Just so you know, I must admit that everything that has appeared on this page for the past eleven years has been made up make believe. While most of it certainly has not been true, almost all of it has been honest.
Thus it is time to come clean with some confessions/corrections. For example, I've never seen an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don't own any Bob Dylan CDs. Sandra Bullock tends to annoy the crap out of me. I don't have, nor have I ever owned any kitties. I think baseball is dull, and I'd rather buy pretty porcelain figurines than ever lay a hand on a bobblehead. Far from a fan of JD Salinger's writing I instead look at his work as juvenile.
In reality (or at least in this matrix), I am not a 38-year-old Japanese American government worker but instead I'm a 63-year-old Danish pastry maker. I own a poodle named Paramour and a cow named Boo. (Unfortunately Boo has been sick lately. I know you all know what it's like to have a mild case of the flu? Well Boo has a mild case of Mad Cow disease. She's suffering from Sorta Pissed Off Cow disease.)
Those fancy silk ties I've been reputed to wear? Nothing more than clip-ons. I'm heavily into colognes and I'm built like an Italian bricklayer. I much preferred Siskel to Ebert, and my favorite Beatle was Pete.
So for the fistful of readers who have read my crap over the years and felt like you knew me, I apologize. I doubt I'll write much about myself anymore and I've made a promise to my friends to make it up to them and also not write about them anymore as well. More than a few are sick of seeing themselves in these pages.
Thus being reborn this week what follows is what you can come to expect from here on out...
The great Patrick James Steven Reusse has often said he doesn't like fruit that squirts. It's a matter of public record. Let me be the first to say that this is where Mr. Reusse and myself are far, far different. If there is but one thing I live for these days it is my daily dose of grapefruit. Last week some moron wrote in these pages that he knew God existed because he was able to experience the feeling of love. I'm here to say I know God exists because of the existence of grapefruit. There is no better food. It tastes good whether you are hungry or hungover; happy or horny; hapless or hiccupy. It's tangy, it's tart and it's just a delight to eat each and every morning (and sometimes in the wee small hours of the morning).
Besides grapefruit the one other thing I really love it is Suzanne Vega's 1992 CD 99.9 F. In fact my whole life philosophy comes from Ms. Vega's terrific writing on this particular disc.
"Fall in love with a bright idea/And the way a world is revealed to you/Fat man and dancing girl/And most of the show is concealed from view/Monkey in the middle/Deep singing that tune/I don't want to hear it..."
Like many of you I'm sure, I dismissed Ms. Vega when she was first gaining attention, particularly after hearing that most annoying song "Luka." This world doesn't need anymore of those ultra-sensitive folky types and that is what she most definitely came across as. So I was shocked when I listened to the dazzling 99.9F that revealed a woman with a way with words. And believe you me I'm somewhat of a sucker for that.
The disc rocks (well as much as folk can rock) and the words blitz the brain like candy coated shrapnel. Even Ms. Vega's vocals, expression-less as usual aren't precious and soothing but rather mysterious and ominous. So when she sings, "How did one life fall so far and fast?" I know exactly what she means.
Monday, May 26, 2003
Monday, May 19, 2003
Zeppo: The Boy that had No Cool
I'm used to being in love. For the longest while, starting in junior high when my hormones kicked in (and probably even before that), I thought it was my natural state of being. Love was being inspired, love was being uplifted, love was proof of God's existence because who else would have us and how else could we ever experience such a powerful all encompassing feeling?
So there I was a boy becoming a man (or at least faking it) trying to find something to explain this new feeling that only seemed like it had always existed. And that's where I discovered the power of art comes in. Not trusting my suburban raised claustrophobic (closed?) mind, I turned to the critics; art's critics to affirm those pieces of music, literature and cinema that transcend time, that come to mean more and more over the years. I read about Citizen Kane, Pet Sounds, and The Great Gatsby long before they became my favorite movie, LP, and book of all time. I was told they were great even though the first time through I didn't think any of them was all that special, though I most certainly saw that they were peculiarly different from what at the time was my favorite movie, music and/or book.
