Word: mama
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...report and write this week's profile of Senate majority leader Trent Lott, who also grew up in Pascagoula, the only son of a shipyard pipe fitter. Goodgame is so familiar with Lott's milieu that many sources he interviewed began by asking him "So how's your mama?" When one source wasn't in, he was found at a meeting with Goodgame's uncle. "Everyone back home is so proud of Trent Lott," Goodgame says, "that they're willing to overlook the fact that he's about the only person they know who doesn't care about eating, drinking...
Duck debuted last month at Mama Kin, a major Lansdowne Street club. But the timing of the show was less than auspicious, since it conflicted with the Superbowl...
...pieces, too. Directing his own self-scripted performance (did he cater it, too?), Thornton plays Karl Childers, a mildly retarded mental patient who, in his late thirties, is released back into the small Southern town he left twenty-five years before. That, you see, was the day he found Mama in bed with a neighbor and did a little number on them with the weapon of the title. Karl, though, is more half-baked than he is half-mad, the kind of convicted murderer who Didn't Know Any Better, and who helps little 12-year-old boys named Frank...
Alone on the stage at Mama Kin's Music Hall, lead singer and songwriter Mark Kozelek opened the performance with a stirring, acoustic cover of the uplifting Christmas song "Little Drummer Boy." Characteristically, though, he slowed its traditionally buoyant tempo to a wistful drawl, and altered the inflection of his voice so as to awaken the song's theme from idyllic celebration into a brewing confusion, questioning, and loss. What does Christ's ready-made love actually mean? And what's to be done now with these damned drums...
...House Painters' presence on Sunday night, nothing plagued the performance more than the choice of venue. With its blatant hybridization of Roman Mythology and medieval macabre, complete with apsidal carvings on the wooden booths, gruesome charcoal drawings of pregnant women ohne Bustenhalter, and hanging skeletons, Aerosmith's nascent Mama Kin club screams, drools, and bleeds for perverse, unrestrained if highly orchestrated debaucheries, preferably of Homo sapiens. Two domineering, heavily-stocked bars squat facing each other across the red-rimmed, black linoleum dance floor; smug, wood-carved janissaries. The room takes cares to invoke the popular equation "Lust + Delusion = a reckless...