tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37027608883281113432024-03-14T06:41:28.316-05:00Cheapo NewsletterI invented blogging. These "postings"/articles ran from June 1992 until August 2006.
Of course the originals were published back in the days when publishing meant on pieces of paper not on computer screens.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.comBlogger771125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-86472601625729863392021-12-04T22:25:00.028-06:002021-12-04T23:57:10.560-06:00The Long and Winding Road<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have very many happy memories from junior and senior high school. I’m not sure how I would have survived had I not discovered this little group called the Beatles. My obsession with their music was one of the few things my classmates really knew about me. We were on a high school band trip to Hibbing High School (Taj Mahal) years before that high school’s most famous alumni forever changed my life. We were doing a shared concert with the Hibbing High School band and were in the ornate cavernous auditorium waiting for the home band members to join us. There was a piano at the edge of the stage so I meandered over, sat down and began to play the chords of ‘Let it Be.’ I found myself leading my band mates in an impromptu version of the song. Afterward a couple of my friends said that was one of the most amazing things they’d experienced. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">What my classmates didn’t know was almost every morning as I prepared to go to school during my final year of public education, I listened to a tape recording of the movie ‘Let it Be’ on my Sony Walkman that I hand recorded from the VHS copy I made from a Betamax rental of the movie. It’s such a sad movie, documenting the breakup of the group. Paul was the only one showing any enthusiasm or desire to be in the band anymore. John mostly looked sad with Yoko by his side. And George and Ringo barely said a word, seemingly only there because they were supposed to be there, not because they wanted to be. And that summed up how I felt about my last year in high school. I just wanted it over with so I could get on with whatever was next, the rest of my life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The movie begins with Paul playing piano, Ringo by his side. He’s playing a classical sounding piece that may or may not be a McCartney original. I loved the melody, so melancholy and longing. There’s an abrupt cut to John howling the vocals to ‘Don’t Let Me Down’ so raw and powerfully, My favorite moment in the movie, aside from the joyous closing roof top concert that the London cops shut down for creating a public disturbance, was right before the concert, with the band still in the studio and Paul sings “The Long and Winding Road.” It’s a different version from the released version, minus the Phil Spector over the top strings and angelic choir. And there’s a single word change that stands one of my favorite Paul songs on its head… the movie version changes the released version from “anyway you’ve never known the many ways I’ve tried” to “anyway you’ve always known the many ways I’ve tried.” This subtle change makes the song less sad. If the person the singer is singing to has ‘always’ known the many ways he’s tried and still has abandoned him it means she’s less likely to take him back than if she’s ‘never’ known and can be better made to understand the singer’s efforts. I’m not surprised Paul ultimately made the choice he made but I wish John would have talked him out of it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The high school me read in one of the many Beatles books I read that during the ‘Let it Be’ sessions they sang over a hundred songs, some originals, some covers. The author of the book joked if only K-tel could have gotten the rights to the songs, a joke that only those of us very old will laugh at. I bought some bootlegs from the sessions when I was in college and the Beatles’ released outtakes over the years. But high school me could have never imagined that a new movie, Peter Jackson’s ‘Get Back’ would one day be made, eight hours out of sixty plus hours of what was recorded but mostly not included in Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s 1970 film. The one I listened over and over to and still love. And imagine if high school me would be told he’d watch the new movie streamed online on his iPad after plopping $7.00 down for a Disney+ subscription. How is any of this possible?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The purpose of the new movie seems to be to show the original was a bit misleading. Yes, the band was clearly breaking up but what had made them so special in the first place was the whole worked because the pieces fit so well together bringing out the best in each other. The best part of seeing the ‘new’ footage is to be reminded how frickin witty and funny John Lennon was. He seems much more alive in ‘Get Back’ than ‘Let it Be.’ My other favorite part is hearing early versions of songs that ultimately appeared on solo records, John’s ‘Gimme Some Truth,’ ‘Jealous Guy,” Paul’s ‘Teddy Boy’ and in particular, George’s ‘All Things Must Pass” a song contradicting the message of Paul’s ‘Get Back.’</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Did we really need ‘new’ Beatles material in 2021 fifty one years after the footage was recorded? Probably not. Is eight hours of seeing rehearsals and incomplete conversations meant for anyone who isn’t a Beatles’s fan? Nope. But the power of ‘Get Back’ is an illuminating look into the creative process. Seeing a great band, four friends who went on a magical mystery tour together, develop germs of song ideas into something wonderful and meaningful is absolutely mesmerizing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some of the scenes in ‘Get Back’ appeared in ‘Let it Be’ but in a much different context. The conversations are longer and given broader meaning. This slight change was meaningful to me. Looking back at junior and senior high school and how miserable I was given a lifetime of other experience that gives better understanding and meaning to all that came before, I can now say it wasn’t as bad as I remember. I had good friendships and I was able at times to be myself with others accepting and wanting more of that. I wouldn’t be where I am today had everything that happened then hadn’t happened. Kind of like an earlier John song which apparently they sang during the ‘Let it Be’ sessions that sadly isn’t included in ‘Get Back.’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are places I'll remember<br />All my life though some have changed<br />Some forever, not for better<br />Some have gone and some remain<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">All these places have their moments<br />With lovers and friends I still can recall<br />Some are dead and some are living<br />In my life I've loved them all<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">But of all these friends and lovers<br />There is no one compares with you<br />And these memories lose their meaning<br />When I think of love as something new<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Though I know I'll never lose affection<br />For people and things that went before<br />I know I'll often stop and think about them<br />In my life I love you more<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Though I know I'll never lose affection<br />For people and things that went before<br />I know I'll often stop and think about them<br />In my life I love you more<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span>In my life I love you more</span></i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #484d53;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-47708020072042901552021-03-17T22:23:00.009-05:002021-03-18T20:59:53.109-05:00Kung Flu<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVReR3NerToi7JamWrjWgMT_CVf68kaaPO3bayBDtlvPcVlJUVDyX3Ckz5a4nt25sKfbozdwm2q_k07o8JZ_CYrP8kaaoSvLbap7Jat84075xqnJNw3KuvtcxjDWb48IKQZE4DISw3YE/s2048/26318EAF-E565-4B04-9FEE-C4F5F6AFB5C4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVReR3NerToi7JamWrjWgMT_CVf68kaaPO3bayBDtlvPcVlJUVDyX3Ckz5a4nt25sKfbozdwm2q_k07o8JZ_CYrP8kaaoSvLbap7Jat84075xqnJNw3KuvtcxjDWb48IKQZE4DISw3YE/w400-h300/26318EAF-E565-4B04-9FEE-C4F5F6AFB5C4.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br />Before we get to our agenda, I’m going to do something I’ve never done as the chair of this board. I’m going to use a point of personal privilege to make a few comments about the events that happened in Georgia this week. Because the events were the culmination of the growing violence against members of our communities. I attended an event hosted by CAAL last week about the fear that growing violence has created throughout the communities we are tasked with speaking for. The fear that exists thoroughly depressed me.</span><div><br /><div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I grew up in Roseville, MN, at the time, a very white Twin Cities suburb. There was one other student of color in my kindergarten class, Sally Murakami, also Japanese American. Growing up through the years, all of our classmates assumed Sally and I would become girlfriend/boyfriend and get married. I liked Sally but had no interest as a kid, in marrying her and resented how our classmates assumed the two of us had a mutual connection just because we looked similar and different at the same time. I’m sure Sally felt the same.</div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">The first time I realized I was a different race from my classmates came when Tommy Hanson teased me about my yellow face. I thought he was referring to how earlier, my brother and I were messing around with my sisters’ makeup, and I must have not washed some of it off my face. I didn’t know what Tommy was teasing me about until he kept teasing me and my Mom gave me my first lesson about racism and a common slur against Asians is having yellow skin.</div><div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Over the years through my K-12 experience there were a few other slurs directed at me and some painful micro aggressions directed my way but most have fallen out of my memory, whether deeply suppressed or because they didn’t register enough in my mind to remember.<span style="font-size: inherit;"> I do remember in college working my part time job at Kmart during a time when the American auto industry was struggling given the growing popularity of Japanese cars when a middle age white woman walked by holding up a package of men’s underwear and said to me, “American made.” Her choosing to use underwear to demonstrate her point made me chuckle, but the hatred in the tone of her voice pierced me to my soul. This was probably the most defining moment of my understanding the extent of how hatred is embedded in racism. There is no separation between the two, they are intricately intertwined in an insidious way.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">We all have just endured an existentially life altering year. The turn of the page to 2021 hasn’t exactly gone much better starting with the racially charged January 6 insurrection against our democracy, to what happened this week in Georgia. I’m sure our council will step into a necessary leadership role. Sia helped us take a baby step forward with her statement yesterday. All of us community board members have been appointed because we are seen as leaders within the communities we represent. I would love to talk with each of you individually about your thoughts about how we as the council can best lead those we speak for in state government, out of the fear of violence, physical, verbal, emotional... Because I personally am really struggling with knowing what to do next. It’s exhausting to live in this space.</span></div></div>Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-39233458927228271712020-09-26T22:55:00.012-05:002021-03-20T23:27:19.233-05:002020 Hindsight<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDr9b0VNgld4gaRZDYp5LqklQc2PB-3SFvEV3uwo_orDwAragXGPoF8-4qY6ZbJ0RmHrbtkgHpRFtyPwJxvCq3a_Zig8JImatssWQLWUmyXmMn5G5C4H7-PQUHVJPUQEsnNoAQISE5LM/s2048/8B663B43-66BA-489B-A1A8-2DCEDA0C7B09.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDr9b0VNgld4gaRZDYp5LqklQc2PB-3SFvEV3uwo_orDwAragXGPoF8-4qY6ZbJ0RmHrbtkgHpRFtyPwJxvCq3a_Zig8JImatssWQLWUmyXmMn5G5C4H7-PQUHVJPUQEsnNoAQISE5LM/w200-h150/8B663B43-66BA-489B-A1A8-2DCEDA0C7B09.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p>“<i>They tell me everything’s gonna be alright, but I don’t know what alright even means...”</i></p><p>For 11 years I scooted every scootable day from April through October from my house to the Minnetonka City Hall, a 42 mile round trip. Near the Lake Street Bridge where Marshall Avenue in St. Paul becomes Lake Street in Minneapolis, there’s a building that houses an eye clinic and a psychology clinic. Every time I scooted by the building I thought to myself there’s a joke in there somewhere- how it was a one stop shop for those with a variety of vision problems (eyes and long and short term). </p><p>At the beginning, perhaps the thing I missed most when I switched jobs was that long daily scoot. The scoot to my new job is less than five miles. Now I’m missing a world where I could safely leave my house, where everyday didn’t feel like the world is coming apart at the seams and the dread that seems around every corner.</p><p>2020 was always going to be difficult because for the first time in my time in elections there was going to be three statewide elections with the addition of the Presidential Nomination Primary (PNP) in March. I know there was a lot of angst amongst election officials throughout the state about running another election during a presidential election year, one which for the first time, the voter would need to disclose their political party in order to get a ballot. I spent much of the fall of 2019 traveling to all corners of the state speaking with county, city and township election administrators. </p><p>The PNP went surprisingly smoothly statewide. Internally we made a horrible mistake directing voters for a short period of time to a partisan website when our poll finder application was having issues. Perhaps that was a harbinger for what was to follow. The state canvassing board certified the PNP results in mid-March. A few weeks later the pandemic caused everyone who could to work from home. There were horrible scenes of emergency rooms overflowing from people dying, trying to gasp for their last breath. The numbers were staggering. A friend joked that I should be good to go because I’d been practicing social distancing and isolation my entire life.</p><p>Then the Minneapolis police killed George Floyd by kneeling on his neck. This led to protests which led to riots and looting as parts of Minneapolis and St. Paul burned down. My scooter route down Lake Street was the epicenter of the worst damage. I sat there watching the news coverage as our city burned with anger and fire. </p><p>A small group of us returned back to the office wearing face masks during the two week candidate filing period for the fall’s elections. One day, we were told by Capitol Security to evacuate the building and go home because a mob of looters was in the area and our safety was potentially in harms way. When the filing period was over we all returned to working from home. </p><p>Over time Diego-San, Theo and I figured out a workable rhythm to this new normal of me being home all the time. Diego-San was particularly skilled at doing everything he could to get me away from working on my laptop so he could sit on my lap. He’d sit on my computer’s mouse, or my hand trying to use the mouse or sit right in front of my laptop. He made appearance in most of my online meetings and made himself heard during phone calls.</p><p>And then he died. Just when it seemed 2020 couldn’t get any worse, it did. The days after I fell into a catatonic state. It was all too much. The only thing I could to do to distract my mind and my heart was try to remember all the baseball players I’ve seen play. Who was on the 1973 St. Louis Cardinals? Who was in the 1984 Detroit Tigers bullpen? Who was the third baseman for the 1995 Minnesota Twin? That and imagining the comfort of Marisa’s touch. And there have been days since where I returned to that overwhelming state. The world also became a profoundly sadder place losing two giants of the civil rights movement, John Lewis and Ruth Bader Ginsberg not to mention the over 200,000 Americans who have died from COVID19. The anger in the country and the divide seem insurmountable at this point. What’s next?</p><p>I’ve made it a point the past month to take a ride on my scooter to get out of the house. The rides usually take me back to the neighborhood I grew up in, the streets I used to ride my bike during summer days growing up. This wasn’t a conscious decision, I just needed to ride my scooter somewhere. But I can’t help but wonder somewhere in my subconscious I wasn’t looking for a way to get back home again, back to a time when the primary thing on my mind was love and how my whole life and the whole wide world seemed in front of me.</p><p>“<i>Once there was a way to get back home again. Once there was a way to get back home, sleep pretty darling do not cry. And I’ll sing you a lullaby...”</i></p><p>Theo misses his feline housemate(s). He cries out a meow every time I pass nearby. We both wonder what’s next and where we go from here.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrB8YgdWBErmN7fQILsFI8p30Loc0RJqdi71V4H-AQ-7ozJpY2xfpkWiIc6Ub4nrQqbK4TiGmbH5HMSL0Wp7qiWWAZ7qV1G6ZkDA1v9r8iMxmYsPAs6pJ41hFGFAmxy7Qkc60aFQB3_rQ/s1773/8BD0669B-ECBB-469A-80DE-7520E0F751A6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1773" data-original-width="1773" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrB8YgdWBErmN7fQILsFI8p30Loc0RJqdi71V4H-AQ-7ozJpY2xfpkWiIc6Ub4nrQqbK4TiGmbH5HMSL0Wp7qiWWAZ7qV1G6ZkDA1v9r8iMxmYsPAs6pJ41hFGFAmxy7Qkc60aFQB3_rQ/s320/8BD0669B-ECBB-469A-80DE-7520E0F751A6.jpeg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-10822664274906313662020-07-20T21:03:00.003-05:002020-09-26T22:53:35.770-05:00Still Have Our Chopin<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">There was a time, in a shared dream both of us knew, nothing was as it seemed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Telling good from bad, By wearing a mask Blowing up buildings, Built in the past<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dystopian curfew, Stay home in bed Her ambient music, Stuck in my head<o:p></o:p></div>
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Prisoner Evey, In a museum room Cry me a river, The jukebox tune<o:p></o:p></div>
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She reappeared, from out of the blue asking for money, so nothing that new<o:p></o:p></div>
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Black cats and music, apocalypse edge paid day at the beach, life on a ledge<o:p></o:p></div>
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Trying to live without a muse <o:p></o:p></div>
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Feelings are gone even the blues<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wondering how when became then<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still we’ll always have our Chopin<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know her, Doesn’t know me social distancing, None of us free<o:p></o:p></div>
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Conspiracy babe, Guy Fawkes day A shaved head, heart turned to clay<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s a film noir, Bogie and Astor All things wrong, shadows hit the floor<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tube train car, Explosives loaded tearing down statues, history exploded<o:p></o:p></div>
