The Boxmasters Debut Album
People love Billy Bob Thornton . . . or they hate him. Either way, they owe themselves a listen to selections from his new band’s new album.
The Boxmasters combine the English Invasion with 60s hillbilly music to form "electric hillbilly." It’s heavy on steel guitar, which gives all their songs the twang that screams "old country." I love the sound. Thornton’s voice and accent fit the songs the way Johnny Cash fit black.
The Boxmasters were formed long ago when W.R. ‘Bud’ Thornton went in to a fast food chicken restaurant in Bellflower, California and got in an argument with the young man working the counter over a coleslaw incident. That young man was J.D. “J.D.” Andrew. The incident turned out to be a misunderstanding and the two had a laugh about it and they became fast friends. They started hanging out together and eventually discovered that they had both come to California in search of the big time in the world of ELECTRIC HILLBILLY Music, W.R. ‘Bud’ from Hot Springs, Arkansas and J.D. from Gypsum, Kansas.
The album will be available in stores on June 10, but you can download cuts and a preview album from Dell Lounge. Cuts are $ 0.99 each and the full set is $7.90. The Boxmasters kick off a tour on July 11 in Jacksonville, OR. It arrives in St. Louis in August in the Bottleneck Blues Bar in the Ameristar Casino in St. Charles.
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Opening The Shuttered Room
No matter how painful, eventually you must go into his room. Each book on the shelves, every dirty sock strewn carelessly on the floor in anticipation of picking it up tomorrow, the odd angle of the pillow on the bed, and the scent–oh, God, above all the scent–remind you both of the life and of its passing. Still, you must open the door, for his passing didn’t relieve you of your duties. In fact, your duties doubled.
Rising up from your pessimism, you reach the top stair and look to your right. Even his door projects his image. You think of a half dozen other things you could do on the second floor before you open the grand door on the right. You stall, emotions in overdrive. You use the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face and check your hair. It’s grayer than it was just this morning. And your eyes look older and sadder. But these are just more delays.
You turn out of the bathroom, and there he is on the door–the door you must open. Just before your hand reaches the knob you notice a hand print right their on the door. On his door. Back to the bathroom for a damp cloth. He’s barely gone and already the door is stained. Not stained; just smudged. You return with the cloth and clear the smudge, then return the cloth to the sink and try again.
This time, you hardly notice his face on the door and your courage is greater than it was last time and your fingers and palm wrap around the cold brass knob that reminds you of something on an old sailing ship. Click. The door opens. Gratitude, for having known him, envelopes you.
There was the time when you were twelve or so and first his voice but then remembered you’d heard him before on television when you were really young. Your mom said something about him, at the time. You were too young to remember anything except that he had the same first name as you, and everyone was surprised to see him on such a racy television show. But you’d remember his name this time. In fact, the name was magic and wonderful and poetic like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Thurston Howell, III. But his name was not like theirs. His name was more like yours, and you assumed he’s Irish like you. So you listened to every surprising word and mentally imitated his unusual accent and you never stopped listening even now as you push open the door to his room.
Returning to the present, you look around, speechless, at the many things he left behind. In photographs, you see his dream walking through others eyes, and one picture takes you back to the first time you saw his name in print. Your mom took you to a new B. Dalton that just opened in Hampton Village. You spot his name on the cover of a magazine, and Mom gives three dollars to buy it. Three hours later, you feel glutinous, having raced through this paper paradise too fast. You think of Paul on the road to Damascus.
Sunday afternoons become appointment television. Your beloved Big Red must wait while you tune to PBS to meet Edward Teller, Mark Greene, and countless other fascinating, brilliant people. You fall on the floor laughing at the scene in Bananas when Woody Allen scans the pornography section of a book store to find, between Penthouse and Playboy, National Review. Again, in Annie Hall, when Woody finds a copy of National Review in Diane Keaton’s apartment and angrily demands, "why don’t you call William F. Buckley to come over and kill the spider?"
Now inside the room, you find yourself immersed in memories of the Man at Yale. You’re glad, so glad, you decided to open the door. But before your pride adheres, you realize that he opened the door for you. You and millions of others.
The first issue of National Review published since William F. Buckley escaped the surly bonds of Earth arrived today. As I did with the first issue I ever touched in 1978, I read this one cover to cover. Like Buckley’s life, the issue was too short, yet complete.
Buy many copies of this issue. Make your children read it, and if they’re too young or unborn, save for when they’re ready. Every American child deserves to know the man who launched the last great defense of the last great hope for freedom. Every child deserves to know the life that every happy warrior should hope to lead.
Oprah and the Racist Rev
I watched tonight’s edition of one my favorite shows, “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.” Following is Oprah’s Big Give.
I was never a huge Oprah Winfrey fan, but learning that she chooses an anti-American racist as her minister poisoned whatever good feelings I might have had for her.
