25 December 2009
My top 20 records of 2009
Merry Christmas! Here are my favorite albums of the year, courtesy of my new (old) Olivetti Lettera 22.
17 December 2009
The real inconvenient truth
Being a "skeptic" of climate change is both intellectually dishonest and dangerously out of sync with reality.
"Skepticism" assumes at least a token nod to rational thought which is absent in the climate "debate." In this context, skepticism is a particularly craven form of objection. In an attempt to salvage some form of credibility, "skeptics" adopt this pseudo-scientific (yet another hijacking of science in the name of anti-science) stance, in which the "skeptic" acknowledges that the climate changes (the term "natural cycles" is often bandied about), but that they are awaiting more evidence (perhaps from on high?) regarding the human contribution. This lacks logical ground on which to stand. The definition of climate is that, over time, it changes. True. However, their logic fails on the second argument due to an inherent lack of scientific literacy. The "more evidence" they are waiting for is already here. Humans are unequivocally causing climate change. What the skeptics are waiting for is a smoking gun. Well, there are numerous "smoking guns" of climate change, but by their nature, they require at least some familiarity with science to understand. The evidence they are looking for is here, today. It just takes the right tools to properly see it.
But a misunderstanding of science is not the real reason for this pervasive skepticism. The real reason is a fear of change. This fear reflects the false pretense of one who believes that this country is no longer great. It is a form of cowardice premised on the erroneous belief that to mitigate climate change somehow means a reversion to a less fulfilling quality of life. It shows the hubris of a once great country, a country where people look inward not in self reflection, but out of an uncertain longing for a way of life they know (deep, deep in their hearts) to be untenable.
Taking meaningful action on climate change and prospering as a country are not two mutually exclusive notions. Thus far, not addressing climate change has led to our economy shedding manufacturing jobs that will likely never be replaced, our universities seeing grad students in science and engineering leave for jobs overseas, and many of our greatest companies historically faltering. By addressing climate change, we can create new employment sectors and revive our technological prowess on the world stage.
The industrial revolution, the space age, and the internet age were all ushered in on the power of American innovation. Have we exhausted our resources? Must we take a backseat for the next "age"? To creep inward as a country, to cling to our so-called way of life would be the easy option. Easy like crowding around our televisions watching Walter Cronkite narrate as Soviet cosmonauts plant their hammer and sickle on the moon's surface. We are not a country accustomed to taking a back seat and I believe that we still possess the measured self-confidence required to tackle the problem of climate change head on.
Other problems in history, be they wars, dictators, countries, are but trees compared to the immense forest of a problem we now face. Unfortunately, we may not be wired to address problems on this scale. We address problems that we can readily identify -- another country invades us? Fight back! Problems that affect people we can identify with -- they harmed who? Sally from down the street? Well, let's catch that criminal! With climate change, we cannot easily label the villain because, on many levels, we are all responsible for its effects. And its effects, though severe and accelerating, are not as visceral as seeing Hitler sack Paris. Or watching a ghostly image of a Soviet cosmonaut orbiting the planet. The "skeptics" are reacting to this strange, unprecedented situation in a very human way -- by denying it exists. But if there is to be any hope of a solution, we cannot let fear and uncertainty trammel our resolve.
"Skepticism" assumes at least a token nod to rational thought which is absent in the climate "debate." In this context, skepticism is a particularly craven form of objection. In an attempt to salvage some form of credibility, "skeptics" adopt this pseudo-scientific (yet another hijacking of science in the name of anti-science) stance, in which the "skeptic" acknowledges that the climate changes (the term "natural cycles" is often bandied about), but that they are awaiting more evidence (perhaps from on high?) regarding the human contribution. This lacks logical ground on which to stand. The definition of climate is that, over time, it changes. True. However, their logic fails on the second argument due to an inherent lack of scientific literacy. The "more evidence" they are waiting for is already here. Humans are unequivocally causing climate change. What the skeptics are waiting for is a smoking gun. Well, there are numerous "smoking guns" of climate change, but by their nature, they require at least some familiarity with science to understand. The evidence they are looking for is here, today. It just takes the right tools to properly see it.
But a misunderstanding of science is not the real reason for this pervasive skepticism. The real reason is a fear of change. This fear reflects the false pretense of one who believes that this country is no longer great. It is a form of cowardice premised on the erroneous belief that to mitigate climate change somehow means a reversion to a less fulfilling quality of life. It shows the hubris of a once great country, a country where people look inward not in self reflection, but out of an uncertain longing for a way of life they know (deep, deep in their hearts) to be untenable.
Taking meaningful action on climate change and prospering as a country are not two mutually exclusive notions. Thus far, not addressing climate change has led to our economy shedding manufacturing jobs that will likely never be replaced, our universities seeing grad students in science and engineering leave for jobs overseas, and many of our greatest companies historically faltering. By addressing climate change, we can create new employment sectors and revive our technological prowess on the world stage.
The industrial revolution, the space age, and the internet age were all ushered in on the power of American innovation. Have we exhausted our resources? Must we take a backseat for the next "age"? To creep inward as a country, to cling to our so-called way of life would be the easy option. Easy like crowding around our televisions watching Walter Cronkite narrate as Soviet cosmonauts plant their hammer and sickle on the moon's surface. We are not a country accustomed to taking a back seat and I believe that we still possess the measured self-confidence required to tackle the problem of climate change head on.
Other problems in history, be they wars, dictators, countries, are but trees compared to the immense forest of a problem we now face. Unfortunately, we may not be wired to address problems on this scale. We address problems that we can readily identify -- another country invades us? Fight back! Problems that affect people we can identify with -- they harmed who? Sally from down the street? Well, let's catch that criminal! With climate change, we cannot easily label the villain because, on many levels, we are all responsible for its effects. And its effects, though severe and accelerating, are not as visceral as seeing Hitler sack Paris. Or watching a ghostly image of a Soviet cosmonaut orbiting the planet. The "skeptics" are reacting to this strange, unprecedented situation in a very human way -- by denying it exists. But if there is to be any hope of a solution, we cannot let fear and uncertainty trammel our resolve.
16 December 2009
Cratedigger
I enjoy a vinyl album from time to time. Nothing beats flipping through endless, dusty records, cycling through the clunkers to find that hidden gem. I had a lot of those moments this year, some of them coming at the most unexpected times. Here are my favorites from 2009: 
"Physical Graffiti" by Led Zeppelin (antique store near Davenport, IA) | I found this classic Zep album visiting a friend in the famous Quad Cities. We were down by the shore of the Mississippi, the site of a large tug-of-war contest, Iowa against Illinois. My friend loves antiquing so I trusted her when she suggested we stop in. I'm glad we did. The first thing I looked for upon entering the smallish store was their vinyl collection, which was located, as I expected, on a nondescript milk crate on a nondescript shelf amongst other knickknacks. There were just three small cartons sitting in a tidy little row. I was fully resigned to the fact that all of the albums would be in bad shape and well, of the kinds of music you would expect to find at a hole-in the wall antique store in the middle of America. Lots of Righteous Brothers, Engelbert Humperdinck, Andy Williams and the like. But all I found was classic vinyl from the 70's and 80's. I walked out smiling with the Zeppelin album, Derek and the Dominos (Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs), Prince (1999), and David Bowie (Let's Dance). Let's just say that it was the highest density of quality vinyl I've yet found and it was in Davenport, Iowa. Never underestimate Middle America. 
"Get Happy!" by Elvis Costello (record store, downtown Davenport, IA) | Thanks to Emily for taking me to find the second great discovery in Iowa. This one was a full fledged record store, spanning three rooms in an old building in downtown Davenport. We found a lot of good records, but none better than Elvis Costello's homage to soul. "Get Happy" was made after Costello made some drunken comments about Ray Charles to get a rise out of his drinking buddies. It somehow got to the press and a bit of a row ensued. Well, turns out he really likes soul music and he's really good at performing it. It is the fourth of his first five amazing albums (My Aim is True, This Year's Model, Armed Forces, and Trust) and it's a spastic twenty songs that establish Costello as one of the most flexible pop performers of the past 30 years. [Note: producer Nick Lowe assures LP owners that the sound quality will not be degraded due to "groove cramming" resulting from putting 10 tracks per side. Remember when sound quality/album sequencing mattered?]
"Rhythm of Resistance: Music of Black South Africa" (Cheapo Uptown) | I found this in the new arrivals bin one day and, I don't know, maybe I was feeling adventurous, but I bought it (hey, records are only $3). Ladysmith Black Mambazo have a few tracks on the B-side which are graceful and powerful as they were on the B-side of "Graceland." The first side has these funky guitar songs that kind of drone on in a groove...it's hard to explain, but that's the best part about finding new music -- sometimes it's just fun to listen to!11 December 2009
Paul's Boutique
Albums don't usually floor me.
Sure, it's happened before ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" by Neutral Milk Hotel, "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain" by Pavement, "Separation Sunday" by the Hold Steady, and "Is This It? (this an amazing video...Julian Casablancas walks off stage, comes back just in time -- or, why the Strokes were about to save rock and roll in 2001)" by the Strokes all come to mind), but more often than not, I'm just mildly impressed by what comes my way. It's not snobbery, just a high musical bar. Or narrow taste.
The Beastie Boys up 'till this point have always been a caricature of who they really are. This part of me still sees them as most people did after License to Ill (a great album just good enough to escape novelty) -- frat-rap jokesters somewhat like the 80's version of the Bloodhound Gang. Not a group to take seriously. I couldn't figure out why some of my friends held them in such high esteem. The song I most associated with them was "Intergalactic," a song that was included on one of those Grammy Nominees CDs I got every year in the mid-90's for my birthday. Next to Seal, Celine Dion, and Coolio, Beastie Boys seemed just too weird for my PBS-raised self. I didn't have MTV growing up, so I missed "Sabotage" playing on endless repeat. I didn't have self-awareness in 1989, so I missed Paul's Boutique. I missed a lot of things.
Well, I have both (MTV and self-awareness) now, so there's really no excuse not to give those crazy white guys from NYC a fresh look. My interest was piqued when I was scrounging around for Elvis Costello's appearance on Saturday Night Live in 1977. The back story: his label and NBC wanted him to play "Less than Zero," his single from his amazing (add this to the "albums that floored me" list) album, This Year's Model, but partway through the opening, he stopped his band and played, "Radio, Radio," which sends a decidedly anti-commercial message to listeners. NBC apparently does nothing but threaten litigation upon anyone who dares post the original performance online. I can't find it anywhere. But I did find this clip, from 25 years later, of another "sabotage" by Elvis...
Two artists who define their generations' "I just don't give a fuck" attitude (with Pavement following in the 90's and I would argue Lil' Wayne in the 00's), one a dapper Englishman, the other a group of slacker New Yorkers, both erudite, funny and cynical as hell, is an undeniably intriguing combination. My love of Elvis Costello is transferable to anyone who shares the stage with him, even if it is in a wholly corporate, contrived stunt on a late-night show. Welcome to the working week, I guess.
So I decided to partake in some good ole late-80's hip hop. A genre of which the entire breadth of my knowledge arises out of cheaply produced VH1 specials. Specials that feature too much Ken Burns-style panning in and out of photographs and way too many retrospective interviews from coked-out has-been rappers who never left that decade... The first listen was to the aforementioned Licensed to Ill, their debut on Def Jam released in 1986 and produced by Rick Rubin (the scary-looking guy fat with a full beard you sometimes see riding beach cruisers with Jay-Z. Also president of Columbia Records. Seriously.). I liked it, especially the many Led Zep samples sprinkled throughout. But then I started to see how latter "artists" (see P.O.D., Linkin Park, Offspring) interpreted this tongue-in-cheek accidental hit wholly without irony. It began to sour after that.
Next stop for me was their universally adored follow-up, Paul's Boutique. There are countless reviews out there in online-land, so I won't bore you with the details. I'll just say this: no album will ever be made quite like this one. This album literally changed the way music is made. It's sample-heavy production (by the Dust Brothers, of later Odelay fame (can't Beck do anything original?)) influenced other artists to sample in their songs. Another prolific sampler that preceded the Dust Brothers is Brian Eno. He's famous for his work with the Talking Heads, but he might be more famous in some circles for the work he did in 1981 with David Byrne, the lead singer of the Talking Heads. This strange collection of spiritual vocals (a exorcism, an apology, and other strange chanting frequent this album) played over looped samples is amazing, considering that it was recorded almost 30 years ago. You can definitely hear a lot of the Dust Brothers in Eno's album. The golden age of prolific samplers lasted only about a decade, although you could make the argument that it just got more subtle...
So these crate-digging musicians got other musicians angry (the ones whose snippets were being blatantly sampled) and they sued. Eventually, sampling became far too expensive and it was left somewhat dormant until the rise of the internet, where music samplers can get away with a lot more. Danger Mouse's (one half of Gnarls Barkley) brilliant mashup of Jay-Z's Black Album with the Beatle's White Album, aptly titled The Grey Album, comes to mind. Another recent example of this is Girl Talk. Or the Field. Or Madlib. But it will never have the organic appeal that Paul's Boutique has twenty years after its release.
Definitely a headphones album, the dense layers of sound shimmer nimbly around the sometimes shrill lyrics of Ad-Rock, MCA, and Mike D that exhibit an MF DOOM predilection for obscure pop culture references and crass proclamations. The whole album is a highlight, it's like a 53 minute love letter to funk, the 70's and NYC. These songs are standouts:
"Shake Your Rump" A nice way to kick off an album: drum roll into a funky 70's riff and the line, "My man MCA's got a beard like a billy goat" Apparently true (see the video).
"High Plains Drifter" My second-favorite use of the sound of a gun cocking (next to MIA's "Paper Planes"). This song is sinister, well, a smart-ass kind of sinister. But the wordplay among the three is completely overwhelming.
"Hey Ladies" This was the one single Capitol released. I would say that it's a grandaddy to Eminiem's "one blatant single per album," but that woudn't be doing this song justice. The Dust Brothers certainly didn't substitute innovation for commercial appeal. Listen to the new funk sample after each cowbell. By this point, they're just showing off. Wow.
"Shadrach" The last full song (more on this next) begins with a rollicking beat followed by a soulful female vocal loop followed by an apt lyric, "The music washes over and you're one with the sound..." The video is also a work of art -- each frame was hand painted.
And, as if the comparisons to to the Beatles weren't already forthcoming...the album ends with a 10 minute suite (a la Abbey Road) of song snippets. Both groups are working at such a high level in these albums. The Beatles knew they had nothing more to give when they recorded Abbey Road. The Beastie Boys knew the had nothing to lose when they recorded Paul's Boutique.
