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.]
30 November 2009
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.
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