Doctors have determined that no matter how much you diet, no matter how much you exercise, you cannot reduce the size of your head...
I don't know much about theology, and I'm not exactly sure what my religious beliefs are at this point but I do know that any God that could have blessed this world with both the delights of cherries and pistachios has satisfied my needs. Give me a bowl of each and this boy is one happy happening dude. Further proof of the work of a supreme being? There are now ten more John Hiatt songs for the world to enjoy on his latest CD, Little Head.
Most of Hiatt's followers seemed to have become fans during the mid-eighties with his trilogy of outstanding albums, Bring the Family, Slow Turning, and Stolen Moments. Those three efforts were heartfelt odes to the values of a strong marriage, a family and home life. The songs while intensely personal also had a universal appeal with their moving lyrics and inspirational melodies.
With his last two studio CDs, Perfectly Good Guitar, and Walk On, Hiatt and his record companies tried to broaden his appeal. He was the best songwriter that many people had never heard of, and with more marketing and a keener attempt at writing songs that might be played on the radio or VH-1 more people heard Hiatt than ever before (he even got played on the opening montage of Melrose Place). Those two CDs still featured Hiatt's unmatchable skill of writing clever lyrics and memorable tunes. That they seemed a little less inspired and more craftsmanlike than some of his other work didn't lessen their quality much- he still proved he was among the top writers in the music industry.
Little Head thus will probably disappoint some of his fans a little. There are no catchy hooks or songs that immediately stick out like Cry Love or Perfectly Good Guitar. None of the songs dig as deep into Hiatt's psyche as Have a Little Faith In Me, or Sometime Other Than Now. Many of the tracks sound as if they would have fit nicely on Hiatt's collaborative effort a few years ago in the group Little Village with Ry Cooder, Nick Lowe and Jim Keltner. But this isn't to say that the new CD has any weak efforts; rather the songs are consistently rewarding without the peaks and valleys of some of his other work. The ten songs stack upon each other neatly like fine china, each a companion of what proceeded it as well as what follows.
The writing is sharp although Hiatt's well renowned acerbic wit doesn't surface as often as it did in some of his earlier work. It's hard to imagine that any other current songwriter could sum up his own personal plight more astutely than, "How far do we have to go, to hear that pirate radio? One song that can steal our hearts before they turn into silver and gold..." And with the double entendre joke of the title track, "I'm just so easily led when her little head does the thinkin..." it's as if Hiatt has resigned himself to the fate of being his generation's Randy Newman- a gifted and respected songwriter without mainstream appeal. (...let's just see them try to make this one a hit...)
My favorite moment on Little Head comes on the third track, My Sweet Girl, surprisingly not by anything written but by a moment of joyful singing- a simple love prayer that is enhanced by Hiatt's goofy "doot doot doo doodoodoos." His humor has always been one of his most endearing qualities and his confidence on this track suggests that in a way this one means as much to him as any of his previous work. The following track, Feelin' Again is another favorite with its inspired singing and lyric, "Morning comes like Catholic guilt..."
There are many pop culture references on Little Head. Everyone from Eddie Vedder to Otis Redding and Tammi Terrell, from Artie Garfunkel to Joseph Conrad gets a mention as a source of inspiration. And as the CD concludes with the quintessential crooner's ballad, After All This Time comes the realization that this is what John Hiatt does best: write songs through personal tales that speak to many, must be heard, are inspired and a cut above the competition. Although this is not the CD that will make him a big star, it's the type of CD few other artists are capable of making.
Monday, July 14, 1997
Riding with the King
John Hiatt opened his show at the Basilica Block Party by announcing it had been 37 years since his last confession. That's not exactly a true statement since many of his songs are rather confessional in nature. None of the crowd seemed to mind however, since for the next two hours Hiatt and his band, the Nashville Queens, ripped through a sixteen song sampling of one of our best songwriter's recent catalog.
For me it was a enjoyable show made more so since the album from which the most songs (4) came from was 1988's Slow Turning which was the soundtrack on the road trip that was the inspiration behind my feeble attempt at writing a novel almost ten years ago. It was as if Hiatt was helping me nostalgically celebrate the many leftover memories from that trip and by the end of the evening my traveling partner's presence was as close to me as the church building itself.
The band opened with two songs from that CD, the title track and Paper Thin, sticking close to the original arrangements with tight playing and Hiatt's familiar if unconventional vocal style. The third song, Real Fine Love was an early highlight since it is one of my all time favorite songs. "I've seen an angel or two before but I never asked one to be my wife..." The song featured some particularly inspired lead guitar from David Immergluck. Hiatt next turned to two songs from last year's Walk On, Ethylene and Native Son. It was a strange sight hearing him sing the lyrics, "Oh Ethylene, my love for you is so obscene..." in front of the pious majesty of the Basilica of St. Mary's but Hiatt seemed well aware of where he was at the moment.
He next played two songs from his recently released CD, Little Head, Sure Pinocchio, and the title track. Both songs held up very well with their live treatments. Hiatt showed that the inner demons that drive so many of his songs are conquered by the joyous expression of playing in front of people, using the crowd's energy to give the songs an even more redemptive quality than their studio versions. The solitary act of writing to express is realized by sharing the expression with a group of others.
