There's a million different ways you can be a million miles away. Sitting in my car waiting for a glimmer of heat, this very thought crossed my mind. Yes indeed, this weather we've been experiencing has in a word, sucked. Yet like many other character building moments, there has been a subtle lesson to be learned. If you blinked, you might have missed it.
Yes, life is full of metaphors. It is like a cold Minnesota day. You can bundle up and try to cope with the elements, yet you never really are able to get comfortable. It is so cold out that your garage door freezes shut, and you struggle to dig out in order to get anywhere at all. Slippery slopes, black ice, white out conditions. You drive carefully, yet you have to deal with others who are either going much too fast and are in their shortsightedness causing potential harm to many others, or too slowly and are causing equal danger by being too careful. You don't feel quite in control of your vehicle and at any moment you might hit a slick spot and spin out of control. Fish tailing.
The Arctic air bites, the wind howls, and the snow blows. Yet if you are careful enough, you can survive the harshest of elements. Does it all bother you? Why yes, it does. But you get by. It's better to stay inside anyway. You can buy a fish, name it Grace, leave it in its own bowl for a friend to care for. That friend might not be knowledgeable in fish care and the water may evaporate and turn green as well as Grace's gills, but she hangs on in a pool of fish food and filth. Inspiration for us all. We are all victims of our environments, yet there is such a thing as survival and determination. It takes some effort and some advanced preparation and maybe even some luck, but in the end things often come out the way they always have in the past. The routine remains much the same, only a bit colder.
Week indeed. Give me a palatial office, spend some time with a friend, prepare for a test or two, and damn even the daily morning slick five mile per hour drive from Lake Elmo doesn't seem so horrible. This is Minnesota in January after all, and through the media hype and despite the media hype, it does get cold this time of year in this part of the country. Stop the presses! I think not. Believe it or not this is to be expected. This can be predicted. This is normal and there is no need to be alarmed. It may indeed have been the storm of the century. Felt like it anyway. Yet the Chicken Littles of the airwaves got to be a bit much. Weather people are often wrong, and a storm like this just makes them seem all the more important. Keep me away from those sharp implements.
This isn't weather for the weak of heart. It's times like these that make us all heartier Minnesotans. Sure you could move to sunny Southern California, say San Diego, or even Portland Oregon, but they have their elements too. You my friend, are destined to remain the same. Sad but true, it may be all over now baby blue. Stompin. The walls shake. So this is the end. Like every weekend for the past few years I find myself snugly sealed in my apartment typing away to beat another deadline. It's chilly out there, some may even go so far as to call the world cold, but you would never know it thanks to the forced air heating and warm woolen mittens in this here part of town. The rest of the usual Saturday night newsletter staff is absent, and the one who I usually bounce my ideas off is truly missed. A mystery unfolds on this week's episode of One West Waikiki and I'm sure that Ms. Ladd will take care of things in due time just as surely as that Rice Krispie bar sure went down smooth. A door slams somewhere off in the all too distant past, and we have just about completed another issue, another week. Brrrr.
Monday, January 22, 1996
Monday, January 15, 1996
Hear Them Tumblin Down
I fell in love last Sunday at the Cheapo Holiday/Anniversary party. Waif. Long flowing winds and shadows, she didn't even speak to me. She didn't need to. Once in the blood it's always inside of you. It's the feeling like she has always been there but I've never known anyone like her before. I didn't think that enthralling first flush could hit me so hard again. Was it the sound of pins falling or was that the pitter patter of my heart? Bowled over. Just rent me some shoes, give me a ball that isn't too heavy and let me bowl until my little (and I do mean little) heart is content. Some day I may even break a hundred!
Put me in front of the line that would like to thank the members of the holiday committee, and Mary and Al for organizing and pulling off an afternoon of fun. I don't make many public appearances, but this was one I was glad I didn't miss. It was fun seeing people I haven't seen for awhile along with finally getting to meet some of the faces behind the names of people who are kind enough to contribute to this weekly effort. Hopefully, the party will be an annual tradition in the company. Besides the bowling, the battle of the bands was entertaining, and who can be displeased with coming home with a smart looking cap?
But enough with the back slappin. Al said that the one thing we can expect in 1996 is lots of change, just like we experienced in 1995, and 1994 and 1993... We do learn that over time even the most stable and reliable monuments can disappear over night. Driving down University Avenue and seeing the big hole that used to be Montgomery Wards is a bit sad. I remember back in my college days whenever I would feel a bit down I would stroll down to Cheapo and buy a record, and the days I felt even bluer, I would wander even further all the way down to Wards to look at pillows. Don't ask me why but the walk always did me good. Change can be rewarding, exciting and challenging, but it can also be a bit stressful.
With a recent decision to move back to the big city (St. Paul) from the quiet solitude of the suburbs (Roseville) I have one beef to air before I become a functioning city resident once again. What is the deal with the way St. Paul deals with snow removal? Seems the system is getting progressively worse. The most recent snowfall was an excellent example of a city that seems to not notice that driving through snow drifts is a bit of a nuisance for its taxpaying citizens. Last Thursday it wasn't that slick out but with piles of snow left to drive through, St. Paul was much more treacherous than it had to be.
The current snow removal philosophy seems to be to dump lots of salt all over the place (enough to filet a mignon), and hope the crud melts before the plows have to do their duty. Living on the border between Roseville and St. Paul (don't be coming over), it's like driving from civilization to Mars. By the time I leave in the morning the Roseville side of things are such that a semi-awake person can navigate through the muck, ice and snow without too much worry. Soon as you crossover into St. Paul however, and geez you just want to gun it and hope nothing is moving on the other side of the ten foot pile. You dare not come to any complete stops in fear that your car will become a permanent fixture in the city. Maybe that is the plan- so many have moved out into the suburbs over the years that getting them stuck in St. Paul is the best way to replenish the population.