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Masks separate, True self from the rest Taking it off, Inspired and blessed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mob in the street, do the right thing Her extremist rant, Isn’t how she sings<o:p></o:p></div>
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Poetic in a non lyrical way<o:p></o:p></div>
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just hoping for another day<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wondering how when became then<o:p></o:p></div>
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still we’ll always have our Chopin<o:p></o:p></div>
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Trying to kill us fauchi and gates fascist interference with our fate<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background-color: yellow; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">I</span>nvisible killer, Life came to a halt Ignoring science, Who is at fault<o:p></o:p></div>
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Playing the right notes, At the right time Learning silence, Can sound sublime<o:p></o:p></div>
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Burned down my route, memory refined Chaos ensued, Two of a kind<o:p></o:p></div>
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V for vendetta, Natalie revealed Society crumbles, Our fate is sealed<o:p></o:p></div>
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A movie date, Losing connection Sitting in my room, Worthy of a mention<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the age of social media, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Not like reading an encyclopedia <o:p></o:p></div>
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Wondering how when became then<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still we’ll always have our Chopin <o:p></o:p></div>
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Three steps forward four steps back, looking for peaceful not crazy and what I lack<o:p></o:p></div>
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With me or against me, forever don’t know for that reason, I know i must go<o:p></o:p></div>
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Burning down my house, In a toaster fire Not knowing what to think, Nothings required<o:p></o:p></div>
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Baldy and pee boy, Extending their claws A brand new world, With much different laws<o:p></o:p></div>
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Licking a lollipop, Sharing ice cream Too much of nothing, Nightmare dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
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In isolation the poet appears Bringing meaning to meaningless fears <o:p></o:p></div>
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burning books, memories rearranged<o:p></o:p></div>
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what we knew now is forever changed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wondering how when became then<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still we’ll always have Chopin<o:p></o:p></div>
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Taking it all in pieces rearranged<o:p></o:p></div>
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What happened somehow changed <o:p></o:p></div>
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What i will forever feel about then<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still we’ll always have our Chopin<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-5895833647290914062020-06-22T21:11:00.001-05:002020-06-22T21:15:28.158-05:00Intriguing Maladies and Mysterious AfflictionsI never started off trying to write a novel. Instead I felt I might be at the end of my rope and I knew I had never come close to writing my masterpiece. Still, in my 25 years I had written some things I thought were good. Good not in they were masterful words magically arranged on a page that would change the world. Good for me at the time was having been able to write something that accurately captured the mixture of feelings and thoughts that something, somebody somewhere had inspired me to feel the need to figure things out on paper.<br />
<br />
Once I began compiling my favorite examples of my writing I noted there was a pattern to what I considered samples of my best: that all the writing was about how hope was the sum between love and inspiration. And that elusive combination was the most powerful elixir. Finding the moments, memories and dreams that were powerful and unique that I bothered enough and inspired enough to come home and write about. I didn’t understand the inspiration, why a particular person or event was so meaningful not only to figure out what it meant, but to express how it changed me. The common connection was feeling love. I was falling in love with someone; I loved a song, a movie, a book... And what did this connection between inspiration and love leave me feeling? Hope. Hope that I was headed to something better. Hope that someone would be there with me. A shared experience that I felt compelled to share.<br />
<br />
In collecting my writing together in one place I noticed recurring themes of inspiration, love and hope that ran throughout my favorite pieces. I wanted to write the connection between them and it occurred to me I could tie them all together in a novel. That revelation was huge, More enlightening than the most powerful anti-depressants. Realizing the line that separated reality and embellishment was razor thin. By turning nonfiction into fiction, I had the right to express other people’s feelings and thoughts about particular events about me (the protagonist). I could take whatever creative license I wanted to tell the story I wanted to tell.<br />
<br />
What story did I choose to tell? How one character (me, on my better days) was watching another character (me in my reality) disintegrate and it equally horrified the witness and disgusted him. He chronicled the wasting of one more talented into a cesspool of self pity and depression. It kinda was like a poor second cousin rewrite of ‘Amadeus.’<br />
<br />
For the past several years I’ve been writing a shared memoir with Marisa. The idea was to write about events that made us who we are individually, how we met, and how we’ve connected despite two completely different life stories. The challenge has always been feeling adequate telling her story because I can imagine but I can’t know how a particular event left her feeling. And her life story towers over mine in the drama and pain.<br />
<br />
I’ve thought about overcoming these obstacles by turning to the tried and true- turning it into a novel. A piece of fiction. I’ve also thought about turning it into a self help book: here’s what we did, you want to avoid doing the same things at all costs. Lately, I’ve noticed a connecting theme in our shared story is that life doesn’t have a master plan no matter what we were told as kids. Life is a series of forks in the road and you make the best decision you can based on past experience, best guess, best intuition, and how much you trust your decision making at the moment.<br />
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It’s not exactly a tale full of love and inspiration. There is a scent of hope that what we’ve shared the past seven years has been life changing for both of us because we were able to share it together. It’s our cubby hole moment.<br />
<br />
“<i>Sometimes it's not enough to know the meaning of things, sometimes we have to know what things don't mean as well.”</i><br />
<br />
Mr. Cameron, my high school creative writing class teacher, once asked how I was doing. I said I was doing OK. He said that was too bad because great writing comes from times in our lives when we are struggling.<br />
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In the early days of Cheapo, in the wake of the free fall, there was a day I was taking my lunch in the cubby hole built to show kids videos while the parents shopped and dropped their hard earned cash. I was joined by the newest employee, the girl with a limp from a skiing accident who I already had a huge crush on. Stephanie Jane was hired during my hospitalization. She technically might have replaced me during my indefinite leave. I knew she knew I was sad. So as I ate my PBJ and she ate a salad she probed a little, not too far, not too personal. I revealed I was haunted. That my memories turned to demons. I didn’t tell her the doctors suggested treatment was electroshock that they said would probably help with the only side effect being short term memory loss. That tempted me if only for a few moments.<br />
<br />
Stephanie Jane then said the thing that will resonate more than anything else anyone else in my entire life has ever said to me: “Then we’ll just have to make new ones to replace the old.” And we eventually did leading to a cross country trip that was the basis for being able to write a novel. But maybe the cure ended up being worse than the disease, winning the battle only to lose the war.<br />
<br />
All this led to my first paid writing gig, the Cheapo Newsletter’s editor. The opportunity was a gift given to me toward the beginning of Bob Dylan’s self denied ‘Never Ending Tour.’ But the spirit of that tour inspired me. Bob was playing gigs nearly every night in smallish venues throughout the world. The setlist changed every night, the arrangements of the songs were fluid. And that was what inspired my Cheapo newsletter columns. If I wanted to be a writer I needed to put my depression, my past, my angst, my baggage behind me. I just needed to take advantage of this incredible oppportunity to do the thing I love doing best, create and express myself and then share it through my writing. Just write no matter how wrong.<br />
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The new memories Stephanie Jane promised were meant to inspire me to reconnect with my muse, the thing that balanced me: my writing. I suffered long and hard once that muse disappeared. Hope, the bridge between love and inspiration burned down. Eventually I gave up believing in the myth Mr. Cameron’s lesson. Being a writer didn’t mean being tortured. Being a writer simply meant writing, being willing to share my writing warts and all, and being strong enough to accept the consequences.<br />
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They always say fill a room full of monkeys at typewriters and they could produce something Shakespearean. Give me a weekly writing gig for 14 years and once in a blue moon the self conscious filters let my muse express something true, authentic, that somehow manage to straddle the line between intimately personal and universally relatable.<br />
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The raw intensity of love inspires me to write something that came out of nowhere, that almost felt like it wrote itself and I just needed to get out of my way. Rereading my Cheapo newsletter columns the best are the ones that were inspired by things like Mr. Max enjoying green beans fresh out of the garden, attending Bob Dylan concerts and Sandra Bullock movies.<br />
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The lesson I’ve learned in trying to write a memoir is that the older you get you learn new memories don’t replace the old ones. They can add to them or enhance them or make you feel said because they don’t have the same meaning and power. Memories are like waves; they move forward and splash back and in the middle they intertwine. Watching my Dad die from Alzheimer’s/Dementia, it was heartbreaking and illuminating that in the end he could remember things that happened 50 years ago better than he could something that happened five minutes before. It was like the moments that were worth remembering, that initially ingrained themselves so powerfully retained their power or at least because he had remembered them so strongly for 50 years he remembered them until the very end.<br />
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Recently, I woke up around 1:30 a.m. and couldn’t fall back to sleep, a lifelong affliction. So I went down to the living room to try and fall asleep on the couch. It dawned on me how many years of accumulated stuff I have. The love seat is Katie’s, her first splurge purchase after finding a new life. The couch is from Niki, Jenny Engh’s former administrative assistant. The piano is from my sister Donna. The coffee table was a gift from us kids to mom and dad on a wedding anniversary. The rug was a housewarming gift from mom and dad. The drapes are from Amy. The TV was the one Pistol Pete and I bought (Stephanie helped move it from Linwood to Raymond). The receiver attached to the TV is the first stereo I got, the one I got in junior high and used to do my imaginary WQSR programming on. I’m made of the memories that the stuff represents.<br />
<br />
But what the wave has taught me as I bob back and forth from that day in the cubby hole with Stephanie is a lesson that’s taken me 30 years to learn: that creating new memories and moving forward and not being haunted is a definite must. But it’s that shared singular moment, a true moment of kindness and hope, and sharing it with someone living in the moment, that’s equally important. Be here now.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-58435395891957180882020-06-19T22:12:00.001-05:002020-06-22T21:44:27.135-05:00Down in the GrooveBack in the old days, when I used to walk through snowdrifts up to my hips wearing nothing but bandaids on my toes, there was a ritual known as new release record day. Record companies released the major new releases on Tuesdays. The record store that employed me stayed open past midnight on Mondays just to be the first place in town that people could buy the album they were dying to hear. The last new release I remember buying ‘round midnight was <a href="https://cheaporecord.blogspot.com/1997/10/nothing-to-lose.html">Bob Dylan’s ‘Time Out of Mind’ </a>back in 1997.<br />
<br />
These memories came rolling back the past few weeks with the out of nowhere news that Dylan’s first album of new songs in eight years, ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways,’ was about to be released. True to his most Boblike behavior, Dylan had surprised his fans by releasing three songs during the pandemic at midnight on random days with no warning no hype. The timing, with the stay at home to stay safe from a deadly virus apocalypse upon us, couldn’t have been better for those of us who have learned to view the world through the lens of Dylan’s many many many great songs. The three new songs didn’t disappoint (particularly ‘I Contain Multitudes’). They were stream of conscious yet deliberate songs that I can’t think of another songwriter being capable of writing, full of jarring juxtapositions and references to artists and songs and history from all over the place. And all of it seemed intuitively relevant in this strange new world of 2020.<br />
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In 2020, it’s no longer necessary to depend on your neighborhood record store staying open past midnight in order to hear a new release when it’s released. The semi-Luddites like me can now download it from multiple music services, and the kids can listen from streaming music services. I bought the iTunes pre-order and actually stayed up past midnight on release day to see that it was now available on my iPhone. I decided I wouldn’t stay up and listen, having a lot of work to do in the morning.<br />
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I got up early to hear what Bob had to say. Like 1997’s ‘Time Out of Mind’ all the people who had heard the new work prior to its release had written over the top positive things. The general consensus seemed to be it was unlike anything Bob had done in the past, yet it was connected to everything he has done in his career and could sit proudly next to his greatest works.<br />
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I went down to the kitchen to put on my pot of coffee and feed the boyz. I paired my iPad with the Bluetooth speakers in my kitchen. I pressed play and the opening track, ‘I Contain Multitudes,’ began to play. And then it stopped. I did some pigeon I/T work and noticed the Bluetooth pairing was no longer in place. So I ineffectively tried everything I could think of to re-establish the connection. I unplugged the speakers and tried again. Nothing. I restarted my iPad and when I opened iTunes my library was gone and I had to reload it. Seemed like someone (probably Russian hackers) didn’t want me to hear whatever Bob had to say. I remembered the days when listening to music meant dropping a needle into the grooves of a slab of vinyl. Things were so much simpler then.<br />
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So does ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ live up to the hype, the buzz? Strangely the two LPs it most reminds me of are ‘Time Out of Mind’ and ‘Blonde on Blonde,’ which really are very different LPs. The sparse arrangements echo ‘Time Out of Mind’ and the bluesy songs with playful and complex lyrics hark back to ‘Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat,’ and ‘Stuck Inside a Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again,’ not to mention ‘Blonde on Blonde’ era outtakes like ‘She’s Your Lover Now,’ and ‘I’m Not There.’<br />
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The 10 songs on ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ contain connected themes referencing pop culture from the beginning of time yet applying name drops and inscrutable couplets to the contemporary world of a country coming apart at the seams. A friend called the lyric writing method “intertextual.” That’s perfect. Some have likened the lyrics as a continuation of Bob’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech where he referenced Moby Dick and Lou Reed and everything inbetween that had inspired him.<br />
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Early favorites are ‘I Contain Multitudes,’ (“I play Beethoven’s sonatas and Chopin’s preludes, I contain multitudes...”); ‘My Own Version of You,’ that sees the singer collecting body parts like Dr. Frankenstein to build his soulmate. It’s probably the darkest yet funniest song he’s ever written; and ‘Mother of Muses,’ which hit me personally as I’ve been thinking a lot, during the social distancing I invented throughout my life, about what the connection is between the handful of muses I’ve met in my life. “<i>I'm falling in love with Calliope/She don't belong to anyone, why not give her to me?/She's speaking to me, speaking with her eyes/I've grown so tired of chasing lies/Mother of Muses, wherever you are/I've already outlived my life by far...</i>”<br />
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Perhaps my favorite Dylan album (depending on my mood) is 1978’s ‘Street Legal’ that is Bob at his most confused. ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ is Bob at his most assured. There is a swagger, a deliberate obtuseness mixed with startling insight. He ain’t no false prophet (yet the timing of the release is another example of his observational finger on the world’s pulse similar to releasing ‘Love and Theft’ on September 11, 2001). The ten new songs prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he has always contained multitudes.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-2677625826404194452019-10-24T23:56:00.002-05:002020-09-26T23:04:00.097-05:00Oh BrotherMankato was my 49th Bob Dylan show. If that seems like an impressive number, the woman who sat next to me, who had to be at least 20 years younger than me, and saw her first Dylan show in 1996 (mine was a decade earlier) was attending her 55th show. She overheard me talking to the guys next to me on the other side answering the question what is my favorite Dylan album? “Street Legal” which is the most effective documenting of a nervous breakdown ever. The young woman chimed in it also was her favorite Dylan LP. She fell in love with Bob’s music after hearing “Changing of the Guard” on his Greatest Hits Vol. 3 LP. I just about proposed to her on the spot.<br />