Hiatt's vocals were in fine form for most of the evening particularly on the moving ballad, Icy Blue Heart, where his voice effectively cracked upon hitting the falsetto of the refrain. Of course the song just served to slow things down for those in the audience who wanted to dance, so Hiatt and the band next broke into jaunty versions of Memphis in the Meantime, Graduated, and Tennessee Plates- the latter a great on the road tale of a love gone wrong. "Across the Mississippi like a oil slick fire..."
The audience really got in the mood with the next two songs, probably Hiatt's most recognizable to most in the crowd, Perfectly Good Guitar, and Cry Love. The contrast between the two songs featured two of his biggest strengths, humor and insight. Perfectly Good Guitar, is a bit of a novelty song about a man who is upset with the big rock stars who can afford to smash up their guitars all in the name of putting on a show. Cry Love is a song about the redemption of love. Immergluck's mandolin playing gave the song its familiar riff and as the band kicked it in for the coda of the song, it was truly a delightful moment.
As were all three encore songs, the first featuring Hiatt alone on the piano, a moving rendition of Have a Little Faith in Me. Thing Called Love was next smashing Bonnie Raitt's version in the teeth with it's loopy Hiatt vocals. He closed the show with one of his finest songs, Buffalo River Home, dedicating it to all the flood victims of the northwest. By this time the man clearly was having a great time, decked in his smart looking business suit. It is obvious he loves singing his songs to both the fans and the unfamiliar, wanting to share his message to all that will listen. In the middle of the song one of his guitar strings broke and as a stagehand brought him a new guitar, he leaned into the vocals even more. "Mixing up drinks with mixed feelings. All along the paint is peeling, down to an Indian blanket on a pony with no rider in the flesh and bone. Lookin' for his buffalo river home." The sweltering humidity of the evening gave way to a cool summer's breeze and the moment was one of the stolen one's Hiatt once wrote about in another song. For the uninitiated it was a fine opportunity to hear some of the man's finest and for the devoted it capped a special evening.
For me it was a enjoyable show made more so since the album from which the most songs (4) came from was 1988's Slow Turning which was the soundtrack on the road trip that was the inspiration behind my feeble attempt at writing a novel almost ten years ago. It was as if Hiatt was helping me nostalgically celebrate the many leftover memories from that trip and by the end of the evening my traveling partner's presence was as close to me as the church building itself.
The band opened with two songs from that CD, the title track and Paper Thin, sticking close to the original arrangements with tight playing and Hiatt's familiar if unconventional vocal style. The third song, Real Fine Love was an early highlight since it is one of my all time favorite songs. "I've seen an angel or two before but I never asked one to be my wife..." The song featured some particularly inspired lead guitar from David Immergluck. Hiatt next turned to two songs from last year's Walk On, Ethylene and Native Son. It was a strange sight hearing him sing the lyrics, "Oh Ethylene, my love for you is so obscene..." in front of the pious majesty of the Basilica of St. Mary's but Hiatt seemed well aware of where he was at the moment.
He next played two songs from his recently released CD, Little Head, Sure Pinocchio, and the title track. Both songs held up very well with their live treatments. Hiatt showed that the inner demons that drive so many of his songs are conquered by the joyous expression of playing in front of people, using the crowd's energy to give the songs an even more redemptive quality than their studio versions. The solitary act of writing to express is realized by sharing the expression with a group of others.
Hiatt's vocals were in fine form for most of the evening particularly on the moving ballad, Icy Blue Heart, where his voice effectively cracked upon hitting the falsetto of the refrain. Of course the song just served to slow things down for those in the audience who wanted to dance, so Hiatt and the band next broke into jaunty versions of Memphis in the Meantime, Graduated, and Tennessee Plates- the latter a great on the road tale of a love gone wrong. "Across the Mississippi like a oil slick fire..."
The audience really got in the mood with the next two songs, probably Hiatt's most recognizable to most in the crowd, Perfectly Good Guitar, and Cry Love. The contrast between the two songs featured two of his biggest strengths, humor and insight. Perfectly Good Guitar, is a bit of a novelty song about a man who is upset with the big rock stars who can afford to smash up their guitars all in the name of putting on a show. Cry Love is a song about the redemption of love. Immergluck's mandolin playing gave the song its familiar riff and as the band kicked it in for the coda of the song, it was truly a delightful moment.
As were all three encore songs, the first featuring Hiatt alone on the piano, a moving rendition of Have a Little Faith in Me. Thing Called Love was next smashing Bonnie Raitt's version in the teeth with it's loopy Hiatt vocals. He closed the show with one of his finest songs, Buffalo River Home, dedicating it to all the flood victims of the northwest. By this time the man clearly was having a great time, decked in his smart looking business suit. It is obvious he loves singing his songs to both the fans and the unfamiliar, wanting to share his message to all that will listen. In the middle of the song one of his guitar strings broke and as a stagehand brought him a new guitar, he leaned into the vocals even more. "Mixing up drinks with mixed feelings. All along the paint is peeling, down to an Indian blanket on a pony with no rider in the flesh and bone. Lookin' for his buffalo river home." The sweltering humidity of the evening gave way to a cool summer's breeze and the moment was one of the stolen one's Hiatt once wrote about in another song. For the uninitiated it was a fine opportunity to hear some of the man's finest and for the devoted it capped a special evening.
