holly was a hoodrat, now you finally know that

Take me out to the ballgame

2011-07-09T22:48:00.000-05:00

There are few things more sacred in this world than a father and son at a baseball game. Great wars have been fought to preserve this right, and it stands as one of the great gifts, often unspoken, that a father can give to his son. Walking up to the ballpark gate, the men walk subtly more upright in an attempt to regain the glory of their high school playing days, a glory all but faded now after years of physical neglect. But their sons don't see that faded glory; they are proud simply to be known as the son of that Great Man who can unlock the key to America with a simple transaction on a street corner with a man who wears a placard, "I buy tickets." The ballpark noise --- vendors, chatty fans, static-filled announcements --- grows louder as the pair near the destination of their pilgrimage...

Dad puts the glove in his backpack because it's too heavy for me to carry and I keep dropping it anyway. It is his old one, an ancient Rawlings Gold Glove model, near-ivory now and cracked after years of exposure to rural Minnesota sun and dirt. A Lee Smith signature is scrawled in ballpoint on the thumb. Neither of us knew he was the all-time leader in saves when we got his autograph. He was wearing a uniform, which was the most important (and single) criterion for who got a glove or ball thrust into their hands.

As we walk towards the Metrodome, that eyesore of 1980's sports architecture, we are joined by more fathers and sons and daughters and aunts and uncles and friends, until we are just a sea of hot, sweaty Minnesotans adorned in the jerseys representing the magnificent history of the organization --- Puckett, Killebrew, Carew, Versalles, Kaat, Hrbek --- and the ruinous (1990's) present --- Hale, Coomer, Cordova, Knoblauch, Mahomes. The sights, sounds, and smells of the ballpark are overwhelming. Dad steers me in my dazed state to our gate and through the turnstiles. The daily promotion is a Bert Blyleven bobble head. Something is wrong with the spring in mine and Bert's head remains cocked like an inquisitive dog. It's fitting.

I ask for and receive a hot dog, chips, and a coke. I am now ready to find my seat, although I spill most of the pop on a middle aged woman as I shuffle past her in Section 221, Row 13, on my way to Seat 8. It's ok though, she's wearing a Frank Thomas jersey. I give her a sheepish smile and move on. My dad mutters apologies behind me (he's no fan of the White Sox or the Big Hurt either). We settle into our seats just in time to hear the PA announcer Bob Casey say, "There is no smoking in the Metrodome, nooooo smoking in the Metrodome." That's fine, we don't intend to.

The way the players take the field proves that these are men playing a boys game. During warmups, even the lowliest utility infielder --- who would not look out of place at a grocer's check-out counter --- takes on an exaggerated, lazy swagger in the casual way he fields the slowly rolling grounders, takes a jaunty crow-hop, and zips a dart over to first. Most of the relief pitchers are still in the dugout during these early innings, but when they do saunter towards the bullpen along the left field foul line, they joke like first graders on a field trip. I sit for a few minutes with my mouth agape, soaking it all in. Dad idly leafs through the program. Some ketchup falls from my hotdog and onto my lap. Instinctively I cringe, but Dad just smiles and hands me his handkerchief. Mom would've been so mad.

"See how all the players get into the ready position as the pitch is being thrown?" I nod as I notice the subtle ballet taking place on the field. Most players tap their gloves as the pitcher reaches the top of his windup. Some then just bend over, gloves extended. Others move catlike a few steps towards the batter, in anticipation. I take mental notes and soon adopt a pre-pitch ritual reminiscent of Kirby Puckett's. He was my favorite. Dad has probably read Puckett's memoir, "I Love This Game," to me at least a dozen times. I am sure now that it was not worth reading a dozen times, but he never complained.

I am quiet as the game progresses. This is not unusual; I am usually quiet with my dad, but a high-five after a homerun sure says a lot. It's part of a special ritual that countless fathers and sons (and daughters!) have shared in over the years. The slow cadence of baseball fits perfectly into the dynamic of the relationship. It's heartbreaking to see the ritual broken so tragically and unexpectedly. Fathers will do almost anything to provide for their children. Sometimes it's something as simple as a foul ball touched by a hero...

When I was very young, my dad and I went to see the Christmas lights at the zoo. I was standing outside of the bathroom waiting for my dad to come out. Dozens of people were bundled up and milling about around me, swirling with the snow. The bathroom door was illuminated by the yellowish glow of the sodium streetlight above when he came out, decked out in Sorels and a one-piece snowmobile suit. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell, hard. The people stopped swirling and looked on in surprise. I don't think I moved --- my eyes were stuck wide-open. My father finally moved and spent a few seconds inspecting the damage, which was luckily nothing more than a bruised tailbone and an ego. I can't imagine a future where dad didn't get up...

As we walk to the car in the hot, muggy August night, I stop and raise my arms. "You're getting too big for this," he says as he hoists me up. I have a hastily cleaned mini Twins helmet that held my sundae in one hand, the other is clasped around his neck. I fall asleep in the car and wake up the next morning in my bed with the baseball sheets. This is how a ball game should end.

Day 17: Want

2011-03-29T00:34:00.002-05:00

Name three things you want, and don't you dare feel guilty while doing so.

1. The AVID "Diva II" Turntable, $1,800

2. Swag menswear

APC Jeans

Hamilton 1883 Oxford

UNIS Chinos

The Hill-Side Pocket Square

Barbour Jacke t

Finally, a pair of Aldens

3. Oh, and a new bike (steel is real.)

Yep, I'm super greedy.

Day 14: Bandwagons

2011-03-25T22:03:00.000-05:00

What bandwagon have you yet to jump on? Why?

Menswear edition.

Double Monk Straps. I just don't see why they're such a big deal. They look goooofy.

Also, cargo pants are back. But WHY??

The double breasted suit. It'd be kinda classic, but then again, I'd have to keep it buttoned up all day. I sweat too much for that noise.

Day 12, Day ((14-1) (I'm superstitious, not religious))

2011-03-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

What are you admitting defeat about? Is it really too late to turn it around?

Starting center for the Minnesota Lynx. 10 years of tryout rejections signals that it's probably time to hang up the ole gym shorts and call it a day.

So, Lent!Blog! participants, what’s your guilty pleasure? Really now, make it embarrassing. Make it count.

I was going to write a post about how my guilty pleasure is reading Chuck Klosterman essays. Especially Chuck Klosterman essays about how it's wrong to label guilty pleasures as "guilty pleasures," but I thought that too meta for a Lent! Blog! Challenge, so I abstained. But Gina, take a gander at the Klosterman essay -- it seems as though you two share a love, be it guilty or not, of Ashlee Simpson...

I actually think Klosterman can be kind of annoying, so I decided to throw my latent hipster aside and embrace the fun definition of guilty pleasure, sans ironic detachment.

So I thought about name-dropping some early- to mid-80's movies that are cited as "MOVIES YOU HAVE TO WATCH BEFORE YOU DIE/GUILTY PLEASURES," in bars across the country among twenty-somethings in the know. But I was such a shut-in, cable-less turd growing up that my movie touchstones are the not-yet-cool blockbusters that still need to age a decade or two before I feel comfortable naming them as definitive cultural moments of my childhood. Sorry Independence Day, Armageddon, Cool Runnings, Little Giants, Rookie of the Year, Twister, Men in Black -- your time has not yet come.

Then I thought about what's most embarrassing but gives me the most pleasure in life. And then it struck me like a hard-hitting Andy Cohen (of Watch What Happens: Live!) Real Housewives of New York (Bethanny v. Kelly) Fight Reenactment (starts at 4:00) -- I love watching Bravo!. I used to explain it away as, "Just the channel Top Chef happens to be on, so I reluctantly watch it," when my roommate questioned my manhood upon finding the channel switched to the network that brings you the Rachel Zoe Project ("ah-mah-zing") when all he wanted was to get his Sports Center on. After a few months of this humiliation, I decided to bite the bullet for the other 5 straight guys who watch non-Top Chef fare on Bravo! and admitted that I do, from time to time, tune in to see Jackie's trainers go crazy on Workout, or Patti talk about how the "Picker Picks" (it's true) on Millionaire Matchmaker, or watch Jeff Lewis, well, flip out on Flipping Out. What can I say? Watching Bravo! lets me turn my brain off for a sec and live a life I'll (thankfully) never live. And isn't that what guilty pleasures are all about? 30Rock seems to think so...

Days 9/10/11

2011-03-22T22:48:00.001-05:00

What is one change, big or small, that you've had to deal with lately? Was it hard? Why or why not?

I've been trying to wear pants that fit me better. It's hard (wait, was that a joke question, Gina?) because I have short legs. If my legs were an animal (living or dead) appendage, they would be T-Rex arms for sure. Except my legs can support my body weight (i.e. I can walk); T-Rex surely could not do arm-stands. That being said, I'd say that trying to find pants that fit me is one of the big changes in my life that I'm trying to deal with right now. I'd appreciate some distance right now, thanks.

What is one recent sign that you're really and truly an adult?

I'm also trying real hard to run a marathon. I've signed up for a race (Stillwater!), got myself a training plan, and found a group of occasional running buddies, and bought myself some new shoes. The last time I ran one was when I was 20 and so full of spit and gumption that I didn't run at all the month before the race. I just drove to Duluth, slept at a buddy's house, and ran the fucker. I definitely paid for it with some bloody nips and the inability to walk for a few days, but I did it. Now, persistent aches and pains (most recently, bouts with achilles tendonitis) that flare up when my training ramps up have made me realize that whatever youthful vigor I possessed is now long-gone. I feel as though I may be destined to bring up the rear of the race, with the nice older ladies and their cheerful balloons, chatting me up as I wave at the tiring crowd as the sag wagon bears down on me at a glacial pace, the bored teenage drivers inside the wagon throwing me eye-daggers as I stagger towards the finish line. My time: DNF.

I complain to my dad and he just laughs, "Just wait 'till you're 50."

Also, the girls I tend to date all seem to think that I act like an old man. So what if I like to go to dinner at Perkins at 4:30? The wait is shorter and the waitresses are older at 4:30. Plus, my dates get to hear war stories over decaf coffee -- what more could a girl ask for?

What is one recent sign you're not so grown up, after all?

Two words: poop jokes.

Three more words: lots of them.

Day 9: Act Like Your 8th Grade Self

2011-03-20T14:16:00.000-05:00

What song lyric have you been loving lately?

I recently realized that, had I been interested in getting a tattoo at 18, there would've been an 85% chance that it would've been a lyric of a Dave Matthews Band song. Needless to say, I'm glad that I had no desire to get a tattoo at 18, but it's a good indicator of my constantly shifting musical tastes. Hopefully it's not cyclical.

But there are a few song lyrics that withstand the test of time. Here are some of my favorites.

"There are ghosts of the eyes of all the boys you sent away, they haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets, they scream your name at night in the street, your graduation gown lies in rags at your feet, and in the lonely cool before the dawn, you hear their engines roaring on, when you get to the porch, they're gone, on the road, so Mary climb in, it's a town full of losers, I'm pulling outta here to win." "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen

"The deacon caught a draft, the priest just kinda laughed, she crashed into the Easter Mass with her hair done up in broken glass, she was limping left on broken heels and she said, "Father, can I tell your congregation how a resurrection really feels?" Holly was a hoodrat, now you finally know that." "How a Resurrection Really Feels" by the Hold Steady [so yeah, that's why my blog has the title it does...]

"The salty lips of the socialite sisters with their, Continental fingers that've never seen working blisters; oh, I know, they've got their problems, I wish I was one of them." "New Lace Sleeves" by Elvis Costello

Day 7/8

2011-03-18T21:46:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I got more "/" than Kordell. That, and I'm a lazy poster.

What's one buzzword you hear at work that you're so over?

"Winning." With a close second being the troll/warlock distinction.

What is one sign of the apocalypse you've seen lately? When you see things like this, do you laugh, cry - or both?

I love vinyl records; specifically, listening to them on a dedicated turntable with a decent system (speakers and amplifier). I get a lot of crap for this interest of mine, but that's fine. Let the h8ers h8, as my grandmother always says. Part (most?) of the problem comes in the form of mass-produced (read: cheap) equipment that has undoubtedly made up most of my friends' listening experiences thus far. Hearing a scratched, dusty record on a cheap player, through cheap speakers and a boombox is not the ideal way to listen to records. Kind of like how Red Lobster, cheddar biscuits notwithstanding, is not the best place to form your final judgement on seafood.

So it kills me to see that Best Buy and other retail outlets are selling these cheap USB turntables that plug directly into your computer. Two things are especially irksome:

1. I have nothing against portable music -- I'm a pretty voracious consumer of music blogs and my itunes library dwarfs my record collection (about 750 to 450). However, I own only a few duplicates of albums in portable and vinyl form. For me, my records and my mp3 collection represent mostly non-intersecting bubbles in my Venn diagram of music. The intersecting albums are usually newer ones that I like a lot -- enough to get the physical copy (recently, Joanna Newsom and Destroyer made this esteemed list). My theory is that some music is best listened to in one format or the other (new stuff on mp3, old stuff on vinyl, generally). But even if you would like to have one of your records on your computer, USB turntables are NOT a good way to make your records portable. Here's why:

2. USB turntables are really shitty, with maybe one possible exception. If you have a pile of records sitting in your basement and you want to enjoy them, go onto ebay and find a nice, vintage Denon direct drive turntable, refit it with a quality cartridge, and hook it up to your receiver or amplifer. It's more legwork, but I guarantee that it'll be well worth it (and only a little more expensive). Doing it the "hard way" might also change your views towards vinyl. They won't be simply an antiquated piece of technology that's currently holding your favorite music captive. Record players will be a gateway into the magical world that is vinyl.

So the sign of the apocalypse is that the idea of making ridiculous things like USB record players available for cheap purchase, under the misguided rationale of, "Hey, records are cool -- young people love them! But they also have short attention spans and love computers. Hey, we sell computers, too! Let's sell record players that plug directly into your computer!"is crazy. It subverts the whole reason records are so enchanting and actually probably turns people off the medium, thus reinforcing the popular notion that records are popular simply because hipsters like (well, hipsters never "like" anything; maybe "permit the existence of" is a more accurate term) them. No, records are popular because they sound amazing.

Anyone interested in possibly acquiring a full set (record player, receiver, possibly speakers) should let me know... I really have no need for two systems in my tiny apartment.

Tumblr

2011-03-16T17:26:00.002-05:00

Internet hunter-gatherer.

Day 5/6

2011-03-16T17:23:00.000-05:00

Day 5: Name at least one good thing you've heard, seen, or done lately. Seriously, this isn't a trick question. Anything that doesn't have a downside. Go.

Childish Gambino (aka Donald Glover aka Troy Barnes from "Community"). Seriously, no downside.

Here's the counterweight to CG's occasional rap-inspired misogyny ... Sweden's Lykki Li

Day 6: When you blog, what's off limits? Why?

I try not to post anything about anyone who isn't going to read my blog and who, if upon reading said post, might get offended by what I wrote. It's not fair to them.

I also try not to post too many things about my personal life. One, because it's really, really boring. Two, because this is a forum for ideas, even insignificant ones; it's not an online diary. Gina basically says what I'm trying to say here. She's great.

Day Four: Dream Big

2011-03-14T23:40:00.000-05:00

What was your big childhood dream? Are you still pursuing it? If yes, how? If no, how did you reconcile that within yourself?

When I was 8 or 9, it had become a parlor trick of sorts for the neighborhood kids to ask me what I was going to be when I grew up because my answer was so ridiculous.

My stock answer: "I want to be an engineer, paleontologist, meteorologist, naturalist, professional baseball player, and conductor."

God, what a geek. I guess some things never change.

Today, my answer would be something like: "I want to be an engineer, lawyer, environmental/energy policy analyst, climate activist, and professional baseball player."

The strands that bind my 9 year old self with my 24 year old self are, I think, mostly related to discovering things about the outside world. Paleontologists dig deep and piece together history. Policy analysts do the same with disparate pieces of information to weave together a narrative of what the best courses of action might be.

In 15 years, who knows what my answer will be -- whatever my future aspirations, it's a good bet that being a professional baseball player will still make the list.

Lenten Blogging Challenge: Day 3 (Recommended Reading)

2011-03-13T20:02:00.000-05:00

What's a great book you wish more people had read? (Sell it like you're the publisher, or you know we won't read it.)

Great question, Gina! I have two related great books that everyone should read. One is more political and makes my blood boil/teeth gnash/skin crawl, etc. and the other weaves in a historical narrative of the quest to find the invisible. Both, unsurprisingly, involve science.

Book 1: The Climate War - by Eric Pooley
Reading the NYT or watching MSNBC regularly is a good way to keep track of the biggest stories of the day, in bite-size forms. Political coverage can be quite extensive, but unless you read The Hill or obsessively follow Politico, you're not likely to get the full story of the political wheeling and dealing that goes on behind the scenes. To add another layer, think of the coverage of climate change legislation. Pretty awful, right? Now, imagine combining the best political coverage with the most pressing issue of our time (besides, of course, the creeping socialism of Barack H. Obama, blah blah blah). The result is The Climate War, by Eric Pooley. Pooley recounts the past 20 years of efforts by industry and environmental leaders to achieve progress in combating the effects of global warming. Spoiler alert: the electric power industry, particularly BIG COAL, is against action on climate change and has systematically weakened efforts to pass meaningful legislation and push bad science by throwing money and confusion into the mix. The bastards. Pooley's book takes the reader to the ground level dealings of the leaders of industry and environmental groups as they struggled to appease their bases while tackling solutions that might actually work. This is an especially interesting book for anyone with an interest in politics and/or science. Working in DC on climate and energy issues during the passage of the Waxman-Markey climate bill in the summer of 2009 was a special experience, but it seems like all of that hard work was for naught.

Book 2: The Four Percent Universe - by Richard Panek
This is a less-depressing read than the previous book and one I actually just read for fun. Anyone who knows me well knows that I love to read about science history. If you don't know me well, then yes, I am a nerd. The title of the book comes from one of the most remarkable discoveries of science, ever.

Imagine the following exchange between you (reader of the book) and a random passerby.
YOU: How would you weigh the Universe?
PERSON ON STREET: Like, the ENTIRE universe -- planets, stars, black holes, comets -- everything?
YOU: Yes. The entire universe. All of creation.
PERSON ON STREET: Simple. You would weigh the universe by weighing each individual, tangible object that exists.
YOU: And after weighing each of these tangible objects, would you expect that you would've thus weighed the entire universe?
P ON STREET: Umm, yes -- weighing all of the stars and planets and dust particle in the universe would mean that you have weighed the ENTIRE universe.
YOU (taking appropriate care not to sound too pretentious. This is, after all, some random person on the street, not a Cal Tech professor...): Would it shock you if I told you that by weighing all of the tangible objects in the universe, the total would only add up to 4% of the universe?
FLAVA FLAV (turns out he was the person on the street all along! (the clock necklace should've been a dead giveaway but you were too wrapped up in the beauty of the science knowledge you were about to drop on this innocent bystander to notice): "Yeeeaaah booyyyy! I'm SHOCKED."

I was shocked too, to learn that we can't see 96% of our universe. We tend to think of celestial objects as incomprehensibly immense. It's awesome in the original sense of the word to think that the shining carpet of stars we see on a clear night only makes up a meager percentage of all "matter" in the universe.

What makes up the rest of the universe? Dark matter and dark energy. I'm not going to try to explain it here, because it's way over my head. But basically, the laws of physics, prior to the 1950's, said that the expansion of the universe was slowing down, losing energy after the Big Bang only to eventually come back together in a cycle after gravity overcame the initial force of expansion. The balloon of the universe was eventually going to lose its air and we'd be back to the beginning. The notion of a cyclical universe, of a series of Big Bangs, can be comforting. But it's wrong. What scientists found confounded these fundamental notions of science -- the universe is actually accelerating in its expansion. The balloon is infinite, and something much stronger than gravity is propelling it outward in all directions. The thing is, we can't see the dark matter and dark energy that scientists believe is causing this unbridled expansion.

For me, it's less about detecting neutrinos than examining the struggle of humanity to understand our past, present, and future. Religion is not capable of achieving this task (Lenten blog, whaddup!) and so science must forge ahead if we are ever to discover who the Creator really is. Science has made it possible to peer over 13 billion years into the past, to a time when the hot mess (the Charlie Sheen years, acc'd to NASA terminology) of gas began to form stars and universes, just 480 million years after the Big Bang (for context, it took much longer than 480 million years after Earth's creation for life to form; just 480 million years after our entire universe formed, galaxies were already taking shape (i.e. in just a blink of a cosmic eye)).

The quest for knowledge defines our species and this book captures the magic of discovery and makes me more optimistic that we can do the same for issues like climate change in the future.

Day Two: Song

2011-03-12T13:22:00.000-06:00

Preface: This is Day Two of the Lenten Blogging Challenge! A repository of ideas related to (or not) the time of the year that lapsed Catholics feel the most guilty about the state of our religious affairs. So what are we giving up for Lent, save for our dignity during the times we happily (?) surround ourselves with our Catholic friends? (1) Only our time and sanity to blog every day during the holiest of holies! In the spirit of my personal lapse, I have neglected to start this blogging challenge on day one, but I'm coming on strong on day 2.

From the guru herself, the prompt: Song: What have you been jamming out to lately? Why?

Shit. This is a toughie. Luckily, I have the perfect Lenten song. It's off of the new album from lo-fi guitar wiz Kurt Vile and it's called "Jesus Fever." You can download the song here. Some pretty, shambling guitar work and vocals that sound like the memory of loss Vile is singing about...

