Cheapo Newsletter

Together Through Life

2009-04-28T00:08:00.006-05:00

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.

What to make of Dylan's new CD, Together Through Life? 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..."

R.I.P. the CD 1982-2007

2008-01-25T13:37:00.000-06:00

By CHRIS RIEMENSCHNEIDER, Star Tribune

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.

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.

Simon Cowell, who is also a suspect in a mass plot to ruin pop music, is being questioned by police.

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.

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.

The CD survived, though, and went on to account for about 200 billion album sales worldwide.

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.

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

5 reasons to mourn the CD

1. No, really, they do sound better. Most MP3s feature data that's compressed for quicker downloads.

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.

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?

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).

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.

5 reasons to cheer its death

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.

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.

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.

4. It's good for the Earth. No toxic plastic or downed trees are used in the making of digital downloads.

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.

CD Sales Plummet, Leaving Retailers Spinning

2008-01-06T13:40:00.000-06:00

By JON BREAM, Star Tribune

Like Britney Spears' reputation, CD sales declined dramatically in 2007 -- 19 percent, to be exact.

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.

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.

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."

That means Best Buy is now custom-tailoring its CD selection for each store.

"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.

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.

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.

Target takes a similar approach with tailored inventory and exclusives, including recent Christmas discs by young stars Taylor Swift, KT Tunstall and Elliott Yamin.

"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.

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."

Indie stores diversify

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.

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.

Down in the Valley has expanded its non-CD merchandise (T-shirts, collectibles) by 30 percent.

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.

"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.

Music store morphs into gifts

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."

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.

"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.

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.

"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."

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."

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.

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."

That's because the under-25 crowd -- the iPod generation -- is hooked on downloading, not owning discs.

"My kid's got 1,000 songs in his MP3 [player]," Hyland said, "and he didn't buy any of them from me."

Jon Bream • 612-673-1719

A Dream Come True

2006-08-07T13:51:00.000-05:00

We 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

I was quite nervous when the first edition came out. All I could think about was what happened with the ABC TV newsmagazine 20/20 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.

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.

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.

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).

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, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Sandra Bullock. (OK no one has actually told me they like my Sandra pieces but didn't you all feel the love?)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It Was Fun While it Lasted, Like Gandhi When He Fasted

2006-07-31T14:30:00.000-05:00

Next 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

See you all next week.

Jaded

2006-07-31T14:28:00.000-05:00

Bob's Quote of the Week: "The cynic smells flowers and looks all around for a coffin."

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.)

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?).

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.

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.

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?")

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. "Who's gonna love you when your looks are gone?" 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?

What's even better is Simon eventually answers his own question with the definitive, "God will... like he waters the flowers on your window sill." It's a sterling image.

The other thing I did from falling into a funk was to re-watch the terrific Canadian sitcom The Newsroom. The CBC show is kind of a cross between an updated Mary Tyler Moore Show and Sports Night. 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.

The Newsroom 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 The China Syndrome and begins interviewing actors to play the part ofreporters and nuclear power experts.

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.

In the end it's perhaps the best end to a TV show season I have ever seen. And although The Newsroom 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.

Take Me Out Of/To The Ballgame

2006-07-24T14:32:00.000-05:00

I'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Cheapo Newsletter Diet

2006-07-17T16:40:00.000-05:00

My 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Joshua Tree or Alex Chilton's High Priest are such delightful recordings?) and I've rediscovered how much I love music.

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.

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.

When You Gonna Wake Up?

2006-07-10T16:42:00.000-05:00

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?

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, Through the Glass Darkly 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.

Winner of the Oscar for "Best Foreign Film" Through the Glass Darkly 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.

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.

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.

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 Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 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.

Whenever I tell someone they HAVE to watch these episodes of Buffy 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.

Through the Glass Darkly 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 Buffy 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.

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.

Through the Glass Darkly 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 (Winter Light and The Silence) but now I just have to. I'm sure SCTV 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.

Losing my Religion While Getting Right with God

2006-07-03T16:44:00.000-05:00

It 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.

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.

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.

(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?")

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.

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.

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.

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.")

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.

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?

That's why I will faithfully be watching Bill Moyers' new PBS show, Faith and Reason. The show features interviews with famous writers (the first show featured Salman Rushdie). Ultimately Faith and Reason 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.

If You Were Scoring My Life

2006-06-26T16:46:00.000-05:00

There's a scene in the movie The Lake House 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.

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).

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.

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."

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 Buffy the Vampire Slayer 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."

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 Buffy episode makes me cry every time I see it.

"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..."

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.

Then there's the scene from the movie I've seen more times than any other- The Karate Kid. 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?

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?

Sandra and Keanu Reunite Via Magic Mail Box

2006-06-19T16:48:00.000-05:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Demolition Man. 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.

Since Bullock became a star with Speed, 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.

Bullock's latest film, The Lake House, reunites her with her Speed co-star, Keanu Reeves. The Lake House couldn't be anymore different than Speed. 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 Speed. Indeed The Lake House's plot reaffirms what Bullock's character repeated over and over to Jack in Speed: that relationships that begin under extreme circumstances seldom last.)

The Lake House is a remake of a Korean movie called Il Mare 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.

Not much happens in the movie other than two people fall in love. The beauty of The Lake House is that the movie well understands that two people falling in love happens every day but it still doesn't happen nearly often enough.

Given the story's unique plot device one has to suspend logic in order to be able to enjoy The Lake House. 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.

The Lake House 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.

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 Miss Congeniality duo) that she understands that playing a role understated is often more effective than going over the top with something flashier. The Lake House 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.

The day before I saw The Lake House I happened to watch Charlie Chaplin's last silent film, the brilliant Modern Times 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.

Modern Times 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.

Ironically Modern Times 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.

Likewise The Lake House 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.

The Singing Scooterer

2006-06-12T16:52:00.000-05:00

"The sad irony of love is how seldom you feel it/Yet it's all you dream about night and day..."
-Jim White

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: "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."

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.

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.

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.

My scooter singing song selection isn't varying much these days. I just watched (and re-watched) the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 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.

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, Oklahoma, The Sound of Music, and West Side Story.

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.

"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..."

"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..."

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."

"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..."

Or how about the relevance of Giles and Tara's duet, "Under Your Spell"?

"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..."

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.

At the Hot Corner

2006-06-05T16:54:00.000-05:00

It was over ninety degrees Memorial Day Eve. Hotter than an empty can of Dr. Pepper thrown and discarded on a newly paved road with its tar melting away into a pungent vapor. So hot that I finally put my wallet away and turned on the AC for the feline population I'm living with, the ones with fur coats and panting from the hot air.

It was the day when my family had a little get together at the cemetery where Mom is and isn't. My brother-in- law, Dan who is a minister by trade and faith, conducted a nice service where he asked us to share some things we remember about Mom. I would have said something but it really isn't in my nature and I know Mom would have been the last person to expect that I would say something. If I had I think I would have said something about one of the last coherent conversations Mom and I had before the morphine she was taking for the pain her cancer was causing caused her mind to space out. Mom told me that she really wished she had saved some of my not to be broadcast radio shows I taped as a kid.

This memory came to me listening to Bob Dylan's XM Satellite Radio Show, Theme Time Radio Hour, particularly the second show played during the week of Mother's Day, a show dedicated to music about mothers. What I thought about saying at the cemetery was what Bob said to open this installment of his show. How moms are the only people in the world that can divide their love equally among ten children and yet each child has all her love. I liked that.

It's hard to believe that it's been nearly six years since Mom died. Things have gone by fast, things that don't mean much, things that mean everything. During the sad moments I wish Mom were still around because I know she'd make everything just a little bit more bearable. During the happy moments, those few and far between, I wish Mom were around because there was no one better to share happiness with, no one who rooted harder for me to be just a little bit happier but didn't push it in any way.

The moments are there. There was a moment on the way home from a friend's graduation party when I was stopped at the stop light at the corner of Lexington and Grand Avenues in St. Paul when an attractive middle aged couple exited the Lexington a fancy restaurant my Mom ate at once, a place far too rich for me and my friends. I happened to overhear this couple's conversation that began as a red Mini-Cooper drove on by. The woman told the man that she wished she could drive one of those. The guy pointed to my scooter and told the woman that she would be happier with what I was riding on. I wanted to interrupt them and point out that I have both and that either choice would be a good one. But I didn't, I just smiled and waited for the light to turn green. (It usually does.)

Mom probably would have frowned at my scooter riding, having forbade all us kids from getting a motorcycle. One of her few steadfast rules. But the episode by the Lexington reminded me of the joke I learned from J.D. Salinger about what one wall said to the other. "Meet you at the corner!"

Mom would have laughed. She would have also would have chuckled at the latest installment of Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour that featured songs about baseball and included a wonderful opening where Bob sang a smile inducing acapella version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."

Speaking of happiness Mom loved the late Max the Cat almost as much as I did and not only because he was a great cat, but because she knew how much I loved him and that was good enough for her. Thus I think she'd also be quite fond of the three cats who keep me company, keep me entertained and keep me from slipping off into the darkness for too long a time. Mom would have loved how Thompson, the three-legged cat who has had issues of trust, undoubtedly since the accident where a trap cost him his leg and nearly cost him his life, will take a step forward in trusting life once again even if later he'll take a couple of steps backwards. The way he deals with each day is enough to forget at how unfair life can be. It's a struggle but one he manages.

Mom would have also loved how Theo, the youngster, loves to launch himself into my arms and how Diego-san is the best cuddler since Stephanie Jane (not that I remember or knew). I didn't say any of this at the cemetery but hopefully Mom heard anyway.

The Fourth Boy

2006-05-29T16:55:00.000-05:00

We all know the story. They were just about to hit the big time. They had conquered their home town and beyond and with every appearance the legend began to grow. Four cheeky lads. But behind the scenes there was discontent. The rhythm guitarist and the bass player, who shared singing duties, were said to be jealous of the drummer's dark brooding handsome good looks. Or that's what the drummer's mom said when asked to explain why the rhythm guitarist and the bass player ended up firing the drummer and replacing him with a sickly (and somewhat homely) lad.

We'll never know if the Beatles would have been as big, or bigger had Pete Best remained the drummer and Ringo Starr had been left to bum around back in Liverpool. We'll never know if Pete was a better drummer than Ringo. We may never know the real reason for the personnel change.

Whatever. This past week may have been just as momentous as the one where the Beatles switched drummers. This was the week where the three boyz of a certain Hamline Avenue brick abode were joined by a ghostly fourth finally shedding the baggage of being part of an involuntary quartet where the parts of the trio added up to a much greater sum than being lumped in with the spare wheel who wasn't one of their own species.

The aquatic newbie may not have the graying good looks of who he's theoretically replacing in the group but he is much more likely to add charisma to the chemistry.

For those of you in need of a program in order to keep track of the players here's a quick run down: Thompson and Diego-san are the skilled duo that were originally brought together through a quirk of fate. Diego-san is the cute charmer with multiple, if at times cloying talents. Thompson is the neurotic edgy one. Together their differing personalities blend into something magical.

Theo is younger than Thompson and Diego-san and sometimes follows the two around like a lost little brother. But Theo has his own abilities that can't be overlooked even if sometimes they're overshadowed. He's also probably the most likely to return to his eastern spiritual roots in search for answers.

The newcomer? He's Bucky the beta fish. The auburn hair lass was kind enough to buy Bucky to give him a new home. And granted he isn't an actual resident of the household that holds the other three boyz, rather he's an absentee member who lives a ways down the street in the Hennepin County Government Center. Bucky isn't a flashy beta fish- he's mostly silver with flashes of a spectacular shade of blue. He seems to perk up when the overhead lights are turned on and the dour and increasingly sour office holder finally appears in the morning.

Bucky's small goggle shaped tank with a plastic plant and purple rocks sits right next to a photo of the late great Mr. Max- the Elvis Presley of cats (without the self indulgence and self destruction). Bucky seems leery of the image of Max and yet often spends a lot of time on that side of the tank as if curious about that sweet face looking in on things.

It's quite possible that the group of four will never be in the same location at the same time but the bond is there in spirit nonetheless. Each provide a great reminder to one not always keen on life itself, that this moment, this shared time, maybe the best of all, no matter what has gone down before.

And like the Beatles' manager Brian Epstein, the one responsible for bringing this group of four together has his manic moments but nothing is ever enough to overwhelm how proud he remains of all these special beings and how lucky he is to know them. Yes the group may not have the ability to surpass the Dixie Chicks (the 21st Century answer to the Beatles) as the most popular group of the day. And yes everyone involved has to tip their caps or beanies or hats to the country trio's great new song, "Not Ready to Make Nice" that channels anger and hurt in such a searing way, proving an artful testament to the knowledge that time doesn't really heal all wounds. But this is not to say that one day the four won't find the way to do something just as big, just as impressive. Just you watch.

Scootin'

2006-05-22T16:57:00.000-05:00

One gets a false sense of exercise from scooter riding. You're out in the fresh air moving rapidly and yet riding on a scooter hardly qualifies as cardiovascular activity in any way other than the scares you get from being amongst inattentive drivers.

That's unfortunate for those of us who love scooter riding and who also are increasingly aware of how tight the old pants are getting. Besides scooter riding the closest thing I get to exercise these days is spinning the dial of my iPod.

Thus I was rather glad when the softball season started a couple of weeks ago. Every season the fear exists that this will be the year that the key to my softball game, my legs/speed will finally give way to my advanced age. I do not have enough power to be an intimidating batter though I do have to say my hand eye coordination all but makes up for my poor eyesight. My glove is above average but my range is about as good as a satellite radio placed in a Panic Room.

The part of my game that gets the other team's attention is my speed. Other than Greg Gagne I'm not sure there's a human alive that in his hey day was quicker in going from first to third. (Part of that is knowing the proper angles to take to get from here to there even faster.) The first two games of the season have proven that my game isn't entirely behind me quite yet. I haven't quite been consistent in my hitting (too many popups) but I've nailed a couple pitches on the button. More importantly despite not using my legs at all this winter, I still find there's some juice there when I turn on the jets.

I'm almost as fast as Theo the cat who displays his speed daily on a regular basis as he races Thompson, Diego-san and myself up the stairs in an impressive fashion.

I continue to love playing softball. My attempt to transition into becoming a curler knowing that my years as a softball player are numbered but my years as a curler could conceivably go on for awhile, have gone down with mixed results. I like playing curling but I dreamingly lose myself playing softball.

Of course a lot of that loves comes from my lifelong love of the game of baseball. That love is the only love of my love (with one rolling exception) that has continued to grow with time. Last year my friend asked me to join his fantasy baseball league. I had participated in another league a couple of years ago and had a decent time so I was glad to be asked to play again. It's a National League fantasy league (plus the Twins) with a few other American Leaguers included from years past when teams were made up of players from both leagues.

I inherited a team that included Joe Mauer, Alfonso Soriano, Mark Buerhle, Billy Wagner, and Torii Hunter. Before the season began we had a draft with a certain amount of dollars to spend on our entire roster. The draft involved each owner throwing out the name of a player and everyone having the opportunity to bid on the player.

I wasn't too happy with the team I ended up with after the draft. I was forced to take some players I never liked much (like Raul Mondesi and Doug Mientkiewicz) but by watching the waiver wire and free agent pool I was able to mold my team into something much better as the season progressed. I found myself in first place for much of the year even though I didn't have a single National League all star. (Soriano and Buerhle made the American League squad.)

The Grey Duck Fantasy League has been around for nearly a decade and in my first season I was able to do what several owners that had been around for years had never done- I won the league. No one in the history of the league had repeated as champs so this year I have my work cut out for me. (Who issued the truism that says that it's much more difficult to repeat than win in the first place?)

I like the team I started with much better than last year. Right now I find myself mired in second place far behind the leader. I don't have enough pitching to win this thing unless youngsters like Francisco Liriano, Scott Olsen, and Gavin Floyd can put together solid seasons. I find myself checking the National League boxscores first thing in the morning and have become somewhat obsessed with the players on my fantasy team.

Having been a critic of the geekiness of fantasy sports (football in particular that has its participants far too obsessed with statistics rather than unpredictability of the sport) I never thought I'd find myself so involved in what's going on with other teams in other towns. I maybe the only person in Minnesota who gets upset when Hanley Ramirez of the Florida Marlins has an OHfer game. I love that my team, the Osaka Cat's Meow continues to perform at a high level validating my hunches about certain players. I love scouring newspapers trying to find the next great player. Still I realize fantasy baseball is to real ball what scooter riding is to real exercise. Yet the benefit of this game is that it gives me something to think about during my free as a bird scooter rides.

And in a matter of the media finally getting it right...

WQSR-AM

2006-05-15T16:58:00.000-05:00

By far the best birthday gift I ever got was back in the fourth or fifth grade when Mom and Dad gave me a home radio station play set that I spotted in the Sears' catalog. It was a package set complete with a turntable, microphone, headphones, and marker board that allowed me to set the radio station's schedule and songlists.

A short while later I got a recordable 8-track player that allowed me to spend most of my weekends creating radio shows that featured my not so good radio mimicry voice and burgeoning 45 record collection.

My station featured the stone solid Stoney Duncan's new show in the morning and the wacky Figgy Figueroa noon time stint, a show that was a bit too close for comfort to WCCO-AM's Steve Cannon's. The day's highlight however was probably Shotgun Smalley's drive time show featuring all the latest hits from Barry Manilow to Paper Lace.

Somewhere in my Father's house are a bunch of 8-track tapes featuring the last broadcasts from WQSR's many talented DJs. I'm sure if listened to now they would fall neatly in line with the hall of fame tapes of Eddie Cantor, Fred Allen, and all those other classic radio shows.

It should be clearly stated that one of my many cocky misconceptions about my own abilities (and it ranks right up there with my belief my baseball abilities are of Major League caliber) is that my few talents rise above even the given geniuses of this world. I've never shaken the belief that the few things I do well, I do better than anyone I know.

Among these hidden talents lay the DJing skills that could light up the radio dial like no one from here to Topeka. Up until this past week, my favorite DJ was the Current's Mary Lucia, who is among the few people left in this world who has the ability to make me chortle aloud.

Having just received my XM Satellite radio, I have fallen under the spell of a new favorite DJ whose skills I have to admit go far beyond my own. The second installment of Bob Dylan's "Theme Time Radio Hour" proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's possible to hear something brand new that still sounds as if it has existed forever beyond time.

There are several things to recommend about Dylan's show. First and foremost is his obvious knowledge and love of music. This has been evident before in the covers of songs he has done over the years. The songs DJ Bob plays from Ruth Brown to LL Cool J, reinforce the man has a great ear. The other thing that has been a delightful reminder is Dylan's wicked sense of humor. In the first theme time hour that featured songs about weather, he introduced a Judy Garland tune saying something that Ms. Garland was from Minnesota, "just like Prince."

His second theme time hour featured songs about moms and included a wonderful opening poem about all the things moms do for their kids. "M is for all the things mom has done; O is for the other things mom has done; T is for all the things mom has done..." My favorite part of the mom show was Bob's introduction to Julia Lee's "Mama Don't Allow It." "This is Julia Lee, one of those singer/piano players. Lots of double entrendres, making her very popular in Kansas City." HUH?! It reminded me of the first week's observation that Chicago really isn't the Windy City but rather that distinction should obviously go to Dodge City, Kansas.

It's a long road that carries one from the days young dreamers used to hide a radio underneath their pillows late at night to try and catch the 50,000 watt stations located throughout the country to now where we have satellite's beaming down independent channels providing an alternative to the generic stations that one dials up on a regular radio. That new/old road crosses with another that has someone somewhere losing himself in dreams on a system advertised in the Sears catalog.

Mad Town

2006-05-08T16:59:00.000-05:00

"Remember when I revealed myself to you in the car/Listening to 'Rock 'n Roll Animal' as the night got dark/Your mother called up and said/'Go ahead girl and get yourself free...'"
-Ike Reilly

I've learned to live my life via the George Costenza method. I like my life circles to remain separate. I don't like my circles colliding. I see life as a great big snowman where the three big body parts represent different life cycles and one is placed on top of the next. There of course is some leakage as things get too hot and one's form starts to melt and dissolve. But no matter how it ends up, spiritually the parts are meant to be separate and distinct because that's the way we are built.

The last time I stayed in Madison, Wisconsin was the summer between my junior and senior years of college. I remember walking around Lake Michigan late one evening, near the student union (the only student union in the country that sells beer to its patrons). I was slowly/rapidly inevitably falling in love having just gone to my first Bob Dylan show, the one where the songs were nearly indistinguishable as the echoes bounced around inside the Metrodome. I also was falling into a sea of trouble with the girl who according to a daily Google search may have been swept away lost in the Tsunami.

This time, the trip to Madison (Scootertown, USA) wasn't in any way meant to recapture or re-experience anything that's gone before. Who remembers all that? This time it was truly an excursion in getting out of here, getting away to somewhere/anywhere if only temporarily. Despite a four hour delay caused initially by a flat tire and ultimately by a full four tire replacement and brake repair to the tune of over $1000, believe me (if you can) by the time we reached Madison I was glad to be there again and quite looking forward to the weekend.

"Trample on your yesterdays/But never on your tomorrows..."
-Ike Reilly (again)

My soon to be graduated graduate school friend and I spent Friday night finding a place to stay (and eat). We planned on dining at an Ethiopian restaurant her friend had recommended but ended up next door through a confusing door alignment at an impressive Afghani restaurant instead.

The next day began with a continental breakfast served at the converted dorm/meeting center that fell into our price range. We overheard the conversation of a table of people who were in town to celebrate their 50th anniversary of some moment of life, either a high school graduation or a college reunion.

I don't really have a lot of time these days for the marking of time. I could never have even a ten year plan because after all that has gone down (and wrong) I never figured I'd live this long.

We spent all of Saturday doing a lot of walking- around the Farmer's Market and the lovely university campus. Originally when this trip was planned the reason we gave was I had heard from an up and comer/two timer that Iron Chef Morimoto had a restaurant in Madison. That was enough reason to drop and run. Our end goal then was to find his restaurant even though it was a rumor stirring the fumes we were driving on. We ended up spending our last meal at an impressive Japanese restaurant named "Restaurant Muramoto" that was so well designed (and the food so great, especially a duck based sushi roll) that it just had to be connected to an Iron Chef despite the spelling discrepancy.

We returned home, me thankfully with a new be-bop hat on head (dispelling my Dad's notion that I never wear hats anymore) and a hand made clay clock that features the many positions of a black cat (who resembles Diego-san's shadowy self) spaced out across the face to count down the time that passes away each and every day.

None of this would have made any sense whatsoever of course if not the thankful appearance of a newly released Ike Reilly EP, The Last Demonstration. The six song mix is a combination of demos of already released songs and songs that weren't included on Ike's last CD. What is learned upon this latest release of our most underrated (God why aren't people listening to him) artist? Only that it's wonderful to hear sketches of songs that Ike has since more fully developed.

Another what the hell does this mean question that comes to mind is how Ike's last two CDs (Sparkle in the Finish and Junkie Faithful) have been named from lyrics to songs that were ultimately left off the full length CDs in favor of subsequent EPs. Not all may agree but I love the rawness, and the weariness, and the unpolished vocals Ike gives us on The Last Demonstration. This is a naked soul creating something new from something that's soon to be rather than what ever was. And that's exactly what a scooter riding Mini Cooper owner blindly sees as the route to take, the way to go, even if he has no clue as to what a ten year plan may or can look like ever again.

Satchel Paige May Have Been Right

2006-05-01T17:01:00.000-05:00

As a long time sufferer of a bout of Agoraphobia I now think I'm the premier text example of a brand new affliction, Rearendaphobia.

My fear of leaving my home was at its very worst during the late '80's/early 90's (my so called "Blue Period") when working myself up to drive myself to work was a chore unto itself. Somehow I survived all that and didn't find myself one who stayed safe at home at all times with his 20,000 cats (not yet) and have forced myself to do my share of traveling and getting out over the years.

So I allowed myself to feel some pride over time mostly overcoming one of my gazillion phobias. That was until this past week when I discovered I've come down with another crippling fear. Having been hit from behind twice in the past month, I find myself every time I'm at a stoplight looking in my rearview mirror clenching up whenever I see a vehicle coming up from behind at a speed I think maybe too fast to stop.

This new fear was at its worst on Thursday when I planned to stop after work at Circuit City (my personal boycott of Best Buy continues thank you very much Jennie Haire), to buy myself a satellite radio. In the preceding days I had the pleasure of hearing a sample of Bob Dylan's new XM Satellite radio show via the Internet. The show was quite entertaining, as Dylan featured folk and blues songs revolving around the theme of weather.

Listening to Dylan in this new format I couldn't help but picture the image of a young Bob tuning in to his scratchy portable radio while growing up in Hibbing trying to listen to Hank Williams and Odetta. This image pretty much has been influenced by the same imagery presented in the early scenes of Walk the Line where the young Johnny Cash/Joquin Phoenix sits transfixed by his family's radio trying to tune in the Carter Family's radio show.

Just as I was about to leave my house for Circuit City I decided I didn't want to chance getting rear ended once again. So I got online and ordered the radio from the XM website complete with the additional $11 shipping charges.

Having this new fear as the kids say, bummed me out. I have enough trouble sleeping at night without worrying about the next time someone will crash into me and my vehicle. (If only I could keep moving maybe then no one will hit me). That's when the following day I climbed into my now scarred shiny red Mini-Cooper and plopped the new Susanna Hoffs/Matthew Sweet (Sid and Susie) CD, Under the Covers Vol. 1 into my car's CD player. The music that blasted out of my speakers made me crack a rather broad smile.

Back during my self inflicted and so called "Blue Period" I discovered this obscure LP called Rainy Day that was as sunny as could be despite the name, featuring many L.A. musicians including members of the Bangles, the Dream Syndicate, Three O'Clock, and the Rain Parade. Susanna's cover of Dylan's "I'll Keep It With Mine" and Lou Reed's "I'll Be Your Mirror" was the fuel that kept me going for a month or two.

Under the Covers is kind of a sequel to Rainy Day. Sweet and Hoffs cover a whole bunch of 60's tunes with such love and sun that the music glimmers. Among the many great songs covered are the Beatles' "And Your Bird Can Sing" that swings with a great deal of fun, and the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning" that almost matches the magic of the original version.

Hearing the bugged eyed Susanna's lead vocals on Dylan's sad "It's All Over Baby Blue" and backing vocals on Neil Young's "Cinnamon Girl" was almost inspiring enough to reinvigorate me to get over my Rearendaphobia and hit the road no matter the costs, no matter the consequences. As the CD closed with a cover of the Bee Gees' "Run to Me" sung with such sweetness and passion, I couldn't help but get over myself if only for a moment or two.

Rear Ended (Again)

2006-04-24T17:20:00.000-05:00

I guess I need a Hummer.

I was driving home the other day just a few miles down the road where last month Jazmin the Jeep driver rammed into the back of my Honda Civic, totaling it. On this particular day the rain had made the drive home all the way from Minnetonka via 394 a bit stressful. But I took things slow, enjoying my new shiny used red Mini Cooper.

I was now closer to home, stopped at a stop light, the second car in line when I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a Chevy Impala speeding up behind me. Thoughts of Jazmin, which have never left my head since that accident, came again barreling into my noggin. "That car is going much too fast," I said to myself bracing myself for the impact. Sure enough the Impala didn't stop in time and instead rammed into the back of my car.

This time I was pissed. There was no excuse. It wasn't raining out anymore. The sun was shining and the roads were hardly treacherous. I may not have many virtues but usually being calm and composed is my general nature. It takes a lot to set off my temper and I have learned over the years that most situations are better handled in a quiet manner.

But this time I had enough. I had enough of bad drivers- careless or indifferent, or distracted drivers. Drivers too lazy to use their turn signals, or their headlights during rainstorms, or those who roll through stop signs. Drivers who think it necessary to carry on the most inane conversations on cell phones rather than pay attention to what they should be paying attention to- the road and other drivers around them.

But it wasn't only bad drivers I had enough of. I was tired of people in general who don't pay any attention to those around them- those walking with their heads down; those stopping to hold conversations at the top of escalators or right in the middle of busy walk ways; those who get on to elevators before letting others off and then standing right in the front of the button panel making it impossible for others to push the button to their own floor. Maybe I was just at the end of a seven year rope but I had had enough.

I got out of my shiny red Mini, checked for the damage (nothing visible) and made my way to the car going much too fast that it couldn't stop in time. The driver opened his door and I started screaming at him. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING???" I felt myself losing control. I felt myself more angry than I had been in a long, long time.

"I just spaced out," the driver said. "I'm sorry."

My voice was going hoarse and my throat felt raw. For the second time in a month I pulled my car to the side of the road with another. The driver of the other vehicle gave me his name, number, and insurance information.

I looked at my Mini more closely. There's a little ding in the fender and a few scratches. All I could think about on my drive home was that if I had been on my scooter when this had happened I would have been sent airborne and my family would have been paying money for an obituary and a coffin.

I was more than a little wound up when I got home. I tried calling my friend, the last one to speak to me before the accident, who left me with the words, "Be careful in your Mini Cooper!" but I got her voice mail instead.

It was one of those many times that I was glad to come home to my three boyz. Thompson, the three-legged cat came hopping over to me, grunting as he does as he walks and talks. He reached up to me with his lone front paw, and I could hear his purring loud as could be. I told him what just happened and he looked at me with his big round sad brown eyes and all seemed OK again.

The very next day I pulled out a little book my photographer friend Tom gave to me a couple years ago when he learned of my love of the Mini Cooper. The book is a slick advertising pitch for the Mini about the coolness of motoring. Among its many pearls of wisdom come on a page that reads, "Don't freak out if your MINI gets a nick or a ding. Just think of them as scars. And as most people will tell you, scars are sexy. They tell a story. They're evidence of an active life. A life worth living. You'll probably get them fixed but while they're there, take solace in the fact that they represent a life experience. And as with scars, feel free to embellish on how a nick came to be. Maybe it came from the steel-studded collar of a rabid dog that had been chasing you for three blocks and threw himself at your door the moment you jumped in your MINI. Exaggeration is a motorer's prerogative."

I'm thinking I won't get the ding fixed. Maybe I'll just let it remind me of the day enough was enough and that in itself was enough for now.

My Own (and Only My Own) Silver Bullet

2006-04-17T17:21:00.000-05:00

"When you're lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Eastertime too/And your gravity fails and negativity don't pull you through..."
-Mr. "Dillon"

You just never know. You just don't.

I've never gotten into, nor understood the whole Springsteenian thing- this whole love affair with a mode, model, and make of some form of transportation. I've never much cared how or what got me from here to there. I've rather obsessed on just getting there. So in grade school when Michael Hafner tried to teach me the difference between an International semi-truck and a Mack semi-truck I never quite cared enough to learn. Same goes when Chuck Schrantz raved about the Dodge Dart I drove to high school.

Even when my Mom told the family that when she took one of them job aptitude tests placing you in your right job, her test suggested that she become a truck driver- and even later on when she said her dream car was a Mazda Miata, I just couldn't muster much enthusiasm for the wheels that spun round and round.

If left to my own devices I'd bypass all kinds of planes, trains, and automobiles if someone could only get us to the Star Trek way of getting around the need for the tedium of motors and carburetors and crank shafts to get to a final destination. In other words (probably much more clear words) I always thought I couldn't be happy with traveling until the transporter was finally invented.

Things have changed. First, last year when I got talked into buying a scooter and soon fell in love with my commute to work and other places. My ride no longer was just something that wasted time but with the fresh air and the pleasure of being right out there in the open to see, hear, and experience things in a whole other light- I just couldn't get enough of scooting. That plus the ability to zip around in a less than tank sized vehicle was a brand new appreciated experience.