Called by some the best movie of all time, the first time I saw Citizen Kane was in 10th grade and after it was done I was bored and thought to myself, "what the hell was so special about that?" But since then I've watched it more than any other movie (well except for Speed) and each time I watch it I'm amazed because it's like I've never really seen it before. The use of shadows, the cryptic storyline ("don't trespass" "Rosebud") are as intriguing as director/star Orson Welles' use of shadows and spaces. It's a beautiful film full of understated beauty and power. I see more each time I watch it.
Called by some the best LP of our time, the first time I heard the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds was in my freshman year of college and I thought it was rather bland and less than challenging music. But upon repeated listening I can't believe how much one can hear anew through song after song. This is the brilliant Brian Wilson's masterpiece and the care and effort is inspiring enough- that there are so many great songs, so many great sounds- it's a song cycle I never grow tired from hearing over and over.
Called by some the greatest American novel, the first time I read The Great Gatsby was for my 12th grade literature class. I wrote a scathing review, so critical that my teacher, Mr. Houts, told me I may want to re-read the book some day. So I did. And I have every year since. After each and every read I'm absolutely overcome by Fitzgerald's writing- his wondrous use of language and feeling that conveyed such a personal yet universal story. Wow.
The day I discovered Bob Dylan's music was the day everything would never quite be the same as ever before. The creativity, the originality, the cryptic mysticism, an admiration for the universal insight that comes from revealing one's heart- if that's what I take from this grounded too worldly place it would almost be enough. Great art, the thing about it is it doesn't change. By it's nature, being captured at a particular place in history, being a snapshot of time it can't change. But it changes you.
After being inspired by such great works of art I knew, just knew that our purpose in this world was to try to make a difference, big or small, significant or unnoticed, in someone else's life. Equal to that noble mission was to find someone, anyone who could inspire the same things within me. If both were ever accomplished then the meaninglessness of the every day tedium, of the temptation of just doing what we need to do to get by without making the effort to think about "greater" things, would somehow be all worthwhile.
The first time I fell in love in junior high was deeper (and darker?) than ever since. A lot of the feeling was feeling like she knew me as no one else ever had. It helped that she seemed to like my attempts at writing but it went far beyond the words. At the time I wasn't even sure she noticed me (and it felt like she didn't even know I was alive despite how alive she made me feel). With all the surging emotions, all the unexplainable confusion none of it made any sense until I got home and before bed I would write in my journal and somehow the process of writing just felt right. There were times I thought I was chronicling greatness- some kind of feeling no one had ever felt before- but reading my journals these days makes me cringe in pain. It is proof positive that I was a teenager at one time.
The "last" time I fell in love was five years ago when I actually had the courage to mutter the words to her for one of the few times in my life. And those three little words took more out of me than what was left of my heart. I highly doubt I'll ever feel the same again and that doubt has taken its toll. As I read on the Internet, Beauty was once an escape mechanism but if this Muse of mine were to show me an ultimate and transcendent Beauty, after which nothing else would appear beautiful at all, then I'd have no choice but to remain with her. And yet, my whole witness now is that she has disappeared. In her absence, nothing else will ever satisfy. The ones you love the most are the ones that hurt you the deepest.
Now as I somehow find myself a 38-year-old somewhat respectable working professional I can most of the time thankfully look back upon those years of development and not cringe so much. Perhaps that background can explain why I became an immediate fan of the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer when the show debut seven years ago. The initial premise of the seemingly silly show on its surface was about a bubble headed California blonde who happened to be the chosen one saving humanity against the attacks of the undead.