(1) (selected excerpts from guilt-ridden convos over the years:
Pious: "You're eating red meat! But it's Friday, Joe, aren't you supposed to be eating fish like everyone else who's going to heaven?"
More Pious: "I'm giving up sweets for Lent. What are you giving up? Oh, right, I forgot. You're not..."practicing" anymore."
Most Pious: "So Joe, what you're telling me is that Jesus died and then went through all the trouble of resurrecting, etc. so you can be sloppy drunk on a Sunday?" Me: "Yes, precisely.")

more than one way to go straight to hell

2011-01-10T22:32:00.000-06:00

We live in an era of repurposing. The thrifting culture, the DIY movement, freecycling, slow food -- there is a cultural shift towards the use of the old as new. Granted, this is mostly a movement for people who knowingly read stuffwhitepeoplelike, shop at a farmers' market, and who likely have or know a friend with an ironic mustache. But it's a movement nonetheless. Nowhere is this more prevalent than in music, where repurposing has always an integral component of the creative process. I've said this before and I'll say it again: understanding and appreciating that music is not created in a vacuum, that it represents a progression of ideas from artist to artist, makes listening to it, for me, all the more enjoyable. Sometimes you can repurpose a theme or idea -- see John Lennon responding to Bob Dylan in "I Am The Walrus" or Paul McCartney repurposing Beach Boys' harmony in "Because." Other times, you can repurpose music through sampling -- see the entire Girl Talk discography or the album Paul's Boutique by the Beastie Boys. This is a post about repurposing an entire song. Sometimes this can alter the song's entire meaning; other times a cover represents simply an interpretation of the original.

The Clash's "Straight to Hell," off of their 1982 album Combat Rock, is a fine song in its own right. A vicious statement addressing the illegitimate children sired by American troops in Vietnam. It's interesting because 1) it's been covered and 2) it's also been repurposed in an even more popular song (and then repurposed again...).

The Original: "Straight to Hell" The Clash

As mentioned above, this is off of Combat Rock, not my favorite Clash album but it has its moments. This is one of them. And for the record, like everyone, my favorite Clash albums are London Calling (how could it not be? It's so good that its best song, "Train in Vain (Stand by Me)" wasn't even listed on the original pressing) and Give 'Em Enough Rope.

The Cover: "Straight to Hell" Lily Allen

I have to be in the right mood to listen to Lily Allen, but I love this song. She sings it so breezily, which is so not the overall theme of the song, but it's just great to listen to. Off of an all-covers album, War Child: Heroes, which I highly recommend if only for the Hold Steady's cover of Springsteen's classic "Atlantic City."

The Repurpose: "Paper Planes" MIA

Of course, if you've been alive in the past three years, you've heard this song. If you've seen the movies Pineapple Express or Slumdog Millionaire (the two movies capture a sufficiently large swath of movie-watchers), you've heard this song. And it's so ubiquitous that you might not recognize it to be a repurposing of a Clash song; like, how could this song possibly borrow from such a distinct song like "Straight to Hell" and still be so distinctive in its own right? Maybe that's the genius of MIA. And, despite the misstep of "/ \ / \ / \ Y / \" she looks to be back on form in her recently released mixtape, available here.

The Repurposing of the Repurpose: "KILL YOU" jj

Now, a song about soldiers in Vietnam, repurposed as a song about drugs/immigration, has been repurposed again by the mysterious Swedes jj as a breakup/getting high song. Druggy, but so good. In fact, the whole mixtape (free here) is good. Listen to it.

Goodnight. Hope you liked the journey. I was thinking about doing one on "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin repurposed by Puff Daddy as "Come With Me," but that would be too depressing...

Best Albums of 2010, #1-10.

2010-12-23T19:30:00.001-06:00

Here it goes.

10 Big Boi "Sir Lucious Left Foot..."
This man has incomparable flow and it's a shame that label wrangling delayed its release for so long: the world needs to hear this! Big Boi has a seasoned confidence but really, what rapper doesn't try to project swagger? The difference is that big Boi's confidence just oozes effortlessly out of the tracks (effortless oozing?) and the results make for a great party album showcasing the other (equal) half of Outkast at his finest.
Check out: "Shutterbugg," "Shine Blockas" (feat. a great Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes sample of their song, "Thank You" -- thanks to my friend Alicia for pointing that out...),

9 Trampled by Turtles "Palomino"
While I enjoy this entire album by a great Minnesota band, it's hard not to make the comparison with the 2010 Indianapolis Colts; without the Peyton Manning that is "Wait so Long" and the Reggie Wayne that is "Victory," I'm not sure if "Palomino" would make the Top-10. Another band I'm dying to see live, kind of hard to believe it has yet to happen. 2011, let's make it happen, Trampled by Turtles.

8 Wolf Parade "Expo 86"
So this is one band I did see live this year and it was a great show. And so it's sad that they are apparently on indefinite hiatus now. For me, seeing the concert helped to solidify the very distinct character of Wolf Parade's frontmen. Spencer Krug (also of Sunset Rubdown) is kind of 2010's Isaac Brock...yelpy, yes, but yelpy in a way that adds a sense of urgency to every one of his songs (see "Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts" off of 2005's "Apologies of the Queen Mary" for a great example of this). I prefer Dan Boeckner (of Handsome Furs), because he tries to recreate Springsteen's greatest hits on every one of his songs (even on Handsome Furs stuff, which is more blippy and bloopy, the Boss is never far away, see "All We Want, Baby, Is Everything" for an example embedded in the frickin' title!). But together, they make (made?) a great team, which leads me to wonder, is every Canadian band some sort of supergroup? (looking at you, Stars, Broken Social Scene, New Pornographers...)
Check out: "Yulia" (I love space history and have recently been engrossed in the documentary series "When We Left Earth" which is about the early U.S. manned space program, my pick for the greatest achievement of humankind in the 20th Century...) "Yulia" could be my generation's "Rocket Man," although I can't imagine ironically singing it 20 years from now at karaoke...

7 Robyn "Body Talk"
Coincidentally, this is what my body does after consuming too much Taco Bell. This is Robyn's third (!!) album of 2010. It's a collection of the best tracks off of the first two along with a handful of new songs. Any discussion of "Body Talk" begins with "Dancing On My Own," which to my ears blows anything in pop music out of the water with Robyn's combination of fierce independence with affecting vulnerability. The song is a perfect introduction to the entire album, which clicks off one song after another with this amazing combination of emotions. This is an album for going out but also an appropriate one for coming home after a rough night. Hopefully getting tickets soon for her upcoming show at First Ave!
Check out: "Dancing On My Own," "Call Your Girlfriend," "Don't Fucking Tell Me What To Do"

6 Beach House "Teen Dream"
So this album has been appearing at the top of quite a few Best-of lists this year and for good reason, too. In comparison to Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream," well, there's no comparison, but if there were Beach House would totally be the Gods of Love bringing the hammer down on Katy Perry's Daisy Dukes. Their sound is just so imposing. I found the first two Beach House albums a little slow, similar to how I felt about Grizzly Bear prior to "Veckatimist" last year. On "Teen Dream," Beach House doesn't necessarily speed things up -- most songs are dreamy strolls (sometimes literally, "Walk in the Park") through shimmery guitar and keyboard -- but the band has matured, there's less plodding and more hooks on this album. They had a show last spring at the Cedar and are highly recommended to see live. I also have a mini-crush on Victoria Legrand, although I think she would eat me for breakfast, she seems very intense.
Check out: "Zebra," "Norway," "Real Love," "Walk in the Park"
And watch Beach House play "Norway" on PitchforkTV, in an scarily accurate re-creation of my bedroom. I never get tired of watching Legrand usher in the chorus with a sweep of her hand in-time with the cymbal hit; I can't explain why, but it gives me the chills every time.

...the turn

5 Kanye West "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy"
This top-10 list was hard to sort -- I can now feel some empathy for law professors grading on a forced curve. So really, if this were like the NBA lottery, "MBDTF" is like the Minnesota Timberwolves; no album had a better chance of being #1, but by luck (or unluck) of the draw, it came out at #5 instead. Whatever, Kanye will get over it. First of all, this is not a "rap" album, it's shifted into a new genre that is probably too grand and all-encompassing to accurately categorize. The best way to describe it comes in the relatively minor song "Gorgeous," when Kanye raps, "I ain't got it, I'm coming after whoever who has it -- I'M COMING AFTER WHOEVER, WHO HAS IT?" with such urgency you're left with no choice but to accept that he's out to conquer the world with this album. And he largely succeeds.
Check out: "Monster" (Nicki Minaj has a MONSTER verse here), "All of the Lights," oh, c'mon, you don't need me to tell you which ubiquitous Kanye songs to listen to...

4 Arcade Fire "The Suburbs"
Probably the best album out of the coterie of albums from established artists on this list (see Spoon, the Hold Steady, LCD Soundsytem), it's also one of the best albums out there, period. It earns a place in the Top-5 not on legacy, but on merit. And making such a potentially disastrous theme, suburban life (ahem, "Weeds" after Season 2...) Arcade Fire offer a sprawling narrative of adult longing, riffing on similar themes as their debut album, but in the context of aging and growing distant to childhood people and places, not the apocalypse...Also, probably the best concert I've attended this or any year was Arcade Fire at Roy Wilkins. I watched their live webcast from Madison Square Garden and the energy of their performance in the most famous arena in the world was the same as it was in St. Paul in September -- pretty incredible to do anything at such a high, sustained level of dedication.
Check out: "Ready to Start," "Modern Man," "Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)"

3 Best Coast "Crazy For You"
Best Coast doesn't win any awards for artistic merit or ambition with their debut album, but that's the point. Beth Consentino sings about getting high, her cat, and boys. The music is also pretty elemental, basically just surf rock guitar with a nod towards vocals of 50s girl groups and hooks of alt bands from the 90s. But it's a great album, nonetheless, and one of the best go-to albums for driving down the coast on a muggy summer evening, with the windows open.

2 Joanna Newsom "Have One on Me"
It's difficult to put this album on the list, not because it's not good -- it's really, really good -- but rather because it almost seems inappropriate. Something like sticking a high-art photograph in with random pics taken off of Facebook. I also have to admit that it took me a while to warm to Joanna Newsom. I first heard her on her second full album, "Ys," and I couldn't see past the wordy, archaic lyrics, the somewhat amorphous song structure, and the most common complaint: her voice. But after giving "Ys" a second and third chance, I finally realized what all the fuss was about. I mean, semi-academic essays have been written on her genius and compiled into a book (seriously). And these essays are not written by some random, geeky indie music 'zine writers, but by heavy-hitters like Dave Eggers (who, to be fair, could be categorized as just an especially famous fanboy, projecting his ideal female though potentially sexist conception of the delicate, vulnerable artist on Newsom). Like it or not, these outside influences (including her place at the top of one of my friend's top-10 lists) changed how I view her work. The closest thing I can compare this album to is "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea," Neutral Milk Hotel's masterpiece. That particular album comes to mind not because of the musical similarities -- the lo-fi aesthete of NMH is the antithesis of Joanna Newsom's sound -- but because of how each album works as a piece of art, existing outside of most notions of what music can do and mean. NMH evoked loss and helplessness through an approximation of Anne Frank's story, while Joanna Newsom evokes similar emotions of loss, love, and regret through archaic imagery rooted both in present and in fictional historical times (yes, she does talk about dragons). It's hard to explain, as you can see, but "Have One on Me" is a really great album and work of art. Oh, god, I just became a fanboy...
Check out: "Good Intentions Paving Company," "It Will Suffice," "81," "In California," "On a Good Day"

1 Janelle Monae "The ArchAndroid"
Notwithstanding the fact that this album shares the same title as my nickname in high school, it's been hands-down my favorite album of the year. In relation to some of the artists on this list, Janelle Monae adopts the android-with-feelings character of Robyn, mixes it with the chops and ambition of Joanna Newsom, and weaves a sense of loss through her songs like the Arcade Fire. But most of all, she's just really, really good at what she does. I believe that while music is not linear, meaning the genres blend together at the borders, and are sometimes erased completely, listening to this album is kind of like listening to all of the great music in R&B (and funk, rock, soul, hip-hop, pop, etc. etc. etc.) from the past 60 years in one tidy package and all in a totally original way. The music sounds like it was made with one foot in 2010 and one foot in 1955, 1972 -- pick your year. Finally, this album is #1 because I've loved it since the first time I heard it and still find new elements in songs that suggests I'll love listening to it for years to come. And isn't that what listening to music is all about?

Well, I hope you've had fun reading my best-of list for 2010, it was fun recalling the past year through music. I'm also really interested in hearing what your top albums of the year were. If you're reading this, you probably know me, so send me your list!

Best Albums of 2010...20-11

2010-12-22T01:20:00.000-06:00

Because I've got to get these Post-it Notes off of my desk.

20 Vampire Weekend "Contra"
19 The Hold Steady "Heaven is Whenever"
There is a great backstory behind how I got a limited edition vinyl copy of this album and it involves: Record Store Day, Treehouse Records, my friend Sophie, and a random act of kindness. For that reason, (and these: "Hurricane J" & "The Weekenders") this album is included in the list.
18 Spoon "Transference"
17 Breathe Owl Breathe "Magic Central"
One of my favorite bands from college (but definitely not "college rock," whatever that is) this whimsical, folky band hails from Michigan and, along with being super nice people, make great music to boot. As an added bonus, check out "Drop and Roll" off of their previous album. One of my favorite songs of all time.

16 She & Him "Volume Two"
Is my love for this album due at least in part to the adorable Zooey Deschanel? Of course it is -- but M. Ward anchors this album with nostalgic 50's-sounding, golden, shimmering riffs (see "Thieves," and "Lingering Still").

15 Communist Daughter "Soundtrack to the End"
The video below (and another one here) are what turned me on to Communist Daughter (not to mention the NMH-referencing band name). Someone please tell me when they play around here next, I can't miss it.

14 LCD Soundsystem "This is Happening"
This is happening: I am listening to "Dance Yrself Clean" and "All I Want."
13 Sleigh Bells "Treats"
Another listen-to-this-loud album. Still trying to figure out if the combination of LOUD guitars with sing-song-y lyrics is a gimmick or genius, but pairing a Funkadelic sample in "Rill Rills" is convincing me of the latter....
12 Girl Talk "All Day"
And just when you put your finger on it...the sample changes and it's on to the next earworm. And while I think using the whole "so-in-demand-the-servers-crashed" device is overused, I'll use it again -- when the Girl Talk album was given away free a few weeks ago, you guessed it, the servers crashed. Luckily, I was eventually able to download the album. For those unfamiliar with Girl Talk, first of all, so proud of you for leaving the Amish. Really am. Girl Talk is a "mashup" artist who combines the pop music you love listening to with pop music you feel guilty about listening to...and makes magic. (Here is a cool site that streams the album and lists the samples as they play)
11 The Tallest Man on Earth "The Wild Hunt" & "Sometimes the Blues is Just a Passing Bird EP"
Another unfortunate music journalistic trope is the annual declaration of "The Next Bob Dylan" -- well, here we go again...

Best Albums From a Particular Sub-Genre...of the year

2010-12-16T20:26:00.000-06:00

Collecting my favorite albums of the year is always a fun, yet stressful process for me. Not real-world stress, but rather, the stress of figuring out what I really thought about the music that streamed through my headphones this year. Throughout this process, a small handful of albums sort of naturally coalesced into this small group that I really liked as a whole, but couldn't figure out where to place in my top 20+. And it's really hard, even with this tiny sample of albums, to pick my favorites, but whatever, here it goes.

Sub-Genre of the Year: Guitar-rock

Umm...okay, sure, this is not exactly a new genre. From Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley to Stephen Malkmus and Frank Black, guitar-based music has been the staple of pretty much the ENTIRE popular music scene of the past 75 years. But what captured my attention this year was that some new artists' began to stray away from the recent trends of electronic- dance-rock (think Franz Ferdinand or Hot Chip), towards a more unrestrained sound. And no Chillwave. Some bands in my completely made-up sub-genre tended towards 50s and 60s California pop (Best Coast, She & Him, Girls) while others were more garage-y, New York in the 70s (Harlem, Titus Andronicus, Japandroids). But it's all characterized by a less-produced sound and, of course, prominent guitar. So here we go. None of the following bands appear on my top 20+ list forthcoming, but it's more because I'm featuring them here and freeing up space in the other list than because I don't like them.

Harlem "Hippies"
Maybe the most extreme example of the garage sound in new music today. It's the sound of a group of friends jamming, only recently discovering how to add elements of sound together to make magic. Just guitar, drums, and vocal, but it's just the right combination of these elements that makes for a fun 40 minutes.
Check out: "Gay Human Bones," "Friendly Ghost"

Astro Coast "Surfer Blood"
Maybe a click or two more "produced" than Harlem, this band's debut album is hard to describe. Kind of a Brian Wilson meets Rivers Cuomo vocals with a sugary wave of guitar throughout. Start at "Swim" and keep going in "Harmonix" which reminds me a lot of Television, for some reason.

Fang Island (Self-titled)
So far, we've been amping up the guitar sounds -- from jangly garage-band to pop waves. Now comes the most powerful onslaught this side of metal. There is some serious thrashing going on here. Fang Island's album art typifies this wave of nostalgic album art I happen to love (see, also Spoon, Wolf Parade's, Dum Dum Girls, Vampire Weekend, etc. etc... Oh, and the entire Gorilla vs. Bear blog). Thing is, the music on these albums don't usually follow the theme of the album art. This is definitely not the case with Fang Island. You wouldn't expect nostalgia (except maybe for early 90's thrasher?) to be the first thing to come to mind from an album featuring heavy, heavy guitar but it totally fits Fang Island's approach. I think it's because the nostalgia is very specific. It's not some "Oh, I remember sitting on granddad's knee as a kid, he told scary war stories while I played with the buttons on his shirt" nostalgia -- it's the "I'M A KID, I RUN EVERYWHERE, ESPECIALLY TO THE BATHROOM. WHEN MY FRIENDS AND I GET TOGETHER, WE DON'T TALK, WE JUST PLAY. AAAH!" nostalgia we all secretly feel so often during the day. I mean, come on, who doesn't want to run the wrong way on an escalator or jump off tables or just dance crazy at the bus stop from time to time?? Well this album give you that excuse. Check out the video for "Daisy" for some tips on the proper way to have a nostalgic adult freak-out.

I'm not sure if I'm reading too much into this trend, maybe it's really that the music industry has gotten so fragmented that bands who don't quite fit into the current zeitgeist can still put their music out and I just happened to wander into some of this music this year. There's probably some truth to that, but who knows? There's so much music out there! This post is case-in-point. After making the top-20 cut for my year-end list, I realized that I had left a lot of bands off and I really wanted to highlight a few of them. And there are still albums out there that a. didn't make the top 20, b. didn't make my honorable mention list, and c. didn't make this list, that I still really loved listening to this year. So kudos to the following bands for making great music this year:
Mavis Staples "You Are Not Alone"
Gorillaz "Plastic Beach"
Caribou "Swim"
Lake Folk "Feel Like I'm Home"
Justin Townes Earle "Harlem River Blues"
Four Tet "There Is Love In You"
The National "High Violet"
Titus Andronicus "The Monitor"
Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan "Hawk"

Albums 11-20 out this weekend!

Albums of the Year, 2010 (Honorable Mention)

2010-12-12T23:59:00.000-06:00

It's that time of year again, everybody. Time to procrastinate from studying by sifting through the new music I've been listening to and loving the past year. As this list rolls out in the next week or so, you can bet that you will get your fair dose of J-Biebs and JWoww. But you will lose a lot of money if that's the case. On to the formalities.

I'm just going to go ahead and say this: 2010 was the best year for music ever. Mozart might argue that 1788 was better -- after all, he did write three of the best symphonies ever (39, 40, & 41 ("Jupiter")). Or McCartney might argue that 1967 was a particularly good year. And in the annals of history, they're probably right. But whatever, enough good, even great music was released this year to more than fill this list.

Without any further ado, here are the albums, in no particular order, that received honorable mention from me, culled from a list of about 40 finalists. Congratulations artists, your check is in the mail.

Girls "Broken Dreams Club EP"
This EP would've been in the top-10 if it were a full album. Just sayin'. Girls is a band whose growth in the past year, since they released their first LP "Album" a year ago and I saw them at the Entry, has been staggering. They still have raggedy, wistful vocals with more than a hint of Elvis Costello, but they are more of a force as a band and in the studio. The production has a fuller presence, with cleaner production and more instruments (steel slide! horns!); but their music still retains its character. Great set of 6 songs, I can't wait for their next album.
Check out: "Oh So Protective One," "Carolina," "Heartbreaker"

Belle & Sebastian "Write About Love"
I don't know why this is only an honorable mention. I guess it speaks to the strength of the others higher up on the list. But I've been waiting since 2006 ("The Life Pursuit) for a new Belle & Sebastian album and this does not disappoint. It "sounds" like B&S, they have that unmistakeable sound, but it's a step in a slightly different direction than their last album in that it's less ambitious. Kind of similar to Spoon and the Hold Steady's new albums (spoiler alert! they're both in the top-20...) in that it's a "good" but not "classic" album in the bands' respective canons. But who cares? It's really good and here's hoping their next album comes out before 2014...
Check out: "Little Lou, Ugly Jack, Prophet John (feat. Norah Jones)," "Come on Sister," "Sunday's Pretty Icons"

Crystal Castles "Crystal Castles (II)"
Now, to completely switch gears, Crystal Castles' new album was another where I'm sort of asking myself, "So how'd they end up here?" in a good way. I have only one comment about this album: PLAY IT LOUD! Oh, and dig around Pitchfork for an awesome clip of Big Boi (another spoiler alert! another top-20) doing "Shutterbugg" and free-styling over the beat of "Empathy" (he also professes his love for Kate Bush..."she's somewhere in the Lock Ness monster's forest over there in London." It's weirdly awesome.)
Check Out: "Empathy," "Celestica," "Baptism," below check out bonus non-album action of Crystal Castles and Robert Smith in "Not in Love" -- this song alone could've propelled them to the top-20

Das Racist "Sit Down, Man"
Perhaps best known for their odd stoner party rap, "Combination Pizza Hut or Taco Bell," a song which plumbed the depths of the human soul in a novel attempt to describe the human condition...okay, the song really was about being at one of those mutant Pizza Hut/Taco Bell restaurants. But, as my post from Halloween says, "It gets better." As in life, as in Das Racist albums. The duo hits the weirdo-sweet spot of a more self-aware, less-serious DOOM. A Jane Birkin-esque panting session turns into a dub rap before turning into a jubilant African-sounding chorus in "Julia."
Check out: "Fashion Show," "Julia," "All Tan Everything"

Rihanna "Loud"
2010 might've been the year I officially caught the pop bug. As such, I've found myself listening to Rihanna a lot recently. Note that I still draw the line at that girl Bieber, Katy Perry, and Ke$ha...but Gaga, Beyonce, and Rihanna are fair game. And "Loud" is a really good album, especially for someone who won't hear her songs ad nauseum on 101.3 or 96.3 (are they still around?).
Check Out: Honestly, if you're looking to my blog for Rihanna songs to check out, you probably live under a rock. But fine, check out: "Only Girl (In the World)," "What's My Name (feat. that quadriplegic from Degrassi (apparently he's able-bodied in real life and likes to drink Sprite before his head explodes)," "Raining Men (feat. the "MONSTER" Nicki Minaj)"

Ted Leo & the Pharmacists "The Brutalist Bricks"
Another album falling into the category of "great-artist-solid-if-unspectacular-album" Belle & Sebastian find themselves in. This album got me into older Ted Leo albums and is a great introduction to his punk-pop style. See, also albums "Hearts of Oak," and "Shake the Sheets" for a more complete primer.
Check out: "Even Heros Have to Die," "Bottled Up In Cork," "The Mighty Sparrow"

The Gaslight Anthem "American Slang"
Still the closest thing song-wise (I'd argue the Hold Steady are truer theme-wise) to Bruce Springsteen out there, and, they're from Jersey! Their second album finds them branching out to embrace Van Morrison (see the vid below) which is great. Two of my favorites, all paid homage-to under one album banner.