Then, a couple of weeks ago I bought the one car in my life that caught my fancy- the Mini Cooper. When I told my cat-sitting niece I had bought a Mini, her immediate reaction was to call me a "dork." How could I disagree? A Mini and a Scooter (how cute does that sound?) now fill my garage and both were purchased after my 40th birthday- quickly suggesting some sort of mid-life crisis for those that don't know me better. (I've got the maturity of a four year old after all.)

So after finally getting my scooter's carburetor cleaned and purring along, I rode my bike to work one unseasonably warm day this week. Eight hours later I was in a bit of a hurry to get home. When I went down to the bike rack where my scooter (don't ya dare call it a moped!) was locked and parked, I turned the key to try and start it. It was completely dead. Not a spark to be found anywhere within sight (or touch).

I called the dealer, Bob, who didn't have much advice. I checked the battery and fuse connections. I tried kick starting my scooter rather than electric starting it, but that didn't cause the smallest rumble. My scooter was dead. Just as I was about to give up all hope I jiggled something and saw the oil indicator light up. Sure enough the scooter soon fired right up and just in time for me to get to the Twins' game I held tickets for.

As I was sitting with a friend watching our team beat the dreaded Yankees, I looked about ten rows down. There I spotted a lanky guy in a Scooterville T-shirt, and that guy was Bob who I had just frantically called hours before. By now I was calm, having gotten my scooter to run, and I was glad to see Bob was as into the game as I was. On this particular night our team scooted past the other even though the other happens to be making much more money and traditionally and always gets much more attention. It was a fitting end to the day, a lesson learned of no matter how much the wheels may or may not spin, the way we get to somewhere maybe just maybe could be considered important in the end.

You Bee 40

2006-04-10T17:21:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I spent many Sunday afternoons with my family walking the malls of Brookdale and Rosedale and on special occasions, Ridgedale. This past Sunday I spent the day walking a mall in downtown Cleveland. I mention this not as an example of how far (or how not so far) I've come over the years, but rather that malls are about as comfortable place for me to be on a Sunday afternoon as any other. This particular Cleveland mall was connected to the Ritz-Carlton motel I was staying at. As I wandered around on a lazy late morning trying to kill time before I headed out to the airport, I saw a long line of people waiting outside a shoe store. Turns out this long line of people was for those waiting to tryout to be extras in the next Spiderman movie.

For the second time in two years I was in Cleveland attending election administration classes. The irony isn't lost on me of taking election administration classes in Ohio, the state that ran into the most publicized troubles in the country in 2004. The class I was taking had to do with public policy making. The instructor introduced himself as a huge baseball fan (he liked the Braves) and went on to say that the reason he likes the lawmaking process is for the same reason he likes baseball- that's it's a terrific game. He kind of lost me there. One of the reasons I stopped working at the Legislature was that I was tired of watching people treating the passage of important public policies as some type of game to be won or lost.

But I was glad to be in Cleveland again.

My second trip to Cleveland thankfully included going to the Indians' home opener that happened to be against the Twins. It rained the morning of the game but by the time we got to the stadium it was just drizzling. A fog rolled in around the third inning but never got thick enough to be too bothersome. Jacobs Field is a terrific ballpark. For non-baseball fans it's a place to go just to be. For those of us who need to hang on to each and every pitch as if our life depended on it, the experience of being in an old fashioned immaculately designed atmosphere with all the modern conveniences (a huge scoreboard, fireworks, and sushi) just makes the greatest game of all, that much more enjoyable.

For years I've advocated for a new Twins ballpark simply because the Metrodome was never meant to be a place to watch baseball. God almighty how can we even consider it the same game with all the phony aesthetics not to mention the pop flies lost in a white(!) roof? And for freaking sake, the majority of seats in the Dome are facing the wrong way... The experience of watching a baseball game at Jacobs Field versus watching one in the Metrodome is akin to the difference between shopping at a mall and walking up and down the store fronts of your friendly small town main street. Having now seen a few games at Jacobs Field I'm more convinced than ever that this is exactly what either downtown St. Paul or Minneapolis needs. This isn't all about giving a billionaire owner and millionaire players the benefit of our tax dollars. It's about how baseball can mean so much for our state and we the fans and semi-fans deserve a great place to enjoy the game.

The Twins got hammered 11-6 with the biggest damage coming from Casey Blake, a former Twin, who hit a grand slam home run. But amongst the obnoxious Indians' fans we were surrounded by I couldn't help but feel a little optimistic that the player I consider to be the key to the Twins' season, Justin Morneau, smacked two home runs and nearly missed a third. And despite the dreary weather I quite enjoyed seeing the new Twins (Luis Castillo, Rondell White, and Willie Eyre) for my first time. (Was I the ONLY one in the stadium hoping that we'd get to see Francisco Liriano?)

It's great that a new baseball season is underway. It's even greater that I got to watch the beginning of this one in a fabulous venue. I'd never thought I'd be jealous of Cleveland.

On the plane ride home I was listening to Bob Dylan on my Nano when the flight attendant wheeled her cart up to my seat. I asked for some juice and she said, "Ham or Turkey!" Turns out she was handing out sandwiches not beverages. I meekly said, "Ham, please," and she handed me my sandwich with a gruff snort. I was glad to be getting home albeit a bit thirsty.

That Fiery Red Head

2006-04-03T17:23:00.000-05:00

It's not exactly an original observation that listening to Neko Case's voice beseeches the ghost of Patsy Cline to hover nearby. The power and passion in both Neko and Patsy's voices cause shivers to go up and down your spine and is almost enough to make the most cynical open up their minds to the thought that perhaps God does indeed exist.

Neko gave a stellar show last Wednesday at First Ave. She said she was suffering from a cold but even during the acapella parts of her songs the sheer emotion of her singing seemed almost beyond what mere humans are capable of. She's a crooner in the hippest sense of the word.

Her band is versatile enough to skillfully adapt to the different style of Case's songs from country to jazz to other worldly. Backup singer Kelly Hogan wrapped her voice around Neko's as tight as the braids that Neko kept nervously spinning her long red hair into all night long. It got to the point I wasn't listening to the words much as I just found myself lost in the sound of it all. Even when Neko was singing the high "woos" I was transfixed. Ethereal, positively ethereal.

She did a good mix of old songs with songs from her recently released CD, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. Several songs were introduced as being "sad" or "scary" as if those familiar with Case's songwriting needed the descriptive warning. My favorite songs were a trio of covers: Buffy St. Marie's "Soulful Shade of Blue" that had tremendous energy; "Wayfaring Stranger" which up until this evening my favorite version was Emmy Lou Harris' with a close second being Neko's version on last year's CD, The Tigers Have Spoken; and Bob Dylan's "Buckets of Rain" with a joyful arrangement that only enhanced the bittersweet lyrics. "Life is sad, life is a bust, all you can do is do what you must/You do what must do and you do it well/I do it for you, honey baby can't you tell?"

That's not to say that Neko's own songs didn't hold their own. There was the cutting "The Needle Has Landed" that had a driving groove; "John Saw that Number" that taught us all a bit more about the whole John the Baptist fable accompanied by a delirious banjo(!) solo; and a spooky "I Wish I was the Moon" where Neko's warble on the refrain, "I'm so tired I wish I was the moon tonight..." was so real and heartfelt that one wonders how she could convey such authenticity on the very first night of her tour.

An added bonus to the evening was that Martha Wainwright was the opening act. For the past five years I have burned a compilation of my favorite songs from the particular year for my family and friends. Last year's comp included songs from both Martha and Neko.

Martha is a charismatic live performer with her bouncy and sincere performing style. When she closed her set with the seductive "G.P.T." I was somewhere near heaven.

Earlier that day I test drove a shiny red Mini-Cooper. The ride was smooth. The car was my dream. It didn't take much thinking (critical or otherwise) to decide what I had to do. I'm in love with all things red these days. I made an offer to the owner and we settled on terms. Today we closed the deal and I drove home in my less than practical but coolest vehicle I'll ever own.

Of course the Mini has a fine speaker system and I deliberately made sure that Neko Case was the first voice that accompanied me on my ride. Driving home on 35W with Neko belting out "Twist the Knife" it occurred to me that it's been a long time since I felt so happy and content. I felt the power, both in pressing down on the gas pedal and from the music blasting in my ears. I'm not quite sure who will share in the ride during the life of my Mini (MY Mini!) but for the first time in a long time I'm glad I'm having such thoughts. The songs aren't so sad if you take the time to appreciate the road you've traveled to sing them.

Nine Lives of Separation

2006-03-27T17:25:00.000-06:00

Last fall the blue-eyed editor and I took a personal essay writing class at the Loft. Our class was full of a lot of lesbians and people with a lot of emotional scars. We also had a blogger- who ended up being among both the blue-eyed editor and my favorite classmates.

I worked up the nerve one class to ask the blogger the address of her site and what she wrote about. Being a voracious reader she blogs about the many books she reads. When I checked out her blog I discovered that Stefanie reads more books in a month than I've read the past five years.

One of her entries was about a memoir that a friend had just given to her called Waiting for My Cats to Die by Stacy Horn. Stefanie had to cancel a trip abroad because she couldn't find anyone who could take care of her diabetic cat. Horn's memoir in part deals with her having to deal with the needs of not one, but two diabetic cats. In her blog, Stefanie said she hadn't had the chance to read Horn's book yet. Still, the name of the book intrigued me enough to go out an get a copy of it.

Waiting for My Cats to Die is quite the enjoyable read despite some at times, depressing material. Horn is a 42-year-old woman obsessed with death. She's worried that her life has hit the stage when things really don't get better, that the luster of youth is truly gone. In between the accounts of caring for her cats who need insulin shots (and one also has a kidney ailment that requires a regular IV), she also writes about visiting cemeteries and her interviews with elderly people looking back at their lives with much insight while preparing themselves for death.

Horn's humor makes what otherwise might be a dreary drumbeat come alive. Even as she worries that her life maybe not only slipping away, but already has slipped away, her love of the little things, from her cats' behavior to her participation in a drum band (one of her fantasies is to be a rock star) is quite enchanting.

As I was making my way through the book I found myself relating to a life that revolves in many ways around a deep fondness for another species. The intrigue of the feline world has enriched my own life to such a degree that I couldn't help but smile at the chapters where Horn writes with a lot of love about the interaction between her and her cats.

And then I got to other chapters about another love of Horn's life- her love of the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer. During the show's seven seasons Horn seems to be the type of fan that looked forward to each and every Tuesday night. Buffy was the rare show that one made the effort to watch as it aired; taping it and watching it later just wasn't good enough. Her obsession with the show mirrored mine but in a way went beyond. She even thought about contacting one of those involved with the writing and acting to see if she could date them. (As much as I loved Faith and Anya and Marti Noxon, it never crossed my mind I should maybe write them a letter or zip off an email).

Horn also devotes a chapter of her book about seeing one of my all time favorite movies- the Japanese film After Life that concerns this company that recreates a single moment in life for those who have just died. This filmed recreation is the one memory that the deceased can take with them for the rest of eternity. It's an intriguing concept- given the choice, what memory would you want to relive forever over and over again?

I so connected with Horn's writing (and was somewhat freaked about all the things we share in common) that I seriously have thought about trying to contact her. Of course such contact would have stalker written all over it. Still in reading her memoir I think Horn is the type of person that would understand that dilemma.

Perhaps what I should do is send her the link to the blog I secretly started last January After we finished our personal essay class the blue-eyed editor and I decided to take a break from our writing classes. During our last class I found myself having a difficult time getting a handle on how to write a good essay. I was beginning to feel that what my own writing needed was a break. Then an alternate plan came to mind. It's been an ambition of mine to write a children's book. I've never done anything remotely close to children's writing and not having any kids I'm not sure I ever could. But my life with three cats gives me plenty of material that a kid might enjoy so the idea has increasing appeal.

Hence the idea of creating a blog about my cat's antics was launched. As I learned about how to create a blog and disciplining myself to daily posts I thought I would do so for a while in total anonymity. I was stunned then when a couple of people from other areas of the country posted comments to my blog telling me how much they loved it. The idea then of contacting Stacy Horn, a woman who like me loves cats and Buffy, may not be as crazy as it sounds.

Let's Be Careful Out There

2006-03-20T17:29:00.000-06:00

Lesson of the week? It's a dangerous world out there where it is very easy to get hit at unexpected times. Thank God for bumpers.

So I let myself get distracted. The first season of Hill Street Blues was recently released on DVD. It's my all time favorite TV show that doesn't have "Buffy" in its title. I've quite enjoyed seeing the first 13 episodes again albeit for about the fiftieth time.

The show seems a little bit dated now- its multiple interlocking storylines that back then were ground breaking now are a pretty standard part of a lot of shows from Six Feet Under to 24 and a lot of shows in between. But what made Hill Street so innovative and brilliant was it was often a show more about mood than storytelling. The writers knew that life isn't naturally organized into neatly recognizable beginnings, middles, and ends. Rather life is often about random events that come out of nowhere that have no inherent meaning other than those which we desperately try to peg on them.

Hill Street was a show about chaos and confusion in a police precinct. At its moral center was the police captain, Sir Francis Furillo who with quiet fortitude tried to hold together a crumbling universe that included eccentric cops and criminals, screaming ex-wives, and one fabulous babe public defender.

It was following Frank's calm but world weary approach to life that came in handy for me this week. It was the day after the first snowstorm where the streets were bumpy with isolated patches of ice. I was on my way to work when I found myself behind a big black Jeep that kept hitting its brakes. So I went around it preferring a safer ride comprised of a slower pace and more space between me and the car in front of me.

A couple of miles down the road I came to a stop at a stoplight. I happened to glance in my rear view mirror and saw the Jeep approaching me at a speed that given the road conditions I knew couldn't possibly stop in time. Sure enough as I braced myself for the impact the Jeep smacked hard into the back of my poor little Honda Civic.

I was more than a little pissed that the driver wasn't taking the weather and road conditions more into proper account. I got out of my car and discovered that the driver was a nice smelling young woman who opened her door and apologized and mumbled something about trying to stop but couldn't avoid sliding into me. I asked her for her insurance information and she asked if my car was actually damaged. I pointed out that my bumper was hanging at an unnatural angle. She reached into her glove compartment and handed me a sheet of paper. I wrote down the information. I thought I had handled the incident/accident quite calmly and as we were parting ways the driver (Jazmin) said, "I hope you have a better rest of the day." I didn't know how to respond to that other than to say, "Mercy. You too."

Now my back, neck, and shoulder are stiff and sore and the appraiser Jazmin's insurance company sent out to look at my car told me my car is likely totaled.

The news was sad not that I'm usually one to name my car and have an emotional attachment to all the places it's taken me. Even though it's the first car I've bought all on my own and even though we've traveled over 100,000 miles together, this car never meant as much to me as my last Honda. That one drove Stephanie Jane (who inspired a novel), Alex, and Anita and was hard to scrap and let go. This one has ridden Cindy, Jennie, Michelle, Tara, and Amy and many friends both here and there.

I think I was in a state of shock long after the accident occurred. I came home and listened to a new CD, Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins' Rabbit Fur Coat and was surprised by a wonderful cover of the Traveling Wilbury's "Handle with Care." The cover lacks Roy Orbison's operatic voice wail out "I'm so tired of being lonely/I still have so me love to give/Won't you show me that you really care?" And Lewis removes the "fobbed" off word in favor of another "F" word but God I was glad to hear the song again. Because I am tired of being beat up and battered around.

It was a bit depressing having to attach the detached bumper of my mangled car on with a piece of rope. It's a bit depressing trying to figure out my finances and trying to figure out what I can afford to buy. Should I get something fun like my favorite looking car, the Mini-Cooper? Or should I go for the gas mileage and dependability of another Honda? It seems overwhelming to even think about. The accident night I huddled myself under my blankets and listened extra closely to Sergeant Phil Esterhaus say his famous line to the Hill Street cops, "Let's be careful out there."

It Was a Gas

2006-03-13T17:31:00.000-06:00

What people who aren't baseball fans (specifically) or sports fans (in general) don't appreciate is how having your very own team to nostalgically root for through the years can provide such a vital thread to the fabric of your life.

You may be going through good times, you may be going through rough times but come spring baseball returns and there's not only a feeling of renewal, but there's also a feeling of remembering another time and place. It's with a lot of fondness and appreciation that I can still vividly feel the very first Twins game I went to. They lost 4-3 to the Milwaukee Brewers when pinch hitter Steve Brye left Jerry Terrell stranded on second base representing the tying run. Ray Corbin lost that game and I never forgave him. The memory of the hot sun and the smell of Met Stadium hot dogs are thankfully still part of who I am today.

My life and soul are totally unrecognizable today from the day in 1978 when I heard the news that my favorite baseball player, the Yankees captain Thurman Munson died in a plane crash. My complete being has changed from the August weekend in 1988 when Johnny Baynes and I roared in approval as Kirby Puckett went 10 for 11 in two games against the Brewers. Ever since that day I remember how Johnny called Kirby "Sunky Duckett" for no apparent reason and I not only see in my mind clear as a bell Kirby's churning running style but also his trademark ability to hit an unhitable pitch a very long way.

I remember the day the Twins drafted Kirby and sent him to their Visalia, California rookie league team. I also remember when they called him up to the majors. I read the news one evening as I went through the local newspapers in the Macalester College library as my friends were doing actual studying. For some reason I had a picture of him in my mind as a tall strapping white California kid. When I read the stories comparing his build with the Toy Cannon, Jimmy Wynn, I had to question where I got the mistaken notion of not only his race but his physical stature.

Kirby was never my favorite Twin. I was always more a Herbie fan. I think it always bothered me how all the little kids adored him and how the public address announcer Bob Casey focused attention on Kirby with his trademark introduction, "Number Thirteee Forrrrr, the centerfielder, Kirrrrbeeeee Puckett!!!!" It was just too easy for the casual fan to love Kirby with his teddy bear build and his flair for the dramatic.

Yet when his career was jeopardized by a horrible beaning, and when the next spring he was forced to retire with Glaucoma costing him his vision in one eye, I cried listening to the news conference of his retirement. It wasn't until then that I truly realized how lucky I had been to be a fan during his entire career as a Twin- getting the pleasure to see so many of the games that Kirby played in.

The decade before his arrival things were pretty bleak for the Twins. That also happened to be the decade I fell in love with the baseball. Kirby was quite the upgrade from the other Twins center fielders I had literally grown up watching, from Hollywood Rick Sofield to Willie Norwood, from Bobby Mitchell to Darrell Brown, I watched a lot of mediocre center fielders on a lot of mediocre teams before Kirby arrived and gave the team 12 wonderful Hall of Fame years.

So there I was completing last week's newsletter when I turned on the TV grateful that there was a televised spring training game to see. That's when I heard the somber tone of announcer Dick Bremer who broke the news of Kirby's stroke. A day later came the news that Kirby had died. I can't remember another celebrity death hitting me as hard since John Lennon was assassinated.

On a lunch break my friend drove me past the makeshift memorial placed on the Metrodome walk along Kirby Puckett Place. Fans had placed mementos along the railing in front of the dome. It was a simple bunch of thank yous from people Kirby had touched. Still the whole sad ending to his life, his Elvis like fall from grace was hard to shake. You watch a guy for years working his magic while just doing his job- with such happiness and joy- it's hard not to love and admire that. It's quite the rare gift to bring pleasure to so many with such charisma and cheer. In the end, the dark side of Kirby emerged but it's the sunny side that I'll always remember him by.

Now In Love and Armed with Carly Simon Hair

2006-03-06T17:32:00.000-06:00

In his personal essay "The Crack Up" F. Scott Fitzgerald writes about events in life so significant that a person is never quite the same again afterward. So life altering are these events that one comes to the realization that you will never be as good a person ever again; now forever flawed just like a useless cracked vase.

Fitzgerald writes that these life altering moments aren't necessarily the big moments like the death or loss of a loved one, the loss of a job, or the easily identified tragedies that elicit sympathy from friends and loved ones. Nope there are moments in life that quietly come and go that forever change the person you are, and not for the better.

As I was sitting mesmerized by Lucinda Williams' sterling performance at O'Shaughnessy Auditorium Saturday night it occurred to me that my life has slowly undergone a completely stealth-like transformation since 1999 the year I first really fell in love with Lucinda's music. There have been the big obvious changes- the death of my Mom; the death of my little buddy cat Max; the loss and change of jobs; the inability to fall out of and into love again; physical ailments like a bout of Bells Palsy and worsening chronic insomnia; the end of my all time favorite TV show- Buffy the Vampire Slayer; a dwindling circle of friends; etc.

There have also been a variety of new additions to my life that would have been previously unimaginable just a few years before: I've become a scooterhead; I've joined the small but loyal legion of curlers; I've added three never boring cats to my house; I've changed jobs and I've upgraded my house. I've traveled overseas for the second time in my life and I've discovered the joys of a bobblehead collection.

There's little about me that is the same as it was just six years ago. And thankfully through all these changes I've been accompanied by a life comforting soundtrack that has included just about each and every Lucinda Williams' song.

Williams is of course the queen of the sad song. Her concert in the heart of the St. Kate's college campus in the cold air of a March night in the capital city of Minnesota was perhaps my favorite Lucinda Williams concert ever. Accompanied only by her own acoustic guitar and the electric guitar of a superlative musician, Doug Pettibone, Williams played a two hour set that was intimate, inspired , creative and ultimately uplifting.

She set the tone with the opener, a introspectively low key version of "Greenville" that poked me right between the eyes like the feeling I get whenever reading F.Scott's Fitzgerald's most personal prose. When Lucinda got to the lyrics, "Looking for someone to save you/Looking for someone to rave about you..." it finally dawned on me the toll of the changes these last half dozen years have had on me including losing the best day to day friend I've never had.

As Lucinda did the best ever version of "Blue" I've ever heard and a wistful run through of "Fruits of My Labor" (my current favorite Lucinda song about taking the glory over the fame) my mind flashed back to the days after 9/11/2001 when I stumbled upon the phone number of my estranged soul mate and given the solemnity of the nation's mood at the time I mustered up the courage to call her not knowing if I'd ever get the chance ever again.

We hadn't spoken to each other in nearly a dozen years (though it isn't an exaggeration to say that there hasn't been a day since the end that she hasn't been someplace in my heart and soul). Maybe it was just the mood of the moment but I needed to express how sad I felt that our friendship ended but also how much she had continued to mean to me ("There's some people that you can't forget/Even though you only seen them one time or two...") constantly a daily painful inspiration for me. Who can possibly forget the comfort of finding somebody who brings out the best in you whenever you're around her, and makes you smile because she is not only funny but inspires your own sense of humor during a time when nothing, nothing at all, seems funny to you for the first time of your life?

And so when Lucinda did this shuffling version of "Overtime" my own ailing and forever failing heart pounded in perfect time with another's for the first time in a long long time. "I guess out of the blue you won't cross my mind/I'll get over you/Over time..." Pettibone's charged accompaniment embellished the electricity I was squirming with in a subtle but oh so effective manner.

Lucinda mixed in four new songs from a hopefully soon completed CD with the rest of the night's more familiar songs Along with the six new songs she did at her Minnesota Zoo concert last summer I've now had the pleasure to hear eight still to be recorded unreleased Lucinda Williams' songs. I can't wait for the new CD. The new songs are an eclectic mix from a skilled songwriter with a lot to say. This is someone so adept in making this place make just a little bit more sense during the ticking time when we may be facing our midnight hour.

Toys and Boys

2006-02-27T21:09:00.000-06:00

Excuse me but I'm hopped up on Mexican coffee and those delicious bacon wrapped Jalapeno pepper pretzels served at the Cheapo Anniversary Party at Grumpy's.

My friend just got back from her annual pilgrimage to Mexico where this year she spent two and a half weeks getting some much needed R&R. She brought me back a pound of coffee, probably the smoothest, least bitter coffee I've ever tasted. She also brought back a wooden kitty holding a fishing rod with a cloth fish dangling from the end. My favorite mother of two gave me a similar cat statue a couple years ago for my birthday so I set the new one up next to the old one right next to a plastic Sumo wrestler I have that is wearing a cross made from the old dome roof of the St. Paul Cathedral.

Of course given the current population of my household, I will have to keep my eye out for a third wooden fishing kitty to honor my three boyz, Thompson, Theo, and Diego-san. Strangely enough Theo has already seemed to catch on to this misrepresentation of our reality. Being the third cat added to the house he maybe can be excused for being sensitive to his role in life.

For years I've had a particular cat toy, a plastic fishing pole with a stuffed cloth fish that is to be used to cast and reel back in, with the intention of getting the cats to chase the bait. The boyz generally love this toy because not only can they chase my cast, but they can also follow the reel in, and there's also the love of chewing the line if the fish seems to be hard to find. We don't play with this toy that often but whenever I pull it out it gets all three boys' attention.

I store the toy at the edge of my desk, fish hidden underneath a storage cabinet that's part of the desk. For whatever reason the other day Theo just had to get at the fish bait no matter what. He stretched himself out as far as his tall thin frame would allow and pawed at the plastic fishing pole. It was just beyond his grasp but he wasn't about to give up because this had become the only thing he could focus upon.

He probably wanted me to play with him, casting the fish into another room and allowing him to chase the fish back and forth from room to room, up and down the hallway. I just wasn't in the mood though so I went about other business.

I was in the kitchen when I heard a crashing noise coming from my office. Seems like Theo was finally able to reach high enough to roll the fishing pole off the edge of the desk. He sat there licking the cloth fish, looking somewhat proud of his accomplishment.

It was then I looked up at the two wooden fishing cats and for a moment I actually could believe that young Thelonious was telling me that he noticed that I only had a duo of fishing kitties and there are a trio of cats in this house, and this needed to be remedied so he was going to become that third fishing kitty if I wasn't willing to do something about the situation.

So now I'm in the market to find a third wooden cat holding a pole with a fish dangling from the end. I'll eventually find the right one that will take it's rightful place next to a plastic Sumo wrestler wearing a cross made from the old dome roof of the St. Paul Cathedral. I guess that figure can represent the Japanese American member of the household, the one with continuous spiritual issues, and who finds as year after year goes back that his pants are needing ongoing expansion to accommodate the ongoing expansion of his waist size.

Of course maybe just maybe I've been out of sorts and away from home about two and a half weeks too long and my leaning toward the delusional side has finally tipped the scales. I've contracted and likely will return to expanding. Here's to finding whatever will solve the current dilemma as wooden as it may end up being.

Cash Checked

2006-02-20T21:11:00.000-06:00

Last year when I was sitting at the Minnesota Zoo waiting for Lucinda Williams' show to begin, the guy sitting next to me first tried to get me to take some chickens off his hands. Seems as if he and his wife had got the chickens thinking they'd like to have fresh eggs every morning only to discover that they had come home with all roosters- not only nixing the egg idea, but ensuring quite the racket come sunrise.

After I declined his offer of chickens we talked about recent shows that we had been to. His favorite was Rosanne Cash's show at the Zoo just a few weeks before. I knew she had played at the Zoo but I really didn't have any interest in seeing her even though a few years ago I would have paid top dollars to get a good seat.

I think my waning interest in Rosanne began shortly after the Iraq war began and I read the anti-war message she left on her web site. It wasn't that I disagreed with the sentiment. It was just the writing was so simplistic and hippie like that I lost some respect for one whose music to me was always full of so much depth. I didn't make a conscious decision to stop listening to Rosanne's music but still when I was busy filling my iPod with my CDs, only 1990's Interiors made the cut even though there were others that were surely better than so many I was uploading from other artists.

I had forgotten how much over the years I had loved Rosanne Cash's music. Songs like "Seven Year Ache" and "The Way We Make a Broken Heart" are sung with a combination of precision and passion that the first time I heard them they stopped me in my tracks. Her version of "Tennessee Flat Top Box" is head and shoulders above her father's version of the same song. Interiors is the best divorce CD I've heard this side of Dylan's Blood on the Tracks. Interiors would make my short list of desert island picks- the songs are full of such harrowing heartache and honesty that it almost makes me feel like I've gone through a divorce even though I've never been married.

Her absence on my iPod didn't even occur to me until I was sitting watching Walk the Line where the Rosanne character in the movie sole role is that of a crying child- crying when her daddy isn't at home, crying when her daddy and mommy are arguing, crying for God knows what reason at the dinner table. I quite enjoyed the film but I left wondering what in the world the real Rosanne Cash must have thought about this on screen portrayal.

Thankfully she both answers and ignores that obvious question with her new CD Black Cadillac. The CD is a full of sadness and intensity and insight over what it is like to suffer the loss of loved ones. Within a two year period Rosanne lost her father, mother, and step-mother. The poetry of the music from Black Cadillac is astounding in its ability to capture the resiliency of the human spirit. The singer isn't a survivor by choice, the title track's lyrics lamenting being left behind in hell on this earth leave no doubt about that, but when one suffers through a devastation like the loss of a parent, it the only choice that one must continue on in a world forever a little bit bleaker. In other words loss can make you stronger if only because you no longer have the nurturing spirit that was the important guide that nursed you through other losses since the crying days of your childhood.

My favorite song on the CD is "Burn Down this Town" a bluesy stomp that begs to rock out but never quite does. The tension created by being somewhat muted is the perfect example of how so much of Black Cadillac delivers the goods on such difficult material. "The sky is falling with the ash and blood/You've got to make a promise blood to blood/So shut the door and slowly turn around/And you know you can't make a sound/Burn down this town" the singer sings accompanied by a driving, soulful, swirling musical backdrop. The song then segues into "God is in the Roses" a bittersweet lament that reminds us that God may be responsible for all things beautiful (like rose petals) but God is also responsible for the thorns as well.

Johnny Cash has rightfully secured his place in the history of American music so that when a student is studying that history 100 years from now songs like "Ring of Fire" and "Folsom Prison Blues" will rightfully likely get a listen. Rosanne's contributions will probably warrant a footnote but hopefully that same student will dig a little bit deeper and listen to some of her songs as well. Her best work is timeless and constantly rewarding.

A Foray into the Doghouse

2006-02-13T21:14:00.000-06:00

ONCE upon a recent time in a place far, far away lived Kurbie and Torii, two rat terriers with an abundance of personality.

Kurbie was the older of the two, well entrenched both in his ways and his senior citizen status. He also was the smaller of the two. And as our story begins, we see Kurbie as is customary of his species, big ears earnestly pointed skyward gazing intently forward. His life has somehow recently changed and as he adjusts he can't help but wonder when things will get back to normal. Most of the time not only does his tail wag, but his whole back end waggles as his handsome face, adorned with a Clark Gable like mustache, creates something wholly irresistible.

Torii is not only taller but more stout. He's full of mischievous pep with his motor seemingly running 98 percent of the time. His ears aren't as erect and in moments of reflection one ear will droop down giving him the look of both shadowy sadness from something long gone and appreciation for being given such a loving home.

The one who regularly cares for, feeds, and loves the two boys affectionately refers to them as her "lil assholes" Torii and Kurbie aren't so much companions as they have learned over time to co-exist. If one was introduced to Kurbie nearly a decade ago one would have seen he was living with an elderly dog named Sammie who he would mercilessly but playfully pester.

Sammie's long gone and Torii entered the picture just a couple of years ago. He can be a handful. His history isn't totally known but there are suspicions that he may have been abused by a previous owner. It took Torii a long time before he trusted human males.

Both dogs are full of passion and expect a lot of attention. Ironically now that Kurbie has entered into the role of the elder he is the one that now has to put up with a young housemate who seems to think that part of his responsibility is to irritate anyone of the like species that happens to be around.

Kurbie has charisma to burn. He is as cute as can be. As he slowly eats his meals he takes each morsel aside from his dish and looks up as if he wants everyone to admire and enjoy his eating abilities. He also does this neat thing where he crawls along the ground, stomach slithering along like a snake.

Despite his reputation for being the bad boy Torii is a friendly young soulful dog. It's his nature to be getting into things he knows he shouldn't yet he can still be the sweetest boy around. His favorite toy is a stuffed goose that used to squawk when squeezed. Torii takes the goose in his mouth and violently shakes it from side to side. The goose has long since lost all its stuffing and its voice but all you have to do is say, "Torii, where's your goose?" And he tears through the house to locate it.