But the show, with its constantly witty writing and sharp humor proved to be about something much deeper. In its first few seasons it became the best show about growing up that the medium has ever seen. Buffy and her friends were not only fighting fanged toothed vampires, they were fighting the "normal" teenage demons of not being popular enough, of falling in love with someone who doesn't love you back, of not being smart enough or pretty enough or something enough to ever find true happiness.
Over the years the show has blossomed even further into something much much deeper. With his unmatched ability to create a fluid storyline where one never quite knows where the characters will end up going next, Buffy's creator Joss Whedon created a world full of vampires, werewolves, and witches, that was not only more of a reflection of the "real" world than the current spate of reality TV shows, but also skillfully anticipated the scary place this society has somehow come to and we all find ourselves in.
Great art helps make sense out of nonsense and chaos. For me and many other fans of the show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the one TV show that can fall into that high art transcendental category. Unlike any other show I've ever seen, at it's best, it is that good. Yes with its mixture of campy martial arts action and Beauty and the Beast style fantasy, the show can at times live up to its awful title in a manner that those who have never seen it assume it is about. But by creating a world full of vampires and slayers, Whedon has created a canvass where he can weave his masterful storytelling in a way that incorporates philosophical themes seldom dealt with very well on the small screen. The show regularly asks questions about what a soul is, what love is, and whether where those two intertwine is what the meaning of life is all about.
In Buffy's world things are rarely if ever the way they seem let alone black and white. In its initial season Buffy struggled mightily with balancing the life of a "normal" teenager with trying to accept the responsibility of saving the world from vampires. Things were thrown further askew when she met and fell in love with Angel, a vampire who was cursed by having his soul restored so he could feel the weight of all the pain and death he had caused. Falling in love with the person (thing) that can hurt you the most has been a constant theme throughout the series.
How artful the series became can perhaps best be seen in the episode in season five when Buffy's mom died unexpectedly from complications from a brain tumor. In a stark subtle Bergmanesque style Whedon through use of light and silence captured the essence of dealing with the death of a loved one in an achingly accurate fashion. For years Buffy's mission involved killing but with the death of her mother we see that the end of life for any living creature isn't something to be so blithely dismissed. Key characters of the show have been named Angel, Faith, and Glory and not superficially so. Above all the rest it is the deep dark look into spirituality that separates this show from the rest.
In the next season Whedon gave us a masterful musical episode that had the characters of the show singing their hearts out in a perfectly logical way. The world of Buffy is so rich and so unpredictable yet at the same time utterly recognizable, that the moment the characters break out into song it isn't a gimmick like it might be on other TV shows but something that everyone who appreciates great writing and performing should see.
Entering her final season Buffy continues to struggle with what being a slayer is all about. It is easy to kill when the enemy is demonized to such a degree that we don't even see them as human. It becomes a little more difficult when we consider part of human nature is inherently selfish if not "evil" that in the end it's part of us that wants what's best for us over what's best for the rest of the world. We can justify extremes like going to war that involves killing innocent people in the name of freeing them as long as the enemy offers something even more demonic.
Last winter during her winter break the Duke senior, the intern, terribly impressed me because she reaffirmed another meaning of life (or life meaning) by demonstrating that above all else one doesn't ever really get old as long as one keeps an open mind and makes the effort to continue the effort to try and learn and expose one's self to new and different experiences. Most my friends dismiss my love of Buffy as somehow being smitten with the star of the show (who I actually think is one of the weakest parts of the series- at it's core Buffy has always worked best when focusing on the friendship between co-stars Xander and Willow- and all the "minor" characters so richly fleshed out that each and every one could have an interesting series developed for them). The blue-eyed intern told me she wanted me to share with her my favorite Buffy episodes because many of the people she most respected had told her how great the series is.
So we got together over the Christmas break for a Buffy marathon. Picking out a handful of episodes for her to see was extremely difficult but she seemed dutifully impressed by what we watched. Unfortunately I don't know of anyone else willing to listen and watch so carefully over something as silly as I can be (and have been accused of being) and somehow that thought saddens me as deeply as how grateful I was at sharing a love of mine.