It shows.
Sure, it's happened before ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" by Neutral Milk Hotel, "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain" by Pavement, "Separation Sunday" by the Hold Steady, and "Is This It? (this an amazing video...Julian Casablancas walks off stage, comes back just in time -- or, why the Strokes were about to save rock and roll in 2001)" by the Strokes all come to mind), but more often than not, I'm just mildly impressed by what comes my way. It's not snobbery, just a high musical bar. Or narrow taste.
The Beastie Boys up 'till this point have always been a caricature of who they really are. This part of me still sees them as most people did after License to Ill (a great album just good enough to escape novelty) -- frat-rap jokesters somewhat like the 80's version of the Bloodhound Gang. Not a group to take seriously. I couldn't figure out why some of my friends held them in such high esteem. The song I most associated with them was "Intergalactic," a song that was included on one of those Grammy Nominees CDs I got every year in the mid-90's for my birthday. Next to Seal, Celine Dion, and Coolio, Beastie Boys seemed just too weird for my PBS-raised self. I didn't have MTV growing up, so I missed "Sabotage" playing on endless repeat. I didn't have self-awareness in 1989, so I missed Paul's Boutique. I missed a lot of things.
Well, I have both (MTV and self-awareness) now, so there's really no excuse not to give those crazy white guys from NYC a fresh look. My interest was piqued when I was scrounging around for Elvis Costello's appearance on Saturday Night Live in 1977. The back story: his label and NBC wanted him to play "Less than Zero," his single from his amazing (add this to the "albums that floored me" list) album, This Year's Model, but partway through the opening, he stopped his band and played, "Radio, Radio," which sends a decidedly anti-commercial message to listeners. NBC apparently does nothing but threaten litigation upon anyone who dares post the original performance online. I can't find it anywhere. But I did find this clip, from 25 years later, of another "sabotage" by Elvis...
Two artists who define their generations' "I just don't give a fuck" attitude (with Pavement following in the 90's and I would argue Lil' Wayne in the 00's), one a dapper Englishman, the other a group of slacker New Yorkers, both erudite, funny and cynical as hell, is an undeniably intriguing combination. My love of Elvis Costello is transferable to anyone who shares the stage with him, even if it is in a wholly corporate, contrived stunt on a late-night show. Welcome to the working week, I guess.
Next stop for me was their universally adored follow-up, Paul's Boutique. There are countless reviews out there in online-land, so I won't bore you with the details. I'll just say this: no album will ever be made quite like this one. This album literally changed the way music is made. It's sample-heavy production (by the Dust Brothers, of later Odelay fame (can't Beck do anything original?)) influenced other artists to sample in their songs. Another prolific sampler that preceded the Dust Brothers is Brian Eno. He's famous for his work with the Talking Heads, but he might be more famous in some circles for the work he did in 1981 with David Byrne, the lead singer of the Talking Heads. This strange collection of spiritual vocals (a exorcism, an apology, and other strange chanting frequent this album) played over looped samples is amazing, considering that it was recorded almost 30 years ago. You can definitely hear a lot of the Dust Brothers in Eno's album. The golden age of prolific samplers lasted only about a decade, although you could make the argument that it just got more subtle...
So these crate-digging musicians got other musicians angry (the ones whose snippets were being blatantly sampled) and they sued. Eventually, sampling became far too expensive and it was left somewhat dormant until the rise of the internet, where music samplers can get away with a lot more. Danger Mouse's (one half of Gnarls Barkley) brilliant mashup of Jay-Z's Black Album with the Beatle's White Album, aptly titled The Grey Album, comes to mind. Another recent example of this is Girl Talk. Or the Field. Or Madlib. But it will never have the organic appeal that Paul's Boutique has twenty years after its release.
Definitely a headphones album, the dense layers of sound shimmer nimbly around the sometimes shrill lyrics of Ad-Rock, MCA, and Mike D that exhibit an MF DOOM predilection for obscure pop culture references and crass proclamations. The whole album is a highlight, it's like a 53 minute love letter to funk, the 70's and NYC. These songs are standouts:
"Shake Your Rump" A nice way to kick off an album: drum roll into a funky 70's riff and the line, "My man MCA's got a beard like a billy goat" Apparently true (see the video).
"High Plains Drifter" My second-favorite use of the sound of a gun cocking (next to MIA's "Paper Planes"). This song is sinister, well, a smart-ass kind of sinister. But the wordplay among the three is completely overwhelming.
"Hey Ladies" This was the one single Capitol released. I would say that it's a grandaddy to Eminiem's "one blatant single per album," but that woudn't be doing this song justice. The Dust Brothers certainly didn't substitute innovation for commercial appeal. Listen to the new funk sample after each cowbell. By this point, they're just showing off. Wow.
"Shadrach" The last full song (more on this next) begins with a rollicking beat followed by a soulful female vocal loop followed by an apt lyric, "The music washes over and you're one with the sound..." The video is also a work of art -- each frame was hand painted.
And, as if the comparisons to to the Beatles weren't already forthcoming...the album ends with a 10 minute suite (a la Abbey Road) of song snippets. Both groups are working at such a high level in these albums. The Beatles knew they had nothing more to give when they recorded Abbey Road. The Beastie Boys knew the had nothing to lose when they recorded Paul's Boutique.
It shows.
03 December 2009
Well, How Did I Get Here?
We all find ourselves in different situations where we ask ourselves, "Well, how did I get here?" I know David Byrne wondered this. I'm sure you have too. One interesting (and gentle combination of self-realization and self-justification) approach to answering this question is to take a Meyers-Briggs personality test (take one here). It's a stretch to justify a large chunk of life through the lens of a 15 minute online questionnaire. It's also hard not to feel like a high school career counselor when espousing such a test. But whatever, as you'll find out, I'm an INTJ and therefore don't put a lot of stock into "feelings." And so it goes.
Introvert
iNtuitive
Thinker (though not a stinker)
Judging
This is me. After reading more about this type (here, here, here) I've come to the conclusion that this characterization is apt. But, then again, maybe it's because as an INTJ and it's my "just my type" to come to this conclusion. Too confusing! This is why I went into engineering/law and not psychology. I like answers (and employment). And it fulfills the aspirational career goals of my type. Though, as a non-conformist/anti-authority figure (while maintaining an facade of conformity on the surface), I should really rail against this type of generalization. But I won't (probably the whole 'conformity on the surface' thing creeping up again).
Some of the traits I'm supposed to possess are complementary and, thus, obviously fitting:
Introvert
iNtuitive
Thinker (though not a stinker)
Judging
This is me. After reading more about this type (here, here, here) I've come to the conclusion that this characterization is apt. But, then again, maybe it's because as an INTJ and it's my "just my type" to come to this conclusion. Too confusing! This is why I went into engineering/law and not psychology. I like answers (and employment). And it fulfills the aspirational career goals of my type. Though, as a non-conformist/anti-authority figure (while maintaining an facade of conformity on the surface), I should really rail against this type of generalization. But I won't (probably the whole 'conformity on the surface' thing creeping up again).
Some of the traits I'm supposed to possess are complementary and, thus, obviously fitting:
- Self-confidence and knowledge when it comes to a specific field, usually esoteric (transmission-line speakers, headphones, vinyl records, energy policy, Iguanadon (killer thumbs!), and, more recently, vintage typewriters)
- "Do" what they "know" (engineer/lawyer, yup)
- Introspective, analytical, intellectual (sometimes?)
- Don't grasp social "rituals" like small talk and flirtation (yikes! But, true. I often find myself asking, "Why am I talking to this person?" "What function does it serve?" But I'm not a robot. I has gots feelings too....)
- Personal relationships, especially romantic ones can be INTJ's "Achilles Heel" (low blow)
- Perfectionist (ok, I know this is what bad career counselors say to list as a "weakness" when potential employers ask during interviews, so I feel a bit shady putting this down as a downside in my next-day TB diarrhea category. But I think the INTJ analysts consider it a weakness more than a strength, so that's why it landed here. But I would never say that being a perfectionist is a true, true downside. Everything in moderation. I also like lists of three, so I needed the third prong to fill in the gap. So maybe by scoffing at this point, I'm also reinforcing it subconsciously. Shit.)
30 November 2009
A chance encounter, a love left unrequited
Troy: You are my everything.
Brett: [peeing in the next urinal, remains silent but is visibly uncomfortable]
Troy: I like the way you move your body. I was watching you today, talking about you with my friends Joe and Pam.
Brett: [finishes (probably before he wanted to, but then again, he's kind of known for that)] What are you talking about?
Troy: I'm talking ab-
Brett: Wait, I recognize you.
Troy: You, you do? [blushes and giggles, the first of many fits of giggling in this encounter (a chance one, remember)]
Brett: Sure, I seen you on the TV.
Troy: [gazes coquettishly at Brett while slowly nodding, his index finger creeping towards the crease of his lip, which is gross because he is standing in a men's bathroom and had just finished urinating. Troy realizes the err of his ways when Brett sees this and begins to dry heave. He quickly inserts the offending hand deep, yet casually, in his back pocket, as if nothing had ever happened. Troy, what a guy.]
Brett: Yeah, you announce my football games! Aren't you the son of that famous baseball broadcaster -- the St. Louis Cardinals guy? You're on beer commercials, I seen you! "Slamma-lamma ding dong! Y'alls a funny guy. Can't say as much for your broadcast partner...Tom, Tim Aikman? [background on Brett: he's southern, born and bred in Mississippi, so imagine his dialogue in a smoky, Southern accent. Thanks.]
Troy: [obviously hurt] Like a dagger through mine heart and soul, Brett! Me hopes, nay, me knowest that thou words are in a jest most proper!
Brett: You know, where I'm from, talkin' like that will get you stuffed faster than an Easter pig. Sooey!
Troy: Sorry, I don't know what got into me. But you're mistaken, Mr. Most-Interceptions-Ever -- look at my fingers. Yep, one-two-three rings there. Look at the garish jacket I'm wearing. You betcha, it says NFL Hall of Fame on the breast pocket. Look at my BlackBerry [here, he looks in the direction of a non-existent camera and flashes that smile that only a Super Bowl MVP (4 TDs! 273 yards!) can smile, and shamelessly shills out for Verizon Wireless for the next 20 seconds.] Emmitt Smith? Yep, he's in my "Five". Michael Irvin? Ditto. Hell, even Darryl "Moose" Johnston is on my contacts list. Don't you see, Brett -- I'm Troy Aikman!
Brett: Well knock me over with a feather, it is you, Troy, how you doin'?
Troy: Welll, I was doing good, great actually. I just finished watching, with rapt attention, the most impressive, god-like athletic performance this side of Leon Lett. Imagine my delight when the object of my attention just happened to be in the same bathroom as me!
Brett: You were waiting outside of the home team locker room's bathroom.
Troy: Err, right, but the main point here, Mr. Lambeau Reject, is that I was so, so excited to meet you again, yes, that's right, we've met before! And what do I get, a veritable slap in the face from the object of my Earthly affection. All graces be to God.
Brett: Look, Troy, I'm sorry. I, I remember meeting you. It was after that game...Some years ago.
Troy: I'll have you know, Mr. I-can't-decide-if-I-want-to-play-another-season-aka-I'm-too-lazy-to-go-to-training-camp, that we met in all six Pro Bowls I played in and every other year, when my Dallas Cowboys, America's Team, no big deal, played your lowly bunch of meat packers. I could make a joke about fudge packing here, but I won't because I'm above that and if offends my sensibilities. But don't pretend that you don't know me.
Brett: I is as sorry as a broken dog after it let the cattle run free, Troy.
Troy: What, do you and Dan Rather get together and make these sayings up? Is that what you do? Are you secretly jealous of the life I and other Dallas Cowboys live in our retirement? Do you want to Dance With the Stars (8 ET on ABC) like Emmitt? Do you want to conduct hilariously non-ironic interviews with somewhat befuddled sports stars like Michael does on ESPN? Are you sad that you can't work with Kenny Albert like Darryl "Moose" Johnston? Is that what this is about?
Brett: [in what has become the past few years a regular affair, breaks into tears, the kind that grizzly men who aren't supposed to cry, cry] Troy, you're right! What am I doing in Minnesota? Am I like Robert Johnson? Was that salesman [Brad Childress] really the devil? Did I sell my soul for one more year with my former arch-rival? Oh, Troy, what have I become?
Troy: [taking on an other-worldly glow about his person, reaches out an touches Favre on the forehead, then moves slowly into an embrace, with his hand still on the sun-beaten forehead of the greatest quarterback of his generation] Brett, Brett, shhh. There there. You've seen the light, my brother, you have seen the light. And I mean this when I say it: it's time to come home. Hang up the spikes, quit showing us up.
Brett: Us?
Troy: Oh, yeah, I mean the guys: Steve Young [now doing Van Heusen-JC Penny commericals, still evading pass rush of Bruce Smith], Dan Marino [lost 20 pounds on NutriSystem -- you can too!], and Boomer Esiason [or is it Phil Simms?] -- we all have a weekly bridge game. It's time to retire Brett. For realsies.
Brett: Maybe you're right, Troy, maybe you're right.
[Just then, Brad Childress walks in, 12" butcher knife in hand, and stabs Troy Aikman in the skull. "Come on Brett, Troy was good, but he was no Brett Favre. And who is our little #1 quarterback [and Childress's career lifeline]? That's what I thought. Come on Brett, it's late. Let's hit up the Grill n'Chill.]
Brett: [peeing in the next urinal, remains silent but is visibly uncomfortable]
Troy: I like the way you move your body. I was watching you today, talking about you with my friends Joe and Pam.
Brett: [finishes (probably before he wanted to, but then again, he's kind of known for that)] What are you talking about?
Troy: I'm talking ab-
Brett: Wait, I recognize you.
Troy: You, you do? [blushes and giggles, the first of many fits of giggling in this encounter (a chance one, remember)]
Brett: Sure, I seen you on the TV.
Troy: [gazes coquettishly at Brett while slowly nodding, his index finger creeping towards the crease of his lip, which is gross because he is standing in a men's bathroom and had just finished urinating. Troy realizes the err of his ways when Brett sees this and begins to dry heave. He quickly inserts the offending hand deep, yet casually, in his back pocket, as if nothing had ever happened. Troy, what a guy.]