He also amazingly is quite the TV observer. When a dog appears on screen Torii will spot it and go over to the TV and try to paw at the pixel made dog.

They get fed twice a day and it's the part of the routine that is truly anticipated with unabandoned joy. After they are finished eating up the dry dog food they each get a scoop of yogurt. It's a treat that's woofed down like it was invented just for the boys.

At night both boys love to crawl under the covers. Kurbie is the grouchy old guy scowling if touched or if he senses somebody is getting too close. Torii just wants to snuggle up close.

For those more accustomed to living in a feline world, the two boys have been great hosts in guiding a newcomer along for the ride. And the moral of this story, if ever a story needed a moral, was that by being open to existing in new places one is forced to look at things in a slightly different way. And that can never be a bad thing.

Slip Sliding Away

2006-01-30T21:15:00.000-06:00

It's crazy how popular the sport has become in this country. Go across the country and you'll find that most workplaces have some type of office pool that has high participation. Vegas thrives on all the money bet on games. The networks pay billions for television rights. Newspapers and web sites devote page after page with analysis, predictions, and coverage that makes the average player recognizable to even the most casual fan. Geeks paint their faces their team's colors and dweebs devote every last free minute trying to improve their fantasy team.

So I have to clarify what I meant when the reporter stuck his mike in my face and I uttered the now infamous line that is dogging me every place I go: "I play when I want to play."

Truth is curling isn't the most exhausting cardiovascular sport ever devised. Some times one might get winded if a rock is released way too softly from the player's hand and thus the two sweepers have to brush their brooms hard down the length of the ice. Doing that can make the shoulders flare with pain and the lungs heave for the next breath. But still much of the game is pure strategy so it isn't exactly the same as racing your cats up a steep flight of stairs. That said, it is hard to play at 100 percent rock after rock. That's way too intense so there are times when I find myself holding back during a match. That's all I meant with my quote.

Who could have known that I'd be such a natural at the game. I began playing just last year and my introduction to the rules and playing techniques came right before my first match after I had worked all Election Night and I showed up at the club and my friend Lisa tried her best to explain what was going to happen.

Our team last year did surprisingly well especially since we were all beginners. We ended up with a five hundred record. Nate, the kid, was our skip and he was clearly our best player. He had the form down and he made some really nice shots throughout the season. Bernie (who we later found out was the chief financial officer of Northwest Airlines- he had only told us his job was as A finance guy for the company) was our third and was pretty good at take out shots.

Same goes for Lisa who threw second. She's got great form and Bernie and I often marveled at how far out on the ice she would glide when she was throwing her rocks.

I was the lead, the position generally given to the weakest member of the squad. It took me half a season to figure out whether the best strategy was to try and get my rocks in the house or leave them just outside thus making all the other curlers try and get their rocks around mine.

This season Lisa and I are the only two returning members of the team. In Nate and Bernie's place we've got Gail and Jon, a married couple who curled up in Canada a few years ago. The lack of continuity has been a problem. This season has been full of ups and downs. We've either been beat badly or have won rather handily. There have been few close matches.

My own play has probably been the most consistent on the team. I've better learned how to control the weight of my throws or how far the rock ultimately ends up going. My personal goal has always been to outplay the lead on the other team and for the most part I think I've done that.

And hence this is where my somewhat regrettable quote came from. After a particularly humiliating performance where we made bad shot after bad shot I was a bit frustrated since I thought I was playing fairly well. It was demoralizing to be being beat by a team that was clearly not as talented as ours and so when the reporter asked about my effort and whether I had given up before the match was over, I was pissed to say the least. Still I'm not one to pretend. If we're getting hammered I'll just do what I can until it's over.

Nano Nano

2006-01-23T21:17:00.000-06:00

It's been kind of a sad week for me. My attempts to buy William Shatner's kidney stone fell way short. Yup I got outbid by an online casino who paid $25,000 for it. I'm guessing it will end up with someone who is a bigger Trekkie than I. And I'm guessing that'll literally be the case, the lucky stone holder will probably eventually be some 300 pound guy who wears Vulcan ears out in public.

Now I'm no Dr. Janet Lester but I have in the past enjoyed a Star Trek episode a time or two. In the end I'm glad I saved my life savings for something equally as enjoyable: this past week I broke down (in so many ways!) and bought myself an iPod Nano.

If Star Trek taught me nothing, it taught me that technology will turn my life around. How many times when I was little did I wish I could have a communicator? Well heavens to Betsy the day finally arrived when I was given a cell phone so anyone can now reach me at any time! And I always longed for a tricorder and someday soon I hope to be a proud owner of a Blackberry device. Of course my biggest Star Trek related desire is for the transporter to become reality, allowing us to all some day get rid of our primitive forms of transportation. Until that day, I guess I'll just have to love my scooter (well, during the summer anyway).

A little over a year ago my Dad was kind enough to give me the year's hottest product, Apple's iPod, for my birthday. The compact little device with massive capabilities, soon became a rather large part of my life. Gone was the need to drag a handful of CDs with me to work for the day's music. Gone was the worse need for missing the blood of my existence, music, on my trips away from home whether far or a little further than near. I have found the times I've loved my iPod most is when I'm in some other city and I have the ability to dial up any of my favorite songs in a moment's notice.

But good things almost always turn bad (remember that Star Trek episode when the most beautiful rose turned out to burn upon touch, being made out of some acidic material?). What I discovered was that I had so many songs I needed to carry with me at all times that I quickly filled up my iPod to its capacity. Thus I was posed with a dilemma every time I bought some new music. I was forced to delete something from my iTunes library, and more and more that was getting to be tougher and tougher.

An easy solution beamed its way into my wee little brain sometime last year. Since the artist who was taking up the most digital space on my digital device was probably the least digital related artist around, Bob Dylan, I thought, geez if I only bought myself a second iPod and loaded only Bob songs on to that, I could free up a lot of space on my original iPod.

The thought wouldn't leave me alone. When the auburn-haired lass (how does one check out the authenticity of her hair color claim?) bought herself an iPod Nano last year, and I helped her do so, I became envious when she finally showed me her device. It was so cute, so sleek and modern.

For those of you who have spent the past year in an igloo the Nano is about the size and thickness of a piece of beef jerky cut into a threes. The one I bought is supposed to hold up to 1,000 songs but since I loaded it with many Dylan live performances (that tend to run six to eight minutes long) all I could fit on to mine was 755 Bob songs.

And it's all I've been listening to (and doing) since. I hit shuffle and have to smile when the 1994 version of "Shelter from the Storm" from a concert in Brixton, London England comes up next to the near punkish (and I can so relate to this) desperate version Bob wailed out on the official 1976 Hard Rain recording of the same song sung in a completely different way. I almost want to shout out to my friends and family to let them know what they are missing. But who knows who is still listening?

Truth of the Sum of It

2006-01-16T21:20:00.000-06:00

I used to think the most courageous thing one could do is let it all out, not hide behind any walls, let it all flap in the breeze. To this end I always loved a quote from my favorite singer/songwriter from the Iron Range who once said that his songs are like dreams but they aren't fantasy. The difference? Dreams are rooted in reality where fantasy can be all made up from somebody's imagination. Under this interpretation dreams are somewhat true while fantasy is usually all make believe. And who wants to close his eyes in order to see?

My personal perspective seems to be shifting these days, trying to find some shade, trying to linger in the shadows for a while. The simple question I grappled with all week was 'what is truth?' Is it for example, the same thing as honesty? Seems to me like they are related but only as much as three cats involuntary brought together under one roof for the majority of their lives.

I had some spare time this week trying to avoid the brunt of rush hour traffic in the western metro suburbs so I stopped to watch the movie Dreamer starring Dakota Fanning, Kurt Russell, Kris Kristofferson, and my second favorite actress, Elizabeth Shue, in an inspirational story about a racehorse that breaks its leg and eventually comes back to race in the Breeder's Cup.

The movie begins with the disclaimer that almost always makes me dismiss a movie, "based on a true story" yet I didn't dislike this movie. Rather I was quite moved by it. Yes, this is the kind of sports movie about plucky underdogs (or in this case gimpy horses) that we've all seen about a hundred and fifty thousand times. Still the story is told so well and the quality of the cast (can anyone believe how talented Ms. Fanning is at her age?) that Dreamer proves that even in a movie where we can predict every step along the way, we can tolerate the obvious if there is a great big heart behind the telling of the tale.

So what's true about the story of Dreamer? Turns out there was a real life horse named Mariah's Storm that broke her leg and went on to win the 1995 Breeder's Cup. The stuff about a little girl's unwavering faith in both her father and the horse? That part was embellished.

I teared up a couple of different times during the movie. See I'm a sucker for animal stories. Waking up every morning to a grunting three-legged cat who has patiently dozed during the night and knows meal time is around the corner just a mere hop down the stairs, has kept my heart from turning completely to stone. Yeah I knew I was being manipulated by Dreamer and I knew it's claim to the truth was probably a tad misleading but I bought the story hook, line, and sinker. In the end I wanted the made up horse, Sonador, to kick some butt.

One of the key elements of the story of Dreamer is the importance of the 'keep on keeping on' philosophy in the face of uphill odds; the easiest thing maybe to throw in the towel and end things right then and there in the dirt of a circular racetrack, but the easiest thing may be a hard thing to do if one doesn't want to disappoint another.

Shue's character of the sympathetic wife and mother is the least fleshed out of the movie and yet she plays the key role in the story. She won't let her husband disappoint her daughter nor will she let him off the hook for not seeing how his fatalistic attitude has been given a second chance by a horse that has no chance despite being given an unusual second shot at it all.

As the too young to sit still girl behind me kicked my seat and chomped her popcorn with mouth open making it hard to hear, I could relate to Russell's character's discomfort at being at an evening's parent/teacher thingie and being forced to accept some truth in the word's of his daughter's essay. The scene made me want to run from ever being a parent, and wishing I still was one all at the same time. It showed that not only do dreams sometimes come true, but also that there are times dreams are true.

Oh How I Still Miss Buffy

2006-01-09T21:22:00.000-06:00

I essentially took the past two weeks off to recuperate from the past couple of years. My official goal was trying to clean my house from fussily organizing my video tapes and CDs, to opening long unopened mail and reading unread books. Once upon a long ago I gave up the fight against cat hair but even this was a challenge I tried to address during my two week recuperation swiffing and sweeping and dusting and picking up globs of hair here and there.

Coming from a tired mind and weary body you'll have to take the following with more than a grain of salt (I'd suggest a Morton's sized container) especially since much of my free time was spent transferring my collection of Survivor video tapes on to DVDs thus proving my standards may have eroded some over the years. I like to say that I majored in TV in college. My major senior paper was all about the history of television and its influence on our culture. My major senior project was spent out in Hollywood trying unsuccessfully to get on to a game show.

In his critically acclaimed book Everything Bad is Good for You, Steven Johnson makes a convincing argument that our so-called dumbed-down, instant gratification culture is a myth. Johnson writes that not only are video games quite educational for the youth of America, but that the current slate of TV shows are so much more sophisticated that any shows from the past that just by watching them the American TV viewer is cognitively challenged in ways never before seen in our history.

So I don't know if any of you were fortunate enough to see not one, but two GREAT television moments this past week. One was FOX talk show host Bill O'Reilly's appearance on the Late Show with David Letterman. Dave was thankfully scornful of O'Reilly's view of our current affairs. When O'Reilly began his segment with his nonsensensical fight against how political correctness is trying to take Christmas away from God-fearing Americans, Dave dismissed it all as silly, a few isolated incidents and examples that can't be taken seriously.

When O'Reilly attacked Cindy Sheehan for calling the Iraqi insurgents "freedom fighters" Dave rightfully called his guest out. "I'm very concerned about people like yourself who don't have nothing but endless sympathy for a woman like Cindy Sheehan. Honest to Christ. Honest to Christ." Dave then asked how anyone could defend the decision to invade the country now that the President has admitted that he did so with faulty intelligence. "Why the hell are we there to begin with?" Dave asked a couple of times.

The second great, not to be missed, TV moment was Monday's episode of Arrested Development. The show has all but been canceled by FOX and the writers made great fun of this by tying the show's future in with the show's storyline. The episode centered on a benefit to help the Bluth family out of its troubles only to have the benefit sabotaged by the fact that the family has few redeeming or likable qualities. Conan O'Brien's ex-sidekick, Andy Richter, made a killer appearance as himself and his multiple brothers. Richter of course was the victim of his own too short-lived, too good for the masses FOX TV show, Andy Richter Controls the Universe.

The episode was a semi-inside joke about the show's plight about not being able to catch on with the public mostly because of its premise- that we all come from screwed up families but the Bluths were perhaps the most screwed up family of all time. God I'm gonna miss one of the best examples of Johnson's book/argument- of how sophisticated TV has gotten. The only plausible reason that Arrested Development failed was that there was way too much going on in the typical episode for the average TV viewer to appreciate. This was a long ways from the Andy Griffith Show but some of us have to see that don't we?

2005 Newsletter Woman of the Year

2006-01-01T14:39:00.000-06:00

Previous Winners: 1992: H. Ross Perot, 1993: St. Francis of Assisi, 1994: Newt Gingrich, 1995: Cal Ripken Jr., 1996: The Bob Dole Campaign, 1997: Dolly the Sheep, 1998: El Nino, 1999: Belinda Jensen, 2000: The Taco Bell Chihuahua, 2001: Randy Moss, 2002: The Cheapo Newsletter, 2003: Lindsay Whalen 2004: The iPod

It was a tumultuous year for the Newsletter Woman of the Year Committee (NWOTYC). First the chairman's decision to invade Best Buy's Newsletter Woman of the Year Committee's headquarters because of rumored Waffles of Delicious Decadence turned out to be based wholly (holy) on faulty intelligence. Committee members who unanimously backed the decision to invade were left with breakfast egg on their faces and hardly felt safe in their own country. Thus the proceedings were moved overseas to the only country that would welcome the NWOTYC and provide plenty of blueberry flavored maple syrup: England.

Sequestered somewhere in the West Kensington district of London, committee members soon found that being in a foreign land was hardly conducive to come to some sort of agreement on who should be honored this year. At least back home if meetings disintegrated into nonproductive chaos one could always go back to one's room and spend hours surfing the Internet without paying an arm and a leg. In other words, non-productivity, a staple of an American meeting, was much more expensive overseas than it would have been at home. That said, the committee narrowed its choices down to six stellar candidates. Few years have seen as many qualified candidates than in 2005. The finalists:

6) Veronica Mars: TV's baddest woman from TV's coolest show, she ain't no Buffy but that isn't exactly the point.

5) The secret society of American scooter riders: As gas prices rose so high that even a Honda Civic driver found that he could pump in over $20 worth of gas into his fuel efficient but tiny gas tanked car, more and more people took matters into their own hands and hit the streets on stylish scooters. What made what already was an enjoyable ride even more enjoyable was by buying a scooter one automatically enlisted in a community of others who know how lovely a ride can be on a motorized two wheel vehicle. The fresh air is great but the use of all five senses, so dulled in a car, comes alive on a scooter. And it's great that it's obligatory while riding a scooter and passing another scooter rider that one should wave.

4) Harriet Miers: The biggest criticism of George W. Bush's nomination of John Roberts to replace Sandra Day O'Connor on the Supreme Court was that Roberts wasn't a woman. Conservatives applauded this anti-affirmative action move. Liberals predictably howled. And even Bush's own wife Laura publicly questioned the move. Bush then proved how foreign a concept affirmative action is to him by next nominating Ms. Miers to replace the late William Rehnquist. If the one qualification needed for this nomination was to be a woman, Bush only had over fifty percent of the population to choose from. That he chose the entirely unqualified Miers shows that he really is a uniter not a divider. Heckava a job G.W.!

3) The Whizzinator: One would have thought that the Vikings' Love Boat scandal would be the team's most unique scandal of the year. But no, running back Onterio Smith getting caught at the airport with powered urine and the Whizzinator, a device designed to pass a drug test, makes the little sex scandal seem somewhat bland in contrast.

2) Cassie Johnson: The skip of the U.S. Women's Olympic Curling Team proves that to be good in the sport requires athleticism and grace. That the Bemidji native is also a babe means that the sport that is about to hit the big time has a photogenic spokesperson for years to come.

Committee members make no bones that the choice for the 2005 Newsletter Woman of the Year wasn't a unanimous decision. Members debated, discussed, and deliberated and their decision evolved into the eventual winner. In a year where the line between religion and politics continued to blur, committee members couldn't believe that they lived in a land where teaching creationism in the guise of something called "Intelligent Design" in science class was an issue. Most of the committee members thought that the Scopes Monkey Trial, so artistically and memorably portrayed in Spencer Tracy's movie Inherit the Wind, had long ago settled things.

Thus the committee split. Some wanted to award King Kong as a gesture towards our monkey friends. But in the end the majority went with the 2005 Newsletter Woman of the Year: Mr. Charles Darwin. That his thoughtful and scientifically proven theories have returned to the controversial after all these years is astounding. If it is our goal to be remembered years after we leave this earth Mr. Darwin surely had to be happy with 2005. It truly was the year of the monkey and the NWOTYC thank God that Darwin was such an evolved monkey.

2005 Top Ten

2005-12-26T08:15:00.000-06:00

Here are ten things that made it through the muck of 2005 (they are in particular order):

10) The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame/British Museum- Usually when I visit another city I don't care much if I see the obvious tourist attractions. I'm just as happy to find some out of the way place restaurant or CD store or something that is somehow uniquely that city. That said, I must say I loved visiting the RnR Hall of Fame in Cleveland. I was highly amused to see how tiny the Rolling Stones outfits were and it was a quite a kick reading Leadbelly's correspondence. Equally impressive was the British Museum in London that was almost too huge to comprehend. Pottery from ancient Persia? Cool. Kitty artifacts from various cultures? Neato.

9) Paul McCartney "Too Many People" "I'll Follow the Sun" at the Xcel Energy Center- I guess my Paul McCartney nostalgia differs from most people. I didn't care much for the umpteenth versions of "Get Back," "Back in the U.S.S.R.," or "Yesterday." What I was glad to hear, smile from ear to ear glad, was the snarling "Too Many People" from 1971's Ram where Paul chides John Lennon about preaching practices. Equally enjoyable was the version of 1965's "I'll Follow the Sun," one of those catchy McCartney tunes that seem to flow from him effortlessly. I was so inspired I went home and banged out my own piano version for my cats. Thompson scampered away either in fear or merely to get away from the annoying racket.

8) Arrested Development- This FOX show just keeps getting better and better. Who would have thought that Ron Howard, TV's Opie, director of so many insipid movies could produce something this biting? Scott Baio's attorney character, Bob Loblaw, and Charlize Theron's British siren, Rita, were inspired additions to the already stellar cast.

7) Lucinda Williams at the Minnesota Zoo- She treated us to six new and still unrecorded songs intermingled seamlessly with her older songs (meaning they were all insightful and heart stopping/starting ). I can't wait for the next CD.

6) Shelby Lynne at the Cleveland House of Blues- Lynne was brooding, tender, and by the end of the show she was somewhat drunk. But hearing live versions of songs like "Telephone" and "Where Am I Now?" truly was a treat. The show made me buy all her back catalog- the many CDs that she recorded before she was awarded her Grammy for "Best New Artist" in 2000.

5) Seeing my friend Alex in her hometown of San Diego- We hadn't seen each other in ten years. We had a nice sushi dinner and I marveled at how comfortable our friendship still feels and how much I still admire her drive, ambition, and inquisitive mind and soul.

4) CERA Graduation Beverly Hills- Over the past couple of years I've flown to various parts of the country to take election administration classes taught by the faculty of Auburn University. It's the only election administration certification program in the country and as I finished up my work this summer, I became one of the first 300 people to earn the accreditation. Graduating at the fancy Beverly Hills Hilton (where they hold the Golden Globe awards every year) in front of family and friends was an odd mixture of show biz and the electoral process.

3) Theo- The decision to add a third cat to the household mixture was greeted with skepticism by some of my friends and family. Still once I was introduced to young Thelonious, the decision was a forgone conclusion. He's sweet, spacey, and watching him try to find his place amongst his housemates has been pure joy.

2) Ike Reilly Junkie Faithful- When the blue-eyed editor introduced me to Ike's music a couple of years ago by giving me his first CD, Salesmen and Racists, I was immediately won over. When I got to the ultimate driving song "Angels and Whores" and Ike wails, "Hey motherf*%@er kiss the ground- I not only kept hitting the repeat button and turning the volume up louder and louder, I almost drove by my destination and just kept going. His new CD not only is full of clever and inspiring lyrics- it's got as much kick as it does spirit. My current favorite line? "The things I do in the daytime should only be done at night/Like when I watch my neighbor's wife bend down slow to pull out weeds…" Junkie Faithful is the best CD I've heard in quite a while.

1) Bob Dylan's five shows at London's Brixton Academy- On my way to the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport I was walking to my light rail stop when out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-workers running toward me waving a banner that read, "Dylan in London or Bust!" I was quite moved. I was also quite moved throughout the 50 different songs he did in five nights. We were treated to the live debut of "Million Dollar Bash." Along the way there were terrific performances of "Desolation Row," "Positively Fourth Street," "Sugar Baby," "Shelter from the Storm," and "Mississippi" just to name a few. To hear Bob do an abbreviated version of the Clash's "London Calling" during a couple of encores and have the natives go wild- made the expensive and somewhat crazy trip all worthwhile.

May The Lord Have Mercy On Us All

2005-12-12T08:26:00.000-06:00

My Mom was quite supportive of my precocious interest in journalism. When I was in grade school I started reading the St. Paul Pioneer Press and Dispatch cover to cover. Mom made sure that she read all my favorite columnists from Don Riley to Oliver Towne, from Patrick Reusse to Bill Farmer so that she could share in my delight in what they had written. She too shared in my love of comics like Buzz Sawyer and Bloom County and Rooftop O'Toole (drawn and written by the great local editorial cartoonist Jerry Fearing).

When I was in the 7th grade Mom gave me a copy of David Halberstam's book The Powers That Be. The book was thick- thicker than the lenses of my glasses, and it seemed a rather daunting challenge to a guy who was working his way through the Hardy Boys series. But I learned early on not to take Mom's recommendations lightly (she proved her critical eye to me by recommending movies like Friendly Persuasion and Spirit of St. Louis) and she never ever had given me a book I didn't end up liking so I wrestled hard with the dilemma of reading this Moby Dick thick book that appeared to be about big things, and having better other things to do like improve my hopscotch abilities.

Thus I didn't begin reading The Powers that Be until one year later and once I started I found it hard to put the book down. The book is about the rise of power of some of America's biggest media moguls from Time Magazine's Henry Luce, to the Washington Post's Philip and Katherine Graham, and most interesting to me, CBS' William Paley.

The section about Paley more than anything else, whetted my appetite in wanting to become a journalist. It touched on how in TV's infancy the network's news division was an after thought to the entertainment ability of the medium. That was until Paley made the fateful but thankful decision to try and make CBS a major player in the news reporting business.

Mom always told me that it was too bad that I couldn't have seen the work of the most prestigious CBS newsman, Edward R. Murrow- that I would have admired and loved his work. I've since read plenty about Murrow, seen clips of his shows See it Now and Person to Person. I've always been struck by this dark figure who seems a tad uncomfortable in front of the camera whether covering World War II in London, or interviewing Liberace. He's one of these guys you can't take your eyes off of- that seems to know more than he's willing to reveal- yet it's in the mystery that we are glad to be a part of the story unfolding.

Watching George Clooney's wonderful faux film noir, Good Night, and Good Luck that captures the period where Murrow took on Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy, one can't help but draw some parallels with our current national situation. McCarthy used the culture of fear to go after what he perceived was the greatest threat to this nation, the Communists. He didn't care who he ruined in the process, he only wanted to rid the United States of all things red.

Reading about McCarthyism in my history textbooks I always wondered how people of the time could have taken him seriously, how they let his obvious paranoia let respectable people be ruined. What Good Night, and Good Luck makes abundantly clear with its beautiful black and white shots filled with swirling cigarette smoke, is when our government can get the media to go along with scaring the masses to believe there is an imminent threat to our freedom, we are more than willing to give up some of that freedom to protect ourselves.

It's hard to imagine that there's been a better performance this year than David Strathairn's Murrow. Strathairn doesn't really look like the newscaster but he has all his subtle mannerisms down to a T. There's a scene where Murrow skewers McCarthy and looks away from the camera and lets out a subtle smirk/smile. This is an actor who knows what he is doing.

The sad current disarray of CBS News is all about a news organization that wants to rock the boat only not that hard. I don't watch any of their newscasts much but still make it a point to catch the last five minutes of 60 Minutes to see what Andy Rooney has to say only because that part of the show reminds me of the last page of the Cheapo newsletter- the latest whining from a thick browed cranky old man.

I've never been one to buy into the company line that the "Golden Age" of television was back in the 1950's and we haven't been able to live up to that since. As long as there are such creative and insightful shows like Arrested Development and The Office on the airways one can't completely turn one's back on the medium. But what Good Night, and Good Luck thankfully demonstrates, is that TV news once mattered. Maybe it was only because TV journalism was willing to once uncomfortably challenge what many of us now probably don't want to challenge for fear of realizing we can all do much better.

My Turkey Day Leftovers

2005-12-05T08:31:00.000-06:00

It's been a difficult month for all of us in the Japanese American thespian community. First George Takei (Mr. Sulu), the manliest, but most human of space travelers, came out of the closet (not that there's anything wrong with that). Then Pat Morita (Arnold and Mr. Miyagi) died. To make matters worse one of the Christmas season's biggest movies, Memoirs of a Geisha stars two Chinese actresses playing Japanese characters.

Maybe it only feels like the world has gone wrong. And it probably didn't help my equilibrium any that I saw Paul McCartney in St. Paul and Bob Dylan in London. Somehow that seems a little backwards.

So I may suffer from a vision problem that even a new pair of glasses can't correct.

If life is about, and it seems to increasingly be, about waiting in line, waiting for your chance and praying to somebody or something that your chance will come, then perhaps we can all take a cue from the Swedish. While waiting in line to see Dylan in London I arrived one evening and headed to the end of a fairly long line walking from the front to the back. Not long after I took my place as the very last person a woman walked the path I had just walked but instead of standing behind me, she chose to stand next to the guy in front of me. It was clear she wasn't with him- they didn't make eye contact and didn't say a word to each other.

Later on a group of people showed up and began talking to this woman in a foreign dialect. Turns out they were all from Sweden. It was then I realized that a Swedish line isn't so much vertical as it is horizontal. I may have to try that at Caribou next time I go and get my morning coffee.

Or maybe I'm just plain invisible.

One of my favorite nightly moments in all five London Dylan shows was toward the end when he was introducing the band. As he was telling where each band member was from he doodled on his keyboard. It was like listening to the man compose right in front of you, a small glimpse into how his mind works. His mind is a mystery beyond what even Sherlock Holmes could figure out.

But buck up, they say. News this week gave us all some hope. A French doctor performed the world's first face transplant. I've always wanted a new face and now it's possible. I hear that George Takei's might be available.

Walking around the misty streets of London, somewhere near Scotland Yard, I couldn't believe my own eyes I was where I was at. In my head I could hear Frank Sinatra singing about a foggy day in London Town and then my own personal soundtrack jumped to McCartney singing about ordinary people it's impossible to meet, holding conversations that are always incomplete.

A mere week later I had one whiskey water before the auburn hair pre-grad student and I went to see Derailed where Jennifer Aniston really does a number on Clive Owen. Halfway through the movie I spilled our popcorn all over the floor and the auburn hair pre-grad student looked at me and asked why I did that. I didn't want to admit it but I had nearly passed out. My head started spinning and I broke out into a cold sweat and suddenly the pictures on the big screen got all fuzzy and negative looking at and I just wanted to lay my weary head down. But it all passed. Only there was no more popcorn left. It was all on the ground.

There were no Japanese American actors to be seen on that screen and this time I wasn't acting. I guess if you go all the way around to the other side of the world there are going to be some ill side effects. It only seems natural. But you wanna know the odd thing? I can't wait to go back. I want to hop on the Victoria line going the other direction just to see where it might take me. I want to walk down a street that's brand new even though it's very old. But I have loyalties and I have carved out a certain comfortable place to exist. I hope they will still see me there.

Very Twee, Very Me

2005-11-28T08:33:00.000-06:00

I went to London with one desired mission in mind. I wanted to be walking the streets and spot Madonna. If not that I wanted to fido Judas. Biblical canine humour can't get enough!

On my eight and a half hour flight overseas I sat next to a kid (probably around three years old) and his Dad. The kid seemed quite perceptive with his comments about the airplane and runway we were on. As we were taking off the kid went "whee" as if we were on some kind of safe but scary amusement ride. His Dad chuckled. Mid-flight his Dad gave the kid a plastic sketching pad and markers and the kid drew the best Sponge Bob I've ever seen only he labeled it, "Sketch Bob."

I wanted to lean over and say, "I'm flying to see "Song Bob" but I didn't figuring I should mind my own business.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER ONE
At the very beginning of Gulf (and the gap is getting BIG) War One the Grammy Awards were scheduled to air. Some thought the ceremony would be canceled given the gravity of what was unleashed, but somebody somewhere decided the show must go on. So it did.

A night after I watched what looked like a fancy video game with the sky of Baghdad being lit up by missiles and bombs, I tuned in to CBS specifically to watch Bob Dylan get a lifetime achievement award. When the moment finally arrived, Jack Nicholson read a gushing introduction and then Bob appeared with his bandit band. Bob, never once opening his eyes, sang "Masters of War" in one very long sentence hardly ever coming up for a breath of air. His band accompanied him with a sound reminiscent of a mosquito, and as they broke away for reactions from the audience there were what seemed to be nervous smiles intermixed with looks of stunned confusion.

As Bob was handed his award, he turned from the podium and looked as if he was going to leave without speaking a word. Jack and the statue babes grabbed him and turned him around. As the orchestral backing music died down, Bob stood fidgety, looking at the award. He finally tipped his hat and said, ""Well, my daddy, he didn't leave me much, you know he was a very simple man... What he did tell me was this, he did say, son, he said… He said, you know it's possible to become so defiled in this world that your own father and mother will abandon you and if that happens, God will always believe in your ability to mend your ways. Thank you." It was the greatest acceptance speech ever.

********

I was supposed to meet my friend Jennifer at Gatwick Airport in London. She flew on another flight. Her last words to me on a phone call before we left the United States were, "I won't leave the airport without you." So when I got to the spot we agreed to meet and didn't see her anywhere in sight, my heart sunk right into my stomach. Having never been to London and knowing I was more than a half an hour away by train from our hostel, my anxiety in finding where we were staying without her was about as wide as the ocean I had just flown over.
The trip was Jennifer's idea when she heard that Bob was going to play a series of shows in Brixton. She emailed me the day before the terrorist attack on the London transit system so when I read the message I thought about the odd and dangerous timing of her offer. But I knew if I turned her down I'd always regret it so I quickly emailed back and said I thought she had a splendid idea.

Months passed and I barely heard another word from her even though I knew she had gotten the tickets. I kinda put the whole trip in the back of my mind figuring if I thought about it much I would wring all possible and potential enjoyment right out of it.

I didn't do much planning, didn't think about packing or any of the details I would normally think about in preparing for a trip. It almost felt like I was in a state of denial. About the only thing in my life that indicated the trip was on my mind was when I began letting my hair grow back after my annual shaved head summer look. I didn't want my hair to be too long when I was overseas since it is much easier to care for when it's short. I figured if I stopped shaving my head in September, two months growth wouldn't be too long. The night before I was to leave I finally grabbed my suitcase (freaking out the kitties) and threw some clothes into the bag.

