building. Spring allegedly arrived in  March, but that was a mere strip tease. Actual spring might or might not begin to appear in early April–usually not. The first clue was a handful of snowdrops and crocuses peeking through an icy crust.

 

That was then. Now we often see no snow until Epiphany and the last several few years we’ve had very little at all. By mid-March most of the maple sap is done flowing and, if you wait until the end of the month, you’ll miss your sugar shack pancake breakfast. By early April, the lowlands are abloom. May and June have been hotter and wetter.

 

The Western world has used the Gregorian calendar since 1582. It was supposed to correct the vicissitudes of the older Julian calendar. Hah! No one counted upon human folly. For the record, lots of cultures don’t use the Gregorian calendar. Not that it matters as long as we agree that it takes 365 ¼ days for Spaceship Earth to circle the sun. There’s nothing magic about how many months we have or how many days are in each one. The sole bit of logic attached to twelve months with inconsistent allocations of days was an attempt to divide the year into roughly equal quarters based upon occurrences of the winter and summer solstices and the spring and fall equinoxes.

 

Big deal. The above logic has to be reversed in the Southern hemisphere, but they aren’t all that practical in the Northern hemisphere either. What do “official” designations matter if you live in Arizona or northern Maine? It’s pretty much the same year ‘round in warm climes, but ask someone in the northlands if cold weather holds off until December 21. On the other hand, the warmest months in New England tend to be July, August, and September, the latter an alleged “autumn” month.

 

You get the picture. So why not lop off a day off January and March and reassign them to the nicer months of April and June? I could be convinced to steal two more, say another from January and one from October to create a September 31 and June 32. Twenty-nine days in January and 28 in February would be plenty of winter! But I’ll be reasonable; it might be too difficult to reassign four days on short notice. But give me April and June 31 now, please.

 

After we adjust the calendar for my comfort we can proceed to tackle another big issue. Enjoying the light of long summer days? Me too. Let’s find the fools who decided to give us an extra hour of darkness beginning 2 am on November 3. Nobody needs more darkness unless they are a bear. I recommend hanging the inventors of Standard Time from a May Pole until they see the light of day.

 

Rob Weir

Why the Yankees Beard Ban is a Good Idea!

 

In 1973, George Steinbrenner (1930-2010) bought the New York Yankees. Three years later, he instituted a no-beards policy Yankees players. Steinbrenner was not a nice man, but he did restore the team to its past glories–11 American League championships and seven World Series.

 

Whatever you might think of Steinbrenner, he put his money where his (big) mouth was rather than pocketing profits like so many MLB owners these days do. He was never the richest MLB owner, but no one ever heard him cry poverty. (How unlike the Pohlad family that owns the Twins and insists they are a “small market” risk, though they are baseball’s  8^th richest ownership group!!)

 

George Steinbrenner was a conservative Republican whose no-beard rule was initially a reaction to the long hair/hippie look of the 1960s and 1970s. The policy has never been reversed. If you want to collect big New York bucks, ya’ gotta shave.

 

The Steinbrenner ban has been called anachronistic, an assault against freedom of expression, and a whole bunch of other things. It has never been called a good idea–until now! It turns out that old George was a wise arbiter of taste. He has saved home team fans from some of the worst beards ever to disgrace a human face.

 

Warning: The beards below are not just ugly, they’re downright scary. If you have small children, you should keep the below images hidden until they go to bed. A mere peek could distress their sleep worse than the monsters living under their beds. You too should limit yourself to an image or two at a time. It’s embarrassing when full grown adults need stuffed support animals to ward off nightmares.

 

Mike Fiers apparently fancies a post-MLB career in mathematics. He’s wearing the beginnings of a Fibonacci spiral on his face.

 

 

Jake Fraley will make you scurry to high ground to keep watch for invading Norsemen. Stay alert so you can flee with your family before they land.

 

 

Sergio Romo is retired now. He is presumably in search of Pancho Villa to help reclaim Aztlán on behalf of Mexico. 

 

 

 

Brian Wilson scalped an Amish guy.

 

 

 

Justin Turner isn’t human. He’s actually a deranged, possibly rabid leprechaun. 

 

 

 

Have you ever seen the movie Deliverance? Kevin Quakenbush was in it. Cue the banjos and run! 

 

 

If President Chester Arthur had added a full beard to his bushy sideburns, he would have been Brian Schlitter’s doppelganger.