Time for bed. But stay tuned for 11-20 later this week!

i can haz new blog

2010-11-12T22:49:00.002-06:00

it a tumblelog, it here: http://hollywasahoodrat.tumblr.com/

It gets better.

2010-10-31T01:21:00.001-05:00

A few months back, I tried, in my own clumsy way, to write about the tragic spate of teen suicides brought on by bullying. The video below is a much better attempt at addressing this issue and it's one of the most affecting things I've seen in a while. So all I can do is echo the fact that it really does get better.

Fall or Summer?

2010-10-10T12:32:00.001-05:00

Originally uploaded by jadammel

Gah! The leaves say fall, but the heat/humidity (yes, humidity in October) say summer. What is this world coming to?! Well, the one constant, I guess, is that the Twins got swept by the Yankees. I guess some things never change....

They still make phone books?

2010-09-23T09:17:00.001-05:00

Originally uploaded by jadammel

Well, maybe it's just that no one uses them anymore. This one certainly hasn't been used in a while. Found it in NE near an abandoned warehouse.

In another note: the Arcade Fire concert was one of the best concerts I've been to. And I've been to like 5 or 6, so yeah. So much energy. Great Crowd. The songs and performance didn't hurt either!

B+W+Valencia

2010-09-21T21:48:00.001-05:00

Originally uploaded by jadammel

I set off just as the sun set this evening to Target Field, to try to catch some cool shots of people streaming in for the Indians-Twins game (top of the 8th as I type. Prediction: Valencia 3 run hr to win the game. Sox lose, Twins clinch the division.). Anyway, none of the shots of the field really turned out nicely, but I did get a few keepers as I meandered through downtown at dusk. Enjoy and go to my photostream to view more...

Holga Out & About

2010-09-20T13:09:00.000-05:00

Late last week, a tiny package arrived in the mail. It was my beautiful little Holga 135BC! I knew that my productivity school- and work-wise would get as close to zero as is currently scientifically possible. (Science!)

The first two rolls were a disaster. One, a B+W roll, was completely underexposed. My dumbass believed that 400 ISO film would properly expose using only the normal shutter speed (and, coincidentally, the only shutter speed) on my toy camera. The second roll went a little better, it was a color 400, but I took my pictures furtively on an overcast day, so many were very dark. One trip to National Camera Exchange later, I had a goofy little tripod (with bendable legs that grip onto lampposts, etc.) and a shutter cable which allows me to open the shutter for as long as I want. Finally, the pictures started to get better. Below is a slideshow from my Flickr account, at www.flickr.com/photos/jadammel, of some pictures I took at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, the Basilica of St. Mary, and nearby downtown last night. Enjoy! There will be more to come...

The Lo-Fi Itch

2010-09-10T00:32:00.000-05:00

It's funny how sometimes the latest/greatest technology elicits almost a Newtonian tug in the opposite direction in me. I get a new Macbook but lust over a 1960's Italian typewriter. Or, I get a fancy road bike only to find myself favoring a mutant 80's singlespeed.

This time, it's my new (completely amazing) iPhone 4. And no, I didn't go out and buy a rotary (although the thought has crossed my mind) -- I bought a cheap, Chinese toy camera. Huh? Let me explain. As I began the fun yet often unsatisfying slog through the App store, the photo apps caught my eye. The basic iPhone camera, though high quality for a phone, is also pretty bare bones in terms of its features. You point and and you shoot. Some of these apps (like the one I got) put a cool effect onto the pics in your phone's camera roll. It's an effect similar to those ambiguous photos that indie bands put on the insert of their albums. Super saturated colors, blurry, almost haphazard photos that look like they were either taken by toddlers without sufficiently good motor skills or by some coked-out hippie in the 70's. Like this one (a quickie I took on my iPhone of my shelf of vinyl):

Cool, right? I guess, but it felt a little empty. It felt like I was cheapening the effect and artistry of these photographs, like tacking a chintzy aftermarket exhaust onto an utterly vanilla sedan. A few hours of internet sleuthing later, I was becoming immersed in the culture of lo-fi photography. Sometimes called lomography after the famous Russian LOMO camera, this genre elicits the cries of adoration of many as well as the collective groans of perhaps many more. The same criticisms of bands like Best Coast or Wavves, that the fuzziness of the work is only a cover for a lack of talent (so not true wrt Best Coast!), befalls many artists partaking in lomography.

And so, in spite of the flack I'll catch for already being an insufferable "hipster", I decided to take the plunge and try lo-fi photography the way it's meant to be.(1) My new Holga 135BC will be shipping out this weekend and a whole new obsession will begin. But that doesn't mean my other obsession (records!!) will end. No, no, no -- I plan to take my new toy to visit my other toys at the record store very, very soon.(2)

Anyone want to go on a photo adventure with me??

FN1. Well, "almost mean to be" because the true lo-fi photographer would purchase the Holga 120, which uses an odd-sized film (120) that I'm pretty sure no lab in the Twin Cities processes. And, since I AM on a students' budget, a 35mm camera makes a whole lot of sense. Especially since I'm probably not going to be very good at this.

FN2. Oh, and if I ever become that sad-eyed hipster, slinking around the shadows of a party with a smug look on my face and with a whisper of a mustache tickling my upper lip, nursing a PBR, please kick me hard in the face. Thanks!

Vinyl Blotter, Vol. 4: Crate Digger Milestones

2010-08-15T22:18:00.001-05:00

Preface: Apologies for the long absence from this blog. Hopefully my absenteeism here contributed to my presence at places featuring real, live people. Yeah, unlikely. I've mentioned this before, but it's like I only post when I'm actually busy (i.e. during finals) -- when I'm not busy, the urge to write long screeds on vinyl, politics, and science mysteriously vanishes. Strange, isn't it? Well, to the one, possibly two, but not more than five people who have stuck with me on this blog, thanks, and here's a new post. I've been trying to write it for a long time. Call it my Chinese Democracy.

One thing that hasn't changed this summer (well, actually, nothing has changed) is my adoration for all things vinyl, of the record variety. Sure, my friends are getting married, buying houses, and getting promotions, but I bet none of them found a Japanese bootleg of a Bob Dylan w/. The Band concert from 1974. Here's a list of some notable crate digger milestones from this summer.

With the decision to move my turntable and big floor speakers to my room based in part on the availability of shelf space I thought would last for at least another year, this summer saw that rationale tidily ticked off of the list, "Reasons for Moving All This Shit Into My Bedroom." I probably have 350-400 records now and I've definitely surpassed that ever-important milestone in any crate digger's life: my records weigh more than I do. The only side effect of this accomplishment is the growing dread I feel when thinking about the prospect of ever moving out of this place.

Most people, upon hearing of my vinyl addiction, react with a sort of bemused look on their face that absolutely says, "Oh, umm, that's weird, isn't it? I mean, they have this thing called mp3 players...they play music without the grooved plastic...like, on a computer...it's not like you have a typewriter, do you?" I do. But some people get it. I like those people. You can almost see the wheels churning when they mention the record player lying fallow at their parents' house, the boxes of black gems awaiting discovery by these intrepid explorers. I shared in a few friends' vinyl awakening this summer and it felt good. I'll trade crate digging competition for more people to enjoy it with any day.

I've never gone on a Civil War road trip as my name is not Sarah Vowell. Nor have I seen a baseball game played at every Major League ballpark across the country. And I'm still reluctant to get on the Bieber Express (Bieber or Die!!) and follow that cute little lesbian as she flits from town to town, impressing the tweens. But put a big felt tipped line through the bucket list entry, "Record Road Trip". After driving 10 hours for the perfect wedding, I wasn't too keen on driving all the way back to Minneapolis without more entertainment than the Ira's Flatow and Glass could give me, try though they might (and did). So I googled "Best record stores, Chicago[/Madison]" and programmed my GPS to land at Reckless Records (Chicago), Dusty Groove (Chicago), and Strictly Discs (Madison). And although it contributed to a dangerously low balance in my checking account, it was well worth it. Don't get me wrong -- I love the record stores in Minneapolis. I talk and think about them often. But it's also a little like driving a perfectly fine sedan only to drive a friend's luxury sports car; you don't know what you're missing until you know. A lot of this might be the exotic excitement of things new, but the organization and care that went into the stores I visited hints that it was also something more.

I'm already planning my next vinyl road trip!! Ok, that's not true, but I wanted to convey just how revelatory of an experience it was. So fire up the Bieber Express if you must -- anything for another vinyl road trip.

School (and volunteering and working and being on a journal and still working on interacting with human beings) is set to begin in a few weeks, so expect an curious uptick in posts...

Heeere's Niiiiicky!!!

2010-06-29T23:57:00.000-05:00

Hey there boys and girls, it's me, Nick Punto, your favorite light-hitting utility infielder for the Minne-sota Twins! I run. I field. ~~I hit.~~ Did I mention, I field?! So I can probably hit about as well as your grandma (in fact, she might have me beat), but is your grandma a WEB GEM MACHINE?! Didn't think so. Case closed. 'Nuff said.

Gardy always asks me, "Nicky ['cause it's my nickname! My other one is The Human Highlight Reel -- ask your wife how I got that one], how did you get so good at fielding ground balls?" And I say to that redneck, "HOW DARE YOU TALK TO NICK PUNTO!!!" Gardy just doesn't learn, you don't talk to The Punto and the Punto doesn't have to knock you out cold with his patented (pending) headfirst slide into your face.

Back to your grandma for a sec, last time I checked, she doesn't make $4+ million a year, does she? Didn't think so. Oh wait, but she does have 13 career homeruns, doesn't she? No? Really? I thought that was her. Oh wait, it's not her, it's The Human Highlight Reel. Forgive me.

Like any proper mega-star, I do have my detractors. But I actually feed off of negativity, it's like spinach to my Popeye, socialism to my Obama [sorry, had to, Glenn Beck is a fan], incompetence to my BP, teenage hormones to my Justin Bieber. I was actually physically feeding off of Brendan Harris's .154 batting average until he got sent down to AAA. SUFFICE IT TO SAY, I LIKE ME THE NEGATIVITY. So you hater tots out there, keep sending me your steaming piles of hate, because for each negative thing you say, out pops another weak flyball from the timber I felled and honed into the finest bat in the majors. Out pops another "hustle" play in which I needlessly get my uniform dirty [Mom used to say a dirty uniform was her worst nightmare when it came time to clean. What I didn't tell her was that dirt hides tears real well. The tears opponents cry when they see me "hustle" onto the basepaths as a clutch pinch runner.]. Out pops another WEB GEM from The Human Highlight Reel.

Punto, out.

BREAKING NEWS: GUSHER IN THE GULF

2010-05-30T23:59:00.001-05:00

30 May 2021, PALINATION: Lawmakers, in concert with the Palin-Bachmann Administration (1), continue to respond to the latest environmental disaster to befall this young administration: the uncontrolled gushing of renewable energy. With a video montage of the nation's only remaining National Park, The Deepwater Horizon "Freedom Fountain," playing in the background, President Palin delivered a forceful message, "The time for action's come, folks. God gave us energy in the form of oh-so-plentiful oil and coal and here we are, spittin' in the face of the Almighty and the dinos and lil' sea creatures who gave up their lives those thousands of years ago to give us an unlimited supply of fossil fuel by our continued investment in renewable energy. It ain't right. Just like He gave us cute little animals to shoot from helicopters, He also gave us a vast deposit of dino bones all crushed up, liquified, and ripe for the drillin'. We can't let the [air quotes] mainstream [un-airquotes] media and the remaining band of those Commies keep fillin' up the underground airwaves with that nonsenese about [more air quotes] renewable energy being better for the environment -- newsflash East Coast Liberals: it ain't."

The comments, the strongest to date, came after another coal-fired power plant was forced to close after it was rendered obsolete due to the continued, staggering performance of renewable energy, a lasting legacy of He Who Shall Not Be Named's Administration (2). Vice President Michelle Bachmann also released a statement, "We are faced today with a choice: tyranny or liberty. If we choose liberty, then we shall be free to take what we want from our scorched earth -- all the clean coal from our mountains, all the methane from our arctic permafrost (thanks global warming!), and all the oil from the Black Coast [formerly named the Gulf Coast]. If we choose tyranny (3), then we let the sun and wind tell us when it's time to get some energy. And that doesn't sound like the kind of country I want to live in. No, it sounds like Russia. Which was a communist country. Or, wait, a fascist country. No, wait, a republic. Shoot, I can't remember. But it was something bad, something unnamed yet unmistakable -- it was different. And therefore we shall fear it (4)."

Statements like these are only possible in this new America. After the 2020 election, walls were constructed around the Blue States and Tea Party guards were stationed at every mile, armed only with fervor, disillusionment, and a shit-ton of guns and ammo. Said one Tea Party soldier while choking back "freedom tears", "I ain't never been this proud to be a Palimerican living in PaliNation(5). I got into this whole "destroy the government to take back government only to destroy it from the inside, like a festering infection" thing a decade ago as a volunteer for Senator (now Viceroy) of Middle America, Rand Paul. He gave me the confidence to speak without thinking. He told me that my misinformed ideals and politically un-workable positions were really the best solution for this new country. I owe my life to Rand Paul and the Tea Party."

One thing is for sure, the year 2010 will echo throughout history. It was the year Americans finally realized the consequences of the energy choices they made. It was the year they realized that more drilling for a finite resource located in environmentally sensitive regions was a recipe for abuse and disaster. It was the year they realized that large corporations (banks, financial services, automobile manufacturers, oil companies, coal mining companies) must be regulated by a forceful governmental presence to prevent disaster. Because when that disaster came, we saw that it did not affect the companies. It affected ordinary Americans. And they reacted. They reacted with anger and distrust of the government, not unjustified. But instead of advocating for the stronger presence of government oversight, they argued instead for no government (6).

****
(1) "Administration" is a term with only mere symbolic meaning now, as we all know, since President Palin disbanded much of the federal government after her election win last November. She defeated Democratic nominee Rahm Emanuel and Republican John McCain, who ran on a campaign of lies and air quotes. After taking a modified oath of office (leaving only "So help me God," which was never actually in the Constitution or a law but a vestige of a tradition recited by all presidents since FDR (including He Who Shall Not Be Named [Pres. Obama] who, despite the Official Recorded History of the United States of (Palin) America which says he did not, did in fact say this line when he was sworn into office both times, in 2008 and 2012.)), the Palin-Bachmann Administration "cleaned house" by getting rid of all executive agency personnel in the largest mass firing in history. Leaving an inexperienced skeleton crew to run the now empty agencies (Rand "Accidents Happen" Paul at EPA, Rush Limbaugh as Sec'y of Health (who by virtue of his prescriptions alone accounts for 45% of the "so-called" socialized medicine intake in the country), and as an olive branch from Palin's Tea Party to McCain and his Republican(?) party, a spot as the top (well, only) civilian border security officer).

(2) After public outcry reached critical mass in the summer of 2010, President Obama and other Democratic lawmakers ushered through comprehensive energy and climate legislation. Despite harsh criticism from the traditional energy industry and conservative lawmakers, the bill ushered in a new age of energy, once again propelling the United States to an unquestioned world leadership position. Although Obama expended most political capital getting the legislation through Congress in that summer of 2010, he did go on to end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, bring peace to Darfur, Palestine, and the former Soviet Bloc. This was progress was lost, as we all remember, in the first few months of the Palin-Bachmann Administration when the Iranian War began and the United States severed all ties with the "Pinkie" world community. And yet, because of the strong foundation laid out in the 2010 climate legislation, renewable energy continued to thrive, buoyed by private investment and commercial success, most notably by Al Gore, who now owns much of the world's energy companies, much to the chagrin of the Administration.

(3) A less-successful initiative of the Palin Administration has been the attempt to mandate a nation-wide "Find and Replace" of "tyranny" with "Obama-y"; the initiative sputtered when First Dude Todd Palin was caught replacing "tyranny" with "boobies" on the nation's only remaining computer [yeah, we only have 1 "official" computer now in the U.S., since the internet was deemed to be the work of the devil and getting information through words has been censored and remains now only on Fox News tickers and underground blogs like this one].

(4) "And Therefore We Shall Fear It" became the Palin campaign's best-known slogan. Remember 2008 and "Yes We Can!" and "Change We Can Believe In"? Well this was like that, only 20 times bigger. Literally. Our national car, the Hummer's H2, was outfitted with bold 10 ft banners adorned with the phrase that waved from wind blocks installed on the roof to make them even less efficient. Because, in the words of another popular Palin slogan, "Hey, it's only energy!" mileage requirements became blase in the minds of many during the 2020 campaign.

(5) With apparent obliviousness as to the actual pronunciation of "Palimerican" and the predominance of white citizens of the newly created PaliNation, this unfortunate combination of words gained traction in the Irony-Free zone of the new United States.

(6) To be honest, I couldn't figure out where to take this post. On the one hand, it's a reaction to the useless, self-serving political chatter out there (ahem, Rand "Accidents Happen" Paul). On the other, it's a sense of exasperation that we're missing our chance. Our Cuyahoga River fire. Our Montgomery bus boycott. That galvanizing moment in every movement that begets change. Because this is certainly that moment. Exxon-Valdez is considered to be a significant oil spill and it was, no doubt. But there was an idea of the extent of the oil that needed to be cleaned up. It was a finite amount from one ship. The litigation is still ongoing and the Alaskan coastline is still feeling the effects, but it was somehow manageable. The Gulf spill is different. This is like an Exxon Valdez that doesn't stop. If life were a movie, Bruce Willis would be making an appearance right about now, with some insane plan to save the known world that ends up working in the end. Not top kill or top hat but Die Hard. The pictures of oil gushing out of the riser and then circulating suspended in the upper water column are like the sea birds covered in oil 20 years ago. Or the Cuyahoga River on fire (below). But I'm not seeing how the political landscape has shifted. Conventional wisdom might lead to the conclusion that a moment like this would lead for a push for renewable energy, where an energy "leak" would only mean it's a windy day. But instead, the conservatives who demanded that offshore drilling be included in energy/climate legislation will almost surely drop off as public and political sentiment shifts away from that mentality but their funding continues from the big energy lobby and Tea Partiers opposed to any increase in government. And that's the real tragedy of this oil spill. A thing that should be apparent -- that our current energy use is unsustainable and necessarily dangerous to both humans and wildlife -- is lost in translation from our television or computer screens to our brain. I can only hope that the simmering anger over this disaster is directed at useful goals, namely the tightening of government oversight in the fossil fuel industry, comprehensive climate/energy legislation to invest in new forms of energy, and a rediscovering of how precious our country's natural resources are to our livelihood and psyche. If not, we might as well live in Palimerica.

Vinyl Blotter, Vol. 3

2010-05-19T23:28:00.000-05:00

Busy, busy week. Had my last final, wrote a 15 page report on pesticides, celebrated my birthday -- all reasons to visit the record store for a celebratory dig through those dusty crates I love so much. Here are some highlights in this edition of vinyl blotter.

1. Low (David Bowie, Let it Be Record Sale)

I found this late 70's classic at sale that resembled a vinyl garage sale. The owner of Let it Be Records, formerly a brick and mortar record shop in Minneapolis (I remember when it closed, about 5 years ago -- I was running with the radio on and the Current played "Let it Be" as it closed its doors for the last time. Sad indeed.), gets his record selling buddies together every 6 months or so to have a physical sale (they all sell online). It was weird to see old, crusty musicheads in a very vanilla rec room at some trendy condos off of University in St. Paul. Kind of like seeing your grade school teacher at the supermarket. Something just doesn't seem right when you see people outside of their natural habitat. Anyway, this record was rated by Pitchfork (the hipsters!) as the number one record of the 70's. I don't believe them (I think it was Exile on Main St. by the Rolling Stones, London Calling by the Clash, or My Aim is True by Elvis Costello), but it is a good record. You can hear the influence of the awesome Brian Eno, kind of like you can hear the influence of the awesome Mick Ronson on his earlier albums from the 70's. This guy is good. And he officiates fashion walk-offs, what more can you ask for?

2. Green River (Creedence Clearwater Revival, Cheapo)

I don't think I give CCR enough credit. Their music is some of the most instantly recognizable classic rock imaginable, which probably dilutes their image in my mind. But the emotion John Fogerty sings with paired with good ole' swamp rock really stands out listening to it on vinyl.