The only thing scarier than going to a foreign land where I knew nobody, knew little about what I was to face, was the notion of landing at a busy airport and not being able to find Jennifer.

I waited for three hours, called the hostel to see if she was there (she wasn't) before I grabbed a train schedule, hopped on to what I thought was the right one and headed off into the unknown.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER TWO
Dylan's second appearance at the Grammys came the year Time Out of Mind was nominated for a "Best Album" award. As the time came for him to perform a track from the CD, the camera panned to him behind a big old microphone that looked like it was dug up from an old radio show. The band began the harsh chord guitar intro to "Love Sick" and Bob gave a pretty straightforward (for Bob) vocal performance. Behind the band were a bunch of young people bobbing up and down as if transported from an episode of Shindig. Out of nowhere a guy with no shirt bounced on to the stage and took his place next to Bob. Painted on the wiggily dancer's chest was the word "Soybomb." Given the venue I thought this was all part of the bizarre presentation but quickly a couple of burly security guards grabbed the dancer and whisked him away. Bob looked at his bassist, Tony Garnier, smiled and then ripped into a wonderful guitar solo.

********

Navigating the London tube system is daunting because of the many lines, but it is logically organized. Like subway systems I have ridden in other cities, the tube's different lines are color coded. After leaving Jennifer a message back at the hostel telling her I wasn't going to wait at the airport any longer, I was on my way. After a half hour ride from Gatwick Airport to the Victoria station through the London countryside, I arrived at the station with map in hand looking for the District Line, or the green line. While waiting in line to buy a ticket I heard a message over the P.A. system saying that the green line was closed and riders had to take alternate routes.

So I asked the nice chap at the ticket window what my options were and he listed a litany of routes, train changes, and stations I should look for. I nodded hopped on what I remembered was the first train he mentioned, dug out my map and hoped I didn't end up in downtown Dublin. I dug out my street directions to the hostel printed off from their website. The directions told me I had three tube stop options. After a train change or two, I hopped on the line that I thought would get me to one of the three stops. It was a longer than the other rides, and it eventually took me above ground. I got off at my stop, was approached by another nice chap with a flyer boldly displaying the word "Erotica" and found a bench to sit on. I looked at the street directions that said, "10 minute walk. Hammersmith." Those directions didn't exactly point me in the direction I needed to go. I was happy to find one of the stops and was sorta sick of riding the trains, but I thought if I strolled around the area I could become hopelessly lost. So I mapped out an alternative.

When I finally found another stop, I read the directions and felt somewhat confident that I was finally headed in the right direction. It was supposed to be a five minute walk and there were only two turns I needed to make (a left from the station and a right down Gunterstone Road). I walked a suspiciously long distance and my suitcase was starting to feel extremely heavy. Once I hit a major street I decided I'd better ask someone for better directions. I stopped in a coffee shop and the owner had never heard of the street but when I showed him my printed off directions he sent me back in the direction I had just come from.

Feeling lost was bad enough- feeling scared of the traffic whizzing by added to the permanent knots in my stomach. I felt like I imagine my cats must feel like when I take them for walks and we have to cross a road. No matter how many times I looked to make sure no cars were nearby, the only thought in my mind was I was going to end up a splotch on somebody's hood. It was hard getting used to looking right first. I thought that if I just looked right, then left, then right again I would be fine. But somehow during my entire stay in London I felt like I was in imminent danger of being hit by a car. I also never figured out if slow walkers are supposed to stay on the right like we do in the United States, or if the faster walkers were supposed to pass you on the right. There seemed to be some inconsistency from the people walking. I guess there is in the United States as well.

Out on the street I asked a young couple if they knew where "Gunterstone Road" was and the young chap said it was the next block down. Al had told me before I left that the streets of London were highly confusing. The street signs are on the sides of buildings and it's not always clear what street the sign is meant for. I walked down Gunterstone Road looking for the address of 16-22. When I got to "24" I noticed that the name of the street changed. Hmmm. So I wandered back down the other way thinking maybe it started over at the other end of the street. No such luck. I finally found another nice chap and asked him if he knew where the Ace Hotel was. He said he did because he was staying there. He said that the numbering system could be confusing because when a building comes down and others go in its place they simply keep the same number. I was just happy to finally find my room.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER THREE
I wasn't making a whole lot of money in 1992. But when it was announced that Bob was playing five shows at the Orpheum I decided I needed to go to all five. His popularity at the time wasn't at an all time high having taken hits from critics and fans alike so getting tickets to all the shows wasn't particularly a challenge.

By this time Bob was well into his "Never Ending Tour" having established the ability to pull just about any song out of his vast catalog and make it new again. By the third show I was so into the music that I wanted it all to go on forever. The second show he sang this goofy and eccentric version of "Idiot Wind" and it dawned on me that the Cheapo newsletter that had just started up was a perfect vehicle for me to do what Bob was doing. The editor corner column was my opportunity to produce something new every week by reaching back and casting something old from my life in a new light. It didn't so much matter if it was brilliant. Just writing every week, doing the keep on keeping on thing, was exactly what my writing (and by extension- my life) needed at the time.

After the last show was over I looked at my notes and was astounded that Bob had done 50 different songs in the five shows. The only three that were played at every show were a cover of the traditional "Little Moses," the closing "It Ain't Me Babe"- the last encore where Bob came on stage alone and played a heartfelt acoustic version, and my all time favorite Dylan song, "Boots of Spanish Leather."

"Boots of Spanish Leather" is as autobiographical song as Dylan has ever recorded. From all accounts it accounts the break-up with his then girlfriend Suze Rotolo blow by blow. She was off to Spain with her mother and her sister who were trying to keep Suze away from Bob. The song describes feelings of betrayal that the object of the singer's love would so easily leave him behind. Whenever I hear the song, and whenever Bob gets to the punchline- it never fails to bring a tear to my eye.

"I got a letter on a lonesome day/It was from her ship a-sailin'/Saying I don't know when I'll be comin' back again/It depends on how I'm a-feelin'/Well, if you, my love, must think that-a-way/I'm sure your mind is roamin'/I'm sure your heart is not with me/But with the country to where you're goin'/So take heed, take heed of the western wind/Take heed of the stormy weather/And yes, there's something you can send back to me/Spanish boots of Spanish leather."

********

For those of you who have never been to a Bob Dylan show the ritual now goes something like this: The doors open well before he'll hit the stage. Whether standing in line outside or waiting for things to begin inside- there's a great anticipation of what songs he might do a particular evening with the off chance that he might pull out some unexpected nugget making the wait quite worthwhile. The stage is arranged with Bob's keyboard left of center. His people come out to tune the instruments and soon the smell of incense waifs from the stage. Around twenty minutes before Bob hits the stage the rumble of the crowd is briefly interrupted by classical music playing from the speakers on stage. When Aaron Copland's "Appalachian Spring" begins to play those who have been to a Dylan show before know the time is near and they begin cheering. All the lights then go down and the roar of the crowd goes up as the darken figures of the band take their place on stage. A deep booming voice fills the air with an intro written by a journalist recapping his version of Bob's career- including his period as a "has been" and his alleged drug abuse and subsequent finding of Jesus... and then comes the words that really set the audience off... "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Columbia recording artist, Bob Dylan" just as the band hits the first notes of the first song.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER FOUR
I was on a new anti-depressant medicine that was suppose to help me sleep better. It couldn't help me sleep any worse since I hadn't been sleeping at all. And it did do the trick. I spent days at a time in bed. I remember waking up groggy one Friday evening and turning on the TV. PBS had a special on celebrating George and Ira Gershwin's music. I was having a hard time staying awake.

A lone figure strode on to the stage. Dressed in a tuxedo and carrying his guitar with his harmonica rack sticking out from his chest, Bob began to strum some notes as the narrator announced him. It was a Gershwin song I had never heard before but it soon became my all time favorite Gershwin song. Bob's vocals were full of passion and sincerity. In a show wrought with pomposity and way too much polish Bob's performance stood out with it's authenticity. He looked so out of place and lost but that isn't something that seems to bother him at all. As he is wont to do he made the song his own by changing the lyrics just a smidgen.

"I've found the happiness I've waited for/the only girl that I was fated for/Oh soon, a little cottage will find us safe with all our cares far behind us/The day you're mine this world will be in tune,/let's make that day come soon, let's make that day come soon..."

********

To get to London's Carling Academy in Brixton from our hostel required us to hop on the Piccadilly line to the Green Park station. From there we boarded the Victoria train to the end of the line. Brixton isn't exactly the nicest part of London. One wouldn't want to flash his or her bling very loudly there. The venue holds around 5,000 and for the first show we were in the balcony overlooking the elegant stage that juts out on to the main floor. The British publication Time Out describes it thusly: "Bridging the gap between London's intimate venues and soulless arenas, the Grade 2 listed building is one of the capital's best live venues. Its sloping floor gives a decent view from almost anywhere and the slightly surreal interior (based on the Rialto Bridge in Venice) lends each show here a true sense of occasion."

The opening chords of the opening song were unfamiliar. Turns out it was a cover of "Rumble" from the recently departed Link Wray, the man who invented the power chord. Without a pause the band broke into a ragged version of "Drifter's Escape." Next came a favorite Dylan song, "Senor (Tales of Yankee Power)." Whenever Bob sings the last line, "This place don't make sense to me no more, can you tell me what they're waiting for Senor?" like in many of his songs I know exactly what he means even if I'm not sure what he was thinking about when he wrote the song.

There were three high points to this show for me. The always glad to hear it "Queen Jane Approximately" with its mournful, pleading, and tenuous chorus, "Won't you come see me Queen Jane?" was sung with clarity and precision. Likewise the way Bob sang "Desolation Row" was spellbinding and particular. Each verse was sung differently and by the end of the long song Bob left us wanting it to go on and on. "New Morning" emphasized what is the strength of the current band's lineup- its rhythm section. Drummer George Recile bashed his two snare drums in sync with Bob's odd keyboard chords in a bluesy version of the hopeful song- and Tony Garnier's bass held it all together. I loved hearing this song live for the first time. Yes indeed just as the song says I did feel lucky to just be alive.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER FIVE
I was in the hospital for my depression. I had brought with me just one tape to listen to during my indefinite stay- it was a bootleg recording of a recent Bob concert in Australia. He was touring with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and this show's opener was a cover of Dizzy Gillespie's "Lucky Old Sun."

"Out in the morning, out on a job. Work like the devil for my pay, But that lucky old sun got nothing to do but roll around heaven all day."

I loved the sound of Bob's voice. I loved the Heartbreaker's keyboardist Benmont Tench's piano playing. There's something about this performance that just made sense as all my world was crumbling around me. I remember listening to it when a nurse came in to check up on me. When she heard what I was listening to she seemed impressed and asked who was singing. I said Bob Dylan. She had never heard of him. It was then I knew they couldn't help me there. They didn't stand a chance.

********

We had to retrieve our tickets for the second show from a guy in England that neither Jennifer or I had ever met. Jennifer had ordered tickets through a service that would not deliver to a United States address. So with the help of a Dylan friend she had found this guy in England who agreed to holding our tickets for us.

She called him and he was having lunch at an Italian restaurant near his hotel. We took the train over to that part of town. The restaurant was small but had a nice atmosphere. Tim, the guy holding our tickets was seated at a table with a group of people that included the owner of the restaurant, Rob DeMartino. Rob's grandfather was a gangster, a local legend. During a great meal full of splendid food and adult beverage was one of the threads to our conversation- trying to identify the son or daughter of a famous parent who had managed to become even more famous than his or her parent. The topic of discussion had of course started with talking about Jakob Dylan.

We were having a hard time finding even one example of an instance where the child had outdone the parent. Liza Minnelli? Close but no cigar. Julian Lennon? Frank Sinatra Jr.? Angelina Jolie? Arlo Guthrie? Martha Wainwright? Gimme a break. I did mention Barry Bonds but I was seated with a group of British so the name didn't mean much. I also identified Bonnie Raitt and Whitney Houston but by that time the topic had kinda died.

Rob told us a great story about attending a Green Day concert where some youth approached him and scornfully said, "corporate." He knew what they meant and tried to explain to them that Green Day wasn't exactly authentic punk so their comment was somewhat ironic.
Ironically the first song in the encore to Bob's show that evening was a cover of the Clash's "London Calling." Talk about a smile inducing moment. It was an abbreviated performance- just one verse and chorus. But Bob spit out the lyric, "Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust/London calling see we ain't got no swing/'cept for the reign of that Truncheon thing..." was such venom and conviction that it would have made Joe Strummer blush.

That performance would have been enough to push the show over the edge but how about the live debut of "Million Dollar Bash?" "Well, I looked at my watch/I looked at my wrist/Punched myself in the face/With my fist/I took my potatoes/Down to be mashed/Then I made it over/To that million dollar bash" indeed. There was also a lilting version of "Boots of Spanish Leather" that melted my heart. We also got a note perfect version of "Visions of Johanna" ("Madonna still has not showed...") The band also pounded out a heart stopping "Highway 61" that demonstrated as rudimentary as Bob's keyboard skills are- as he pounded out a three note riff that was echoed by guitarist Stu Kimball- and as the whole band soon hit the same riff- that this was spine-tingling stuff. A great great performance.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER SIX
I had read nothing about the Traveling Wilburys so when their CD came out it was a complete surprise that there were some new Bob songs available. During a decade long slide into near oblivion it was frustrating that one of Bob's greatest strengths- his sense of humor- was nowhere to be found. That's why his contributions to the Traveling Wilburys were so greatly appreciated. Somebody was finally letting his curly hair down and having some fun again.

Fellow Wilburys Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, George Harrison, and Roy Orbison weren't exactly slouches but it was Dylan's participation that made the collaboration historical and hysterical.
I played the first CD over and over. Couldn't get enough. On a novel writing trip out west I was playing the tape somewhere in Kansas and singing my heart out along with Bob on "Congratulations" "Congratulations for breaking my heart/Congratulations for tearing it all apart" with so much conviction that my soulmate and traveling partner Stephanie Jane told me to cut it out.

********

It used to be that the only element to my Dylan concert going experience that I did not like was the presence of so many Deadheads. I've never understood the connection between the artists- how fans of the noodling, doodling, hemphead band saw any relation to Bob's music. Over time I just got used to the distraction of the swirling dancing of the tie-dyed t-shirted crowd- put up with them to hear Bob play one more time.

I now think I'm starting to get it. Bob's fans tend to be fanatical- eating up every scrap he throws our way. Those newest over the top fans aren't unique- obsession has been part of the game long before A.J. Weberman started digging through Bob's trash to find clues to Lord knows what. Going to a Dylan concert now days I tend to see some familiar faces that I always see at every show. There's Francesca, the woman who strolls up and down the line of fans waiting to get into the show- carrying a sign pleading for someone to give her a free ticket to get in (and weirdly she always does), to the scary looking people whose eyes appear translucent and depraved. There's also a group of Dylan fans who want to be in the first row and will stand in line for many hours in order to do so. These fans have replaced the Deadheads. Their erratic spastic dancing at the show shows they have no concern about those around them. It's all about making a spectacle, how every Dylan concert is meant strictly as a mechanism for them to get closer to the Almighty Bob. A couple of Jennifer's friends fell into this group. They were willing to forgo any sightseeing in the terrific European city to sit on the hard concrete next to the venue all day long.

So the third show Jennifer went to see these friends and I ended up involuntarily holding our place in line having not eaten a bit of food all day long. (Back home I get paid plenty by the hour.) This might have clouded my vision of the third show- a show I thought lacked any trace of inspiration at all.

There were two highlights of the show for me. Bob's version of the ravages of war song, "John Brown" was note perfect. I loved how when he sang the line, "he stood so straight and tall" Bob stretched out his legs at his keyboard just as tall as he could. I also loved hearing the terrific "Mississippi" live for the first time. Every time he got to the chorus of the many wonderful lyrics of the song, how the only thing the singer admits to doing wrong was staying in Mississippi a day too long, my memory of standing in line to see the show made a humorless situation seem downright funny.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER SEVEN
Bob's 1995 show at the Target Center was just another arena show except for one stellar moment. It came during a performance of "Mr. Tambourine Man" a song I've heard so many times it has ceased to mean anything to me at all. After a nothing special run through of the song Bob began a harmonica solo that seemed like more this is what we are doing every night dreck. But he kept blowing, kept trying to make this something memorable. And he did. As he blew note after note the whole thing crescendoed and built upon itself. I've never much liked Bob's harmonica playing but as his solo ebbed and flowed I couldn't believe my own ears. By the time it was finished I felt like the top of my head had been removed the insides had replaced by a brand new brain. It was like Bob had started lost and not knowing where he was headed and by the time he reached his final destination the journey had come to mean the meaning. It didn't matter where he ended up it was how he ended there that was the brilliance.

********

I was on my own to find my own way. And I was thankful for the chance. It was my fourth day in London and I finally had the chance to see things through my own eyes. Jennifer had joined her friends in trying to secure a spot that would ensure the "rail position" right in front. So I went to explore the government side of town. Buckingham Palace and the House of Parliament and Scotland Yard, I suddenly felt at home in a foreign land, suddenly felt like I found my voice at the same time that I hardly said a word to anyone all day long.

It was this day that I found the things in London that I absolutely loved. I loved the sign that declared "Humps in the Road- Next 250 yards." I loved passing a shady looking group of youths on my way to a train station that reeked of reefer- reminding me of a scene from To Sir with Love. I loved passing places with rows and rows of scooters. I loved passing geeky guys that all sounded like Rufus Wainwright or Giles from Buffy. I just walked and walked realizing that I couldn't be lost if I didn't know where I was going.

I got to Brixton around five and saw Jennifer with her friends a bit back in the line. On this night the venue's security did something different from the nights before. They opened the outside doors and let the crowd flow in, but at the inside doors they stopped people and let people go forth one by one. This method meant that those standing in line all day had no advantage over those that showed up much later. And this meant that I ended up with a better place to view the show than those who had been there all day long. It was as if Bob was telling the kids that life is too short to waste your time standing in line in such a historic city. You just never know, just can't know, when your time is up so you might as well discover everything new that you possibly can during this impossibly short journey.

The fourth show was as good as the third show was as bad. The only overlap between the two was the performance of the waltz "Waiting for You" from the Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood soundtrack that features the all too true lyric- "Happiness is just a state of mind/Any time you want to you can cross the state line..." The show's setlist was tremendous featuring carefully sung versions of "Shelter from the Storm" and "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll." The more recent songs like "Million Miles" and "High Water (for Charlie Patton) were equally as sterling. There was also a one off cover of Fats Domino's "Blue Monday" that made me smile ear to ear.

What really made the show for me however was "Positively Fourth Street" that demonstrated what a brilliant live performer Bob is. His night before performance of one of my favorite kiss off songs was nothing special. His gruff vocals expressed a weariness and remorse that isn't as present in the recorded version. His effort this night however was entirely different. Bob sang the first two words of every verse with a sneer and emphasis that turned the song inside out. "YOU'VE GOT," "I KNOW," "DO YOU" were sung with such contempt that I couldn't help but severely grin. I even chortled outloud something that I rarely do.

FAVORITE BOB MOMENT NUMBER EIGHT
In the late 80's Bob inexplicably took the role in a never to be released in theaters movie Hearts of Fire. He appropriately and convincingly played the part of Billy Parker a washed up rock and roller. The highlight of the movie was the scene where Billy skinny-dipped with the lead actress, singer Fiona.

The one redeeming thing that came out of that project was a BBC documentary called "Getting to Dylan." The documentary ends with a long interview with Bob that has him sketching his interviewer the entire time. The questions are blatantly insipid but watching the whole thing is a great opportunity to watch how Bob thinks. It was the most intimate opportunity to do so until last year when he released his entertaining memoir, that was likely equal parts fiction as non-fiction.

I bought a book a long time ago that was all about trying to figure out the meaning of Bob's song "Jokerman." The author writes about the Biblical references of the song and tries to pass it all off as some great yearning to discover the meaning of life. Reading it though, I saw through the ruse. I believe Bob when he said he is just a song and dance man. Everything he does is done with a cynical dose of skepticism and humor. He knows his fans dissect his every word, his every move, with sickening religious fervor. So he tends to throw us all a bone. But it all goes back to the beginning of his career. He isn't really Bob Dylan after all- it's all an act of some brilliant sort.

********

The final show fell on Thanksgiving not that the British would recognize that. As I woke up and strolled into a light rain I said to myself that Bob Dylan isn't much of a meteorologist. The show the night before featured the best version of "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" that I've ever heard. But what was falling from above wasn't a hard rain so much as it was just a nuisance, an excuse to spend all day inside a museum where infinity goes up on trial.

The British Museum is a place you must visit. Just like many museums its artifacts are a reminder that where we are now is nothing more than where those that walked before us were at a long time ago. But there is just so much stuff, so much to see that a one time visit can't be enough.

I was dying of hunger throughout my visit so I decided to cut my tour of the museum short in order to get a bite to eat. I wasn't hoping to find my traditional turkey and dressing meal so I thought about what I could do to replace those staples. Cowboys and Indians, England is known for its Indian population- how about some fancy curry delight? Sounded quite appropriate.

I saw an Indian restaurant on my walk to the museum. But to get there I had to cross a busy street, maneuvering myself past the many crosswalks and I needed a restroom badly so I made the fateful decision to go back first to our hostel and hope there was a good Indian restaurant nearby. I hopped on a train at a station that wasn't where I had gotten off in the morning. The train was empty- a weird sight- and when in the middle of the ride it came to a complete stop in the darkened tunnels and just sat there for ten minutes I wondered if I hadn't made a huge mistake. The wheels began to roll again just as my stomach barked out how unhappy it was.

At my hostel I asked the front desk person if he knew of any good Indian restaurants within walking distance. He gave me directions that I knew I couldn't follow but was more than eager to try. The rain was still falling and as I somehow managed to once again find my way to a place someone else mapped out for me I found that the restaurant was closed. I continued walking on hoping that curry food was somewhere close.

My stomach was unforgiving though so I ended up at an Iranian restaurant. The host coolly greeted me in the nearly empty place. I ordered a chicken and rice meal and waited for it to arrive. I waited some more and thought that my street view with a crosswalk signal telling people to "wait" was all too ironic for my present situation. People came and went with their orders long before my food was served. When I finally got it however, it turned out the best meal of my trip. On the restaurant's tinny speakers I swore I heard the Iranian version of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana." It almost made me yearn for the disco era.

I again arrived at the venue with a line already queued up. I went to the end of the line and the lady that arrived after me didn't stand behind me but next to the guy in front of me. It was apparent she wasn't with the guy as they never said a word to each other. I would have said something about her decision to not honor my place in line but I thought it bold that she would so blatantly ignore me. As she talked to other late arriving people I deduced she was Swedish and began to wonder if her method of lining up was the way things are done in Sweden.

Once the doors opened I somehow found myself in the first row clinging to the rail. I stood next to Barbara, a German woman, who told me a couple of interesting things about her life. She told me that when she was learning English in her German elementary school her music teacher made her class sing Bob's "With God on Our Side" that features the lyrics, "Though they murdered six million/In the ovens they fried/The Germans now too/Have God on their side." I told Barbara that was intriguing although I'm not sure she understood my mumbling English. She also told me all about her living day to day running a flea market and how all the money she doesn't spend on paying of food and her living accommodations she spends feeding her dog Achilles and going to see Bob.

The final show was a fitting end to the trip. The setlist was disappointingly similar to the previous show but the two step bluesy version of "Sugar Baby" lessened the disappointment considerably. The song makes great sense to my world back home- another lament of a world gone wrong. "You always got to be prepared but you never know for what/There ain't no limit to the amount of trouble women bring/Love is pleasing, love is teasing, love's not an evil thing..."

At the end of every show, at the end of the encore finale of the Hendrix like "All Along the Watchtower" Bob and his band lined up mid-stage to take their bows amongst the wild cheers. During night three's performance the band looked toward the balcony where the Pogues' Shane MacGowan stood and wobbled, but the rest of the night they didn't seem to be looking anywhere at all, all standing with probably ordered blank looks on their faces. The most movement came from Bob himself who held two harmonicas chest high, one between his forefinger and his middle finger, the other held in the same hand between his ring finger and pinky. He seemed to gesture this handful toward someone in the audience but the movement was subtle just like all the notes played before.

These days Bob looks all the world like a mirror image of Vincent Price especially with the pencil thin mustache yet he moves like a combination of Charlie Chaplin and a cat. He's the type of person you just can't take your eyes off of and yet all the time you're watching him you're not quite sure you really see him. And that juxtaposition just makes you want to see him another time all the while realizing the next time may very well be your last chance because it can't go on forever.

Wiggle Wiggle

2005-11-14T08:54:00.000-06:00

A few weeks beyond the day I turned 41 I'm about to embark on a journey of a different kind. I'm off to see four Bob Dylan shows at Brixton Academy in London, England.

I've never been to England though I've been accused of butchering the language a time or two in my life. Call me crazy, others have certainly done so, but when my friend Jennifer emailed me last summer and asked if I was interested in going to London to see Bob, I couldn't exactly say no even though Jennifer and I don't really know each other that well.

It's been Bob that has brought us together. We're both fans of the extreme nature. Dylan's music has spoken volumes to me and given what I know about Jennifer he seems to have reached her as well.

I can't speak for Jennifer though I know she speaks English more goodly than I do. For me though there's a reason that Bob Dylan's words have reached me like no other. This evening I turned on the shuffle option on my iPod and I spun the dial to the folder of all the nearly 500 Dylan songs I've loaded on to my mystery device. Songs from all periods of his career have randomly been playing and as I sit here typing away it has dawned on me just about nearly every one has changed me in some significant way. Dylan alone has hit upon that spot within where chaos turns to confusion, where confusion continually gives a chaotic life some type of meaning.

There's the unreleased bootleg version of "TV Talkin Song" from 1991's Under the Red Sky that Dylan's voice bottoms out at the bottom of his vocal register on words that are as scary as they are enlightening. He's playing the role of a crazy man railing against the evils of television although from the sincerity in the performance one can't be sure if he's playing at all. "The news of the day is on all the time/All the latest gossip, all the latest rhyme/Your mind is your temple keep it beautiful and free/Don't let an egg get laid in it by something you can't see..."

Will Dylan pull out "TV Talkin' Song" out of his bag of tricks during his five night stay in London? Doubt it. Wouldn't count on it. If there are two songs I sure wish he'd sing I'd have to say "Dirt Road Blues" and "Temporary Like Achilles" although I know neither one is likely to happen (don't think either has been performed live before).

I'm not sure where I'm at these days but if I could figure it out and put it down on paper obliterating all the morass of discord it might be something like the former... "Goin' walk on down that dirt road 'til I'm right beside the sun/Goin' walk on down until I'm right beside the sun/I'm gonna have to put up a barrier to keep myself away from everyone."

Of course the latter has just as much to say about how I feel these days. "Achilles is in your alleyway/He don't want me here/He does brag/He's pointing to the sky/And he's hungry, like a man in drag/How come you get someone like him to be your guard?/You know I want your lovin'/Honey, but you're so hard..." Like many of Dylan's lyrics it's hard to decipher what he might have been feeling and thinking about when he wrote all those universally cryptic words but when listening to him singing the song one knows exactly what he is singing about. That's one great slight of hand to be able to pull off.

Perhaps what I deep down wish Bob would do is exactly the opposite of what he did during a tour of Britain many years ago as captured in the documentary No Direction Home. Instead of pissing off his fans by plugging in and playing loud and electric, maybe now is the time to disappoint again and play everything in an unexpected fashion- all acoustic or all accordion.

Yes I'm going down that dirt road to some far off place. Yes it's temporary like achilles that part of me is as hardened as it is weakened and sensitive in trying to find new adventures that will help me forget about the old. What I'm more likely to hear those nights across the sea is what it feels like to be own my own with no direction home like a complete unknown, and how there must be somewhere out of here.

I've always felt like a stranger in a strange land but I have a feeling that being in the U.K. will reinforce that feeling greater than normal. That my reason for going is to hear the familiar voice of one that has made this place a bit more comfortable at the same time as he jars me with every word he sings, surely isn't lost on me.

Herr Schneider

2005-11-14T08:47:00.000-06:00

It was almost a decade ago(!?) that my ex-friend Jennie Haire and I went down to Mankato to see Bob Dylan. I remember two things from that evening- 1) Bob did this goofy harmonica solo during "Tangled Up in Blue" that was as mesmerizing as it was eccentric and 2) that Jennie and I got lost somewhere in Eden Prairie as both of us needed a restroom BADLY.

It was Jennie's first Dylan show and I would love to know if she remembers that evening at all. Unfortunately I guess I'll never know that.

The plan was Jennie was going to move in and we were going to expand my house by fixing up the attic into an upper wing of my house. She wasn't much of a cat person but she had met Mr. Max and she liked him well enough, and just importantly he seemed to like her too.

The day we were hammering out the details we were walking near the fairgrounds and Como Park and Jennie was worried about meeting my best friend at the time, my favorite mother of two, the three of us had tickets to see Dylan play a show at nearby Midway Stadium- but for whatever reason Jennie walked right on out of my life never to utter another word to me.

Hurt? Um yes. This time beyond repair. Bitter? Nope, I made a conscious effort I wouldn't let that be the case.

A year or so later as I was reading the latest rantings of all those on the Internet Dylan newsgroup I was subscribed to another Jennifer (who had a University of Minnesota email address) posted a message saying she was a new Dylan fan and she was looking for help in starting her collection of live recordings.

I emailed this Jennifer and ended up sending her some shows I had. I didn't mention that if her first name had been different I probably would have ignored her posting and gone my merry way just like a little rabbit hopping away.

So do I find it at all ironic that as most of you are reading this that I'm walking around London with the second Jennifer as I'm wearing the first Jennifer's sneakers- with each and every step a reminder of all that has gone wrong since that fateful day? And of course the very reason I'm in this whole other place is to once again see Bob Dylan?

It's been a lifelong affliction that I have a tendency to connect the dots that otherwise have no other connection than the little that goes on inside my noggin but if there is one thing I won't forget, one thing I can't overcome it's that within days of when Jennie Haire walked away Dylan's brilliant Time Out of Mind came out, with all its depressing imagery of walking and walking away and more than any other music I've ever known or experienced, the songs spoke volumes to me.

Just like the time my best friend at the time, former Cheapo employee John Baynes and I were shopping at the Golden Valley Down in the Valley when the record store clerks selected Dylan's not yet released Down in the Groove for the in-store play and it was the CD I was holding out for before I did whatever I decided to do next and then Bob's voice was singing "When you sad and your lonely and you haven't got a friend, just remember that death is not the end..." Johnny B. turned to me and told me to stop listening.

But I haven't been to do that. No matter what else has gone haywire in my life I still find myself listening to others, and for better or worse, listening to Bob Dylan. Yes I still wonder what Jennie Haire, now Jennie Johnson, is up to, long after the expiration date of our friendship came and went, and yes I'm now probably wandering around some distance street with another Jennifer as we bide time between Bob Dylan shows, but if I know one thing I know this: that voices, steps, walking and walking away, time, and confusion will some day cease to confuse me. And then sadly it will be too late.

The Girl Next Door

2005-11-07T11:01:00.000-06:00

If you want to make a lot of money consider inventing some software that automatically synchronizes your passwords for you. At my work I have a network password, an email password, a password into the voter registration system, a password into the payroll system. Each of these passwords expires but none of them expire at the same time so it's difficult to keep track of them. What I end up doing, like many others, is writing my passwords on a sheet of paper that I keep near my computer. Kind of defeats the point of having them in the first place.

There are rules for passwords- they have to be a certain length, many make you include a combination of letters and numbers, and you're not supposed to pick anything obvious like the name of your three-legged cat.