Brett: Yeah, you announce my football games! Aren't you the son of that famous baseball broadcaster -- the St. Louis Cardinals guy? You're on beer commercials, I seen you! "Slamma-lamma ding dong! Y'alls a funny guy. Can't say as much for your broadcast partner...Tom, Tim Aikman? [background on Brett: he's southern, born and bred in Mississippi, so imagine his dialogue in a smoky, Southern accent. Thanks.]
Troy: [obviously hurt] Like a dagger through mine heart and soul, Brett! Me hopes, nay, me knowest that thou words are in a jest most proper!
Brett: You know, where I'm from, talkin' like that will get you stuffed faster than an Easter pig. Sooey!
Troy: Sorry, I don't know what got into me. But you're mistaken, Mr. Most-Interceptions-Ever -- look at my fingers. Yep, one-two-three rings there. Look at the garish jacket I'm wearing. You betcha, it says NFL Hall of Fame on the breast pocket. Look at my BlackBerry [here, he looks in the direction of a non-existent camera and flashes that smile that only a Super Bowl MVP (4 TDs! 273 yards!) can smile, and shamelessly shills out for Verizon Wireless for the next 20 seconds.] Emmitt Smith? Yep, he's in my "Five". Michael Irvin? Ditto. Hell, even Darryl "Moose" Johnston is on my contacts list. Don't you see, Brett -- I'm Troy Aikman!
Brett: Well knock me over with a feather, it is you, Troy, how you doin'?
Troy: Welll, I was doing good, great actually. I just finished watching, with rapt attention, the most impressive, god-like athletic performance this side of Leon Lett. Imagine my delight when the object of my attention just happened to be in the same bathroom as me!
Brett: You were waiting outside of the home team locker room's bathroom.
Troy: Err, right, but the main point here, Mr. Lambeau Reject, is that I was so, so excited to meet you again, yes, that's right, we've met before! And what do I get, a veritable slap in the face from the object of my Earthly affection. All graces be to God.
Brett: Look, Troy, I'm sorry. I, I remember meeting you. It was after that game...Some years ago.
Troy: I'll have you know, Mr. I-can't-decide-if-I-want-to-play-another-season-aka-I'm-too-lazy-to-go-to-training-camp, that we met in all six Pro Bowls I played in and every other year, when my Dallas Cowboys, America's Team, no big deal, played your lowly bunch of meat packers. I could make a joke about fudge packing here, but I won't because I'm above that and if offends my sensibilities. But don't pretend that you don't know me.
Brett: I is as sorry as a broken dog after it let the cattle run free, Troy.
Troy: What, do you and Dan Rather get together and make these sayings up? Is that what you do? Are you secretly jealous of the life I and other Dallas Cowboys live in our retirement? Do you want to Dance With the Stars (8 ET on ABC) like Emmitt? Do you want to conduct hilariously non-ironic interviews with somewhat befuddled sports stars like Michael does on ESPN? Are you sad that you can't work with Kenny Albert like Darryl "Moose" Johnston? Is that what this is about?
Brett: [in what has become the past few years a regular affair, breaks into tears, the kind that grizzly men who aren't supposed to cry, cry] Troy, you're right! What am I doing in Minnesota? Am I like Robert Johnson? Was that salesman [Brad Childress] really the devil? Did I sell my soul for one more year with my former arch-rival? Oh, Troy, what have I become?
Troy: [taking on an other-worldly glow about his person, reaches out an touches Favre on the forehead, then moves slowly into an embrace, with his hand still on the sun-beaten forehead of the greatest quarterback of his generation] Brett, Brett, shhh. There there. You've seen the light, my brother, you have seen the light. And I mean this when I say it: it's time to come home. Hang up the spikes, quit showing us up.
Brett: Us?
Troy: Oh, yeah, I mean the guys: Steve Young [now doing Van Heusen-JC Penny commericals, still evading pass rush of Bruce Smith], Dan Marino [lost 20 pounds on NutriSystem -- you can too!], and Boomer Esiason [or is it Phil Simms?] -- we all have a weekly bridge game. It's time to retire Brett. For realsies.
Brett: Maybe you're right, Troy, maybe you're right.
[Just then, Brad Childress walks in, 12" butcher knife in hand, and stabs Troy Aikman in the skull. "Come on Brett, Troy was good, but he was no Brett Favre. And who is our little #1 quarterback [and Childress's career lifeline]? That's what I thought. Come on Brett, it's late. Let's hit up the Grill n'Chill.]
23 November 2009
The Sarah Conundrum
[Preface: it's true! I have been posting a lot lately. Blogging a lot for me is evidence of: boredom (see August 2009) or procrastination (see November 2009). I have yet to unleash, and hesitate even to ponder, the deadly combination of both boredom and procrastination. That might lead to multiple posts per day. I'm not sure if I ever want to taste that dangerous potion and I'm not sure you ever want to read the results of that, either.]
I'm facing a conundrum. This post was going to be a letter from god to Sarah Palin, in the same spirit as her letter from God in her new "best"seller Going Rogue: An American Life (available at Walmart for $14.50, what what!). But then I thought, no -- I want to give this book justice. I want to read the bad motherfucker. I want to live the quote, "If God had not intended for us to eat animals, how come he made them out of meat?" Or the winner, "Kid Rock, for instance, is very pro-America and has common sense ideas."
I thought blogging about a book I hadn't read would be too similar to running for VP without first understanding basic tenets of our system of government. I'm not that kinda guy. But then I thought, well I don't want to actually buy her book. And I surely don't want to get it from that communist crock-of-shit library in scary, ghetto downtown Minneapolis (kidding, of course, this guy is a lifelong Book-It participant, even if Pizza Hut no longer honors my reading log minutes; I'm over it though, no worries -- I outgrew personal pan pizzas years ago.). I don't really want to get it from Barnes & Noble or Borders either out of fear that I might see someone I know and have to quick grab a New Yorker or a Chuck Klosterman book to hid my shameful literary find. I honestly think that I'm left no other choice -- Walmart, here I come. Sarah, I can't wait to understand you, know you, fear you!
I'm facing a conundrum. This post was going to be a letter from god to Sarah Palin, in the same spirit as her letter from God in her new "best"seller Going Rogue: An American Life (available at Walmart for $14.50, what what!). But then I thought, no -- I want to give this book justice. I want to read the bad motherfucker. I want to live the quote, "If God had not intended for us to eat animals, how come he made them out of meat?" Or the winner, "Kid Rock, for instance, is very pro-America and has common sense ideas."
I thought blogging about a book I hadn't read would be too similar to running for VP without first understanding basic tenets of our system of government. I'm not that kinda guy. But then I thought, well I don't want to actually buy her book. And I surely don't want to get it from that communist crock-of-shit library in scary, ghetto downtown Minneapolis (kidding, of course, this guy is a lifelong Book-It participant, even if Pizza Hut no longer honors my reading log minutes; I'm over it though, no worries -- I outgrew personal pan pizzas years ago.). I don't really want to get it from Barnes & Noble or Borders either out of fear that I might see someone I know and have to quick grab a New Yorker or a Chuck Klosterman book to hid my shameful literary find. I honestly think that I'm left no other choice -- Walmart, here I come. Sarah, I can't wait to understand you, know you, fear you!
22 November 2009
The Field
[Preface: this is what happens when I take road trips to Iowa and listen to Mason Jennings' new album. Enter, the most high-school thing I've written since, well high school. But hey, it beats studying!]
Sometimes late at night, I go to the field. Is that were you are? Are you a shooting star?
The dead yellow winter grass crunched under Jack Mason’s size-12 Red Wing boots and a light dusting of snow collected in the furrows of his snug green wool Filson cap and into the breast pockets of his tattered flannel work jacket. Mid-November always had this macabre pull on Mason, as if the winds that whipped up and screamed down the valley each night were a signal for this annual journey. When he was younger, he wondered if this pull would ever subside. Now an old man, he knew it never would.
That morning, he woke with the sunrise, groped for his slippers in the near-dark, set the shotgun on its hook, and shuffled the twenty-odd paces to the kitchen, which had fallen into a widower’s disarray. He knew where things should be, where she preferred them, but no longer had the luxury of hearing the loving sigh whenever he seemed of the mind to misplace a utensil. Still, he played his part, “I know, I know, honey, the strainer goes on this hook,” – but now, his only answer was the hum of the refrigerator.
After his breakfast of coffee (stale, from last week’s pot) and biscuits (stale, from Mrs. Macomber, who brought Mason leftovers after church functions almost weekly), Mason dressed warmly and stepped onto the porch. Outside smelled faintly of wood smoke and decaying leaves, a comforting, empty cliché.
Darling, can you hear me?
The land had been in Mason’s family for generations. Over 200 acres of dark, rich-tilled Iowa soil passed quietly from father to son as the former’s life flickered after 70 years of good, honest living. A childhood of wandering the fields and tinkering with electronics was upended for Jack when Abigail thrust herself into his life junior year of high school. The girl had large, soft brown eyes and thick auburn hair that transfixed Jack for a better part of a year until she finally turned on her heels to confront the shy boy as he walked home from school in what he thought was a respectful distance behind her. He had no chance after that.
The two married right after high school and moved from Audobon to Des Moines. Jack worked in a high-end stereo shop and Abby wrote historical fiction about the growing up on the Great Plains in the 1800’s. Their life in Des Moines was Spartan, but full. The couple moved back to Audobon some years later to tend to the land that was his birthright. Neither minded the move after a decade of city-life. Abby still wrote winsome fiction and Jack took on odd jobs around town when he wasn’t farming. The two would often relax on a hill with a stand of trees on top, overlooking their land. Their special spot.
Age had been good to both of them. His eyes were kind and his face fashionably weather-beaten with crows’ feet darting from his eyes. She had grown into her delicate features and was no longer fragile. Her gaze was always in some writer’s far-off place, but it focused when she looked at him. At night, he would sit at his workbench, silently, while adding the final touches to repairs of a tube amplifier. A warm, mechanical thwap thwap sounded as he switched controls on the pre-amp to just the right setting. A gentle hum followed by the soft glow of the tubes as they warmed always made Jack smile. He would swivel his chair to face the line of vinyl records, each beckoning with a story, and make his selection for a “test-run” of the rehabilitated amplifier. One day it would be Theloneous Monk. On another, it was Muddy Waters. A throaty thump buzzed the speakers as the needle hit the record, followed by static, followed by dead silence, followed by the exhilarating crash of drums. Playing records was a sacred ritual, rivaled only by Abby’s gentle padding down the old wooden steps at bedtime each night.
Occasionally, Mason would make visit to clients of the electronics shop in Des Moines who had especially difficult projects that required his expertise. While he loved the work, he dreaded the time away from Abby. He left one Thursday morning before dawn for the two hour trek to Des Moines. His wife was still asleep. As he started up the truck in the predawn light, he thought he saw headlights flicker down on the county road a quarter mile from the house. But when he got to the road, it was empty. Interstate 80 was shrouded in a chilly fog. Strange for June, he thought.
Tell me where’s your heart, now that it’s stopped beating?
The sky had clouded up and the snow began to fall and each step Jack took ripped him back to the afternoon he came home from the city so many years before. He wanted to arrive home in time to watch the sunset with his wife on their special hill. It was a Friday tradition. A crowd had gathered at the house when Jack pulled in. The road dust had clouded and now drifted towards the truck as Jack stepped out, but the gatherers’ eyes were averted for another reason, a reason which Jack immediately knew. The sheriff stepped up, with his severe hat folded under the crook of his arm, the other hand reaching around Jack’s shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry.”
Four men had to restrain Jack when they told him that they found her on the hill, their hill. He punched one of the men, Jim O’Donnelly (the younger O’Donnelly brother), in the face. The men, most of them shockingly pale through sunburndt country skin and in tears, then let Jack walk up to his wife. In summer, the little stand of trees surrounded an area about 15 feet across, where Jack would spread out a blanket for his wife to sit and they would watch sunsets or have a late breakfast on Sundays after church. The grass surrounding the hill had been matted down and as he reached the top, he could see her body. Even years later, as Jack pulled his woolen hat tighter around his ears, he still saw that broken thing on that hill. It was one thing about her he wished he could forget.
Her eyes had been ripped out and were dangling from their cups, as if some recoil mechanism failed. Her soft, tan cheeks were cut open to the ear and many of her pretty teeth were knocked in, forming a horrific smile. Her legs, broken, were left dusty and bloody in an unnatural position and her dress had been pushed up. The medical examiner had a difficult time distinguishing the animal marks from the human. She was ripped apart. Remembering this twenty-five years later in November, Jack vomited his breakfast onto the dead, matted grass.
No suspect was ever found. Only rambling, incoherent letters left at in their bedroom gave testament to her ordeal. Ms. Mason was tortured from Thursday morning to Friday, when she was dragged up the hill and left for dead. She held on, said the medical examiner, for hours longer than anyone had the right to. Theories were established by the townsfolk. A drifter, many said. A small minority blamed immigrant field hands. Fewer still, an old Indian ghost. The whole town was paralyzed with fear. Jack seethed with rage, which eventually consumed him. His rage was stoked as letters from the same incoherent mind found their way to his mailbox every few months. The killer was still out there, still taunting Mason. For the first few years after, Jack would carry a pistol with him around the house, sure the killer would return. But one never appeared. Eventually too, the deranged letters became more sporadic, albeit more removed from reality. Jack was resigned to the fact that his wife’s killer would never see an earthly justice.
The trees in November offered no shade, and leaves littered the ground in the place where they found her. He bent down, a more difficult task now, to clear the dead leaves away from a small patch of ground where she rested. As he stood up, a figure strode up the hill, with the sun, peeking through a patch in the sky, to his back. Jack couldn’t make out the face for the sun shone too bright, but he knew who it was. All of a sudden, quick movement, a flash and a brilliant white light, heat, then nothing. As Jack receded, his vision clouding and his breath frothy red, he heard laughter, at first demonic, instant, but fading into the laughter he hadn’t heard in years. The November sky had turned gray as the snowflakes melted into the steaming red pool.
Sometimes late at night, I go to the field. Is that were you are? Are you a shooting star?
The dead yellow winter grass crunched under Jack Mason’s size-12 Red Wing boots and a light dusting of snow collected in the furrows of his snug green wool Filson cap and into the breast pockets of his tattered flannel work jacket. Mid-November always had this macabre pull on Mason, as if the winds that whipped up and screamed down the valley each night were a signal for this annual journey. When he was younger, he wondered if this pull would ever subside. Now an old man, he knew it never would.