The lack of snow removal isn't exactly a recent problem but it seems to get worse and worse every year (or perhaps I'm just getting crankier and crankier). My former car pooling partner used to get upset whenever we would pass a snowplow in St. Paul that was driving down the streets with its shovel in the air. Granted things were tense back then, but she had point. If I had a plow you can bet your biffy that I would plow the unplowed just for the pride of civic duty. It does seem a bit silly that this is a problem here. As far as I can tell snow has been a part of the equation for quite a while, and every year it seems to catch people by surprise. There seems to be no plan to deal with it. The snow emergencies, opposite side of the street parking, odd/even systems seem to change at random so after every major storm if you want to avoid getting tickets the best thing to do is keep driving, only the damn roads aren't plowed and the old blood pressure creeps ever higher.
In these days with the national speed limit repealed and with states trying to decide individually what their law of the road is going to be, here is one voice that would suggest with the transportation conditions of our Twin Cities, perhaps we ought to lower the speed people here can go. People are in too much of a hurry anyway, and to encourage them to drive faster on streets that are getting less and less care is perhaps only inviting trouble.
Put me in front of the line that would like to thank the members of the holiday committee, and Mary and Al for organizing and pulling off an afternoon of fun. I don't make many public appearances, but this was one I was glad I didn't miss. It was fun seeing people I haven't seen for awhile along with finally getting to meet some of the faces behind the names of people who are kind enough to contribute to this weekly effort. Hopefully, the party will be an annual tradition in the company. Besides the bowling, the battle of the bands was entertaining, and who can be displeased with coming home with a smart looking cap?
But enough with the back slappin. Al said that the one thing we can expect in 1996 is lots of change, just like we experienced in 1995, and 1994 and 1993... We do learn that over time even the most stable and reliable monuments can disappear over night. Driving down University Avenue and seeing the big hole that used to be Montgomery Wards is a bit sad. I remember back in my college days whenever I would feel a bit down I would stroll down to Cheapo and buy a record, and the days I felt even bluer, I would wander even further all the way down to Wards to look at pillows. Don't ask me why but the walk always did me good. Change can be rewarding, exciting and challenging, but it can also be a bit stressful.
With a recent decision to move back to the big city (St. Paul) from the quiet solitude of the suburbs (Roseville) I have one beef to air before I become a functioning city resident once again. What is the deal with the way St. Paul deals with snow removal? Seems the system is getting progressively worse. The most recent snowfall was an excellent example of a city that seems to not notice that driving through snow drifts is a bit of a nuisance for its taxpaying citizens. Last Thursday it wasn't that slick out but with piles of snow left to drive through, St. Paul was much more treacherous than it had to be.
The current snow removal philosophy seems to be to dump lots of salt all over the place (enough to filet a mignon), and hope the crud melts before the plows have to do their duty. Living on the border between Roseville and St. Paul (don't be coming over), it's like driving from civilization to Mars. By the time I leave in the morning the Roseville side of things are such that a semi-awake person can navigate through the muck, ice and snow without too much worry. Soon as you crossover into St. Paul however, and geez you just want to gun it and hope nothing is moving on the other side of the ten foot pile. You dare not come to any complete stops in fear that your car will become a permanent fixture in the city. Maybe that is the plan- so many have moved out into the suburbs over the years that getting them stuck in St. Paul is the best way to replenish the population.
The lack of snow removal isn't exactly a recent problem but it seems to get worse and worse every year (or perhaps I'm just getting crankier and crankier). My former car pooling partner used to get upset whenever we would pass a snowplow in St. Paul that was driving down the streets with its shovel in the air. Granted things were tense back then, but she had point. If I had a plow you can bet your biffy that I would plow the unplowed just for the pride of civic duty. It does seem a bit silly that this is a problem here. As far as I can tell snow has been a part of the equation for quite a while, and every year it seems to catch people by surprise. There seems to be no plan to deal with it. The snow emergencies, opposite side of the street parking, odd/even systems seem to change at random so after every major storm if you want to avoid getting tickets the best thing to do is keep driving, only the damn roads aren't plowed and the old blood pressure creeps ever higher.
In these days with the national speed limit repealed and with states trying to decide individually what their law of the road is going to be, here is one voice that would suggest with the transportation conditions of our Twin Cities, perhaps we ought to lower the speed people here can go. People are in too much of a hurry anyway, and to encourage them to drive faster on streets that are getting less and less care is perhaps only inviting trouble.
Monday, January 8, 1996
American Dream
Back in the glorious early days of the Seventies, underneath that nostalgic glow of the Nixon administration, every good young Japanese American male dreamt of growing up and one day owning their own little one and a half story, two bedroom, one bathroom, wood floored, brick house in the Como area, with a big laundry pole thing in the backyard. But as we all know, somewhere down the road dreams went askew for many, and in the aftermath of Watergate, of Iran/Contragate, of the flood of Whitewater, a lot of people's dreams became more like fantasies never to be realized.
There were some mighty hard lean times for many of us, as we collectively as a country learned more and more to tighten our proverbial belts and try to get by with less and less. There were many days in the not too distant past where the dream of home ownership seemed as likely as a woman with a man's name coming along to steal one's heart. These were days of getting by on a hundred dollars a week, where renting a place was a struggle unto itself, and getting by meant living from paycheck to paycheck.