If a hacker were trying to bust into my computer they'd likely have a difficult time guessing my password since I interchangeably use the first and last name of a person that no one (besides the blue-eyed editor) knows was even on my radar. Back in the day I had a huge crush on her that even had its own theme music- Frank Sinatra's "The Girl Next Door."

"The moment I saw her smile I knew she was just my style/My only regret is we never met/for I dream of her all the while.../But she doesn't know I exist/No matter how much I persist/So it's clear to see there's no hope for me/Though I live at 5135 Kensington Avenue and she lives at 5133/How can I ignore the girl next door?/I love her more than I can say/Doesn't try to please me/Doesn't even tease me/And she never sees me glance her way..."

I went to a party this weekend. I was chatting with a group of friends when she walked in. Our eyes immediately connected and I think she was as surprised as I was seeing each other again. She immediately came over near where I was standing and stood quietly looking for someone to talk with. Smooth as I am I of course turned in another direction. She looked good. A little bit heavier than before, her hair slightly longer but she looked even better than I remembered.

Later on as she was talking to a couple of people I tried to listen in to the conversation. She was telling them that she doesn't own a cell phone- that she is holding out because she doesn't see the need. Her words proved that I was attracted to something other than her good looks. I was attracted because she seemed somewhat socially awkward, yet perceptive. I was attracted because she has a great smile and laugh and she was always too shy or too snobby to say anything to me and I could relate to all that.

She of course has a big hunk of diamond on her married finger but still I thought about going over and talking about my new favorite song, Fiona Apple's "Red Red Red" that has the great lyrics, "I don't understand about diamonds/And why men buy them/What's so impressive about a diamond?/Except the mining..."

The whole scene reminded me of pushing the shuffle option on my iPod and having a song come up that I hadn't heard for a long time and remembering how much I used to love that song and how it used to be a part of my every day experience. There are different songs now, songs that give meaning to all I currently experience and feel but somehow none of them capture the same thing as that old song once did. A great song can remind you of all that has passed, all that has changed and in a brief moment force you to think about the roads you decided to take and what alternatives might have existed had you chosen another route.

Our eyes met a couple more times but she eventually walked over to another part of the room and then out the door meaning the only role she'll continue playing in my life is that of my password into a whole other world.

Peradventure, Somebody's Confused Miracle in the Backyard

2005-10-31T11:04:00.000-06:00

I was enjoying another scooter ride to work when the oil light came on. Being a scooter novice I'll be the first to admit I don't know thing one about scooter maintenance. I'll further admit that even when I become a scooter riding veteran given my history with automobiles and other mechanical items I'll likely remain quite ignorant about scooter maintenance. I do know enough that when the oil light comes on it's probably a good idea to add some oil and not ignore the warning.

On my way home I stopped at Scooterville in Dinkytown and as I was adding oil to my bike I mentioned to Bob, the owner of the store, that I likely was going to upgrade to a better scooter next summer. Bob said that he had just gotten in an used scooter the very model I'd likely upgrade to- and it only had 600 miles on it. When asked why the owner had sold it Bob said that the guy had gotten cancer after buying the scooter and had died shortly after. After Bob and I worked out the details, I bought the used scooter. It has bigger tires than my old one and has a top speed of around 45 miles per hour as opposed to the 40 miles per hour of my first bike.

It's a much smoother ride- and when I hit the gas the power is evident where my old scooter no matter how hard I tried to accelerate I always felt like I was puttering along.

The first night I had my new used scooter I couldn't get it started. When I finally got it fired up the next morning it kept stalling every time I came to a stop. So as I had the guys at Scooterville clean out the fuel intake tube and look at the carburetor I was mindful that maybe the bike wasn't as good as advertised- no matter all the unanimous glowing reviews I had read on the Internet before I decided to buy it.

Sure enough every morning I rode it to work the scooter stalled at nearly every stop light. It isn't a pleasant feeling to be there in the middle of traffic and when needing to scoot finding yourself at a complete standstill. Worse yet- the electric starter on the handlebar didn't restart the bike so instead I'd have to put it up on its kick stand and kick start it.

Somehow I kept not only the bike but my faith that it would one day be a smooth running machine. As I cycled through fresh gas the bike began to run better. Sure enough once it ran on a couple of tanks of fresh gas, the stalling problem went away. Turned out it merely was bad gas- and who among us hasn't had bad gas a time or two?

The first day the bike was running smoothly I went out to my garage, inserted the key to lift the seat to get to the storage area of my scooter. The key turned but the seat would not lift. This wasn't only a matter of inconvenience at not having access to the storage area- it also meant I couldn't get to the gas tank. On my ride to work all I could think about was that given the timing of this latest setback it was almost if my scooter was haunted. Maybe its original owner wasn't so keen on someone else riding his bike.

I brought my scooter into Scooterville once again and Bob monkeyed with the latch. He got the seat up and found that a screw to one of the brackets holding the latch in place came loose and the bracket was holding the latch in a crooked position. Problem solved although Bob admitted he had never run across that particular problem before.

********

I thought about riding my scooter to the Paul McCartney show at the Xcel Energy Center last Wednesday night but given that I still lacked confidence that it wasn't somehow haunted I decided I didn't want to get stranded in downtown St. Paul late at night.

I got my McCartney tickets the day they went on sale not really wanting to spend as much as I did ($144 for a single ticket!) because after having seen Paul twice before, I knew this show wasn't going to be all that different from the other two. I don't need to hear his versions of his most famous Beatle songs ("Get Back," "Back in the USSR," "Let it Be," "Yesterday,") again. The original versions were quite adequate thank you very much. Still I knew that if I didn't go I'd regret it the day after the concert.

The show seemed to take forever to begin. I didn't have my watch on but I'm assuming it was a little before eight when the piped in classical music stopped and this guy came on to the side of the stage and stood behind what looked like a large computer console. He began to do a DJ dance mix of several songs from the McCartney catalog that likely weren't going to be played later on in the evening including "Old Siam Sir," "Oh Woman, Oh Why," "Morse Moose and the Grey Goose," and "What's That You're Doing?" The thumping electronic bass pulsated rhythmically throughout the mix and a barrage of colors filled the overhead scoreboard screen flashing patterns like a screen saver gone wild.

After about fifteen minutes of this a film about McCartney began. Good God Paul, enough is enough already. When the man and his band finally appeared they opened with a lackluster version of "Magical Mystery Tour" but quite honestly just about any song would have been appreciated and sounded fine after the long wait.

I clearly was in the minority but I was glad that the second song was the less predictable "Flaming Pie" from his 1997 CD of the same name. I love the piano part and the song had a momentum that was irresistible (even though I've found the recorded version to be quite resistible).

The rest of the show followed this jarring pattern. The crowd clearly got into the show whenever Paul played a familiar Beatles or Wings song like "Good Day Sunshine," or "Band on the Run," but the energy level of the Energy Center took a dive when a lesser known song was played. Yet it was in those moments that I absolutely enjoyed the concert more than any other I've seen in a long long time. I never thought I'd get a chance to be in the same room when Paul sang songs like "Til There Was You" or "Helter Skelter" or "Please Please Me."

As I was getting more and more into the concert it struck me that more than any other artist, Paul McCartney has written a song that has been the soundtrack to just about all of the significant moments that have made up my life. As he sang an energetic "I'll Get You" I couldn't help but remember how that song was the one I heard in my noggin in 9th grade math class as I secretly snuck glances at Sue Weiss, the girl I was madly in love with at the time, as she worked on her problems. "Imagine I'm in love with you, it's easy 'cause I know/I've imagined I'm in love with you, many, many, many times before..."

I was glad he sang my three all time favorite Beatle songs, "Hey Jude," "For No One," and "I've Got a Feeling." "Hey Jude" has been his sing along closer since 1990 and for me it never loses its power as Paul aptly shows (and tells) how to make a sad song better. This evening's version of "For No One" was stunning and inspired. Accompanied only by his piano playing and Paul Wickens' synthesizer (recreating the wailing french horn part) I again was taken back to a moment from the past when I heard the song for the first time and was grateful how it captured so clearly my feelings for another Weiss lass, Sue's younger sister Karen. "And in her eyes you see nothing. No sign of love behind the tears cried for no one..."

"I've Got a Feeling" was a song Steve Olson, my best friend in junior and senior high and I used to belt out at the top of our voices on bus trips in the dark. "I've got a feeling, a feeling I can't hide" I'd sing as Steve sang the counterpart "Everybody had a hard year..." part.

There were other highlights as well. I loved Paul's live versions of "I Will" and "I'll Follow the Sun" which are essentially the same song only with different words. The latter featured four punchy coda/reprise endings that Paul explained were because the song was so short.

The song that made the price of admission more than worthwhile however was "Too Many People" from Paul's 1971 LP, Ram. It's long been one of my favorite McCartney songs because it's full of anger, an emotion he doesn't express very often. "Too many people holding back this is crazy and not like me..." Fans and critics took the lyrics of the song to be a slap at John Lennon (among them Lennon himself) especially the line, "Too many people preaching practices, don't let them tell you what ought to be..." especially since the cover of the LP featured a picture of one beetle fucking another.

The live treatment of the song was full of venom and joy. God I was glad I was there to hear it.

The live versions of the four new songs he did from his latest CD Chaos and Creation in the Backyard were full of an intimacy and immediacy lacking in most of the rest of the show. He dedicated "Follow Me" to his wife Heather and the song expressed the inspiration and guidance she has provided in the years that have included significant losses to a man who has always been about getting back, and yesterday, and finding a way back home.

I even enjoyed yet another performance of "Maybe I'm Amazed." This time I appreciated how the lyrics accurately reflect how I feel about the one I'm currently in love with- the one that has taught all about feeling the power. "Maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you/Maybe I'm amazed at how you pulled me out of time/Hung me on a line/Maybe I'm amazed how I really need you..."

********

I was in the still new to me upper wing of my house (formerly known as the attic) listening to the new Bob Dylan song "Tell Ol Bill" from the North Country soundtrack. The song is a foot tappin' country stomp. I broke out into an impromptu jig as my three cats all sat wide-eyed watching me. Diego-san was closest, standing by my bed. Thompson was further away standing outside the bathroom and Thelonious stood farthest away at the head of the stairs. The boyz couldn't take their eyes off of me. "This is new" their perplexed faces seem to say. As I sashayed over near Thompson he bolted away in fear. I guess it was a little too new and thus scary to him.

********

Liz Phair and Paul McCartney may not seem like they do but they do share a lot in common. Both had extreme early success that they have ever since tried with mixed success to overcome. In other words their early work has haunted and shaped every thing they have done since. Liz's first CD Exile in Guyville received so much deserved critical acclaim and fan devotion that every thing she has followed with seems lacking in every way.

That Liz's Thursday First Ave show featured so many songs from her first CD and only three from her newest effort Somebody's Miracle was more than a little surprising. That the older songs display so much more power and depth can't be lost on Liz. She did open with a sterling "Everything to Me" from the new CD and in its live context it was a compelling choice for an opener. "I bet it makes you laugh/Watching me work so hard to reach you/You never gave a damn/ About all those things I did to please you..." The CD version of the song to me seems like an insipid broken hearted love song to a lost love. By opening her show with a song that features the chorus "Do you really know me at all?/Would you take the time to catch me if I fell..." she framed the song in a whole different light- a slap at her fans/critics who don't seem to appreciate her music anymore.

The acoustic arrangement of "Everything to Me" featured Liz alone with her guitarist. The following song, "Baby Got Going" with similar backing was a great example of how if you listen to Liz's voice you can't help but marvel at how perceptive she can be (even in moments like last Saturday's dreadful off tune version of "God Bless America" at the first game of this year's World Series). After "Polyester Bride" Liz made a point that her guitarist had been singing the wrong words to the song for a couple of years. She may have been justified when she accused the male portion of the human race of not caring about the lyrics of songs. Given the reaction towards her new CD one has to wonder if those listening are really hearing what she is singing or if the gloss of the production leads to selective deafness. Her performance of the new songs (and she didn't even do my favorite- "Got My Own Thing") demonstrated that although the artist is in a very different place in her life- her ability to express what she is thinking about is as skilled as ever.

Standing with the Blue-Eyed editor in the (thankfully) non-smoking First Ave crowd I felt like we were with an old friend again. The only part of the show I didn't like so much was standing next to the world's two worst dancers, two women who were not only jerky but who didn't seem to have a clue about moving to the beat of the music. I wished I had a video recorder so I record them and show Thompson the three legged cat that in comparison I'm a blippin Fred Astaire. It's all about perspective. These women were there with a man/woman, a hulking being dressed in a dress and no adam's apple and with very masculine hands and features who kept backing into my dear friend who was doing her best to get into the concert

Perhaps the best part of the show was the seemingly off the cuff moments like when Liz sang a great version of "Girl's Room" without her band as her guitarist was taking care of some technical problems and her acapella version of Sixpence None the Richer's song "There She Goes."

Liz closed the show with a mesmerizing version of "Chopsticks" that contains the, this is an artist with something clever to say, about "doing it backwards" and the devastatingly confessing that after all is said and done, deep down she is "secretly timid."

Good Grief

2005-10-24T11:32:00.000-05:00

Talking last week at the Fitzgerald Theater about her new memoir, The Year of a Magical Thinking, Joan Didion said that the reason she started writing in the first place was that she needed to figure out what she was thinking.

It was one of the many times during her book reading/interview that her words spoke volumes to me. Didion's book, which is getting rave reviews and major coverage in the press, chronicles a year in which her daughter became gravely ill, and her husband died from a massive heart attack. Didion admitted that in trying to deal with her grief that her thought process was more than slightly crazy. She said that the title of the book came from the childlike belief that one controls actions beyond their control- that children for example, think that if they just hadn't spilt the milk at dinner that their parents wouldn't be getting a divorce.

Thus the book earns its metaphysical title as Didion describes how months after her husband's death, she couldn't part with his shoes because she felt that he would need them when he returned home. In many of the book's most devastating passages, Didion details how in the days and weeks following her husband's death she was obsessed in gathering all the details- attending the autopsy, trying to discover the exact time of death- as if she had done something differently she could have saved his life.

What added weight to Didion's appearance at the Fitzgerald as part of MPR's "Talking Volumes" series was that her daughter just recently died from her illness. Looking thin and frail Didion spoke in a quiet but sure voice, as if talking about her work was another necessary step in her grief process.

Reading The Year of Magical Thinking I couldn't help but think about how little of the art I know deals with such a basic human emotion as grief. Love, anger, depression, and confusion all have been examined from every which direction. Musically John Lennon's "Mother" is about the only song I can think of that directly deals with grief. Some of Brian Wilson's sadder songs like "God Only Knows" certainly hit some of the same psychological places as grief.

Reading Didion's memoir I was also struck that the words she shares seem universal and unique at the same time simply because we're all likely at some point going to have to deal with the death of a loved one. She said she wrote the book quickly (she started writing the day after her husband died and finished a few months later) because she wanted to capture the rawness of her emotions. The book does exactly that- sparing the reader none of the overwhelming emotional territory that comes with grief. Didion said that in the months following her husband's death she would walk the streets and could see others who were grieving. Asked what she saw, Didion said that looking in people's eyes she could tell if someone was grieving by the size of their pupils. That was exactly the insight I noticed when a lost love lost her brother shortly after my Mom died.

Hearing the author read clipped passages from her book was not an easy and certainly not a comfortable experience. The reading was broken up by cello music provided by two local musicians. As they played my mind drifted to the best piece of art I know about grief- the still amazes me every time I watch it- episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Buffy's mom dies.

The stark and quiet episode captures both the overwhelming confusion, sadness, anger and shock and loss of what it feels like to have someone vital to your life die. If you're lucky, friends reach out to you as if to cushion the fall but you realize that there isn't anything they can really do to help you deal with that which can't be dealt with.

In the Buffy episode a lesser character (Tara) finds herself alone with Buffy and she tells Buffy if there is anything she can do- just ask. Then she tells Buffy that she knows it's an empty offer- she knows because her own Mom died. And for a moment Buffy snaps out of her stupor and feels a brief connection with the world again.

Reading The Year of Magical Thinking was exactly like that moment for me. Gratefully delving into such a great piece of writing makes one want to reach out to the author and share what one thinks is an instance of a similar feeling. Yet having gone through the experience of grief a time or two myself I learned if there is but one lesson to be learned it is none of us grieves in the exact same way. It's a hard lesson to learn but in grief one learns that much as we try to make every little thing mean something, in the end it all can be simultaneously meaningful and meaningless as one comes to realize how senseless a death can be. At the same time if you stop and think about it the very next breath is something to behold and not to be taken for granted ever again.

One Eyed Ingenue

2005-10-17T16:19:00.000-05:00

Even though I majored in college in TV, movies, and music, I've never claimed that I have my finger on the pulse of this country's pop culture. I'll be the first to admit I never know why some things hit the public jackpot and why others seem to strike the fancy of the nation's many cultural critics.

Take for example the continued employment (and therefore seeming popularity) of FOX's top baseball analyst Tim McCarver who has now maintained that exulted position since the 1980's as Major League Baseball has moved from ABC to CBS to Fox. McCarver clearly knows the game well but his reliance on puns and his redundant analysis has even made me long for the more palatable Tony Kubek or Jim Kaat.

So the other night as I was watching the Chicago White Sox play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim and I was getting ready to go to bed, I decided I couldn't listen to McCarver anymore so I turned down the TV sound and plopped my iPod in to listen to the new Liz Phair CD, Somebody's Miracle, for the first time. So unimpressed was I that I nearly turned the sound of the TV back up to hear what McCarver was saying about a horrible call that allowed A.J. Pierzynski to go to first base despite striking out, ultimately causing the Angels the game. But I didn't. I stayed with Liz. And I thought to myself, "God this is awful."

The next day at work I put the CD on again and this time I cut the gal some slack. Somebody's Miracle like last year's Liz Phair is slickly produced and thus all but erases Liz's claim to the throne of one time Indi-Queen. The songs all but sound exactly alike and there's not one of them that hit me between the eyes (or legs) like say, "Divorce Song" or "Perfect World." Yet unlike her last effort (an effort some accused her of trying to be a much older Avril Lavigne) at least this time Liz isn't singing about her favorite pair of underwear or favorite human secretion. This time she's singing about some much sadder stuff albeit at times with nearly Spector-ish bombastic production to cover it all up.

Paul McCartney has recently been praised up and down by music critics for stripping his sound down bare and releasing an album that seems deeper and more intimate. But his CD, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard doesn't reveal as much as Liz poetically does on Somebody's Miracle. Her CD's opening track, "Leap of Innocence" sets the tone for all that is to follow. The singer is expressing remorse for so enjoying an affair while admitting that while you're having fun things can't last "like love in California." And then the chorus is laid out for all to hear. "Anyone can tell you were my instrument/He said, 'I understand you/You want to play me...'" How devastating.

The ultra-polished production is unfortunate making some decent songs sound as if they could have been anonymously written/sung by anyone from Shania Twain to Sheryl Crow. And what's up with such a bland CD title? Liz has previously been four for four in that category with cocky CD names like Exile in Guyville, Whip Smart, whitechocolatespaceegg, and the ironic Liz Phair that revealed less (except for some sexy girly photos) than Dylan's ultimate match this for awfulness cuz you can't, throwitallaway Self Portrait. This time there are shrapnel wound inducing lines that would have made a great CD title scattered throughout like "One Eyed Ingenue" or "Sometimes I Am Inspired." So just what the heck is one supposed to make about Somebody's Miracle?

My favorite track is the playful "Got My Own Thing" that is Liz at her clever best. You gotta smile when she delivers sly lines like, "They say I'm pretty as a song..." or "I don't have to save for a rainy day I know that something comes along... IT ALWAYS comes along..." and "Everybody changed when I do what I do... CUZ I DO WHAT I DO..."

Bottom line may be that I'm in love and may always be with Liz Phair. Sure I may love Bob Dylan's music but I am in love with Liz Phair. Good looks, good luck, cheeky music and that attitude, how can one resist a package like that?

Calm and Constipation in the Well Landscaped Front Yard

2005-10-10T11:38:00.000-05:00

Everyone should know by now that Paul McCartney and I have a lot in common. Besides the early fame, the boyish charm and good looks, the billions of dollars, we both share the uncertainty of not knowing just where to go to next.

The Beatles' music was among the first music that changed my life and I always appreciated that so many McCartney-penned songs were piano based enhancing my own struggling keyboard tinkling (extremely accurate use of the term in this instance) repertoire.

McCartney's latest CD, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard has gotten quite a few good reviews. Clearly with Radiohead and Beck producer Nigel Godrich (recommended to Paul by Sir George Martin) at the helm Macca clearly was seeking to do something more significant than just his next CD. It's one of his most introspective CDs from start to finish and the fog of melancholy (unusual in a McCartney effort) lingers throughout.

Upon first listen I was reminded of the spring of my senior year of high school when I was driving with my two best friends at the time, Steve and Jay, and we were discussing Macca and what he had to do at that time to restore some of the luster to his rapidly becoming irrelevant career. I suggested that Paul record an all acoustic LP that would force him to concentrate on his words as much as he did the ever increasing need to show he was the experimental force of the Beatles.

Macca's next release Pipes of Peace was released the fall of my lost freshman year of college. I meandered down to my neighborhood Cheapo store and picked it up the day it was released. On a gloomy, grey fall day when it was my turn to pick the music in our room my two roommates suffered through this insipid music (although in my defense it followed listening to Dr. Pete's choice of the Police's Synchronicity, and Alcoholic Bruce's pick of Cheap Trick's One on One so it wasn't like my choice was that out of line). I remember how after the first listen I commented how Paul seemed to have lost all inspiration altogether to which Dr. Pete for the one and only time in our time together offered some words of sympathy. "It's not that bad and you have to keep in mind he's been writing music for so long..."

So the next time Steve, Jay and I got together was around Thanksgiving time and we tried to analyze Pipes of Peace and tried to find all the hidden meanings. We got stuck on the song "The Other Me" that contained the somewhat confessional yet entirely made up on the spot lyrics "The other me would rather be the glad one/The other me would rather play the fool/I wanna be the kind of me that doesn't let you down as a rule..." It wasn't that Paul wasn't trying, it seemed he was trying too hard- something I've done once or twice.

It is now some 22 years after that forgettable CD and one of the songs on Paul's latest mostly acoustic (maybe he heard me!) CD is a little nugget called "Jenny Wren" (that some of us might disturbingly relate to another Jennie with an animal name). This latest lament about spreading one's wings, a certain flight for freedom doesn't exactly inspire the same release that one might have felt all those years ago but it's still a darn fine song.

It's my favorite song on the CD. Like many of Paul's greatest songs ("Hey Jude," "For No One," "Little Lamb Dragonfly," "Hope of Deliverance,") it's a song about one soul consoling another. And the lasting feeling created is that the singer is singing the song to console the writer beyond the literal meaning of the words.

Chaos and Creation... suffers and yet benefits from the fact that all the songs sound somewhat alike. One of Paul's trademarks over the years has been that most his CDs inevitably feature a somewhat impressive yet equally annoying tendency to trip from idiom to idiom (see London Town) as if he just has to show off how many different styles of songs he's mastered. The CD may lack the big traditional McCartney ballad yet it's clear that Paul has reached the point where he doesn't really want to be just a nostalgia act and he wants his music to still matter. This CD may not quite get there but I for one relate to the effort.

If I Were a County Attorney

2005-10-03T11:41:00.000-05:00

Supposing that scientists were to develop cloning techniques so that humans could be cloned. I'm not saying it's gonna happen or anything but just suppose it did. And say that maybe I had been cloned and I'm not saying I would be, but if I was and for a freakish reason my clone, let's pretend, was the exact same age as I am. I would have to say if all that happened my clone might have enjoyed a pretty spectacular week pop culture-wise.

I'm not saying it's a given that my clone would have the exact same taste in things as I do, but supposing he did? Let's just say, for the sake of all this that he would have watched the PBS documentary No Direction Home about Bob Dylan. I'm not saying that one of the reasons he would have admired Dylan was Dylan's ability to turn expectations of him inside out- how when his fans were berating him for not being who they thought he should be, he channeled that anger into his music and made something lovely out of it. I'm not saying my clone would have cared one whit about that but if he did, No Direction Home might have impressed him for its capturing of this process.

I'm also not saying my clone would rely on music to get him through his life as much as I do but let's just say he did for a moment. If music mattered that much to him and he, let's just say, bought Ike Reilly's new CD Junkie Faithful and now accepting that the clone had made the exact same choices in CD purchases over the past few years, and I'm not saying that would necessarily be the case, but let's just say it is, maybe he would find too, that Junkie Faithful is the best CD he's heard since Dylan's 2001 Love and Theft. Matter of fact the clone, maybe just maybe might not be able to stop playing Junkie Faithful over and over because the music cuts through the other crap of his life like a cat's paw cuts through the fabric of the nearest couch. It maybe would be enough, and I'm not saying this is written in stone, to raise the clone's deflated spirit, if he had one, just a notch or two.

Let's just pretend for a moment and say that the clone would have agreed (and who knows if he would?) that Reilly's music is best played loud, like blasting out of a car stereo on a sunny summer day. Maybe despite this the clone would listen really carefully to the lyrics on Junkie Faithful and understand that when critics heap praises on Ike Reilly the comparison to Dylan often comes up and let's just say that the clone, like me for example, has never before understood that comparison until listening to the songs on Junkie Faithful.

The clone may or may not, but let's just say he does, think that the opening song "22 Hours of Darkness" depicts the state of depression better than anything he's heard since the songs on Dylan's misunderstood Street Legal. Maybe even just maybe, the clone would understand that the refrain that wails about 22 hours of darkness and two of light just about sums it all up in a neat little ball that often unravels uncontrollably. And maybe just maybe he'd understand thoroughly the line about love not being enough.

Let's also just say for the fun of it that the clone finds the second song on the disc, "The Mixture" to be spine tingling stuff. When in the chorus Ike calls out in desperation "Where were you?" the clone might also just relate to that very question about some necessary friends who disappeared when his mother died. Not that a clone would have a mother.

The clone also might, just might, snicker at the dirty little "Farm Girl" that not only contains clever little lyrics dripping with sexual innuendo but also how farming can be a dirty little business. "Squatting down telling me my top soil's gone/I'd rather die than pack up my farm/Squatting down telling me my beans won't grow, that my plows won't plow and my hoes won't hoe..."

I'm also not suggesting that the clone would so terribly miss the brilliance of his all time favorite TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer that left a hole in his heart as big as the void in his TV watching, and he hasn't found anything since remotely close in its emotional impact. And I'm also not suggesting it's a given that the clone would have been a fan of Buffy's creator/writer, Joss Whedon's next TV show, the never given a chance Firefly. Let's just say he would have been though, and thus he would have also maybe just maybe had made the effort to go and see Whedon's movie Serenity, the big screen version of Firefly.

I'm not sure how the clone would have responded to going to Serenity if he even had. Let's just say he did for pretends sake. Maybe the clone, and maybe he wouldn't have, just celebrated and enjoyed the humor and wit of the movie even though it reminded the clone, and I'm not saying it would, of a sense of humor that's been missing ever since Buffy left the airwaves. The clone may, and let's just imagine he might have, loved Serenity with it's rollicking action packed plot and it's quiet moments of sadness and reflection and insight. If we could somehow accept all this might be a possibility then the clone maybe just maybe could comprehend that not all weeks can be this good.

He's Not Selling Any Alibis

2005-09-26T11:56:00.000-05:00

Bob Dylan is arguably the greatest artist of the past fifty years. As acclaimed as his work often is, his music has such depth that people are likely going to be discovering new insights from it years after he leaves this place. You take a song like "Angelina" that hardcore fans may appreciate, yet because it's lesser known than many other songs in Dylan's catalog, it remains sadly unheard by ears that should be listening.

Another person who could rightfully stake claim to the lofty title of the greatest artist in our lifetime is filmmaker Martin Scorsese. His body of work from King of Comedy to The Aviator, from Taxi Driver to The Last Temptation of Christ blows just about any other film of the past few decades out of the water.

Thus the combination of Scorsese making a documentary about Dylan is somewhat akin to when the first professional Olympic basketball team, "The Dream Team" was assembled allowing Magic to play with Bird and Michael Jordan. It was almost too good to believe and yet you were almost afraid to watch fearing that the real thing couldn't live up to one's expectations.

Scorsese's No Direction Home thankfully is everything one could hope for. As a biography about Dylan it reveals so much about such an enigmatic artist. As a documentary about a vital part of our cultural and political history, it is essential viewing. I began watching it late one evening knowing I had precious few hours before I had to head into work and thus thinking I'd just watch a few minutes to get a flavor of the thing. Unfortunately I couldn't stop watching, couldn't shut it off and ended up showing up for work the next day with bloodshot eyes and tired as hell.

Even if you're not a Dylan fan No Direction Home is requisite viewing (it plays tonight and tomorrow night on PBS). There are great clear black and white musical clips of Hank Williams, Billie Holiday, Howlin Wolf, Woody Guthrie, and Odetta (WHOMP!) to name just a few. Scorsese's deft filmmaking makes the 207 minutes seem breathtakingly short. One just wants the documentary to go on and on.

Dylan's rise to fame is chronicled in a way never previously imagined even for those of us who were spellbound by the words of the memoir, Chronicles Volume One, he released last year. To see on film, a cheeky young Bob hit New York City as a cherubic imitator of the folk music he was immersing himself in, and grow into a mystical force of substantial significance is something to behold. That Scorsese is able to show Bob's evolution from a ambitious, talented youth into this scornful, weary, burned out poet bound to crash, is fascinating stuff.

No Direction Home captures the astounding hostility Dylan endured just because he decided to play an electric guitar with a band rather than continuing on by himself, with an acoustic guitar (and harmonica). As his music goes from the political to the personal, digging deeper and deeper than anyone else ever had, some of his fans felt betrayed. He's unmercifully booed at every concert, he's confronted by a clueless press, he's jostled by confused fans, jittery and looking like he hasn't slept for months, Dylan looks like he's knocking on heaven's door.

And the music created is startling. Seeing performances of searing and intensely sad performances of songs like "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" and "Leopard-skin Pill-box Hat" is transfixing as if Bob is channeling something quite beyond the realm of pop music. "I had a perspective on the booing," the latter day Dylan recalls. "After all, kindness can kill."

Scorsese's snippets of interviews with Dylan show a leery and weary but wanting to add to his own legacy, still charismatic blue-eyed boy. Talking about his treatment of Joan Baez who helped him professionally as he was breaking her personally, Bob comes close to apologizing for his behavior. "I hope she understands," he says carefully choosing his words. "You can't be wise and be in love."

Baez herself tells the story of what makes Dylan such a great artist. At the height of her fame when she was probably the most respected singer in the country and he was a somewhat unknown but upcoming singer/songwriter that she was helping along, the two of them were checking into a hotel. She had no problem getting a room but management wanted no part of him. She pulled all strings to secure him a room and he then stayed up all night writing "When the Ship Comes In." "Oh the foes will rise/With the sleep still in their eyes/And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin/But they'll pinch themselves and squeal/And know that it's for real/The hour when the ship comes in/Then they'll raise their hands/Sayin' we'll meet all your demands..."

Techno Babble

2005-09-19T12:24:00.000-05:00

This week we answer the musical question all of you have had on your minds for a long long while, "What do Teddy and Ike have in common?"

Now of course first I must clarify that I'm not exactly a neo-luddite. In high school I was the first one on my block and the second one in my conscious that owned a VCR allowing the taping of some late night programming to watch on the weekends. Later on I was one of the first I knew who owned an actual PC, and I wasn't exactly the last one on this planet to own an iPod.

Still as I watch all these cell phone carrying people who seemingly can't stand a moment of silence and have to conduct the most inane conversations in human history for the rest of us to be a captive audience to, and at the same time we live in the land of satellite radio and TIVO and GPS tracking devices that map out our each and every next move, I think I'm beginning to long for the day when life was much more simple and all we had to worry about was the Commies dropping the big one on us as we ducked and covered underneath the safety of our grade school desks. I'm somewhat reluctant to admit that yes indeed in the past month I've become very glad that I've lived beyond my expiration date to see the mass production (and acceptance) of DVDs and the future of how we listen to music.