That morning, he woke with the sunrise, groped for his slippers in the near-dark, set the shotgun on its hook, and shuffled the twenty-odd paces to the kitchen, which had fallen into a widower’s disarray. He knew where things should be, where she preferred them, but no longer had the luxury of hearing the loving sigh whenever he seemed of the mind to misplace a utensil. Still, he played his part, “I know, I know, honey, the strainer goes on this hook,” – but now, his only answer was the hum of the refrigerator.
After his breakfast of coffee (stale, from last week’s pot) and biscuits (stale, from Mrs. Macomber, who brought Mason leftovers after church functions almost weekly), Mason dressed warmly and stepped onto the porch. Outside smelled faintly of wood smoke and decaying leaves, a comforting, empty cliché.
Darling, can you hear me?
The land had been in Mason’s family for generations. Over 200 acres of dark, rich-tilled Iowa soil passed quietly from father to son as the former’s life flickered after 70 years of good, honest living. A childhood of wandering the fields and tinkering with electronics was upended for Jack when Abigail thrust herself into his life junior year of high school. The girl had large, soft brown eyes and thick auburn hair that transfixed Jack for a better part of a year until she finally turned on her heels to confront the shy boy as he walked home from school in what he thought was a respectful distance behind her. He had no chance after that.
The two married right after high school and moved from Audobon to Des Moines. Jack worked in a high-end stereo shop and Abby wrote historical fiction about the growing up on the Great Plains in the 1800’s. Their life in Des Moines was Spartan, but full. The couple moved back to Audobon some years later to tend to the land that was his birthright. Neither minded the move after a decade of city-life. Abby still wrote winsome fiction and Jack took on odd jobs around town when he wasn’t farming. The two would often relax on a hill with a stand of trees on top, overlooking their land. Their special spot.
Age had been good to both of them. His eyes were kind and his face fashionably weather-beaten with crows’ feet darting from his eyes. She had grown into her delicate features and was no longer fragile. Her gaze was always in some writer’s far-off place, but it focused when she looked at him. At night, he would sit at his workbench, silently, while adding the final touches to repairs of a tube amplifier. A warm, mechanical thwap thwap sounded as he switched controls on the pre-amp to just the right setting. A gentle hum followed by the soft glow of the tubes as they warmed always made Jack smile. He would swivel his chair to face the line of vinyl records, each beckoning with a story, and make his selection for a “test-run” of the rehabilitated amplifier. One day it would be Theloneous Monk. On another, it was Muddy Waters. A throaty thump buzzed the speakers as the needle hit the record, followed by static, followed by dead silence, followed by the exhilarating crash of drums. Playing records was a sacred ritual, rivaled only by Abby’s gentle padding down the old wooden steps at bedtime each night.
Occasionally, Mason would make visit to clients of the electronics shop in Des Moines who had especially difficult projects that required his expertise. While he loved the work, he dreaded the time away from Abby. He left one Thursday morning before dawn for the two hour trek to Des Moines. His wife was still asleep. As he started up the truck in the predawn light, he thought he saw headlights flicker down on the county road a quarter mile from the house. But when he got to the road, it was empty. Interstate 80 was shrouded in a chilly fog. Strange for June, he thought.
Tell me where’s your heart, now that it’s stopped beating?
The sky had clouded up and the snow began to fall and each step Jack took ripped him back to the afternoon he came home from the city so many years before. He wanted to arrive home in time to watch the sunset with his wife on their special hill. It was a Friday tradition. A crowd had gathered at the house when Jack pulled in. The road dust had clouded and now drifted towards the truck as Jack stepped out, but the gatherers’ eyes were averted for another reason, a reason which Jack immediately knew. The sheriff stepped up, with his severe hat folded under the crook of his arm, the other hand reaching around Jack’s shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry.”
Four men had to restrain Jack when they told him that they found her on the hill, their hill. He punched one of the men, Jim O’Donnelly (the younger O’Donnelly brother), in the face. The men, most of them shockingly pale through sunburndt country skin and in tears, then let Jack walk up to his wife. In summer, the little stand of trees surrounded an area about 15 feet across, where Jack would spread out a blanket for his wife to sit and they would watch sunsets or have a late breakfast on Sundays after church. The grass surrounding the hill had been matted down and as he reached the top, he could see her body. Even years later, as Jack pulled his woolen hat tighter around his ears, he still saw that broken thing on that hill. It was one thing about her he wished he could forget.
Her eyes had been ripped out and were dangling from their cups, as if some recoil mechanism failed. Her soft, tan cheeks were cut open to the ear and many of her pretty teeth were knocked in, forming a horrific smile. Her legs, broken, were left dusty and bloody in an unnatural position and her dress had been pushed up. The medical examiner had a difficult time distinguishing the animal marks from the human. She was ripped apart. Remembering this twenty-five years later in November, Jack vomited his breakfast onto the dead, matted grass.
No suspect was ever found. Only rambling, incoherent letters left at in their bedroom gave testament to her ordeal. Ms. Mason was tortured from Thursday morning to Friday, when she was dragged up the hill and left for dead. She held on, said the medical examiner, for hours longer than anyone had the right to. Theories were established by the townsfolk. A drifter, many said. A small minority blamed immigrant field hands. Fewer still, an old Indian ghost. The whole town was paralyzed with fear. Jack seethed with rage, which eventually consumed him. His rage was stoked as letters from the same incoherent mind found their way to his mailbox every few months. The killer was still out there, still taunting Mason. For the first few years after, Jack would carry a pistol with him around the house, sure the killer would return. But one never appeared. Eventually too, the deranged letters became more sporadic, albeit more removed from reality. Jack was resigned to the fact that his wife’s killer would never see an earthly justice.
The trees in November offered no shade, and leaves littered the ground in the place where they found her. He bent down, a more difficult task now, to clear the dead leaves away from a small patch of ground where she rested. As he stood up, a figure strode up the hill, with the sun, peeking through a patch in the sky, to his back. Jack couldn’t make out the face for the sun shone too bright, but he knew who it was. All of a sudden, quick movement, a flash and a brilliant white light, heat, then nothing. As Jack receded, his vision clouding and his breath frothy red, he heard laughter, at first demonic, instant, but fading into the laughter he hadn’t heard in years. The November sky had turned gray as the snowflakes melted into the steaming red pool.
18 November 2009
My Girls
This is a post about my girls, or my top 5 songs with girls' names as titles...
#5. "Laura" by Girls
This is really a heartfelt song, you can almost feel his desperation creeping into the song. I also love how he totally Elvis Costello-cizes "forever" -- they were great in concert last weekend and I'm excited to see what they come up with next.
#4. "Jodi" by the Dodos
Frantic, frantic song with a heart-stopping chorus. And, um, can you say "percussion"? Awesome.
#3. "Anthonio (Fred Falke Remix)" by Annie
Ok, you got me -- "Anthonio" is decidedly a male name, but I couldn't resist throwing this one in. I mean, it's by an artist with a girl's name, so close enough. This is a remix by Fred Falke, who also did an amazingly bassy, driving remix of Grizzly Bear's "Two Weeks" which I also highly recommend. His remixes seem to be very chill versions of, in Annie's case a pretty frenetic original song, and, in Grizzly Bear's case, a very very chill original. He ends up right in the middle, but I love the basslines he tosses in. I'm a sucker for bass.
#2. "Naomi" by Neutral Milk Hotel
Sorry, I know, another repeat-artist from recent posts. But this is the song I was listening to when I got the idea for this post, so I figured I couldn't not put it on. This is off the first NMH album, "On Avery Island," which is a much fuzzier take on their sound than "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea Is" but no less haunting.
#1. "Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)" by Bruce Springsteen
Aww, come on, how could I not! The only weird part is when he talks about needing Rosie's "soft, sweet little girl's tongue" -- the rest, golden.
#5. "Laura" by Girls
This is really a heartfelt song, you can almost feel his desperation creeping into the song. I also love how he totally Elvis Costello-cizes "forever" -- they were great in concert last weekend and I'm excited to see what they come up with next.
#4. "Jodi" by the Dodos
Frantic, frantic song with a heart-stopping chorus. And, um, can you say "percussion"? Awesome.
#3. "Anthonio (Fred Falke Remix)" by Annie
Ok, you got me -- "Anthonio" is decidedly a male name, but I couldn't resist throwing this one in. I mean, it's by an artist with a girl's name, so close enough. This is a remix by Fred Falke, who also did an amazingly bassy, driving remix of Grizzly Bear's "Two Weeks" which I also highly recommend. His remixes seem to be very chill versions of, in Annie's case a pretty frenetic original song, and, in Grizzly Bear's case, a very very chill original. He ends up right in the middle, but I love the basslines he tosses in. I'm a sucker for bass.
#2. "Naomi" by Neutral Milk Hotel
Sorry, I know, another repeat-artist from recent posts. But this is the song I was listening to when I got the idea for this post, so I figured I couldn't not put it on. This is off the first NMH album, "On Avery Island," which is a much fuzzier take on their sound than "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea Is" but no less haunting.
#1. "Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)" by Bruce Springsteen
Aww, come on, how could I not! The only weird part is when he talks about needing Rosie's "soft, sweet little girl's tongue" -- the rest, golden.
16 November 2009
If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe
[Preface: yes, another semi-science-related post, but -- thanks to Gina for reminding me -- I felt the need to pay tribute to the Leonid Meteor Shower with my own story. After this, you might realize why I like science so much and why I think that everyone should, too. Also, play the Carl Sagan/Stephen Hawking mashup video if you want to add another dimension to this post.]
This story takes place in Canada, at the cabin my grandparents used to own on a cold, Northern lake named Factor Lake. My grandpa, industrious man that he was, had somehow found out about a plot of land available on some obscure Canadian lake during the course of the contacts he made as school superintendent in Greater Minnesota. The plot of land did not have a road leading to it; and it certainly didn't have electricity or working toilets. It was just a parcel of land sitting on one of the countless glacial lakes of the region. But he bought the land and built a cabin there and made damn sure to make treks out with his family each summer.
By the time I started making regular summer visits, at around age five or six, there was a dirt road winding through the woods that led to the cabin. It had some form of electricity, albeit rudimentary, and it had an outhouse. The very definition of the rustic cabin, but it had character going for it. It had and still does have a special place in my heart. I remember the anticipation building up each summer before the trip. I remember my heart pounding as we seemingly inched closer on the twisty rural roads as logging trucks barreled past. I remember pulling off the main highway onto the entry road and opening the windows, fingers sticky with jolly ranchers, to let in the piney fresh air. And I remember seeing my grandpa putzing around the cabin, fixing this or that in his own way, as he greeted us with a warm smile as our car approached. My grandma walking around the corner, wearing her floppy hat and dangling charm bracelet, greeting our arrival with a wave and a smile. This was Canada.
My days at the cabin were spent lolling about playing with the neighbor's old, friendly Golden Retriever, torturing minnows and other helpless bait, or picking blueberries with my grandma. Evenings were spent at the fishing spot -- the Second Narrows -- watching the tips of our rods come alive as the walleyes nibbled on the poor minnows. My dad and I fished as my grandpa ate sunflower seeds and jokingly admonished us for our sometimes mismatched expectations:results when it came to the size of the fish on our line. "Give it a kiss and tell it to go and get its big friends," he'd say. After cleaning the fish, my dad deftly carving out the hunks of meat we'd eat for breakfast 9 hours later, while I squeamishly poked at the entrails and the heads, we would sit on a yellowing couch and my grandma would knit, my grandpa would doze, and my dad would read some of the books we brought or a decades-old National Geographic from his childhood.
[interlude: play this song for more space-themed music. I promise I'm getting to the space part of this post soon. Thanks for hanging in there. In another blast of unwarranted nostalgia, this is off one of the first CDs I ever owned, Spacehog's "Starside"]
If I didn't fall asleep on the couch, I would walk up the creaky wooden stairs to the attic, where we slept under posters labeled "The Butterflies of North America" or "Wildflowers of Southern Ontario." You know the kind. I could faintly hear the sound of the waves lapping the shore as I drifted off, my hands still smelling more than faintly of fish guts, happy. Sometimes the clinking of silverware on bowls would wake me up with only one thing flashing in my mind: ice cream! Maybe that was the first time that I realized that adults like to have fun, too. I'm not sure, but I am sure that I raced downstairs every time I heard even the slightest evidence of ice cream consumption below. Another time my dad woke me up with just, "Joe, you've got to see this."
Everyone is groggy when they are awoken, but kids seem to be excessively so. Maybe it's because in their minds, nothing is so important that they have to be woken up. Parents are probably the opposite. I can remember going into my parents' room as a kid, both of them immediately wide-awake as soon as their door creaked open, wondering what calamity befell their child.
So I was a groggy eight year old when my dad woke me up that night in Canada. He told me to put on my shoes and a jacket and come look at the shooting stars. I followed, groggily curious as to how stars could be shooting, down the uneven steps of the cabin and to the dock. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I looked to the sky and almost immediately recoiled in surprise and fright -- the stars really were shooting! More than shooting, they were rocketing across the lake, as if shot from an unseen, unheard cannon. I could hear the black water lapping at the boat and the dock, but I could see nothing else. The lone light was the cabin's single bulb swaying in the wind far, far away from where I stood, unable to move and scared of the enveloping darkness.
I tucked into my dad's arm and eventually dared myself to look back up at the stars. They were still arcing brilliantly across the sky. I began to feel less scared and more awed at what I saw. Flashes of light darted regally across the sky, the monstrous band of the Milky Way stretched from one of the lake end to the other, over the Second Narrows and on and on forever. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I began to see even more meteors, more stars, and less black emptiness. The sky was full of activity, more than I could have ever imagined.
I've spent a lot of nights since in Canada looking up at the sky. It's the same sky as I have over me now, but nothing in the city approaches the all-encompassing darkness of the sky around Factor Lake. Spending those nights simply letting myself get wrapped up in the sky, in space, grounds me. Sitting in the library today, only a concrete sky above, hunched over a dimly lit contracts casebook, I was reminded that it never hurts to take a look up at the night sky. You never know what you'll find.
This story takes place in Canada, at the cabin my grandparents used to own on a cold, Northern lake named Factor Lake. My grandpa, industrious man that he was, had somehow found out about a plot of land available on some obscure Canadian lake during the course of the contacts he made as school superintendent in Greater Minnesota. The plot of land did not have a road leading to it; and it certainly didn't have electricity or working toilets. It was just a parcel of land sitting on one of the countless glacial lakes of the region. But he bought the land and built a cabin there and made damn sure to make treks out with his family each summer.