But like a good house, many dreams begin by laying a solid foundation, keeping focused, keep on keeping on, and with a little luck finding one's self in the right place at the timeliest of times. These are days of seven percent interest. These are days of pre-approved loans and a competitive real estate market. On one hand the amount it takes to buy a house is scary, but the logic of not throwing paycheck after paycheck out the window in rent money makes a convincing argument for investment in a home. Once you can convince yourself that you are in the place you want to be for awhile, that no pending disasters are looming, and that your job is more and more becoming a career, the thought of taking a dip into such a major investment doesn't seem so dreamlike. As you begin to save your money with a long term goal in mind, no movies, no extravagant purchases, limited CD buying and no social life, you can even convince yourself that owning a home might even make life more enjoyable?
So where do you start? Perhaps the best place is by asking as many people as you can about their experiences and knowledge in buying a house. There are enough horror stories out there to scare away the weak of heart. But getting various perspectives gives you the feeling that it can be done, and done right even by the feeble minded, with enough preparation and thought. One of the other things you want to do right away is to make a list of what you are looking for. Is it the relative ease of maintenance of a condo or townhome, or the privacy and variety of a house? Do you want a big yard, a fireplace, wood floors or carpeting? How many bedrooms and bathrooms? What is important in terms of layout? What areas of town interest you? Once you begin to picture what you are looking for and why, it is easy to start perusing the papers and catalogs available to see what choices you may or may not have. Of course another early step is to figure out how much you can afford. How much do you take home a month and how much do you already have tied up in expenses? How much (or how little) savings do have and do you feel comfortable with? This was the hardest part for me, because any amount over $5,000 seemed like it might as well be a million. In this day of pre-approved loans however, I was able to arrive at a ballpark figure I was comfortable with and that I qualified for.
By attending open houses and by talking with others, the picture gets a little more clear. A little more research will help you find a realtor you are comfortable with. With the competition in that industry, you can afford to be choosy in selecting an agent. Many realtors make their careers out of referrals so there are some out there who want to do a good job for you, if for nothing other than self preservation. Soon you begin looking at listings and driving out to look at potential homes. This was something I heard from many others was the best part of buying a house. To me it was just another task. It takes time to drive to different locations and it became clearer to me over time that what I originally drew up as wanting my place to be, wasn't set in stone. I expected to walk into a place and feel like it was home. Nothing I looked at struck me that way. Each place I did look at had its own pluses and minuses. One condo was in a great location but had a mediocre layout; another house was spacious but in need of a lot of minor work. The more you look the more you begin to appreciate the potential in different options.
Once you decide on a place, you have to sit down with your realtor and run over more numbers and potential scenarios. You draw up the papers to make the offer, sit and wait for the seller's reaction. Once you agree in part to the amount and conditions of the sale, you are sort of on your way. Thorough inspections and appraisals still need to be made, final loan approval is needed. Closing day approaches and before you know it you are sitting in an empty house with dreams both behind you and ahead of you. And the refrain you have in your mind are the words you heard from so many: Congratulations but the one thing you can continue to expect is the unexpected.
There were some mighty hard lean times for many of us, as we collectively as a country learned more and more to tighten our proverbial belts and try to get by with less and less. There were many days in the not too distant past where the dream of home ownership seemed as likely as a woman with a man's name coming along to steal one's heart. These were days of getting by on a hundred dollars a week, where renting a place was a struggle unto itself, and getting by meant living from paycheck to paycheck.
But like a good house, many dreams begin by laying a solid foundation, keeping focused, keep on keeping on, and with a little luck finding one's self in the right place at the timeliest of times. These are days of seven percent interest. These are days of pre-approved loans and a competitive real estate market. On one hand the amount it takes to buy a house is scary, but the logic of not throwing paycheck after paycheck out the window in rent money makes a convincing argument for investment in a home. Once you can convince yourself that you are in the place you want to be for awhile, that no pending disasters are looming, and that your job is more and more becoming a career, the thought of taking a dip into such a major investment doesn't seem so dreamlike. As you begin to save your money with a long term goal in mind, no movies, no extravagant purchases, limited CD buying and no social life, you can even convince yourself that owning a home might even make life more enjoyable?
So where do you start? Perhaps the best place is by asking as many people as you can about their experiences and knowledge in buying a house. There are enough horror stories out there to scare away the weak of heart. But getting various perspectives gives you the feeling that it can be done, and done right even by the feeble minded, with enough preparation and thought. One of the other things you want to do right away is to make a list of what you are looking for. Is it the relative ease of maintenance of a condo or townhome, or the privacy and variety of a house? Do you want a big yard, a fireplace, wood floors or carpeting? How many bedrooms and bathrooms? What is important in terms of layout? What areas of town interest you? Once you begin to picture what you are looking for and why, it is easy to start perusing the papers and catalogs available to see what choices you may or may not have. Of course another early step is to figure out how much you can afford. How much do you take home a month and how much do you already have tied up in expenses? How much (or how little) savings do have and do you feel comfortable with? This was the hardest part for me, because any amount over $5,000 seemed like it might as well be a million. In this day of pre-approved loans however, I was able to arrive at a ballpark figure I was comfortable with and that I qualified for.
By attending open houses and by talking with others, the picture gets a little more clear. A little more research will help you find a realtor you are comfortable with. With the competition in that industry, you can afford to be choosy in selecting an agent. Many realtors make their careers out of referrals so there are some out there who want to do a good job for you, if for nothing other than self preservation. Soon you begin looking at listings and driving out to look at potential homes. This was something I heard from many others was the best part of buying a house. To me it was just another task. It takes time to drive to different locations and it became clearer to me over time that what I originally drew up as wanting my place to be, wasn't set in stone. I expected to walk into a place and feel like it was home. Nothing I looked at struck me that way. Each place I did look at had its own pluses and minuses. One condo was in a great location but had a mediocre layout; another house was spacious but in need of a lot of minor work. The more you look the more you begin to appreciate the potential in different options.