 

 

 

 

Josh Harrison is what ‘bots will look like after the AI revolution conquers humankind.

 

 

 

Will someone please tell ZZ Top that their missing brother is hiding in Colorado under the assumed name of Charlie Blackmon?

 

 

 

It doesn’t get any more disturbing that Brandon Marsh. He was voted Most Likely to Became a Psychotic Murderer by his peers at the asylum. 

 

 

 

 

 

Now do you see why the Yankees ban beards? 

Random Thoughts for Today

Random Sunday Thoughts February 5, 2023

 

 

 

I left the Democratic Party during the Clinton administration. I was appalled by his callowness, his lying, and smiles as fake as a “genuine” Rolex sold in Shanghai back alleys. I cast votes for independents, or Democrats I find more trustworthy than Bonkin’ Bill or Hawkish Hillary. Almost all of them are either local or State (Massachusetts) candidates of sound policy and impeccable character: Jo Comerford, Jim McGovern, Lyndsay Sabadosa, Elizabeth Warren….

           

Why rehash “ancient” history? The Democratic National Committee has long been as braindead as Bill Clinton was amoral. A case in point is its decision to supplant New Hampshire as its first primary in favor of South Carolina. Are you freaking kidding me!? Can you say reality challenged? Why not change it to West Virginia or Utah, he asks sarcastically? A Democratic nominee for president has as much chance of winning South Carolina as that Shanghai Rolex has of fetching $10,000 on the open market. On the other hand, New Hampshire’s four electoral votes could be the difference between winning or losing an election in a divided land we ironically insist on calling the United States of America. So, what does the DNC do? It alienates the Granite State.

 

 

 

On a more pleasant note, I attended a Smith College basketball game last week, something I hadn’t done in decades. Smith is 19-1 and riding high (#5) in Division III women’s basketball polls.

 

Granted that Division III hoops can be as analogously ragged as, say, the lower levels of minor league baseball. Nonetheless, several things stood out that made me smile.

 

·      Coaches stress fundamentals. You’d have to watch NBA footage of the 1970s to see players pass the ball as often as women’s teams do. They cycle the ball in search of high-percentage shots or an open three. Am I alone in finding the modern NBA boring with constant three-point attempts, a shot with a less than 40% chance of success. Michael Jordan and Larry Bird shot percentage points under 50% for their careers; Magic Johnson retired at 52% and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar nearly 56%. See my point!

·      I nearly fainted to witness traveling calls and three-second violations. In the NBA, you’d have to take the inbound pass and run the length of the court with the rock under an arm before traveling would be called. You might need to pitch a tent beneath the hoop and take out a Coleman lantern to get a three-second whistle.

·      Decorum: Smith thumped Wheaton by 36 points. It could have been worse had not Smith emptied its bench early and often. Yet, players on both sides conducted themselves with dignity and respect. Any elbow thrown was accidental and composure was kept. Who’s in favor of automatic ejections in college and professional ball for thuggery?

 

 

 

 

A big thank you to my friend Huck for reminding what a great poet Frank O’Hara was. He was just 40 when he died in 1966, but his was a rare talent. He often wrote in deceptively plain blank verse about seemingly mundane observations. There was no need to unpack cryptic terms and arcane allusions in order to find the poignancy lurking within.

 

 

 

The Grammy Awards are tonight. I loathe award telecasts and won’t be tuning in. But hear this: The cameras will be pointed at industry-created celebrities, but for pure talent Molly Tuttle would hold her own against anyone and then some. She’s pigeonholed as a bluegrass performer, but there aren’t many in any genre worthy of carrying her guitar case. Watch her put some Martins to the trial:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xvo-4x3y9aU&list=RDXvo-4x3y9aU&start_radio=1  

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwuCG-UvgZo  (John Hartford is smiling from Heaven!)

Common Crackers for an Unexpected Treat

Common Cracker: The Exhibit

Through January 28, 2023 

Vermont History Museum 

109 State Street, Pavilion Building 

Montpelier, Vermont 

 

 

 

Have you ever visited a historical recreation of an old-time general store? Chances are good it features a large wooden barrel near the counter, perhaps with a checkers board atop it. If you thought it once held Saltines, let me make a counter claim. That’s a pun on my on my part, but those barrels were filled with “common crackers” not Saltines.  