By the time I started making regular summer visits, at around age five or six, there was a dirt road winding through the woods that led to the cabin. It had some form of electricity, albeit rudimentary, and it had an outhouse. The very definition of the rustic cabin, but it had character going for it. It had and still does have a special place in my heart. I remember the anticipation building up each summer before the trip. I remember my heart pounding as we seemingly inched closer on the twisty rural roads as logging trucks barreled past. I remember pulling off the main highway onto the entry road and opening the windows, fingers sticky with jolly ranchers, to let in the piney fresh air. And I remember seeing my grandpa putzing around the cabin, fixing this or that in his own way, as he greeted us with a warm smile as our car approached. My grandma walking around the corner, wearing her floppy hat and dangling charm bracelet, greeting our arrival with a wave and a smile. This was Canada.
My days at the cabin were spent lolling about playing with the neighbor's old, friendly Golden Retriever, torturing minnows and other helpless bait, or picking blueberries with my grandma. Evenings were spent at the fishing spot -- the Second Narrows -- watching the tips of our rods come alive as the walleyes nibbled on the poor minnows. My dad and I fished as my grandpa ate sunflower seeds and jokingly admonished us for our sometimes mismatched expectations:results when it came to the size of the fish on our line. "Give it a kiss and tell it to go and get its big friends," he'd say. After cleaning the fish, my dad deftly carving out the hunks of meat we'd eat for breakfast 9 hours later, while I squeamishly poked at the entrails and the heads, we would sit on a yellowing couch and my grandma would knit, my grandpa would doze, and my dad would read some of the books we brought or a decades-old National Geographic from his childhood.
[interlude: play this song for more space-themed music. I promise I'm getting to the space part of this post soon. Thanks for hanging in there. In another blast of unwarranted nostalgia, this is off one of the first CDs I ever owned, Spacehog's "Starside"]
If I didn't fall asleep on the couch, I would walk up the creaky wooden stairs to the attic, where we slept under posters labeled "The Butterflies of North America" or "Wildflowers of Southern Ontario." You know the kind. I could faintly hear the sound of the waves lapping the shore as I drifted off, my hands still smelling more than faintly of fish guts, happy. Sometimes the clinking of silverware on bowls would wake me up with only one thing flashing in my mind: ice cream! Maybe that was the first time that I realized that adults like to have fun, too. I'm not sure, but I am sure that I raced downstairs every time I heard even the slightest evidence of ice cream consumption below. Another time my dad woke me up with just, "Joe, you've got to see this."
Everyone is groggy when they are awoken, but kids seem to be excessively so. Maybe it's because in their minds, nothing is so important that they have to be woken up. Parents are probably the opposite. I can remember going into my parents' room as a kid, both of them immediately wide-awake as soon as their door creaked open, wondering what calamity befell their child.
So I was a groggy eight year old when my dad woke me up that night in Canada. He told me to put on my shoes and a jacket and come look at the shooting stars. I followed, groggily curious as to how stars could be shooting, down the uneven steps of the cabin and to the dock. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I looked to the sky and almost immediately recoiled in surprise and fright -- the stars really were shooting! More than shooting, they were rocketing across the lake, as if shot from an unseen, unheard cannon. I could hear the black water lapping at the boat and the dock, but I could see nothing else. The lone light was the cabin's single bulb swaying in the wind far, far away from where I stood, unable to move and scared of the enveloping darkness.
I tucked into my dad's arm and eventually dared myself to look back up at the stars. They were still arcing brilliantly across the sky. I began to feel less scared and more awed at what I saw. Flashes of light darted regally across the sky, the monstrous band of the Milky Way stretched from one of the lake end to the other, over the Second Narrows and on and on forever. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I began to see even more meteors, more stars, and less black emptiness. The sky was full of activity, more than I could have ever imagined.
I've spent a lot of nights since in Canada looking up at the sky. It's the same sky as I have over me now, but nothing in the city approaches the all-encompassing darkness of the sky around Factor Lake. Spending those nights simply letting myself get wrapped up in the sky, in space, grounds me. Sitting in the library today, only a concrete sky above, hunched over a dimly lit contracts casebook, I was reminded that it never hurts to take a look up at the night sky. You never know what you'll find.
12 November 2009
Certain Songs, They Get So Scratched into Our Souls
[Preface: I guess with me lately, it's only music and science as blog post topics. It's what's keeping me together through law school. Trust me, music and science are by far the best, most interesting things I have going for me right now. You don't want posts on, say the implied obligation of good faith, or res ipsa loquiter or interpleader, do you? Didn't think so. Oh yeah, I get kind of emo in this post too. Sorry. Blame Elliot Smith. ]
One thing law school has given me is the chance to indulge in my music collection -- it's good study music! A recurring theme, when I read with my ipod on, is that my favorite albums inevitably conjure up stirring memories surrounding experiences I've had that are somehow associated with the music. I think that listening to music, like certain smells, are especially connected to memories; not always specific, sometimes just flashes of emotion.
For instance:
This song by the Dirty Projectors, reminds me of walking up to my house in DC. It's summertime and I'm really happy. I can see the railing on the front steps, wrought iron and painted white and if you leaned on it, it shed paint specks with reckless abandon. The sidewalk running in front of the steps was old brick, with sporadic upheavals making it look wavy and lived-in. I miss DC and the friends I made there...
Yes, that is Billy Corgan, and yes, this is his short-lived post-Smashing Pumpkins-star-vehicle Zwan. I was obsessed with this CD in high school, specifically junior year. I can remember playing this song in my '96 Mercury Mystique while driving down the cloverleaf from 494W to Highway 100. Weird, I know...
This is the prettiest, most haunting song off of one of my favorite albums of all time. Jeff Mangum, through his band Neutral Milk Hotel captured something crazy in this album, of which this track is the title song. He wrote the album after reading the Diary of Anne Frank (hence the fan-video montage) and never recorded another album. He didn't have to. I listened to this album while driving to and from college full blast so many times, the only thing that comes to mind is the swirling snow ever-present in the UP.
Every night after dinner as a kid, my dad, sister, and I would trek down to the basement, choose from either a Tom Petty or (most often) Bruce Springsteen tape, throw it in the boom box, and dance. Whenever "Dancing in the Dark" came on, we literal-minded youngsters would dim the lights and go crazy. Writing this now, I feel full of mom's meatloaf and the euphoria of being young, not knowing that I didn't have a care in the world, but not caring.
Songs are powerful devices. We all have songs that, as the Hold Steady so aptly say, get scratched into our souls. Some conjure odd, disjointed snippets of memory, others much more. But each means something, and that's all that matters.
One thing law school has given me is the chance to indulge in my music collection -- it's good study music! A recurring theme, when I read with my ipod on, is that my favorite albums inevitably conjure up stirring memories surrounding experiences I've had that are somehow associated with the music. I think that listening to music, like certain smells, are especially connected to memories; not always specific, sometimes just flashes of emotion.
For instance:
This song by the Dirty Projectors, reminds me of walking up to my house in DC. It's summertime and I'm really happy. I can see the railing on the front steps, wrought iron and painted white and if you leaned on it, it shed paint specks with reckless abandon. The sidewalk running in front of the steps was old brick, with sporadic upheavals making it look wavy and lived-in. I miss DC and the friends I made there...
Yes, that is Billy Corgan, and yes, this is his short-lived post-Smashing Pumpkins-star-vehicle Zwan. I was obsessed with this CD in high school, specifically junior year. I can remember playing this song in my '96 Mercury Mystique while driving down the cloverleaf from 494W to Highway 100. Weird, I know...
This is the prettiest, most haunting song off of one of my favorite albums of all time. Jeff Mangum, through his band Neutral Milk Hotel captured something crazy in this album, of which this track is the title song. He wrote the album after reading the Diary of Anne Frank (hence the fan-video montage) and never recorded another album. He didn't have to. I listened to this album while driving to and from college full blast so many times, the only thing that comes to mind is the swirling snow ever-present in the UP.
Every night after dinner as a kid, my dad, sister, and I would trek down to the basement, choose from either a Tom Petty or (most often) Bruce Springsteen tape, throw it in the boom box, and dance. Whenever "Dancing in the Dark" came on, we literal-minded youngsters would dim the lights and go crazy. Writing this now, I feel full of mom's meatloaf and the euphoria of being young, not knowing that I didn't have a care in the world, but not caring.
Songs are powerful devices. We all have songs that, as the Hold Steady so aptly say, get scratched into our souls. Some conjure odd, disjointed snippets of memory, others much more. But each means something, and that's all that matters.
09 November 2009
Lipstick on a pig; or why the debate on teaching "Intelligent" Design in our schools is hurting our chances
I've written posts on science before (here) so I'll spare the gory details regarding my infatuation. But some things always get me worked up. Creationism/intelligent design is one of them. And yes, I know that some people pay lip service and differentiate creationism and intelligent design by the absence (intentional) of mentioning G-O-D in intelligent design discussion. But I see it for what it really is, just a gussied-up "science-y" version of creationism. And it's hurting our chances as a country for future success.
I'm going to make the argument that the fact that over 40% of Americans believe in creationism as a valid explanation for the origins of life and the fact that, at least in some parts of the country, it is taught side-by-side with evolution, as persuasive evidence that we are, to put it succinctly, screwed. Compare that to the percentage of Americans who believe in Darwinian Natural Selection (around 20%) and we've got a big problem.
The problem is that a basic understanding of science requires at least a preference for Darwinian evolution -- it is the only explanation grounded in true science. Pro-ID groups use "science" and "the scientific method" but only as misleading propaganda. Their theory boils down to this: since we can't explain it, and it looks pretty complex, then it must be designed by an intelligent being, because hell, if we can't explain it, who can? It relies on the circular argument rooted in a religious mentality that it's only us (humans) and an intelligent being (god) that can have any bearing on the natural world if we can't explain a particularly vexing natural system. I think its a rather arrogant way of viewing the world -- holding a candle to real science up to the point where it ceases explaining a certain topic and then ascribing the rest to an intelligent being, supposedly smarter than us humans.
It's an entirely modern construct as well. Where science is the gradual unlocking of the secrets of the universe, intelligent design is just another way for scientific skeptics to cling to a theory which still places humans at the top of the worldly intellectual food chain. The theory can never advance, it is left to being a placeholder for the areas where science still seeks answers. So, science will continue to unravel the mysteries of our natural world while intelligent design, creationism, or some other construct will attempt to (temporarily) fill increasingly small voids in our knowledge.
But, while it still has a firm grasp on the American public's mind, it can't be ignored -- like the kid you really don't want to talk to at school because, well, he's just a bit "off", but who follows you around regardless... yeah, creationism is that kid. Proponents argue that it is "scientific" to ask questions and be skeptics regarding the established theories in science. OF COURSE IT IS!! They are missing the point. Science, specifically evolution, is not a static subject. There is a reason why Darwin's "Origin of Species" is not the text book in evolutionary biology, nor Newton's "Principia Mathematica" in physics class -- not because they are wrong, but because the body of knowledge surrounding these important scientific foundational works has so drastically increased that we need updated text to explain the current knowledge. If skepticism wasn't part of science, well then it wouldn't be science.
But the underlying, insidious bedfellow (I love that word) to a belief in creationism, or at least a complicity towards having it taught in our schools (playing it off as relatively harmless) is that it teaches young people in our country to be distrustful of science. A distrust of science leads to a distrust of rational information and thought and skews towards "leaps of faith" behavior that ignores rationality. I remember seeing a plaque from a creationism museum that had two figures, one of science, with a rational "line of thought" bouncing from one idea to the next before arriving at an end, the essence of science. The next figure was a straight line from the start to the end; the faith line. I don't discount the power of faith or religion. Religion and science are not mutually exclusive. But religious or non-scientific ventures into the realm of science should be kept out of the science classroom. There are hardly enough resources to competently evaluate the valid scientific theories!
Raising a country or, worse, existing as a country where the lion's share of citizens mistrust science is not a country poised for a promising future. Our future as a human population hinges upon our ability as a nation to once again become leaders, inventing the technologies that will be crucial our advancement. America still has the best and the brightest; our universities really are the gold standard across the world. But to have a successful country in the future will require a general public apt to get behind the innovators. To market their inventions, write about their advances, and advocate for their funding. This can't happen with creationism in our schools. To be able to understand the problems of the future (and present -- climate change, biotechnology, healthcare, etc.) we need a public equipped with the tools to understand these complex challenges.
This highlights the general need for more education funding for the sciences, but it bespeaks of the fundamental need for science education to be unencumbered by non-science alternate theories which only muddle and confuse and turn people off of science. The future should not be decided by people who are self-professed "I'm not a science person" people, but of a public who enjoys a basic literacy of science and the origins of life.
[Edit: see the op-eds of two figureheads of the conservative movement, Charles Krauthammer and George F. Will. Both are egregiously wrong on a lot of issues, but not this one. Synopsis: don't go there, conservatives.]
06 November 2009
Muzak I'm listening to
People always (ok, almost never) ask me what music I'm listening to. I never know what to say! I usually sputter and mutter incomprehensibly and finally just tell them, "Bruce "The Boss" Springsteen." I do air quotes around "The Boss" too, since I don't want to invite confusion to someone's real boss! Whoever asked then just kind of shrugs and walks away. But now that I've had time to "think on it," here are a few bands that have caught my fancy recently. Feel free to disagree or make fun of me. And it seems like everyone else but me is a fan of Owl City. And I thought I liked one-trick ponies who have a dated sound! (see: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart)
Neon Indian
These guys are great! They sound hazy and lazy and crazy. They sing mostly about drugs and their music sounds like it. I guess they get labeled as "Glo-Fi" or "Chillwave" or any number of blogger-inspired tags. I think they should just get labeled "fun" and be done with it. Nice.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart
Ok, ok, so if you're like me, at first, you're like, who are these Belle and Sebastian / Camera Obscura wannabees? Take your dumb 8mm footage of your dumb hipster friends and get out of my face! But unlike the aforementioned bands, or Morrissey/The Field Mice/Heavenly/other twee, emo bands before them, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart actually sound like they're kind of having fun. I guess for cardigan-wearing hipsters, that's as good as it gets. But I like it. And they have a song called "This Love is Fucking Right!" so there. They like to have fun. It's just more of a reserved, hipster, cross-legged-hipster-cigarette-vintage tee fun.