3. Daptone Gold (Various Artists, Cheapo)

Ok, so Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings get a lot of the attention when it comes to this record label. But like Atmosphere and the Rhymesayers label, Jones and crew only represent the tip of the iceberg when it comes to talent on the rest of the label. It's so nice to hear "authentic" soul and R&B on fresh vinyl. According to the Daptone website, they do it right -- analog recording, meticulous engineering and mixing, and the oft-forgotten artist development. This sampler album of rarities and B-sides is a great introduction to anyone interested in hearing what modern day soul sounds like.

4. Eric Clapton and the Yardbirds with Sonny Boy Williamson (Hymie's)

Honestly, I had not heard of Sonny Boy Williamson before I got this record. But after reading on the back of the album (mp3's don't have a backside, do they?) that he was an early force in the Chicago Blues sound and an influence on Buddy Guy (misspelled on the album as "Buddy Gay" oops) and Muddy Waters, I was sold. And, hey, it was only $3. I've made more costly mistakes in my time, believe me. In addition, the album is a chance to hear a young Eric Clapton (I wonder if this was before he was a god) back a blues legend. The verdict: definitely a keeper and a good find. It was fun to trace the lineage of the blues past my go-to's of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, and B.B. King.

5. Blood on the Tracks (Dylan, Hymie's)

Sure, upon the release of any new album by Bob Dylan, you'll hear fans say, "This is the best album since Blood on the Tracks," and it's a pretty established notion that this album was his best since Blonde on Blonde and established a second peak in his career, then only little more than a decade old. And in my mind, this album deserves to be a touchstone in his career. You can tell that it was borne out of anguish and, unfortunately, angst makes for good music. But it's not only "fuck off" music, which saves this album from novelty status. My favorite is "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go," a song about accepting the inevitable loss of a loved one while still feeling the inevitable pain. So yes, it is unlikely that he will again top this album (he arguably reached this level during his late-90's trilogy, but never surpassed it) and so we can forever say each new album is the best since Blood on the Tracks.

Vinyl Blotter, Vol. 2

2010-05-10T22:00:00.002-05:00

If my luck at record stores is any indication of how my finals go, I'm going to ace the civil procedure exam tomorrow. Another great day of finds at my new favorite record store and subject of the first Vinyl Blotter, Hymie's Vintage Records. Eight records for $18. You can do the math. And it's not like these were the typical ubiquitous records you find in the $2 bin. I didn't buy another copy of Rumors, Born to Run, or The Doobie Brothers' Greatest Hits. I bought these:

1. Sticky Fingers (The Rolling Stones)

Could be the most famous bulge not associated with Al Gore. Yes, this is the famous 1971 album that features a (working) zipper on the Andy Warhol-designed cover. It's kind of weird and I'm a little afraid that it's going to damage my other records (umm, not in the way you're thinking -- but because of the zipper protruding, sicko), but it's an awesome record. With "Brown Sugar," "Wild Horses," and "Bitch," it's another bluesy stab at rock by a great band smack in the middle of my favorite era of theirs. And it was only $2. At Electric Fetus, it would've been at least $12.

2. Rocks (Aerosmith)
Another band with a lead singer best known for his lips and drug use. Another great album from their mid-70's peak. Another steal at $3.

3. & 4. Ram (Paul McCartney) & Band on the Run (Wings)

Is it bad that Paul is my favorite Beatle? Sure, John was more angsty and more "high art" minded and George was more mystical and Ringo was...on Shining Time Station, but has there been anyone more melodic than Macca? I love his bouncy basslines and pop-centric arrangements on these albums. They aren't up to the standards of his other band, but these two albums are right on their heels.

5. Hank Williams' Greatest Hits
For when you're so lonesome you could cry. I take Hank over Dierks Bently, Big & Rich, or almost any other mainstream "country" musician any day.

6. Endless Summer (The Beach Boys)
Ok, so this isn't Brian Wilson's artistic statement like Pet Sounds or SMILE, but these instantly recognizable summer songs are just what I needed on a drizzly, cool May day. And, at 50 cents, how could you go wrong?

7. The Shirelles
A short (18 min) compilation of this 1960's girl band that will sound great on a lazy August weekend evening.

8. Texas Flood (Stevie Ray Vaughan)
One of the best blues records ever.

The point of this post and this whole Vinyl Blotter series of posts is not to try and convince people that I have "good' taste in music. It's to try and convince people to explore music outside of the mainstream. Sure, all of these bands were or still are "mainstream," but the point is that they're not being force-fed to the public on the iTunes homepage or on KS95. For less than the price of a song, you can find music either forgotten or shoved into some niche (oldies, classic rock, country western) and therefore ignored by most casual music listeners. I write about vinyl so much because it's something I really enjoy doing and sharing. Each time I dig into a dusty crate, it's like an instant history lesson. So this is what people used to listen to. I find myself thinking about who the previous owner was, why they bought the album -- why they decided to sell it. I love new music too, but discovering influences it makes it all the more enjoyable. It's listening to the band Girls and hearing Elvis Costello's exaggerated snarl. Or hearing Dusty Springfield in Cat Power. Or the Shirelles in Beyonce. And while it's easy to fall into a "spot-the-influences" trap, it's also easy to think that the music that comes out today somehow came out of a musical test tube, with no antecedent. Kind of like teaching creationism in schools ;o)

Mum

2010-05-09T10:25:00.000-05:00

I looked down at my feet to the cheap Little Mermaid ball sitting there, inviting me to kick it. It wasn't one of those heavy red rubber balls you play kickball with, it was one of those $0.70 balls they keep in those tall wire racks at Target or Menards. Instead of a satisfactory fwap when struck or bounced, this kind of ball made an odd doooing. In short, it was pretty flimsy/harmless, as far as balls go. There is a slight chance that this factor crossed my slowly developing mind as I simultaneously dialed in the maximum kick velocity/trajectory and saw my mom stomp towards me with that universal "DON'T YOU DARE" expression moms get. And so, in one of those confounding choices a youth makes, I began to see my mom as more of a Pakistani civilian to the Predator Drone missile of a kick I was about to unleash on a grass stained Ariel -- collateral damage. Foot struck ball. Ariel (and maybe Sebastian, I can't remember) rose majestically as my shoulders rose not quite as majestically in another universal expression -- the cringe. The kick was perfect, my aim was true, and my mom, well, my mom just happened to get in the way. After a direct hit on her now red forehead, I knew I was in for it. But, like a dude at a baseball game about to get tasered, I resigned myself to the punishment I deserved. Oh, the things moms put up with.

This won't be a post about how tireless a job parenting is, how thankless it can all seem. It won't be as such because I cannot comprehend how difficult a job it must be. To live and die by your child's minor successes and failures. To feel the competing, sometimes tragic pull between urge to protect and the necessity of stepping back, letting your child experience failure, even if, or perhaps because that failure is preventable. To be a vigorous advocate in the face of adversity. To feel ignored when your child succeeds and blamed when they fail. A punching bag and shoulder to cry on, sometimes at the same time. I won't fully understand these emotions until I have a child of my own (Which, for the above reasons, will not be happening for a long, long time. Not Larry King long, but long all the same. Don't worry, Mom).

This is a post about how I see you, Mom.

In the beginning (but after there was light; oh, I'd say it was around 1986), you were my protector. You probably saved my ass from imminent doom more times than I can count. Because of you, I learned that streets are not for playing, sockets are not for poking, and pants are not for pooping (still working on that one...eek). I've probably said more words to you than anyone else on this planet, with the exception of chatting online during class. Hey, law school is boring! Babies may be born with some sort of rudimentary moral compass, but you were the one who gave me gentle and sometimes not-so-gentle nudges in the "right" direction. You were the infallible, permed giant of my early formative years.

Moms, and sorry Mom, you are no exception, started to lose their aura of "cool" about the time that word became the social currency during middle school. Instead of my friend and confidant, you became dispenser of Doc Martens and Old Navy cargo pants, of Mariah Carey CD's and Mighty Ducks VHS's. And yet you -- not my uncomfortable, clunky German shoes or my diva-rific music -- were the one I still ran to when a coach yelled at me or when I found out I had to go to speech class (those damned R's) or, let's face it, whenever I needed someone to help guide me through that hellish phase of adolescence.

Then came high school.

To be honest, this is more of a continuation of the grade school phase. I guess high school is when shit hits the fan and children rebel? I was probably too busy napping in the basement or going to Denny's to rebel much. What a failure! But, nonetheless, I was beginning to realize that you were cool in your own way, but definitely wasn't convinced of it. Hell, I had a hard enough time with my own conceptualization of cool (Told in excruciating detail in my high school autobiography, My Life Under the Table and Dreaming; or, When Professing One's Love for Dave Matthews Band is Not Enough for Complete Life Fulfillment (And When it Is)). And, as always, I had both feet in the present but my head stuck in my future plans: college. And while you were no longer a giant in comparison to my size (if I remember correctly, I was the giant in high school) you were still a sort of infallible wizard, albeit an uncool one in the eyes of an 18 year old. But, Gandolf and Dumbeldore aside, when are wizards ever cool? And you can't even classify them as cool cool, can you? More old person, does-whatever-they-want cool, right? Anyway, you supported my decision to journey to remote, snowy, jobless Michigan without nary a plea for me to stay closer to home. I knew I'd be back home (it only took 5 years), but I suppose you had to settle with the reality that it'd always be different. That I wouldn't be going home, but rather visiting home.

I've since come to realize, to my initial shock, that you are not the infallible titan I once thought you were -- hell, you don't even have a perm anymore! But this only makes me love you more. Because if an infallible superhero did the job you did, it'd be no big deal. Another notch on their super belt. But that you, an actual human being, flaws and all, did the job you did raising us, makes it all the more impressive. I probably owe you a lifetime of thanks, and one Hallmark holiday per year or a blog post doesn't do you justice. But thanks, Mom, I'll try to kick Little Mermaid balls at your head less often from now on.

Our Band Could Be Your Life

2010-05-06T12:45:00.001-05:00

This is my favorite song off of an amazing, sprawling 1984 album called Double Nickels on the Dime by the band Minutemen. They were around in the early to mid-80's, contemporaries of Minneapolis bands like Husker Du and the Replacements. Seen by some as an advancement of punk and by others as the death of it, Double Nickels on the Dime was perhaps the artistic apex of the genre, which evolved from the chugging chords of the Ramones, to the snarling lyricism of Elvis Costello, to the worldly sound of the Specials and the Clash -- and finally to this, a combination of free-form instrumentals, chugging riffs, and bouncy basslines with an in your face approach that defined punk. While this song, "History Lesson Part 2" is the band at their most subdued, it's a touching homage to influential bands and the camaraderie of being in a band (not unlike LCD Soundsystem's "Losing My Edge" or anything by the Hold Steady, but especially "Certain Songs" and "We Can Get Together").

When people (like me) try to say that the 80's were devoid of good music, bands like Husker Du, the Replacements, the Minutement, the Pixies, REM, and Pavement stand as a testament to the contrary.

"Mr. Narrator: this is Bob Dylan to me, my story could be his songs..."

Vinyl Blotter, Vol. 1

2010-05-05T18:32:00.001-05:00

I go to record stores a lot. If you know me, you know this. There is a singular rush I get, the thrill of finding that perfect record, when I walk in the door. Sometimes I'm looking for something specific, but more often than not, I go in with an open mind and see what I find. The following are some of this week's finds:

1. Hymie's Records
Hymie's Records, off of E. Lake Street, has been in business for as long as I've been alive. But in exciting news, they just opened the doors to a new location, 5 blocks away from their old store. I never went to their old store, but their new one already has that disheveled yet organized feel every record store worth its salt should have. Large, vintage speakers spewing warm, vinyl goodness all over the store from a Pro-ject Debut II turntable (the one I have!) and vinyl spills out every nook and cranny. How did I not know this vinyl utopia existed? For one, blame my recovering, sheltered suburbanite self, -- I'm just now discovering the plethora of great record stores not named Cheapo we have in this city (Treehouse, Roadrunner, Shuga, etc etc.). But the well-stocked Hymie's may be my new favorite. It's not really in a trendy part of town, which I think suits records stores just fine. They should be a destination, not a place you stop off at on the way to Chino Latino. Hymie's will now be a regular destination for me. Great selection, great vibe, great prices. Where have you been all my life?

2. The Rolling Stones "Beggars Banquet" @ Hymie's

Most Rolling Stones albums in record stores today come from the unfortunate period in many great 60's/70's bands: the 1980's. Nothing is ever really in stock from bands' heydays either because people smartly hold on to these albums or because finding them in good condition some 40 years hence proves to be a difficult task. But my new favorite record store happened to have this album today, to my delight. At first, I thought it was some sort of bootleg -- the album art I'm most familiar with looks like this:

So I was confused when I saw the spare "Beggars Banquet" album staring at me. Apparently the toilet graffiti cover was nixed by record execs (the fools) and the spare, White Album-ish cover was chosen for the original release instead. Beggars Banquet comes from my favorite period of the Stones' career and kicked off a run of albums (Let it Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main St.) over the course of four years that may be paralleled only by the Beatles (Rubber Soul through Abbey Road) and Led Zeppelin (Led Zeppelin through Zoso (or maybe Physical Graffiti if we're feeling charitable)). It's bluesy, it's country, but most of all, it's rock.

3. B.B. King "Back in the Alley: The Classic Blues of B.B. King" & "20/20: Twenty No. 1 Hits from Twenty Years at Motown" @ Hymie's
If you visit me at my apartment (please do!) I will be occupying one of two rooms: the living room or my bedroom. Really, besides the bathroom, that's all my apartment has to offer. But I have a record player in each room. In the living room, you'll find my Pro-ject turntable (with a Grado Green cartridge), my custom made (thanks Dad!) transmission line floor speakers, and my Pioneer (soon to be replaced with a Marantz!) receiver. This is the good system. In my bedroom, you'll find an old receiver, bookshelf speakers, and a donated record player (thanks Uncle Herb!). I reserve the bedroom system for older records that I can just play in the background. Well, this is the room the B.B. King and Motown albums were headed for. Until I listened to them. "Back in the Alley" has some really great music on it, from "Paid the Cost to be the Boss" to "Lucille," a song written about his beloved guitar. The Motown album has classic singles from the Jackson 5, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, and Stevie Wonder. I might put it next to my Supremes Anthology for when I'm feeling all Motown-y. Point of this entry: sometimes the cheapest, "throwaway" records are really the hidden jewels, ready for the big show (the living room player) kind of like Wilson Ramos.

Sticks and stones

2010-05-03T12:37:00.000-05:00

He was a genuinely nice kid, smart and really good at soccer. Of course, this meant that the only way to get at him was for things -- a nervous tic -- that were out of his control. An apparent weakness we opportunistic 7th graders mercilessly ragged on him for. And as he ran down the busy street at recess with the PE teacher/recess monitor ambling after him, her whistle jangling, I felt a stab of regret -- was I responsible for this? If he gets hit by a car, will I go to jail? Is my life over? Am I some monster? Granted, at the time, my fears were rooted in self preservation, but looking back on it now, it was a defining experience in how I interacted with my classmates from that point on. The recess monitor finally caught up to my classmate as he crumpled to his knees, sobbing at the street corner. I wasn't put in jail and neither were my co-conspirators, all we got was a week inside during recess.

I've felt myself reminiscing more and getting more and more disheartened lately as I read about the tragic suicides of teenagers (here here) who were quite literally bullied to death. Some blame the rise of social media for this spate of deaths, and while it's a significant factor, bullying has been a staple of teenage life long before Myspace, texting, and Facebook. That many of my friends state categorically that middle/high school was a generally horrible, awkward experience suggests that bullying is also not a limited phenomenon. And while it's dangerous to make broad proclamations, I'll make one here: bullies almost never succeed in real life, but the bullied rise to be some of the most successful people around. Of course, there are exceptions, and it's imperfect to label someone either a "bully" or "bullied" since the Venn diagram of the two very much overlap, but think about some of the most successful people: President Obama, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, almost any artist -- you think these people were the most popular kids growing up? Think again.

This post is more about embracing quirkiness than it is a prescription to defeat bullies. It's cold comfort to tell someone being bullied that it'll all get better, that high school is a bad time for almost everyone, that you'll show those bullies a thing or two at the 10 year reunion when you're a successful engineer, designer, artist, what have you and they're working a dead-end job somewhere, but it's true. Thing is, the only way to discover this is through another cliche, through experience. More broad generalizations/advice forthcoming: bullies are insecure in their social positions, in how others perceive them. This is why they listen to the "cool" music that "cool" kids listen to. They dress in that same manufactured cool that everyone else does too. If you ever find yourself looking down at your dorky Chucks as you listen to Bavarian hymnals, don't fret -- turn it up! Embrace the quirk.

Remember that curiosity and wide-ranging interests will open up so many more doors in your life than will bland, cowardly conformity. Even though conformity might get a childhood bully into the board room (ahem, Goldman Sachs), they won't be happy, they won't live a fulfilling life, and they'll be constantly looking over their shoulders for you -- they'll covet your independence and originalism. They might even try to buy your ideas and market them as their own, but the public can see through that fraud.

My best advice is to seek out those who share the same interests as you. Start a chess club. Or a World of Warcraft club. Or spend an afternoon digging through dusty crates of vinyl records. Life is better with people to experience it with.

In 10 years, you can have the last laugh. My bullied classmate (after some stellar facebook sleuthing) is now getting a masters degree in mechanical engineering. His bullies...are not. Ha ha, indeed.

The road not taken

2010-04-29T17:01:00.001-05:00

A month ago, I wrote a rather lengthy footnote (here) about a powerful documentary concerning our energy choices in the late 70's and early 80's that have shaped our energy future in the past three decades. The part I most remember about the documentary is how President Carter, with solar panels newly installed on the roof of the White House, warned of the potential for the panels to become, "a curiosity, a museum piece, an example of a road not taken" if they and other renewable energy technologies were not widely adopted. Solar panels as a curiosity was an example of an alternate scenario he hoped we would avert in favor of an energy portfolio rich with renewable energy technologies. Needless to say, we did not heed President Carter's advice and, sadly, the solar panels now sit in the National Museum of American History.

I'm not going to dwell on the fact that we've lost so many years where we could've been designing clean, renewable, safe technologies that would eventually phase out dirty, non-renewable, dangerous (here here here) energy technologies we still rely on today. I'm not going to analogize energy technology to computer technology, either. I won't say that in 1980, renewable energy technology and computer technology were both in a relatively nascent period of development, that the wonder of technology I'm writing this post on (Macbook) is the product of 30 years of innovation, that in the same 30 years we could've also been developing renewable energy technology (thus making it more efficient, cheaper, and a viable alternative to fossil fuels) we did very little; I won't because it should be all too apparent.

But I will say this: anyone who picked up a newspaper this week saw a starkly contrasting example of yet another choice we must make regarding our energy future, this time regarding our oceans. The good news first. Cape Wind, the nation's first offshore wind farm, was given the federal green light to begin construction. It will generate enough energy (420 MW) as a medium-sized coal plant and represents the first step in catching up to the rest of the world with this technology. Opponents claim that the windfarm will pose environmental hazards and clutter the landscape. Would you rather see quiet (and I think, majestic) wind turbines spinning in the distance or a smoking oil rig? Or a shoreline covered in a oily sheen? Which brings me to the bad news, the tragic explosion of the oil rig and subsequent hemorrhaging of oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Is it a coincidence that two major energy stories in the same week focused on the same ocean? Probably, but it doesn't diminish the choice we as a country must make when we decide our energy future in the coming months.

It's true that this issue isn't black and white. Strict environmental regulations for both offshore wind and drilling must be a priority. Further, social and economic factors must also be incorporated into development decisions. But taking these factors into consideration actually favors offshore wind -- think of an ocean full not with oil rigs but with wind turbines, with hardy, Armageddon-style crews zipping from turbine to turbine, performing necessary maintenance. I mean, Ben Affleck needs a job, doesn't he? It would certainly be safer than sitting on a bomb for a living (or detonating one on an asteroid hurtling towards Earth...). And, despite the announcement last month that the moratorium on offshore drilling would be lifted, I think this disaster puts a very visible reminder in American's eyes of the dangers of conventional energy choices.

So here we stand, once again, with a decision to make. Will we maintain the status quo, subjecting our workers to the tremendous and unnecessary risks of producing unsustainable fossil fuels and leaving open the possibility of environmental disasters? Or will we take President Carter's 30 year old advice and invest in an energy future that makes oil rigs and coal mines curiosities and museum pieces?

The musical intstrument everyone knows how to play

2010-04-28T22:21:00.001-05:00

I found this gem in the dust jacket of an old Pete Seeger ("We Shall Overcome") album from the 60's I got today:

HERE'S HOW RECORDS GIVE YOU MORE OF WHAT YOU WANT:

1. THEY'RE YOUR BEST ENTERTAINMENT BUY. Records give you top quality for less money than any other recorded form. Every album is a show in itself. And once you've paid the price of admission, you can hear it over and over.

2. THEY ALLOW SELECTIVITY OF SONGS AND TRACKS. With records it's easy to pick out the songs you want to play, or to play again a particular song or side. All you have to do is life the tone arm and place it where you want it. You can't do this as easily with anything but a phonograph record.

3. THEY'RE CONVENIENT AND EASY TO HANDLE. With the long-playing record you get what you want to hear, when you want to hear it. Everybody's familiar with records, too. And you can go anywhere with them because they're light and don't take up space.

4. THEY'RE ATTRACTIVE, INFORMATIVE AND EASY TO STORE. Record albums are never out of place. Because of the aesthetic appeal of the jacket design, they're beautifully at home in any living room or library. They've also got important information on the backs -- about the artists, about the performances or about the program. And because they're flat and not bulky, you can store hundreds in a minimum of space and still see every title.

5. THEY'LL GIVE YOU HOURS OF CONTINUOUS AND UNINTERRUPTED ENJOYMENT. Just stack them up on your automatic changer and relax.

6. THEY'RE THE PROVEN MEDIUM. Long-playing phonograph records look the same now as when they were introduced in 1948, but there's a world of difference. Countless refinements and developments have been made to perfect the long-playing record's technical excellence and insure the best in sound reproduction and quality.

