Word: shagging
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...sadly witty about individuals as about their troubled nation. Here is Kramer in The Song Dog, surveying the wares at a rundown country store: "On the crowded shelf of cigarettes and pipe tobacco, he saw, for the first time in years, the little cotton bags of shag his father had smoked to excess, so crude it came complete with tobacco stalks. Good stuff, that shag: it had given the old bastard the long, lingering, thoroughly horrible death he'd deserved." Nothing more is said about that father-son relationship -- and nothing is needed. That is characteristic of the eight novels...
...places it sure twists and shouts. Elvis picked all the furnishings for his den, called the Jungle Room, during a 30-minute shopping trip to Donald's, a Memphis furniture store. The huge chairs and sofas are upholstered in what resembles fake monkey fur, and the grass-green shag carpeting that covers both floor and ceiling makes such an acoustically perfect room that Elvis recorded eight hits here for his last album, Moody Blue. The yellow-and-blue TV room sports three built-in sets mounted side by side. Elvis was aping the three sets in the Oval Office...
...those outlaws of the past decade, those rebels against the deep-shag songwriting of mainstream Nashville, have become the '80s Establishment. There is a new pack out there now. Travis and Crowell. Lyle Lovett and Nanci Griffith. K.T. Oslin and the O'Kanes and the supercharged Steve Earle. They are shaking all the wrinkles out of the music and ironing it into a different shape...
Gary Hart beginning to fade unless the tops of his ears appear from under his 1960s mod hairdo. Chuck Robb, Richard Gephardt and Bill Bradley neatly trimmed for maximum political appeal, rising steadily. Sam Nunn consigned to the campaign basement unless the sides and back of his shag are thinned. George Bush ("really great") and Bob Dole ("styled very well") streamlined and sailing smartly into the political winds. Pete du Pont, Al Haig and Don Rumsfeld rightly barbered to take the course should the others falter. Jack Kemp, splendidly styled for football, left in the locker room instead...
Fischl country is a place of shag carpets lit by the desolate glare of TV sets, of king-size beds seen as altars of suburban promiscuity, and blue swimming pools that slyly parody David Hockney's less tainted vision of a Californian Eden. It smells of unwashed dog, Bar-B-Q lighter fluid and sperm. It is permeated with voyeurism and resentful, secretive tumescence -- a theater of adolescent tension and adult anonymity. Fischl paints this world of failed intimacies with conviction and narrative grip: at best, his drawing is beautifully concise (though marred, at present, by too many botched...