bell hooks

The acclaimed feminist intellectual bell hooks — all lowercase, if you please — is the keynote speaker for UNC-Asheville’s Black History Month, so if your brain’s grown moldy, consider dropping in for a bit of bell. Her first book, Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism, is recognized as a classic, and she’s kept up a steady stream of incisive essays, books, and criticism in the years since. Her most recent book, We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity, takes a look at the particular problems faced by black men. Her keynote address, titled “Return Migration,” is free and open to the public, so mark your calendars: Friday, Feb. 25, at 1 p.m. in UNCA’s Lipinksy Auditorium.

“The King Is Gone (So Are You),” by George Jones

It takes a lot of gumption to go from bell hooks to George Jones, but I’m a-gonna do it. I just can’t get Ol’ Possum’s 1989 lark of a song out of my head. The concept? Shot by shot, a broken-hearted man pours bourbon from a commemorative Elvis bottle into a Flintstone jelly jar, and drinks his way through the night. The chorus? “Yabba Dabba Do/ The King is Gone/ And So are You.” Word is it inspired legal action from Hanna-Barbera. Perfect absurdity to chase those post-Valentine blues.

Frozen Alive!, Albert Collins

I had an Albert Collins moment a few weeks back — the kind where I remember how much I dig the Iceman, and how I used to wear out my vinyl by the Texas blues legend. And when I have one of those moments, there’s nothing to do but pull out that vinyl — almost always this live album, recorded in Minneapolis in 1981 — and listen to the Master of the Telecaster tear it up once again, for old times sake. So damn cool, it’s smokin’. Choice cut: “Cold Cuts.”

The Story of Ferdinand, by Munro Leaf

I got this children’s classic out of the library last week, and remembered why it is so beloved. With simple prose and spare illustrations (courtesy of Robert Lawson), Leaf tells the tale of Ferdinand, the Spanish bull who loved nothing better than to sit under his favorite cork tree and smell the flowers. Bumblebees and banderilleros try to shatter his reverie, but to no avail: Ferdinand is a lover, not a fighter. This book is not just for 7-year-olds, I say, but for 37 and 77 as well. The final line — “he is very happy” — still reminds me that contentment trumps fame, every time.

— Jay Hardwig