Annie
Woweewowwow, I love Annie. She's an indie/Norwegian/DJ Sasha Fierce. This song is old, I think I got it sometime around 2004 but she has a new album coming out soon and from listening to it, it's more bubblegum pop. Which is a good thing! This video is kind of dumb, but you can never have too many Annies prancing around.
The Dirty Projectors
This video sure has a lot of Middle Earth quality to it, but I assure you, this band will make you wish that Frodo could come back from living with Bilbo and the Elves so he could hear this! Ok, so I've just alienated 3 of the 5 people who read this blog, but my love of LOTR and this band is simply too much to suppress. I've heard this band and especially the main singer (who doesn't sing on this) is just too grating, the kind of band you like just to name-drop, but their last album, Bitte Orca, was all around good. They play next week about 1/4 miles from the law school. Sadly, at the futon store that doubles as a daytime box office, I was informed yesterday that it was sold out. It went from the best to the worst day of my life. Seriously!
Atlas Sound
Ok, so this guy's name is Bradford Cox, he's also in the band Deerhunter. I think he's friends with everyone in the indie music scene, so a lot of them are like, let me be on your record, dude! The dude abides, and this song "Walkabout" features Noah Lennox (aka Panda Bear aka 1/3 of Animal Collective aka guy who sounds like Brian Wilson). Very bouncy, moreso than a lot of Atlas Sound's other stuff. I like bouncy.
It's late and I should sleep. But I hope this post leads you to some new tunes.
Neon Indian
These guys are great! They sound hazy and lazy and crazy. They sing mostly about drugs and their music sounds like it. I guess they get labeled as "Glo-Fi" or "Chillwave" or any number of blogger-inspired tags. I think they should just get labeled "fun" and be done with it. Nice.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart
Ok, ok, so if you're like me, at first, you're like, who are these Belle and Sebastian / Camera Obscura wannabees? Take your dumb 8mm footage of your dumb hipster friends and get out of my face! But unlike the aforementioned bands, or Morrissey/The Field Mice/Heavenly/other twee, emo bands before them, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart actually sound like they're kind of having fun. I guess for cardigan-wearing hipsters, that's as good as it gets. But I like it. And they have a song called "This Love is Fucking Right!" so there. They like to have fun. It's just more of a reserved, hipster, cross-legged-hipster-cigarette-vintage tee fun.
Annie
Woweewowwow, I love Annie. She's an indie/Norwegian/DJ Sasha Fierce. This song is old, I think I got it sometime around 2004 but she has a new album coming out soon and from listening to it, it's more bubblegum pop. Which is a good thing! This video is kind of dumb, but you can never have too many Annies prancing around.
The Dirty Projectors
This video sure has a lot of Middle Earth quality to it, but I assure you, this band will make you wish that Frodo could come back from living with Bilbo and the Elves so he could hear this! Ok, so I've just alienated 3 of the 5 people who read this blog, but my love of LOTR and this band is simply too much to suppress. I've heard this band and especially the main singer (who doesn't sing on this) is just too grating, the kind of band you like just to name-drop, but their last album, Bitte Orca, was all around good. They play next week about 1/4 miles from the law school. Sadly, at the futon store that doubles as a daytime box office, I was informed yesterday that it was sold out. It went from the best to the worst day of my life. Seriously!
Atlas Sound
Ok, so this guy's name is Bradford Cox, he's also in the band Deerhunter. I think he's friends with everyone in the indie music scene, so a lot of them are like, let me be on your record, dude! The dude abides, and this song "Walkabout" features Noah Lennox (aka Panda Bear aka 1/3 of Animal Collective aka guy who sounds like Brian Wilson). Very bouncy, moreso than a lot of Atlas Sound's other stuff. I like bouncy.
It's late and I should sleep. But I hope this post leads you to some new tunes.
18 October 2009
And that's why you always stretch before IM softball games....
IM softball tonight: single, homerun, triple...pulled hamstring while tagging from third. I scored, but it also felt like someone punched the back of my leg. Hard. Pain. Probably not going to run in the half marathon on Halloween. Ice and Advil are in my future. Awesome!
05 October 2009
Seriously?!
Basic rule of life #234: It is all but impossible for an adult, especially a male, to look anything but ridiculous when wearing face paint outside of proper context like a sporting event, a costume party, or a carnival where the individual is playing a clown or other jester-like character.
Corollary to #234: in said situation, trying to play it casual, contrary to normal human experience, just makes things worse.
Example:
Driving around downtown Minneapolis today in the drizzle at around 3:30 pm (or, 4.5 hours before game time) I saw a young man crossing the street with facepaint on that ostensibly was meant to make him look ghoulish in character but really made him look quite sad. It was apparent in his body language (slouched shoulders and shifty, downcast eyes, etc.) that the face paint was not his idea. Probably the result of an overbearing mother who, in return for signing the permission slip to get out of 10th grade biology early game day, insisted that he wear the skeleton-Adrian Peterson getup. "If you're planning on going to this Vikings game with this family, young man, you will dress up for it! And don't think you're not going to be a skeleton, even if Halloween is still three weeks away, because I didn't spend $15 at Party City to look at the black and white face paint as it sits on the shelf untouched by a bratty teenage boy who is suddenly "too cool" to apply random face paint as he is paraded around downtown Minneapolis by this mother. Don't think I forgot about your "call me Barbie and I'll call you Ken" phase." [A seething, "you wouldn't dare," face ensues, followed by a slow, reluctant unscrewing of the black paint and a defiantly harsh flip of the vanity mirror switch.] But nonetheless, this example proves that face paint outside of the proper context (and you could really put down a good argument that there is really no "proper" context for face paint on adults) looks simply ridiculous. A related example of this phenomenon of out-of-context absurdity occurs whenever a cyclist abandons his/her bike while still wearing spandex bike gear. Bike + biker = clothes ok (again, the argument could be made that under no circumstances should some people be in form fitting clothes). Biker - bike = clothes NOT ok.
Corollary to #234: in said situation, trying to play it casual, contrary to normal human experience, just makes things worse.
Example:
Driving around downtown Minneapolis today in the drizzle at around 3:30 pm (or, 4.5 hours before game time) I saw a young man crossing the street with facepaint on that ostensibly was meant to make him look ghoulish in character but really made him look quite sad. It was apparent in his body language (slouched shoulders and shifty, downcast eyes, etc.) that the face paint was not his idea. Probably the result of an overbearing mother who, in return for signing the permission slip to get out of 10th grade biology early game day, insisted that he wear the skeleton-Adrian Peterson getup. "If you're planning on going to this Vikings game with this family, young man, you will dress up for it! And don't think you're not going to be a skeleton, even if Halloween is still three weeks away, because I didn't spend $15 at Party City to look at the black and white face paint as it sits on the shelf untouched by a bratty teenage boy who is suddenly "too cool" to apply random face paint as he is paraded around downtown Minneapolis by this mother. Don't think I forgot about your "call me Barbie and I'll call you Ken" phase." [A seething, "you wouldn't dare," face ensues, followed by a slow, reluctant unscrewing of the black paint and a defiantly harsh flip of the vanity mirror switch.] But nonetheless, this example proves that face paint outside of the proper context (and you could really put down a good argument that there is really no "proper" context for face paint on adults) looks simply ridiculous. A related example of this phenomenon of out-of-context absurdity occurs whenever a cyclist abandons his/her bike while still wearing spandex bike gear. Bike + biker = clothes ok (again, the argument could be made that under no circumstances should some people be in form fitting clothes). Biker - bike = clothes NOT ok.
03 October 2009
Enough sitting around. I need to get up and run.
The biggest problem with law school is that it's needy. Every spare moment, you can feel its pull, beckoning you, making you feel guilty about not reading that next case or doing another brief. You can either succumb to this and feel pressured to go the extra mile -- the mantra "reach for the moon, because even if you fall short, you'll be among the stars" running through your head. [NOTE: I have such a major problem with this mantra. The premise is so fundamentally flawed. It's as if we're telling kids or corporate luncheon attendees -- whomever the typical audience for this saying is -- hey, underachiever, here's a cute little jingle, don't mind that it ignores the basic layout of the physical world; if you try hard enough you can be both burned out and ignorant of science! "Reach for the stars, because even if you fall short, you'll still be somewhere around the moon, or perhaps that middle distance between our star, the Sun, and the star you're trying to reach, some few million light years away, but either way, hey -- you gave it your best shot!" doesn't have that same pithiness but at least it gets the science right. See, America, this is why our children are failing out of math and science. This is why a mind-boggling, jaw-dropping number of Americans think humans walked with the dinosaurs (the History Channel series "Walking with the Dinosaurs" doesn't do a whole lot to clear this up, but at least there aren't little computer generated people walking with the Triceratops and early mammals). It's hard to do well in life if you're being encouraged by faulty science. Ok, enough rant.]
Or, you can consciously make an effort to take a break from the stress of school and go for a run. It's fall and my favorite time of year to get outside and jog by the river. The leaves are turning and sometimes when you are rushing through a tunnel of trees, bent forward with golden limbs and showering you with soon to be detritus, it feels like flight. This adjustment period to school has made my running so south. But that is soon to change.
The Twin Cities Marathon is tomorrow and, while I am not obviously running, I am declaring right now my intention to run it next year. I am also going to run Grandma's Half in June. There, I said it. Hold me to it.
I used to be a decent runner. Never fast, but not slow -- pretty good for a reformed baseball player/husky child. In 2006, I ran Grandma's Half in 1 hour 43 minutes. Now, I doubt I could make it in under two. I used to run all the time and eat Chipotle with careless abandon while weighing somewhere in the low-160's. Now, I don't run too often but still eat Chipotle like it's going out of style and I'm in the 180 range. Now, if that was LSAT score, thanks, I'll take it. Harvard, here I come! But it's not, and for that reason I must run.
Don't take this as anything but my personal desire to get back into shape and have fun running again. I'm not going on the Atkins diet nor do I plan on running 20 miles a day in this quest. I just don't want to be the guy who elicits surprise when he tells people he's a runner. "Oh, really? You run? Huh. [uncomfortable silence/stifled laugh]" Yeah, not going to be me...And please do hold me to it -- when you see me eyeing that third piece of pizza, poke my belly and give me a disapproving shake of the head or finger or both. I'll get the point. I'll try to update semi-regularly throughout the year.
Here's my first update: I'm planning on running a Halloween Half. I am picturing this as a horrible re-introduction to running races, but it will be good to look back and say, wow, I've come a long way since October 2009 in October 2010.
Stay tuned...
Or, you can consciously make an effort to take a break from the stress of school and go for a run. It's fall and my favorite time of year to get outside and jog by the river. The leaves are turning and sometimes when you are rushing through a tunnel of trees, bent forward with golden limbs and showering you with soon to be detritus, it feels like flight. This adjustment period to school has made my running so south. But that is soon to change.
The Twin Cities Marathon is tomorrow and, while I am not obviously running, I am declaring right now my intention to run it next year. I am also going to run Grandma's Half in June. There, I said it. Hold me to it.
I used to be a decent runner. Never fast, but not slow -- pretty good for a reformed baseball player/husky child. In 2006, I ran Grandma's Half in 1 hour 43 minutes. Now, I doubt I could make it in under two. I used to run all the time and eat Chipotle with careless abandon while weighing somewhere in the low-160's. Now, I don't run too often but still eat Chipotle like it's going out of style and I'm in the 180 range. Now, if that was LSAT score, thanks, I'll take it. Harvard, here I come! But it's not, and for that reason I must run.
Don't take this as anything but my personal desire to get back into shape and have fun running again. I'm not going on the Atkins diet nor do I plan on running 20 miles a day in this quest. I just don't want to be the guy who elicits surprise when he tells people he's a runner. "Oh, really? You run? Huh. [uncomfortable silence/stifled laugh]" Yeah, not going to be me...And please do hold me to it -- when you see me eyeing that third piece of pizza, poke my belly and give me a disapproving shake of the head or finger or both. I'll get the point. I'll try to update semi-regularly throughout the year.
Here's my first update: I'm planning on running a Halloween Half. I am picturing this as a horrible re-introduction to running races, but it will be good to look back and say, wow, I've come a long way since October 2009 in October 2010.
Stay tuned...
01 October 2009
Proof.
Well, September has come and gone and I'm still alive and in law school. And I love it.
[Preface (although this really isn't a preface, is it? I've already begun the post. It's not pre-anything. Well, except for that weird middle part and, yeah, the end. But maybe "editior's note" would be a more appropriate title to this section? I don't care and I'm sure you don't either.): so I'm back posting tonight since I missed my bus that would have taken me to the bar to drink with my law school friends. So, instead of doing something social, I decided to do the most anti-social thing possible: blog alone in my room at midnight. The middle and majority of this post is really just rambling, so if you are pressed for time but still want to hear how my life at law school is going, just disregard the parts of this post enclosed in carrots, "<[blah, blah]>." I won't be offended if you skip to the bottom. But this is just proof that I'm alive and well. And still a little weird.]
<>
So in light of all this, yeah, law school still manages to be the most difficult thing I've ever done. But unlike eating a shitty burrito, it's also the most rewarding.
Ed. So this is a little hint for all you bloggers out there: if you put a portion of text in these things
"<>" whatever gets put in between is erased when you publish the post. A blogger black hole. Take, for instance, the last little comment about eating a bad burrito. You might have gotten this allusion if the point it was alluding to wasn't deleted when I pressed "publish post". You might have chuckled or even chortled when you read it, shaking your head as you remembered the funny, fantastical story I had just spun for your enjoyment. Well, maybe my rambling about wearing black jeans and a "Save the Tigers" long sleeved shirt and having a hissy fit in Chipotle wasn't fit for this blog that like 3 people read anyway. But I thought it was funny. Waay funnier than <>.
Ed. (2) Ok, this post just sucks. I'll try to redeem myself soon.
[Preface (although this really isn't a preface, is it? I've already begun the post. It's not pre-anything. Well, except for that weird middle part and, yeah, the end. But maybe "editior's note" would be a more appropriate title to this section? I don't care and I'm sure you don't either.): so I'm back posting tonight since I missed my bus that would have taken me to the bar to drink with my law school friends. So, instead of doing something social, I decided to do the most anti-social thing possible: blog alone in my room at midnight. The middle and majority of this post is really just rambling, so if you are pressed for time but still want to hear how my life at law school is going, just disregard the parts of this post enclosed in carrots, "<[blah, blah]>." I won't be offended if you skip to the bottom. But this is just proof that I'm alive and well. And still a little weird.]
<>
So in light of all this, yeah, law school still manages to be the most difficult thing I've ever done. But unlike eating a shitty burrito, it's also the most rewarding.