A show about killing vampires probably can't ever be justified as respectable as shows about the inner workings of the White House or of neurotic members of the mob yet to dismiss Buffy the Vampire Slayer as ignorable fluff is a great loss to TV viewers who aren't paying close enough attention.
This final season has set up the ultimate finale- Buffy facing off against the origin of evil. After last season's heart wrenching dark season in which Buffy is pulled out of a heavenly bliss only to be betrayed by her best friend the show has turned back to one of its most redeeming qualities- a wicked sense of humor. Whether Buffy can finally figure out her place in this short term world is one of the penultimate moments in the history of TV, perhaps a great exaggeration but one that should not be missed. It's been a masterful run, one that is as perceptive as it is enlightening, and it's a rare TV show that rises above all that has come before. God I'm gonna miss this true love of mine.
So there I was a boy becoming a man (or at least faking it) trying to find something to explain this new feeling that only seemed like it had always existed. And that's where I discovered the power of art comes in. Not trusting my suburban raised claustrophobic (closed?) mind, I turned to the critics; art's critics to affirm those pieces of music, literature and cinema that transcend time, that come to mean more and more over the years. I read about Citizen Kane, Pet Sounds, and The Great Gatsby long before they became my favorite movie, LP, and book of all time. I was told they were great even though the first time through I didn't think any of them was all that special, though I most certainly saw that they were peculiarly different from what at the time was my favorite movie, music and/or book.
Called by some the best movie of all time, the first time I saw Citizen Kane was in 10th grade and after it was done I was bored and thought to myself, "what the hell was so special about that?" But since then I've watched it more than any other movie (well except for Speed) and each time I watch it I'm amazed because it's like I've never really seen it before. The use of shadows, the cryptic storyline ("don't trespass" "Rosebud") are as intriguing as director/star Orson Welles' use of shadows and spaces. It's a beautiful film full of understated beauty and power. I see more each time I watch it.
Called by some the best LP of our time, the first time I heard the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds was in my freshman year of college and I thought it was rather bland and less than challenging music. But upon repeated listening I can't believe how much one can hear anew through song after song. This is the brilliant Brian Wilson's masterpiece and the care and effort is inspiring enough- that there are so many great songs, so many great sounds- it's a song cycle I never grow tired from hearing over and over.
Called by some the greatest American novel, the first time I read The Great Gatsby was for my 12th grade literature class. I wrote a scathing review, so critical that my teacher, Mr. Houts, told me I may want to re-read the book some day. So I did. And I have every year since. After each and every read I'm absolutely overcome by Fitzgerald's writing- his wondrous use of language and feeling that conveyed such a personal yet universal story. Wow.
The day I discovered Bob Dylan's music was the day everything would never quite be the same as ever before. The creativity, the originality, the cryptic mysticism, an admiration for the universal insight that comes from revealing one's heart- if that's what I take from this grounded too worldly place it would almost be enough. Great art, the thing about it is it doesn't change. By it's nature, being captured at a particular place in history, being a snapshot of time it can't change. But it changes you.
After being inspired by such great works of art I knew, just knew that our purpose in this world was to try to make a difference, big or small, significant or unnoticed, in someone else's life. Equal to that noble mission was to find someone, anyone who could inspire the same things within me. If both were ever accomplished then the meaninglessness of the every day tedium, of the temptation of just doing what we need to do to get by without making the effort to think about "greater" things, would somehow be all worthwhile.
The first time I fell in love in junior high was deeper (and darker?) than ever since. A lot of the feeling was feeling like she knew me as no one else ever had. It helped that she seemed to like my attempts at writing but it went far beyond the words. At the time I wasn't even sure she noticed me (and it felt like she didn't even know I was alive despite how alive she made me feel). With all the surging emotions, all the unexplainable confusion none of it made any sense until I got home and before bed I would write in my journal and somehow the process of writing just felt right. There were times I thought I was chronicling greatness- some kind of feeling no one had ever felt before- but reading my journals these days makes me cringe in pain. It is proof positive that I was a teenager at one time.