<br />
After the show I got on my hotel’s elevator with a guy I’m guessing was a bit older than me. I asked if he had been at the concert. He said he had. I asked him how many times he had seen Bob. “Over 200...” He flew in from Germany for this leg of the current tour.<br />
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What is it about Dylan that creates/causes such devotion among so many? For me, the answer my friend, was my favorite moment in the concert, his performance of “Lenny Bruce.” Prior to this tour, the song hadn’t been performed in over a dozen years. After the first few songs, the woman next to me whispered to me that the setlist was different than the past few shows. I gave her a thumbs up and said, “I really hope he still does ‘Lenny Bruce.” She smiled. And so when he strummed the opening chords on his upright piano, she touched my arm in a shared understanding.<br />
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“Lenny Bruce” is not a great Dylan song. It appeared on what’s probably my second favorite Dylan LP, “Shot of Love” the last of his born again trilogy. He performed the song during his 1986 tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers acting as his backing band. He performed it at my first Bob show at the HHH Metrodome and I remember I smiled throughout. The impetus behind the song is seemingly obvious; both are Jewish performers who pushed the envelopes of their genres. The line that currently kills me is “he was the brother that you never had...” What does Bob’s brother David think of that line? What would my brother Bruce think if he heard me sing that line with heartfelt conviction? (I once sang Bob’s “Congratulations” to my soulmate Stephanie Jane, “Congratulations for breaking heart... Congratulations for tearing me all apart...” and Stephanie Jane told me not to sing with so much conviction.)<br />
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The Mankato show, this leg of the never ending tour (a label Bob once bristled at, the false naming of his impressive touring, all things end... over the past 30+ years) could be dubbed his “Time Out of Mind” tour. “Time Out of Mind” was released in 1997 and was considered a comeback at the time, a startlingly clear document of death, depression, blues, and insight after years of seemingly lost efforts. He performed four songs from that LP and all were stellar.<br />
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I automatically dismiss any best of Bob songlist that dosen’t contain any song from “Time Out of Mind” because there are so many brilliant to chose from. If I had to choose what to include on his greatest song list I would choose “Tryin to Get to Heaven (Before they Close the Door)” and “Not Dark Yet.” Both Mankato performances were really terrific. The arrangements were offbeat and strangely effective. Turning the recorded versions inside out and leaving me as a witness feeling outside in. Both songs absolutely moved me beyond my current struggles into a better place. And that’s exactly the reason attending a Dylan show has for me consistently has been a transformative experience.<br />
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Another definitive highlight was “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” I long considered this a minor song in the vast Dylan catalog but he’s been performing it on a regular basis the past few years. And it has so many great lines: “Train wheels are running through the back of my memory/When I ran on the hilltop following a pack of wild geese/Someday everything is gonna sound like a rhapsody...” and “Newspaper men eating candy/Had to be held down by big police/But someday every thing's gonna be different/When I paint that masterpiece...”<br />
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In my current visit into the abyss, “When I Paint My Masterpiece” has become my theme song. I’ve been thinking a lot about my legacy, both my professional career, and my lifelong need to write something life changing. For any of you out there who has ever has, or currently is, wondering how you’ll leave your mark in this world, I invite you to attend my next session with my latest therapist because I’d love to share thoughts.<br />
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At 78 years old, who knows how much longer Bob is willing to give to us, his fans? There’s a credible rumor he is going to cutback on his touring. Will I be able to see him for a 50th time? I truly hope so.<br />
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“They say he was sick 'cause he didn't play by the rules<br />
He just showed the wise men of his day to be nothing more than fools<br />
They stamped him and they labeled him like they do with pants and shirts<br />
He fought a war on a battlefield where every victory hurts<br />
Lenny Bruce was bad, he was the brother that you never had.”<br />
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Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-42727155962713084622019-05-20T21:46:00.005-05:002019-09-02T21:50:41.810-05:00My MnDOT MusiCares MomentMy name is David Maeda. In January, I was given the dream opportunity of being appointed Minnesota’s director of elections by Secretary of State Steve Simon. I’ve been involved with election administration at the county and city level off and on for the past 23 years. In a way this is what I’ve been working toward my entire career. I’m proud to be the first Asian American to serve as the state’s Director of Elections. The job comes with such a humbling amount of responsibility. I’ll touch on why I feel it’s such an important milestone a bit later on.<br />
<br />
I began my government career many years ago when I was hired as a clerk typist 1 job with the Secretary of State’s office. As you probably know that is an entry level job. I had taken a typing test and that led to an interview. I didn’t get the first job I interviewed for but did well enough to get another interview for another open clerk typist 1 position. To come back to the same organization at a much higher level feels like completing my career circle. It feels a little like coming home.<br />
<br />
It’s great to have this honor to speak to you today as we celebrate another Asian Pacific Islander Heritage Month. I’ve been given an hour to talk to you today. That’s a lifetime of speaking for me. I’m known as the quiet one both professionally and personally. It’s rare I’ll say much if anything at all at family events. This past winter I had the privilege of being the emcee at the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans’ Day at the Capitol rally in the rotunda. My niece brought her three year old daughter to the event. My job was to introduce the speakers at the rally. So when one person was finished I got on stage to do a short introduction of the next person. On the drive home, my great niece Imogene asked her mother, “Why does Uncle David talk so much?” That’s literally the only time anyone has ever said that about me.<br />
<br />
A little history about how API Heritage Month came to be. It actually began as API Heritage Week and was established back in 1978 with the passage of a congressional resolution. Twelve years later Congress expanded the observance from a week to a month. In 1992 another resolution was passed designating May as the month to celebrate API Month. May was chosen because the very first Japanese immigrants arrived in the United States on May 7, 1843. Also, the transcontinental railroad was completed on May 10, 1869. The majority of workers who laid the tracks were Chinese.<br />
<br />
I have served on the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans since 2014. I’ve been the board chair for the past three years. The council is a state agency charged with being the bridge between our communities and state government, both the legislature and the governor. We are one of three state ethnic councils along with the Council for Minnesotans of African Heritage and the Minnesota Council on Latino Affairs. My work on the council has been incredibly rewarding. Hafiz Munir, who works for your department also serves on our council and has really been a great advocate for his community. I have really been impressed with his insights.<br />
<br />
Minnesota is the home to over 316,000 Asian Pacific Minnesotans. By far, the Hmong are our largest community followed by the Asian Indian, Chinese and Vietnamese communities. Ours is the fastest growing minority community and the most diverse. Our state is the home to people from over 45 different Asian countries.<br />
<br />
Minnesota’s Asian Pacific community has changed over the years due to many variables, the most obvious being the makeup of the community. Prior to the late 1970’s, Asian Pacific Minnesotans consisted of mainly those who came for educational degrees and work opportunities. After 1975, Minnesota experienced an influx of Southeast Asian refugee groups – the Hmong, Vietnamese, Lao, and Cambodians. Between 2000 and 2010, Minnesota saw a dramatic increase in its Asian Indian community because people came from India seeking opportunities in the tech and science sectors.<br />
<br />
I grew up in Roseville, one of two Asian Americans in my grade school class. The other was also Japanese American, Sally Murakami. Our classmates just assumed the two of us would get married. By the time Sally and I reached high school we had a few Vietnamese classmates too. Someone told me not too long ago that the Roseville School District now has over 50 percent of its students being students of color.<br />
<br />
Growing up in such a white community, I always felt separate from my classmates. Sally and I looked different from our white classmates and I always sensed, knew this difference was significant. At some point I matured enough to see that it wasn’t a weakness feeling I was always going to be different from my classmates just because of my race. In a way it was a blessing to feel the freedom that comes from being different and not needing to find a way to try and differentiate myself, I could just be me. I’m sure there are many in this room that have faced this interesting duality.<br />
<br />
My favorite song as a kid was Sammy Davis Jr.’s “I’ve Gotta Be Me.” Many of you in this room are too young to know who Sammy was but I would regale my family with my version of his song... “<i>Whether I’m right, or whether I’m wrong/Whether I find my place in this world or never belong/I’ve gotta be me...”</i><br />
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I’ve been to Japan once in my life. I visited there in 1998. My most vivid memory of my trip was standing in the busiest subway station in downtown Tokyo during rush hour with waves of people rushing all around me. Usually being in that type of environment would cause anxiety within me so it was weird to feel so calm. And reflecting up on it I realized the reason why: for the first time in my life I really felt like I blended in with those around me. I truly was different being an American among the Japanese, but it wasn’t evident just by appearances. I had never experienced that before. Looking the same as everyone else made it easier to judge how I fit in. I was a bit taller than many. I had wavy hair where most of the people I saw had straight hair.<br />
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I moved out of my parents’ house for good when I graduated from Macalester College. I was 23. My parents bought the house when my mom was pregnant with me. They thought they needed a bigger house when I joined my four siblings.<br />
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I was almost born at a Chinese restaurant. On their way home from somewhere, my mom went into labor so dad called the doctor to determine how much time they had. The doctor apparently told my parents they had time to stop at home first. Mom and Dad decided to pick up dinner for my siblings at a Chinese restaurant at the corner of Snelling and Larpenteur Avenues in Roseville, about ten minutes from their new house. While ordering, mom told dad that he had better get her to the hospital. He did and I was born a short time later. There’s a joke about Chinese food delivery somewhere in that story but I’m haven’t figured that out yet.<br />
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After graduating from Macalester College, I bounced from apartment to apartment, I bought my own house when my career finally seemed to be on track. It seemed like a good investment not to be throwing away rent money every month but instead to be paying down a mortgage.<br />
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My own house is a few minutes away from that corner of Snelling and Larpenteur. After I moved in, and after my mom passed away in 1999, I made it a point to celebrate my birthday at Chins’ Kitchen until they closed down.<br />
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I saw a lot of pride in my parents’ eyes when I told them I was buying a house. They knew how much I struggled after college and I think for them the American Dream milestone of being able to afford a house meant I had found my way. I think I frustrated my realtor because I had expected to finally walk into one of the places we looked at and feeling this was my new home. None of the many places we looked at caused me to feel that way. I ended up buying a house because I liked the location. I remember before I closed on the house I was allowed to go in and remove the carpeting because I planned on having the hardwood floors sanded. My mom joined me in the arduous task of using needle nose pliers to remove the carpet staples. This strange house didn’t feel like home to me but I pictured the possibility of owning something I could make my own.<br />
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I now have 23 years’ worth of great memories in my own house meaning I have now lived as long in my own house as I did in my parents house.. Hitting this mystical milestone has made me philosophical about the concept of what “home” really is.<br />
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There’s the obvious answer of home being the place you feel safe and secure and are currently returning to every night. But home can be about nostalgia. It can be about those vivid memories of a time of true happiness.<br />
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My late father had to sell our family house when his Alzheimer’s/Dementia forced a move to an assisted living facility. That was over five years ago and it still seems really strange that there is someone else living in our house and I just can’t go waltzing into what was my home for so many years. There are so many vivid memories that happened in that house, times that established my personal foundation.<br />
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Growing up, I fell in love with the game of baseball. That’s all my brother and I played summer day after summer day. We literally wore out the grass in our backyard into base paths, a pitching mound and a batter’s box. In order to talk with me my sisters had to learn about baseball. Remarking about how many baseball statistics I had memorized my sister Donna once said if I had only devoted my attention to something important, I could have really made something of myself. There’s something very comforting in the ultimate goal in baseball: in order to score you have to go home.<br />
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I never asked dad what he thought was his true home. Dad grew up with his parents and his sister Jane and new born brother Larry, in Seattle, Washington. Dad often spoke fondly of Seattle, and we took a couple of family vacations there when I was young. Dad proudly showed us where he grew up.<br />
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On December 7, 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. On February 19, 1942, President Franklin Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 that authorized the Army to evacuate any persons they considered a threat to national security. As a result, over 120,000 Japanese people were forced to relocate to one of ten different internment camps around the United States. Dad’s family was among the 120,000 Japanese Americans that were incarcerated by the American government. Dad’s family ended up in Minidoka located in Hunt, Idaho.<br />
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Growing up, my dad seldom spoke about this time in Minidoka. He was 18 years old and he said many of his friends were in the internment camp as well. He was on the coal crew that would deliver coal to the many barracks. Dad had a lifelong love of driving so getting to drive the truck was one of the memories he spoke about.<br />
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The other was also driving related. Right before Pearl Harbor was attacked, Dad bought his first car. When his family was ordered to the internment camp, Dad had to give up his car to his white friend. His friend would visit Dad at the internment camp but would have to park the car, Dad’s car, outside the barbed wire fence. Dad said it was really hard seeing his car parked where he was not allowed to go.<br />
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My dad’s family left the Minidoka when World War II was coming to an end. They ended up in Minnesota because Dad’s sister, Jane got a scholarship from Hamline University. Both Hamline and Macalester College were very progressive and welcoming in extending scholarship offers to Japanese Americans.<br />
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In 1980, Congress established a commission to investigate the legacy of the Japanese American concentration camps. After extensive interviews and personal testimonies from victims, the commission issued its final report, calling the incarceration a "grave injustice" motivated by "racial prejudice, war hysteria and the failure of political leadership." In 1988 Congress approved reparations to the Japanese Americans who had been incarcerated along with an official apology. My dad, along with others in the community received a check for $20,000.<br />
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There’s a poetic ending to this story. Dad used his check to buy a brand new Honda Accord. I’m guessing it was a much better car than the one his friend parked outside the barbed wire fence.<br />
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Another significant thing about my family’s story is my dad lived through a nightmare of having a government and country who didn’t see him as a true American and deemed it in the national interest to take away his freedom. It’s obviously a significant step forward that his youngest son, is now in a position, as the Election Director, a job that is responsible for ensuring and protecting one of our democracy’s most important rights, the right to vote. I know both Dad and Mom would be impressed that their son got an important enough job that was reported by the Star Tribune.<br />