Once you decide on a place, you have to sit down with your realtor and run over more numbers and potential scenarios. You draw up the papers to make the offer, sit and wait for the seller's reaction. Once you agree in part to the amount and conditions of the sale, you are sort of on your way. Thorough inspections and appraisals still need to be made, final loan approval is needed. Closing day approaches and before you know it you are sitting in an empty house with dreams both behind you and ahead of you. And the refrain you have in your mind are the words you heard from so many: Congratulations but the one thing you can continue to expect is the unexpected.
Monday, January 1, 1996
1995 Woman of the Year
Some of the authors of the Contract with America would have you believe that our country's slide in "family values" began when women began entering the work force in large numbers. The theory of these people suggests that without the woman's presence in the household, values crumbled and families fractured. Flawed logic? The weight of history of the oppressed a bit overwhelming?
The oldest cliché on the books used both for and against the battle cry that a woman's place is in the home, (and one not easily put out aside especially in the mind of a future homeowner) is that house work and raising a family are among two of the most difficult jobs ever invented by upright walking descendants of Neanderthals. If you want a real job, get out of the office and try staying at home and raising the kids. There aren't many awards for housewives, and to put the blame of a crumbling society on their backs seems more than a bit harsh and cynical. But as is so often the case, doing the ordinary extraordinary is seldom appreciated. Gender Equity? It's all a matter of degree and perception. One woman's ceiling is another woman's floor.
Thus with all this as background, it should come as no surprise that for the first time in its history, the committee that chooses the Newsletter's Annual Woman of the Year award had a clear cut unanimous choice. Like previous years, there were plenty of qualified candidates. But in 1995, the award simply had one person's name written all over it. For the past thirteen years, this person has quietly gone about the difficult task of doing his job without once calling in sick. Amongst the tedium of consistently scooping up grounders like a vacuum cleaner, and dusting the pitcher's best offerings off the distant outfield walls, Cal Ripken Jr. has above all else been a solid individual demonstrating the best qualities that lead to effective teamwork. His team knows that every day Cal will be there, that Cal will do his job, and that when the pressure builds, Cal's consistency means that more often than not, he will rise to the occasion. His team can always count on Cal and what more can you ask?
There are flashier celebrities, celebrities that get more time in the spotlight that are emulated and admired more by the masses, but few in any walk of life can boast of achieving the remarkable feat that Cal Ripken Jr. accomplished these past thirteen years: 2131 consecutive days at work! Day after day, night after night, day after night, and night after day, year after year, not coming out of the lineup for nagging injuries, sickness, mood swings, lame or legitimate excuses, he's been there every single moment. Congratulations Mr. Ripken, your accomplishment is truly worthy of our prestigious Woman of the Year honor.
************
Previous Winners
1992- H. Ross Perot
1993- St. Francis of Assisi
1994- Newt Gingrich
************
Now is the time of the year for reflection and resolution for the upcoming new year. What better time is there to wipe the slate clean and strike another match to start anew? Here are some of the newsletter's resolutions to you, our dear readers:
1) The newsletter will continue to be 100% recyclable.
2) We will never stoop to making up stuff about former President Nixon.
3) We might fictionalize some stuff about former President Taft.
4) Wacky facial hair + phony French accents = zany issue after zany issue!
5) Having found that our most successful efforts have been written in the key of B flat, we will now add an occasional A flat to the mix to be flatter than ever!
6) That annoying scratch and sniff cigar smell? Now gone.
7) Spel chec? Never in our liftime.
8) We pledge to use more exclamation points in 1996!!!!!
9) No more top ten lists....
The oldest cliché on the books used both for and against the battle cry that a woman's place is in the home, (and one not easily put out aside especially in the mind of a future homeowner) is that house work and raising a family are among two of the most difficult jobs ever invented by upright walking descendants of Neanderthals. If you want a real job, get out of the office and try staying at home and raising the kids. There aren't many awards for housewives, and to put the blame of a crumbling society on their backs seems more than a bit harsh and cynical. But as is so often the case, doing the ordinary extraordinary is seldom appreciated. Gender Equity? It's all a matter of degree and perception. One woman's ceiling is another woman's floor.
Thus with all this as background, it should come as no surprise that for the first time in its history, the committee that chooses the Newsletter's Annual Woman of the Year award had a clear cut unanimous choice. Like previous years, there were plenty of qualified candidates. But in 1995, the award simply had one person's name written all over it. For the past thirteen years, this person has quietly gone about the difficult task of doing his job without once calling in sick. Amongst the tedium of consistently scooping up grounders like a vacuum cleaner, and dusting the pitcher's best offerings off the distant outfield walls, Cal Ripken Jr. has above all else been a solid individual demonstrating the best qualities that lead to effective teamwork. His team knows that every day Cal will be there, that Cal will do his job, and that when the pressure builds, Cal's consistency means that more often than not, he will rise to the occasion. His team can always count on Cal and what more can you ask?
There are flashier celebrities, celebrities that get more time in the spotlight that are emulated and admired more by the masses, but few in any walk of life can boast of achieving the remarkable feat that Cal Ripken Jr. accomplished these past thirteen years: 2131 consecutive days at work! Day after day, night after night, day after night, and night after day, year after year, not coming out of the lineup for nagging injuries, sickness, mood swings, lame or legitimate excuses, he's been there every single moment. Congratulations Mr. Ripken, your accomplishment is truly worthy of our prestigious Woman of the Year honor.