Differences between races because of cultural histories are certain. Oprah and Obama, though, demonstrate, in their allegiance to Reverend Wright, a moral corruption that cannot be papered over with soothing rhetoric or million dollar giveaways. At some point, penance comes due.
Throwing It Away
Roger Kreutz dashed to right a wrong. A tiny wrong, by modern standards, but a wrong nonetheless. “Dammit,” Roger might have thought, “you can’t even enjoy a quiet cup of coffee anymore.” Then he sprang into action.
Aaron Poisson has a girlfriend and a car. And he’s out of high school. That’s a liberating combination to a young man. The boundaries of his youth–walls to many young men aching to break the chains of childhood–are far behind him. Atlanta’s no longer big enough for Aaron, so he grabbed his honey and headed West, to Cincinnati and St. Louis. One hundred thirty years ago, Aaron would have been a pioneer. Today, he’s more of a drifter.
Gary Poisson described his son’s stunt as “a silly, sophomoric misdemeanor gone horribly, tragically wrong.” It was “poor judgement” and “stupidity” and “petty theft. It was wrong.” But Aaron, nineteen, and his girlfriend, 21, are not malicious. He was in St. Louis to visit St. Louis University and Washington University with the possibility of attending one or the other in the fall. Gary says his son is a good kid who, since meeting his present girlfriend, has shown a propensity for doing stupid, impulsive things, like reaching into tip jars.
On March 4, 2008, Gary’s son walked into a Starbuck’s in St. Louis County. Aaron’s girlfriend bought a drink. Aaron waited until she’d secured the beverage, then reached into the tip jar, extracted five dollars and twenty cents, then fled the store.
Roger was the kind of guy who should have been near Ground Zero on September 11. He would have rushed into the burning Towers to save lives and, maybe, smash a few terrorists heads had they somehow survived the impact. Roger might have been in the First Lady’s booth at a State of the Union Address for some act of selfless heroics. If only his selfless act of heroism had involved some larger crime or tragedy.
How Roger learned that Aaron had stolen the contents of the tip jar is unknown. At least, it’s not discernible from the security tape that shows Aaron stealing the money. But Roger knew there was a wrong to be righted, and, since no one else was stepping up, Roger would.
Aaron and his gal were in their car. Roger was on foot. Aaron backed up to get out of there. Roger went down. The car backed over Roger then took off. In fewer than 24 hours, Roger died from the injuries sustained in Aaron’s getaway.
Aaron’s petty crime became a string of felonies in less than one minute. Roger’s compulsion to make things right left him dead.
Gary Poisson understands the long-term consequences of impulsive acts. One stupid decision can lead remarkably tragic consequences. An act of childish thievery too small to make the crime section of the Suburban Journal winds up on NBC News because of the lethal coming-together of a teenage boy, a girl, a car, and a hero.
Aaron Poisson faces charges of involuntary manslaughter, leaving the scene of an accident, and misdemeanor larceny. His girlfriend was not charged, apparently, because she’s not a man. Gary Poisson’s funeral is Monday, March 10. Righteous bloggers and talk-show callers want Aaron hanged.
I want God to rewind the tape a week in hopes that, upon further review, someone–anyone–did something just a little bit differently.
Listen to the interview with Gary Poisson on KMOX.com
Read more on stltoday.com
The Joy of Family
Last Saturday I had the pleasure of attending an aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding anniversary. A foot of snow reflected brilliant white sunlight on a sixty-degree day that seemed more like Colorado than Missouri. But our location was obvious by the unmistakable eagles-in-As adorning every fixture at the Anheuser-Busch Center in southwest St. Louis County.
I cherish every Hennessy family get-together, but this one was special. There was no funeral parlor to visit, no Rosary at 10:00 p.m., no lights-on procession. This was all joy. We skipped straight to the party.
My dad’s eldest sister’s wonderful daughter Carol and her delightful husband Ed made it in from New York. They were like a personal gift from God to me, making a good day great. Carol regaled us with the evils of Hillary, the challenges conservative New Yorkers face, her irresistible happiness infecting the room faster than light. Ed’s banter, jokes, and wit left my laugh muscles sore. Ed’s had some amazing jobs, and his stories around the fire pit in Cousin Bob’s backyard demanded gratitude from those of us who’ve benefited from his dedication to our country.
Makes me wonder about life: why do people who could so enjoy daily communion scatter sixteen hundred miles apart?
Ah, but our just work is ultimately God’s work, and His work is needed in New York as well as St. Louis. While I am unfit, and others toil toward His ends here, in the northeast, Carol and Ed carry out their duties with aplomb. It’s my duty to fill the lives of those around with me with the kind of joy Ed and Carol brought to St. Louis this weekend.
Carol and Ed, Dominus vobiscum!
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