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Here’s the reason this is a special API Heritage Month. Last November five members of our Hmong community were elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives. They joined Sen. Foung Hawj for a record number of Asian Americans serving in our Legislature. This is a true example of how our state is moving forward.<br />
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We also have a record number of Asian Americans serving as judges in our court system.<br />
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Still, when we think about our current events there is no doubt we still have a long way to go. If you have the time I would highly encourage you to read the book, “The History of Asian America” by the Minnesota author, Erika Lee. It really is a good history of how those from different countries ended up in America. There are a lot of common experiences, those who are new to this country have always faced so many challenges in being accepted. But there are always differences. Serving on the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans has shown me that there are huge differences in the immigrant experience and the refugee experience. The most interesting thing I learned from Lee’s book centered around the Chinese exclusion law that eventually led to the exclusion of all Asian immigrants to our country in 1924. Because the Chinese and Japanese could not enter this country legally they eventually began to enter the country “illegally” across the Mexican and Canadian borders. Asians were literally the first “illegal immigrants” in our country. The attempts of the government to secure the borders way back in the early 1900’s is eerily similar to today’s news.<br />
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There is a common human need to find a safe and secure place to raise your family. We all want that. We all want a place that feels like home. Often, where we come from is less important than where we are going.<br />
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The most eye opening and heartbreaking thing I’ve learned as the Chair of the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans has come from hearing from members our our newest refugee communities many who can never return to their home countries because of war, oppression, and political circumstances. I’ve spoken with parents in their 30’s and 40’s who know they have little chance of succeeding in their new country due to the language and cultural differences. What they have told me is all they want is a better life for their children. Again the concept of “home” takes on so many different meanings depending on your life experience.<br />
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Thinking of my Dad, I think his true home was his love of cars. To him his car represented freedom. Freedom to go anywhere he pleased. One of the great things about my new job is every year Secretary Simon tries to visit all 87 counties in the state and this year he has included me in many of these visits. It has been inspiring to see different parts of our state. And it has somehow made me feel closer to late parents, who spent many weekends just driving around Minnesota and seeing different sites. It was what Dad and Mom loved to do. For the first time, I really understand that love.<br />
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For me personally, I don’t think I consider my true home either the house I grew up in or the house I now live in. Looking at the many different phases of my life, it is music that has often been my true home. Great songs mix thoughts, feelings, memories, hope and inspiration all together in a magical way. A song can transport me to another time and another place. Music is my lexicon, my inspiration and my comfort. It is my true home.<br />
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One of my favorite contemporary songwriters is Josh Ritter, a folk rock singer. He recently came out with a new album that has one extraordinary song called “All Some Kind of Dream.” In the best American folk tradition, the song is an incredibly astute commentary on our current times, specifically about how there are those vilifying all immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. Ritter sings:<br />
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<i>I saw my country in the hungry eyes</i><br />
<i>Of a million refugees</i><br />
<i>Between the rocks and the rising tide</i><br />
<i>As they were tossed across the sea</i><br />
<i>There was a time when we were them</i><br />
<i>Just as now they are we</i><br />
<i>Was there an hour when we took them in?</i><br />
<i>Or was it all some kind of dream?</i><br />
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It’s a great song.<br />
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I’ll finish with this. I am so proud to be speaking to you today because it shows how far Minnesota has come during my career in government. You are all to be commended for your finding your way to a career in public service. I’m convinced there is no greater calling. It’s not always easy with the demands of our customers and the expectation of taxpayer dollars paying our salaries. I really respect that MnDOT takes diversifying its workforce so seriously. Hopefully you feel a sense of home from your work and career accomplishments. There’s a great quote from the British writer, Pico Iyer, that finally made me realize the true meaning of “home.”<br />
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“Home is not the place you are born, it’s the place you become yourself.”Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-45987514074899879072018-11-11T23:26:00.001-06:002018-11-12T08:28:33.339-06:00More Blood... More Tracks<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">“Me, I’m still on the road, heading for another joint.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-size: 17px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">I got to spend my birthday with the person I most wanted to spend my birthday with. Marisa sang happy birthday to me with a goofy grin on her face and it was the most fantastic version ever. She knew my birthday gift to myself was a trip to Richmond, Kentucky to see <a dir="ltr" href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" style="-webkit-text-decoration-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.258824); color: black;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors-type="misc" x-apple-data-detectors="true">Bob Dylan</a>. When Marisa and I met five years ago, she didn’t know who <a dir="ltr" href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" style="-webkit-text-decoration-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.258824); color: black;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1" x-apple-data-detectors-type="misc" x-apple-data-detectors="true">Bob Dylan</a> was (part her generation, part her parents not letting her listen to music). But over the years she has tried to understand why Dylan’s music means so much to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">I’ve never been able to fully explain it to her. His songwriting is at a level that has no peers; his singing and performing skills are extraordinary and wholly unique; his live by his own code to the extreme is one I have tried to do on a much lower scale. Asked to pick out my favorite Dylan songs, it depends on the day, my mood, what’s going on in my life, and what version of the song I have access to at the moment (with so many great live performances available).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">If asked my favorite Dylan concert I’ve attended I would have an impossible time deciding. Was it the 1993 Minneapolis Orpheum show when he sang “Idiot Wind “ for the last time live? The 2005 London concert where he did “Million Dollar Bash” for the one and only time? How about that crazy harmonica solo he did on “Mr. Tambourine Man” at the Target Center in 1995?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">I’ve seen Dylan in many different parts of the country (and five shows in London) with many different people. The ritual used to add to the excitement- trying to score a good ticket by calling Ticketmaster over and over the moment tickets went on sale only to get that blasted busy signal (kids today don’t realize what a big advancement speed dial was). Counting the days to the concert, and if general admission, trying to figure out how early to arrive to get as close to the stage as possible. Then the thrill of getting settled into the venue, when the lights drop and you knew he was taking the stage with his band and not knowing what songs he’d pull out of his hat, nor what version of the song you might get to hear. Maybe it would be a disaster with the band not being able to follow his idiosyncrasy but more likely he’d do something that would leave you feeling like you just heard the most original and amazing thing ever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">Some of that excitement has gone away the past few years. Maybe because seeing him 48 times has taken away the unpredicatability and Christmas Day like excitement, but more likely because the setlists have become pretty much the same night after night with a few variations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">Marisa knew how much I was looking forward to this trip. How much I needed this trip. I was coming off a week where my work hours were far too many, and the stress far too great. I had pneumonia but that’s no excuse for not getting my city through another election. It’s not as if the voters wouldn’t care that their chief election official with terribly sick, but the show had to go on. We couldn’t hold the election in a week or two. The Monday before Election Day I got to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon over in our fire department. I was dead out when they got a medical call and the room lit up and the radios buzzed. I nearly hit the roof, but the bit of sleep did me good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">She knew I was looking forward to this trip because it’s been a difficult few years and it had been far too long since I afforded myself such a trip. One of my doctors diagnosed me with “existential angst” the most accurate diagnosis that’s ever been recorded. Dylan has been opening his concerts with “Things Have Changed” and there couldn’t be a more apt song for me with its chorus of “I used to care, but things have changed...” My physical health took a nose dive this year as well as I met my annual insurance deductible in February trying to alleviate pain and weakness in my neck, shoulders and arms. And then my cat died.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">My trip got off to an ominous start with me parking at the wrong terminal (1, 2, Humphrey, Lindbergh... I was throwing darts in the dark). I took the light rail to the other terminal and did the miserable airport thing of getting through the security line (got scolded for only taking off my outer jacket and not the hoody underneath). Marisa emailed me and encouraged me to enjoy myself. And so I did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">The drive from the Lexington Blue Grass Airport to my hotel was pretty. Rolling hills, horse farms and lots of trees. I asked my Lyft driver where I could see the blue grass and he laughed and said everyone asked him that. Turns out the seeds look blue but once the grass grows it’s green. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">Cut now to the concert. I had splurged and paid mega bucks for a third row center seat. The guy in front of me in line was disappointed he couldn’t afford the $20 souvenir t-shirt. He was determined he was going to get Bob’s autograph. I was glad to hear the two times he had seen Dylan before was during the “Under the Red Sky” tour. That’s a fun fact.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">The venue was at the arts center of the East Kentucky University campus. The center was less than ten years old and reminded me of St. Kate’s O’Shaughnessy Auditorium back home. My seat was center stage but as it turned out, I was a little too close because when Bob sat down at his piano I could only see the top of his hair, with the baby grand blocking out his face. He only sat for some of the songs though and it’s always nice being able to see his facial expressions. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">Highlights? I liked the two songs from 2001’s “Love and Theft,” “Cry Awhile,” and “Honest with Me,” (two songs I never have particularly liked). I liked how Bob chuckled when he sang the line, “I’m stark naked and I don’t care, I’m going off into the woods and hunting bare/bear.” I liked “Simple Twist of Fate,” although he muffed my favorite line, “People tell me it’s a sin, to feel too much within, I still believe she was my twin...” I’m going to have to check my spreadsheets but I think I got to hear “When I Paint My Masterpiece” for my first time live ever. It was a lovely version with Bob starting the song almost acappela with just a few chords played on the piano. Similar thing with “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright” which he crooned the hell out of. And Bob offered his one dance move during “Scarlet Town,” dramatically putting his hand on his hip.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">My two favorite moments however were with two songs I never thought I needed to hear again. It was the oddest arrangement of “Like a Rolling Stone” I have ever heard with the band stopping at the last few lines of every stanza, with bassist Tony Garnier grabbing the bow for his standup bass, the tempo slowed down to half time with Bob playing with the phrasing of the words. And then the tempo returned to a faster shuffle for the chorus, “How does it feel?” The effect was like knowing a punch was coming but being unable to defend it nonetheless. It may have been my favorite live version of the song I’ve heard. The other great performance was “Gotta Serve Somebody” that after the first verse featured all new verses. How cool is that?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px;">I planned on getting a Lyft back to my hotel, three miles away. But apparently Richmond Kentucky shuts down Sunday nights and there were no Lyft drivers in the area. So I started calling cab companies. None had drivers available. So I did what anyone suffering from existential angst would do. I started walking. In the dark. In a foreign place. Not being able to gauge the safety or lack of safety with what was in front of me. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Maybe even a Dylan lyric that captures that.</span>Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-86574638197915236472017-10-18T12:00:00.000-05:002017-10-20T07:49:22.256-05:00Happy Diwali<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thank you all for being here tonight. I think we have a nice program
planned this evening. My name is David Maeda and it’s been a great privilege to
serve as a board member of the Council of Asian Pacific Minnesotans for the
past three years and particularly to be the chair of the board in 2017. </div>
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We are here tonight to honor and hear from a great group of leaders in
our community. I’m absolutely in awe of their contributions and
accomplishments. </div>
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We are also here commemorating two significant anniversaries. The first
is the 50th anniversary of the Minnesota Department of Human Rights. We are
blessed to have here tonight one of the great leaders of our state,
Commissioner Kevin Lindsey, who you’ll hear from later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We are also recognizing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the 75th
anniversary of President Franklin Roosevelt signing an executive order that led
to the incarceration of over 120,000 Japanese Americans, including my father’s family,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at the beginning of World War II. Our keynote
speaker tonight, the honorable Judge Jamie Cork will share her thoughts and
insights and lessons to be learned about this historic event.</div>
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The theme of tonight’s dinner is “Toward a more perfect union.” I ask
all of you to think what that means to you. All of us in this room want this
country, and the state of Minnesota, to be the place where we feel at home. We
all have our own personal stories that define how close we are to feeling this
sense of union.</div>
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I wanted to take a few moments to share a personal story and say a few
words about my father, Donald Maeda, who passed away in January at the age of
92. The loss of my dad has weighed heavy on me this year.</div>
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When I was growing up, dad often talked about life in the internment
camp as being like a summer camp. As a teenage boy it was about wasting time
with a group of friends. But the thing that stuck with him that made him
realize the gravity of the situation was he had just bought his first car. Dad
had a lifelong love of cars and driving cars. He was forced to give up his
first car because he obviously couldn’t bring it with him to the internment
camp. He gave his car to a friend who graciously visited him at camp, but would
park dad’s car on the other side of the barbed wire fence. Dad said it made him
sad seeing his car, his gateway to freedom within reach but out of his grasp. </div>
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Throughout his life dad had a lot of questions about the world around
him. In the end the questions became more and more philosophical. They were
questions about the promises of our country both delivered and broken,
questions about the concepts of freedom and if the place you find yourself in
at any given time can truly be called a home. </div>
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What is home? Whether you have survived a refugee experience or you are
an immigrant or you were born here in the United States, what do you consider
your true home? Is it based on geography? Your birthplace? The place you dream
of at night? The place where you feel accepted and loved? </div>
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This is a question I’ve asked myself ever since my one and only trip to
Japan nearly 20 years ago. There was day mid-week when I found myself in the
middle of a downtown Tokyo subway station during rush hour with waves and waves
of people coming and going and trying to catch the train that would take them
home. I’ve never seen so many people in one place at one time. And then I
noticed a strange feeling. It was a foreign feeling of calm and peace. If this
same scene had played out in a subway station in New York or Chicago or
Washington DC I would have freaked out being one who doesn’t do well in large
groups of people. Why was I feeling this strange sense of calm? I realized for
one of the few times in my life I fit in. I looked like the people around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blended into the mass of humanity. Back
home in Minnesota this had seldom been the case. In grade school, junior and
senior high, I was one of the few racial minorities. In my workplaces the same
is true. I hadn’t realized subconsciously how much this has always played on my
mind. Walking into a room of people and feeling like you immediately stick out
because you look different presents a conceptual wall against the feeling of
inclusion. I’m sure that’s something many in this room know something about.</div>
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In the end, our home is where we allow ourselves to feel comfortable.