When I was browsing the bins of the store we want to be, Amoeba in Los Angeles, I came across something I just had to buy even though its $44.95 price seemed a bit outlandish. It was a copy of one of my all time favorite TV shows on DVD, ABC's mid-90's flop, Murder One that I'm sure I wrote about in these pages all those years ago. I just finished watching the first season and man I'm even more impressed than I was when the show ran on my fuzzy reception rabbit ears aided antenna enhanced TV back in the day when life was just turning the corner of making it to the next day into believing again that something just a little bit greater was waiting for me if I could only hold on.

You must all see Murder One at some point in your life. It's another Steven Bochco serial series (the one that came after Hill Street Blues and L.A. Law and Bay City Blues and Cop Rock and N.Y.P.D. Blue and Delvecchio) and it didn't get the audience it deserved running up against the first few seasons of E.R. Coming just after the outcome of the O.J. trial the premise was that the show would be about just one trial over the course of its season, unlike all the many shows about lawyers that had preceded and followed it, from Perry Mason to Ally McBeal, from Owen Marshall to Law and Order. In its own way Murder One was thus the predecessor of the much more popular but inferior in every way, 24 that depends on its own unique (in TV terms) story timeline to drive its this isn't just another TV show personality.

Watching the first season of Murder One again nearly a decade after I saw it the first time I was a bit taken back by how much the unlikely hero, the not the usual lead character bald and inscrutable defense attorney Ted Hoffman, shaped the professional personae I eventually adopted. Ted seems a bit emotionally distant, and in a film noir world his understated and quiet lectures and moral code have to be listened to and not merely heard as in most television dialogue. Ultimately the only weakness of the series was that the writers apparently didn't map out the entire season in advance and rather made things up as they went along (much like 24) so loose ends are introduced and go nowhere, and false leads come and go for no apparent reason.

I was marveling in this wacky new DVD technology and having the ability to watch some of my favorite TV shows that didn't exactly air more than once even if TV Guide wrote about them as the best TV shows that no one was watching I also found out that my favorite "new" rocker Ike Reilly had four "new" tracks available for Internet download only. I paid twice (my bad) to hear these four new tracks but I'm not exactly upset about that if it means in the end it ends why starving? artists like Ike have so little loose pocket change.

All four download only available tracks blow away any song I've heard this year as Ike's music is wont to do. The spacey tumbling momentum laden "B.I.G.O.T" relies on the cryptic chorus line, "You've got to breed a better bigot for the band" that Ike sings in a way that suggests he's aware of the need of the parallel sounding "big hit" to better his fortunes. I love the line about "I'm part of nothing. I wish I was though. Part of something bigger than myself now" which I think is something many of us struggle with at some time if we are anything other than neo-luddites. The likewise likable "Trainbomber" contemplates and anticipates the awful chaos of a blown up train and ensuing missing of friends. Ike sounds his usual weary and knowing and I just love the trick/track. "She's So Free" paints a picture of the ultimate woman in my book. She's so godless and faithless, she don't need riches, she doesn't slave for nothing and no one, she can't be loyal, she don't need negligee, she don't eat steak and she don't eat soy. Where does she exist exactly and how do I look her up? "Maybe on the Way Out" rocks hard with its torpedo driven guitar melody. I love how Ike's band, the Assassination not only backs what he has to say, but backs it so fiercely that not only a head bob but a nod of the head is mandatory at this point out.

Theo'd

2005-09-12T12:28:00.000-05:00

It's never been my goal in life to be a lifelong Minnesotan. If I were to spend my entire ordeal on this earth in one place I think in some sense I'd view that as a failure of a significant sort. Therefore I'm reminded at how out of place I constantly feel this time of year. Though I'll never quite understand the appeal I'm sure it's fair to say that by most accounts this year's great Minnesota Get Together was just as great as last year's which I'm sure was just as dandy as the year before.

I did indeed make an appearance at the fair again this year and besides the alligator on a stick that I rapidly snarfed down I think my favorite part was seeing the "State's Largest Boar." Of course I carry the exact same title on my business card except for a slightly different spelling. Yawn.

The State Fairgrounds are within walking distance of my house and it's this time of year that all the current occupants of the house watch all the traffic come and go during the day and jump late at night every night when the fireworks boom overhead. For one of us four it's a brand new experience (like much of his life is) and it serves as a reminder (as much of his presence does) of how wonderful it can be to look at life through a fresh set of eyes. Yes many of my friends still think my living arrangements are a tad eccentric being the sole so called soul living with not one, not two, but three kitties. The feline factor in this house is undeniable but as I continually search for potential new career paths I may be deluding myself on my latest round of thinking- that I'd make a darn fine cat psychologist.

Last month when I visited my friend Alex in San Diego I finally got to meet her cat Moussaka, who Alex has told me is on kitty Prozac to help deal with depression and anxiety issues. Deep down I was hoping I could figure out what Moussie needs to help make her more well adjusted. The only basis for this daydream was that all the occupants of my own house are undoubtedly broken in some way, shape, or form. Likely the most stable of us all is Diego-san, the strutting , dashing, handsome black haired cat who in his own mind is in charge yet often times comes across as quite needy and insecure. He's the stereotype of his species- moody, unrelentingly curious, and forever needing to be the center of attention right as he disappears from sight.

Diego-san still seems unforgiving of my decision to bring in the young Theo who constantly follows him around, getting in his space and interrupting his mischief. Theo is half Diego's size and yet he doesn't hesitate to chase Diego around and Diego will inevitably run away and hop up somewhere where Theo can't reach him.

I was told when I adopted Theo that his back legs had been crushed when a child sat on him and when I brought him in for his first checkup the vet admitted he was amazed at how well Theo was walking because there was some doubt at some point whether he ever would walk again. The adoption woman from the shelter that I got Theo told me she thought he may also suffered from some brain damage from suspected abuse since he seemed more than a tad spacey. Theo's got these great big eyes that seem to take up more than their allotted space on his black and white face. He never quite ever looks straight at you and this gives him the appearance of not having a lot going on in his small noggin. I love the way he has worked himself into the routine of this house however. He loves to race the other two boyz (and sometimes the other three boyz) up the staircase into the upper wing. Diego-san has taught Thompson the benefits of drinking water straight out of the bathroom tap but it's Theo that usually pushes the other two out of the way to get his thirst quenched.

The glue that holds us all together though is Thompson. I'm quite fond of Thompson who isn't exactly the most social being that's ever existed. He's reluctant to come out of hiding whenever a guest is over. He's reluctant to make an appearance whenever something interrupts his normal routine of sleep, being fed, more sleep, and more food. More than Theo or Diego-san, Thompson loves to watch the world outside from a favorite window (which happens to be the same window Mr. Max used to love to sit and watch things transpire). Thompson is also the greatest napper of the three, resting his head on my chest closer than is natural, unimpeded by the missing front leg that got caught in a trap one fateful day.

I can't fathom, nor can I stop thinking about the days Thompson sat caught in that trap, his leg rotting away as he got sicker and sicker. Sometimes I get sad watching him hobble around, struggling to keep up with the other two. Most of the time I watch in amazement at how he doesn't seem to be bothered by the cards life has dealt him. He loves to clean Diego and Theo. He loves to lie next to them, his lone front paw draped over their chests. I love how the morning routine involves rolling out of bed and stumbling to the shower and when I finally open the door Thompson is always right there, wanting me to rub his belly, craving attention for the one and only time during the day. He then races Theo and Diego down the stairs for another breakfast, more than holding his own.

The O.C.

2005-09-05T12:36:00.000-05:00

As I headed for my seat on the flight to Orange County I was struggling with my piece of carry on luggage in one hand and laptop case in the other while precariously holding on to a full latte. As I got to my seat and tried to fling my carry on bag into the overhead compartment, I spilled some coffee on my arm and my T-shirt. The gentleman seated in the row in front of me recoiled as if I was about to drip some radioactive juice on his golf cap covered noggin. I was having a hell of a time and it would have been nice for him to offer me a hand but he was too busy looking at me in disgust. I thought about dousing his head with the latte but I didn't need no federal marshal coming after me.

We took off. The banged up auburn haired lass was studying for one of her classes, looking at mathematical formulas that would make mush out of a precious porcelain kitty figure so I plugged my headphones into my iPod and dialed up Ike Reilly and got lost in the anger and confusion and snarl and beautiful music.

We arrived in Vegas and had about an hour to make our connecting flight to the O.C. We looked at the airport monitors to find our gate but didn't see it listed anywhere. Finally the banged up auburn haired lass asked a gate agent who informed us we needed to get on a tram and head for some faraway gate. Once we got into the right area of the airport we discovered we needed to go through security again and the ticketing agent told us we were too late anyway that we should have been at the gate at least a half an hour before the flight was to leave. So we ran. Or as close to running as one can get when one is holding a couple of bags and the other is holding the same and is too sore to run.

Luckily we made it. We didn't want to miss our latest mission- to take a tour of the Ricoh factory in Tustin, California. Ricoh makes many of our finest copy machines and they are now in the business of making some voting equipment that might be flooding Minnesota in no time helping us all add things up. We were there to make sure that they were making the apparatus right.

The factory tour reminded me of the Japanese company that Al and I visited in Osaka a few years back right before I became friends with the banged up auburn haired lass. Ricoh which is headquartered in Tokyo, is a very Japanese company. There are pep talk like slogans plastered throughout the factory and the workers are encouraged to offer up their ideas to improve the processes. None of the assembly line workers looked up as we approached their area and none ran from the room when the lunch bell rang, instead conscientiously staying at their station to finish up whatever task they were working on. Not ever feeling comfortable being a management type type I think I related to the mostly foreign looking factory workers a bit too much. I could see some appeal in having a doable task in front of me each and every day- having a routine that one could conceivably achieve some sort of perfection. But who was I kidding? Boredom isn't your major problem when opportunity doesn't even exist.

Our Embassy Suites hotel suites were sweet. We had a living room and a bedroom and though they lacked the 42 inch plasma TV like the room I had at the Beverly Hills Hilton, the TV was plenty big enough to be forever fearful as we watched Keanu Reeves leave his date and destiny in Hell for a hell on Earth in Constantine.

We were wined and dined at a fancy seafood restaurant right next to the hotel. The banged up auburn haired lass isn't too fond of seafood so she had a chicken caesar salad while I gorged myself on the freshest sashimi I ever did taste. My tablemates mostly ignored me although I caught an eye or two with my chopsticks skills.

I've spent a lot of time on the road this summer. Being away from home is always a new heart pumping experience. It's never been my goal in life to be a lifelong Minnesotan. If I were to spend my entire ordeal on this earth in one place I think in some sense I'd view that as a failure of a significant sort. I may not look the type but I do like to partake in a daily adventure or two. When I stay in one place too long it feels like gravity is cheating me, pushing down on me harder than anyone else. Upon my return I noticed that something is amiss. Hitting the road these days means hopefully hopping on my breathe the fresh air scooter. But one of the disadvantages of not traveling by car comes at a stoplight that often refuses to change because you don't weigh enough to trigger a change that changes the light from red to green, allowing you to finally move forward again. Only now they are. The lights are changing. I may be putting my foot down a bit harder than I used to and perhaps that's the only thing that could be causing such a difference. Except I suppose the loosening of the belt another notch. I've seen enough elsewhere this summer to rekindle the this isn't where I'm supposed to be feeling inside to unprecedented levels. Where that may or may not end up taking me is unfortunately forever unclear.

Ike Outtakes

2005-08-29T12:38:00.000-05:00

The LAST time I danced in public (if you don't consider dancing nightly in front of three startled kitties being in public) was with the chief election official in Blue Earth County. So when the two of us were recently in Beverly Hills at a banquet where there was a cover band playing lots of Motown my last dance partner told me she expected an encore performance. Fat chance. Those that know me best (probably said kitties) know that if there is one thing I dislike it's like calling attention to myself. With my natural jerky movements (plenty have made fun of the way I walk) that go along perfectly with my natural jerky behavior, I'm not one who will be hitting another dance floor any time soon.

The one time I went to a high school dance was when Sharon Streif asked me and we went and she spent most of the evening with her friends and I spent most of the evening with mine. When the last dance was called I grabbed the nearest chair and halfway through the chair became my dance partner as I spun it around myself as I did a happy lil jig.

I mention all this because last Saturday's Ike Reilly performance at the Minnesota Zoo featured the Olympic Hopefuls as the opening act. I was looking forward to their performance having kinda grown fond of their peppy pop but having never seen them live they were better than advertised.

In a way it was the perfect match- Ike's brooding, angry, poetic pop played the role of Lennon to the Hopeful's peppy, somewhat silly, ever optimistically cynical McCartney like ditties. Midway through their set through a great great romp of "Drain the Sea" the sixth Hopeful came on stage dressed in a dress shirt, tie, and dress pants that contrasted with the other five Hopefuls who were wearing their trademark blue jumpsuits. This sixth Hopeful proceeded to dance with all the exaggerated movements I feature in own dance repertoire.

Later in the show this guy reappeared on stage and he motioned up to all the faithful Hopeful fans to come on down to join him in front of the band. The youthful throng did just that and spent the last few songs jumping up and down in place. It was enough to almost make your aging Asian cynic leave his front row seat and jump up and down with kids half his age.

I didn't quite muster up the energy to do that but I did go out the very next day and buy the Hopeful's CD, The Fuses Refuse to Burn. I haven't been able to stop listening to it ever since. Once again I'm reminded of McCartney's best pop efforts although I'm equally reminded of Crowded House a group I kinda always liked although I liked the Finn's songwriting better than I did the group's execution of the songs.

I'm not sure one will one will ever gain great insight to the meaning of life listening to the Hopefuls but a song like "Whisper" that so accurately recounts the universal feeling of being with one who secretly likes you but is petrified of being seen in public with you, that it'll probably send you back to therapy if you're in anything resembling a weakened condition. Likewise the opening track "Imaginary" features all the studio dubs and sounds the band can muster but that only adds to the lyrics about what it is like to dance with a chair.

The songwriting can be a bit too clever at times "You passed out... invitations to your show..." but seeing the band live the thing I loved most was that the group shared tambourine playing duties amongst themselves which indicates a healthy team spirit that would befit the greatest Olympic team. Listening to The Fuses Refuse to Burn in its entirety was a needed boost, a smile inducing narcotic just when I needed it most facing what might be a life change that blows beyond altering to let's start all over again.

Still if some opportunities that have arisen eventually fall by the wayside I think I may have found my next calling, the seventh Hopeful- the guy that sits at the side of the stage and takes it all in as he is wont to do.

What'dya Know About My Love?

2005-08-22T13:00:00.000-05:00

My recent trip to California reminded me of a couple of things. First of all, every time I go to Los Angeles it's beaten into me that there are a lot of people on this planet at any given moment and most of the time I'm really not one of them. I was also reminded that as hard as I try, I'm just about as fond of the girl with the crooked pelvis as I ever have been.

The first little lesson may sound trite and absurd but here is what I mean: as I reach the age where it seems more than a little silly to be a grown man scootin' to work, I am constantly astounded, surprised, and perturbed at how unaware most other people I come across are to those around them. If they're not unaware, then they don't care that their actions, their movements, their words might actually have some consequences for those within listening distance. As I go along I'm finding it more and more difficult to find people who seem to care about the things I was taught about at an early age such as courtesy towards others, being a good listener, understanding that a moment of silence can actually be something to cherish, and just because you get a thought in your noggin it isn't always a good thing to share it with whoever might be with in range of your voice.

I've been away from home so much recently that I don't know if I'm coming or going. Those I share my house with seem to be feeling something similar. Two of my cats, Theo and Diego-san seem reluctant to let me out of their sight and the third, Thompson, gets this woefully sad look every time I step out of the house as if he's not sure when, if ever, I'll come back.

The spirit of their predecessor, Mr. Max will forever linger between these walls and I must admit everything I learned about being a cat, even though I'll never be a cat, came from my many years with Max. I tried my best to learn Mr. Max's ability to live right here and now, and not let the past or the future cripple my brain. It's a very Zen like notion and the shortcut involves becoming numb and doing whatever you have to do just to get by and to the next day.

See I used to do a lot of thinking. My brain would be busy from my morning shower to that moment at night that you just can't shut your mind off enough to fall asleep. Now days not so much. I'm lucky if I allow myself to think about (let alone feel) what's ahead the next day.

So I show up at work most mornings at around 6:30 and if my brain would possibly function without its shot of caffeine it would probably be scrambling how I accepted the fate at a 9 to 5 job that tends to suck... any ounce of creativity right out of my soul.

It's the music that (still) matters. There are certain artists, certain moments in particular shows I find myself at, certain songs that seep inside, remind or teach me that it was once different or this isn't the way it was meant to be, and then I feel more and more numb just about the same moment I can stop crying. Ike Reilly is one of these artists that thank GOD has made music that has changed my very being, my very heart and brain and spleen and every time I see him I'm glad I did at the same time I begin to wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. Seeing Ike at the Minnesota Zoo Saturday night was once again one of these life altering, oh my God not another dead end detour type of show.

Ike came on stage solo with his acoustic guitar and did a I know you all might already be drunk, but this is what this sounded like when I was inspired and wrote this song, "Put a Little Love in It" followed by a similar in feeling "God Damn Shame," and then the first of several new songs he did throughout the night. The Assassination then joined him and rocked hard and dangerously.

A personal highlight came in the scorching "Garbage Day" when Ike, as he is want to do, captured exactly what I've been feeling ever since I went back out west, better than I ever could in a million and a half years. "Hey now I can't tell the buildings from the people, the strangers from the steeples, my anger from my friends. I soak here in the juices and beat up from the Stooges who sing here in my head, 'why can't we just get along?'"

Ike attracts a small albeit hard-core group of fans who share his love of drink (and song). Whenever he did one of his old songs the fans would sing and dance (if you can call jumping straight up in the air dancing) to the lyrics as if the same soundtrack was playing in all of our own personal movies (and struggles). I was in the front row of seats but I fought to see the band in between all the dancers and I battled just as much to hear the music what with the constant chatter of the woman behind me who had the most shrill voice that God ever gave to a human being. All I can say is I can't wait (and I gotta find a way to hold on) until September 27 when Ike's new CD, Junkie Faithful comes out. Given what I heard, songs about a boy in his dreams growing to a man in the arms of a woman who is just another line in another song may just provide enough of a tonic to make it all make sense for another day.

Broken Flowers

2005-08-15T13:03:00.000-05:00

"Ooh! Get me away from here I'm dying/Play me a song to set me free/Nobody writes them like they used to/So it may as well be me/Here on my own now after hours/Here on my own now on a bus/Think of it this way/You could either be successful or be us/With our winning smiles, and us/With our catchy tunes and words/Now we're photogenic/You know, we don't stand a chance"
-Belle and Sebastian

Standing on the corner of India and Date Streets in downtown San Diego last Friday, I was waiting for my friend Alex to pick me up. I hadn't seen Alex in over a decade and I was a bit jittery as I enjoyed the sunny southern California evening sky. Alex had recommended that I stay in the La Pensione motel in Little Italy and after checking in I was glad she did. The motel was quite quaint- and my room had a tiny balcony overlooking the many independent restaurants and businesses in the vicinity. The smell of fresh brewed Italian coffee filled my nostrils.

I was downstairs standing right outside the lobby people watching when it occurred to me that I didn't know what kind of car Alex was driving and since I hadn't seen her in quite some time I wasn't even sure exactly what she would look like these days. I found myself peeping into the windows of all passing cars and trucks. I thought to myself that I could probably elminate pickup trucks because that type of vehicle simply wasn't Alex.

A couple of weeks back when I called her she seemed excited that I was coming out. She had to cut our conversation short however since she was off to ballet class. It didn't surprise me one bit that she was taking ballet- it just seemed like something the Alex I knew would dive into. Just as I was getting lost in my thoughts a Honda pulled up slowly through the intersection. Inside was the smile that I knew or tried to know so well. I opened the door and she said she recognized me because I was wearing a hat- a trademark of mine back in the days fifteen years ago when Alex and I worked in the same office.

"After all this time so many disagree to turn off the lights, or pull down the shades, don't be afraid, after all this time/After all this time I'm glad that you can see. After all this time I'm not the man I want to be. Strong as your love, free as the wind, each day we begin after all this time..."
-John Hiatt

I spent all of January 1987 visiting my sister in Los Angeles. It was the spring of my senior year of college and I was in mental place where most people shouldn't spend a lot of time if they want to get out alive. Academically I was in L.A. for a senior assignment of trying to get on a game show. The closest I got was a painful tryout for The Dating Game but I struck out.

I spent the bulk of my time exploring the city, walking along the beach, trying to get as far away from this other place as I possibly could. I spent one day in San Diego and the city left quite the impression on me. "I could live here," I thought, but I knew I had to finish my degree up first. It was the first time it occurred to me that my life didn't have to start and end in Minnesota. The city was just like Los Angeles only without all the people. My impression may have been a bit skewed however since I spent the day at Sea World and the San Diego Zoo where much of the population was by definition not of the homosapien variety.

Four years later I was working for the state and the job wasn't much of a job so I ended up taking some vacation time and taking another trip out west. This time when I got back I met Alex and we had a few memorable times together. One day after a nothing day at work we were driving out to our softball game and Alex said to me, "Some day we'll be having dinner at a fancy restaurant, you in your suit and me in my dress and we'll look back at these days and laugh at how far we've come." At this point I was grasping at straws, just so tired of losing everything important to me so I almost asked Alex to sign some sort of a contract binding her to her vision because I was glad she could foresee a future with me included.

Alex left town shortly after for much better things. We were able to get together in 1994 when she was interning at the White House (pre Monica) and it was nice catching up after a few years.

Ten years later this after even more time since we saw each other last catching up time was equally as wonderful. Alex proved to be wrong with her past vision in one aspect, as we stood out on the deck of The Fish Market, a fine seafood restaurant, waiting for a table and overlooking the sunset over the ocean we were both wearing casual clothing. We had sushi and I loved gazing in her still twinkling eyes again. She was worried she was using her chopsticks incorrectly and had me show her the way that I thought was right. I told her you hold the bottom one just like you hold a pencil and you don't let it move- the top stick does the moving as your thumb and forefinger act as a fulcrum. Our conversation was enlightening. We both have changed over the years, both have been through a lot that neither one of us knows about the other yet still as I listened to her and tried to share some things, it was the same Alex I grew so fond of all those years ago. If ours is to be a friendship where we only see each once every ten years so be it, she'll always remain someone I have a great deal of affection and admiration for. It's quite impressive what Alex has made out of her life but our friendship is also a great barometer how far I've come after all these years. Who would have thought that I would ever reach the point where I would own my own house, have three quirky kitties, and drive my own scooter? Not only that but also have a job where I could afford all that?

Alex has been a city planner in San Diego essentially since she got her masters degree from the University of North Carolina. She proudly gave me a tour of the city's incredibly renovated downtown. Seemingly the city has had one major development project after another and its vibrancy was eye opening. San Diego currently has around 27,000 people living downtown in apartments and condos (which average $480,000 in price) and they expect that by the year 2030 there will be over 89,000 people living downtown.

But equally impressive to me was Alex's own home improvement project. She had bought a rundown house and has poured her sweat and love into whipping it into something quite beautiful. We talked about haunted houses- one of the four units to her personal complex is haunted she has been told by two different tenants. It was great catching up with her and it melted my heart to see how happy she got when she counted the quarters from the washing machine and dryer she had put in for her tenants and came up with $18 in one week.

I spent most of Saturday just wandering around downtown and taking it all in and it occurred to me of course that nearly 20 years ago I had done something similar with little hope that I'd be around to make a return visit. I guess that's one of the things that makes life so intriguing. Little Italy is somewhat symbolic of what is happening to downtown San Diego. It's an area that was once dying as rapidly as the tuna industry was dying. But the community decided they needed to revive the area and so they worked with the city and others and came up with a plan to attract new residents and businesses while still maintaining the history of what had been.

Sunday morning I took a long walk along the pier. I stopped and took a tour of the carrier Midway and was astounded at how big the ship is. I committed my biggest gaffe of the weekend though. Like I do most mornings I just grabbed a T-shirt to wear without giving it a second thought. The shirt I had grabbed however was one Al had given to me featuring a quote from Joseph Stalin saying that the people who cast the votes decide nothing, the people who count the votes decide everything. To wear a quote from Stalin on my chest garnered several nasty looks from the people working on the ship. I thought the girl in the gift shop was going to claw out my eyes.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring downtown again. I found an outdoor mall near the NBC building where Alex works and inside the mall was a Sam Goody Superstore that had two levels- one for new product and the other for used product. The used level even had a toy section that featured collectibles (mostly Simpsons memorabilia). I asked the girl behind the register how much they paid for used CDs. She was non-responsive until I pressed the issue and she told me usually between 75 cents and three bucks (although they do give in-store credits as well). Most of the staff I saw were hunched over the counters reading magazines.

Alex had left me with the lasting impression of my time in San Diego. As we were looking at various new construction she told me the ones she liked and the ones she didn't like. "It's all about windows," she said. It was something I might have said for all together different reasons. She wasn't talking about their transparency or reflective qualities but rather their appearance. Did I mention it was great seeing her once again?

Monday morning I was again standing on the corner of India and Date waiting for my friend Michelle to pick me up to drive us to our conference in Los Angeles. Again I didn't know what vehicle to expect since Michelle's cousin-in-law, Joe, was giving us a ride to a rental car facility. I pulled out my iPod and instead of selecting Sinatra that one might expect from one standing in the heart of Little Italy I dialed up Bob Dylan's ode to the Italian mobster Joey Gallo. It's one of my least favorite Dylan songs (way too long) and yet I was quite happy it was blaring in my ears. Michelle and her cousin-in-law pulled up in pickup truck.

"I was born here and I'll die here, against my will/I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still/Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb/I can't even remember what I came here to get away from..."
-Bob Dylan

Say you're a Japanese American and you're visiting the Japanese American Museum in downtown Los Angeles for the first time. What'dya think you'd think? Do ya think you might think about your Dad's family's experience in being locked up by the government it had trusted during World War II? Or might you think about the depth of feeling both joy and despair captured by a Japanese American potter whose art was on full display and whose pots had the unique quality of being sealed at the top? Or maybe yet perhaps what got you most were the pictures of those mistrusted and interned having a deep love of the game of baseball? Or how local newspapers were of particular importance to those in the community and there was a quote from a Japanese American who observed that if four people got together one of them was bound to start a newspaper? Probably it was at the end of the taiko drum exhibit where a Super Nintendo game (your Mom was the Nintendo playing grandma after all) allowed you to try to drum along with American pop tunes with your hidden taiko drum talents.

Nope. What really was on your mind was a quote in the free lefty weekly newspaper The LA Weekly in a piece about two local twenty-something girls who offered the following bit of wisdom: "No matter where you travel, there you are..." That about sums it up and you realize that as you rapidly approach the twinkling age where you aren't exactly a kid anymore, that much of what you have learned and continue to learn comes strangely from twenty something members of the opposite sex. Most people travel for two stated reasons, business or pleasure. Then there are those of us who travel either to get away from something or to try to get to something. Find something that's not at home.

Perhaps transparently I was thus in a sad but reflective mood. It struck me while I was shopping at Amoeba Records in Los Angeles, a place that our Cheapo stores are trying to be, in amongst a tremendous selection with so much I wanted to buy but didn't dare try to lug home to Minnesota, that for good or bad my life started all over when I was lucky enough to get a job at Cheapo in the fall (pun intended) of 1987. Music was what was keeping me going at that point having just got back from the coast. As long as I could find that next song, as long as there was a song that existed that somehow could stop time and make it all make some sense to me, I would be all right. But who knew if that could continue to be? Faith in the unknown, as embedded as it is in our cultural way of thinking, wasn't much of a comfort to me anymore.

My thoughts were interrupted when my sister told me to try out the listening stations at Amoeba and she was right, they were so cool. Not only did they allow the scanning of barcodes of just about any CD to sample the music some obscure artist had dared to get down, but they allowed you to stand at the back of the store and listen to the whole CD if you cared to do so. I loved that. The sound quality was crisp and eventually the experience influenced what I eventually purchased.

Later I was walking down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills after having checked into the Beverly Hills Hilton where every room comes complete with a 42" flat screen plasma TV and I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I got from here to there. I was surrounded by friends, colleagues, and co-conspirators about to be awarded with proof of graduating from this is where you are program, and yet if I could one time in my life turn back the clock I most certainly would have. There were men older than I sleazily hugging younger women and braless younger women enjoying free food (but paid for booze) doing the network thing. I saw the skyline of downtown L.A. from the top of the pricy hotel and the thoughts of jumping were only tempered by the notion that such thoughts, as common as they often are, are akin to spitting into the wind and what is the point to all that?

"I put down my robe, picked up my diploma/Took hold of my sweetheart and away we did drive/Straight for the hills, the black hills of Dakota/Sure was glad to get out of there alive/And the locusts sang, well, it give me a chill/Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody/And the locusts sang with a high whinin' trill/Yeah, the locusts sang and they was singing for me"
-Bob Dylan

For the past couple of years I've been participating in the only election administration certification program in the country. The 12 classes are taught by faculty from Auburn University and the classes are held in various parts of the country giving me plenty of time to get away from home. It was nice that the year I finished up the classes the graduating ceremony was being held in Beverly Hills so that it gave me time to see my sister Donna in Los Angeles and finally get to see the nifty little house she bought last year in San Gabriel. Several other Minnesota friends in the election business made the trip out to attend the annual conference so my graduation was well attended by family and friends. The ceremony was held in the room they hold the Golden Globe awards. They had us stand in the back of the room and one by one us twenty some graduates were called down as a brief intro was read highlighting our careers. The bright lights blinded me as I sauntered towards the stage. My heart beat like one of them wind up monkeys banging on a drum. Part of me was hoping I'd stumble on my way- it would have been quite symbolically appropriate. But I didn't. I took my plaque and the corresponding handshakes with the aplomb of someone that has either come a long way over the years or has fallen a long way along the way.

Stalin's Advocate

2005-08-15T11:19:00.000-05:00

David Maeda, Elections Specialist for Hennepin County was designated as a Certified Elections/Registration Administrator (CERA), the highest professional achievement, in ceremonies conducted by the Election Center at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, Los Angeles, CA, August 12, 2005.

CERA designation is achieved only through a multi-year course of study conducted by The Election Center's Professional Education Program and completion of twelve core courses taught by the Master's in Public Administration faculty of Auburn University (Auburn, Alabama) ranging from ethics, to voter registration and elections law, planning, communications, and voter participation, among others. The intent of the program is professionalize the management of voter registration and elections administration in promoting and preserving public trust in the democratic process.

"This is the highest designation available to elections and voter registration officials," said R. Doug Lewis, director of the Center. "Of more than 21,000 elections and voter registration officials throughout America, this graduating class of 46 professionals takes us to 320 election officials who have achieved the CERA status. To be among the first 500 certified in America is an outstanding accomplishment."

"Hennepin County is indeed fortunate to have Maeda as one of the top designated professionals in America. Obtaining and maintaining CERA status means that he has committed to a career long process of continuing education to improve the electoral process in Minnesota and the nation," he stated.

"These truly are the people who make democracy possible," Lewis said. "Maeda and other CERA professionals serve as the nation's protectors of the democratic process. Because of them, Americans have a trust and public confidence in the election process. They have assurance that the system is fair, free, honest and accurate. In many parts of the world, their citizens have no faith in the form of democracy offered in their home countries. The importance of what Maeda is doing for Hennepin County is incredible but rarely noticed... unless something goes wrong."