Monday, July 7, 1997
Mr. Smith Goes to Heaven
Last year we had a guy who spit at an umpire during a heated athletic event. This past winter we had guy kick a cameraman in a rather sensitive area of his anatomy. Now this past week we had a guy bite off the ear of his opponent. Seems like things are escalating and we need to get back under control a bit. So here is my proposal: during the next heated moment of my next softball game, just when things are the most tense I will go over to the opponent and plant a little wet love kiss upon their cheek. It's the least I can do... And with my new found sensitivity comes more of a willingness, a need to open up and express myself. So with that in mind here are a few pages from my diary:
Sunday, June 29: One eye opens to what appears to be early morning, what with the darkness from the gray cloudy skies but I can tell by my grogginess it has to be closer to sometime around mid-morn. I decide to sleep for a bit more and when both eyes finally open and I get up to take a glance at the alarm clock, it is now 11:30. I quickly scramble out of bed, cursing myself for sleeping the day away. I glance through the newspaper to read about the big fight the night before. I am stunned to see that biting had been involved. I arrive at Landfill to make copies of the newsletter. There is no paper to be found other than colored paper and three hole punched paper. I throw in a ream of the three hole punched stuff which along with the humidity causes the machine to jam every few copies. Soon I get the error message to call the serviceperson. Cursing my decision and the result of that decision I head to Kinkos to finish up.
Monday, June 30: To celebrate the Hong Kong exchange from the British to the Chinese, I decide to mow my lawn in what feels like weather straight from Manila. Knowing that it was supposed to rain tomorrow night, and that I had a softball game Wednesday, I decide to do the chore before it got too long. Besides I like the look and smell of fresh cut grass. Hot and humid, by the time I finish up I'm tired and drenched. I get back inside in time to watch the final few innings of the Twins-St. Louis game. Eck strikes out Knobby. Only in America.
Tuesday, July 1: I have dinner at Ma and Pa's, and settle back to watch the second Twins-St. Louis battle. I end up instead watching the constant weather update interruptions. The sky gets ominously darker and the wind whips up and with what the radar is telling the news people, the whole city is in danger of blowing away. As the color intensity of the blobs on the radar screen are closing in on St. Paul, things start to get a bit eerie. Then the rain exploded with a mighty crash. My thoughts go out to little kitty back home all alone. He tends to get a little worked up when storms arrive. The clouds finally pass over and as I head home I try to gauge the severity of the aftermath as I get closer to my house. I see some trees down, and there is a powerline down at the entry of the alley to my garage. I maneuver my way past that only to see a massive puddle in the middle of the alley before my garage. I gun my car through that just as another downpour lets go. I hustle from my detached garage to my house, greeted by the frightened bellow from Max. I survey the kitchen, living room and bedroom of the stuffy interior notice no damage and head toward the basement. I see a small stream of water spiraling down toward the drainage area. Along the walls are puddles of water. I begin the mop up process while Max investigates further. I finally tell him to go upstairs as he is making the cleanup more difficult. When I finish up with the mopping, I walk up the stairs and step in a nice little pile of fresh cat vomit. Tired, cranky, and concerned that my house will float away by the end of the night, I go to bed.
Wednesday, July 2: My performance review at work. No Kleenex are necessary as my boss seems to think I'm doing fine. Then I come back to my desk to find out I am responsible for Jimmy Stewart's death. Last week when Brian Keith died I said to my mom, "I wonder how Jimmy Stewart is doing. (He was one of mom's favorite actors). You never hear about him anymore..." The Roundheads lose another softball game, I play poorly and pull a groin muscle. I only wish it had been my own... I get home and notice my lawn what with its massive soaking, could probably use another mowing as I open the door to a familiar meowing. Yet another week gone by...
Sunday, June 29: One eye opens to what appears to be early morning, what with the darkness from the gray cloudy skies but I can tell by my grogginess it has to be closer to sometime around mid-morn. I decide to sleep for a bit more and when both eyes finally open and I get up to take a glance at the alarm clock, it is now 11:30. I quickly scramble out of bed, cursing myself for sleeping the day away. I glance through the newspaper to read about the big fight the night before. I am stunned to see that biting had been involved. I arrive at Landfill to make copies of the newsletter. There is no paper to be found other than colored paper and three hole punched paper. I throw in a ream of the three hole punched stuff which along with the humidity causes the machine to jam every few copies. Soon I get the error message to call the serviceperson. Cursing my decision and the result of that decision I head to Kinkos to finish up.
Monday, June 30: To celebrate the Hong Kong exchange from the British to the Chinese, I decide to mow my lawn in what feels like weather straight from Manila. Knowing that it was supposed to rain tomorrow night, and that I had a softball game Wednesday, I decide to do the chore before it got too long. Besides I like the look and smell of fresh cut grass. Hot and humid, by the time I finish up I'm tired and drenched. I get back inside in time to watch the final few innings of the Twins-St. Louis game. Eck strikes out Knobby. Only in America.