The place where we can be our authentic selves. Hopefully we all will find this
place.</div>
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To finish dad’s story, in 1988 Congress passed the Civil Liberties Act
of 1988. The law provided reparations to Japanese American citizens who were
interned. My dad got a check for $20,000 and an apology letter from President
Ronald Reagan. My dad wasn’t much for irony, and I’m not sure how much
convincing he had to do with my mom, but he decided to spend his check on a
brand new Honda. And I’m sure all the while his mind flashed back to his very
first car parked outside the barbed wire fence.</div>
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I’ll leave you with words from the 2016 Nobel Prize Literature winner,
Minnesota born Bob Dylan. Mr. Bob once wrote:</div>
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“A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with
his freedom.”</div>
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In other words we shouldn’t wait until we lose our freedom before we
appreciate it and understand its significance.</div>
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Today is the third day of Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Light. It is a
day to celebrate new beginnings and the triumph of good over evil and light
over darkness. So I wish you all a very happy Diwali and hope you all enjoy our
program tonight. Thank you.</div>
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</xml><![endif]-->Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-35646397073222814542017-02-08T17:23:00.000-06:002017-02-16T21:50:17.442-06:00Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9aHoIU1vEparhABEogWYzU9qU2qBY-EhFCVuqRGmykBKKCJtDpFNcJxtNt5qTqbT99142By4tqQuWdpC5GmmGaah7XCJil0T3sZoT-zXPZolAxUDmfrTBDmDrczCe_zsEagPEQtzgWbA/s1600/February+13+2017+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9aHoIU1vEparhABEogWYzU9qU2qBY-EhFCVuqRGmykBKKCJtDpFNcJxtNt5qTqbT99142By4tqQuWdpC5GmmGaah7XCJil0T3sZoT-zXPZolAxUDmfrTBDmDrczCe_zsEagPEQtzgWbA/s320/February+13+2017+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
My 92 year old father passed away a few weeks ago. I share this with you on this a celebratory day not because my dad was a well-known or great man. No, he'd likely would have admitted he was in many ways, quite ordinary. He would have readily told you his proudest achievement was raising our family. Yet the life he lived was extraordinary.<br />
<br />
Eleven days from today will mark the 75th anniversary of President Franklin Roosevelt signing an executive order ordering the incarceration of Japanese Americans living on the west coast after Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. My dad, his sister and brother, all American citizens, and my grandparents were among over 100,000 Japanese Americans who lost their property, homes and freedom pretty much overnight. Years later the United States Congress and President Ronald Reagan issued an historic, formal apology and monetary reparation acknowledging this wrongful government action, one of the darkest in our country’s history.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure I would have been as humble and strong enough to accept any or all of this fate like my dad and so many in our Japanese American community did without rage or a loss of faith. But instead of giving up on their country, my great community doubled down on the belief that the American dream was the one that would ultimately make their life and more importantly, the lives of their children, better.<br />
<br />
A few weeks before dad died I had a dream. It was the type of dream that when I awoke, I couldn’t get back to sleep as I tried to figure out its meaning. In my dream one of my sisters told me I had to go back and get something from our childhood house, the house dad moved out when we moved him into a senior living facility four years ago. In my dream I didn’t want to argue with my sister yet I was uncomfortable walking into a house that a stranger now owned. When I entered the house it was empty. I walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom and the lime green shag carpeting and orange walls were still there. The only thing in the room was a video tape machine, my Betamax, along with a Minnesota Twins video tape up on top.<br />
<br />
That's when I woke up.<br />
<br />
I’ve had a lot of time to think about that dream. Ultimately what I think it meant was trying to come to terms with the achingly sad feeling of losing the last bridge to my childhood and beyond that, losing my real home. I can no longer go back into the house I grew up in and have so many fond family memories of. My sanctuary and security blanket. That was a very difficult realization to come to grips with.<br />
<br />
I almost feel sheepish telling this story after, as a CAPM board member, hearing the personal hardships and difficulties many in our refugee communities had in coming to America. Many lost their homes in a much more real, difficult, often times violent and life shattering way. Many can never ever return to their home country without risking their lives. Even the way my dad lost his home in Seattle all those years ago is much more heartbreaking than my metaphorical middle class loss of home.<br />
<br />
But what I've come to understand as I mourn and try to figure out what the loss of my dad means to me, is that home isn't merely a place, it's a tangible feeling with a lot of associated memories that make up who we now are. No matter where we are in our lives,what we’ve encountered, our ups, our downs, our triumphs and losses, what we really are always longing for or clinging to is something as basic as a place to call home, a place of our own, where we feel secure, safe, and sound. It’s really a basic human need right up there with air, water, and food.<br />
<br />
Today we are standing in a glorious and historic building that is often referred to as the “people’s home.” The people who come into this building work so hard in trying to make this state feel like home for those they represent. Understanding what goes on in this building and how you can play a critical role in the process can be so important as you find the tools to achieve your own American Dream.<br />
<br />
It’s been my great privilege during my time as a board member of CAPM, to hear from and learn from so many life stories told from different members that make up our great Minnesota Asian Pacific Islander community... as we gather in this awesome place of power, the beautifully restored Capitol...I'm humbled and inspired to play any role I can in helping improve our communities. And I thank you all for sharing in this journey.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-74895135854851306002017-02-06T11:52:00.002-06:002017-02-06T11:56:31.478-06:00Dad<i><span style="font-size: small;">Hit by a truck when you were a little boy<br />
They said it was touch and go<br />
You proved strong enough not to go<br />
Not for another 86 years<br />
Along the way you learned life<br />
Presents you <br />
with the occasional seven ten split<br />
And you just have to give it your best shot<br />
They took away your family's home<br />
Said it was for your own safety<br />
Judge Judy would have ruled that was Baka thinking<br />
You saw your first car<br />
Parked outside the barbed wire fence<br />
Years later you bought a brand new car<br />
With the apology check the government gave<br />
You didn't like swear words<br />
But I swear that's my all time favorite comeback<br />
Sweet tooth crown artist who loved to drive<br />
Proud father, grandfather, great grandfather<br />
Never shot a man in Reno just to watch him die<br />
Never made a Maya Moore-like three pointer<br />
You didn't need to, to prove yourself <br />
You just needed to live the life you did<br />
Because you made that seven ten split<br />
more often than most can ever hope to do</span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On my way to visit Dad on
what turned out to be the final night of his life, a strange warning
light appeared on my Mini Cooper's dash. It was a red warning symbol
that looked like the hydraulic lift mechanics put cars on. When it
turned off I noticed the brake warning light remained lit. I still
haven't yet figured out the right metaphor, or what the symbolism of my
car's warning light meant as I visited Dad during his last night on
Earth. And having not had the opportunity to bring my Mini in for
service, I still don't know what the warning is all about.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
He drove his car. It didn't have to go very far. To him his car was all
about freedom. Free to go here. Free to go there. Free to go just about
anywhere. Dad and Mom loved the rides they took. Mom loved the
destination. For Dad, it was just as much about the process of the
journey.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
I wasn't doing so well the year or so after I graduated from Macalester
College with my history major and journalism minor, with my desire to
become the world's next great inspirational writer. I told the world's
greatest muse, who I recently met as we were now sitting in a little
cubby hole our employer, a record store owner had built for children of
customers to watch cartoons but where we were now taking our lunch
together, (how's that for a well constructed sentence?) that I felt
haunted by my recent sad overwhelming memories. "We'll just have to
make new ones," she said in her often matter of fact, but spot on
Virginia Slims calming style.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
Weeks later we decided we would hit the road with no particular
destination in mind. She drew a map on a bar napkin to her mom's house
in Kingman, Arizona, but how we would get there would be all about
adventure and creating new memories to forget the old ones. When we hit
the road in my robin egg blue Honda Accord that my parents bought for
me, I think Mom and Dad wondered if they'd ever see me again. Not one
for teary goodbyes, Dad offered his last bit of wise advice: "Don't ride
the clutch."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
I ended up writing an unpublished novel about that cross country trip.
In a way the trip was the one that made me understand my Dad the most,
and perhaps the feeling was reciprocal. I've never particularly cared
for driving a car. It was always one of Dad's favorite things to do.
Driving with my muse was inspiring. Dad drove a whole lot farther than I
ever did with the great love of his life. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">********<br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I was holding my Mom's hand the night she died 17 years ago. She gasped
her last breath and all of us in the room kind of held ours. Dad broke
the silence by asking the nurse, "Is she gone?" The nurse said yes. I,
to my surprise because I had so much time to prepare for the moment,
began sobbing. Dad looked over at me and said, "We will get through
this, David." And I knew we probably would. What I didn't know was how
much the "we" would mean.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">********</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We ate dinner most evenings together after Mom died. This lasted a
number of years. During those years I think what we discovered was we
really didn't have that much in common. Dad's proudest accomplishment
was, despite not being a good student, helping raise five kids with
college degrees (four with advanced college degrees, me being the dunce
with just a Bachelor's Degree). He said he was proud, and Mom was too,
that all of us turned out to be good people, successful in our chosen
fields.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
I don't think Dad ever understood why I never wanted a family of my own
(unless you consider felines, three total, 10 and a half good legs
between them, family). It wasn't I didn't ever want a family of my own,
it was more that my life has always been about following my muse
wherever it led me. To his credit Dad didn't consider me a failure for
failing to follow in his footsteps toward what he felt was his greatest
accomplishment.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">********<br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dad worked hard and a lot of long hours to provide for us. After dinner,
when he was still working at Edco Dental Lab in downtown St. Paul, we
used to call him at work to tell him all about our days because he
wasn't going to be home before we all went to bed. We used to fight
about who got the privilege of dialing his work number 224-5423. I don't
remember what I talked to Dad about during those phone calls but being a
busy working man now, I don't know how he had the patience to
participate in that nightly routine. And that in a nutshell is how we
were always so different.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">******** </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span>There were some days (it
must have been weekends), when Mom let us know Dad was on his way home
from work and my brother Bruce and I would get all excited about seeing
him that we went about hiding in the foyer closet, or the laundry room,
all prepared to jump out at Dad and scare him. And boy did we seem to do
so ever so effectively. Each and every time. When Mom notified us that
Dad was starting a medication for a heart condition, I quite
specifically remember Bruce and I asking if we should stop scaring him
by jumping out from our hiding places. We didn't want to send him into
cardiac arrest after all. It took many years afterward that I found out
that Dad heard Bruce and I giggling from our hiding places and always
just acted scared because he appreciated what we were doing in
appreciating his return home.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span><br />
And that was why he was the greatest Dad we could ever have.</span></span></span>Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-52555824464781020402009-04-28T00:08:00.006-05:002009-04-28T23:05:53.219-05:00Together Through Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BxUhxDMF4LGuRUfIE8PiFeyJmxkKI7jbkFd4QCdFCJBhPji3g5S1FQn3A2UoRgWuIO639emWQdeg9HVuNXkYa1SL3hFuJ8XqeIeCVoa9BsWRGPdrS9wywUkHJwnpQCACcVLgcR7_9JU/s1600-h/tgtl.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BxUhxDMF4LGuRUfIE8PiFeyJmxkKI7jbkFd4QCdFCJBhPji3g5S1FQn3A2UoRgWuIO639emWQdeg9HVuNXkYa1SL3hFuJ8XqeIeCVoa9BsWRGPdrS9wywUkHJwnpQCACcVLgcR7_9JU/s320/tgtl.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329957983609064450" border="0" /></a>Yesterday, the world got to hear 10 new Bob Dylan songs. In my book, the world is a profoundly better place any time that happens.<br /><br />What to make of Dylan's new CD, <span style="font-style: italic;">Together Through Life</span>? It's very bluesy and with Los Lobos' David Hidalgo on accordion, there's a Tex Mex feeling to most of the songs. My favorite song upon initial listening is the jaunty "Jolene" that sounds nothing like Dolly Parton's song of the same name. Bob had to know Dolly's song exists doesn't he? And if he did, why the choice to name his heroine Jolene too? My favorite lyric? "The door is closed forever more/If indeed there ever was a door..."Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-2625584723351345432008-01-25T13:37:00.000-06:002008-01-31T13:41:42.092-06:00R.I.P. the CD 1982-2007By CHRIS RIEMENSCHNEIDER, <em>Star Tribune</em> <br /><br />Once praised for its clear, crisp audio quality but panned for its susceptibility to scratches and smudges, the compact disc passed away in 2007 after a quick but painful illness. It was 25 years old.<br /><br />The final cause of death has not been determined, but friends and fans blamed digital-download sites such as iTunes and illegal file-sharing among rich kids. In addition, doctors pointed to the big record companies and mega-selling artists who put out CDs in recent years that featured only a few good songs and lots of filler. <br /><br />Simon Cowell, who is also a suspect in a mass plot to ruin pop music, is being questioned by police.<br /><br />The CD was preceded in death by its siblings, the cassette and 8-track tape. Its older cousin, the vinyl record, has been hanging on for two decades, with life support from nerdy audiophiles.<br /><br />Conceived in 1979 by engineers at Sony and Philips, the CD first went on the market in 1982. The inaugural album was Abba's "The Visitors," which led to Jerry Falwell's accusation that it was a gay technology.<br /><br />The CD survived, though, and went on to account for about 200 billion album sales worldwide. <br /><br />Its success led to a record-industry heyday in the 1990s, when such substantive and high-quality artists as Garth Brooks, Celine Dion, Shania Twain, the Backstreet Boys and Ace of Base sold CDs like umbrellas during monsoon season.<br /><br />"The compact disc was such a great friend," mourned Brooks, the country singer who sold about 80 million albums in the CD era, many of them at Wal-Mart. "You could pop a CD into the stereo on your pickup truck or Lear jet and let it just keep spinning and spinning."<br /><br />Since 2004, CD sales have declined by one-third while digital album sales have quintupled. Last year's 19 percent slide from 2006 led doctors to finally sign off on its death notice. <br /><br />"I sure am going to miss the CD," said Paul McCartney, whose Beatles are one of the last groups to refuse to sell their albums on iTunes. "On the bright side, new technology means that Beatles lovers now can buy our albums for the third or fourth time."<br /><br />Memorial services have not been finalized, but Elton John has committed to singing at the funeral. In lieu of flowers, please send $17.99 to the record-store owner of your choice.<br /><br /><br /><strong>5 reasons to mourn the CD</strong> <br /><br />1. No, really, they do sound better. Most MP3s feature data that's compressed for quicker downloads.<br /><br />2. Remember looking at album artwork? Granted, you often needed bifocals to read the lyrics and liner notes on CDs, but at least it was something.<br /><br />3. You can't throw MP3s out the window like frisbees. What are you going to do now for dramatic effect when your wife/girlfriend plays her Madonna, J. Lo or Gwen Stefani MP3s to the point of insanity?<br /><br />4. Computer/electronics companies, not record companies, will soon run the music business. Compact discs were overpriced, sure, but at least they profited corporations that actually discovered and developed new artists (who then got taken for everything they were worth).<br /><br />5. The CD's 74-minute max was enough. With MP3s taking over, we could face 150-minute hip-hop albums -- featuring 28 annoying skits, two good songs and four different remixes of those songs.<br /><br /><br /><strong>5 reasons to cheer its death </strong><br /><br />1. No more mad dashes to the player when the disc starts skipping. A CD skip was 20 times more annoying than a vinyl album skip. It sounded like you were back-masking a Slayer album for a hidden satanic message -- even if the CD was by the Carpenters.<br /><br />2. No more cellophane wrap. Those genius scientists figured out how to cram 10,000 songs onto an iPod small enough to hold in your butt crack, but could never invent a plastic wrap on CDs that didn't take minutes to get off, dangerously heighten your blood pressure and occasionally require stitches when you resorted to scissors.<br /><br />3. Those old silvery discs are great for arts and crafts projects. You can string them up as mobiles or cool doorway curtains, or even construct lawn ornaments out of them.<br /><br />4. It's good for the Earth. No toxic plastic or downed trees are used in the making of digital downloads.<br /><br />5. Gen-X-ers have to own up to being old. Remember how you rolled your eyes when an "old" guy said, "Man, if it ain't on vinyl, it ain't on!" You're that guy now.