7. IF IT'S IN RECORDED FORM, YOU KNOW IT'LL BE AVAILABLE ON RECORDS. Everything's on long-playing records these days...your favorite artists, shows, comedy, movie sound tracks, concerts, drama, documented history, educational material...you name it. This is not so with any other kind of recording.

8. THEY MAKE A GREAT GIFT because everybody you know likes music. And everyone owns a phonograph because it's the musical instrument everyone knows how to play. Records are a gift that says a lot to the person you're giving them to. And they keep on remembering.

AND REMEMBER...IT ALWAYS HAPPENS FIRST ON RECORDS.

[Well put, Don Draper.]

We're comin' to America!

2010-04-28T00:04:00.001-05:00

There are so many things fucking right with this video.

Neil Diamond was not my first thought last week as I walked into the law school. Funny, it usually is. As I entered, I was greeted by a group of people who were most decidedly not law students. No, not beleaguered twentysomethings, but whole families, dressed up, smiling, and holding American flags and speaking, well, not English. After reading the sign, "Naturalization ceremony in Room 25," it all made sense.

I was naturalized some 23 years ago by an old judge in a nondescript courtroom. I still have the picture. I had a look in my eyes that said 2 things:
1. Why is this old man in a bedsheet holding me and why does he smell like Fritos?
2. Holy shit.
If I were to be naturalized today and someone memorialized it with a picture, I would have the very same look in my eyes. Since my memories of being naturalized and my knowledge of the process come only from an old photograph, I can (safely?) assume that being held in the arms of some old judge is a mandatory part of the process. But maybe my judge only ate Fritos some days. I don't know if that part is a requirement. But I know for sure that I would still be thinking holy shit, this is a big deal! [Joe Biden: you mean a big fucking deal] Yes, it is a BFD.

Smiling images of these fresh off the vine Americans was juxtaposed sadly with that ghastly Arizona law that just passed, making it Morning in America once again....for racial profiling, that is. Things haven't been this rosy for the profilers among us since it was a television show (things got worse in a hurry for profilers when they realized that the television show was not a loving tribute to racism, but rather a "gritty" crime drama (really, what crime dramas aren't "gritty") about Dr. Sam(antha) Waters who has the magical ability to "see" through the eyes of others (a trait otherwise known as "empathy") while motivated by the death of her husband at the hands of the serial killer dubbed The Jack of All Trades) But fear not, profilers, the PATRIOT act was a pretty decent consolation prize after Profiler went off air in 2000.

And ok, you're right seething anti-illegal immigration dude, illegal immigration is a problem. I'm not saying that it isn't. But can one state, in one fell swoop vanquish civil liberties in such a heavy-handed (and probably unconstitutional) way? I hope not. Do we not learn from our past?

I'm reading two books right now that tangentially relate to this. One, Zoli, is by the amazing author Colum McCann. It's a book about a Gypsy poet (say "Gypsy poet" in Borat's accent, I know you want to) who becomes famous in post-WWII Eastern Europe but is later shunned by her family and community. Her family was killed by Nazi sympathizers. During the war, she gets hassled by soldiers on the city streets who ask for her papers because she looks Gypsy.

The other is called The Bravest Battle. It's about the heroic Warsaw Ghetto Uprising against Nazi extermination in WWII.

I'm hesitant to compare this to Nazi Germany (apparently there's a day for that and a website for other like comparisons), but is it too crazy to imagine a situation in Arizona now where a sheriff stops someone on the street and asks to see their "papers"? And can you imagine a WWII movie not having at least one scene where this same situation occurs between a Jew and a Nazi? Ok, hopefully you made the comparison all by yourself -- it saves me from some rancor from the few Glenn Beck fans among my readers (although, I do remember seeing President Obama crudely given the Hitler stache during healthcare tea parties...just sayin').

I'm left wondering why we're reduced to these partisan battles when there are so many other important issues to tackle. Because a law like this doesn't solve a problem like illegal immigration, it just fuels hate and racism. For the new Americans among us, I'm glad you're here. You show we discouraged that the United States is still a place to treasure, that it is still seen as the "City Upon a Hill" John Winthrop promised his Puritans so long ago. But, like Winthrop's flock, we are an imperfect, sometimes ugly group. Welcome to the club, we're not all so bad as our racist laws make us out to be. Hey, we've still got Neil Diamond.

Iceland: Sleeper Cell

2010-04-19T10:19:00.008-05:00

On 14 April 2010, our world changed, thanks to the assholes up in Iceland. This small Northern European country, slightly larger than Kentucky, and appearing to sit at the kiddie table of Europe geographically, rose out of the ashes of their economic doldrums and took a giant shit on the rest of the continent, unleashing the feral beast Eyjafjallajokull (nicknamed "The Situation") and crippling Western Europe in a terrifying display of a new form of terrorism.

We should have seen this coming. The New Kid on the Block, being hazed into the Axis of Evil by Kim Jong Il and his goofy collection of fascist goons as we speak, is laughing at Western Europe from high atop the globe. While folks in this country worried about mild reforms to a broken healthcare system, millions of Wolf "The Dentist" Stansson's were "over there" in Iceland readying their hellish barrage of magmatic fury. Think about it: Tea Partiers (who are apparently better educated and more affluent than their idiotic viewpoints would suggest) were asleep at the switch. It's not some government takeover that they should have been worried about, nor the fact that the president was supposedly not born in the United States (he was a crafty toddler, forging documents and all), nor even the fact that the country will soon mandate that our elderly will be put to death in front of a screaming horde of liberals. No, they should have focused their anger on the creeping danger that is Iceland.

It all goes back to the warning signs present in the fanatical suicide statement, cleverly disguised as a children's movie, "D2: The Mighty Ducks", which gave perceptive viewers a glimpse into this dark dark world. Apparently, the deception traces its roots all the way back to the naming of the country. Think back to the pivotal scene, where Coach Gordon Bombay went for an ice cream with Icelandic beauty Maria and perfectly enumerated his, and in doing so, our complicity in this vast conspiracy.
Coach Bombay: "I thought Iceland was covered with ice"
Maria: "No, it is very green."
Coach Bombay: "I thought Greenland was green!"
Maria: "Greenland is covered with ice, and Iceland is really nice!" [Ed.: after divulging this state secret, Maria was sent to the Greenland Gulag, a vast shop of ghastly horrors, with its receding glaciers and such]
So it's true! The founders of Iceland had this evil plot in mind from the beginning, way back to naming the country. Indeed, the 1821 eruption was merely a dress rehearsal for the horror that was to come.

We've all flown in these years since 9/11. Airport security has increased and continues to do so with each failed tighty-whitey/shoe bombing, but the industry forges on, battered, but not deterred. This unlikely rogue state has taken a much broader tactic, employing the power of its natural resources for something other than hot spas and geothermal energy -- for terror. Thanks to this eruption, which can only be imagined with a sort of perverse sexual imagery ("erupt", "bulge", "pyroclastic flow"), Iceland has crippled Europe's airways and cost its economy millions, perhaps billions. Take that, terrorists!

Let this be a lesson for us all. Look not to poor, attention-hungry countries with fanatical dictators for the next foreign conflict. Let's look to the volcano states. It would be folly to ignore the slumbering beast patiently waiting the next ocean over. The 2004 Tsunami was just the first volley: the Pacific Ring of Fire is blessed with 2 advantages: 75% of active and dormant volcanoes on earth, and a badass name. Chile, Indonesia, and those bastards up in the Pacific Northwest are all a risk to our god-given right to freedom. Mark my words: Iceland is just the beginning of volcanic terrorism. Axis of Evil, big whoop -- the real enemy is on the Discovery Channel...

Thanks, law school

2010-04-18T23:40:00.000-05:00

For "continuously and systematically" stripping me of my ability to write a funny, topical, frivolous blog about the quirks of life I find amusing. I'll take another crack at it soon enough, I promise.

P1:"Tea?" P2:"Don't Tread On Me!" P1:"Huh?" P2:"Party!"

2010-03-20T22:16:00.001-05:00

Preface: This is another DC-related post. And I'm writing it before midnight (and sober). As such, it is probably much less interesting (but waay more verbose) than last night's. But you be the judge, dear reader!

Kate and I decided to walk down the Mall today to go see an film at the National Museum of American History for the DC Environmental Film Festival. The film is called "A Road Not Taken." And while it's not the subject of this post, or at least only tangentially so, I'll do an DFW-esque footnote for the interested parties. (1)

From the house in NE on H street, we took the pretty walk down Maryland Ave. Down past blooming spring flowers, budding trees, and friendly neighbors stepping out into the glorious 75 degree sunlight. It's hard to beat DC in springtime.

We got to the east side of the Capitol, the side facing the Supreme Court, and began to see, amongst the usual tourist-looking tourists, tourists carrying flags with a coiled cobra on its face with the words, "Don't tread on me" printed ominously along the bottom. At first, I thought that it might be a walker's version of those Tazmanian Devil mudflaps that read, "Back Off!!" as a supposed warning to anyone with the temerity to tailgate a massive gas GUZZLER with Toby Keith (or even scarier, Glenn Beck) blaring out its windows. But the flag carriers seemed merrily unperturbed by the presence of large, sweaty Midwesterners "tailgating" them while huffing up Capitol Hill. With that option dashed, I was at a loss for explanation.

-- Wait, did I just say "option?" Like "public option?" No, couldn't be, that was gone months ago. But this line of thinking got me on the right track -- of course it was everybody's favorite group of uneducated dumbasses (sorry cast of Jersey Shore) -- the Tea Partiers!

As we began to walk down the Hill, we could see them massing around the front of the Capitol -- maybe 5k-10k strong. Fervent speakers started chants of, "Kill the Bill! Kill the Bill!" Kids had signs of their president made up (quite nicely?) with a Hitler mustache thrust into their clammy hands. Older citizens in wheelchairs (probably already recipients of public healthcare, but who's counting) were pushed by well-to-do angry, crazy people to hear Michelle "The Census Makes No Sens-us" Bachmann do her thang.

I am a supporter of the First Amendment and believe people are entitled to voice their opinions in public. It's what separates us from those "evildoers" that we're supposedly on the fast-track of becoming. But I'm also a supporter of critical thinking and curiosity in the minds of the masses. Take, for instance, climate change (wow, I'm going to get a lot of uncles mad with this post, aren't I?). I could just blindly believe that climate change is occurring after hearing commentators on the news (cable, of course -- and not those pansies at Fox; I'm talkin' MSNBC) scare me into thinking that polar bears are going to die. And, as the thinking goes, if I believe this blindly, I will eventually have to petition the FEDERAL Department of Carbon Security to turn on the lights at night. Somehow, blindly believing this "hoax" will lead me astray. But I read peer-reviewed reports on the science (socialist, I know -- public access to information and all). I worked with scientists who studied climate change. I formulated my own opinions based on the facts, not conjecture or a mouthy talking head. And I came to the conclusion that climate change is real. Humans are causing it. And the only way to stop it is to re-imagine our energy future (see footnote 1 and 2). But Tea Partiers just don't do this kind of critical analysis.

If they did, assuming they had that capacity, they would truly mount a populist revolution -- in direct opposition to what Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh tell them to believe. It's truly sad to hear (supposedly) nice Midwestern soccer moms say that this is the first time they've ever gotten involved in our government. It's sad because somehow the system has failed them. It's sad because unelected sensationalists on television get to tell them what to think under the guise of some organic populism really grounded in naked capitalism (hey, ratings = cash = wider audience = greater license on the truth and more scare-mongering).

The rush of anger these people are feeling is as inauthentic as the sweet soft drinks they guzzled (messily) as they watched Congresspeople (who are of a system they apparently hate only selectively) on the losing end of the eventual healthcare stick try to plant the seeds of anger for the next election. Their anger should be pointed at the obstructionists in Congress who, instead of playing the "Party of NO" should have been working with Democrats to construct an ideal package that would ensure that the long-term health of their constituents was taken care of in a way they approved. Instead now, the long-term health of their constituents will be ensured, but the Democrats who worked hardest to do this will be vilified and possibly unseated. Their anger is inauthentic because it's not really aimed at something tangible. People are scared of the government, but more so, they are scared of things they can't control.

This feeling of helplessness (brought on by a nasty case of the socialism espoused by our current ~~Dictator~~ President) is supposedly remedied by a strong dose of vague "freedom" or amorphous "liberty." But freedom from what?

It's a question that I'm not sure they could answer. And one I'm not going to try to answer. I love this country too much to become an apologist for this fake populist movement. I hope this is just a dream. I hope that people really do possess even nominal critical thinking skills so they don't have to rely on people who get paid to talk tell them what to think. It's a vicious cycle. The people who are actually paid to represent us risk being unseated by vaguely angry constituents who are so vaguely angry because it's what Glenn Beck tells them to be. This isn't a tea party. It's a dangerous experiment being conducted by untrained scientists on unknowing subjects. And it's bad for America.

(1) "A Road Not Taken" is an independent film celebrating its U.S. premiere at the DC Environmental Film Festival. Two Swiss artists followed the (tragic) history of the solar panels installed by President Jimmy Carter on the roof of the White House during the energy crisis in the late-70's. The panels were removed in the mid-80's by HIM (Reagan) in a defiant show of American hubris. I mean, who needs sissy solar panels when manly coal does just fine, thank you very much! The film's title was actually part of a speech Carter gave when he described the decision Americans would have to make regarding the future of energy. “In the year 2000 [ed: he said in 1979], the solar water heater behind me which is being dedicated today, will still be here, supplying cheap, efficient energy. [ed: it is not] A generation from now, this solar heater can either be a curiosity [ed: yep!], a museum piece [ed: uhuh!], an example of a road not taken [ed: sadly], or it can be just a small part of one of the greatest and most exciting adventures ever undertaken by the American people - harnessing the power of the sun to enrich our lives as we move away from our crippling dependence on foreign oil.” This sadly prophetic sentence, spoken by an unfairly maligned president, rings true today. It is a museum piece and a curiosity, not an example of truly American courage and sacrifice. Imagine where we would be had we took heed with the bitter truth, rather than electing a president running on a fuzzy version of some unrealistic American arrogance (Morning in America?). Thirty years of progress has been/is being impeded due to the short-sightedness of our politicians and the electorate. Imagine, for a minute, the computer in 1980. Does a large warehouse of "supercomputers" come to mind? With the computing capacity less than our cellphones? Now think of the computer in 2010...the laptop I'm writing this blog on has more power in sleep mode than those computers did going at full bore. Now, if you dare, think of the progress we could've made in our energy technologies with 30 years of innovation under our scientific belts. And not just cursory innovation, driven by "smart," incremental changes championed by the fossil industry now (ahem, clean coal?); but revolutionary innovation, driven by a greater need to do good by for our children and theirs. But we chose the easy road and now, unfortunately, President Carter's 30-year old language will haunt us and for those who ask, "Why?" What could we possibly answer?
(2) Luckily for us (Kate and I), if this were a Venn Diagram, the type of people going to an environmental film festival (us) would be a circle entirely separate from the type of people attending the Tea Party rally (them). Not even on the same page.

Dee See

2010-03-19T23:23:00.000-05:00

There is a rich intensity to DC which is palpable only when you're actually there. Which I am now. It's intoxicating knowing that 90% of the people around you CARE about politics and policy. The other 10% are Midwestern tourists. Me included, although I guess I would be the shaded middle part of the Venn diagram. Definitely a different vibe than Minneapolis. But it's what is to be expected, I guess. I could see myself here when I graduate, but not so sure that I would want to establish roots here. In DC, the people are transient.

It's strange being back here. The people are basically the same, the house is the same, but it's still oddly different. I've made my own life since I lived here and so have all of my friends. So it's this weird nostalgic, making new memories sense I'm getting. Part of me is glad to be back, meeting up with friends and seeing the familiar sights. Another part of me is hesitant; thinking that the DC I have in my mind is painted in such a rosy sepia tone to it that it would be tragic to mess with. But I'm glad I visited again. Closure in many regards.

So this is it, I'm happy to be here, but will also be very happy to return to Minneapolis. It has all of the culture of DC but without the "rich intensity." Which probably suits me more.

Gold Soundz

2010-03-08T01:16:00.000-06:00

I write a lot about music on this blog. Music and awkward situations. I love both. And this post has to do with music, but it's a special post. It's special because I have a wonderful announcement to make. Ready? Ok...

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #1: Pavement is coming to the Twin Cities this fall.
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #2: I got tickets!!!

This is a big deal. Pavement hasn't been a band since I was in 7th grade. Of course, I was so oblivious in 1999. I mean, singing along to Will Smith and Limp Bizkit was what I called fun back then. In the past decade, I've matured in my musical taste and Stephen Malkmus, the lead singer of Pavement, has gone on and done some solo stuff. A lot of it is very good. But it'll never be Pavement. If REM is the Roger Clemens (undoubtedly best pitcher/band of his/their generation; a big splash followed by a long, steady career) of early indie rock, and the Pixies are Barry Bonds (heavy hitters, but internally conflicted), then Pavement are Ken Griffey Jr. -- effortlessly good. Pavement defined the erudite slacker model that bands today try so hard to emulate. Stream of consciousness lyrics coupled with guitar that weaves in and out and raw melody, that's Pavement. It's late so I'm done ranting, but here, have a look (and buy tickets!) for yourself:

Describe a time when you had to make a difficult decision...

2010-03-03T00:42:00.000-06:00

If I had my druthers and didn't need to whore myself out for a job all the time, I'd definitely have a more pertinent story to tell interviewers. Sure, it always seems like a good idea to craftily relate a work conflict or some other tough decision regarding school or life in general. Keyword: seems.

"Well, there was this one time when my boss asked me to stay late on a Friday afternoon to get a grant proposal out the door. But, you see, I had Twins tickets and they were playing the Red Sox and I knew this cute girl who liked baseball and..." Shit! You just made yourself look like a flake with misguided priorities (although there is a strong argument to be made that cute date + baseball >> work but let's just assume that in this case, work gets dibs). If you go around saying stuff like that, you'll never get a job.

The question is an invitation to stick a foot in your mouth. Sure, you could tell a story about that time when you had to decide whether to go save the adorable child on the runaway train or the 100 inmates tied to the tracks, but for the other 99.999% of us, the best possible outcome to this question is to keep the asshole-level to an absolute minimum. Unless...

Unless, that is, you tell them about the actual last time you had to make a difficult decision. In my case, this happens on a weekly basis. As some of you know, I use a trip to the record store as an excuse for any number of unrelated tasks I'm trying to delay completing. Policy work to do? Policy is best done with a good record playing! Legal writing brief due? Legal writing is best done with a good record playing! You can see the pattern my brain continually follows. It's a good thing I don't have any other expensive habits besides elephant seal wrestling and buying vinyl.

Inevitably, I will set some arbitrary limit for myself before I enter. One new record and one used record. No, three used records and a new one only if I can't pass it up. Well, I could use two new records and maybe one used one if I can find a good deal. As you no doubt imagine, this rationale, skewed though it is, gets thrown out the window as soon as the old-attic-smell of a used record store enters my nostrils. I sometimes start to sweat in anticipation. Which isn't as big a deal as it sounds -- I sweat thinking about much more mundane things.

Today was the perfect example of the numerous difficult decisions I face once I put myself, the shark, into water red with chum. I'm discovering that Electric Fetus on Franklin and 4th consistently has the best selection of high-quality vinyl in town. Cheapo is good for volume, but there's a lot of chaff. Roadrunner and Treehouse are good, but for more obscure stuff. Shuga is filled even further to the brim with junk (although their online store seems much better). Electric Fetus went a long way in cementing its reputation with me today. I was about halfway through the "Used Vinyl" section and I had a one bona fide good find: Back in Black by AC/DC. A Chuck Berry album I had never heard of had me at about a 5/10 excitement level. I was content though. Then my day got suddenly more complicated.

I think it's an unstated rule amongst crate-diggers that you don't side up to a fellow digger. You give them space. Finding records is almost a symphony between you and the past. It's sacred. Normal people don't just side up to you while you're engaged in such a ritual. I hate it when it happens and I give many a dirty look when people do this to me. So this guy did this very thing just as I had eclipsed the halfway point of the used section. In fact, he began to move the whole columns of records down, mixing up the admittedly already mixed up organization. He was playing Lady Gaga over my Mozart. In a movie, the sound of the needle scratching a record would play and the music would stop.

The next part would also be in a movie. Just after the record sound, a chorus of angelic voices would start a rousing round of "Hallelujah!" The church version, not the Leonard Cohen version. This man was not butting into my personal space. Well he was, but it was for my benefit. He carried a box of fresh, used records and was shifting the line of used records down to accommodate the new arrivals. I always wondered when they refreshed their selection. I thought they might bring Brinks trucks in late at night and, under cover of armed guards, add the new selection while the rest of the city slept. But no, this was during the middle of the day in a busy store. And no one seemed to notice the glorious event happening right in front of their eyes!

As he finished his task and carried the empty box back to the place of boxes, we exchanged a knowing nod. Not a flamboyant Midwestern nod, but a muted hipster nod. At least his was a hipster nod, mine was probably more frantic, crazed even. For we both knew the ordeal I was about to enter.

Two whole columns, probably 100 records deep -- and it was all MINE. Like a logger surveying a tract of virgin timber, well...it moved a little. So I dug in. Like a dream, a cavalcade of records paraded in front of my wide (for an Asian) eyes, each calling out to me, louder than the last, "Take me home."

Miles Davis, Art Blakey, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors -- all the heavy-hitters were there. An original pressing of Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band v. a novelty album jacket version of Led Zeppelin III. How can a person choose? Keep in mind, at this unfortunate time, I felt like I had to make a decision. Though the records were only about $9 or $10 a piece, I must never forget that I am a student living off of the government. So I took a few over to the in-store record player, hoping that one would be so mangled as to remove it from consideration. All of my samples were pristine and to make matters worse, they all got exclamations of approval from one of the staff. As far as record store staff go, the aforementioned nod is a pretty big get for a customer like me. An actual verbal affirmation -- almost unheard of.