 

 

 

I recently visited the Vermont History Museum and found myself fascinated by a common crackers exhibit I assumed would be as boring as waiting for the laundry to finish. If you are unfamiliar with this humble culinary offering, they are about 2 inches in diameter, about the size of a Ritz cracker, though it bears little resemblance to the flaky, buttery, and additive-laden Ritz wafers.  

 

 

 

Common crackers were a staple of the 19th century New England diet if for no other reason, they kept forever in an age of rudimentary refrigeration. Non-knowers confuse them with oyster crackers, but those are much smaller–about 5/8” in diameter–though they share the quality of being relatively tasteless. Common crackers are also sometimes confused with hardtack, but the latter –a favored food of long-range travelers like sailors and cowboys­– is much less palatable. As its name suggests it's like chewing on a piece of board, though worms seem to like them. Unlike hardtack, common crackers contain yeast. They are meticulously kneaded, rise for 24 hours, baked, and air dried. This makes them puffier and easier to split, which means you can put yummy things inside of them, such as cheddar cheese or butter and jam.

 

Relatives of ours who grew up in Massachusetts devoured a dish called “cracker toast.” Common crackers were placed in a bowl of warm milk into which butter had been melted, and a dash of salt was added. It creates a sort of mush, not exactly gourmet dining, but it’s surprisingly warming winter fare. A similar concoction is called “cracker and milk” in other parts of New England. Common crackers proved to have many other uses as well; they could be crumbled and used to coat other foods and, according to no less an expert than Julia Child, provide a unique substitute for oyster crackers in chowder. 

 

 

 

Before you dismiss the common cracker, know that millions were produced in Vermont during the 19th century. Who actually invented them is contestable. Theodore Pearson of Newburyport MA claimed credit, but his crackers are thought to be more of a cousin to yeast-less hardtack. Another Bay Stater claims he invented the common cracker in 1801, Artemus Kennedy of Arlington, MA said he did in1805, and to confuse matters more, an English immigrant to New Jersey claims he did so in 1842. You might encounter the term “Boston Crackers,” though today they are allegedly softer than the originals. Maine also got into the act; Portland Crackers were a thing.

 

 

 Vermonters responded that other claimants made prototypes of oyster crackers and the real deal was made by the Orton family in the 1820s. The Cross clan certainly invented the first machine to mass produce crackers in 1847, when Vermonters consumed common crackers with glee and in great volume. Before the 20th century dawned, it was as if every town in Vermont had its own common cracker: Burlington, Brattleboro, Morrisville, Montpelier, Rutland, St. Johnsbury, and a concern that straddled the White River/Hanover NH sides of the Connecticut River.  

 

The triumph of corporations doomed most of the small concerns and changed consumer palettes. Saltines dominate, but they are made by Nabisco, a multinational giant. Common crackers haven't disappeared, though. Hannaford's still sells them and the Vermont Country Store will mail you a reusable tin filled with common crackers they claim are based on the 1828 Orton recipe. You can also find items that that come in various colors and flavors, though they are abominations IMHO. 

 

With the holiday season upon us with all manner of sugary, caloric offerings, why not give the humble common cracker a taste drive? If you can, stop by Montpelier to unearth a fascinating chapter from the past. If that doesn't make you want to try common crackers, I can't help you.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Code Girls: The Women Who Helped Win WWII

 

CODE GIRLS: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE AMERICAN WOMEN CODE BREAKERS OF WORLD WAR II

By Liza Mundy

Hachette Books, 2017, 448 pages.

★★★★

 

 
 

Perhaps you have heard of the WACS and WAVES, but women’s contributions during World War II remain underappreciated. This is certainly true of those who worked as code breakers, like a deceased friend who was recruited when she was an undergraduate at Mt. Holyoke College. In deference to what would have been her wishes, I will refer to her  by the initial B.

 

 I did not know of Code Girls by Liza Mundy when B was alive. I sometimes wish we had known about this book earlier, though it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. B was chatty, sharp, and irreverent, but took no bait when prompted to talk about her wartime role. “I took an oath," said she, and maintained that stance even though stories about code girls had begun to surface in her lifetime and much of their once-secret mission had been declassified.

 

Mundy’s book gives an appreciation for the burden these women carried. They came from all walks of life, including those plucked from the best women’s colleges, but given that just four percent of women attended four-year colleges in 1942, the main criteria were an affinity for math, languages, and/or puzzle solving. B was highly intelligent, so I'm sure she ticked all of the boxes. The task was nothing less than breaking German and Japanese secret communications in an age in which electronic computing was in its infancy and there was no such thing artificial intelligence. Try cracking powerful mechanical encrypting machines through brainpower alone. Even if you figured out messages linguistically, what did the nonsensical words mean? That took late nights, intuition, and sweat.