Tuesday, July 1: I have dinner at Ma and Pa's, and settle back to watch the second Twins-St. Louis battle. I end up instead watching the constant weather update interruptions. The sky gets ominously darker and the wind whips up and with what the radar is telling the news people, the whole city is in danger of blowing away. As the color intensity of the blobs on the radar screen are closing in on St. Paul, things start to get a bit eerie. Then the rain exploded with a mighty crash. My thoughts go out to little kitty back home all alone. He tends to get a little worked up when storms arrive. The clouds finally pass over and as I head home I try to gauge the severity of the aftermath as I get closer to my house. I see some trees down, and there is a powerline down at the entry of the alley to my garage. I maneuver my way past that only to see a massive puddle in the middle of the alley before my garage. I gun my car through that just as another downpour lets go. I hustle from my detached garage to my house, greeted by the frightened bellow from Max. I survey the kitchen, living room and bedroom of the stuffy interior notice no damage and head toward the basement. I see a small stream of water spiraling down toward the drainage area. Along the walls are puddles of water. I begin the mop up process while Max investigates further. I finally tell him to go upstairs as he is making the cleanup more difficult. When I finish up with the mopping, I walk up the stairs and step in a nice little pile of fresh cat vomit. Tired, cranky, and concerned that my house will float away by the end of the night, I go to bed.
Wednesday, July 2: My performance review at work. No Kleenex are necessary as my boss seems to think I'm doing fine. Then I come back to my desk to find out I am responsible for Jimmy Stewart's death. Last week when Brian Keith died I said to my mom, "I wonder how Jimmy Stewart is doing. (He was one of mom's favorite actors). You never hear about him anymore..." The Roundheads lose another softball game, I play poorly and pull a groin muscle. I only wish it had been my own... I get home and notice my lawn what with its massive soaking, could probably use another mowing as I open the door to a familiar meowing. Yet another week gone by...
Monday, June 30, 1997
Meekly Speaking
It's been a newsletter tradition to devote one column a year to the exploits of my softball teams. This has usually been done by writing about the values and benefits of good teamwork and using the concept that those who work well together usually succeed while those who don't lose more often than not, a lesson that applies to our business as well.
I play twice a week for two different teams. The success of both teams has been rather limited this year. My Wednesday night team, the Roundheads play in the Shoreview Parks and Recreation Men's Class "D" League. Our win/loss record up to this point is 3-6. Last year we dropped down to the "E" league after years in the "D" league due in part to some of our declining physical abilities that are associated with advancing age. Many of the players on the team are either in their late forties or early fifties. We did well last year, finishing in a tie for first place. Thus when it came to signing up again this year, there was discussion that the team didn't face enough challenge in the drop to the lower league thus we should move back up to where we belonged.
At one point, the Roundheads were undoubtedly a very good team. Many played high school ball and can hit the ball a long way. Our fielding is usually pretty solid, we make few errors on balls we can get to. But they say the legs are one of the first things to go and I'm afraid for many on the team this has been true. We now must play station to station softball thus it takes several hits strung together to produce much offense. Those that can still run fast enough to turn a single into a double don't hit it far enough for that to happen and those that can hit it the necessary distance can't leg out the extra base.
I play second base for the team. My game has always relied on my above average speed and my ability to hit it harder than my rather skimpy wimpy form would indicate. Last week I dinked two little ground balls in my first two at bats and heard one of the opposition tell its outfielders to move in prior to my third at bat. I thus hit a solid line drive double which prompted them to play a bit deeper my next at bat.
On Thursday nights I play on Joan's Jetts in the State's Co-ed League. Our record thus far is 3-5. Unlike my Wednesday night team, the Jetts should have a better record than we do. The key to this co-ed league is to have better women players than the other teams. The men tend to be closer in ability but the women range from those who have a hard time making contact, and who will not get to any ball that isn't hit directly to them, to those who can outhit a lot of the men and are reliable fielders. Our female players are as good as any in the league and yet we have struggled playing consistently throughout an entire game. In many ways it has been our most frustrating season because we should be doing much better than we are. And it was a little disappointing when my favorite sports babe decided to sit this season out. Oh well, we only want those who have a desire to play, damn it.
Every week we suffer through one bad inning where mistakes pile upon each other and we allow the other team to get a lot of preventable runs. I play third base for the Jetts and have been pretty rock solid, not flashy but steady making few errors. It is a league that is more tailored for my hitting skills, playing on fields that don't have fences thus anything that gets behind the outfielders usually results in a home run. I'm not much for hitting a ball a great distance but I can usually hit it hard enough to get it behind an outfielder at some point during the game.
I have made concessions to the effects of the years on my body. I am using a heavier bat this year. I used to use as light a bat as I could find figuring it was most important for me to be able to place the ball where I wanted rather than hit it far. With a heavier bat and a harder swing I have been more successful at hitting the ball solidly while still utilizing my legs to beat out ground balls. The difficulty I'm running into is the vast difference between the two leagues. On Wednesday night any ball hit in the air that isn't a line drive will be caught. The outfielders are fast enough and skilled enough to catch just about anything catchable. On Thursday night it is more tempting to try and make the outfielders make the play because many of them won't and then it's off to the races. In many ways it has been my best year individually even as my teams struggle. This is due in part to improved self confidence in knowing that when I play within and up to my capabilities I can be a decent player.
This season's lesson? The reason my Wednesday night team is doing just as well as my Thursday night's team despite diminishing skills is that the same players come back to play every year. Joan's Jetts on the other hand has had a rapid turnover of its roster so any continuity from year to year is lost. A team takes time to develop as you learn from each other's strengths and how to integrate them in the most effective way while at the same time minimizing the weaknesses. Without that continuity building a team is a difficult task. Especially without the sports babe.