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-45834572858602470622008-01-06T13:40:00.000-06:002008-01-31T13:44:33.688-06:00CD Sales Plummet, Leaving Retailers Spinning<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3rkbCN8R60RrVeq4f_2dhgjhSTEt8jwEEXgSszg3UWxlRSVGWwBLm4sBqjojWC88E6SX88mMu27-Npg163BwvBYsJLD7-4fxMrWn45nShjRa-2Z8XGS-iq293qNesH2gABzwnFMiwyw/s1600-h/1discs0106.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3rkbCN8R60RrVeq4f_2dhgjhSTEt8jwEEXgSszg3UWxlRSVGWwBLm4sBqjojWC88E6SX88mMu27-Npg163BwvBYsJLD7-4fxMrWn45nShjRa-2Z8XGS-iq293qNesH2gABzwnFMiwyw/s400/1discs0106.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161728770837892546" /></a><br /><br />By JON BREAM, <em>Star Tribune</em><br /><br />Like Britney Spears' reputation, CD sales declined dramatically in 2007 -- 19 percent, to be exact.<br /><br />That news hits especially hard in the Twin Cities, a national hub for record distribution for a half-century. It is home to two of the industry's biggest players -- Best Buy and Target, which together account for 3 of every 10 discs sold in the United States -- but even smaller stores are singing the post-holiday CD blues.<br /><br />To fight back, Best Buy and longtime local independents such as the Electric Fetus and Cheapo Discs are diversifying, adding everything from coffee shops and digital downloads to -- gasp! -- vinyl albums.<br /><br />Although Best Buy did not suffer as sharp a downturn in CD sales, "We're not happy about the decline," said Jennifer Schaidler, vice president of music. "But we're going to go where the customers go."<br /><br />That means Best Buy is now custom-tailoring its CD selection for each store.<br /><br />"In Chicago, we have Polish and Arabic music," Schaidler said. "Latin music is a big initiative. The shopper is not going away. We also will be expanding our digital [download] initiative," a partnership with Rhapsody.com.<br /><br />You don't need to know your way around an iPod to understand that digital downloads (legal or otherwise) are becoming the preferred medium for recorded music. Since 2004, digital song sales have more than quintupled while CD sales are down by one-third.<br /><br />Although Best Buy is devoting more store space and advertising dollars to other products, it still carries a similar number of CDs -- at least 10,000 per store, according to Billboard -- and aggressively courts superstars for Best Buy-only discs, such as live DVDs by the Rolling Stones and Mariah Carey, or a Tom Petty documentary by Peter Bogdanovich.<br /><br />Target takes a similar approach with tailored inventory and exclusives, including recent Christmas discs by young stars Taylor Swift, KT Tunstall and Elliott Yamin.<br /><br />"We recognize that overall sales will likely continue to decline as digital options become more widespread, but remain committed to the business and to doing everything we can to encourage our guests to buy physical CDs," said Target spokesperson Amy von Walter. Its stores typically carry one-tenth as many CDs as a Best Buy.<br /><br />Both Target and Best Buy "have done as well as expected, given the music environment," said Patricia Edwards, a retail analyst with Wentworth Hauser and Violich in Seattle. She thinks Best Buy's strategy to localize its inventory reflects a growing trend that "consumers want more and more customization."<br /><br />Indie stores diversify<br /><br />The decline of the CD has been tougher for stores that, unlike Target or Best Buy, focus primarily on music. Three local indie chains -- each in business since the hippie era -- are transforming themselves to make up for lost revenue.<br /><br />The Electric Fetus, the granddaddy of them all, figures if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. It's adding digital downloads to its mail-order website.<br /><br />Down in the Valley has expanded its non-CD merchandise (T-shirts, collectibles) by 30 percent.<br /><br />Cheapo Discs is adding coffee shops to some stores. Buzz, a 1,000-square-foot coffee joint with a separate door, will take up about 9 percent of the St. Paul Cheapo and 5 percent of the Uptown Minneapolis location.<br /><br />"I wish I had a crystal ball," said Cheapo owner Al Brown, who founded the three-store chain in 1972, and co-owns similar stores in six other states and Toronto. "I've got some ideas no one else is doing, [but] my ideas would have been great five years ago." His stores have always revolved around recordings -- the Uptown store has more than 100,000 -- but for the first time he will attend a national gift show this year to shop for other products.<br /><br />Music store morphs into gifts<br /><br />At Down in the Valley, "I'm trying to get my store known as a gift store, not a record store," said Steve Hyland, owner of the four-store chain, which has shopping-mall locations in Golden Valley, Wayzata, Maple Grove and Crystal. "Gift is what I'm going to survive on."<br /><br />That might be a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, a ceramic Marilyn Monroe cookie jar or a Rocky key chain that screams "Yo, Adrienne!" CDs occupy less than half of the floor space now.<br /><br />"Every month my business goes down, down, down," said Hyland, who opened his first shop in 1972. He estimates his CD sales dropped 18 percent from 2006 to 2007 and, to his surprise, DVD sales declined 10 percent.<br /><br />Nationally, digital-download sales were up 45 percent in 2007. Those numbers are tough for even a diehard like Electric Fetus owner Keith Covart to ignore.<br /><br />"We're working on a downloading site," said Covart, who has stores in south Minneapolis, St. Cloud and Duluth. "My heart is not in it. They still haven't beat the CD for [audio] quality."<br /><br />But with his 2007 CD sales down about 18 percent in both retail and wholesale -- the Fetus also distributes CDs to about 200 indie and gift stores around the country -- Covart realizes "you've got to carry music in several formats: digital, vinyl, CD, new and used. Sales of vinyl is 10 times more than [the previous] year. High schoolers and college students are looking at vinyl more than CDs."<br /><br />The Fetus, like the big-box stores, also tries to lure customers with exclusive titles -- 200 of them, such as "Ben Harper Live at the Twist and Shout," via the Coalition of Independent Music Stores.<br /><br />Although Cheapo shuttered a 6-year-old store in Moorhead in November because of slow sales, none of the local indie merchants are talking about closing shop. Hyland would like to hand over his stores to his children even though he knows the future is "not good. In a few years -- maybe 10 years -- I don't think they'll have a CD or DVD product that you put in your hands."<br /><br />That's because the under-25 crowd -- the iPod generation -- is hooked on downloading, not owning discs.<br /><br />"My kid's got 1,000 songs in his MP3 [player]," Hyland said, "and he didn't buy any of them from me."<br /><br />Jon Bream • 612-673-1719Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-19745788285670405512006-08-07T13:51:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:29:20.677-05:00A Dream Come TrueWe started all this on June 23, 1992 or 722 weeks ago (not that I'm counting). Gas was 25 cents a gallon; you could get a good cup of coffee for a nickel; and you could stand in a public line without hearing the annoying chatter of somebody on a cell phone. Al asked me if I was interested in starting up and editing a weekly newsletter for the company. He wanted a 10 page newsletter to include store information, technology and competition related news, and other tidbits that employees might find useful.<br /><br />This seemed a daunting challenge but a great opportunity. Al knew that I had a journalism degree and was feeling a tad frustrated that I hadn't up to that point been able to get into the only field that I wanted to get into not counting Major League Baseball. One of the things I've long admired about Al is his ability to put people into situations to take advantage of their talents and thus giving them a better chance to succeed. That's not something that those in leadership positions often do.<br /><br />My mindset at the time wasn't exactly brimming with confidence and sun. I think the best way I can convey where I was at during this time occurred during the Halloween blizzard of 1991. I was working weekends at the 80 N Snelling store and living in a small efficiency on Goodrich a few blocks off of Grand Ave. in St. Paul. The day after the storm I had a 12-8 shift and I somehow managed to plow my Honda Civic through the poorly plowed streets. The snow had continued to fall all day.<br /><br />By the time my shift was over my car was buried beneath the snow. I knew snow emergencies had been called and knew that I'd never find a spot close to my efficiency. So I decided to walk home. Now this would have been quite the pleasant two or three mile walk on a spring day but since few of the sidewalks were plowed and traffic was at a standstill the easiest thing to do was to walk on the streets. I was wearing my boots but my boots were not meant to handle walking though thigh high snow drifts. By the time I got to Grand and Lexington my feet were blistering. And it was too late to turn around since it was just as far back to the store as it was to my efficiency. So I trudged on.<br /><br />When I eventually made it back to my efficiency and the unhappy because it was well past his dinner time, Max the Cat, my feet were torn up and burning. I was out of breath, and my fingers and toes felt beyond cold but not quite frost bit. I also realized I faced the daunting challenge of back tracking the next morning to get my car out of the Cheapo lot. I realized I had done a stupid if not dangerous thing and I felt like if I hadn't hit rock bottom I must be pretty darn close. I also realized I couldn't keep keeping on like I was. I needed to change something, accomplish something to get myself on track. And so the following June when Al offered me the newsletter job, I was if nothing else, determined to give it my best.<br /><br />Al sent me to a newsletter seminar somewhere in Minneapolis- my failing memory (722 weeks!) doesn't quite remember the exact location. I remember a small group of people (around a dozen) had signed up for the seminar and the instructor went around the room and asked why we were there. Most people said they were assigned a task of doing a newsletter for their organization and either were struggling with the startup of the publication or were struggling with keeping the publication going either because of lack of contributions or just the overwhelming task of putting out a worthwhile read.<br /><br />The instructor also had us share how often we were publishing and how many pages our newsletters were supposed to be. Without exception everyone in the seminar said they were doing a monthly or a quarterly newsletter and the length of most were either one or two pages. That's when I chirped in, "I'm doing a weekly 10 page newsletter." I think I heard an audible gasp or two.<br /><br />When I reported back to Al, I suggested we cut back to eight pages and he agreed. And that's what we've done ever since without missing a single week (that would be 722 for those of you scoring at home).<br /><br />I was quite nervous when the first edition came out. All I could think about was what happened with the ABC TV newsmagazine <em>20/20</em> whose first show was so awful that the network immediately fired the co-hosts, Harold Hayes and Robert Hughes and replaced them with veteran broadcaster Hugh Downs. I hoped Al would give me a longer rope than that.<br /><br />My goal was to create an effective publication that was fun to read, in hopes this would encourage people to contribute articles. I also set a goal of printing at least 50 percent original material and not having to rely mostly on non-Cheapo generated articles. I figured I would write every now and then, as needed, since one of the major issues I was grappling with at the time was trying to figure out the role of writing in my life and how what I wrote affected my friends and family.<br /><br />It wasn't very long though when I saw that I was going to have to write a lot more than I originally had hoped. Soon I settled into taking the last page of the newsletter to write a weekly column. Through the first few years though, this notion of not wanting to write unless I had to was at the front of my mind. I never began compiling the newsletter thinking that I was going to write a column. Instead I started each Saturday evening compiling all the articles for the week and then after I was done editing stuff and laying out the pages I would realize that I was going to have to write a column to approach the 50 percent quota I had set.<br /><br />Since I hadn't thought about writing until that point I never really thought about what I was going to write about. For that I relied on what I had learned in my writing classes- write about what you know. Over the years I have come to know less and less so this strategy has led to many rambling columns about essentially nothing (not that any of you must have noticed...). I really have tried to keep my whining to a minimum and there have been times over the years where something I have written has cracked me up (not that I needed further cracking).<br /><br />Write what you know. It's always meant a lot to me when a reader has told me how much they liked a particular column. It means just as much when someone tells me they like when I wrote about specific things I truly love like Bob Dylan's music, Max the Cat, <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</em> and Sandra Bullock. (OK no one has actually told me they like my Sandra pieces but didn't you all feel the love?)<br /><br />Producing a newsletter for 14+ years has probably been the hardest thing I've done in my professional life. There hasn't been a Saturday all that time where I haven't had this gripping fear of "how the heck am I going to get the newsletter done?" Thus it's also my proudest professional accomplishment that we never missed a week. I realized early on that it wasn't going to be possible given the resources and time to produce a great publication. What I decided to do instead was to be consistent and reliable. Some would call that predictable and boring. I would only counter that as I move on in life I've learned it's nice to have some things in life that you can count on being there week after week. Nothing wrong with dependability.<br /><br />It hasn't exactly been a secret that one of the major inspirations keeping this publication going over the years has been Dylan's "Never Ending Tour" where Bob has essentially played close to 200 shows every year since 1988. I've always loved how Bob seemed to have come to the conclusion all those years ago that the only way to get past his past was to hit the road and perform and just keep creating something in the moment every night. As Bob continues the tour he has expanded his canvass to a new venue- his delightful XM satellite radio show, "Theme Time Radio Hour." Wow. What I have learned is that to be a writer means nothing more than being willing to write something. It isn't about angst, glamour, fame or understanding. It's just as simple as putting words to paper. That's all it takes.<br /><br />When Al told me of the end of my tenure as the editor I was of course a bit sad. But truthfully part of me felt some relief as well. I essentially haven't had a weekend off in fifteen or sixteen years. Writing a column week after week has probably changed not only the way I write, but the way I think since my natural way of processing feelings and thoughts used to be to ruminate over them. Now I just get them down and out and move on.<br /><br />I have so many fond memories due to the newsletter and my Cheapo employment. The first couple years of publication were produced pre-PC on a typewriter with a memory. I'd retype the submitted stories on a Sunday morning in St. Paul as I'd munch on a McDonald's breakfast burrito. I'd copy it all off next to our shrink wrap machine. Then along came the Internet that eliminated the need to re-type interesting media articles and allow me the ability to search news services throughout the world for stories I thought might be interesting to all of us. I remember all those Saturday/laundry nights busy typing away as Mr. Max was in another room, in his favorite window and he'd come on by on occasion just to check up on me and let me know what he was up to. I'll go to my grave cherishing those memories.<br /><br />Since my original fear was about Hayes and Hughes it also doesn't escape me that I'm leaving this job within a year of Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather, and Peter Jennings ending their long tenures as the most visible journalists in the country. Not that I'm exactly in their league or even in the same sport but like them I know I've been lucky to have a job for so long that I loved doing, that also made me a better person. I'm proud of my long association with Cheapo, and proud all our company has meant to this community. This job has literally taken me around the world (to Japan) and back and I know because of that I'm much better prepared for whatever it is that comes next.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-19614105105258049192006-07-31T14:30:00.000-05:002007-09-24T14:31:33.416-05:00It Was Fun While it Lasted, Like Gandhi When He FastedNext week will be my last as the editor of this publication. So please note that if you have been kind enough to save me some work, some keystrokes by emailing your contributions to the newsletter to me, you'll soon receive instructions on what to do after next week.<br /> <br />I wanted to take this opportunity to thank some folks that I got to know over the years through my employment with Cheapo and who I am a much better person for our association. Most of these folks have long since moved on to other things, other places but still I hope they know how much I appreciate them.<br /> <br />There's Bill Seeler the man who interviewed and hired me all those years ago. Bill seemed so tired and weary (of life and of work) but he never gave less than his best and had the highest integrity. He was funnier than hell and quite the expert on all things classical.<br /> <br />Thanks too to Johnny Baynes, Brian Haws, Mike Nordgaard, Leah Hosmer, Stephanie Lamson, Paul Young, Fernande Rodgers, Jason Shields, Scott and Sarah Kuzma, Jennifer Stewart, Pat Wheeler, Sam Schneider, and Jeanette Brown. <br /> <br />Finally and foremost I have to thank Al. I've learned so much from him. He's given me opportunities that I'm not sure many people would have even considered. I respect him more than he'll ever know. I know this company will find a way to keep on keeping on. Al will see to that.<br /> <br />See you all next week.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-49811972902701069962006-07-31T14:28:00.000-05:002007-10-19T16:20:10.164-05:00JadedBob's Quote of the Week:<em> "The cynic smells flowers and looks all around for a coffin."<br /></em><br />My sister Janet gave me a jade plant when I moved out on my own after graduating from college. I still have that plant, the only one I've been able to keep alive for any amount of time. (Although to be fair for the many years I lived with Max the Cat I couldn't really have plants around. Max loved to munch on all things green and vegetarian except for my jade plant.)<br /><br />This past week when I came to work (where my jade plant now resides) I discovered that most of the branches of the plant had fallen off. I'm not sure why other than perhaps the plant has gotten too big, and can't support its own weight. (Who hasn't found themselves there?).<br /><br />I felt myself feeling sad that something that I've had since the late '80s might be dying on me. I've greatly neglected it over the years yet it has kept pushing on, kept growing and providing some beauty in some otherwise dreary surroundings.