************
Previous Winners
1992- H. Ross Perot
1993- St. Francis of Assisi
1994- Newt Gingrich
************
Now is the time of the year for reflection and resolution for the upcoming new year. What better time is there to wipe the slate clean and strike another match to start anew? Here are some of the newsletter's resolutions to you, our dear readers:
1) The newsletter will continue to be 100% recyclable.
2) We will never stoop to making up stuff about former President Nixon.
3) We might fictionalize some stuff about former President Taft.
4) Wacky facial hair + phony French accents = zany issue after zany issue!
5) Having found that our most successful efforts have been written in the key of B flat, we will now add an occasional A flat to the mix to be flatter than ever!
6) That annoying scratch and sniff cigar smell? Now gone.
7) Spel chec? Never in our liftime.
8) We pledge to use more exclamation points in 1996!!!!!
9) No more top ten lists....
Monday, December 25, 1995
1995 Top Ten
10. Take a sad song a make it better. Fifty years from now when people look back at 1995, there is one single event that will probably get the most conversation time. For whatever it is worth, years from now 1995 won't be remembered as the year of the Contract with America, the Simpson trial, our involvement in Bosnia, or the tragedy of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, but rather people will be talking about how Cal Ripken Jr. broke the record to end all records, Lou Gehrig's consecutive game playing streak. The pictures of the moment, the night of Cal's 2131 consecutive game remain etched in mind, and during a time when doing your job day in and day out is an increasingly hard trait to find in people, this record is one to celebrate.
9. And if I ever saw you, I didn't catch your name, but it never really matters, I will love all the same. Years back when NBC was in dire straits, finishing last week after week in the Nielsen ratings, they decided that if they were going to be perpetually stuck in last place, it was better to finish last with good programs rather than finish last with bad programs. So instead of canceling Hill Street Blues, Cheers, St. Elsewhere, they stuck with them despite the abysmal ratings. Eventually the strategy worked out as people began to watch the shows that were getting the critics' raves. Years later it is CBS that is facing a similar situation. Have they learned from history? Not exactly unless you count Central Park West, Dweebs, and New York News as well written, quality shows. In a year when the crud of day time talk garnered Congressional attention, it's even more apparent television execs have little regard for the intelligence of their audience. Unfortunately this meant the scheduling of a GREAT show, ABC's Murder One, against last year's mega hit, ER.Murder One is the best dramatic series network television has offered since the glorious first season of Hill Street Blues. The concept of following a singular case throughout a season, the strong writing, the great acting (particularly lead actor, Daniel Benzali), this show is one worth watching. Now it may be too late.
8. Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you... In a year when I saw three spectacular Bob Dylan concerts, the most moving live performance I witnessed probably was Liz Phair's April appearance at First Ave. It was a night when things, for an instant, came into focus and the confusing line between expressing, creating, entertaining, self enlightenment, and being enlightened by another whose personal experience has nothing to do with one's own, disappeared. She's not the most dynamic performer, but fighting through her legendary stage fright to share her strong songs made for a nice intimate night.
7. But still it leads me back, to the long and winding road. Those of you who haven't caught any of Dylan's recent shows on his "Never Ending Tour" are really missing out. His constant reworking of his unmatchable catalog of songs and his desire to redefine the art of performing makes each show an inspiring performance. The Target Center's Mr. Tambourine Man was incredible. Dylan shows nightly a song isn't just lifeless notes on a piece of paper, but rather a living breathing entity that can capture the mood of the moment.
6. Joan was quizzical studied metaphysical science in the home. My favorite song of the year? Joan Osborne's One of Us, which asked the musical question, 'what would you do if God sat next to you on a bus?'
5. The world is treating me badddd, oh misery. My favorite album of the year? John Hiatt's Walk On. He just seems to get better and better playing to a smaller and smaller audience. This is a stunning set of songs that wonder about whether one should wander, while answering that one must keep wandering, and wondering.
4. It's getting better all the time. My favorite movie of the year? Granted, with the exception of the outstanding Crumb I didn't see many of the ones currently making the critics' top ten lists. The movie I enjoyed most was the bittersweet documentary I Just Wasn't Made for These Times about the rise and fall, and comeback of Beach Boy Brian Wilson. The music was infectious, and somewhere behind Brian's weary face and wavering voice lies the calmer mind of a genius.
3. Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble. In 1995, I went online and discovered cyberspace is a good way to reach out and keep in touch.
2. Whatever happened to, the love that we once knew? Can we really live without each other? Francis Albert turns 80, two Sandra Bullock movies, a search to make a house my home, a friend, my family, Cheapo, Max.
1. And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make. It's the story of a boy and his friend, who happens to be a stuffed tiger in other people's minds. The boy tries to make sense out of the confusing world around him, and when he gets home at the end of another weary day, he is knocked off his feet by his feline friend, happy to discover that part of the meaning behind it all is to be able to have that friend to share it all with.
9. And if I ever saw you, I didn't catch your name, but it never really matters, I will love all the same. Years back when NBC was in dire straits, finishing last week after week in the Nielsen ratings, they decided that if they were going to be perpetually stuck in last place, it was better to finish last with good programs rather than finish last with bad programs. So instead of canceling Hill Street Blues, Cheers, St. Elsewhere, they stuck with them despite the abysmal ratings. Eventually the strategy worked out as people began to watch the shows that were getting the critics' raves. Years later it is CBS that is facing a similar situation. Have they learned from history? Not exactly unless you count Central Park West, Dweebs, and New York News as well written, quality shows. In a year when the crud of day time talk garnered Congressional attention, it's even more apparent television execs have little regard for the intelligence of their audience. Unfortunately this meant the scheduling of a GREAT show, ABC's Murder One, against last year's mega hit, ER.Murder One is the best dramatic series network television has offered since the glorious first season of Hill Street Blues. The concept of following a singular case throughout a season, the strong writing, the great acting (particularly lead actor, Daniel Benzali), this show is one worth watching. Now it may be too late.
8. Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you... In a year when I saw three spectacular Bob Dylan concerts, the most moving live performance I witnessed probably was Liz Phair's April appearance at First Ave. It was a night when things, for an instant, came into focus and the confusing line between expressing, creating, entertaining, self enlightenment, and being enlightened by another whose personal experience has nothing to do with one's own, disappeared. She's not the most dynamic performer, but fighting through her legendary stage fright to share her strong songs made for a nice intimate night.
7. But still it leads me back, to the long and winding road. Those of you who haven't caught any of Dylan's recent shows on his "Never Ending Tour" are really missing out. His constant reworking of his unmatchable catalog of songs and his desire to redefine the art of performing makes each show an inspiring performance. The Target Center's Mr. Tambourine Man was incredible. Dylan shows nightly a song isn't just lifeless notes on a piece of paper, but rather a living breathing entity that can capture the mood of the moment.
6. Joan was quizzical studied metaphysical science in the home. My favorite song of the year? Joan Osborne's One of Us, which asked the musical question, 'what would you do if God sat next to you on a bus?'
5. The world is treating me badddd, oh misery. My favorite album of the year? John Hiatt's Walk On. He just seems to get better and better playing to a smaller and smaller audience. This is a stunning set of songs that wonder about whether one should wander, while answering that one must keep wandering, and wondering.
4. It's getting better all the time. My favorite movie of the year? Granted, with the exception of the outstanding Crumb I didn't see many of the ones currently making the critics' top ten lists. The movie I enjoyed most was the bittersweet documentary I Just Wasn't Made for These Times about the rise and fall, and comeback of Beach Boy Brian Wilson. The music was infectious, and somewhere behind Brian's weary face and wavering voice lies the calmer mind of a genius.
3. Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble. In 1995, I went online and discovered cyberspace is a good way to reach out and keep in touch.
2. Whatever happened to, the love that we once knew? Can we really live without each other? Francis Albert turns 80, two Sandra Bullock movies, a search to make a house my home, a friend, my family, Cheapo, Max.
1. And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make. It's the story of a boy and his friend, who happens to be a stuffed tiger in other people's minds. The boy tries to make sense out of the confusing world around him, and when he gets home at the end of another weary day, he is knocked off his feet by his feline friend, happy to discover that part of the meaning behind it all is to be able to have that friend to share it all with.
Monday, December 18, 1995
One for My Baby
"...After Sinatra (who patterned his phrasing on Dorsey's trombone), no instrumentalist would rival a singer as the essential player in pop music. While learning much from the melodic qualities of bel canto and from Bing Crosby's crooning (both forms emphasizing the sound of lyrics rather than their sense), Sinatra sang with a sure understanding of American speech- Crosby deployed words as mellifluous syllables; Sinatra interpreted them, and in doing so, not only made language matter in a way it had mattered only in blues, folk and country music, but, however unconsciously, paved the way for Dylan and the language experiments of '60's songwriters. Sinatra's colloquialism, too, helped make American music the world's primary popular form."
-Rolling Stone Album Guide
Back in the mid-80's every Saturday afternoon there was a two hour radio show on WMCN-FM 91.7, that featured the music of Frank Sinatra interspersed with the strange musings of a zany local DJ. The show opened with the song High Hopes and usually concluded with the DJ apologizing for his own performance over the previous two hours.
On one particular blustery autumn afternoon, something inside the disc jockey seemingly snapped and he went into a tirade that rivaled Howard Beale's in Network in the annals of broadcast history, only the DJ's tirade wasn't so much about the medium, it was about whether or not he was just sitting in an empty studio playing music with no one listening, and talking to himself. Surprisingly enough, people throughout St. Paul called in sympathetically, to tell the DJ how much they had enjoyed his show, his attempts at humor, his hijinx and above all Mr. Sinatra's music. The lesson learned was that no matter how badly you screw up, a Sinatra song can go a long way towards cleaning up the mess ("riding high in April, shot down in May").
Sinatra himself is notorious for his bouncing back from an up and down career. When he left Tommy Dorsey he was the bobby socks teen throb crooner. When he left Columbia, he was finished. He came back with Capitol where he made his best music, and his career was revived by a brilliant performance in From Here to Eternity. In the early 70's, supposedly retired, he came back with the remarkable Madison Square Garden Main Event Concert. Watching a video of that performance, one can't help but be mesmerized by the charisma of the singing and STYLE. Whenever someone counted him down and out, he would comeback strong, etching his way into the fabric of 20th Century American music.
He invented performance art before it became a fad for throwing blood at the audience. He poured his soul out into his art; listen to songs like One For My Baby, Nancy (With the Laughing Face), I'm A Fool To Want You, sheer heart breaking, skin tingling stuff. Whatever song he does (with the possible exception of Mrs. Robinson), he makes his own, records the ultimate version.
I became a skeptical, but life long fan during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college. My best friend and I took a trip to his cabin in Osakis, and on the drive there, he played his Sinatra tapes. At first it seemed silly- old timers music, being the hip guy I was, but it struck me odd that I knew all the songs (classics), and as we sang along, I grew to admire Sinatra's interpretations. The man somehow gets under your skin. For awhile all I wanted to hear was another Sinatra reading of another favorite song.