I play twice a week for two different teams. The success of both teams has been rather limited this year. My Wednesday night team, the Roundheads play in the Shoreview Parks and Recreation Men's Class "D" League. Our win/loss record up to this point is 3-6. Last year we dropped down to the "E" league after years in the "D" league due in part to some of our declining physical abilities that are associated with advancing age. Many of the players on the team are either in their late forties or early fifties. We did well last year, finishing in a tie for first place. Thus when it came to signing up again this year, there was discussion that the team didn't face enough challenge in the drop to the lower league thus we should move back up to where we belonged.
At one point, the Roundheads were undoubtedly a very good team. Many played high school ball and can hit the ball a long way. Our fielding is usually pretty solid, we make few errors on balls we can get to. But they say the legs are one of the first things to go and I'm afraid for many on the team this has been true. We now must play station to station softball thus it takes several hits strung together to produce much offense. Those that can still run fast enough to turn a single into a double don't hit it far enough for that to happen and those that can hit it the necessary distance can't leg out the extra base.
I play second base for the team. My game has always relied on my above average speed and my ability to hit it harder than my rather skimpy wimpy form would indicate. Last week I dinked two little ground balls in my first two at bats and heard one of the opposition tell its outfielders to move in prior to my third at bat. I thus hit a solid line drive double which prompted them to play a bit deeper my next at bat.
On Thursday nights I play on Joan's Jetts in the State's Co-ed League. Our record thus far is 3-5. Unlike my Wednesday night team, the Jetts should have a better record than we do. The key to this co-ed league is to have better women players than the other teams. The men tend to be closer in ability but the women range from those who have a hard time making contact, and who will not get to any ball that isn't hit directly to them, to those who can outhit a lot of the men and are reliable fielders. Our female players are as good as any in the league and yet we have struggled playing consistently throughout an entire game. In many ways it has been our most frustrating season because we should be doing much better than we are. And it was a little disappointing when my favorite sports babe decided to sit this season out. Oh well, we only want those who have a desire to play, damn it.
Every week we suffer through one bad inning where mistakes pile upon each other and we allow the other team to get a lot of preventable runs. I play third base for the Jetts and have been pretty rock solid, not flashy but steady making few errors. It is a league that is more tailored for my hitting skills, playing on fields that don't have fences thus anything that gets behind the outfielders usually results in a home run. I'm not much for hitting a ball a great distance but I can usually hit it hard enough to get it behind an outfielder at some point during the game.
I have made concessions to the effects of the years on my body. I am using a heavier bat this year. I used to use as light a bat as I could find figuring it was most important for me to be able to place the ball where I wanted rather than hit it far. With a heavier bat and a harder swing I have been more successful at hitting the ball solidly while still utilizing my legs to beat out ground balls. The difficulty I'm running into is the vast difference between the two leagues. On Wednesday night any ball hit in the air that isn't a line drive will be caught. The outfielders are fast enough and skilled enough to catch just about anything catchable. On Thursday night it is more tempting to try and make the outfielders make the play because many of them won't and then it's off to the races. In many ways it has been my best year individually even as my teams struggle. This is due in part to improved self confidence in knowing that when I play within and up to my capabilities I can be a decent player.
This season's lesson? The reason my Wednesday night team is doing just as well as my Thursday night's team despite diminishing skills is that the same players come back to play every year. Joan's Jetts on the other hand has had a rapid turnover of its roster so any continuity from year to year is lost. A team takes time to develop as you learn from each other's strengths and how to integrate them in the most effective way while at the same time minimizing the weaknesses. Without that continuity building a team is a difficult task. Especially without the sports babe.
Monday, June 23, 1997
Still Running
"Your mother and I did this act, in some hotel about nine months back. It is love that brings you here, a love that will not disappear. Georgia, honey you can count on that..."
-John Hiatt's Georgia Rae
This week marks the newsletter's five year anniversary. Granted my professional and private life have seen their share of ups and downs but I have to say that being able to produce these eight pages every week for the past five years ranks right up there with my proudest accomplishments. Thanks to your contributions and work the newsletter has not missed an issue during all that time. The company has seen more than its share of changes both internally and externally and still week after week we have managed to consistently chronicle our little corner of the world.
When we started this venture my own goal was to see this thing through five years and then turn the keys over to someone else. In every job I've held communication has been an issue. Improving communication, sharing information and allowing everyone to be heard is problematic whenever a group of people try to come together to produce a successful work environment. The idea for a company newsletter seemed like a good one and I thought if I could lay the foundation for a period of time, the usefulness would prove itself.
We haven't always been the most effective newsletter around and there still is much room for improvement. But compared to other company newsletters I have seen I dare say that week after week at the very least we are readable which can't be said is the norm for the field. This past year's issues the contributions while not as frequent as I think we'd all benefit from, have been better than ever. The sharing of information and knowledge helps everyone and makes the company stronger.
This job in many ways is the toughest I've ever had. Five years is a long time to do anything (just think of how many Batmans there have been during this time). There have been many a Saturday night where the clock creeps past midnight and I start to panic wondering what I'm going to put on page six and if what I transcribed on page three is accurate and readable. I keep my eye out throughout the week for material I think is relevant and will be enjoyable to read and to come up with enough of that material week in and week out is a challenge.
But as so often the case, the hardest work is the most rewarding. When you stick to something, when you are willing to put in the needed effort to get the work done, the sense of accomplishment is usually well worth it. My own writing and my attitude towards my place in the workforce have improved. As a company we have come a long way since 1992. It means a lot to me that I was able to contribute in a small way. At my recent ten year college reunion when I was asked what I was doing I proudly replied that I was the editor of the Cheapo newsletter.