So I made my decision. I had to make a few hard cuts, Revolver by the Beatles (I own a reissue), some Art Blakey jazz (tough decision, but they are more common), and Led Zeppelin I (I still feel bad about leaving this little guy behind). But I did go home with Back in Black (AC/DC), Sgt. Pepper (The Beatles), and Led Zeppelin II & III. I also went home with the good story to tell interviewers; the way I see it, a story that makes you sound just a bit weird is better than one that inadvertently makes you look like an ass. My lesson of the day.

A Man, Conflicted

2010-02-07T23:50:00.001-06:00

After watching the "Who('s) D(Th)at?" Saints take it to "da" Colts, I was struck by how emasculated I felt. Granted, this is not an uncommon feeling for me, but self-pity aside, I felt especially un-manly even after watching the biggest event in the manliest mainstream sporting universe. I'm starting to think that it was the commercials.

Commercial after commercial told me what it meant to be a man. And it doesn't take a Tim Tebow to tell me that I'm failing horribly.

Apparently, I need to stop expressing empathy or friendship, especially to women. Next time a friend asks me for help, I'm yelling "AFTER THE GAME!" Even if there's no game on. And if they ask me for help via fb post or gchat message, I'm pausing the game (TIVO, ftw), tracking them down, berating them for interrupting my manly activity, and ordering them to make me a ~~flatbread~~ ~~low-cal~~ ~~organic~~ manly, beer-enfused-bacon-cheese-MANLY sandwich. For free. Awesome.

And reading? Who needs reading?! Leave that to the Sedaris/Eggers/Vowell-reading, NPR (socialist, btw)-listening milquetoasts I see walking around with those froufy coffee drinks my girl likes to buy. Me? I'm a Folgers guy, through and through. I don't even have a coffee maker. I just stoke the fire, still smoldering in the hearth after last night's meat-stravaganza, boil some water (non-filtered, what?!) and pour that shit directly into the metal, ribbed coffee container. And I just drink it straight up. And then I throw the aluminum can into the trash -- you know, the trash container right next to that wimpy, Greenie recycling bin. Sometimes I miss, but that's what my girl is for, to pick up after me. Can't be bothered -- must apply wax to my DODGE CHARGER.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not some knuckle-dragging imbecile. That would be the wrong impression, bra. The wrong impression, indeed. The internet intrigues me. It is awesome. Basically, you look at the internet for things like funny videos of animals, pictures of awesome women, or sports scores. I have a few websites myself. But I only trust GoDaddy for my web hosting, domain name, and SSL certificates. I mean, really, advertising is best when it has bodacious babes like Danica "1-Career-Win" Patrick showing us her awesome curves all in the name of an obscure service industry! Awesome.

The Superbowl is an awesome way to get some tips on how to become a better, more awesome man. You get to eat some awesome food, drink some awesome beer (don't even get me started on Select 55 or MGD 64; in these eyes, it's a choice between either 55 or 64 reasons why drinking it makes you a non-man), and see some awesome sports. It's a once yearly opportunity to remind me why I shouldn't be friends (or respect?) women or be forced to read the New York Times or a good novel (does Maxim count?). The Superbowl reminds me of the proud few who have reached that Pinnacle of Modern Manhood and why I still have a long way to go to brush against their muddy boots...awesome.

We came to party rock, everybody it's on

2010-01-16T21:23:00.000-06:00

Naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps! [feat. Lil' Jon] [here, if you don't get it -- 9 times out of 10, I wouldn't]

Preface: This is a post in which I shall attempt to describe the types of naps known by non-idiotic man. The cultured man of good taste and stock, because, as Sir Charles Barkley says, "Anything less, would be uncivilised." And to preemptively (supposedly to protect American freedom, whatever that means) answer your question: no, I really don't have anything better to do with myself on a Saturday night -- I am planning to drink a mean Diet Coke, though. So I got that going for me...

The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It
There comes a time in almost any nap where the napper must make an important decision: to nap or not to nap. This question is typically answered about 15 minutes into a nap, especially if under stress or deadline, as the napper suddenly jolts awake and must decide if he should go back to sleep or wake up. One must not dither because to dither is to lose the ability to nap altogether; it is to forfeit that great skill honed on benches, couches, floors, and beds in that Ancient Greek tradition of college. The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It nap is the lowest form of napping -- you never feel more rested, only frustrated as you lie in bed, fitfully tossing until you alarm goes off. What was supposed to be a "quick, efficient, REFRESHING!" 45 minute nap after work/school was not. One who fails at this skill more often than not fails in other, more important aspects of his or her life.

The Kiefer Sutherland
Did you really just help Jack Bauer diffuse an airplane bomb? Or are you just spilling warm beer on yourself on your parent's basement couch as you drift in and out with the TV on. That's ok if you are, not everyone can have exciting lives. The 'nightmare' version of this nap, as you can guess, is called the Sinbad or the Hannah Montana, depending on what you decide to watch when you think no one's looking.

The Sweaty Pajama
Gross. It's summertime, three or four in the afternoon, and you wake up drenched, under your comforter. Typical of the novice napper, this nap is nonetheless disgusting. Close the blinds, turn on the fan, and throw off the comforter, for crissakes man!

The Where the Fuck am I?
Lucky you, this is the Holy Grail of naps. No less than two hours long, you awake from this nap with no clue where you are, what time it is, or sometimes, if it's a really good one, no idea who you are. Are you a spy? Are you a debauched lover? [ed. probably not] Is it morning? Night? But, the most relevant question, the one that skips the most beats, is why do I have 10 messages on my phone? What important milestone did I miss? Yes, these are the best kind of naps. It's even better to see someone wake up from such a nap. You can see these questions running through their mind, one by one, until the sad bludgeon of reality once again hits them squarely on their head.

The In-Name-Only
-- "So, what are you up to now?"
-- [Exaggerated yawn, stretch] "We're just blowin' through nap time, aren't we -- I'm going to go home and take a nap, I'm exhausted."
Now, some among us do really go home and take this nap and it will probably be a Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It. Fail. The rest of us will get in our cars, determined to have our heads hit the pillow in ten minutes or less, only to find, two hours later as we end our fruitless search for glass coffee mugs, record player clamps, or whatever it is we waste our time on, nap time has officially passed us by. But who is really the loser here? [ed. both of you, probably]

The world does not stop for naps and so we must take every opportunity the second it comes to enjoy one. We can only hope that its a Where the Fuck am I?

Bienvenido a Miami

2010-01-15T16:16:00.000-06:00

Preface: Miami was ridiculously cold last week! But, I know that if I write a post about that, considering the Northern locale of most (all four!) of my readers, I would lose probably three of them, my mom included (sorry Mom!). So I won't.

But, if I did, I'd write about how I wasn't so sure about Miami at first. Think of me, then think of the opposite place you'd expect me to be -- it would be Miami. Though I am known to rock the pastel shirt from time to time and I do like Puma and wear Ray Ban sunglasses, Miami -- and especially South Beach -- can be gaudy to the extreme. The machismo of Latin America fused with the delicate European aesthete. A little too much for this scrubby Midwesterner (though I did wear a pink shirt! which came with the requisite amount of needling from the rest of the group...). But it grew on me.

As any Dexter fan worth his or her salt knows, South Beach (SoBe for those with a certain proclivity towards abbrevs) fully embraces Art Deco in their buildings. That ballsy period when almost any building became a monolith to design by industry. But not industry in the way that so many frumpy libraries and public schools look, but more industry in the sense that it was like architects were trying to impress through simple lines and dots, in terra cotta or metal. And the hotel-front signs. Oh, the signs!

The interesting buildings are not the only redeeming quality Miami has going for it. If I were to write a post, I'd be a fool not to include the food! I'd write about how there seemed to be as many restaurants as people, most of them overpriced and under-serviced. There were pretty girls with menus standing outside each, beckoning like Sirens to entice weary travelers into buying a nice $45 pitcher of margaritas and staying for the warm, damp quesadilla that no doubt awaited them. Lucky them. I only got caught once. But I felt bad for the Siren at the restaurant next door to our hostel. She was obviously freezing in her bulky down parka and asked each one of our dozen at least three times a night if we wanted to experience a place called Oh! Mexico! After the first night, we didn't.

But, off the beaten path, there were some gems I found. One of these had the conspicuous absence of Sirens at the door, but nonetheless had a full bar and a line of people that stretched around the corner, waiting for a seat. Purerto Saugua (which means "great Cuban food at modest prices" in Spanish) was my most-visited restaurant of the week. In fact, it was the only place that got repeat business -- twice over! The other gem was a Haitian place, once again off the beaten path, near a strip mall that had a store named "Philly in Miami". Could have been a store with a nod to the 1920's about a girl, a bit of a hussy most likely, who found her way into Miami, a "Philly in Miami" if there ever was one. But that would've been too obvious, as it would then be a store for 95% of the women in South Beach. Or, it could've been a cheap ripoff of an Italian eatery, with Philly cheesesteaks and the like. Turns out it was a shoe store. Go figure!

I won't talk too much about work because, well, there wasn't that much to talk about. But maybe I'll touch on it if I ever get around to writing a post about my trip to Miami...

A post for a new year

2010-01-10T18:28:00.002-06:00

Preface: I think I'll start beginning these posts with: “Despite being of the most powerful human beings on the planet...” Anything with those words tacked onto the front immediately lends credibility to whatever follows. It adds credibility, but also so much more. It's perfectly sets up any scenario. Seriously. If what I say makes sense, or is somehow profound or life-changing, which I hope is not the case, you'll simply think to yourself, or knowingly whisper (assuming that, upon reading such a momentous turn of the English language, you are rendered all but speechless) to a neighbor well, he is one of the most powerful human beings on the planet. What'd you expect? On the other hand, if what I write does not change your life, the first sentence will act as a disclaimer – informing the world that I am in fact fallible. A touch of humanity seeping out from an otherwise Adonis/Gaston/Einsten-esque figure of world popular culture. It is infinitely more likely that you will read this post with only mild interest, as a brief, unremarkable interlude to the work day. That works for me, too.

Despite being one of the most powerful human beings on the planet, I am not immune to the passage of time. Like many around the world, I took in the new year at precisely 12 AM on 1 January 2010. Also, like many of my fellow wanderers, I took the brash license of a new day, a new year, and a new decade (unless you're one of those formalist, slightly arrogant buzzkills who don't believe that a year ending with a zero begins a new decade – really, it's so much easier the other way) to make a new year's resolution.

The resolution: Make new friends.

With the very important corollary: While (or, “whilst”, if we're going to be proper about it) keeping the ones I have.

One bad thing about being a self-professed misanthrope is that sometimes you actually enjoy the company of other humans. I'd go out on a limb and say that this is true most of the time for me. The problem is that it can become a damning self-fulfilling prophesy if I don't work at it.

Returning to my Minnesota late this summer after what I will inaccurately call my Wilderness Years (only because I like that phrase), I was excited to reacquaint with old friends. I've managed to keep in touch with many of them during college and after, but this, I thought, would be different. All of us would be back in the same city, taking part in the same activities we did growing up. It would be like a greatest hits compilation of the past decade. A fitting bookend to a time when these memories weren't memories, but just another Friday night. Well... I may have made a slight miscalculation.

As it turns out, my friends aren't just recreations of hazy, jumbled memories of the past, made possible by the firing of nostalgic synapses. They're real people! Unlike the bad cliché (or Springsteen's “Glory Days”), I did not return home to find my friends eking out a dead-end existence, still reliving the past, the so-called heyday of high school. And thank god they didn't. They aren't stunted teenagers -- some have grownup jobs, some are in grad school, all fast on their way to becoming super lawyers, dentists, doctors, advertising maestros, etc., etc.

This is why I need new friends (not forgetting the all-important corollary). It was fine being “the high school friend” when I visited from college. My base consisted of the people I grew up with but the world expands throughout each phase of life. As it expands, unfortunately, the bond that initially connects becomes colored, diminished by time. It takes work to maintain these bonds and there's a sort of triage aspect of who you want to keep (and who will keep you) in your circle. And reminiscing only gets you so far. Making new memories with old friends is better than remembering old memories.

When we're young, our friends share a common bond of school. We categorize friends, separating the grade school friends from the high school, and so on. While invariably some of these friends also hold common interests, the most binding one is school. As I grow older, I'm realizing that this cannot go on forever! There is just so much school a person can go through, and only a finite number of friends one can collect while doing so. It's time to start finding more friends who like the things I do. Tree-huggers. Local music scenesters. Crate-digging vinyl fiends. Whatever. Where do I find these people? Definitely not sitting at home.

I must get out and wander.

My top 20 records of 2009

2009-12-25T20:49:00.001-06:00

Merry Christmas! Here are my favorite albums of the year, courtesy of my new (old) Olivetti Lettera 22.

The real inconvenient truth

2009-12-17T22:53:00.000-06:00

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.

Cratedigger

2009-12-16T22:47:00.001-06:00

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.

"Purple Rain" by Prince and the Revolution (Half Price Books) | I had to get this since I'm now officially back home in Minnesota. Half Price books, I'm finding, has a lot of mainstream vinyl on its shelves. I don't think it gets picked over like the selection at Cheapo does, so there is usually a better ratio of clunkers to good albums there. I have yet to conclusively test my hypothesis; the only way to do so is to keep going to both! But this album is really the epitome of Prince and his strange combination of rock, funk, and R&B that defined his "sound."

"Looking Back" Stevie Wonder (Cheapo - St. Paul) | This is a 3-fold LP released in 1977 by Motown. It's a retrospective spanning 40 songs he released during the 60's and 70's. At his request (possibly due to the potentially offensive title??) Motown deleted it from its catalog and it was never reissued. I was pretty stoked to find it just as Cheapo closed for the night.

"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!

Paul's Boutique

2009-12-11T00:38:00.000-06:00

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.

Well, How Did I Get Here?

2009-12-03T00:34:00.000-06:00

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:

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?)

But, along with every good thing comes the bad. The yin to the yang. Dark to light. The next morning to the previous night's Taco Bell. The unpleasant truths.

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.)

A bit of faith (another thing INTJ's suck at, apparently) is required and honesty (the record is silent here) should be a guide when answering the questions. In the end, I'd say that this test is partly a self-fulfilling prophecy and partly, slightly revealing. It's definitely something where the grabby traits (quiet leader, intellectual, the like) make you say, "Yeah, that is totally me." And the not-so-grabby traits (not physically affectionate, familiar with darkside (what does this even mean?), etc) make you say, "Eh, not so much?" But if you're being honest with yourself, I think it's a pretty genuine measure. I kind of wish that people wore name tags or were required to get face tattoos displaying their Meyers-Briggs personality type. It would make life a lot easier, not to mention cutting down on the small talk/flirting I hate. But there I go again, typical INTJ, wanting "people to make sense."

A chance encounter, a love left unrequited

2009-11-30T00:19:00.000-06:00

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.]

The Sarah Conundrum

2009-11-23T16:41:00.001-06:00

[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!

The Field

2009-11-22T16:02:00.000-06:00

[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.

My Girls

2009-11-18T23:56:00.002-06:00

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.

If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe

2009-11-16T23:54:00.000-06:00

[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.

Certain Songs, They Get So Scratched into Our Souls

2009-11-12T00:38:00.001-06:00

[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.

Lipstick on a pig; or why the debate on teaching "Intelligent" Design in our schools is hurting our chances

2009-11-09T23:09:00.001-06:00

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.]

Muzak I'm listening to

2009-11-06T00:34:00.000-06:00

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.

And that's why you always stretch before IM softball games....

2009-10-18T20:46:00.000-05:00

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!

Seriously?!

2009-10-05T16:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Enough sitting around. I need to get up and run.

2009-10-03T19:56:00.000-05:00

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...

Proof.

2009-10-01T23:46:00.000-05:00

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.

Shit is about to get REAL

2009-08-31T23:35:00.000-05:00

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.

The morning paper

2009-08-25T01:58:00.000-05:00

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.

Oh how the migthy have fallen.

2009-08-23T20:36:00.000-05:00

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.

In the works, a new bike

2009-08-20T19:33:00.000-05:00

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).

Tonight and tomorrow morning: paint, order parts
Tomorrow: clean brakes
Next week: put everything together
Ride ;o)

Expect pics next week of the finished product.

Oh man, an Oman weekend!

2009-08-18T00:37:00.001-05:00

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.

That hi-fi, phono sound

2009-08-13T15:18:00.000-05:00

[ Preface: I do realize that this post makes me sound like a crotchety old man, stuck in the Seventies, sitting in a dimly lit, dank living room somewhere in Ohio with old dust-covered National Geographic magazines stacked behind the sofa, a near-deaf mother sitting quietly in the next room attending to her cats, while creditors send angrier and angrier letters to the house and life just swirls around me, the decades advancing. Or maybe like that guy at the bar, alone, drinking Fantas and eating something green, smiling maniacally, nodding, and systematically inching closer to your seat -- you two are the only ones at this bar, it's afternoon and you're killing time before a meeting, he is "recently unemployed", and you want nothing better than to be far away from this guy, but you're stuck -- you are waiting for a business contact to meet you there and then you find yourself talking to this guy, who is now drinking grape soda and still eating a green substance, and he is intense and smells funny and won't stop talking about seeing "the Jethro Tull" in concert in 1973. Fair enough. But I guess that's what listening to too many records will do to a guy.]

Nothing in this world sounds better than a vinyl record played on a decent turntable and stereo system. Nothing.

The pristine, glossy black of the record, its grooves shimmering and rippling in the light, almost begs for the light touch of the needle as it slowly descends. After the needle finds the groove, for a few seconds a dense silence exists, as if any sound, save for the random crackle and pop, is secreted away in anticipation. And when the music starts, everything is reversed.

Layers upon layers of sound come billowing out of the speakers, aided by the organic, analog qualities of records; this is, for the most part, a very good thing. To hear Art Blakey bellowing instructions to his Jazz Messengers, or Muddy Waters stomping raucously as he plays, adds another dimension to the experience of listening to vinyl. Pro Tools wasn't to help smooth over inconsistencies of the performances, so the clunkers stand out, but recording engineers and producers had a mastery of their craft that makes this a rare occurrence. Often, the transfer from analog to digital (think early-90's CDs of older albums) does more to ruin the sound than the orignial mastering could ever do.

And don't get me started on MP3s.

Selecting the perfect record requires more than just a thumb scroll. You have to get intimate. Thumbing through stacks of albums conjures up that old familiar smell, of basements and old boxes, that is comforting and nostalgic. Each exists in the same form it did in decades past, outlines of errant coffee mugs or water damage a testament to its age; or rather, wisdom. Although some are shabbier in appearance than others, the elaborate album artwork stands as a reminder when the art on the album mattered almost as much as the art inside. Each calls out to be played.

It's hard to quantify the difference between listening to a CD or MP3 versus a record. There is a distinct difference in sound and I suppose that some people may prefer one to the other. My guess is that most would choose the vinyl, but I guess you'll just have to come over and try it out for yourself!

Birthers

2009-08-11T21:26:00.000-05:00

and while I've tried my hardest to ignore this utterly stupid phenomenon known as the birther movement, it's stuck around way too long for that to happen.

Article 2, Clause 5 of the Constitution states that only a "natural born Citizen" of the U.S. may become its president. I understand that. There is no doubt that Barack Obama fits this qualification and it's insulting that this is even an issue. He was born in Hawaii, just like our past presidents have been born in Connecticut, Arkansas, Massachusetts, and Illinois. With the economy still experiencing the throes of recession, our bohemoth healthcare system in need of serious attention, and our environment and climate facing unimaginable dire straits, why are we focusing on an insane but persistent (and LOUD) minority of theorists who question this?

Taken at face value, it appears to me that the only reason why these rabid conspiracy theorists have raised this issue is because they are desperate. In a society where information is free and only a click away, they no longer have domain over information on UFO's, Bigfoot, or David Ortiz's urine samples. Almost everyone has access to the same basic information. This access to information allows more crackpots to spin fantastical yarns on obscure web sites. It lessens their individual impact (unless your last name is Beck, Limbaugh, or O'Reilly) while magnifying the impact of a group as a whole. However, this horrendous din of the birther movement has a more sinister underbelly.

Their argument is unlikely to be based on a love of the Constitution; rather, it is based on a vicious undertone of jingoism that runs counter to the very fabric of the principles our nation was founded upon and which, at its best, it thrives on today. It insinuates that only one who is blessed by birth in the United States is worthy of leading it. By doing so, it places those of us born elsewhere who, by fate or choice, came to this country to build a better life, in a secondary caste, unworthy of aspiring to lead our country at the highest level.

Many birthers will assert that they are only defending the Constitution of their country. And every citizen has that right and should take part in its defense. But there are many juicier, more substantive Constitutional issues out there that require the efforts of those on both sides to interpret. But that won't get you on Lou Dobbs.

And you shall know our velcocity?

2009-08-09T17:45:00.000-05:00

and it's always difficult to look away. Even when decency and protocol prescribe diverted eyes, it draws you in.

Nursing a coffee, too hot on a too hot day, it unfolds in slow motion. It's rush hour and the people who shower before work are quickly being replaced by those who shower after work. In buildings just bustling, windows are washed and trash emptied while quietly, lives are being made or rebuilt working those anonymous, thankless jobs. iPods and Blackberries are attended to, while at the same instance, common courtesy and pedestrian rights of way are not.

The coffee is cooling now, finally, and she is unremarkable walking amongst the late-day travelers, common in her dated pantsuit, a little tight along the seams, the product of too many fancy coffee drinks and meeting doughnuts. I see her standing at a crosswalk with a coterie of office workers, most with some electronic device parasitically attached to their persons. From where I sit, looking out the coffee shop window, she is on the right, near side of the street. A bus (hint: her bus) has the green light and crosses her path from right to left and stops down the next block, across the street to our left. It will wait, but for how long is uncertain.

I sip my coffee, black, and watch the unfolding drama. She is faced with a decision now -- two crosswalks stand between her and a ride home. Two crosswalks between standing impassively amongst strangers to sitting impassively amongst strangers, eye contact actively avoided AT ALL COSTS. She makes a time-saving yet dangerous move and crosses to her left with the red hand flashing and impatient brethren in cars, red faced and bothered by the injustice of it all, waiting for her crossing when it happens, for an instant only. I don't even catch it at first.