The LP that really got me was a 1964 recording with Count Basie called It Might As Well Be Swing. Frank and Splank. I soon wore that record out and with the additions of Songs for Swingin Lovers, and Sings for Only The Lonely, the artistry was appreciated more and more despite the reputation, the Vegas, finger snappin' Mafia rumors act. What is there to admire? How about the who cares what people think, I know I'm right and I'm going down that path and you're all going to follow me and we all might fall, and we all might stumble, but in the end the journey will be worth it so enjoy the ride, attitude? A few years later when I sat in an empty station, the failed DJ, and did my part to turn another generation on to the Chairman's music, it seemed a noble thing to do.
SO, this past Thursday evening as I was trying to make it to my niece's band concert, and unfortunately got myself wedged in a snow bank on the corner of Summit and Wheeler, I got myself home in time to see the final part of the big birthday bash for Francis Albert. All the stress, the anger of the day dissipated yet again as I listened and watched and smiled along with Frank. When I find myself in times of trouble, it ain't Mother Mary that comes to me, it's Sir Francis Albert. The songs speak for themselves. The LP's, the movies, the many concerts, he has become an American icon. And he did it his way.
-Rolling Stone Album Guide
Back in the mid-80's every Saturday afternoon there was a two hour radio show on WMCN-FM 91.7, that featured the music of Frank Sinatra interspersed with the strange musings of a zany local DJ. The show opened with the song High Hopes and usually concluded with the DJ apologizing for his own performance over the previous two hours.
On one particular blustery autumn afternoon, something inside the disc jockey seemingly snapped and he went into a tirade that rivaled Howard Beale's in Network in the annals of broadcast history, only the DJ's tirade wasn't so much about the medium, it was about whether or not he was just sitting in an empty studio playing music with no one listening, and talking to himself. Surprisingly enough, people throughout St. Paul called in sympathetically, to tell the DJ how much they had enjoyed his show, his attempts at humor, his hijinx and above all Mr. Sinatra's music. The lesson learned was that no matter how badly you screw up, a Sinatra song can go a long way towards cleaning up the mess ("riding high in April, shot down in May").
Sinatra himself is notorious for his bouncing back from an up and down career. When he left Tommy Dorsey he was the bobby socks teen throb crooner. When he left Columbia, he was finished. He came back with Capitol where he made his best music, and his career was revived by a brilliant performance in From Here to Eternity. In the early 70's, supposedly retired, he came back with the remarkable Madison Square Garden Main Event Concert. Watching a video of that performance, one can't help but be mesmerized by the charisma of the singing and STYLE. Whenever someone counted him down and out, he would comeback strong, etching his way into the fabric of 20th Century American music.
He invented performance art before it became a fad for throwing blood at the audience. He poured his soul out into his art; listen to songs like One For My Baby, Nancy (With the Laughing Face), I'm A Fool To Want You, sheer heart breaking, skin tingling stuff. Whatever song he does (with the possible exception of Mrs. Robinson), he makes his own, records the ultimate version.
I became a skeptical, but life long fan during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college. My best friend and I took a trip to his cabin in Osakis, and on the drive there, he played his Sinatra tapes. At first it seemed silly- old timers music, being the hip guy I was, but it struck me odd that I knew all the songs (classics), and as we sang along, I grew to admire Sinatra's interpretations. The man somehow gets under your skin. For awhile all I wanted to hear was another Sinatra reading of another favorite song.
The LP that really got me was a 1964 recording with Count Basie called It Might As Well Be Swing. Frank and Splank. I soon wore that record out and with the additions of Songs for Swingin Lovers, and Sings for Only The Lonely, the artistry was appreciated more and more despite the reputation, the Vegas, finger snappin' Mafia rumors act. What is there to admire? How about the who cares what people think, I know I'm right and I'm going down that path and you're all going to follow me and we all might fall, and we all might stumble, but in the end the journey will be worth it so enjoy the ride, attitude? A few years later when I sat in an empty station, the failed DJ, and did my part to turn another generation on to the Chairman's music, it seemed a noble thing to do.
SO, this past Thursday evening as I was trying to make it to my niece's band concert, and unfortunately got myself wedged in a snow bank on the corner of Summit and Wheeler, I got myself home in time to see the final part of the big birthday bash for Francis Albert. All the stress, the anger of the day dissipated yet again as I listened and watched and smiled along with Frank. When I find myself in times of trouble, it ain't Mother Mary that comes to me, it's Sir Francis Albert. The songs speak for themselves. The LP's, the movies, the many concerts, he has become an American icon. And he did it his way.
Monday, December 4, 1995
007 with a 1007 Temperature
My name is Maeda, David Maeda. I'm your secret agent of sophistication, suave, and feeling a bit under the weather. Since you've somehow managed to find your way back to this part of the newsletter, you may have already noticed that this week's issue has lacked a little flair, a little polish, a little of its usual zany humor. Well I'm sorry, you'll just have to excuse me. I'm not feeling well.
Please let me describe for you my symptoms. My head is beating like it's inside of Keith Moon's bass drum. Thumpa thumpa thumpa. Not only is that very annoying, each beat hurts, stabbing like (insert your favorite OJ joke here). Ouch. I'm clammy. That's right, clammy. Between bouts of the chills, about every five minutes it feels like I have Malaria. Clammy Malaria, I think I dated her once in college. She may have been my undoing. My joints ache. So do my elbows, knees, knuckles, and ankles. Ba doomp ba. My stomach is playin games with my head, telling my brain that it feels hungry, knowing the very thought of food makes my brain send back a message of sickness to my stomach, causing it to churn and turn. Sweaty cold, hungry nausea. There's a nice tug of war match going on within me! As I look in my mirror, my eyes appear to be even more glassy than usual.