<br /><br />This past week I also learned that for the first time in years I may not be playing softball this fall. Turns out my team was too late in signing up for our usual St. Paul fall league. The league has already filled all the nights up with teams. We tried another St. Paul league only to find that it too had already filled up. Same with Roseville. Seems like softball playing has suddenly become fashionable. When you consider how many players it takes to field a team (at least ten) its pretty remarkable that there are so many wannabe players out there in this medium sized midwestern city.<br /><br />No softball. My jade plant may be on its last branches. What else could I possibly lose? And how exactly does one go about facing the end of things? Well, this frisky cowboy found himself dealing by playing his favorite song from 2006 (thus far), Paul Simon's "Outrageous." (Who would have thought that the 96 year old Simon would still be capable of writing such terrific music after all these years? Who would have thought he could still be crazy after all these years?")<br /><br />The song starts out as a political rant against all the things politically wrong with this world from the exploitation of workers to the destructive human behavior causing environmental damage to the planet, to a culture that places such importance on physical beauty that the singer laments how he is now coloring his hair the color of mud. What gets me about "Outrageous" however is the chorus asking an important question. <em>"Who's gonna love you when your looks are gone?" </em>Simon repeats this line many times with each repetition reinforcing a real desperate revelation. Is there enough substance inside to keep us lovable when a wink of an eye, a toothy smile, a flirtatious glance no longer is part of the repertoire?<br /><br />What's even better is Simon eventually answers his own question with the definitive, <em>"God will... like he waters the flowers on your window sill." </em>It's a sterling image.<br /><br />The other thing I did from falling into a funk was to re-watch the terrific Canadian sitcom <em>The Newsroom</em>. The CBC show is kind of a cross between an updated <em>Mary Tyler Moore Show </em>and <em>Sports Night</em>. It's about the efforts of the staff of a news show on the Canadian public broadcasting network. The news director is a complete jackass, sexist, racist and completely clueless. He spends most of the series taking great pains to avoid making tough decisions, and fleeing responsibility for putting out a decent news show. This of course leads to more effort covering his own mistakes. The pilot episode for example features the attempts of the intern to get the show's main phone number changed; all in effort to get the news director's mother to stop calling him at work. The intern eventually justifies this request to the corporate higher ups by making up a story about how the news anchor has been getting death threats. This leads to the news anchor becoming paranoid and demanding he be given a bulletproof vest to wear during his broadcasts.<br /><br /><em>The Newsroom</em> first season flows along like any other smartly written sitcom when all of a sudden at the end it takes a surreal turn. A story breaks about a likely nuclear meltdown of the plant in Toronto and the news director responds as if the story is to be told like a movie. He orders a copy of <em>The China Syndrome</em> and begins interviewing actors to play the part ofreporters and nuclear power experts.<br /><br />This unexpected turn is jarring but effective. It turns the series on its head and forces you to think about the difference between what we perceive as reality and fiction and how news coverage is often guilty of blurring the lines instead of making any of it more clear.<br /><br />In the end it's perhaps the best end to a TV show season I have ever seen. And although <em>The Newsroom</em> was to go on for a couple more seasons, had they only done the first fourteen episodes this would have to go down as a must see TV show. It's outrageous and it's jaded and it fit the mood I was in this week.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-34632352218079136942006-07-24T14:32:00.000-05:002007-09-24T14:33:42.251-05:00Take Me Out Of/To The BallgameI've been a Twins fan for upwards to 33 years now. I don't think I've ever seen them play better over an extended period of time than they have over the past month or so. Even the world champion teams of 1987 and 1991 never put together a streak like this- where the team is so thoroughly dominating in all aspects of the game- pitching, hitting, defense and strategy.<br /> <br />That said, I don't think I've ever been more frustrated with a Twins squad as I am the 2006 version. They find themselves nine and a half games out of first place, and four games out of the wildcard race. And the maddening thing about their place in the standings is they didn't have to be where they find themselves to be. It's all been self-inflicted. <br /> <br />The team was limping along when management finally decided to pull the plug on the brief (but all too long) Tony Batista, Rondell White, and Juan Castro era. The club broke out of spring training believing that those veterans were better options than younger players (with far greater upside) like Jason Kubel, Jason Bartlett, and Nick Punto. Far more puzzling (and unforgivable) was the decision to open the season with Kyle Lohse and Scott Baker in the starting rotation and Francisco Liriano in the bullpen. Manager Ron Gardenhire is now defending this decision saying that Liriano wasn't ready for starting because he spent much of the spring on the Venezuelan team in the World Baseball Classic. <br /> <br />This is outright bunk. Even if it meant that Liriano's first few starts were limited by a pitch count, having him out there was a far better alternative than anyone on the pitching staff not named Johan Santana. That it took into June for the team to concede this is unforgivable. If Liriano had been given four or five more starts like he should have been the Twins likely would be that much closer to the top of the division.<br /> <br />Liriano has been electric. He's been the key to this turnaround. When he's on the mound there is a sense of something special about to happen. When he gives up a hit you are almost shocked. He makes Santana (who is among the elite pitchers in the game) look like a lesser pitcher in comparison.<br /> <br />By any measure 2006 was going to be a year of transition for the franchise. Going into the season the team appeared to be on a downward path after dominating the division from 2001 to 2004. The White Sox and Indians were clearly teams that had finally passed the Twins in talent. Detroit looked like a team ready to contend as well. This was likely going to be Brad Radke's last year in the game and Torii Hunter's last year as a Twin. Prospects for the long needed new stadium seemed dim at best.<br /> <br />Signing Rondell White seemed smart. A career professional hitter, White seemed to fill the cleanup hole that Justin Morneau clearly wasn't ready to fill last year. And after losing Matthew LeCroy and Jacque Jones the offense that was so weak last year needed some experience and personnel changes to make it more productive. <br /> <br />But if this year was the start of another rebuiding phase the decision to start the season with Castro at short and not Bartlett, and Kubel only given a nominal look before being sent to the minors was confusing at best, stupid at worst. It was time to see what these two could do and it was also time to give both of them the chance to learn at the Major League level so some of the growing pains could be endured this season rather than further down the road.<br /> <br />The season isn't over but to expect this team to continue on this torrid pace is unrealistic. To giveaway two and a half months while floundering along is what makes this season so frustrating. If the team is to somehow make the playoffs you gotta love our chances given that Santana and Liriano will be given four starts in any seven game series. If we don't make it, you can blame it on some boneheaded decisions, some of the worst in the team's history.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-78456858236244149452006-07-17T16:40:00.000-05:002007-10-19T16:25:23.185-05:00The Cheapo Newsletter DietMy Fourth of July resolution this year was to do something about my ever expanding waist line. I decided it was well past time to do something to regain my girlish figure.<br /><br />It all began in the spring after bringing all three of my cats in to the vet for their annual physical. After being told that both Theo and Thompson were bordering on being overweight I decided to take the vet's advice and switch them over to diet food. I did so knowing that my trio of boyz, and Thompson in particular, really look forward to and enjoy each and every meal.<br /><br />Because of this I decided that I wouldn't make a radical change- that instead I would buy their regular food and mix it in with the diet brand. It soon became clear that the diet food didn't taste as good as the regular food as all three boyz first eat up the morsels of regular stuff and walk away with a few diet pieces left in the dish.<br /><br />I also realized it wasn't exactly fair that since over the past few years I have dealt with a feeling of my pants getting tighter and tighter by loosening my belt a notch or two, and buying pants with a bigger waist size.<br /><br />So on this Independence Day I decided to get proactive about my own increase in weight. I decided that I would not only eat better but also get a little more exercise in my daily routine.<br /><br />The first part hasn't been too hard. Some of you might have tried the trendy diets like lowering your fat or carbohydrate intake but I'm here to say that if you want to drop a pound or two or fifty, that all you have to do is remember our friend Popeye. There's nothing more refreshing in the summertime that a spinach based salad topped with mushrooms, fresh vegetables and a few pieces of cut up chicken. It's easy to make, quite tasty, and you leave the table with a sprightly and energetic feeling. <br /><br />The second part has been a little more difficult- having to free up some time during the evening to take a walk. When I bought my house a decade ago one of the reasons I bought in the area I bought (the Como Park area) was that I was nearby both a lake and a park and that seemed like a good place to be. Shortly after when I was spending a lot of time with the potential housemate who never was, the gal named after a rabbit, one of the things we enjoyed doing together was taking walks around my neighborhood.<br /><br />I stopped walking after she walked away. And my exercise regimen since has relied on the summer softball games and whatever walking I do at my job. Thus I may be half the man I used to be but I surely don't feel that way physically and my clothes certainly don't reflect that.<br /><br />I've had the time to take walks around Lake Como most every night for the past two weeks. And quite frankly it not only has helped with my pants feeling a bit looser, but also has helped with clearing my never been more cluttered mind. During my walks I listen to a CD I haven't listened for a while (does anyone else realize that U2's <em>Joshua Tree </em>or Alex Chilton's <em>High Priest </em>are such delightful recordings?) and I've rediscovered how much I love music. <br /><br />Still the thing I've probably enjoyed the most about my walks around the lake is watching the people who are walking their dogs. I love how when you look at the dogs you can just tell how much they enjoy the fresh air and exercise and spending time with their owners. Likewise you can usually see the pride and affection in the owner's eyes. It's a give and take relationship, the rewards of which come shining through across the paved path around Lake Como.<br /><br />I've walked enough where I have developed a blister on my foot but still I've never come back to my house feeling anything but better for the steps I've taken. It's good to get out there again. Good to finally be feeling better about where I am these days.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-85531107120005764952006-07-10T16:42:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:11:36.575-05:00When You Gonna Wake Up?Isn't it weird how there are times when you'll hear a song, see a movie or TV show, or read a book, that grapples with the very issues occupying your most recent thoughts and it's all purely a random coincidence? How you didn't deliberately mean to stumble across this particular piece of art or entertainment, but nonetheless this coincidental discovery delves deeply into what you think about late at night when all the defenses come down or it's the very thing you wrote about last week in your weekly newsletter column for a local music retail company?<br /><br />Last week in this space I wrote about my attempts to try to figure out this religion thing. Two days later, (on Independence Day mind you) I slid Ingmar Bergman's 1961 masterpiece, <em>Through the Glass Darkly</em> into my DVD player. I didn't have any idea what the movie was about having put it in my Netflix queue based solely on a recommendation the concerned Netflix folks made to me based on my movie rental tastes.<br /><br />Winner of the Oscar for "Best Foreign Film" <em>Through the Glass Darkly</em> tells the story of a family (father, daughter, son, and son-in-law/daughter's husband) spending time at a lake house. The family tension is only made more difficult in that the daughter (played in a masterful performance by Harriet Andersson) is slowly going insane.<br /><br />The father much to his son-in-law's chagrin, is using his daughter's illness as fodder for a new novel. Anyone who has ever written about someone else in a public forum and gotten spanked in the process can probably relate. Art is based on life and yet you either do or you don't take other's feelings into account in your suffering through the creative process. Is your work more important than the feelings of your friends and family? You decide or you don't, knowing that your decision will ultimately have some grave consequences for your own life and others around you. I love that Bergman tries to address this conundrum.<br /><br />Andersson's character is convinced that God is calling her to abandon her family but when the moment of calling comes, she is frightened by God's appearance. Turns out he looks like a spider with frightening eyes.<br /><br />Confession here: I think what may have fueled my current spiritual seeking mindset is that I recently finished re-watching season five and six of <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</em>. During those two terrific seasons there were episodes dealing with Buffy's mother's death; Buffy's death and return from Heaven; and perhaps my favorite Buffy episode of all time- where she is "poked" (Xander of course asks her to clarify just where she was poked) by a demon whose poison causes her to drift between two worlds. One world is the world we've known all along in the series- where Buffy is a superhero in a world full of demons and difficulties. The other is a world where Buffy has been hospitalized for a mental illness and where her mother and father are trying desperately to pull her back to safety.<br /><br />Whenever I tell someone they HAVE to watch these episodes of <em>Buffy</em> they tend to roll their eyes and mutter something about David just being David. I mention in particular that the episode where Buffy's mom dies is by far and away the closest I've ever seen to anything capturing what I felt when my own Mom died. I also mention how the art of the direction in that episode is downright "Bergmanesque." I used this term having never actually watched an Ingmar Bergman movie in its entirety before.<br /><br /><em>Through the Glass Darkly</em> confirmed my intuition and limited exposure to the much lauded Swedish director's skills. I have to think that Joss Whedon watched this movie before he wrote the <em>Buffy</em> may be institutionalized episode. The themes are the same- how the reality we depend on may not actually be the world we should be existing in.<br /><br />Bergman's film of course digs much deeper and delves deftly into issues about how little our families can help in truly desperate situations and how the need to believe in God maybe in itself a delusion or maybe the path to our only salvation.<br /><br /><em>Through the Glass Darkly</em> is part of a trilogy of films Bergman made between 1961-1963 based around contemplation on religion. I haven't seen the other two films yet (<em>Winter Light</em> and <em>The Silence</em>) but now I just have to. I'm sure <em>SCTV</em> could do some terrific spoofs of these ultra-serious Swedish movies but sometimes the jokes just have to be put aside for a serious thought or two.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-67703972516803343702006-07-03T16:44:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:10:45.971-05:00Losing my Religion While Getting Right with GodIt was thirty years ago this summer when my oldest sister got married. I don't remember much about the first wedding I'd ever been to. I remember wearing a lime green leisure suit that I wish I still owned and fit into. I also remember at the reception there was a low ceiling just out of my reach. I spent a lot of time trying to jump up and touch it. I couldn't have been more than an inch away. And I wouldn't give up, figuring that eventually I could cheat gravity just once.<br /><br />It's quite certain that getting married changed my sister's life. (Her son graduated from Stillwater High School a couple of weeks ago). It also ended up changing mine. Because we hadn't gone to church my entire life up to that point, the wedding was the first time I remember being in a church. I think my Mom realized this and decided that our family should start going to church again if only to expose us kids to the concepts of religion.<br /><br />The whole church service fascinated me. I loved being able to sing unfamiliar songs in a public setting trying to figure out the melodies and strange words merely by reading the hymnal. I tried to imagine the circumstances of the list of people that was read every week who we were praying for.<br /><br />(A little girl goes to church one Sunday and looks at all these fancy plaques hung up all around. She has the chance to ask the minister a question. "Father, what are all those plaques hung up with flags on them?" The father responds, "Those are to honor those who died in service." The little girl looks at him wide-eyed and asks, "Which one, the 8 or 9:30?")<br /><br />There were a couple parts of the church going experience I didn't particularly care for. When communion began we wouldn't go up to the altar because we hadn't been baptized or confirmed. As the ushers slowly let row by row go up, I felt embarrassed when they got to our row and we all just sat there, feeling unworthy.<br /><br />The part of church that I hated most however was going off to Sunday school. Right before they let us out, Father Henry Hoover would read the announcements and my stomach would turn in knots, butterflies fluttering like dandelion seeds on a windy day.<br /><br />I hated Sunday school because I didn't know anything about what was being taught. I had never read the Bible. And since I was the newcomer in class I felt like all the other kids in my class not only knew a whole lot more, but also knew each other. I not only felt dumb and alone, I felt God would punish me for my ignorance.