 

Here's the kicker: much of what the women discovered could not be used, lest Axis powers suspect that their codes were compromised and change them. Information had to be parceled carefully and saved for crucial moments. Imagine the enormous weight of having advance knowledge that hundreds of GIs were marching toward their deaths. Many of the women had brothers and husbands in the war and their information could have prevented the slaughter of someone else's brothers and husbands. I often wonder if that's why B took her oath to the grave.

 

Mundy does a fine job of giving glimpses into the mindsets and patriotism of her subjects. Decades after the war ended in 1945, some were allowed to break their silence. Among them were a former Virginia school teacher, an African American recruit, a Smith College history major, an English scholar and champion swimmer, and a woman from a backwoods Pennsylvania town. Naturally, though, Mundy has lacunae in her story. After all, how much has been forgotten or embellished after the more than seven decades later?

 

There are common touchstones. The women spoke of their training. Those from humble backgrounds had never before ventured far from home before they reported to training facilities; several had to scrape together fare to get there. Quite a few had no idea what they had volunteered to do until they arrived. They had a sense of duty, but were also aware of the sexism of male superiors and bristled from the disrespect shown by men who were their intellectual inferiors. There were also maters of lower pay, poor work conditions, and crummy lodging. In the 1940s, what we’d today call structural sexism was the social norm. Many of Munde’s informants did not reflect upon fairness until years later; one gets the sense they were too busy and too exhausted to dwell upon it at the time. They simply figured out how to bypass inter-service rivalries, deflect personality clashes that led to inefficiencies, and cope with everyday indignities.

 

The code “girls”–and most were indeed young–were a mix of traditional and non-traditional individuals, some of whom presented in conventional feminine ways and others who embraced proto-feminist ideals. However we view the code breakers though, the stakes couldn’t have been much higher. Until the Japanese codes were broken in 1943, the United States was losing the war in the Pacific and it wasn’t much better in Europe. This alone makes the case that more attention should be cast upon those women whose names do not make the history books. They should take their place aside famous men such as MacArthur, Eisenhower, Halsey, and Patton.

 

Mundy’s is a fine early corrective. Only a lack of an index mars an otherwise stellar work.

 

Rob Weir

2018 Best and Worst in the Arts

2018 Best and Worst of the Arts

Time for the end of the year reckoning of things I loved and didn't. I admit that lists of this sort are often subjective, but here goes. A reminder: I'm not impressed by things that were first released only in New York and/or LA, so a few of these books, films, and recordings, are technically 2017 releases. We should honor things in the calendar year in which most Americans have access to them.

Anything underlined links to longer reviews. The lists below are in preferential order. 

BOOKS

The Best:

1. Michael Ondaatje, Warlight:  Wars don't end when the fighting stops.

2. Richard Powers, The Overstory: Yes, it's about trees and you should care.

3. Gail Honeyman, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine: You'll laugh; you'll cringe.

4. Kristin Hannah, The Great Alone: Alaska. Mother Nature doesn't care.

5. Walter Mosley, John Woman: Reinvention, of a sort.

6. Stephen Markley, Ohio: Blue-collar grit, hopes, and despair in the Heartlands.

7.  Jesmyn Ward, Sing, Unburied, Sing: Memory, history, and slavery's legacy.

8. Jennifer Egan, Manhattan Beach: Girl power, redemption, and danger.

9. George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo: Spoon River and its ghosts updated.

10. Tim DeRoche, The Ballad of Huck and Miguel: Huck Finn in the 21^st century.

Books that Wasted Trees:

1. Billy Coffey, Steal Away Home: Preaching posing as a baseball novel.

2. Lauren Groff, Florida: Snakes, gators, losers, and who cares?

3. Anna Quindlen, Alternate Side: Well-written book but unworthy characters.

MOVIES

Best on Screen:

1. Leave No Trace: Debra Granik scores again with her tale of damaged people who just want to be left alone.

2. BlacKkKlansman: Spike Lee's improbable but true tale of a black KKK member.

3. A Fantastic Woman: My vote for the best film about a transgendered person.

4. The Insult: Palestinians and Christians failing to exorcise the past.

5. On Chesil Beach: Overlooked gem of young love derailed.

6. Love, Gilda: Documentary that does justice to Radner's genius.

7. RBG: Call this documentary the making of a Supreme Court justice.

8. Roma: Beautifully filmed, though flawed remembrance of a family maid. Best             cinematography of the year.

9. Eighth Grade:  So well done you'll relive the pain!

10. Won't You Be My Neighbor? Great year for documentaries. Good time to remember Mr. Rogers.

Please Turn on the Lights!