As my coffee enters into that sweet spot of drinkability (sorry light beer, you will never enter this region), I try to figure out why it was so jarring to see what I just witnessed. Like a horror movie where a zombie has no whites in their eyes, just pupil, it is not immediately clear why the thing was so, so weird. Then it hits me. She is running. I see a preview of this as she crosses that first crosswalk. It is clear she has not ran in years, decades even. But the prospect of tardiness makes people do crazy things, unthinkable in normal context.

The seconds tick off, the bus still idling as it unloads/loads its stores and looks, with flashing lights and a buzz of activity on and around it, somehow impatient, as if it were in an unnatural state when static. The woman, red in the face from unexpected and unaccustomed exertion, is bouncing maniacally on the balls of her feet, muttering under her breath. Because of a bar on the window that perfectly obstructs her head when standing still, she perfectly channels Whack-a-Mole when bobbing, her dated bouffant now perfect for this clever allusion.

The light turns green and she lurches forward, into a gait that is still deciding whether it should be a run, or just a sorry attempt at one. The seconds seem like minutes, etc, etc, etc. as she hoofs it across the street and onto the sidewalk. While it looks unnatural, harried, at first, she begins to ease into a more manageable jog as she dodges commuters on the sidewalk, oblivious to the event unfolding before their eyes. The bus driver, being a hybrid of the office workers and workers in the office by law of proximity to their commute, senses the woman flapping along the sidewalk and graciously waits for her, even though there is a green light that turns red just as she reaches the steps.

For kids, running is the only natural thing to do. Run to school (or, more often, from school). Run, against mother's wishes, in the house. Run outside. Run in the winter. Run in the summer. Run all the time. Kids, not Kenyans (but of course, Kenyan kids), are the best runners in the world. Keeping appearances or dignity in tact is not high on the list of priorities for a young person with a destination and only distance and that annoying concept of time between them. So they run. But for the rest of us, we joggers decked out in fashionable, technical garb, who run for 30 minutes (45 on Tuesdays and Thursdays) at a time, we office dwellers who spend prime kid-running time stuck sitting indoors, we never think to have less than one foot on the ground as we enter into locomotion. Must preserve professionalism and dignity AT ALL COSTS.

The woman's hair is now a mess and her once tidy (if snug) pantsuit is now unbuttoned and wrinkled. But as she makes her way toward the back of the bus and takes a seat by the window on my side, I see she is laughing, remembering how it feels to run like a kid.

post-college fun

2009-08-05T00:33:00.000-05:00

To all you crazy kids out there who think that the end of college means the end of fun, this post is for you!

My evening, post-9 PM, Tuesday, August 4, 2009. Typical.

9:15 expressed interest in going to the liquor store to obtain some beer.
9:16 dad believed the liquor stores to be closed and to be in such a state beginning at 8 pm every weekday
9:16-9:25 Crushed, demoralized, despondent, downtrodden, world weary.
9:25 I go out to prove him wrong. Prove the world wrong, really. I'm a world-beater. It's just my spirit.
9:40 Pull into Cub Foods Liquor (in MN, grocery stores are not allowed to have alcohol for sale in the actual store, so many have one tacked onto the side.)
9:45 Still creepily trying to discern whether or not they're open from my car. I cannot. The lights are on, but there are those yellow cleaning pylons up in the aisles. I figured it was just a typical Minnesota passive aggressive way to say, CLOSED.
9:47 It wasn't. They were just cleaning the aisles! It is indeed open. Success.
9:48-9:55 Try to decide what kind of beer I want. Something classy, sorry, Bud Lime. But not something too expensive or hoity-toity. I chose Fat Tire.
9:56 Write gloating text message to father.
9:57-10:30 Drive around Bloomington trying to find fast food. I find none to my liking as Jimmy John's was closed, Taco Bell too far away, McDonalds too gross, and all other options nonexistent.
10:35 Arrive home, gloat to father in-person.
10:37 Still hungry, put in frozen pizza. I'm going to hate myself in approximately 17 minutes (to cook) + 10 minutes (to eat. everything.)
10:40 Crack a beer open, watch some plastic surgery reality show on Oxygen with my sister.
10:45 Somehow chase her away by asking too many questions. I just want to know what's happening, that's all!
10:45-11:40 Quickly change channel. Finish watching The Graduate. I've been thinking about that movie ever since watching (500) Days of Summer. And no, I did not cry at the end like Zooey Deshanel.
11:40 - present (12:30) Doze on and off while watching one of my favorite shows, The Universe, on the History Channel. As much as I love "Space Oddities" and "The Milky Way" I'm too tired to finish. Bedtime and the end of yet another epic night.

Stuck inside of Bloomington with the no-car blues again

2009-08-03T22:22:00.000-05:00

Blogger's preface: I came up with what I thought was a catchy little title for this post on the way to the bank, which I talk about in said post. I'm not really unhappy living at home for these few weeks, I just feel that such an inspired title deserves an inspired post to go along with it. So some things may be a bit exaggerated here. Some are not, however, so be on your toes when reading. Re the title, well, I just finished watching the two-part Bob Dylan documentary No Direction Home, by Martin Scorsese, in which they talk about the song, Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again (see! it's catchy!) and am finishing reading a Dave Eggers book, which somehow compels me to become more self-referential in my writing. Although a blog is already pretty self-referential. Some would say solipsistic. But when you realize how bored I am, you'll understand. And you'll realize how bored I am by reading this post. In sum, this preface is pretty useless and I'm sorry you had to read it. Stop being such a lemming! Skip to the good parts. Maybe that's assuming too much here. Better yet, go read a book or browse CNN.com. Plenty of good stuff there. But maybe wait until after you read my blog... It's up to you, really.

Approximately 95% of my fond memories, especially ones that took place, say, from 1990-1997, took place in my hometown of Bloomington, MN. Bloomington is a suburb of Minneapolis and really has no distinguishing characteristic save for the Mall of America and the airport. Both of which, and especially in the former's case, Bloomingtonians (?) would rather not associate with. Maybe it would be better if we gave this "Mega Mall" to Richfield. But the point is that Bloomington is a rather nondescript suburb of a rather nondescript city of Minneapolis (though I'm rather fond of it).

But it was a great place to grow up. We live across the street from Brye Park which was, in the 90's, the outdoor recreation mecca for a youth into sports such as I. In the spring, of course, was baseball. I only played there once with a team, I think, but I likely hold the record for appearances at the baseball diamond there. Every night after dinner, my dad and I were out there, shagging fly balls or taking batting practice (until I began hitting balls into the street and onto peoples' yards). I was the Cal Ripken, Jr. of Brye Park -- any suitable night, I was out there. Baseball occupied my spring, summer, and fall but winter brought something even more magical, if only for its fleeting nature. That's when the city flooded the ice rink. Each December morning as we awoke for school the pump trucks would be out there, dutifully jettisoning their stores onto the frozen gravel. Every afternoon, a thorough inspection of the growing ice was in order and timetables were set and skates were sharpened in anticipation of the skating season. A warm spell or freezing rain was, and still may be, in some quarters, considered a disaster. But we'd usually get a full 6-8 weeks of hockey in before a February warm spell ended the season, always prematurely.

The suburbs were a great place to grow up. They are, I assume, a great place to raise a family. Or to retire. But they are not a great place to live when you're 23. Especially without a car.

Such is my current life. And I can't complain too much (see preface) as I am moving to the city in a few weeks and starting school. But it would absolutely kill me if I was jobless and sitting around here. Due to the family car shortage, the people with jobs get the cars most days. Which makes complete sense. But it doesn't change the fact that suburbs make those without cars feel very, oh, inadequate. In the week I've been home, I've made a few major excursions on foot to destinations near the Vessey Rd. compound. One, a rather fruitless trip to the Movie Gallery store, which was oddly hot and in disrepair. The other, which I will detail now, to the bank, Wells Fargo, up the hill.

I have some stock - no big deal - in a few corporations. No, really, it's no big deal; it's often more of a hassle because I have so little stock that the dividend checks I get in the mail (not direct deposited, mind you) are usually on the order of $0.94 or, if I'm lucky, $3.07. They find themselves all too often wedged between books or at the very bottom of the pile of junk mail that ultimately gets tossed. Yes, I know, money is money, but I feel like such a tool depositing pocket change. "And would you like this in checking or savings?" [snickers] Haha, very funny, Bank Teller. But, um, well how much do I have in checking? "Let me see, looks like, $150- no, $15.05, Mr. Dammel." Let's just do checking, then, I go for the big percentage gains!

But this weekend, I also decided to cash in some bonds I got from my grandparents when I turned 18, so I felt less demoralized when I went to make the deposit. Another personal insight: I was looking forward to making this deposit a little too much. I don't know why, I guess because it gave me some structure in life. I was about to go Saturday afternoon before I was informed by a bemused mother that banks weren't open on Saturday afternoons. Good to know. I did know that banks are closed on the Lord's Day; of course they would be! So it would have to be Monday, then. My date with destiny.

Monday, of course, I was car-less (see title!). And that was fine with me, I do like walking, did a lot of it in Washington, and wanted to keep my walking muscles in fine shape. And it was a sunny day and I hadn't really been outside yet, so I'd make it an event. Maybe get dressed up (like change into shorts with pockets.

After a few hours of sitting in the middle of the living room, listening to LP's (got through Thelonious Monk w./ Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Muddy Waters, Led Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen (of course!), Neutral Milk Hotel, Wilco, and Paul Simon) I decided it was time to start my journey. It was mid-afternoon, around 3:30 when I collected the various checks and bonds, put them in an envelope, and set out to grab a bike to cut down on the time. Well my mountain bike had a leaky tire and my fixie's chain was orange with rust and brittle looking, so I decided to hoof it as I had planned all along.

In cities, it's not weird to walk places - it may be weird not to. Especially to places mundane and ubiquitous as banks. But I felt so odd walking to the bank, which is about a mile from the house, on a busy road (Normandale Blvd). The streets close to home are wide but lacking in sidewalks. And I always veer when I walk, even sober, and so was accordingly afraid of inadvertently playing a game of chicken with oncoming motorists. I was wearing what I thought were pretty normal clothes -- some khaki shorts and a Boston College Law (fittingly ill fitting, I might add) t-shirt with socks and running shoes. Maybe it was the sock/shoe combination that made me feel out of sorts, but I felt like one of those dads, well all dads, really, who seem to go back time and time again to this combination. I admit, they were comfortable, but I prefer sandals. Young people should show their feet, socks and shoes be damned! But, I reminded myself, I was walking, so function over fashion became my mantra.

This self-consciousness was magnified when I started to think about what other people would think when they saw me walking around at 3:30 in the afternoon. Most people my age are working or otherwise preoccupied at this time so I imagine parents, too hardwired to the Dateline mindset, thought I was a molester of some sort and kept their children close at hand. Yard after yard there were toys, some with moving parts still slowly moving, and slammed doors and pairs of eyes about knee height and taller, angrier eyes looking at me as I ambled past. A nameless, senseless danger averted by vigilant action, BRAVO parent or caretaker, BRAVO! Not really, but that's how it felt. Maybe it's because I have an uncle who aimlessly walks around his parents' house, to the mall, to the library, everywhere and nowhere. Maybe that's why I don't like walking in the suburbs, I feel it's the first step towards something much worse. Like marijuana as a gateway drug to heroin. But creepier.

Another thing about walking in the suburbs, now as I turn onto the busy road, is that the car:human ratio is all too askew. I'd say it's close to 300:1. Ridiculous. And the cars all seem so menacing as they fly by just feet from the sidewalk (the crummy, afterthought sidewalk with weeds slowly overtaking the blacktop). I walk up the hill, which seems like it extends forever, and think about life. And exhaust. And apartments with ponds. And how the sky isn't really blue, it's more blueish-gray, as if the contrast was turned up too high and blue was washed out by some giant dial unknown to human intellect.

I finally reached the top and found myself in the strip mall parking lot. My next obstacle, once looming, was now upon me. It was time.

Again, the lack of sidewalks or marked walkways for pedestrians was distressing. I made my way around the back of the bank, by the drive-thru lane. A car was approaching and, since there was no sidewalk, I found myself balancing, arms outstretched, on the curb. I must have looked like an idiot, because what right-minded twentysomething does a thing like that? When I realized this, I promptly (and awkwardly) jogged across the lawn into the bank. So now passers-by thought I was robbing it. Great.

I guess it wasn't as cool outside as I had thought. This, coupled with the fact that I sweat even thinking about sweating made me a mess when I walked into the air conditioned bank. There was a small line, but I loitered by the paperwork desk for a few minutes to stop sweating. There really isn't any reason to sweat when not doing athletic activity, but I manage to find some reason all too often. So, if I didn't look like I was planing to rob this bank when I ran into it, now, I most definitely did. I could see tellers eying one another, with subtle nods, that seemed to say, "Yeah, I see him too. I'm fingering the BIG RED BUTTON if he makes any sudden moves. -Ok, me too"

But soon I stop sweating, put on a smiley face, and deposit my things. As I stood there, an annoying, entitled teen casually approached the teller next to me and said, "Give me all your money, this is a robbery."

Not really, but he just kind of demanded his money to be deposited and I don't believe he had an account there. The teller was more than a little flummoxed when she explained to him that yes, he could open an account, but that it wouldn't be available until the next business day, etc. He just kind of muttered something and then asked for her to make some change. She obliged and then asked in what denomination he would like to receive. "Oh, twenties would be awesome."

Again, after this teen hands her a wad of bills, a flummoxed look crosses the teller's face and she says the best thing I've heard in a while, "Um, sir, it appears as though you only have $19 here. Um, so do you just want a ten, a five, and four ones?" I mean really, how can you be that off in your estimation, kid? Really? Ok, I could understand if we're talking a cash roll here, but he probably had 10 bills in his hand at most. I guess if you assume they're all $100 bills, that's one thing. But that's not going to get you too far in life, I'm afraid.

I smile and, along with the tellers, the other customers, and the bankers who walk out of their offices with this crazy exact timing, as if it was all planned in advance, we all exchange knowing glances, we cock our heads to the side, shake them side-to-side and put our hands on our hips -- tsk, tsk, kids these days, we all say. And we laugh and laugh and even the people in the drive-thru get patched through the intercom and they're laughing too! We're all laughing and having a jolly good time at the expense of this cake eating brat. Hardy har-har.

After many a back-slap and recountings of this hilarous episode in our all too exciting lives, I reluctantly leave, back into the afternoon heat. The walk home is equally mundane as the walk to the bank and doesn't merit the free space of my blog to write about it. Oh, life in the suburbs, I shall miss thee. That is, until I return.

Wow, has it really been this long?!

2009-08-02T00:11:00.000-05:00

I'm in the middle of reading a really great book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers. Its memoir-y accounting of the author's struggle, in his early-20's, to raise his younger brother after losing both parents to cancer. A sad story, obviously, but Eggers brilliantly sidesteps the inherent melancholy by dedicating a good portion to his internal struggles in trying to be there for his brother while still aching for a normal life as a young person in his prime, living in San Francisco.

I can't relate to him losing his parents and hope never to have to, but, being a young twentysomething myself, I do get what he writes about regarding his struggle to grow into new-found roles and responsibilities while still attempting to forge a unique path in life.

Anyway, the point of this blog is to talk about my friends out there now in the real world. I will excuse myself from currently existing in the real world -- I'm happy with my 3-year law school "real world" pass, thank you very much. But it really is exciting to catch up with old friends. Friends I've known for over half of my life, decades in some cases.

Granted, many, even the most accomplished of the bunch, are still in entry-level jobs or grad school -- but we'll get there one day! It's inspiring and yes, a bit frightening, to realize that the kids I grew up with, had crushes on in school, played baseball with during those eternal summers, rode bikes with on crisp fall mornings, that we are entering this new stage in our lives. Until now, we've all been herded into school each fall, generally complaining, but secretly comforted by another year of brand new Trapper Keepers/messenger bags (depending on the grade and degree of intended irony) and notes/IM's (same; see previous parentheses) secreted to trusting friends behind the back of those omniscient teachers. It sucked, but it was familiar.

But that comfy blanket has been cast aside for many of us and we're faced with things we thought only our parents had to deal with. A real house. Health insurance. Jobs with consequences. You know, responsible, adult-type things (still wondering why I'm delaying this onslaught for another 3 years...). And, to top it off, real life gave us a shitty economy. Or was it the Republicans? Just kidding. (Secretly not, however.)

And while most of us still lack real, pressing responsibility in our lives, this won't be the case for long. It's been five years since high school now and my goofy friends, the same ones who used to dot their "i's" with a heart or attack unsuspecting TV-watchers with a surprise fart (no, not the same person), are turning into real people. The flashes of brilliance or compassion they expressed growing up, which were quickly shooed under the table for fear of humiliating reprisal from the "cool" kids, have had a chance to ferment and grow. They are bravely entering this new world still somewhat recognizable as the awkward youths we all once were but striking now with a self-confidence that was always there, but had to be found.

So, godspeed, keep in touch, and get to working on your heartbreaking work of staggering genius!

When I walked home after the game

2009-07-19T17:14:00.000-05:00

The bus pulled into Union Station and the guy sitting two seats over seemed surprised we were going into the parking ramp instead of circling around front. Forgive him, he was from Chicago. I couldn't figure out if he was with his mom or girlfriend, but he was a big man. Big and sweaty with a Cubs jersey plastered onto his wet back and a bracelet made of baseball stitches on a strip of white leather. I followed the couple and a professorial man, who creepily smiled to himself every few minutes and who wore wide-rimmed glasses without irony and a t-shirt with a Mayan ruin neatly centered on his chest, out of the bus. Everyone exited, save for a group of girls, probably late-teens or early-20's, who inexplicably remained on as the bus idled in the parking garage. Maybe they had plans. But probably not.

Walking through the cavernous, ornate-to-the-point-of-parody great hall in the station - really a glorified mall with trains, I dodged a family whose mom stood taking a long camcorder shot of her husband and son standing disinterested by the sunglasses kiosk. They had a priceless look of ennui and embarrassment. I wonder if they were secretly being ironic and just wanted to go back to the hotel and laugh at the responses of passers-by no doubt looking at the family askance, like me. But probably not. The kid was standing as if praying for some deity to take him out of his misery. Struck down right next to the sunglasses kiosk. A valiant way to die. Actually, I see a lot of teenagers with this look around town. Especially ones on Segways.

Passing through the front doors and enjoying the same view of the Capitol as Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, I was grateful for the warm temperatures and low humidity that remind me of Minnesota in May. Setting off for the 12-block walk back home, I had the ill fortune of walking behind a gentleman, mid-20's, wearing too short shorts and a t-shirt with an unnecessary undershirt, who began to smoke a cigarette. I don't mind people who smoke - just don't do it when I'm downwind of you. And don't do it jauntily. You look like an asshole.

Soon the unhip smoker was nothing but a distant memory, turning off to ruin other peoples' afternoons with his smoke and white thighs. I had the sun at my back and it felt reassuringly warm on my neck, slow cooking my skin. The sidewalks are brick and it's a nice touch when done right. The sidewalks all start out nice enough, but as you get further and further east, they lurch upward dramatically from tree roots stuck underneath. As if they too want to pull up their roots and move out of the neighborhood. Sometimes I don't blame them.

I try to walk on the right side which is in the shade during late-afternoon, but soon cross to take advantage of a green light. I try to make my walks efficient, though the left side made me sweat. In the distance, a mother and young daughter meander down the undulating sidewalk. A few blocks and I catch up. They walk past two men standing near the sidewalk fence, drinking a beer and enjoying the afternoon. The mother gropes for her offspring's hand and herds her to the far side of the path, away from the "dangerous" men. The men don't seem to mind, if they even notice. They make funny faces and bounce on the balls of their feet as the young girl, as I knew she inevitably would, turns to smile at her fellow afternoon revelers. Her mother shoos her on.

I give a half-smile to the men and the mother and daughter as I walk by. Past the gardener listening to soft ambient electronic music as he tends to his future plentiful bounty. Past the churchgoers dressed in white, but as I realize upon approaching, actually white mixed with vibrant purple and green flower prints. It seems like every Sunday is Easter around here. No one is in jeans or cut-offs like back at home in my lax Catholic church. I continue, past the church still in service - the preacher passionately addressing his flock in gravelly, screeching intonations, met with tired "Amens" and "Yeses." Past everything that makes summer so great in the city.

I leave in less than a week. And as many good memories and times as I've had growing up in suburban Minneapolis, this slice of Americana has been something I'll never forget.

An engineer's perspective on "alleged" global warming

2009-06-15T22:14:00.000-05:00

Ninety percent of engineering is an exercise in fact gathering, making assumptions, and defining critical boundaries. The other ten percent probably involve some form of awkward social communication, gadget hunting online, or feet gazing while slowly shuffling about. Kidding. It's really only about five percent of our day. But since our mindset is so fact based, it's hard to turn off that part of our brain in other aspects of our lives.

Take climate change. News stories on the topic, the few that exist before the comics section or at all, still feel compelled to insert words like "alleged" when reporting on the topic. Or they quote quasi-scientists funded by Big Oil or Dirty Coal to provide the opposition view. While I am definitely in support of high caliber journalism, and many big papers (I'm looking at you, Gray Lady) generally write well on climate change, the lack of facts and the abundance of rhetoric is too often unsettling and dangerous. I think if more of the public had the facts in their hands, there would be much less resistance to curbing the climate change activities in our lives. As an engineer who has read many of the reports on the latest climate science, it's sobering to comprehend even the very basic, top-line findings of the reports. It appears that as we learn more about the climate system worldwide, while inputting the latest emissions figures from around the world, that the climate is actually warming at a much faster pace than even the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) predicted in 2007!

How could this be? -- Say many of my friends and family (especially so) back in Minnesota who just experienced a record string of cool temperatures in early June. After a few deep breaths and a slow countdown from 10, I'll say that this brings me to my next point. I don't know if people say this to get me worked up, but to put it in the most basic analogy I can, it's like saying the Lakers aren't a good franchise just because they lost a few games. It's folly to conflate a cool stretch of weather as proof that global climate change is not occurring, or to go a step further, as proof that global cooling is happening. Disregarding the utter lack of scientific integrity in that statement, it's also logically faulty. The next time it's 60 degrees in December in Minnesota, then does that prove that global warming is happening?