The "last" time I fell in love was five years ago when I actually had the courage to mutter the words to her for one of the few times in my life. And those three little words took more out of me than what was left of my heart. I highly doubt I'll ever feel the same again and that doubt has taken its toll. As I read on the Internet, Beauty was once an escape mechanism but if this Muse of mine were to show me an ultimate and transcendent Beauty, after which nothing else would appear beautiful at all, then I'd have no choice but to remain with her. And yet, my whole witness now is that she has disappeared. In her absence, nothing else will ever satisfy. The ones you love the most are the ones that hurt you the deepest.
Now as I somehow find myself a 38-year-old somewhat respectable working professional I can most of the time thankfully look back upon those years of development and not cringe so much. Perhaps that background can explain why I became an immediate fan of the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer when the show debut seven years ago. The initial premise of the seemingly silly show on its surface was about a bubble headed California blonde who happened to be the chosen one saving humanity against the attacks of the undead.
But the show, with its constantly witty writing and sharp humor proved to be about something much deeper. In its first few seasons it became the best show about growing up that the medium has ever seen. Buffy and her friends were not only fighting fanged toothed vampires, they were fighting the "normal" teenage demons of not being popular enough, of falling in love with someone who doesn't love you back, of not being smart enough or pretty enough or something enough to ever find true happiness.
Over the years the show has blossomed even further into something much much deeper. With his unmatched ability to create a fluid storyline where one never quite knows where the characters will end up going next, Buffy's creator Joss Whedon created a world full of vampires, werewolves, and witches, that was not only more of a reflection of the "real" world than the current spate of reality TV shows, but also skillfully anticipated the scary place this society has somehow come to and we all find ourselves in.
Great art helps make sense out of nonsense and chaos. For me and many other fans of the show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the one TV show that can fall into that high art transcendental category. Unlike any other show I've ever seen, at it's best, it is that good. Yes with its mixture of campy martial arts action and Beauty and the Beast style fantasy, the show can at times live up to its awful title in a manner that those who have never seen it assume it is about. But by creating a world full of vampires and slayers, Whedon has created a canvass where he can weave his masterful storytelling in a way that incorporates philosophical themes seldom dealt with very well on the small screen. The show regularly asks questions about what a soul is, what love is, and whether where those two intertwine is what the meaning of life is all about.
In Buffy's world things are rarely if ever the way they seem let alone black and white. In its initial season Buffy struggled mightily with balancing the life of a "normal" teenager with trying to accept the responsibility of saving the world from vampires. Things were thrown further askew when she met and fell in love with Angel, a vampire who was cursed by having his soul restored so he could feel the weight of all the pain and death he had caused. Falling in love with the person (thing) that can hurt you the most has been a constant theme throughout the series.
How artful the series became can perhaps best be seen in the episode in season five when Buffy's mom died unexpectedly from complications from a brain tumor. In a stark subtle Bergmanesque style Whedon through use of light and silence captured the essence of dealing with the death of a loved one in an achingly accurate fashion. For years Buffy's mission involved killing but with the death of her mother we see that the end of life for any living creature isn't something to be so blithely dismissed. Key characters of the show have been named Angel, Faith, and Glory and not superficially so. Above all the rest it is the deep dark look into spirituality that separates this show from the rest.
In the next season Whedon gave us a masterful musical episode that had the characters of the show singing their hearts out in a perfectly logical way. The world of Buffy is so rich and so unpredictable yet at the same time utterly recognizable, that the moment the characters break out into song it isn't a gimmick like it might be on other TV shows but something that everyone who appreciates great writing and performing should see.