1. Three Identical Strangers: If a scandal isn't a scandal, why film it?

2. Victoria and Abdul: Enough with the warm fuzzy Queen Victoria genre already.

3. I Tonya: Billed as a comedy about Tonya Harding. I didn't laugh.

4. Professor Marston and the Wonder Woman: Does it take talent to make a boring  film about fascinating subjects? Not really.

5. Planetarium: What I just said above, with séances.

6. The Circle: This Google-not-Google movie is an episodic mess.

7. The Death of Stalin: Comedy as broad as Siberia left me chilled and surly.

8. From the Land of the Moon: Marion Cotillard imagines things, such as that there might be a point to this movie.

9. Nuts:  What I said in 4 and 5 above, but with goat glands.

MUSIC

This is always the hardest category for me to judge. So much good music. So many talented folks–young and old.

New Releases:

1. Moira Smiley, Unzip the Horizon: Innovative, inventive, bold & miles from her Solas days.

2. Thea Gilmore, Run: A veteran British chanteuse with a powerful voice.

3. Eleanor Dubinsky, Soft Spot of My Heart: Multilingual cross-genre music that's just flat-out gorgeous.

4. Kittel and Company, Whorls; Jeremy Kittel takes bluegrass fiddle deep into jazz  terrain and paints contemplative moods.

5. Gretchen Peters, Sad Songs Make Me Happy: Hear the woman whose pen launched dozens of country hits.

6. Eliza Gilkyson, Secularia: Can an anti-religion album be spiritual? Yep.

7. Vivian Leva, Time is Everything: Spare and pure mountain music vocals.

8. Mink's Miracle Medicine, House of Candles: The miracle is Melissa Wright! Country and folk without gimmicks.

9. Greg Hawks, i think it's time: Time for country-influenced artists to address issues from the left side of the political spectrum.

10. Too many good people to leave off the list, so a collective shout out to Anita Aysola, Big Little Lion, Don Gallardo, Guy Menilow Ensemble, John Gorka,  Newpoli,  and Graham Stone.

Change the Earbuds:

1. Catherine Bent, Ideal: Not! Cello meandering to nowhere.

2. Elena Andukar, Flamenco in Time: Maybe hip flamenco isn't really a thing.

3. UNIFONY, Unifony: Three Euro jazz giants make a dull record.

4. Katie Herzig, Moment of Bliss: Pop grooves that failed to induce bliss.

Best Live Shows of 2018:

1. Richard Shindell: He was 100% on at the Parlor Room with new and old material and an alphabetical set list!

2. Cowboy Junkies: After 6 weeks on my back, the Junkies at the Academy of Music helped me heal.

3. James Keelaghan: James never gives a bad concert and pulled out the stops all weekend at the New Bedford Folk Festival.

4. Musique à Boucher: The surprise hit at New Bedford. A Capella mouth music of the most spirited kind. Surprising as their CDs are restrained.

5. Eliza Gilkyson: An intimate evening at the Parlor Room with a Texas treasure.

6. Jim Henry: Our own Western Mass hero. His Parlor room show was a love fest.

7. Richard Thompson: His electric show at the Academy needed a better mix, but he  rocked the joint.

8. Rory Block and Cindy Cashdollar: The warm-up act trumped the headliners.

9. The Weepies: Amazing harmonies and a refreshing December show with no holiday music!

10. The Kittel Trio: Not your mother's bluegrass at the West Whatley Chapel.

Not Feeling It:

St Paul and the Broken Bones opened well at the Academy of Music, but then everything sounded exactly the same. Better shtick than repertoire.

I simply don't get the hype surrounding Lake Street Dive. I love vocalist Rachel Price, when she sings in a register quieter than Celine Dion at an airport. Lots of glitz and light show bling that makes them more of an experience than a musical act. Boring. I wish Rory Block and Cindy Cashdollar had headlined.