Maeda, an elections official for eight years, said "This is one of the most challenging election education programs I have ever participated in. We covered the law, and ethical considerations in how to better serve the public. We also became more aware of how important it is to nurture and care for the democratic process. I loved how we got credit for just showing up, just like the voters do.

"It is my great honor to assure that the public's will is accurately reflected in our elections," Maeda said. "I see my role to dignify all potential voters and to remove as many barriers as possible to participation in the democratic process. Our office cannot be responsible for how many actually turn out for each election, but we can certainly be sure that they have the opportunity to vote and have their votes counted accurately."

The Professional Education Program is sponsored by The Election Center, a non-profit association of voter registrars and elections administrators throughout America. Its membership is comprised of township, city, county and state elections officials. The Center's primary purpose is education for local and state voter registrars and elections officials to promote and improve the democratic process.

Professional Education Program participants receive continuing education credit from Auburn University as well as professional training credits from The Election Center.

The Professional Education Program was recognized in 1996 as the top continuing education program in America by the National University Continuing Education Association.

"Normally most Americans don't even know the election officials exist in their community and that they work constantly to protect the democratic process for its citizens," Lewis said. "Due to Election 2000, we now know just how important and complicated elections can be. In my opinion, the elections officials deserve the highest recognition that a community can give. If they don't do their job well, then citizens have no faith in the democratic process itself. Without faith in the process, it is almost impossible to believe in government itself - and that is a very large responsibility."

Ol School: All the Lilacs in Ohio

2005-08-08T08:02:00.000-05:00

In the pantheon of my favorite singer/songwriters John Hiatt falls somewhere near the top of the second tier. He isn't as good as Bob or Lucinda but he's in the same league as Neil Young or Elvis Costello (who he's often been compared to). I've stopped going to see his live shows because every one I've gone to has been pretty much been the same thing. Not that that's a bad thing seeing he's got quite the impressive catalog of songs and he's a fun performer. But I really don't need to hear another live version of "Thing Called Love" (which he wrote but most people associate with Bonnie Raitt).

His last few CDs have really been hit or miss. Crossing Muddy Waters was brilliant, my all time favorite Hiatt CD, while his last release, Beneath This Gruff Exterior was uninspired to say the least. 2001's The Tiki Bar is Open still gets played more than any of my other Hiatt CDs.
So I didn't rush out and buy his latest effort, Master of Disaster when it first came out because quite frankly there were other discs out there that I wanted to hear a little more (The Eels and The Wallflowers to name two).

When I finally got around to listening to Master of Disaster I was pleasantly surprised. This is Hiatt at the top of his game and as they say there's not a bad song in the entire bunch. I put it on late one evening and as I lay in bed trying to catch some much needed but always elusive sleep, my ears perked up and by the end of the last song I was again high on Hiatt.

The title song (and opener) is a follow up anthem to "Perfectly Good Guitar" and like many of his best songs one has to wonder if the bastard Hiatt is singing about may be the songwriter himself. "Thunderbird" is the most Springsteenian song Hiatt has ever written right on down to the automobile motif and somewhat sinister and sinewy sounding melody. "Howlin Down the Cumberland" and "Cold River" are simple country blues and show a singer who alternates between pain and great joy. I guess one can't quite ever truly appreciate the beauty of this world if one doesn't at times wallow in its ugliness.

My favorite song on the CD, and perhaps my favorite John Hiatt song of all time is the old time jazz "Wintertime Blues" that after my first listen made me get out of bed and hit the repeat button a couple of times because it's so damn funny, and it captures the inertia of wintertime living so accurately I got a shiver even lying in the hot July air. It's the kind of song that seems to flow naturally from Hiatt and it's the type of song that sounds like it's been around forever at the same time one has to marvel at its pure originality.

"Three hours of daylight and all of them gray/The suicide prevention group has all run away/I'm running out of groceries/I ain't got no rubber shoes/Bring the bacon baby/I got the wintertime blues..."

When he repeats over and over that there hasn't been any spring, there's never been any spring, the mocking sincerity in his voice reveals a man who is finding great humor in his own misery. He's as "stiff as Al Gore" because things are cold as snot. And to top it off he admits all he wants is "gravy on everything." And for those of us who somehow put up with Minnesota winters every year, we know exactly what Hiatt is moaning about.

All the songs are sung with great confidence for great reason: this is a terrific songwriter who knows he has come up with a bunch of good songs and has the band to deliver on the goods. With Master of Disaster Hiatt once again demonstrates why he is one of the few artists whose work is consistently worth paying attention to even if he seemingly will forever stay on the cusp of popularity. His music can't be pigeonholed even if it's always easy to spot a John Hiatt song from a million miles away.

Forever Baloney

2005-08-01T16:25:00.000-05:00

Warrick warbled weekly at the wobbly moon. "What for?" he asked the giant ball of tasteless cheese. The whiskey water was wearing off quickly and his head was a foot taller. "I need a little head," he chuckled to the thumb print on his empty glass.

Just as his mom had taught him, he was saving his corn for a rainy day until he realized that every day was a rainy day. The girl in the want ads turned out to be more than just fishnet stockings. She didn't think a ten percent drop in body fat in three months meant that she had to sell her Kmart stock.

Warrick paused for a moment but only for dramatic effect. It didn't work. Someone in the room 306 snorted. Room 882 was right off the elevator and he nearly stepped to his left before he realized that wasn't where the country was headed especially with the nomination of another envelope licker ("you lick her you brought her!" he shouted) for the Court of White Supremacy.

She moaned and wiggled a bit. Warrick sat being lonely and he knew what that meant. It had been too long since he poured a little mustard on his bologna sandwiches. That had always put him in a ripe mood. Mandy needed love. Just man enough, he sure did.

Truth be told, as seldom as it is, it was more sad than true that in his 41 trips around the sun Warrick had learned but one thing; if you don't have any hair it isn't a good idea to ride hatless on the convertible (BDP) ride back from a lodge up north in the blaring sun especially if the jazz is playing and you know that the inside secrets and jokes and asides that you share with the driver with curled toes no one else quite gets and that is why she probably is the best friend you've never had. Failure to heed the lesson learned meant that the very next day your head would burn and peel and skin would fall like shaken asbestos snowflakes in one of those plastic mini-worlds that you don't see much anymore (except at the Hallmark nearest you).

Joe Cocker played on the radio. "Cocker? I don't even know her!" Warrick whispered incredulously. The gas smelt up the room. He told himself he just needed to drink more water. It wasn't so much trail mix blockage he was suffering from, clearly it was more muscular than systemic.

He was a third baseman by birth. The other team kept pounding balls his way and his reflexes, not quite what they used to be but better than most elevator etiquette violators, snared everything within range and his teammates were impressed and the other team said "nice play third" as if he hadn't heard that the other two times he finished in fourth place. He was better than he looked but not quite good enough to matter. His first at bat he swung with all his meek might and missed and struck out and he didn't remember if he had ever done that in such a public forum before.

Warrick's scooter ("scooter, I don't even know her!" he yelped ) stopped scooting. Something was wrong with the carburetor. The gas/air mix wasn't proper. More and more that was the case he had discovered after he burped. He didn't quite come to a complete stop but he surely wasn't moving as fast as he always thought he should. His parts were interchangeable as far as she could tell.

His walls were wet and every time he turned on the lights the fire alarm blared. It wasn't fair or just. It was just beyond fair. All the work they had put into landscaping his yard was constantly blocked out by a big ass ugly car that the neighbors parked in front of his yard like a boy with his finger inside a pleasant smelling unconfirmed dike.

Warrick needed to leave if for no other reason than to improve his posture. His therapist had affixed two strips of tape on his back that would pull his skin if he were to slouch. Those that knew him best probably figured he was no slouch but a move to somewhere other than here probably could confirm that quite firmly if not finally.

Rock 'n' Ichiro

2005-07-25T16:26:00.000-05:00

What does a guy do when he hears the news that his celluloid soulmate has married a bad ass biker? He hits the road and heads for Cleveland where baseball meets rock and roll. That's what.

Trying to console myself I remembered last year as I sped past the age of 40 it occurred to me that there have been two life long loves of my life, baseball and rock and roll (although truth be told I was around ten when I fell in love with baseball and it was about a year later when rock and roll rocked my world). The two have been there for me ever since in times of joys or troubles whether it be as a kid listening to the Beatles while watching ex-Twin John Verhoeven serve up another gopher ball or now days when I've been woken up most mornings for the past two years to Lou Reed singing "Stephanie Says" and the first thing I read every summer morning are the box scores to all the baseball games from the previous night.

Of course no one enjoys being psycho analyzed more than I do and perhaps there was some subconscious meaning in my decision last spring to buy a scooter shortly after I heard Sandra Bullock was dating a guy with an impossible to top name (Jesse James) who wears his tattoos like battle scars and who drives one hell of a hog. But even if had I wanted to make one last appeal to Ms. Congeniality's heart I would have been smart enough to know that I couldn't compete with James on his terms. If Sandra's movies have taught me nothing else, they've taught me I have to be myself in order for others to fully appreciate me. (See Hope Floats, Two if By Sea, Practical Magic, or any other Bullock movie)

So with the news of the shotgun wedding I got out of town. Quite frankly I'm not sure I could have married Sandra after I suffered through Ms. Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous. But as if to remind me you really can never out run your troubles, on my flight to Cleveland I was seated in front of the most annoying child ever born. The kid made explosion sound effects nearly the entire flight, kept kicking my seat and asked his dad (who was mostly ignoring the kid's existence) "Does Cleveland have mountains?" "Why is it raining?" I couldn't wait to get off the plane and into a cab of a cabbie who seemed to have an involuntary twitch (or maybe he was just perpetually shrugging).

I settled into my motel room and was comforted a bit that the pink bathroom tile was an exact match with that which came with and remains in my house. Exact same hue. There was also a photograph on the bathroom wall that was beguiling. Could be a flower, could be a mutant plant, could be a butterfly it was hard to tell and my imaginary friend was just as perplexed and intrigued as I was. For breakfast I ordered corned beef hash and eggs. The gay waiter came back a little later and said they were out of hash but that the cook was chopping up potatoes and corned beef. The homemade mixture was quite tasty.

I headed for the ball park the first chance I got which was two nights after I arrived in town. Jacobs Field is designed the way every baseball stadium should be built. The atmosphere is festive, the sight lines flawless and the venue is a living testament to the notion that baseball is meant to be played outdoors on a warm summer night rather than in a sterile football studio. There were a few things that I wasn't used to in attending the hundred or so games I've gone to in the Metrodome over the years. First was I had ballpark sushi for dinner. It was tasty and it didn't kill me. The biggest challenge was getting the bland wasabi out of a ketchup packet. Next the first batter of the game, Kansas City's David DeJesus, lofted the second pitch of the game right toward my right field bleacher seat. The home run ball hit the back of the outfield wall, bounced up right to a horizontally large fellow two seats in front of me. That ball had my name written all over it. Finally, this strange water started falling from the sky and they had to call the game as the field crew got a tarp on the infield just before the skies really let loose.

The next morning I picked up a copy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer and turned to the sports section. There it was, a photograph of the home run ball and if you looked really closely behind the large fellow who ended up with the ball you can see my arm and green T-shirt. A couple of days in town and I already was in the news.

My time at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was only cut short by my own time constraints. I ended up spending over four hours there and I could have spent many more. The outside of the building is impressive, steel and glass and shaped like a pyramid. The inside though is even more impressive. I entered thinking I'd get a standard version of rock history interspersed with famous mementos. That's what I got but by the time I saw the purple jacket Prince wore in Purple Rain, the smashed bass guitar of the Clash's Paul Simonen, Madonna's bustier, Roy Orbison's little red Corvette, John Lennon's childhood newsletter (with his wickedly funny prose), a series of Bob Dylan concert posters (a concert in 1965 cost $2.50), a full Devo uniform, a Breeders' setlist scrawled in Kim Deal's handwriting, an outfit worn by Rick Allen, Def Leppard's one armed drummer (made me miss my three legged cat Thompson), the recording console used by both Jimi Hendrix and Barry Manilow, Neil Young's handwritten lyrics for "Heart of Gold," and oh so much more I couldn't remove the goofy grin that was plastered on my face. There are a lot of things in life you figure you'll never have the chance to see. I saw many that are on my own personal list at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. All of it was a fine reminder that the closest I'll ever get to being an authentic rocker is imitating the constantly back and forth moving of Atlanta Braves pitching coach, Leo Mazzone.

After wandering around the exhibits (with this seldom seen goofy grin mind you) I must say I was parched. Thus on my way back to the motel I stopped for a beverage. I stopped in the House of Blues. Looking at some literature at the bar I noticed that Shelby Lynne was playing there that evening. The bartender was asked how much tickets for the show were. She said she might have a free ticket, wandered down to the end of the bar and re-emerged with that ticket in hand. Turned out she had been given comps and couldn't make the show. Cool.

The venue itself was great- sorta First Ave like with its elevated stage hidden by a big movie screen and the majority of the watching spots being of the standing variety in between the stage and the soundboard. There were a bar stools and tables off to either side.

I had bought the opening act, Raul Midon's CD just before I had left town. The New Mexican singer/songwriter is nothing if not dexterous and creative on his guitar. He's a virtual one man band using the instrument both melodically and rhythmically. His fingers are lightening quick and he even does this thing with his voice that sounds like he's being accompanied by a trumpet. When I first heard him I was reminded of Stevie Wonder and it was only later I found out Midon too is blind.

Shelby Lynne hit the stage around 9:45. She's a petite thing with a flock of blonde hair that kept falling over her eyes. Her band provided a simple, sometimes sparse backing with a slide guitarist, a bass player and a drummer. Yet they kept up with Lynne who mixed several different genres, from country to blues, from jazz to harder rock, from gospel to swing, seamlessly.

An early highlight of the night was the third song, "Where Am I Now?" from her new CD Suit Yourself. The song happens to be the best new song I've heard this year, a quiet, contemplative lament that Lynne sang with eyes closed and so much conviction that it was a transcendent moment despite the piercing yammering of a woman at the bar fifty feet away. "I'm looking for a house where the door is open/My body's moving fast but my spirit's broken/Where am I now?"

Another early highlight was the jazzy "Telephone" perhaps my favorite Shelby Lynne song although she kinda ruined it for me by saying she wrote it when she was very drunk and just needed to call someone. One gets the impression that Lynne, who if you haven't heard witnessed her father kill her mother and then himself right in front of her eyes, can party hard. Her hardened looks and husky voice suggest that she's just getting started when the rest of us are finishing up our last whiskey.

There was a great cover of the Rolling Stones "Dead Flowers" and the ol' time boogie woogie sing along "10 Rocks" was quite fun as Lynne belted out the dark lyrics that were cheerfully answered by her band. "When sleep won't come and eyes won't shut out the light (oh the darkness, oh the darkness)/When you ache for slumber and your eyes won't close out the light (oh you're lost your way)." Likewise she sang the chorus of "If I Were Smart" "If I were smart/I wouldn't have a heart" with such intensity it was heartbreaking. After a swig on the Pabst Blue Ribbon she had grabbed from a fan in the front row Shelby and her band closed the show with a blow the roof off the joint version of "Gotta Be Better." By the end of the night I was in love again. I love those artists who have the ability (and courage) to shred their soul, offer it up in their work and on lay it bare right there on stage. I left the House of Blues reinvigorated and quite over my loss of Ms. Bullock. I bet Shelby Lynne can ride a motorcycle better anyway. She ain't no actress. She's the real deal.

Thursday night was one of splurging after the frugality of much of the rest of the week. Found myself at one of them fancy restaurants with a sign on the door about wearing the "proper attire" which I guess in my case was a baseball cap, T-shirt, and dress slacks. I had the best walleye of my life, tempura style with a light wasabi oil added. It looked like something Iron Chef Sakai might have come up with. I had lavender ice cream that tasted just like lavender should taste if lavender should taste like anything at all.

The last night in town was spent back at Jacobs Field. I met a young couple from Columbus, Chris and Nikki. They told me all they knew about Minnesota was Jesse Ventura used to be the governor, and that it is where Prince is from. They complimented me that I didn't have a Minnesota accent. The game was good. The Indians led most of the way until the eighth when Ichiro Suzuki hit a two run home run giving his Mariners the lead. Seattle brought in its closer, Eddie Guardado, and just like he used to do here Eddie made things exciting just before he got out of trouble. Could be I was the only one in the stadium chanting (underneath my breath), "Eddie, Eddie..."

Halfway to London

2005-07-18T16:29:00.000-05:00

So I was sitting in the twilight in Midway Stadium Tuesday night with a belly full of Vietnamese soup listening to Willie Nelson close down his down to earth set with a wistful "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain." I didn't know what time it was and the scoreboard clock had been stuck at 5 o'clock during Willie's entire time on stage. Sitting along the first base line where the Saints' play their home games, it suddenly occurred to me that the Major League All Star game was likely beginning and this was the first All Star game I had missed since I had become a baseball fan back in my youth (which means back to the late 50's or early 70's depending if you count in all the Chinese New Years).

The All Star game has always marked a highlight of summer for me no matter how many times the American League got beat or how few Twins make the team or make any difference in any of the games. I grew up watching Rod Carew struggle to get a hit and Bert Blyleven be uncharacteristically wild and the games were seldom close but I loved the whole thing from watching the players introduction and the fans reaction to various players to the usually awful rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner."

Sitting in this very minor league park on this particular night none of that mattered much. It was a beautiful night out, a little warm and sunny, but with a nice breeze to cool things down a bit. I was with one of my best friends, the blue-eyed editor, and we were waiting for Bob Dylan to hit the stage.

The blue-eyed editor asked me what song I wanted to hear and it took me a minute or two to answer. I've attended enough Dylan shows over the years where he doesn't surprise me much anymore. It's not like the late 1980's when he would do a great off the cuff cover of John Hiatt's "Across the Borderline," or the mid-90's when he would make my soul hurt with a scorching "In the Garden," or the late 90's when he pulled out "Blind Willie McTell" arguably one of the greatest songs from arguably our greatest song writer, or the early 2000's when he started doing the silly jazz sendup "If Dogs Run Free" or country romp of "Country Pie." Nope the setlists these days tend to rely on the same predictable songs night after night.

Ultimately my answer to the blue-eyed editor was I wanted to hear "Shooting Star." That's because in less than a month I'm going to see someone I haven't seen in ten years and that particular song has come to represent the arch of all my feelings for her from beginning to now. When Alex left town in 1992 "Shooting Star" had been around for three years. It was around then however when I got the sheet music for the song and started singing my own version. The last verse whether it be listening to Bob on CD or screeching at the top of my lungs banging on my keyboard almost always brought a tear to my eye. "Seen a shooting star tonight, slip away/Tomorrow's gonna be another day/Guess it's too late to say to you the things that you needed me to say/Seen a shooting star tonight, slip away..."

I didn't quite recognize the first chords, the first few strums of the guitars on the fourth song of this Midway Stadium show but when Bob started to croon "Shooting Star" my heart stopped.

See I was sorta in the second or third wave of Bob fanatics. My first Bob show was in the echo chamber of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome in 1986 and even though it was hard to decipher exactly what song was bouncing around I was hooked right there and then. I loved how Bob somehow was able to reinvent each and every song on the spot, how he was able to cast something he wrote years ago to fit into the current moment somehow managing the illusion of stopping time. By this time there were Bob fans from the early 60's already quite hooked on what I was only then discovering. And here I was nearly 20 years later listening to a song I had just told my friend I wanted to hear and I wanted to hear because I'm about to do some time traveling and I guess maybe you had to be there with me to feel the weight of the moment and the joy in Bob delivering a stellar version of the song.

The people around us were some of the other kind of Bob fans- the kind that have heard a particular song or a particular line and have adopted it as part of the soundtrack to their lives (can I mention here that the hippie generation hasn't exactly aged particularly well?). "How does it feel?" "You make love, just like a woman... but you break like a little girl..." "Even the president of the United States sometimes must stand naked..."

So when Bob sang "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Just Like a Woman" and "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" these people stood up and cheered what they recognized even if they spent most of the rest of show jabbering amongst themselves. They seemed to pay attention to killer versions of Bob's most anti-war song, "John Brown" and his most anti-war perpetrator song, "Masters of War" and probably made a connection between the drama of the performances of both songs with our current national situation and that probably was enough.

Which if true, is too bad. Because they missed a menacing version of "Lonesome Day Blues" that showed off the tightness of the current band, and lead guitarist Stu Kimble's subtle yet effective playing. I loved the performance even though Bob messed up my personal favorite, or personal "I relate to those" lines, "I'm forty miles from the mill/I'm droppin' it into overdrive/Settin' my dial on the radio/I wish my mother was still alive..." The omission can be forgiven however because Bob sang the lines, "Samantha Brown lived in my house for about four or five months/Don't know how it looked to other people/I never slept with her even once..." with if not passion, with such eccentricity that he seemed to truly enjoy the sentiment once again as if it was brand new.

The opening notes of "Under a Red Sky" were crisp and clear and I was delighted that I got to hear the song. I made sure I glanced over at the blue-eyed editor when Bob nailed the line, "Someday little girl, everything for you is gonna be new..."

There was also a nice little moment at the beginning of "Bye and Bye" where Bob's keyboard wasn't working so a technician was frantically trying to plug in a new one. Bob grabbed his harmonica as the band played the intro and he improvised a melodic little solo. The song ultimately fell apart as Bob sat down at his keyboard and seemed to stumble on some of the words but in many ways this is why he is such a charismatic performer. After all these years he isn't (most likely by choice) polished in his singing or his playing or his delivery (this band seems particularly adept at stretching the meter of the songs to accommodate Bob's somewhat erratic phrasing) and he seems to strive as a live performer on chaos and this keeps his remarkable songs living and breathing and makes each show somehow exist in the moment. I don't know of any other live performer so skilled in this ability.

So I walked with the blue-eyed editor, who was seemingly impressed by the show, back to her car parked in the lot of a strip mall that strangely houses a nice little authentic Vietnamese restaurant. It was a long walk back but it's not like we weren't used to that. We once walked from the State Capitol to a McDonalds down the road so I could get some mini bobble heads. We also once walked over to the Historical Center where we saw a Mariachi band playing. And on another nice summer evening we walked from her parent's house to the Minnesota Zoo to see Lucinda Williams.

I somewhat doubt that in asking her to see her first Bob Dylan show with me that I have started her down the same path I began all those years when I was about her age when I saw my first Bob Dylan show at a pseudo-baseball stadium, but I'm sure that over the next few years she will listen to Bob a little more closely. And I'm quite sure that in doing so her life will be enriched, just as mine has been, and she will discover a song or two that will change her life, her way of thinking, just a little bit. Bob's quite good at that. His music is like an element- water, air, blood- that once you hear it, and really listen to it, it just won't let go. It grabs you by the soul and by the heart, and fills you up just as it leaves you wanting more. And that's quite the idiosyncratic trick.

Keep Smilin'

2005-07-11T16:31:00.000-05:00

This world can be a profoundly sad place. It is so sad because:

There are people out there who have never listened to a Lucinda Williams song.

There are people out there who think it is somehow righteous to explode a bomb in a crowd of people in the name of God.

There are people out there whose first reaction to the terrorist attack on London was that we had to kill thousands of people in retaliation/retribution.

There are people out there who when told they need to provide some proof of citizenship in order to get a job say, "I don't know why. It's not like I look Mexican or have slanted eyes."

There are people out there who when you introduce yourself as "David" will immediately call you "Dave."

There are a lot of people out there who view the media as a biased enemy not as its true purpose, a watchdog.

There is an increasing blurring of the line in the media between entertainment and political reporting.

There are a lot of people out there who in everyday interactions seem completely oblivious to the people around them.

There are people out there who have never seen Lindsay Whalen play basketball.

There are people in a coed "D" softball league who don't understand the concept of "just being out there for fun" and have to act in such a boorish manner that it is impossible for anyone playing to enjoy themselves.

There are people out there who will wait until the very last moment in a line of cars to get over in a lane that's closed just so they can get to their location a minute or two earlier than the rest of us.

There are people out there who will park their car in front of your house every day even though there is plenty of space to park in front of their own house.

There are people out there who have never seen an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and thus haven't been able to enjoy the poetry of television at its best.

There are people out there who will go along with their major party line on every political issue thus see the world in a very uncompromising black and white.

There are people out there who think that the fabric of our country is unraveling because of issues like gay marriage and flag burning somehow rather than holding our leaders accountable and expecting some honesty and the absolute necessity for being straightforward in their words and actions.

There are people out there who are intellectually lazy and who don't see any need to be spiritually curious.

There are people out there, with children mind you, who don't seem to care about using up this planet's limited resources or the implications of wasting what doesn't need to be wasted with just a little effort.

There are those people out there who don't think Bob Dylan can sing.

There are those people out there who let their gardens grow and go, who once started out with a noble goal of making this place, their designated place, just a little bit more beautiful but who somewhere along the line gave up and let the weeds prevail.

There are drivers out there who see the need to tailgate a guy on a scooter and not bother to signal their turns at the less than Herculean effort of hitting a switch.

There are those who may believe that piano playing kitties and playful once abused doggies are mere distractions from actual human interaction. But one look in these pet souls' eyes says something much different.

Exchangeable Fluids

2005-07-04T16:35:00.000-05:00

"Time is a jet plane, it moves to fast/Ah but what a shame, what we shared can't last/I can change I swear, see what you can do/I can make it through, you can make it too..."
-Bob Dylan

Life can be wacky. For example, have you ever thought how yours might be the only thing connecting seemingly otherwise disconnected events? This thought weighed heavy on my mind last Tuesday night as the blue-eyed editor and I went to the Guthrie Theater production of A Body of Water.

Ostensibly the play is about two elderly people who awake one day to find themselves in a home surrounded by a large body of water. They are not sure who they are or how they got there. They don't know if they know each other and they don't quite know what to do to figure out the puzzle that is suddenly their lives.

The play stars veteran actors Edward Herrmann and Michael Learned. Both play their roles superbly. Learned of course is best known for playing the role of Mrs. Walton in the long running Depression era series The Waltons. Seeing her in person in a play all about memory cast my mind back to remembering my Mom's favorite episode of The Waltons. The particular episode centered around the townsfolk of Walton's Mountain succumbing to their fear surrounding the happenings overseas in Germany. They decide they can't trust those in the community with German ancestry even though that yesterday these people were perfectly respectable members of the community. The persecution leads to a destruction and purging of all things deemed German. John Boy becomes enraged by this behavior particularly when the town's priest leads a book burning. Turns out one of the books being burned is a German version of the Bible. That's when the town's folk come to their senses and realize how their paranoia has gotten the better of them.

Mom was very fond of this episode and I think a lot of her fondness came from John Boy's passion in standing up to a mob and standing for what is right even though it takes tremendous independence to not give into the group think mentality. If there is one thing my Mom tried to teach me it was to think for myself no matter what the outside pressure may be.

The other thing that somehow came to my mind as the story of Body of Water unfolded is something our current governor, Tim Pawlenty, used to say all the time as I watched him when he was the House of Representatives Majority Leader. As the Legislature was coming to one of its many showdowns and looming disintegration, someone from the other side of the aisle would invariably ask Pawlenty what the upcoming schedule would be. The majority leader would predictably say that late in the session things were "fluid" meaning that members should remain flexible because schedules and events could change in a moments notice.

What do my Mom's favorite episode of The Waltons and Tim Pawlenty's cliché have in common? Probably nothing except the electricity in my own feeble mind. But as I was sitting there in the dark with the blue eyed editor, who has had a rough couple of weeks of the variety I'm sure that she wishes she could somehow erase her short term memory, I couldn't help but be quite affected by the play's themes. As the two elderly characters try to come to grips with their predicament they are joined by a young woman (Michelle O'Neill) who could be their daughter, could be their attorney, could be someone who has kidnapped them for some mysterious nefarious purpose or could be all of the above.

The young woman tells the two lost souls differing stories about who they are. They are not sure if they should believe some of her accounts. Did they really commit a heinous crime? Are they suffering from some type of cruel age related disease that robs them of everything except brief moments of coherency? What can you believe when you can't remember anything that has happened in the past? The play makes clear how our memories not only shape who we think we are, but what we think the purpose of our lives might be. If we were to wake up every day with no memory of where we had been or where we came from or where we are to go next it can be a frightening thing. How does one learn to exist in the moment if one doesn't know what has happened before?

The play's plot could be sabotaged by its gimmicky premise yet Learned and Herrmann give such convincing performances one can't help but sympathize mightily with their predicament. What a delightful play.

What If

2005-07-04T16:33:00.000-05:00

This past week I spent a couple of days engaged in public speaking. First there were a couple of mandatory training sessions I conducted for some city and school district clerks. Then on Wednesday night I was invited to be on a panel at an event sponsored by the Minnesota Disability Law Center. Anyone that knows me knows that any moment that I can keep my trap shut is a moment I may have a better chance than normal of living with. Of course I didn't have much of a choice. I had to speak. It's all part of my job and I may be a rebel but I'm not one who turns his back on his assignments.

Thus I was glad when I came home one night and David Letterman shared some of the truisms he has learned in life. One of these said that if you know how to fold a shirt and you are a guy, chances are you are gay. Another that Dave shared was that whenever you pull a nose hair you will sneeze. Guaranteed.

If I could add one of my own life lessons to Dave's truisms it would be if you are hurtin from a relationship busting up there isn't a wiser thing you can do than listen to Lucinda Williams. Within the past year two of my female friends have broken up with their boyfriends and as I've gotten together with them I wish I could take away the hurt and offer some wisdom. But of course that would require speaking. Thankfully one of the two told me that after her breakup she couldn't stop listening to Lucinda. I knew she was a bright gal the first time I saw her...

The best thing about Lucinda Williams show at the Minnesota Zoo Saturday night was that she sang a great mixture of older and newer songs like scorching versions of "Pineola" and "Out of Touch" as well as sultry versions of "Right in Time" and "Righteously" and none of them were the highlights as good as they were. Nope the best thing about the show was that Lucinda shared six brand new songs with us and all six sparkled. Whenever a new CD comes out it's guaranteed to be one of her best and that means it will be one heckava CD.

All the new songs have simple titles and cover a spectrum of different musical styles but the transcendental thing about them is they leave behind the blues and depression of the last two studio CDs (Essence and World Without Tears) for a thankful return of humor and biting wit. The first of the new songs Lucinda unveiled was the contemporary countryish "Life is" that contemplates learning about life after a breakup. It contained the standard Lucinda line, "They say the best is yet to come/But I can still taste the taste of your tongue..." "What If?" my favorite of the new songs asks several nonsensical questions like what if buildings laughed and windows cried and cats could walk across water leading to the more searing questions about what if families didn't exist and we all lived alone. The song whimsically builds to the last question, an appropriate one about what if we all loved each other equally.

The burning metallic "C'mon" was in stark contrast to the Hank Williamseque "Jailhouse Tears" a good old foot stompin country tune where Lucinda was joined in a playful duet with her opening act, John Doe. The latter song may sound like a Hank song but it gets its point across with Lucinda's acerbic and at times, vulgar humor.

Another new poppy song called "Real Love" featured some playful lyrics about "squeezing my peaches" and "sending me your postcards from beaches." The last of the new songs "West" a prayer/lullabye closed the show in a quiet but hopeful manner.

Before Lucinda stepped out the guy next to me told me that he and his wife owned a bunch of chickens despite a Shoreview city code that prohibited such practice. During her second song "Fruits of My Labor" Lucinda's voice cracked as she sang about how it's better to take the glory over the fame. Work for work's sake may be a means to an end but there remains something to say for seeking and finding a voice that not only helps all of this makes some kind of sense but whose very unmistakable ache makes it all seem just a little bit more bearable as well.

Smile or at Least Smirk

2005-06-27T09:11:00.000-05:00

I live on just this side of Como Town where everyday is full of sunshine and sparkles and everybody is clean cut and honest in sporting their sporty Midwestern summer attire.