Entering her final season Buffy continues to struggle with what being a slayer is all about. It is easy to kill when the enemy is demonized to such a degree that we don't even see them as human. It becomes a little more difficult when we consider part of human nature is inherently selfish if not "evil" that in the end it's part of us that wants what's best for us over what's best for the rest of the world. We can justify extremes like going to war that involves killing innocent people in the name of freeing them as long as the enemy offers something even more demonic.
Last winter during her winter break the Duke senior, the intern, terribly impressed me because she reaffirmed another meaning of life (or life meaning) by demonstrating that above all else one doesn't ever really get old as long as one keeps an open mind and makes the effort to continue the effort to try and learn and expose one's self to new and different experiences. Most my friends dismiss my love of Buffy as somehow being smitten with the star of the show (who I actually think is one of the weakest parts of the series- at it's core Buffy has always worked best when focusing on the friendship between co-stars Xander and Willow- and all the "minor" characters so richly fleshed out that each and every one could have an interesting series developed for them). The blue-eyed intern told me she wanted me to share with her my favorite Buffy episodes because many of the people she most respected had told her how great the series is.
So we got together over the Christmas break for a Buffy marathon. Picking out a handful of episodes for her to see was extremely difficult but she seemed dutifully impressed by what we watched. Unfortunately I don't know of anyone else willing to listen and watch so carefully over something as silly as I can be (and have been accused of being) and somehow that thought saddens me as deeply as how grateful I was at sharing a love of mine.
A show about killing vampires probably can't ever be justified as respectable as shows about the inner workings of the White House or of neurotic members of the mob yet to dismiss Buffy the Vampire Slayer as ignorable fluff is a great loss to TV viewers who aren't paying close enough attention.
This final season has set up the ultimate finale- Buffy facing off against the origin of evil. After last season's heart wrenching dark season in which Buffy is pulled out of a heavenly bliss only to be betrayed by her best friend the show has turned back to one of its most redeeming qualities- a wicked sense of humor. Whether Buffy can finally figure out her place in this short term world is one of the penultimate moments in the history of TV, perhaps a great exaggeration but one that should not be missed. It's been a masterful run, one that is as perceptive as it is enlightening, and it's a rare TV show that rises above all that has come before. God I'm gonna miss this true love of mine.
Monday, May 12, 2003
Pet Sounds
A bill introduced into the State Senate would prohibit Minnesotans from owning monkeys as pets. I discovered the bill while in the middle of pondering my own personal pet options. One of the things I was contemplating was getting a pet monkey. Outrage doesn't even begin to describe my opposition to the proposed prohibition. This state just has too many darn laws and this would be one of them. If we outlaw owning pet monkeys than only outlaws will own pet monkeys. Law abiding citizens like myself would either have to go monkeyless or conceal our monkey ownership after obtaining a primate friend from some seedy underground black market monkey emporium.
Yup, I'll confess that all this is proof positive that losing my best buddy for the past dozen years sent part of me reeling over the edge. This whole grieving over the loss of a pet thing is a brand new animal for me. But I've mostly thankfully discovered it seems to be familiar territory for many others. After Mr. Max died, well meaning people comforted me with various forms of advice. Some advised getting another cat immediately to help me through the sadness. Others thought I should allow myself time to grieve. "You'll know when you are ready" I was told. And the inner ongoing dialogue bounced back and forth seemingly every minute or so from never wanting another cat to wanting 17 so I wouldn't get quite so attached to any single one.
Months after Max's death I couldn't quite find it within myself to put away his dishes, his toys, or his bed. I looked at the pictures a most talented photographer took of him in his senior years and I'm so glad that his many wonderful and wondrous faces were captured so memorably on film. I've never been a been fan of photography but these pictures have come to mean more and more to me each day. And as much as they remind me of how much I miss him they also remind me of the stability he helped bring into my life. Didn't matter how good or bad a day I was having, didn't matter how tolerable a year's worth of events were, Max was always there to come home to and rely on. He had his quirks but he was consistent and in a significant way he read me like no one else ever has. Losing Max was like losing a limb. Kinda taken for granted at times, always a remarkable thing to have, the loss of which causes you to lose balance.