How much longer can I do this? I don't really know. It still is so much fun to do and the thought of my last issue is a bit sad. Last winter I thought about joining a program to earn my masters degree in public administration. It was a program that would have meant taking classes on the weekends and would have meant most certainly I wouldn't have been able to continue in this job. To me it would have been a bit of a loss and I would have missed the newsletter a lot. I do hope that when I decide to step aside or am told to step aside, someone else will continue on with the work. I think the newsletter can be a very important part of our company. I would hate for you all to lose this avenue of communication.
So thank you all for the five year run. Thanks for putting up with the occasional self indulgence. Thanks for all your contributions. Someday we may even find our true name...
-John Hiatt's Georgia Rae
This week marks the newsletter's five year anniversary. Granted my professional and private life have seen their share of ups and downs but I have to say that being able to produce these eight pages every week for the past five years ranks right up there with my proudest accomplishments. Thanks to your contributions and work the newsletter has not missed an issue during all that time. The company has seen more than its share of changes both internally and externally and still week after week we have managed to consistently chronicle our little corner of the world.
When we started this venture my own goal was to see this thing through five years and then turn the keys over to someone else. In every job I've held communication has been an issue. Improving communication, sharing information and allowing everyone to be heard is problematic whenever a group of people try to come together to produce a successful work environment. The idea for a company newsletter seemed like a good one and I thought if I could lay the foundation for a period of time, the usefulness would prove itself.
We haven't always been the most effective newsletter around and there still is much room for improvement. But compared to other company newsletters I have seen I dare say that week after week at the very least we are readable which can't be said is the norm for the field. This past year's issues the contributions while not as frequent as I think we'd all benefit from, have been better than ever. The sharing of information and knowledge helps everyone and makes the company stronger.
This job in many ways is the toughest I've ever had. Five years is a long time to do anything (just think of how many Batmans there have been during this time). There have been many a Saturday night where the clock creeps past midnight and I start to panic wondering what I'm going to put on page six and if what I transcribed on page three is accurate and readable. I keep my eye out throughout the week for material I think is relevant and will be enjoyable to read and to come up with enough of that material week in and week out is a challenge.
But as so often the case, the hardest work is the most rewarding. When you stick to something, when you are willing to put in the needed effort to get the work done, the sense of accomplishment is usually well worth it. My own writing and my attitude towards my place in the workforce have improved. As a company we have come a long way since 1992. It means a lot to me that I was able to contribute in a small way. At my recent ten year college reunion when I was asked what I was doing I proudly replied that I was the editor of the Cheapo newsletter.
How much longer can I do this? I don't really know. It still is so much fun to do and the thought of my last issue is a bit sad. Last winter I thought about joining a program to earn my masters degree in public administration. It was a program that would have meant taking classes on the weekends and would have meant most certainly I wouldn't have been able to continue in this job. To me it would have been a bit of a loss and I would have missed the newsletter a lot. I do hope that when I decide to step aside or am told to step aside, someone else will continue on with the work. I think the newsletter can be a very important part of our company. I would hate for you all to lose this avenue of communication.
So thank you all for the five year run. Thanks for putting up with the occasional self indulgence. Thanks for all your contributions. Someday we may even find our true name...
Monday, June 16, 1997
Just Like Your Dad Did
Home Improvement Tip: For extra clean dishes and silverware, try drying them in the microwave after you thoroughly wash them. Zap them for one minute or two and be reassured they will come clean germ free. With the rising cost of dishwashers and the declining cost of microwaves, plus the growing fear of bacterial invasions, a few minutes in the microwave will wash away your fears. Sure the sparks may fly but isn't a little exposure to radiation worth the peace of mind from germ free spoons and forks?
Despite the appearance that may be given by my impressive steroid enhanced frame, I'm not exactly the most mechanically inclined person that has ever graced this planet. Those little home improvement repairs that I used to take for granted when I lived in an apartment now rest squarely on my massive shoulders as a homeowner. And I ain't exactly the greatest or most effective at carrying out those assignments. But they are nothing when compared to when it comes to fixing my car. I figure things are fine as long as my car continues to move forward. If placed under gun point, I probably couldn't distinguish between a carburetor and an air hose.
My education in mechanical skills is rather limited. Back in eighth grade industrial arts class we were required to take apart and put back together a small V-8 engine. My partner and I had no problem tearing that sucker apart. The problem came in the reassembly portion of the event and when all was said and done neither one of us knew exactly what to do with the two or three spare parts we had leftover. We tried starting the engine with our version of assembly and it didn't so much as sputter. Rereading some of our instructions we gapped the spark plugs and through a miracle of the heavens the engine actually started up. It was much louder than it originally had been and it shook the table frightfully as we tried our best to hide the clouds of smoke that came billowing out of it, but damn they had told us the engine only needed to be running in order for us to pass the class, they hadn't said it needed to be running well.
That I have been able to get this far in life with mostly minor car repair bills is a tribute to my father. Dad knows enough to be a source of information patiently answering what he must consider to be my rather naive and sometimes troubling ignorant automotive questions. Together with the assistance of Dad's mechanic, I get by with what little knowledge I retain. Checking the oil and tire pressure and adding gas are the only duties I have learned to handle over the years.