I think these examples prove that while weather will be weather will be weather, these extremes in temperature, rainfall, and other phenomena could be strong signals that our climate is changing. But it's important to separate the normal statistical variation from the overall trend which, well whatdya know, is exactly what climate science does! Imagine that.

So while part of me wants to either laugh in disbelief or gouge my eyes out and cut my ears off when I hear these arguments, I think it may be part of something deeper than just wanting to piss me off. I think it's either a general distrust of science or a general illiteracy in it. I'm not saying that these people are stupid. I'm just saying that something in our system, whether it's media, politics, or education -- or a combination of all three -- something in our system must change before we as a society value factual data enough to take stock in it. Even when it's staring us in the face. Especially when it's staring us in the face.

As an engineer, I value facts. As a profession, perhaps we do this at the expense of other important considerations, be they political, economic, or social. But that's why we also have to be so smart in communicating the facts, laying out the impacts, and expressing the dangers of inaction. That's why I'm glad we have some brilliant journalists, honest politicians, and concerned citizens (and scientists!) on our side. But we need to be sure that we don't miss the boat on climate change. While a certain level of understanding exists among that relatively small group, we can't assume that it exists elsewhere, even among friends and family.

Now back to the mumbling awkward hello's while staring at my feet that I need to do to make up my required 5 percent for the day...I love engineering!

Fight global warming? Why?

2009-06-08T21:53:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I don't try to be preachy, sometimes it just happens ;o)

My experience thus far in our nation's capital has been one of the best of my life. I've gotten to know a lot of smart, ambitious people who are working for the 'good' side. And by the 'good side' I mean the objectively good side -- not the relatively good side, dependent on the whims of industry or commerce to tell us what to view, but that really special good side, where you can actually believe in what you're working towards. Good for the Earth, for the plants and animals, and good for us people. I'm talking about all of us and everything. Even Dick Cheney. Sorta.

So yes, I'll always hold a special place in my heart for DC. I'll hopefully keep in contact with my new friends and follow their exciting careers. I'll be proud of the work I've done. But there's one giant 'if' to this equation. And that's the climate bill.

Since I work in a giant bubble/echo chamber/circular firing squad, I'm not entirely sure how much mainstream publicity this bill has gotten. Here's a quick summary. It's officially known as the American Clean Energy and Security Act, colloquially as the Waxman-Markey climate bill, after its chief architects, Henry 'The Wiz' Waxman of California and Ed 'Wunderkid' Markey of Massachusetts, both Democrats. It's a whale of a bill, even for, I think, DC standards -- hundreds of pages in its current incarnation. Though it's officially billed as an energy bill, it's much more. Energy bills get passed in Congress all the time (though none as far reaching as this). This is also the first climate change bill to get out of committee with a fighting chance to pass the full chamber. So not only is it the strongest energy bill, the first climate bill, it also has provisions for energy efficiency, electricity transmission, tropical forests, you name it. Along with the good provisions, it also has its fair share of industry-friendly ones, so it's far from perfect.

The Energy and Commerce committee in the House of Representatives, as I mentioned, passed it out of their committee a few weeks ago. It's now being referred to other committees in the House, where they will take a look at it and hopefully not water it down even more. After that, it arrives on the full floor of the House. So, while getting the bill out of committee was a giant step, it's only the first in a series of even gianter steps! And I haven't even started to talk about the Senate (well, they (the Senate) haven't really started talking about it either, so I'm not slacking...).

Republicans are good at making good things seem bad. Un-American. As if the slobbering, tax-happy, pansy, treehugging Democrats were in need of a major tea-bagging. No doubt if you've heard one thing about this bill, it came from a Republican talking head or industry ad that calls it an energy tax. Or a light switch tax. It's sad, but not surprising since industry does outspend environmental groups by an outrageous sum on ads. What else do they have but opposition? A solution? Haven't seen one. The environmental community prefers to spend its money on analyses, grassroots organizing, and concrete solutions. So, before this post slips even further into a rant, I'll come back to why I wanted to write it in the first place.

Some people in the environmental community would rather see this bill fail than see it passed in what they view as a weakened, 'don't even bother with it' state. What they fail to realize is that their opposition is just the ticket for conservative opposition. "Look," Rush Limbaugh will say, "Even the environmental groups oppose this energy tax." It will fail and decades of hard work will be lost for perhaps another decade. This isn't like March Madness; we can't just wait until next year to do this climate thing. Or the next.

If only for the political calculus, we can't wait. Midterm elections are in a year and a half. If the climate bill fails this year, a handful of Senators and the entire House will be up for reelection. Do you think they would tackle such a hot-button issue during an election year? The climate champions will tell their constituents, "Well, I tried my darndest to get a climate bill passed, but it was too damned hard. [pregnant pause] But, if you reelect me, I'll definitely get it done next session." The opposition will tell their voters, "You had a champion in me, fighting against those East and West Coast liberals who wanted to take your money -- your money -- to invest in renewable energy and to protect our climate. Can you believe that? Your money! [Another pregnant pause] And if you reelect me this year, I promise, I'll tell those limo liberals what's what and keep your money in your pocket." In other words, a climate bill is not happening next year. Maybe it would happen in Obama's second term, but that's of course assuming, well, you know.

But maybe not even then -- second terms are usually for cementing legacies, not making them.

Meanwhile, the international community, without guidance from the U.S. during what should've been our shining moment, our chance at redemption on the international stage, will have abandoned any hope of a climate treaty with any teeth. And climate change will keep getting worse.

Science is not the roadblock, either. While I don't believe that science, in isolation, should tell policymakers what to do (it should inform policy, along with a suite of other considerations), science doesn't need to inform us of the urgency of this situation. Every government agency, independent research center (no, Heritage Foundation doesn't count), and international research group has produced conclusive evidence that climate change is occurring and that humans contribute to it through burning fossil fuels, deforestation, etc. We still need scientists to work on refining our picture of the future, of giving us high water marks with which our legislation and other actions can hope to achieve in time, but we don't need scientists to tell us that it's happening anymore. That ship has sailed.

Environmental legislation of the kind that shakes the foundations of the status quo is a rare beast. The 1990 Clean Air Act Amendments took almost a decade to pass (thanks to the hard work of, guess who, Henry Waxman). Industry is the rock pushing the man (probably a scrawny environmentalist, but for this example, the environment in general) down the hill of 'Business as Usual.' The climate bill is orders of magnitude more difficult to pass than the CAA Amendments were, according to someone I know who worked on them. And we don't have a decade to vacillate between having a bill and not.

Because in a decade, we may be too late. True, we could be too late right now, but I think the people working on this issue care too much to stand by idly and watch the very thing they fought for go down an even more uncertain path. Even if it is a relatively weak bill, it at least lays a framework, a structure, that a truly visionary climate change fighting scheme requires to stand. The alternative is nothing. Nothing to show the world when it gathers in Copenhagen later this year to discuss a worldwide climate treaty. Nothing to show when rising sea levels displace even more people, likely in already vulnerable parts of the world. Nothing to leave as a legacy for the future.

I'm still getting started in this field, just a lowly intern working amongst thousands of other lowly interns in Washington. True, I haven't had a lot of life experience in my 23 years -- I don't know the real world. But I do know that I will continue to fight for climate action because I've been inspired by the people I've met who have almost been drawn to tears when they begin to feel their life's work slipping away, getting watered down. They are setting the bar high -- to them it's not just a job, it's a calling, and I'm not going to abandon them.

M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A, Minnesota, Minnesota, Yeah Gophers!

2009-05-25T21:21:00.000-05:00

So I'll be a Gopher next fall!

Choosing the hometown law school, though it seems a no-brainer now, was a difficult choice. The 'finalists' were: Boston College, CU Boulder, and the University of Washington. For a few weeks, I thought I was headed to Colorado, but Minnesota came a-calling when I was home for my birthday a few weeks ago. I thought at first, as I spoke with the admissions person on the phone while sitting on my couch listening to my favorite Elvis Costello vinyl, that I couldn't possibly choose Minnesota over the other schools; it would be a cop-out, the predictable decision.

I didn't want nostalgia or family or friends or familiarity to get in the way of my law school decision. I wanted to stretch my legs and see what the world had to offer. Boulder, Boston, Seattle, Portland -- these were prime destinations. Each school had their own mix of favorable attributes, too, each different than the other, and difficult to choose between. Minnesota was the boring choice (and not even a choice until they admitted me!); I knew the city, knew people, had roots there, but it didn't seem like a daring choice.

I'm realizing now that what seems like the safe bet is sometimes the right one. While it would be fun to live in another city, law school will be so foreign and stressful, why not be surrounded by familiar things in a familiar city? Plus, I've lived in Bloomington my whole life -- not exactly the most culturally vibrant area, so actually living in Minneapolis city proper will be a new experience without the hassle of moving cross country.

Although the more diplomatic version of me would say that school rankings don't matter, they do to a lot of other people in the legal community. These people not coincidentally will be hiring me in three years, so it would be in my best interest to attend the highest ranked school I could. Minnesota is a perennial top-20 law school according to USNEWS rankings. Despite two other quality schools (and a more mediocre one) within ten miles of UMN, it is undisputedly the best school in the state, and even the Upper Midwest. Employers will look at the school I attended for the rest of my life, why not make sure their eyebrows raise for the right reasons. (For those curious, according to USNEWS rankings, CU Boulder is 45th, UW is 30th, BC is 26th)

Environmental law is undoubtedly my career path and UMN is not known for this discipline, at least not as much as CU Boulder (6th in Env. Law) and Lewis and Clark (2nd) are. They have a wide breadth to their environmental law curriculum that is very appealing. I'd love to go there. But just because they have a lot of opportunities doesn't mean that I could take advantage of all of them. The U has quality environmental law classes, professors, and clinics that I see myself becoming involved in. There are also a few dual degree options in natural resources science and management or public policy where I could earn a masters degree in an extra year to supplement my environmental policy education. But one UMN professor told me that first you must be a good lawyer to be a good environmental lawyer. Minnesota will make me a good lawyer.

So, in late-July, when I pack up my belongings and head home from DC, I'll be staying. I couldn't be happier and more excited for my decision and the new adventure I'm about to embark upon.

Sorry for the long hiatus. I'm back.

2009-05-17T22:09:00.001-05:00

But not so much tonight. I'm tired! But, here's a teaser for my next post.

vs

After I thought that I was Boulder-bound in the fall for law school, I got into the University of Minnesota, the hometown school. So, now the question becomes, do I want mountains or homecooking for the next 3 years... (p.s. don't worry, I'm not planning on living at home)

The Mall of America in Spring

2009-04-05T21:41:00.001-05:00

Today marked the always joyful first day of spring. Not the first day you can plausibly wear less than a jacket or pants, nor the day the first buds appear, nor the vernal equinox - no, today was the first real day you can go outside, feel warm just standing there, and, well, you just get that feeling. This is spring, and it's the best time of year.

Not surprisingly, the city of Washington DC and the cherry blossoms also took note of this auspicious date and decided to create a festival (the former) in the blooming (the latter) blossoms' honor. All around the city, the eternal question gets asked by DC newbies like myself: "That's a pretty flower - are they cherry blossoms?"

My stock answer, what I tell myself anyway, is that yes, they are all cherry trees. Because, what's worse than stopping to admire a pretty tree only to find out it's a crab apple tree or something less exotic? (An aside: since I work for a science advocacy group, I wonder if I should feel bad for this alien species achieving a prominent place in our Nation's capital...Oh well, prettiness overrides a lot in life.) Especially popular are the cherry trees lining the Tidal Basin just to the south of the Mall on the Potomac, a pretty backdrop to the Jefferson Memorial that rests majestically across the water. The trees were apparently a gift from the Mayor of Tokyo in the early 1900's and I guess over the years DC needed a proper spring festival/tourist trap and the National Cherry Blossom Festival was born.

The best part of the festival is the flurry of activity around the Mall and Capitol. Families pose for timeless pictures under large, overhanging cherry trees on the front lawn of the Capitol, the blossoms falling like a sweet pink snow as a parent or Good Samaritan takes the picture. Tour groups on Segways (possibly the most ridiculous invention ever created - just the act of standing on, or even by, a Segway makes you an instant turd. Don't get me started on what strapping on a helmet, adjusting your fanny pack, tucking in your ill-fitting polo shirt, and digging for your clip-ons in said fanny pack (or any combination of these that leads to a tour) and taking a tour on one makes you!!) - sorry for the digression, but anyway, tour groups on Segways collect like iron shards to a magnet around some forgotten speck of DC history only to break away like pods from a seed as they migrate to the next designated spot (single file, mind you).

Pasty guys like myself pull the shorts and sandals out of their dusty box and, upon sporting these summery duds, indirectly cause sunglasses vendors to see a short blip in sales due to the garish hue that shines from our legs and feet (note - I got pretty tan this weekend, so put the sunglasses away...). People who took high school (and college, and grad school, and now work) too seriously now bust out the blue cones and rubber balls and claim to dominate yet another facet of their life in that childhood game of kickball. Games on the Mall are apparently a mainstay of DC summers. Unfortunately, so are the serious folks who play; decked out in sporty sunglasses, matching t-shirts, and gym shorts in an almost too calculatedly 'cool' manner - you know the type. Well, they were there in force!

The best part about walking on the Mall, even better than the smugness that being here more than a month entitles you in your attitude towards tourists (kidding!), is the sight of thousands of people coming together to experience this nation's capital city in its finest, least humid, prettiest time of the year. Even the Segway tourists and kickball macho men are at least outdoors enjoying a beautiful spring day. People on the Mall are either on vacation or taking a break from the working life. And it's different than a local park or other leisurely gathering spot. There are no jungle gyms or lakes to boat around - only an old fashioned carousel spinning endlessly cheerful in the shadow of the Smithsonian Castle. Everyone else is there just to enjoy the spectacle, taking in a good book, relaxing with friends and family, walking hand-in-hand with a date, or, yes, playing kickball. People are there for the Mall and the Mall only, the vast expanse of its green (and dusty yellow) space lets you take in the scope of the area, and the bookends of the Capitol and the Washington Monument, not to mention the literally monumental bordering buildings, never let you forget why you decided to take a walk on our nation's park on a beautiful spring day.

Min Soo-Lee

2009-03-31T08:05:00.000-05:00

[I don't think I've ever written about being a Korean adoptee before. I apologize in advance for the muddle of ideas and feelings undoubtedly inherent in writing about this topic.]

A few years back, a Minnesota Monthly article caught my attention. It was an article about Korean adoptees living in the Upper Midwest - mostly Minnesota (there are more Korean adoptees living in Minnesota than there are lakes). I think it was the first time I really thought hard about the other people living in my situation. Sure I knew other Korean adoptees, and had even become good friends with many, but our bond was mostly due to the fact that we got along, not necessarily because of our relatively unique heritage. The article listed a book, The Language of Blood by Jane Jeong Trenka as an especially poignant account of a Korean adoptee growing up in Minnesota.

I admit to being somewhat ambivalent about tracking down this book. On one hand, I yearned to discover an account of childhood I could really relate to. I wanted to hear the stories whose grasping tentacles of details immediately drew me into an episode of my life. On the other, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to tread down that path, maybe discovering things I didn't want to address or bring to the surface. Really, this subject goes to the core of who I am, what I define myself as, and what others define me as. I love the life I had growing up and the life I'm living now, so why question anything? In the end, I still felt that maybe this book was the thing I was missing, or it could help me find that thing, the thing that could better define for myself who I really was.

It took me two years, but I finally read it.

I'm not sure if I liked it or not. I have to admit, delving into my status as adoptee has never been at the top of my list of things to do. Reading this book (and, um, writing this blog) make me face this reality in my life head on, something I've never been very good at.

It's impossible for me to point to the moment I realized that I was adopted - it feels like I've always known. It's also impossible for me to place a finger on how my life would have been different in Korea. People always ask me that, but to me, it's kind of like asking them how life would've been if they had grown up where their distant ancestors did. "So, Johnny, do you ever think of how your life would have turned out had your ancestors never came over the drink 200 years ago?"

I'm happy with the life I've had in America. I honestly know no other way. But I do know that I've never been treated by anyone in my family as anything but their own flesh and blood. Truthfully, my mom and dad raised me with more love and caring than many of my friends who live with their biological parents. I'm a strong believer that it's nurture, not nature, that carries the load in childhood development.

Still, seemingly innocuous comments cut the sharpest sometimes. It probably comes up most often with people I don't know very well and it's never malicious, but it always makes me want to quickly change the subject. People will make offhand comments about adoptive parents somehow not caring as much for or having some sort of distant or neglectful relationship with their children. That hurts. Or when someone proclaims, usually in some fit of self righteousness, that they're not going to have children - they're going to adopt from some third world country. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for that! But again, the implication is that somehow we needed saving and we should be eternally grateful for our adoptive parents for plucking us out of some sort of hellhole, the life of the orphan who appears nightly on television, picking through garbage as the seagulls circle while the benevolent old white man idly strokes the child's mangy head as he implores the developed world to send "Just a dollar a week."

There's nothing wrong with charity. What is wrong is the notion that a single act, adopting a child, can define an entire life. If he succeeds, then, "Bravo! he would've never done that in his home country." If he fails, then, "Well, at least he's not living in Country XX." Good parents are good parents regardless of whether they gave birth to their children. That's only part of the equation - the initial condition as we say in engineering. But its not by any means the most important. It's how that child is raised and the person he becomes that should be the true test of merit or good parenting.

It's hard to parse out my true feelings or to reflect on the person I've become through the filter of being an adoptee. Would my life be different if I lived in Korea? Of course, but different doesn't imply that it would be worse, it would just be different. Someday I will travel to my motherland in search of my biological family and my lost culture, but my roots are and will always be back at home in Minnesota, and that's where I'll return.

U Dub

2009-03-30T07:12:00.000-05:00

As if my chronic indecision (that's indecision not indigestion, thank you) wasn't bad enough wrt law schools, I got into the University of Washington (U Dub colloquially) on Thursday. It may well be my top choice now - just take a look at the campus! I can really imagine spending 3 years (or more) in Seattle, it seems like my kind of city. I'm still going to visit Boulder, CO and Boston, MA in a few weeks - I don't want to not take the chance to visit these great schools; but I am really leaning towards UW right now. A few reasons why:
1. People always tell you to go to the best school you get in to. While "best" is at "best" a subjective measure, I can say pretty definitely that U Dub is the best school in the Pacific Northwest. This is important for jobs.
2. It's got a very good environmental law curriculum. It even has a masters of law in international sustainable development. While it may not have a singularly excellent environmental law program like its neighbor to the south, Lewis and Clark, the overall quality of the law program far outweighs this slight drawback.
3. It's at a big university on a big, beautiful, vibrant campus. I didn't get that at Michigan Tech and I'd like to experience some Pac-10 sports before this is over - Go Huskies! (At least I don't have to stop rooting for the Huskies - MTU Huskies, UW Huskies, what's the difference?)
4. UW has a masters in public administration that you can complete, along with the JD, in 4 years. This would be good for a potential legislative aide like me.
5. Finally, it's all about my gut. I'll have to visit again to make sure, but my gut is telling me, U Dub.

Dreams about Baseball

2009-03-07T11:08:00.000-06:00

I keep dreaming about baseball. Ever since I stopped playing, I've dreamed about it maybe once, twice a week. It's not, I don't think, because I necessarily miss it, although I do on some level, but it's more than that. In my dreams, I'm never actually playing; my former teammates are always present and always playing, but I'm usually on the bench, on deck, or waiting to get in when the action happens.

Take the latest dream. I'm playing on a team with my old Bloomington teammates - Robert Leath, Mikey Skahen, Pat Finley, Paul Zipoy - and we're down 2-3 going into the late innings. I had been pitching, although I don't dream that part; I dream the part where coach takes me out, telling me he wants to rest my arm. Anyway, I'm slated to pitch again if the game goes into extra innings. I do, however, retain the spot in the batting order and in the bottom half of the last inning, I'm in the hole. There's always a fear in my dreams that I won't be able to find my batting gloves or my helmet, or that I'll miss my turn up to bat. Well, I do find everything I need this time and walk up to the dugout fence to watch Robert take his cuts. I'm still trying to decide whether I want to use the 31" or the 32" aluminum bat. I think I decide on the shorter one to quicken my swing and give me a better chance at making contact. Leath has grown up since I last played with him in real life - no longer is he the skinny, fast 13 year old. He now is a menacing presence at the plate. First pitch, he hits a looping liner that lands just foul across the right field foul line. He jogs back to the batters box and digs in for the next offering - you know he wants more than a looping line drive. Next pitch, he takes a belt-high fastball and rockets it over the fence. It's one of those balls where you don't even have to watch it leave the park - you know, based on the sound and the trajectory, where it's final destination is. There are two men on and we win the game. For some reason, a fan throws the ball back on the field and Robert picks it up as he rounds the bases. I go out and celebrate, secretly relieved I don't have to have a meaningful at bat. Then I wake up.

Rarely in my baseball dreams do I actually take that critical at bat or throw that critical pitch when the game is on the line. I'm always filled with the familiar feeling from my baseball days - not quite fear, but something deeper that causes me to secretly root for a quick ending to the game. Maybe I knew deep down what John Updike so elegantly stated, that in baseball, there is a tissue-thin difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill. Maybe I was afraid to fail, or afraid to take the chance.

I don't think I'm still afraid to fail, but my baseball dreams serve as reminder that I once was. A coach once said that I was the best batting practice hitter he'd ever seen. A compliment and a dig all in one. Fooling around in practice taking my swings or playing catch before games are my fondest memories. I loved the camaraderie and the tradition of baseball, but never the test of the game. I want to be sure that going forward, though I may never play a competitive game of ball ever again, I remember that preparation and skill only take you so far in life. Sometimes, to make your mark, you have to be ready to step up to the plate when it counts.