In my mind I knew I had to find a way to separate how much I missed Max from how much I missed having a cat around. I went to a cat shelter a few weeks back not because I thought I was going to bring home another cat but almost because I missed Max so and wanted to be around his species, a species he wasn't at all fond of. It was another thing we kinda shared in common - I find myself not always so fond of my own species. I had to sneer whenever someone told me "Max would want you to have another cat." I know that isn't true- the other found comfort words "He would want you to be happy" most certainly are true but my happiness and allowing another cat into his house are two distinct things. Max disliked other cats so much that whenever I tossed him a ball of his own fur he would mercilessly attack it.
While I was at the shelter a beautiful calico cat named Kat hopped up on a stack of bags of kitty litter next to me. She reached her paw out to me and meowed. She kept at it until I touched her. She even followed me into the next room. The shelter guy said he had never seen her do that before that she tended to be the anti-social type (birds of a feather). He asked if I had tuna in my pocket or something. My only thought was Max had possessed her soul for a moment. Later a rational reassuring voice told me it was perhaps a sign I wasn't quite ready for another cat quite yet.
My friend Stooey emailed me web sites for a couple of local cat shelters. Reading the stories of some of the cats in the shelters brought a tear or two to my eyes. There seems to be no shortage of abandoned or abused kitties in our area. With the monkey option becoming less viable, my pet plan was becoming a little more focused. I thought it might be a good idea to adopt a mother cat and one of her kittens. This would ensure I'd get cats of different ages (meaning they'd reach various stages of their lives and decay at different times). It would also increase the odd the two cats would get along with each other. I also decided that I would adopt two female cats to try to make them as different as Max as I could. The plan of getting two cats was hopefully also a way to not get so attached to any one of them making any upcoming loss a little bit more palatable. Practical? Probably not but that has never exactly been my middle name.
I talked with a woman at one of the shelters. She didn't seem too keen on the mother/kitten idea and she sent me to a foster home that had three female cats that were bonding fairly well. One of them, Mamie was ultra-friendly. Another, Savannah couldn't get away from me fast enough. I never saw the third, Baby Cakes, who left me asking an obvious question of the foster mom, "If I adopt them is it all right to change their names?" Yup, she said, that's quite a normal thing to do. I could live with Savannah and even Mamie but somehow despite my obvious lack of mature manliness and attachment to felines I could never picture myself living with a cat named Baby Cakes.
A few days later I visited Mamie again at an adoption held at the Roseville Petco. The rational voice of reassurance came along. While at the store we saw some sweet and mellow greyhounds that got me thinking again about a completely different course of action. The cat adoption lady had also told me about a pair of male cats living in another foster home, Thompson and Diego. I had remembered reading about Thompson on the web page- how he had one of his front legs amputated after getting his paw caught in a trap. He had bonded with Diego so the shelter wanted to adopt the two of them together. Seeing I wanted two cats the adoption lady asked me if getting two female cats was my absolute number one criteria. Being as wishy washy and Charlie Brown-like (in my always annoying way) as ever I wasn't quite sure. Seeing the two boys at the store changed my way of thinking.
I felt an immediate sympathy for Thompson. When I was a kid I had a pink stuffed cat. I'm sure like all of you I named all my stuffed animals after baseball players. The pink cat's name was Hefty Thompson- named after Twins' shortstop Danny Thompson who died of Leukemia (a disease that plagues the cat community). The thought of having a cat named Thompson seemed reasonable. And Diego was as advertised- an extremely social and friendly cat. The foster mom told me that someone had wanted to adopt Diego by himself but she remained firm the two of them go together.