Ed. So this is a little hint for all you bloggers out there: if you put a portion of text in these things
"<>" whatever gets put in between is erased when you publish the post. A blogger black hole. Take, for instance, the last little comment about eating a bad burrito. You might have gotten this allusion if the point it was alluding to wasn't deleted when I pressed "publish post". You might have chuckled or even chortled when you read it, shaking your head as you remembered the funny, fantastical story I had just spun for your enjoyment. Well, maybe my rambling about wearing black jeans and a "Save the Tigers" long sleeved shirt and having a hissy fit in Chipotle wasn't fit for this blog that like 3 people read anyway. But I thought it was funny. Waay funnier than <>.
Ed. (2) Ok, this post just sucks. I'll try to redeem myself soon.
31 August 2009
Shit is about to get REAL
Preface: I'm currently in the midst of discovering Hüsker Dü (10 minutes of "umlaut shortcut for mac" searching well worth it; heavy metal umlauts should be more prevalent in day to day life) so apologies if this post is tinged by that frenetic and groundbreaking Minneapolis punk sound that so well compliments my current disposition and this post. Or not.
Yes, the shit is about to get real. This is a true statement with law school now only hours away and my life as I know it destined to become only a distant, rapidly fading memory, tinged with nostalgia for the days of endless hours of mouth breathing and blank staring that may or may not have become a significant part of my life in this limbo between school and work and more school. It can't help that I'm reading the book One L right now that goes into graphic detail about one law student's perilous journey through Harvard Law School in the 1970's. I was told to read it with the overlying assumption that everything this guy went through I will not, at least to the extremes he did. This is comforting, but also rather frightening.
So I won't face the same pressures the author did, but I'll still face similar, if diluted pressures to perform under rigorous intellectual conditions. I certainly worked hard in undergrad, but the pressure to excel was not as pronounced as I expect it to be in law school. Or, to put it better, the competition amongst those seeking to excel will be more apparent compared to the laid back undergrad study culture (with the exception of that certain someone in the labs who was always too busy to even talk. Or think (but not to complain about being busy) even while the rest of us, with identical and similar if not more demanding extra curricular obligations were looking up cats that look like Hitler). It'll be interesting, to use my best Minnesotanease.
Speaking of Minnesota and being back home, I arrived just in time for my 5 year high school reunion. Despite some of my classmates' ambivalence or even hostility towards its arrival, for a myriad of reasons, I was genuinely mildly excited for it. Mild excitement being my version of turning up the amp to 11. Spinal Tap anyone?
As it approached, however, the vain insecurities of high school started to creep and I felt a little disappointed in myself that they had started to get a foothold once again. Looking back on it, high school kinda sucked at times, even most times, as I think it did for anyone who has moved on and realized that the most important things in life are not what the most important things in high school were. Walking under the marquee in Downtown Minneapolis (a trivial aside: I really love to see the word Minneapolis spelled out. For some reason it reminds me of a smile. I think it's that 'e' perfectly nestled in between the Minn- and the -apolis.) that announced our reunion to the world, I was met by an odd smattering of high school mates that now looked wildly out of context in a clubby bar. Cue the sheepish grin and the sustained glances towards the ESPN ticker on the flat screen that will probably forever be my anti-social cop out.
The first half hour was awkward. Like high school. But the drinking soon helped. That and a pep talk I gave myself about enjoying the party. I give myself too many of those. But aside from avoiding/ignoring the people I have no desire to ever see outside of the yearbook and the occasional facebook post, there were a lot of people I enjoyed reconnecting with. Despite my initial reversion to high school tendencies, the reunion served to chip away some of the social barriers that existed in high school. And, in between the pole dancing-bachelorettes, it was fun to hear about what my classmates had been up to. Even though I could just look it up on facebook.
Finally, in this scatterbrained rambler, is bike news. I finished it over the weekend and have already gone on a relaxed ride through Minneapolis (there it is again!) that served to remind me that bike rides can be fun and not just an excuse to burn calories. Thanks to Jeff for the front wheel, I love it. Thanks to Home Depot for the paint. Thanks to online merchandisers for the seat (Selle San Marco), seat post, lights, etc. Thanks to my local bike shops (Re-Cycle and Penn Cycle) for the rest. Thanks to my neighbor for giving me the original bike a few years ago. Thanks to my shed for keeping it safe through those tough Minnesota winters. Finally, thanks to my idle hands and mind for concocting a project to top off this month of waiting.
Yes, the shit is about to get real. This is a true statement with law school now only hours away and my life as I know it destined to become only a distant, rapidly fading memory, tinged with nostalgia for the days of endless hours of mouth breathing and blank staring that may or may not have become a significant part of my life in this limbo between school and work and more school. It can't help that I'm reading the book One L right now that goes into graphic detail about one law student's perilous journey through Harvard Law School in the 1970's. I was told to read it with the overlying assumption that everything this guy went through I will not, at least to the extremes he did. This is comforting, but also rather frightening.
So I won't face the same pressures the author did, but I'll still face similar, if diluted pressures to perform under rigorous intellectual conditions. I certainly worked hard in undergrad, but the pressure to excel was not as pronounced as I expect it to be in law school. Or, to put it better, the competition amongst those seeking to excel will be more apparent compared to the laid back undergrad study culture (with the exception of that certain someone in the labs who was always too busy to even talk. Or think (but not to complain about being busy) even while the rest of us, with identical and similar if not more demanding extra curricular obligations were looking up cats that look like Hitler). It'll be interesting, to use my best Minnesotanease.
Speaking of Minnesota and being back home, I arrived just in time for my 5 year high school reunion. Despite some of my classmates' ambivalence or even hostility towards its arrival, for a myriad of reasons, I was genuinely mildly excited for it. Mild excitement being my version of turning up the amp to 11. Spinal Tap anyone?
As it approached, however, the vain insecurities of high school started to creep and I felt a little disappointed in myself that they had started to get a foothold once again. Looking back on it, high school kinda sucked at times, even most times, as I think it did for anyone who has moved on and realized that the most important things in life are not what the most important things in high school were. Walking under the marquee in Downtown Minneapolis (a trivial aside: I really love to see the word Minneapolis spelled out. For some reason it reminds me of a smile. I think it's that 'e' perfectly nestled in between the Minn- and the -apolis.) that announced our reunion to the world, I was met by an odd smattering of high school mates that now looked wildly out of context in a clubby bar. Cue the sheepish grin and the sustained glances towards the ESPN ticker on the flat screen that will probably forever be my anti-social cop out.
The first half hour was awkward. Like high school. But the drinking soon helped. That and a pep talk I gave myself about enjoying the party. I give myself too many of those. But aside from avoiding/ignoring the people I have no desire to ever see outside of the yearbook and the occasional facebook post, there were a lot of people I enjoyed reconnecting with. Despite my initial reversion to high school tendencies, the reunion served to chip away some of the social barriers that existed in high school. And, in between the pole dancing-bachelorettes, it was fun to hear about what my classmates had been up to. Even though I could just look it up on facebook.
Finally, in this scatterbrained rambler, is bike news. I finished it over the weekend and have already gone on a relaxed ride through Minneapolis (there it is again!) that served to remind me that bike rides can be fun and not just an excuse to burn calories. Thanks to Jeff for the front wheel, I love it. Thanks to Home Depot for the paint. Thanks to online merchandisers for the seat (Selle San Marco), seat post, lights, etc. Thanks to my local bike shops (Re-Cycle and Penn Cycle) for the rest. Thanks to my neighbor for giving me the original bike a few years ago. Thanks to my shed for keeping it safe through those tough Minnesota winters. Finally, thanks to my idle hands and mind for concocting a project to top off this month of waiting.
25 August 2009
The morning paper
Preface: Lazy fiction. Because I can't sleep.
The old man awakes at his usual time. Though he sets an alarm every night before lights off -- better safe than sorry, he tells himself -- routine proves to be a better morning rooster, his hand hovering above the snooze button almost involuntarily at the waking time. Sometimes his aging mind plays tricks and he awakes in a panic during the dull gray dawn, certain a thunderstorm, or perhaps a freak solar event came ripping through the night, cutting power to his alarm clock, betraying that bond that exists between man and machine. He thinks to himself, I should really get a battery powered alarm clock. But he'll forget this when he runs errands that afternoon, as he always does. He will then silently chastise himself and miss his wife, who had a better memory but worse luck.
Sleepily and out of habit, he reaches a speckled, wrinkled hand to the other side of the bed but is met only by a remorselessly empty flower-patterned comforter, still precisely made from the night before. Still now years later, he feels a sharp urgent flutter in his stomach when this happens. A feeling deeper than disappointment or sadness. The old man gets out of bed and shuffles down the hallway to the bathroom. Finshed, he shuffles to the front door.
The old oak door creaks as he opens it, lifting up and outward to balance the shaky hinges. On the outside of the door, the red paint is cracking and peeling. Red flakes fall more regularly now as if the old tree, though mutilated, still remembers nature. As he opens the screen door, he makes a mental note to fix the empty holes with mesh from the garage. He will forget to do this too in the afternoon. He looks down. The paper is curled inside a green plastic bag. A curious object is nestled at the bottom. Like a giraffe to water, he splays his legs to reach down without so much pain. There is still some.
The sequence of the door is reversed and the old man retreats into the home he built decades ago. The plastic bag is emptied and the paper and the paper and the object fall to the cluttered WWII-era kitchen table. After donning a pair of drug store reading glasses -- he stashes them all over the house for times like these -- he picks up the small rectangular brownie-sized package and reads the label.
Luna Bar: The Whole Nutrition Bar for Women.
The name makes him sad and miss his wife. She would have clucked her tongue and said something about eggs, toast, and bacon being all the nutrition she needed. She also would have eaten the Luna bar later, after reconsidering, and would have gone out and bought cartons of them that same day. This is why he loved her. The bar rolls off his curled fingertips and into the endless clutter of bills, clippings, and abandoned foodstuffs.
He then scans the front page of the newspaper. This too makes him sad. He remembers John Lennon singing about reading the news. Oh boy. This morning he can't read the rest of the paper because everything is making him sad. He will make a cup -- only one cup -- of strong black coffee and one slice of rye toast with butter and cinnamon sugar. The rest of the morning, he will sit in the kitchen and look out the window at the birds feeding at the wooden feeder. The seeds are running low and he needs to remember to fill it but he will forget. The birds make him happy.
The old man awakes at his usual time. Though he sets an alarm every night before lights off -- better safe than sorry, he tells himself -- routine proves to be a better morning rooster, his hand hovering above the snooze button almost involuntarily at the waking time. Sometimes his aging mind plays tricks and he awakes in a panic during the dull gray dawn, certain a thunderstorm, or perhaps a freak solar event came ripping through the night, cutting power to his alarm clock, betraying that bond that exists between man and machine. He thinks to himself, I should really get a battery powered alarm clock. But he'll forget this when he runs errands that afternoon, as he always does. He will then silently chastise himself and miss his wife, who had a better memory but worse luck.
Sleepily and out of habit, he reaches a speckled, wrinkled hand to the other side of the bed but is met only by a remorselessly empty flower-patterned comforter, still precisely made from the night before. Still now years later, he feels a sharp urgent flutter in his stomach when this happens. A feeling deeper than disappointment or sadness. The old man gets out of bed and shuffles down the hallway to the bathroom. Finshed, he shuffles to the front door.
The old oak door creaks as he opens it, lifting up and outward to balance the shaky hinges. On the outside of the door, the red paint is cracking and peeling. Red flakes fall more regularly now as if the old tree, though mutilated, still remembers nature. As he opens the screen door, he makes a mental note to fix the empty holes with mesh from the garage. He will forget to do this too in the afternoon. He looks down. The paper is curled inside a green plastic bag. A curious object is nestled at the bottom. Like a giraffe to water, he splays his legs to reach down without so much pain. There is still some.
The sequence of the door is reversed and the old man retreats into the home he built decades ago. The plastic bag is emptied and the paper and the paper and the object fall to the cluttered WWII-era kitchen table. After donning a pair of drug store reading glasses -- he stashes them all over the house for times like these -- he picks up the small rectangular brownie-sized package and reads the label.
Luna Bar: The Whole Nutrition Bar for Women.
The name makes him sad and miss his wife. She would have clucked her tongue and said something about eggs, toast, and bacon being all the nutrition she needed. She also would have eaten the Luna bar later, after reconsidering, and would have gone out and bought cartons of them that same day. This is why he loved her. The bar rolls off his curled fingertips and into the endless clutter of bills, clippings, and abandoned foodstuffs.
He then scans the front page of the newspaper. This too makes him sad. He remembers John Lennon singing about reading the news. Oh boy. This morning he can't read the rest of the paper because everything is making him sad. He will make a cup -- only one cup -- of strong black coffee and one slice of rye toast with butter and cinnamon sugar. The rest of the morning, he will sit in the kitchen and look out the window at the birds feeding at the wooden feeder. The seeds are running low and he needs to remember to fill it but he will forget. The birds make him happy.
23 August 2009
Oh how the migthy have fallen.
Preface: This post mentions the fact that I was one of the captains for the varsity baseball team at the Academy of Holy Angels in 2004. It does not go into detail regarding why I was used most often as a pinch runner during my stint under the [insert "glowing" adjective here] Coach Page. But after reading this, you may understand a bit better. Also, I kind of dig county fairs, and not in a wholly ironic way, either. It's a great expression of what it means to be an American. Both good and bad.
I had the opportunity to stay at my high school friend's cabin in Wisconsin this weekend. I had a lot of fun tubing, wakeboarding (actually being dragged through the water in a fruitless attempt to wakeboard -- more on that later), drinking, grilling, and Sing Starring. But the most enlightening experience was the Sawyer County Fair.
Watching the demolition derby, avoiding lewd carnies, and riding the Ferris Wheel are all pretty typical Wisconsin county fair things to do in my book. We did them Saturday. Some of my friends did spinny rides. I did not. I did, however, pay $2 to make an ass out of myself. Was it worth it? Probably not.
Since I didn't partake in any of the vomit-inducing rides, such as the multitude of centrifuge-inspired monstrosities that must make your internal organs mushy or smushed to the side of your body cavity, I spent some time engrossed in another wonder of the county fair - the games. Now why anyone would want a stuffed animal large enough to qualify for the HOV lane or a goldfish certain to be forgotten (while walking that thin line between floating upright and upside down) the instant it leaves the child's hands is beyond me, but hey, some of the games are fun.