Everyday is pretty much the same in these parts. Most days I awake after a restless night and usually there is a kitty lying next to me on my futon. It's not always the same kitty but I let the trio work it out between them who gets the special spot. The other two are usually in the vicinity so as I get out of bed I waddle on over and pat them on the head. After I get out of my shower the three cats are waiting for me outside the door and again I pat them all on the head and wish them a hearty "good morning!"

This past Saturday things changed. The auburn haired lass, who has a magnificent green thumb, stopped on by to help me clean up the mess that was my front yard flower garden. She brought over a bevy of plants and we spent the morning cleaning up nine years worth of twigs (that's the spot I threw the yard waste I found lying around my yard), and moving a horde of Hostas to the other side of my front steps and down my sidewalk.

With bags of garden soil (I was supposed to have gotten potting soil which I learned after the fact was much lighter) and mulch we transformed my front yard from a minor eyesore into something that actually looks good. My heart was also a bit transformed by watching her interact with Thompson, the three-legged cat, who seems a bit leery of anybody, and anything, outside the realm of the norm. She seems to be about the only one Thompson will prance on over to without thought, and ask for a belly rub.

All three cats got somewhat worked up as they watched us from my living room window. Whenever I had to come inside the three of them would run around as if all the commotion out front was going to mean something special for them.

The auburn haired gardening expert told me that digging up weeds, dead heading plants, watering her garden often serves as her therapy. As proud as I am of the work we got done I'm not sure I'll ever share in her relaxation technique. I've never been able to distinguish between a weed and a plant, never been able to put the effort into learning about all the great looking plants that could add some beauty to my nearby Como Town abode.

I imagine the closest I come to knowing what she feels when she's done with a night's work in her garden is when I listen to my music. When we finished our day long project I sat down and spun and clicked my iPod's buttons to the "Albums" menu choice and hit Smile. Up came both Brian Wilson's masterpiece and my favorite Jayhawk CD.

The two CDs' songs were intermingled but I was reminded how much I love both. A musically astute married couple bought Wilson's Smile a bit based on my highest recommendation, and they told me they didn't see what its appeal was. I was a bit surprised by this confession because to me it's eclectic song cycle is irresistible in itself. Still I understand how the sheer goofiness of the music might not appeal to all.

The sunny shimmering music of the Jayhawks' CD that shares its name with Wilson's CD may or may not directly acknowledge the connection between the two but the Minnesota group's song cycle includes a song called "Brian Wilson" that is a nice tribute to the wacked out crazy genius. The best song of the set to my ears however is the can't quite ever get this out of my head no matter what mood I may fall into "A Break in the Clouds" that seemed even more perfect on this particular night. "I just want to remember you/The way you're standing there/With that hurry home looks in your eyes/And flowers on the table/Sometimes I see too much/ Sometimes I see too little/Sometimes shadows fall, darken all/And cover up the fable/Every time that I see your face/It's like cool, cool water running down my back..."

Veronica

2005-06-20T12:07:00.000-05:00

"Veronica sits in her favorite chair and she sits very quiet and still/And they call her a name that they never get right and if they don't then nobody else will/But she used to have a carefree mind of her own, with devilish look in her eye/Saying 'You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica'"
-Elvis Costello

Just like Veronica Mars, I was on the fringe of popularity in high school. I'm sure most people in my class knew who I was, and my respect level was at a respectable level, but I wasn't about to be chosen homecoming king or "most likely to succeed" any time soon.

And it's not like I like to look back at those days but the other day I ran into a former classmate during a softball game and it was then I realized I don't like to be reminded of past days and I'm not entirely sure I like to reveal where I'm at these days, but still as sad as I often feel now, I'm at a much better place then I was back then.

There are very few things that connect me from the person I was then to the person I am now. Among these is my love of the comic strips that run in the daily newspapers. Ever since my Mom got me reading "Buzz Sawyer" my day doesn't quite seem complete unless I check out my favorite comic strips. My current favorite is "Get Fuzzy" about a frazzled pet owner and his relationship with his ever naive dog Satchel and his wannabe evil cat Bucky. I gotta say that nothing has moved me more than when I had a brunch a few months back with my friend Jennifer and she told me she started reading the strip because of my affection for it.

As Jennifer knows one of the first things I do when I get coherent in the morning is read "Get Fuzzy" to see what trouble Bucky is getting into next. A lot of things irritate me to no end these days and a little levity to start the day can't be a bad thing. Yes, now that I have been diagnosed with a legitimate pain in the neck, I have begun physical therapy to alleviate the numbness in my hand caused by a pinched nerve in my neck.

I went to my first therapy session (of the physical kind) this past week. Essentially the therapist spent the time having me lie down on a table and pulling my head away from my body. The first thought I had about this was I didn't like having my head touched. The next thing I thought was maybe I would leave the building a little bit taller. The final thing I thought about was one of my favorite "Peanuts" strips of all time where Linus has written a short story and gives it to Snoopy for a critique.

Linus' story is about a girl with terrible headaches that the doctors can't cure. Finally the girl's brother suggests loosening her ears and when they do, her headaches disappear. Manually manipulating my neck out seemed somewhat a similar process but I like Chad my therapist so I figure he knows what he is doing. I've endured this tingling in my shoulder and left side for years so it's not like I'm expecting any miracles any time soon.

One of the other things tying the old me to the current me is my need for music. I'm always looking for a song that will inspire me and the latest is Ryan Adams' "Let it Ride."

I've never quite been an Adams fan. I know all the critics rave about him and he is prolific as hell, but none of his songs have been the kind that gets stuck inside my heart and soul and won't let go. His spat with Paul Westerberg left me with no doubt who I should side with (kind of like the Tom Cruise/Brooke Shields exchange where Tom questioned Brooke's post maternity depression and Brook came back with harsh words about Tom's devotion to Scientology and a bash about the age difference between him and Katie Holmes).

"Let it Ride" however is such a relentlessly great song. It's got a mesmerizing guitar riff and absorbing lyrics. "Moving like the fog on the Cumberland River/I was leaving on the Delta Queen/And I wasn't ready to go/I'm never ready to go/27 years of nothing but failures and promises that I couldn't keep/Oh lord, I wasn't ready to go..." It's the type of song that just makes you want to get on your scooter and go someplace far far away. The way Adams sardonically yet energetically spits out his vocals makes "Let it Ride" my all-time favorite traveling aphrodisiac.

Close to second on my personal playlist is Shelby Lynne's "Where Am I Now." Lynne is another artist who is a critical darling even though her work has been highly uneven. Yet the gal deserves a break, as she witnessed the murder/suicide of her parents so that gives her a renewable artistic license. "Where Am I Now" is Lynne at her best. It's weary and it's wise and it's quite wonderful. When she sings, "Oh anytime you break and turn the cycles change/Water starts pouring down your face again/You find yourself falling in the safety net you used to call home.." not only do I believe her but I'm thankful that somebody somewhere has gotten it down on paper. I used to think I could get all the news I need on the weather report, but this song makes me think otherwise. You just got to keep on listening.

Killing Another Mockingbird

2005-06-13T12:12:00.000-05:00

My life has never been as unhappy as it was at the end of 2004. Overworked, underappreciated, my social life in shambles, my friendships adrift, I flew past my expiration date left with the question, "now what?"

And although I know there are some people who will disagree, I've never been one who has been reluctant to make a change when I feel stuck- a change in jobs, a change in living situations, a change in a relationship, a change in my approach, I've done it all over and back again.

I found myself spontaneously making two significant changes this spring without giving either one much thought. First I added a third cat into the home front mixture for no apparent reason. Maybe it was a subconscious acknowledgment that after spending 40 years on this planet that at this point I almost prefer the company of a feline friend, because I'm learning more from them, as much as I do the human kind. Yet I'd like to think that it's more about there is no more noble reason to live than to try to make someone else's life just a little bit better. And I've come to the conclusion that the effort might be better appreciated by the four-legged species (or three-legged as the case may be) than the two legged kind I've recently run across.

The other change was the purchase of a scooter which has ended up changing not only my overall view of transportation, but has also given me a greater appreciation of the world around me. When you're not isolated in the cocoon of a heap of metal and glass you can't hide behind air conditioned or heated comfort. When you are constantly exposed to the elements not to mention the potentially fatal implications of trying to deal with people around you who may not be paying much attention, you find yourself hyper-aware of the things going on around you and in my case I have found I appreciate the sights and smells and sounds of things just a little bit more.

The other day I was scooting all over town on one of the few sunny days we've seen around these parts in over a month. I was nearby a Cost Cutters and my hair, now the length of Chewbacca's, was really bothering me so I stopped in and got it cut. No sooner was I hopping back on my scooter when out of nowhere it started to rain even though the sun was still beaming through the few clouds in the sky. It continued to rain all the way home and by the time I parked my scooter in my garage I was rather drenched. Just as I was entering my house the rain stopped and the sun's bright beams that shone the rest of the afternoon seemingly mocked my very existence.

Just as I throwing my hands up to give up once and for all, the third cat, young Thelonious as he is wont to do, came and played ignoring the anti-social nature the others, Thompson and Diego-san have tried to teach him is the cool thing to do when I'm in such an agitated state. It wasn't long before Theo got out his favorite crinkly ball and we were endlessly playing fetch. As he scampered after the ball, retrieving and dropping it at my feet anxious for its next flight, the other two Boyz made sure to stay out of Theo's path, and at the same time made indications that they were thinking about (ever so deeply as cats constantly seem to do) what the implications, end result, and timing of such a decision would ultimately be.

All this reminded me of a moment with a boss, Jenny Engh, I'll always have the utmost respect for, where and when she turned the corner and ran into me and for no apparent reason said, "I've discovered the meaning of life. It's to always remain curious and to keep learning." I'll never be sure why Jenny said this to me at that moment but I'm finally beginning to understand and appreciate what she meant. You begin to get old the moment you stop trying to learn about new things as difficult and painful as the learning process often is.

I recently found myself at a Twins game munching down a brat and being an involuntary captive audience to the discussion of the two men behind me. It often amazes me that people will talk about things and not care one hoot about who hears them. The two men obviously weren't much fans of baseball as they kept talking about how if they didn't use softballs in batting practice, the Yankee hitters would be peppering every batting practice pitch into the Metrodome's upper deck. I almost turned around then and burst their illusion that those were actually baseballs being hit, but I didn't. It was then the older sounding man asked the other, "What's the park that they can actually hit the ball into the ocean?" To which the younger man (and to give him the benefit of the doubt I'll have to admit he sounded teenage-ish) replied, "Um, I think it's Chicago..."

At this point I have to admit I am an absolute baseball snob. It is my one bias I can purely identify though I'm sure others exist. I don't care what other character flaws may exist but if a person truly understands and appreciates the beauty of the game of baseball (and there are seemingly few who do) I can forgive them most of their other transgressions.

Having such biases seems to be part of our human nature. (It may even go beyond that- I've noticed that Thompson, like Mr. Max before him- is much more likely to be trusting of our female visitors than he is of any male who steps into the house.) And after having seen the movie Crash this past week I have to say the topic of personal bias weighs heavy on my mind this very moment. The movie has its flaws but it isn't one that you can watch and not think about afterwards. I was so glad when my friend who came along said to me (even though she still isn't sure she liked the movie), "Everyone should see it."

The only truly great movie I've ever seen dealing with the subject of racism is Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing.

Usually racism in movies is handled in a black and white manner. The racists are cartoonishly evil and their victims are on the short list of who will be the next Pope. A good example of this was the 1996 Samuel L. Jackson, Matthew McConaughey, Sandra Bullock movie A Time to Kill. That movie argued that some race based murders may very well be justified, especially when you're murdering some buffoonish evil pickup truck drivers. It's easy to approve of killing when the people you are killing have no redeeming qualities.

What Lee did so powerfully in Do the Right Thing was create a situation that explodes in racial tension and the viewer can clearly understand why all the characters acted in the way they did. Sure we might not have agreed that they did the right thing, but you can clearly see why they thought they were living up to the title of the movie.

Paul Haggis' Crash comes close to Do the Right Thing in its unblinking look at racism. It's easy to agree to dislike a racist if that person has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. It's another thing to have to balance a person's good qualities with that which brings out the ugliest side of many of us. There's a scene early in Crash where a white woman makes a defensive gesture when she and her husband are approaching two young black men. It's not an unusual or broad gesture and yet one of the two young men is quick to pick up on it and some of his anger and jaded life view seem suddenly a bit justified.

Crash tells several interlocking stories about people of all color and place in life. There's the rich black couple that get pulled over by a racist cop who molests the wife and leaves the two arguing whether the other is black enough. There's the district attorney and his wife who are carjacked by two black men leading to the wife (Bullock) ranting about not wanting a Hispanic locksmith changing the locks on their home. (He's tattooed, got a shaved head and is sure to give his "homies" a copy of the house key.) There's the Iranian shopkeeper who tries to buy a gun from a man who calls him an Arab even though the man is Persian. There's the crime scene investigator who doesn't bother to differentiate the nationality of the woman he's sleeping with to his mother who thinks he has sold out his own race and brother.

If nothing else Crash makes an effective point that the root of racism may not be so much hatred as it is anger. Scene after scene the anger seeps from the encounters between the film's characters. This is an angry society we live in and that anger often leads to misunderstanding and ignorance. It often hurt me growing up when I'd come across those who would slant their eyes with their fingers and call me a "Chink." I got by that by telling myself that I wished that if they were going to be such bigots that at least they could make the effort to get it right. The slur was meant for Chinese and if they wanted to accurately label me the least they could do was call me the "Jap" I was and am.

There's a small moment in Crash that made me appreciate Sandra Bullock the actress even if I didn't appreciate Sandra Bullock's character in the movie. It was when after a painful day she reaches out to the nearest person (who happened to be of an ethnicity she recently revealed a hatred for) and reveals that the person (her maid) is ironically her best friend. She wrings out the complexity of the moment with such emotion that it is hard to watch. The movie clearly demonstrates we all have our ugly judgmental sides that if logically analyzed would sour like the contents of a long expired carton of milk.

Yes we are all crashing into each others in total lack of understanding but as bleak as the movie is, there is a slight uplifting thread about how the actions of one person to conteract this unending cycle may actually be able to start to make a change, as small as it may seem. And that ripple, maybe just maybe, just be enough.

Mary and Aimee

2005-06-06T12:15:00.000-05:00

I'm sure I'm not the first to say this but I think I'm in love with Mary Lucia. It would probably be enough that everybody's favorite local radio personality is a sheepish owner of three cats but there was a moment on a recent show that made me laugh harder than I've laughed in many a year.

Ms. Lucia was interviewing the songwriter of a local band (I forget which band) and asked him a great, though somewhat Barbara Waltersesque question, "Are there any songs out there that you wish you had written?"

The local artist thought for a moment and then said, "Yes. I wish I had written Burt Bacharach's 'Trains and Boats and Planes.'" Ms. Lucia then replied, "Hmmm. Do you also wish you had married Dionne Warwick?" The chiding, lyrical, playful tone to her voice was pitch perfect and the band and the songwriter chuckled at the spontaneous question and I nearly had to pull my car over I was laughing so hard.

Yet the only complaint I have so far about Ms. Lucia's station 89.3 (THE CURRENT!) is there has been far too much Aimee Mann. Judging by the amount of air time Aimee has gotten, man the DJ's seem to adore her music.

Not that I dislike Aimee Mann's music. I always kind of thought Til Tuesday was head and shoulders above other like bands from the same time who got far more acclaim (Crowded House for one) and Mann's solo work has been consistently rewarding. Her contributions to the Magnolia soundtrack are equal parts soul searching, soul saving, and soulfully devastating.

Aimee will also always occupy a soft spot in my heart for her appearance on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In the episode her band was playing at the Bronze when a vampire fell from the rafters above and landed with a splat, disintegrating into dust. The band stops playing. and then picks up the song exactly where they left off. Later as they are leaving the bar Aimee deadpans, "That's why I hate playing vampire towns."

My complaint is more based on I haven't heard all that much Liz Phair or Lucinda Williams on 89.3, everyone's favorite public radio music station, and there are a slew of mostly overlooked artists who for me far outshine Aimee Mann.

No Aimee isn't one of those artists whose each and every new release I make an effort to rush out to hear. And when I read several lukewarm reviews to her new CD, The Forgotten Arm, I wasn't exactly inclined to go seek out the new music.

I read that Forgotten Arm was a "theme CD" that told a story of a down and out boxer. Seeing that my most favorite recent movie was Million Dollar Baby and my favorite TV show from the past season was The Contender one would almost think that I have somehow become a boxing fanatic and that Mann's CD would be something I'd automatically want to hear. But beat me up with a padded glove and add to my misery, I really didn't see any need to complete the obvious triangle that lay down before me.

I was wrong. I wish I hadn't waited so long in buying The Forgotten Arm. Mann's writing is its usually sharp self and her sad sardonic vocals add to the story but the overall impact of the blows struck surprised me. This isn't kid's stuff and it's probably my favorite story based CD since Frank Sinatra's Watertown. It surely kicks Lou Reed's similar attempts like Songs for Drella and Magic and Loss all over the musical mat.

The CD packs a subtly powerful punch. The thread of the story details the disintegration of a couple. The boxer is a boozer. He's taken one too many hits, lost one too many fights and there's substance abuse that leads to emotional abuse and the couple's love has long since ceased to mean much at all to either participant. The couple is trying to figure out where to go, what to do even if it's long past time, way too far down the road where things can possibly work out ever again.

Though the CD is more than a bit of a downer, line after line, song after song build a picture and one begins to understand why this is a story the artist wanted to tell. "Life just kind of empties out, less a deluge than a drought, less a giant mushroom cloud than an unexploded shell..." and "Tell you I'm sorry that I made you a witness to my moral decay..." and "We stayed in our Calvins, and we swore we'd be best friends. And I looked through the zoom lens, and thought you were beautiful. Sometimes it hurts me to feel so much tenderness..."

The packaging of the CD is great. It's laid out to look like a pulp fiction novel and the hand drawn pencil sketches that accompany each song's (chapter's) lyrics skillfully match the mood of Mann's voice. The songs might be able to stand on their own but repeated listening reveals that each piece adds to the whole like fine china stacked neatly in its nearly empty wooden cupboard.

This Place Don't Make Sense to Me No More- Part One

2005-05-29T12:19:00.000-05:00

ONCE UPON NINE LIVES AGO, there stood a humble faux brick abode in the heart of aging Familyville. Inside the walls of this less than sturdy fortress lived three boys who sometimes merely co-existed but often times came to realize they were in this thing, whatever this thing can possibly be about, together.

Boof Bonser was a handsome boy. He had a perpetually sad look upon his face but the spot to the right of his nose was perfectly imperfect and his expressive eyes only hinted at the depth of his caring albeit worried heart. Boof had grown up in the wild, roaming the tamed wilderness of a metropolitan park. One day his curiosity got the best of him and he took a step where he shouldn't have stepped. That fraction of a moment cost Boof his leg and forever set in motion the chain of events that would be the rest of his life.

Fred Smoot joined Boof when Fred was just a few months old. The two immediately bonded. Fred was impossibly dashing with his long dark hair and a piercing set of green eyes that could melt the polar ice cap on the coldest of days. It was his nature to be friendly and loving though he tried to keep that weapon of his arsenal quite secret. Where Boof had issues that would make some reluctant to accept him, there was nothing about Fred Smoot that to the naked eye was anything but charismatic and charming.

Boof and Fred ended up together and after a period of necessary adjustment they became inseparable, almost enough so that you could describe them as best of friends.

One day out of the blue the two were joined by a youngster named Nick Punto. Punto was a playful young boy with spacey eyes. Just a few weeks after his birth his trusting nature got the best of him and he was sat on by someone playing too rough and not paying attention at all. Nick's back legs weren't broken but they couldn't be used. The doctors thought that he may never be able to use them again. But Nick Punto was nothing but someone adept at adapting and he learned to get along with what he still had. And where some would have become jaded by the experience, Nick never let it affect his wondrous outlook on life. To him all the world was a playground. And he loved to show his affection to whoever came along.

Boof Bonser and Fred Smoot weren't so quick to accept Nick Punto into their home. At first it was a matter of not knowing what to make of him. Where Boof and Fred had learned over time, like the ocean waves wearing down rocks into sand, to be weary and a bit guarded towards the unknown, Nick Punto had not gotten to the same point yet.

To Boof and Fred Nick's relentless playfulness was tiresome and where they sometimes really needed their quiet and solitude Nick would often egg them on, leaping at them unexpectedly and from every angle imaginable.

All three boys were raised in the Maxolic church believing that if you lived in fear of your sins and truly repented and asked for forgiveness after accepting the truth of the higher being that a tenth life was possible in some higher plain of being. Like many religions being a Maxolic meant believing in things that you had never seen though there was plenty of proof in existing touch and smell that something greater once truly existed.

To watch the three boys day to day was to rediscover the blessing of learning something new each and every day. They may have all been created in an equal place under different circumstances but they all three found themselves sharing a space, a life together whether they wanted to or not. They were as similar as they were different and though they might not have been more than a blip on the radar outside their walls, they all three made this world a slightly better place.

Numb Skull

2005-05-22T12:21:00.000-05:00

"And when the time comes round, we will be duty bound/To tell the truth of what we've seen and what we haven't found/Will not be going down, despite too easy ride to see/From a lover to a friend take your own advice/Let me love again. Now that you turned out to be, someone I can trust, someone I believe..."
-Paul McCartney

I'm not sure if numbness runs in my family but it sure seems to be running up and down various parts of my anatomy over the past few years.

Last year about this time I was diagnosed with Bell's Palsy, a disease that rendered the left side of my face droopy and numb. With a little acupuncture and adding a little herb to my diet, my face regained its perpetual frown in no time at all.

This year I have been diagnosed with cervical radiculopathy. The two friends who have expressed the most concern with my suffering happen to be two who are a long ways a way (one in Hawaii and one in Blue Earth County). Go figure. I figured my closest friends would at the very least organize some all night televised marathon for me. It's the least they could do after all. It sucks getting old.

It might be noted for the record that the diagnosis sounds worse than the actual suffering involved. Even my doctor admitted that. Cervical radiculopathy is the medical term for having a pinched nerve in the neck. For years I have had a tingling in my shoulder and recently that mostly annoying but sometimes pleasing sensation spread down my arm to my hand. My forefinger feels like it's always asleep now an affliction similar to the state of my brain for the past six years or so.

When I finally got around to calling my health care people once they heard the words "tingling" and "left side of my body" they told me I had to come in to urgent care. That evening it was determined I didn't have cancer, M.S. or carpal tunnel. I met with one doctor and then days later I met with another (the same one who diagnosed me with Bell's Palsy though she didn't recognize me. Must have been the non-droopy demeanor). With a prescription of an anti-inflammatory drug in hand and an appointment to see a physical therapist scheduled, I went on my merry way.

On my way home I popped in Lucinda Williams' new live CD. Looking at the packaging I must say I was a bit disappointed by the song list. Most of the songs are from her last two CDs and the inclusion of such dirge-like songs like "Joy" and "Atonement" didn't do much for me. Still when she got to "Reason to Cry" I just about did. It's my second favorite performance of the song- right up there with when I was riding with the Grad Student and she sang along with Lucinda. Man she hit the right notes on that ride.

Thankfully the slight discomfort was further alleviated when I finally found out who murdered Veronica Mars' best friend Lily and that Veronica wasn't actually raped nor did she have sex with her brother. Veronica Mars is the show getting all the buzz if you don't count Desperate Housewives. A lot of critics are saying that it is as good as Buffy in its writing and its depiction of the angst of growing up. I thus had to tune in to see what all the praise was all about.

I indeed saw that Veronica Mars is a smartly written show that deftly mixes black humor with insight. Most every character has a dark side including the dour blonde Veronica herself, and the standard operating procedure seems to be to do whatever best suits your individual needs and deal with the consequences later.

Later that night I had a long talk with a friend down in Florida. The purpose of the call was to talk about the shape of my soul, admittedly a little ragged, worn, and torn these days. She sent me a book about the story of life and suggested I read the book of Romans in the Bible. "I'll say a prayer for you," she said and I thanked her profusely. I was glad to hear she is doing well.

"Of everything in this world I guess I'll never know why/Something as good as this could flower up and die/When you lost your happiness when no one's standing by/When nothing makes any sense, you've got a reason to cry..."

The Woodpecker

2005-05-15T14:48:00.000-05:00

I was driving to work the other day and listening to the news when a story came on telling how a bird observer down in Louisiana had seen an Ivory Billed Woodpecker, quite a remarkable sighting considering that the bird was declared extinct years ago.

The news made my ears perk up. I've long been an admirer of those who show skillful survival abilities against the odds. Almost all of the people I admire most have stories of being counted out at one point or another only to stage some type of comeback. This was the all time comeback story. Imagine having your species declared down for the count forever and yet there you are. You're still bleeping there. I almost turned my car around to head back home to tell my three boyz the news. Their reaction probably would have mirrored any reaction I could get at work at 6:30 in the blessed a.m.

Having become a complete scooterhead these days this was one of the few recent mornings that I was actually glad I was in my car. This spring hasn't exactly been abundant with ideal scooter riding weather. Every night before I hop into bed I listen to the weather forecast for the next day. The forecast more often than not either calls for unseasonably cold weather or worse, for drizzle, showers, and rain. I go to bed hoping and sometimes praying that they are wrong.

I then wake up thinking this might be the morning that my prayers have been answered. I look out the window hoping it isn't raining and as MPR's Cathy Wurzer tells me the temp at 5:10 a.m. I try to tell myself that since it's above freezing maybe it won't be too cold to scooter.

Alas more often than not I soon find myself snug as a slug in my rusting and dying car wishing I could be zooming along on my scooter, Marco the Nimrod. One advantage to driving to work in my car is that I can listen to the radio. It's a luxury I don't have when I'm out in the open where I could in theory put on some headphones underneath my California Highway Patrol style helmet. I don't want to do that though because I'm trying to be ultra-alert to everything going on around me knowing I probably won't come out the winner in a collision between me and another vehicle.

The few times I have been able to ride my scooter I fill the music void by singing at the top of my lungs. Of course the obvious choice of song would be the cliché motorized two wheel anthem, "Born to Be Wild" but as I was searching for my own personal theme song to sing on my scooter my mind flashed back to the Rutles' "Cheese and Onions" Lord knows why.

"I have always thought in the back of my mind/Cheese and Onions/I have always thought/That the world was unkind/Cheese and Onions/Do I have to spell it out?/C-H-E-E-S-E- A-N-D-O-N-I-O-N-S- Oh no/Man and machine/Keep yourself clean/I'll be a has- been/Like a dinosaur/My device for everything nice/You better think twice/At least once more..."

As weary as I've been I came home the other night and trying to make the most of my Netflix subscription I plopped my rented DVD, Seabiscuit into my DVD player. I must say I've never seen a better sports related movie. God almighty the movie is good.

Granted the cinematic sports genre is full of many clunkers so the competition isn't all that great. The only movie that has ever made me boo the screen was the dreadful The Natural. And unfortunately my extreme disliking of that movie happens more often than not when watching a sports related movie. Sports can be so inspiring, so poetic, so beautiful and yet when movies try to capture these aspects they usually fall far short.

Seabiscuit is the exception. The movie manages to capture the beauty and the danger of horse racing and still it's really not about the sport itself. Like all my favorite movies there are themes about redemption and loss and overcoming odds. The movie is about misfits rising above expectations and finding another who can inspire you to live up to the potential that exists within. That it also captures the relationship that can develop between man and animal and how one can push the other to be something greater, is something to behold and treasure.

I loved this movie. Chris Cooper's performance as the trainer, Tom Smith is remarkable and makes this a must see movie all by itself. Seabiscuit is the kind of movie that makes you want to go out into the world and make a difference or at least join the land of the living one more time before you give up faith knowing your lucky horseshoe can never make a difference in a land full of indifference. I watched this movie with a three-legged cat sound asleep on my chest feeling as peaceful as he can in this dangerous world. When it was done I was inspired to hop on my scooter and just ride, didn't matter where.

I Could Have Been Somebody

2005-05-09T14:51:00.000-05:00

I don't know if "reality TV" has been so dubbed because it's supposed to reflect anything that's actually going on outside that big black box in the corner of my living room. More likely it's been called that because nothing that happens on those shows has been written and we all know that nothing written is ever real.

I've been a huge fan of the original network reality show Survivor, ever since its inception. Yes I know the show is utterly predictable and dumb but I've always been quite entertained by all the conniving and scheming done by groups of good looking albeit more often than not, rather vacuous people.

This season started off the same as always despite the twists the producers have tried to introduce. Immediate lapses in judgment led to poor strategy by a couple of people who apparently have never seen the show before. The one thing all Survivor players should know by now is that the one thing you do not want to do at the beginning of the adventure is to call attention to yourself. You don't want to be too bossy or assume that it is a good idea to try and be a leader, a loner, or an eccentric. If you stick out you're gonna have this huge target tattooed on to your back and you're gonna get voted off pronto.

Sure enough the first person booted off of Survivor Palau was a woman who thought she'd entertain everyone else by belting out songs she had written about the show. While the others rowed their boat toward shore this woman annoyed them all by not only not helping row but by singing some rather dreadful songs.

The plot twist this season was that the first two people ashore got to be captains and they chose the next person they wanted on their team. That person then chose the next and so on. The singer/songwriter of course did not get chosen. As the teams were formed it appeared to be a mismatch. One team contained all the young, athletic, good looking people while the others had the misfits and old people. Surprise of surprises the young athletic team did not win an entire immunity challenge and all of their tribe members have now been voted off.

Up until this season my all time favorite Survivor was Elisabeth Filarski who parlayed her charm and sweet personality into a full time gig co-hosting the ABC daytime talk show, The View. However one of this season's Survivors, Stephenie, has moved to the top of my heart by showing she was perhaps the best female participant ever. She kicked butt in the immunity challenges even though her team never won one. She out hustled, out performed and outwitted the rest of her team. When she ultimately joined the opposing team, her odds in surviving were minimal because not only was she the odd person out, but she was seen as a threat for her prowess in challenges.

There reached a point where Janu, a whiny Las Vegas dancer wanted out and she let her teammates know by completely isolating herself and shutting down. Still some wanted to vote out Stephenie first, because they didn't see Janu being a threat in any way shape or form. At the next tribal council Stephenie soon began to realize she was in trouble. As it dawned on her she began to cry. She said it wasn't fair (and it wasn't) that because she had done so well she was apparently done while there was another who was asking to get voted off and she apparently wasn't going to get her wish.

I didn't realize that Stephenie's competitive drive had gotten to me until the tears began to stream down my own cheeks. It wasn't the first time in my life a Stephenie made me bawl. But that's another story of course. Since that particular Stephanie, my life has somehow morphed into being about all kitties all the time. Sometimes I think living with the three that they have formed a Survivor like alliance and if we had a vote on who to kick out of this house I'd be the first to go.

But then again if this house was actually made into a reality show (or at least something real) it would be more like NBC's The Contender. That show kicks Survivor's butt because the actual demise of its contestants is to lose a hard fought boxing match not some kind of goofy contrived challenge and the show if nothing else has shown over its run that boxing is a rather brutal sport.

The Contender does a splendid job of effectively building the tension up to the actual fight. The mixture of realism and reality TV is highlighted by the presence of Sylvester Stallone and Sugar Ray Leonard both equally comical in their attempts at analyzing what is going on. I'm not sure if Sly realizes he was never an actual championship boxer, and I'm not sure if Sugar Ray realizes he was never the entertainer Ali was, but if they came over to my house they could maybe help me sort out the pecking order between Diego-san, Thompson, and young Theo. When the boyz wrestle I'm not sure if they're playing or if they're playing for real. All I know is this isn't the Real World and yet I'm still game in playing along.