I am constantly impressed at how difficult it must be to be a good father. I certainly can admit that I am nowhere near being ready to assume fathering responsibilities. If my son was to come to me with a plumbing problem I'd be as likely to suggest a good urologist as I would a hardware store. And being knowledgeable enough to fix problems is only a small part of a father's repertoire. Being a good dad requires such an eclectic bag of tricks, everything from knowing what lures to use in fishing, to being able to grill successfully without resorting to gasoline to start the charcoal burning.
To be able to live up to your father's good name is of course the challenge of any good son. And when the bar is set as high as what my Dad has achieved one can only hope that somewhere the knowledge and skills were genetically passed down. Landscaping, bill paying, oil changing, gutter cleaning, room painting, country music loving, Indy stock car knowing, bowler extraordinaire, yes Dad can do a little bit of it all. And when I think that I don't even know enough not to wear blue dress socks with black dress shoes, how scary is the notion that there is a possibility that some day some little pair of eyes will look upon me and be calling me daddy? Egads.
Despite the appearance that may be given by my impressive steroid enhanced frame, I'm not exactly the most mechanically inclined person that has ever graced this planet. Those little home improvement repairs that I used to take for granted when I lived in an apartment now rest squarely on my massive shoulders as a homeowner. And I ain't exactly the greatest or most effective at carrying out those assignments. But they are nothing when compared to when it comes to fixing my car. I figure things are fine as long as my car continues to move forward. If placed under gun point, I probably couldn't distinguish between a carburetor and an air hose.
My education in mechanical skills is rather limited. Back in eighth grade industrial arts class we were required to take apart and put back together a small V-8 engine. My partner and I had no problem tearing that sucker apart. The problem came in the reassembly portion of the event and when all was said and done neither one of us knew exactly what to do with the two or three spare parts we had leftover. We tried starting the engine with our version of assembly and it didn't so much as sputter. Rereading some of our instructions we gapped the spark plugs and through a miracle of the heavens the engine actually started up. It was much louder than it originally had been and it shook the table frightfully as we tried our best to hide the clouds of smoke that came billowing out of it, but damn they had told us the engine only needed to be running in order for us to pass the class, they hadn't said it needed to be running well.
That I have been able to get this far in life with mostly minor car repair bills is a tribute to my father. Dad knows enough to be a source of information patiently answering what he must consider to be my rather naive and sometimes troubling ignorant automotive questions. Together with the assistance of Dad's mechanic, I get by with what little knowledge I retain. Checking the oil and tire pressure and adding gas are the only duties I have learned to handle over the years.
I am constantly impressed at how difficult it must be to be a good father. I certainly can admit that I am nowhere near being ready to assume fathering responsibilities. If my son was to come to me with a plumbing problem I'd be as likely to suggest a good urologist as I would a hardware store. And being knowledgeable enough to fix problems is only a small part of a father's repertoire. Being a good dad requires such an eclectic bag of tricks, everything from knowing what lures to use in fishing, to being able to grill successfully without resorting to gasoline to start the charcoal burning.
To be able to live up to your father's good name is of course the challenge of any good son. And when the bar is set as high as what my Dad has achieved one can only hope that somewhere the knowledge and skills were genetically passed down. Landscaping, bill paying, oil changing, gutter cleaning, room painting, country music loving, Indy stock car knowing, bowler extraordinaire, yes Dad can do a little bit of it all. And when I think that I don't even know enough not to wear blue dress socks with black dress shoes, how scary is the notion that there is a possibility that some day some little pair of eyes will look upon me and be calling me daddy? Egads.
Monday, June 2, 1997
Good Old Freaking Mac
Despite being known as the "Fifth Beatle" way back when I was in high school, I didn't buy any of the Beatles year and a half old Anthology series until just a few weeks ago. It was my own little personal protest/statement to Paul who I felt was spending too much time living in the past, and living off his gasconaded status as a member of the greatest rock group of all time.
But I must admit having listened to the first two Anthology collections a lot recently, I was reminded of why I liked the Beatles in the first place. The group clearly demonstrated that the whole was greater than the parts; John's wit was complimented by Paul's charm. George's mysticism was balanced by Ringo's charisma. Not only did they make a lot of great music, they appeared to have a whole lot of fun in the process.
McCartney's answer to criticism that he has never come to terms with his Beatle past is to say that he isn't living off the nostalgia as much as trying to be motivated and inspired in the same manner as he was when he began writing and playing songs with his celebrated bandmates all those years ago. "I go back so far I'm in front of me." His career has always been about getting back to his roots to proceed forward. He now seems less defensive about feeling free to use some of the same devices he helped to make famous twenty five years ago.
His up and down solo work is often like the game of golf. Amongst the frustration and mediocrity lies a gem every now and again that suggests to you there is always a possibility for greater things. That one shot or that one moment keeps you coming back even if overall the end result isn't always so worthwhile.
His latest CD, Flaming Pie, like all his best work grows on you after repeated listenings. In terms of quality it falls somewhere between superlative efforts like Tug of War and Flowers in the Dirt and missed opportunities like Venus and Mars and Red Rose Speedway. Like the concept demonstrated by the Beatles, the overall sum of the parts on Flaming Pie is greater because of the individual moments. It's musical snippets like the piano fill on the cover track, or the backing acoustic guitar and oboe work in Somedays or his double tracked octave apart vocals on The World Tonight, or the nifty little coda on Beautiful Night that show Paul's often breathtaking and impressive versatility and talent.