I stood in front of the guess-your-speed baseball game and thought to myself, hey, I could do that! After all, I played baseball my entire life, how hard could it be? The country boys with their wide-eyed girlfriends were taking turns making elaborate, herky-jerky throws to the red painted box 15 feet away while a morbidly obese carny smoking a skinny cigarette and holding a radar gun in one hand and a 64 oz Big Gulp (for when you absolutely, positively have to consume four pounds of pop) in the other took their money and looked otherwise wall-eyed at the target. Two dollars for three throws; two warmup throws and a third that you had to guess the speed. Time and again, it went 54 mph, 54 mph, 55 mph -- fail. Ha, I thought, I can do better than these high schoolers - after all, I was captain of the famed Academy of Holy Angels varsity boys baseball team of 2004 (see preface).
So when I came back to the game with my group of friends, the gaggle of teens had moved on to greener pastures (probably the goldfish toss) and the fat carny and his carny friends were standing in a circle smoking and chatting. Slow night, apparently. I gave him my $2 and loosened up my arm to hurl a smoking fastball probably straight through the plastic banner but 15 feet away. The game was set up like a 3-walled cage, with stuffed animal prizes hanging from the ceiling about 10 feet above the ground. In my head I was already picking out my prize. Surely I would not fail. I couldn't.
I did. Epically.
My day thus far had, as I mentioned, consisted of attempting to wakeboard. My drag-friendly body couldn't get out of the water and for twenty minutes, the effort of strained lurching through the water, the wake frothy yellow, my face grotesquely expressed and red, meant my forearms were shot. I could hardly open a can (a situation upgraded to crisis level for the weekend's necessary activities). A moment of temporary forgetfulness or rather twentysomething invincibility/masculinity overtook me as I gripped the worn baseball in that familiar way, ready to fire.
A friend's flash lit up the scene -- me in a modified full-windup, my law school sweatshirt casually (of course) rolled up to my elbows, the carny smoking a cig/drinking Mountain Dew/holding the radar gun/staring off into space, my friends watching off to the side, the high schoolers suddenly all around me. It was all going so well until I felt nothing when I should've felt the ball being released from my fingers. I realized, to my utter mortification, that my hand had involuntarily released the ball when it was still by my ear, thanks to my useless forearms. The ball thankfully stayed in the game pen, but just barely. It hit a stuffed monkey. That got the carny's attention.
"You killed the monkeeee!!! Hehehe" [said through pursed, sugary, tobacco-y lips]
I looked at my hand, the traitor, like golfers look at their malfunctioning putter after missing a tap-in. I couldn't believe it. One sheepish grin and a shrug later and it was time to throw another ball -- technically still my first since my errant toss was apparently out of the radar's range. Suddenly mindful of my physical inadequacies, I took it more slowly this time and managed to hit the very top of the banner, still out of range for the radar. The carny was still loving it and his friends had joined in.
I thankfully got the last three throws within radar range and, needless to say, did not win a stuffed animal. I did, however, win the prize of having the carny take down the stuffed monkey I hit and proceed to heckle me as I walked away casually still (of course), but with some urgency into the cacophony of sounds, gaudy lighting, and questionable smells that is the Sawyer, Wisconsin County Fair.
Sometimes it takes a carny to put you back properly in your place.
I had the opportunity to stay at my high school friend's cabin in Wisconsin this weekend. I had a lot of fun tubing, wakeboarding (actually being dragged through the water in a fruitless attempt to wakeboard -- more on that later), drinking, grilling, and Sing Starring. But the most enlightening experience was the Sawyer County Fair.
Watching the demolition derby, avoiding lewd carnies, and riding the Ferris Wheel are all pretty typical Wisconsin county fair things to do in my book. We did them Saturday. Some of my friends did spinny rides. I did not. I did, however, pay $2 to make an ass out of myself. Was it worth it? Probably not.
Since I didn't partake in any of the vomit-inducing rides, such as the multitude of centrifuge-inspired monstrosities that must make your internal organs mushy or smushed to the side of your body cavity, I spent some time engrossed in another wonder of the county fair - the games. Now why anyone would want a stuffed animal large enough to qualify for the HOV lane or a goldfish certain to be forgotten (while walking that thin line between floating upright and upside down) the instant it leaves the child's hands is beyond me, but hey, some of the games are fun.
I stood in front of the guess-your-speed baseball game and thought to myself, hey, I could do that! After all, I played baseball my entire life, how hard could it be? The country boys with their wide-eyed girlfriends were taking turns making elaborate, herky-jerky throws to the red painted box 15 feet away while a morbidly obese carny smoking a skinny cigarette and holding a radar gun in one hand and a 64 oz Big Gulp (for when you absolutely, positively have to consume four pounds of pop) in the other took their money and looked otherwise wall-eyed at the target. Two dollars for three throws; two warmup throws and a third that you had to guess the speed. Time and again, it went 54 mph, 54 mph, 55 mph -- fail. Ha, I thought, I can do better than these high schoolers - after all, I was captain of the famed Academy of Holy Angels varsity boys baseball team of 2004 (see preface).
So when I came back to the game with my group of friends, the gaggle of teens had moved on to greener pastures (probably the goldfish toss) and the fat carny and his carny friends were standing in a circle smoking and chatting. Slow night, apparently. I gave him my $2 and loosened up my arm to hurl a smoking fastball probably straight through the plastic banner but 15 feet away. The game was set up like a 3-walled cage, with stuffed animal prizes hanging from the ceiling about 10 feet above the ground. In my head I was already picking out my prize. Surely I would not fail. I couldn't.
I did. Epically.
My day thus far had, as I mentioned, consisted of attempting to wakeboard. My drag-friendly body couldn't get out of the water and for twenty minutes, the effort of strained lurching through the water, the wake frothy yellow, my face grotesquely expressed and red, meant my forearms were shot. I could hardly open a can (a situation upgraded to crisis level for the weekend's necessary activities). A moment of temporary forgetfulness or rather twentysomething invincibility/masculinity overtook me as I gripped the worn baseball in that familiar way, ready to fire.
A friend's flash lit up the scene -- me in a modified full-windup, my law school sweatshirt casually (of course) rolled up to my elbows, the carny smoking a cig/drinking Mountain Dew/holding the radar gun/staring off into space, my friends watching off to the side, the high schoolers suddenly all around me. It was all going so well until I felt nothing when I should've felt the ball being released from my fingers. I realized, to my utter mortification, that my hand had involuntarily released the ball when it was still by my ear, thanks to my useless forearms. The ball thankfully stayed in the game pen, but just barely. It hit a stuffed monkey. That got the carny's attention.
"You killed the monkeeee!!! Hehehe" [said through pursed, sugary, tobacco-y lips]
I looked at my hand, the traitor, like golfers look at their malfunctioning putter after missing a tap-in. I couldn't believe it. One sheepish grin and a shrug later and it was time to throw another ball -- technically still my first since my errant toss was apparently out of the radar's range. Suddenly mindful of my physical inadequacies, I took it more slowly this time and managed to hit the very top of the banner, still out of range for the radar. The carny was still loving it and his friends had joined in.
I thankfully got the last three throws within radar range and, needless to say, did not win a stuffed animal. I did, however, win the prize of having the carny take down the stuffed monkey I hit and proceed to heckle me as I walked away casually still (of course), but with some urgency into the cacophony of sounds, gaudy lighting, and questionable smells that is the Sawyer, Wisconsin County Fair.
Sometimes it takes a carny to put you back properly in your place.
20 August 2009
In the works, a new bike
My late-summer project, Day 1
A single-speed commuter for law school!
It's an 80's vintage Fuji free from my neighbor, formerly blue, but will be painted satin black, with a world championship stripe left from the original. I'm going for a black/white color scheme, and would like to find a white seat and white handlebar grips. I thought about white tires, but that may be going too far. My budget is 1/5 of the cost of a new bike I was looking for ($500) and since I have a lot of stuff on hand already, looking for a new home, most of that will probably go towards new wheels (or beer).
A single-speed commuter for law school!
It's an 80's vintage Fuji free from my neighbor, formerly blue, but will be painted satin black, with a world championship stripe left from the original. I'm going for a black/white color scheme, and would like to find a white seat and white handlebar grips. I thought about white tires, but that may be going too far. My budget is 1/5 of the cost of a new bike I was looking for ($500) and since I have a lot of stuff on hand already, looking for a new home, most of that will probably go towards new wheels (or beer).
- Tonight and tomorrow morning: paint, order parts
- Tomorrow: clean brakes
- Next week: put everything together
- Ride ;o)
18 August 2009
Oh man, an Oman weekend!
Preface: I'm not usually prone to making such silly titles to my posts (ok, maybe I am) but this is an exception. Someone mentioned this weekend that they wished they could have their name put into a pun in a headline like their star athlete brother. Well, this isn't the Marinette Eagle Herald, but I guess beggars can't be choosers when it comes to last-name-pun-headlines.
I made the trip down to Davenport, Iowa this weekend to visit my MTU bud Laura who now lives down there. I met her and her sister Emily at their booth of the farmers market in downtown Davenport. The sisters, of Flours & Fibers fame, bake (Emily) and knit (Laura) their way to stardom in the Quad Cities area. I can imagine residents walking the mean streets of Davenport with scone or gluten-free muffin in hand, kept warm by knit hat, scarf, and mitten, and carrying records or french bread in intricate yet sturdy (because of the reinforced band of the bag, so I'm told) striped bags.
Eastern Iowa has a lot to offer. I witnessed the aftermath of my first tug-of-war contest across state lines (Iowa lost to Illinois, if they wanted to win, they should've played Wisconsin. They're sissies over there.), though I missed the actual event. The aftermath of Tug Fest involved a lot of large, sunburnt men wearing menacing sunglasses, menacing facial hair, and non-threatening, "barely there" tank tops eating fried food. Or a pregnant woman who nixed the frumpy maternity garb for the ever-popular tank top (everyone loves tank tops in Iowa, too bad I left all mine at the store) with the bottom rolled up into a super bra. I guess she wanted her baby to be secondhand tan when it came out.
But the highlight of Tug Fest was a visit to an antique store in quaint downtown LeClaire. Not expecting a whole lot and feeling a bit bad for not playing bingo at Tug Fest, I was definitely surprised by what I found. Many antique stores I've visited have an almost obligatory selection of records, usually in old milk crates and usually featuring bottom of the barrel selection. But not this one. Four crates held the greatest density of "good" records I've ever seen. I ended up buying (thanks, Laura, for the loan) Prince (1999), Derek and the Dominos (Layla and other Assorted Love Songs), Led Zeppelin (Physical Grafitti), and David Bowie (Let's Dance). And could have picked up another half dozen save for the fact that I was already borrowing money from my host...Amazing.
The next day we made our way out to Laura and Emily's friend Kathy's farm. I could devote a whole post to this amazing place, but it's late and I have to wake up early. I'll just throw out a few words from the experience. Corn-zebo. Einstein ducks. Overflowing Japanese beetles. The god of yarn spinning. Wildflowers. Napoleon the chicken (who, according to legend, won power through a "chicken coup").
Then a redux of finding amazing records occurred Monday. Emily brought me (after some confusion on the streets of Davenport) to this small record store on the second floor of an old building. We were greeted heartily by two guys who, let's just say, looked like they worked in a used record store! But they were nice and, once again, I ended up in records heaven. After some gut wrenching decisions, I came home with an Elvis Costello (Get Happy!) and a Grateful Dead (Workingman's Dead) record and couldn't be happier. Emily stuck out an hour of browsing the dusty vinyls and came home with some new (old) LPs of her own to play once she finds speakers at home...
So this weekend was really fun and thanks to Laura for having me at her sweet place in Iowa, I'll be back.
I made the trip down to Davenport, Iowa this weekend to visit my MTU bud Laura who now lives down there. I met her and her sister Emily at their booth of the farmers market in downtown Davenport. The sisters, of Flours & Fibers fame, bake (Emily) and knit (Laura) their way to stardom in the Quad Cities area. I can imagine residents walking the mean streets of Davenport with scone or gluten-free muffin in hand, kept warm by knit hat, scarf, and mitten, and carrying records or french bread in intricate yet sturdy (because of the reinforced band of the bag, so I'm told) striped bags.
Eastern Iowa has a lot to offer. I witnessed the aftermath of my first tug-of-war contest across state lines (Iowa lost to Illinois, if they wanted to win, they should've played Wisconsin. They're sissies over there.), though I missed the actual event. The aftermath of Tug Fest involved a lot of large, sunburnt men wearing menacing sunglasses, menacing facial hair, and non-threatening, "barely there" tank tops eating fried food. Or a pregnant woman who nixed the frumpy maternity garb for the ever-popular tank top (everyone loves tank tops in Iowa, too bad I left all mine at the store) with the bottom rolled up into a super bra. I guess she wanted her baby to be secondhand tan when it came out.
But the highlight of Tug Fest was a visit to an antique store in quaint downtown LeClaire. Not expecting a whole lot and feeling a bit bad for not playing bingo at Tug Fest, I was definitely surprised by what I found. Many antique stores I've visited have an almost obligatory selection of records, usually in old milk crates and usually featuring bottom of the barrel selection. But not this one. Four crates held the greatest density of "good" records I've ever seen. I ended up buying (thanks, Laura, for the loan) Prince (1999), Derek and the Dominos (Layla and other Assorted Love Songs), Led Zeppelin (Physical Grafitti), and David Bowie (Let's Dance). And could have picked up another half dozen save for the fact that I was already borrowing money from my host...Amazing.
The next day we made our way out to Laura and Emily's friend Kathy's farm. I could devote a whole post to this amazing place, but it's late and I have to wake up early. I'll just throw out a few words from the experience. Corn-zebo. Einstein ducks. Overflowing Japanese beetles. The god of yarn spinning. Wildflowers. Napoleon the chicken (who, according to legend, won power through a "chicken coup").
Then a redux of finding amazing records occurred Monday. Emily brought me (after some confusion on the streets of Davenport) to this small record store on the second floor of an old building. We were greeted heartily by two guys who, let's just say, looked like they worked in a used record store! But they were nice and, once again, I ended up in records heaven. After some gut wrenching decisions, I came home with an Elvis Costello (Get Happy!) and a Grateful Dead (Workingman's Dead) record and couldn't be happier. Emily stuck out an hour of browsing the dusty vinyls and came home with some new (old) LPs of her own to play once she finds speakers at home...
So this weekend was really fun and thanks to Laura for having me at her sweet place in Iowa, I'll be back.
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