Max the Cat has seen plenty of mopey behavior during his stint as my roommate. But even his eyes are propped open wider by the quality of moping he has witnessed these past few days. Not even laundry night had its usual luster. A normal man wouldn't be sitting here doing this newsletter, he'd be in bed. But no one in this company has ever said a normal man is doing the newsletter. Or another way of putting that, a lesser man wouldn't be doing the newsletter, but then again, I can't be any lesser a man...
But enough about me. That wasn't supposed to be the topic of this week's piece. Instead we were going to try to make a point about the traps of nostalgia, how people for whatever reason seem to cling on to false visions of the past, believing that yesterday was somehow better or more important than today. Now that we are being force fed another wave of Beatlemania, and what with another Bond movie out, the sixties (or the way I'm feeling, the "sickties") once again are being enshrined as a golden age. Enough already.
It's bad enough that this time of year is especially one where we are encouraged to become nostalgic and do our best to put a little glow on the years gone by. It's great to remember good times. Hell, there may even be a purpose to getting a history degree (but darned if I ever figured that out). But the line is crossed when whole industries are formed and people spend their time and their money dickering around in the past as their current lives could most certainly use some attention.
I'm sorry, this is going nowhere fast. As I was saying, my summer photos of the Grand Canyon really did turn out nicely. The horizon always looks better in the distance don't you think? The red sand, and vast openness of it all. Takes your breath away. One could easily fall in love in the Grand Canyon. But then again, one could easily fall to one's death in the Grand Canyon. Same thing? Don't look at me. Did I mention that currently, I'm not feeling very well? I'm not looking for sympathy, really. I just want someone to please turn down that lousy drumbeat in my head. I just wanna die with a little dignity.
Is it just me or did it suddenly get about a zillion degrees warmer in here? Brrrrr. My mouth is so dry but I ain't thirsty. Promise me, my faithful readers, that if I don't make it, someone will find Max a good home (he'll probably need lots and lots of counseling). That you'll do your best to take up the slack and drink lots and lots of Lemon Sunkist. That you'll remember me with a less critical eye, and forgive me for my role in the Royal Family scandal? Strike that, I just remember I told you not to waste your time and energy looking back. Except for the last newsletter issue of the year, keep your eyes in the forward position. Satchel might be gaining on you. Excuse me, I must go now. I need some sleep.
Please let me describe for you my symptoms. My head is beating like it's inside of Keith Moon's bass drum. Thumpa thumpa thumpa. Not only is that very annoying, each beat hurts, stabbing like (insert your favorite OJ joke here). Ouch. I'm clammy. That's right, clammy. Between bouts of the chills, about every five minutes it feels like I have Malaria. Clammy Malaria, I think I dated her once in college. She may have been my undoing. My joints ache. So do my elbows, knees, knuckles, and ankles. Ba doomp ba. My stomach is playin games with my head, telling my brain that it feels hungry, knowing the very thought of food makes my brain send back a message of sickness to my stomach, causing it to churn and turn. Sweaty cold, hungry nausea. There's a nice tug of war match going on within me! As I look in my mirror, my eyes appear to be even more glassy than usual.
Max the Cat has seen plenty of mopey behavior during his stint as my roommate. But even his eyes are propped open wider by the quality of moping he has witnessed these past few days. Not even laundry night had its usual luster. A normal man wouldn't be sitting here doing this newsletter, he'd be in bed. But no one in this company has ever said a normal man is doing the newsletter. Or another way of putting that, a lesser man wouldn't be doing the newsletter, but then again, I can't be any lesser a man...
But enough about me. That wasn't supposed to be the topic of this week's piece. Instead we were going to try to make a point about the traps of nostalgia, how people for whatever reason seem to cling on to false visions of the past, believing that yesterday was somehow better or more important than today. Now that we are being force fed another wave of Beatlemania, and what with another Bond movie out, the sixties (or the way I'm feeling, the "sickties") once again are being enshrined as a golden age. Enough already.
It's bad enough that this time of year is especially one where we are encouraged to become nostalgic and do our best to put a little glow on the years gone by. It's great to remember good times. Hell, there may even be a purpose to getting a history degree (but darned if I ever figured that out). But the line is crossed when whole industries are formed and people spend their time and their money dickering around in the past as their current lives could most certainly use some attention.
I'm sorry, this is going nowhere fast. As I was saying, my summer photos of the Grand Canyon really did turn out nicely. The horizon always looks better in the distance don't you think? The red sand, and vast openness of it all. Takes your breath away. One could easily fall in love in the Grand Canyon. But then again, one could easily fall to one's death in the Grand Canyon. Same thing? Don't look at me. Did I mention that currently, I'm not feeling very well? I'm not looking for sympathy, really. I just want someone to please turn down that lousy drumbeat in my head. I just wanna die with a little dignity.
Is it just me or did it suddenly get about a zillion degrees warmer in here? Brrrrr. My mouth is so dry but I ain't thirsty. Promise me, my faithful readers, that if I don't make it, someone will find Max a good home (he'll probably need lots and lots of counseling). That you'll do your best to take up the slack and drink lots and lots of Lemon Sunkist. That you'll remember me with a less critical eye, and forgive me for my role in the Royal Family scandal? Strike that, I just remember I told you not to waste your time and energy looking back. Except for the last newsletter issue of the year, keep your eyes in the forward position. Satchel might be gaining on you. Excuse me, I must go now. I need some sleep.
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