Like every new McCartney work one of the songs has already worked its charm upon me and is now my all time favorite song: Young Boy (which was the first single released in the United States; The World Tonight, another fine tune was the first British single). Supposedly written to his nineteen year old son, James, Young Boy is like 90% of other fine McCartney songs, highly melodic with lyrics about the virtues of love that scan well but really don't reveal all that much about the writer. It's catchy, it's hooky, it's downright Beatlesque, and it is the type of song Paul does so well and seemingly so effortlessly. And it's a fine song to crank in your car and sing along with at the top of your lungs. Find love, a time for meditation. Find love, a source of inspiration...
I also enjoy the equally melodic Beautiful Night produced by George Martin with its wonderful orchestral backing. It's the CD's big ballad and unlike similar attempts on his last few CD's, this time McCartney successfully walks that fine line between schmaltz and true sentiment. The song is charming without being cloying. Other highlights include Used to Be Bad a rocking duet with Steve Miller, and the acoustic Calico Skies a simple silly love song.
McCartney's career has consisted of an intriguing paradox: he either fails when he tried too hard (Ram, Back to the Egg, and Press to Play) or when he doesn't seem to try hard enough (London Town and Wild Life). The underlying current in all his work is his overwhelming desire to please. Thus when he attempts to be meaningful these days, because his music is clearly motivated by the need to entertain rather than being inspired by anything in particular, he fails more often than not. The weakest moments on Flaming Pie are the moments when Paul tries too hard to write something of significance again. Lyrics like "Long live all of us crazy soldiers... May we never be called to handle all the weapons of war we despise..." sound forced and unconvincing. Still those moments are few and don't distract from the overall spirit of the CD. It's great to finally have yet another set of solid songs (his last CD was four years ago). And like any collection of new McCartney songs it is guaranteed to bring a smile to at least one little fella's face as he plays it over and over again this summer.
But I must admit having listened to the first two Anthology collections a lot recently, I was reminded of why I liked the Beatles in the first place. The group clearly demonstrated that the whole was greater than the parts; John's wit was complimented by Paul's charm. George's mysticism was balanced by Ringo's charisma. Not only did they make a lot of great music, they appeared to have a whole lot of fun in the process.
McCartney's answer to criticism that he has never come to terms with his Beatle past is to say that he isn't living off the nostalgia as much as trying to be motivated and inspired in the same manner as he was when he began writing and playing songs with his celebrated bandmates all those years ago. "I go back so far I'm in front of me." His career has always been about getting back to his roots to proceed forward. He now seems less defensive about feeling free to use some of the same devices he helped to make famous twenty five years ago.
His up and down solo work is often like the game of golf. Amongst the frustration and mediocrity lies a gem every now and again that suggests to you there is always a possibility for greater things. That one shot or that one moment keeps you coming back even if overall the end result isn't always so worthwhile.
His latest CD, Flaming Pie, like all his best work grows on you after repeated listenings. In terms of quality it falls somewhere between superlative efforts like Tug of War and Flowers in the Dirt and missed opportunities like Venus and Mars and Red Rose Speedway. Like the concept demonstrated by the Beatles, the overall sum of the parts on Flaming Pie is greater because of the individual moments. It's musical snippets like the piano fill on the cover track, or the backing acoustic guitar and oboe work in Somedays or his double tracked octave apart vocals on The World Tonight, or the nifty little coda on Beautiful Night that show Paul's often breathtaking and impressive versatility and talent.
Like every new McCartney work one of the songs has already worked its charm upon me and is now my all time favorite song: Young Boy (which was the first single released in the United States; The World Tonight, another fine tune was the first British single). Supposedly written to his nineteen year old son, James, Young Boy is like 90% of other fine McCartney songs, highly melodic with lyrics about the virtues of love that scan well but really don't reveal all that much about the writer. It's catchy, it's hooky, it's downright Beatlesque, and it is the type of song Paul does so well and seemingly so effortlessly. And it's a fine song to crank in your car and sing along with at the top of your lungs. Find love, a time for meditation. Find love, a source of inspiration...
I also enjoy the equally melodic Beautiful Night produced by George Martin with its wonderful orchestral backing. It's the CD's big ballad and unlike similar attempts on his last few CD's, this time McCartney successfully walks that fine line between schmaltz and true sentiment. The song is charming without being cloying. Other highlights include Used to Be Bad a rocking duet with Steve Miller, and the acoustic Calico Skies a simple silly love song.
McCartney's career has consisted of an intriguing paradox: he either fails when he tried too hard (Ram, Back to the Egg, and Press to Play) or when he doesn't seem to try hard enough (London Town and Wild Life). The underlying current in all his work is his overwhelming desire to please. Thus when he attempts to be meaningful these days, because his music is clearly motivated by the need to entertain rather than being inspired by anything in particular, he fails more often than not. The weakest moments on Flaming Pie are the moments when Paul tries too hard to write something of significance again. Lyrics like "Long live all of us crazy soldiers... May we never be called to handle all the weapons of war we despise..." sound forced and unconvincing. Still those moments are few and don't distract from the overall spirit of the CD. It's great to finally have yet another set of solid songs (his last CD was four years ago). And like any collection of new McCartney songs it is guaranteed to bring a smile to at least one little fella's face as he plays it over and over again this summer.
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