<br /><br />Mr. and Mrs. Miel, who were the teachers, seemed to sense my uneasiness and didn't try and call on me unless I had a look of certainty on my face. Who would have guessed I'd grow up and one day shake the Dalai Lama's hand? (Years later when the Miels came to my Mom's funeral, after it was mentioned during the service that I was a Bob Dylan fan, Mrs. Miel came over to me and said that she used to babysit Bob and his younger brother. "His brother was a really good kid, but Bob never said a thing.")<br /><br />Through the years my own personal spiritual beliefs have been challenged and changed although the basis remains the same. I don't believe this world is the end. I think there's something else, some greater purpose that comes next. I have no proof (other than certain dreams and an undying faith that humans can't possibly be the highest being). I certainly wouldn't argue with anyone who believes differently. I think the greatest danger facing our existence is the growing blurring between politics and religion.<br /><br />That said, I don't understand those who don't seem to be curious about religion. I don't understand how you can't be. Maybe it's being able to live entirely in the present (or for some in the past) getting lost in what's going on today without trying to figure out what comes next. But at some point don't you have to stop and wonder what it all means? Am I the only one losing sleep over this?<br /><br />That's why I will faithfully be watching Bill Moyers' new PBS show, <em>Faith and Reason</em>. The show features interviews with famous writers (the first show featured Salman Rushdie). Ultimately <em>Faith and Reason</em> strives to answer Moyers' question, "In a world where religion is poison to some and salvation to others, how do we live together?" If after the seven episodes air I have a better understanding of that, it will be seven hours well spent. Thank God.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-70378314989827444512006-06-26T16:46:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:46:12.663-05:00If You Were Scoring My LifeThere's a scene in the movie <em>The Lake House</em> where Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves characters actually meet and exist in the same time (like that ever happens and maybe just maybe why this movie has to be filed in the "fantasy" category). They are strangers, having met at Bullock character's surprise birthday party. They are alone, underneath the stars and they hear music coming from the house so they begin slow dancing.<br /><br />The song playing is Paul McCartney's "This Never Happened Before" and it's the perfect song to capture the mood of the moment. (Yet since McCartney released the song in 2005 and this meeting moment is supposed to be occurring in 2004- there seems to be a time/space problem with the song choice that only enhances the movie's message).<br /><br />Usually I'm not too big a fan of movie and TV scenes where the dialogue ceases and the music swells and we get a montage backed by a song. Often this is a sign of poor writing as if the writer of the scene couldn't find a way to express the emotion necessary so the director uses music- the best emotion expressing art form that exists - to get across what written words and actors acting their hearts out can't. But this particular scene works. It's great to hear McCartney's voice struggling to hit the higher notes. This imperfection underscores the uncertainty the characters are facing- trusting a complete stranger in a random romantic moment.<br /><br />The mood of the scene reminded me of one of the beginning moments with my favorite person in the world. She told me she used to have a theme song. That song was "I Can See Clearly Now." Once she told me that there was little else I needed to know about her. If you're going to pick a theme song for your life that one might as well be it. It seemed like a far better choice than what was the theme song of my life at that time, Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror."<br /><br />There are other movie and TV musical moments that have over the years stuck inside me like a bad burrito. Remember the scene from the TV show <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</em> where the lesbian couple Tara and Willow break up and other characters in the show have personal crisis' going on leaving much of the cast in a sad place? What did Joss Whedon choose to well up the emotion of the places his characters found themselves in? Michelle Branch's "Goodbye to You."<br /><br />Now I'm not the biggest Michelle Branch fan in the world. Maybe I should be but I just haven't had the time. But her performance at the Bronze in this <em>Buffy </em>episode makes me cry every time I see it.<br /><br /><em>"It feels like I'm starting all over again/The last three years were just pretend/And I said goodbye to you/Goodbye to everything that I knew/You were the one I loved/The one thing I tried to hold on to..."<br /></em><br />If someone out there was kind enough to put together a soundtrack for my life this song would surely have to be on it. It's time to move on.<br /><br />Then there's the scene from the movie I've seen more times than any other- <em>The Karate Kid.</em> Daniel finds himself a stranger in a strange place and he's blaming his mom because she didn't exactly give him a choice on whether he wanted to uproot himself from New Jersey to move out west and start all over again. As he struggles to make friends there's a montage where Bananarama's "Cruel Summer" plays in the background. Is there a better song that's ever been sung? A better song that could say all that needs to be said about being lost and alone?<br /><br />Listening now "Cruel Summer" takes me all the way back to 1984. I'm soaking my hands in pickle juice to make them tougher for all the karate chops that are needed. Of course I couldn't soak my head in the same juice and it would be a long time before I could pickle my heart leaving me to ask a question I'm still asking. Where do I go from here?Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-13141463694330820432006-06-19T16:48:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:21:55.553-05:00Sandra and Keanu Reunite Via Magic Mail BoxThe last time I had a conversation with the Duluth seamstress was in September 2001, nearly five years ago. The previous time we had a conversation was over a dozen years before that. Yet in all honesty hardly a day has gone by in all that time that I haven't talked to her. She seemed honored when I told her that during what was probably the last conversation we will ever have.<br /><br />I mucked up that friendship mighty fine but her love and friendship will never leave me. She was the one following my hospitalization for head problems, when all seemed lost, who did the one thing no one else in my life seemed capable of doing anymore: she made me smile. Just as importantly I found a long lost side of me through our friendship. I found my sense of humor again. In a time it seemed impossible, whenever I was around her I felt like myself again for the first time in a long time. I don't know a bigger compliment that I'll ever be able to give to another person.<br /><br />Thus the timing of meeting her was important to what she came to mean to me. Likewise if my head had been where my heart was (in a better place) at the time I think our relationship might have lasted a whole lot longer.<br /><br />I tried to put the Duluth seamstress behind me by fictionalizing her. She was a major character in the great unpublished novel that has only gathered dust in my bedroom closet. There were times that tact was successful- I wasn't entirely sure I hadn't made her up in some desperate dream.<br /><br />But it was through some real fiction that the "she's only a character" strategy dissolved into the watery stuff that flows from the eye ducts. When I saw Sandra Bullock play a bit part in a Sylvester Stallone sci-fi movie I was immediately struck at how much she somehow reminded me deeply of the Duluth seamstress. I wasn't exactly sure what it was about Bullock that made that watery stuff start flowing uncontrollably during the unintentionally comedic <em>Demolition Man</em>. Was it her eyes? Her eyebrows? Her smile? Her face? Her voice? Her down to earth sense of humor? I've never been able to answer that.<br /><br />Since Bullock became a star with <em>Speed,</em> I've made it a point to try and see each and every one of her movies if not on opening day, then shortly after. I'll be the first to confess it is a pathetic effort to feel like I'm going to a movie again with my all time favorite movie going partner. During our chat in 2001 I asked the Duluth seamstress if anyone had ever told her she reminded him/her of Sandra Bullock. "Only about a thousand times," she said. "In fact this guy carding me at the liquor store this morning said that." I couldn't help but think throughout this last conversation that she not only seemed a bit freaked that I called, but she also seemed a little sad about what happened between us.<br /><br />Bullock's latest film, <em>The Lake House,</em> reunites her with her <em>Speed</em> co-star, Keanu Reeves. <em>The Lake House</em> couldn't be anymore different than <em>Speed</em>. It doesn't have any flying buses or wild chase scenes or wall to wall action. Most of the movie takes place with Bullock or Reeves' character reading a letter to the other. (This latter film does have a couple of references to the earlier film- there's a bus accident that plays a major role in the plot; both characters' dog is named "Jack"- the name of Reeves character in <em>Speed</em>. Indeed <em>The Lake House's</em> plot reaffirms what Bullock's character repeated over and over to Jack in <em>Speed</em>: that relationships that begin under extreme circumstances seldom last.)<br /><br /><em>The Lake House</em> is a remake of a Korean movie called <em>Il Mare</em> and its complicated (and almost fairy tale like) storyline seem foreign to an American movie and almost standard for films made in other countries. Both characters live in the same house only two years apart. Through the magic of a mail box, the characters are able to communicate with one another.<br /><br />Not much happens in the movie other than two people fall in love. The beauty of <em>The</em> <em>Lake House</em> is that the movie well understands that two people falling in love happens every day but it still doesn't happen nearly often enough.<br /><br />Given the story's unique plot device one has to suspend logic in order to be able to enjoy <em>The Lake House</em>. I'm not even sure given the rules of the world in the movie that the ending makes sense. But still this isn't a movie like any I've seen before and by the end I was blubbering, a sniffling wreck of a human being. And this time around I don't even think this emotional state had anything to do with my odd affection to Sandra Bullock. By the end of the movie I truly cared what happened to the two characters, wishing despite the odds and the circumstances that they would end up together.<br /><br /><em>The Lake House</em> tells a convincing (albeit odd) story about how timing has as much to do if not more, with our place in the world in whether a relationship will succeed or not. The movie contains my favorite Keanu Reeves performance. He hits all the right notes as a decent, yet damaged architect. There's a scene where Bullock's character gives Reeves' character a gift, a book from the future that contains a very personal photograph, and given some difficult circumstances, Reeves begins to weep. It's a perfect scene. All the right emotions are expressed through his acting and verbal cues and not a word, and no music are needed to make it all work.<br /><br />Likewise in many ways this is Bullock's best movie yet. Her character is sad and lonely, quite aware of how her withdrawal from the world into her work and how her relationship with Reeves only adds to what is in a way wrong with the woman she has become. Bullock has shown in every one of her movies (except for the dreadful <em>Miss Congeniality</em> duo) that she understands that playing a role understated is often more effective than going over the top with something flashier. <em>The Lake House</em> features her most understated performance to date. She is sad and it isn't the absence of her smile that she uses to convey it. It's her body language. She looks weary here and even the events from a magic mail box doesn't seem capable of shaking her back to life.<br /><br />The day before I saw <em>The Lake House</em> I happened to watch Charlie Chaplin's last silent film, the brilliant <em>Modern Times</em> for the first time. There isn't a whole lot of similarities between the two movies yet both left me with a similar feeling of a re-energized, if still reserved hope of going out and facing the world again.<br /><br /><em>Modern Times</em> has a lot of great things going for it. There's Chaplin's sheer genius for physical comedy. (There's a scene where Charlie's character has accidentally ingested some cocaine while in prison and as he tries to march back to his cell with the rest of the prisoners after dinner, he does these snappy little twirls that are a delight.) There's also a spellbinding performance by Paulette Goddard (as the "gamin") whose joy and energy simply radiate off the screen. My favorite moment of the film though is when Charlie's character is coerced into accepting a job as a waiter and part of that job requires him to do a song for the restaurant patrons. Since talking movies were the wave of the future and Chaplin's silent skills all of a sudden were a thing of the past- the challenge for the character seem to be Chaplin's way of answering anyone skeptical of his ability to survive in the movies if he chose to do so (he didn't). The character is shy and nervous about singing in public for the first time and Chaplin plays this for all it's worth. And yet when he does finally sing it's a wonderful performance. It's the greatest cinematic middle finger gleefully ever given.<br /><br />Ironically <em>Modern Times</em> has proven to be timeless. It's the story of the might and weakness of labor unions and the corruption of power in a world devoted no matter what to technological advances despite the human costs. Watching the movie is like having the ability to reach into a magical movie mail box to another time to not only appreciate the history of what once was but also understand how what once was has made this world a better place after all.<br /><br />Likewise <em>The Lake House</em> given many critics' scorn and indifference will likely disappear as one of many failed summer movies of 2006. Yet I can foresee a time a couple of years from now when someone discovering this movie will unexpectedly be transported to another time and another place. That's the beauty of a good movie- it can take us to a place where we've never been before and yet still returns us to where we've never been quite able to leave behind.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3702760888328111343.post-6243098995519728292006-06-12T16:52:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:11:36.576-05:00The Singing Scooterer"<em>The sad irony of love is how seldom you feel it/Yet it's all you dream about night and day..."<br /></em>-Jim White<br /><br />Maybe I'll get out of bed this week. Maybe I won't. For me, life is more and more like that great Jim White song: <em>"They say it's better to be blessed than it is to be clever but I don't care./'Cause I got 10 miles to go on a 9 mile road and it's a rocky rough road/but I don't care./For life's nothing if not a blind rambling prayer/You keep your head held high a'walking and a'talking/'til the power of Love delivers you there."<br /></em><br />During a normal week if you're lucky (or blessed) enough to live in the Como Park area, or anywhere between Minneapolis and St. Paul, you might open up your drapes and windows one morning and happen to hear the warbling of an aging Asian fellow wearing a great big white helmet scooting by your home.<br /><br />Those familiar with scooter riding know that the A-number one thing to keep in mind at all times is "safety first." Thus no matter how tempting it might be to plug in one's iPod underneath that great big white helmet, ears, hearing, and listening are needed for other things like keeping track of the traffic around you.<br /><br />To make up for the lack of music, I've taken to singing. Singing my lungs and heart and spleen out. I don't care what looks I get. I don't care if the car next to me is bouncing up and down from the woofers and bass and blaring rap music. I don't care if there's someone standing waiting for a bus that can in all likelihood hear me. Along with my kitty blog, and this weekly column, and little else, singing on my scooter is my outlet, my forum.<br /><br />My scooter singing song selection isn't varying much these days. I just watched (and re-watched) the musical episode of <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</em>. Every time I see it I marvel at how effectively writer Joss Whedon demonstrates the art and power of music by how well he is able to capture the place each and every cast member was at at that point in time in the series' impressive flowing fluid storyline.<br /><br />My secret wish is that somewhere in the near future some smart and creative and in tune high school drama teacher will choose "Once More with Feeling" as his/her choice for the fall or spring musical stage presentation. I truly believe that the Buffy musical would make one hell of a terrific high school stage show The music is great and the emotion of the story and music ranks right up there with my favorite plays, <em>Oklahoma, The Sound of Music</em>, and <em>West Side Story.<br /></em><br />So there I am most mornings scooting down the streets of the Twin Cities, just waiting for an inattentive driver to hit me, and still able to feel a lot of joy and pleasure in all the fresh air and fresh scenes. And I wonder, why is it that I can so relate to Buffy's big songs? In the musical having been pulled by magic down from heaven Buffy is feeling quite dead inside, a feeling only made worse by the cold harsh reality of this world.<br /><br /><em>"Still I always feel the strangest estrangement/Nothing here is real, nothing here is right..." "I've been going through the motions/Walking through the part/Nothing seems to penetrate my heart..." "I can't even see/If this is really me/And I just want to be alive..."<br /></em><br /><em>"Life's a song you don't get to rehearse/and every single verse/can make it that much worse/And still my friends don't know why I ignore/the million things or more/I should be dancing for/All the joy life sends/family and friends/All the twists and bends/Knowing that it ends/Well that depends/on if they let you go..."<br /></em><br />I've also featured in my repertoire for my involuntary audience Xander and Anya's risqué retro-ditty (did Rock Hudson and Doris Day ever break into song?) "I'll Never Tell."<br /><br /><em>"He snores/She wheezes/Say housework and he freezes/She eats these squeazy cheeses that I can't describe/I talk, he breezes/She doesn't know what please is/His penis got diseases from a Shumosh tribe..."</em><br /><br />Or how about the relevance of Giles and Tara's duet, "Under Your Spell"?<br /><br /><em>"Believe me I don't want to go/And it will grieve me because I love you so/But we both know/Wish I could say the right words to lead you through this land..."</em><br /><br />It's been a lifelong dream that just once every one around me will break out into song and that life would be like the one I've on occasion witnessed in the dark, on stage with clean resolutions and meanings. Since that doesn't seem to be happening I guess my scooter riding singing will have to suffice. Wouldn't be a kick if once, just once someone would join in the song? If nothing else that spontaneous music would make me feel again and make whatever feelings I should be feeling a shared experience once more.Dmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10027947967576830478noreply@blogger.com0