Men are often accused of thinking with a certain body part other than the brain but as I told my soulmate many moons back I couldn't be any lesser a man without somehow disappearing altogether. As a battery of analysts might someday attest (or testify depending on the circumstances) I tend to think with my heart (or maybe it's my spleen... whatever). I liked the idea of bringing in another ultra friendly cat along with another cat who has something special about him. That the two got along so well and somehow needed each other almost made me want to adopt Thompson and Diego on the spot.
My friend sensed I was rushing things. I did too. She was kind enough to invite me over to her house to spend time alone with her two cats, Maya and Marabou. I went over one night and was glad I did. Yes it was weird to spend significant time with cats again, but the look in their eyes was as reassuring as it was amusing. Marabou is the queen of the house- and she greeted me at the door as I suspected she would. Maya, who seems to have seen it all in her short lifetime, eventually came out and ultimately spent most of the evening in the bathtub. She sat beneath the tub's faucet quite clearly expecting me to know enough to turn it on so she could get a drink. I picked up on the vibe but didn't want to splash her with water. She pawed at the metal and lapped up any drop of water that dripped out. And after winning a staring contest with Marabou I somehow knew what I had to do next.
I made a visit to the foster home where Diego and Thompson were staying. Diego nearly leapt into my arms and was purring within seconds. Thompson was a bit more reserved but I was won over by how intently he watched Diego's every move as if he needed reassurance before he tried anything. I could see quite clearly why those who knew the two insisted that they be kept together. And I knew a certain fellow who was quite willing to do so. I called the adoption lady a few days later. She told me before I made any final decision that I should visit the two again. So I did. Again Diego was as friendly as could be and I watched as my heart intrinsically marveled at how well Thompson got around on his three legs. The thought of letting other cats in my home, in Max's home, still played on my mind but the thought of taking in a pair of compadres, one of whom was especially idiosyncratic made me think that maybe I was ready despite how faraway all this made me feel Max was. Approaching Mother's Day another unexpected feeling welled up inside. Somehow it didn't seem right to be able to replace Max knowing I'll never be in a similar position of replacing my Mom. And I so wished my Mom could meet Thompson and Diego. One of the last things I whispered in Max's ear was I expected he had to be sure to go and keep Mom company.
I brought Thompson and Diego into their new home. Diego immediately ran away and hid in my basement for the next two days. Thompson surprised me by being the braver of the two- exploring every room and sitting with me before he too went somewhere downstairs not to be seen. When I finally drew Diego out he almost immediately reverted into the uber friendly cat I saw at the foster home. Yet the first few days were about bonding with Thompson, marveling at how his handicap isn't a handicap- he does what he has to do to enjoy his life.
Max and I had several stupid pet tricks. We sounded alike when we ate corn chips. On laundry night he would scamper underneath my bed's clean sheets and paw at me. Once in awhile he'd get so wound up that we would chase each other around the house like Inspector Clouseau and Cato. I miss him so. Thompson and Diego, only a year old, are a bundle of energy but we will have to work on our bag of tricks. They love to play, love to chase each other around. Diego who's a big black teddy bear of a guy loves the sound of flowing water for a reason I've yet to figure out. Thompson loves to talk- all the time, anywhere. Before their arrival I put away most of Max's toys out of respect leaving out a select few as if to acknowledge the transition. We've had a fun first week getting to know each other. I wouldn't think of changing their names or anything else about them.
Yup, I'll confess that all this is proof positive that losing my best buddy for the past dozen years sent part of me reeling over the edge. This whole grieving over the loss of a pet thing is a brand new animal for me. But I've mostly thankfully discovered it seems to be familiar territory for many others. After Mr. Max died, well meaning people comforted me with various forms of advice. Some advised getting another cat immediately to help me through the sadness. Others thought I should allow myself time to grieve. "You'll know when you are ready" I was told. And the inner ongoing dialogue bounced back and forth seemingly every minute or so from never wanting another cat to wanting 17 so I wouldn't get quite so attached to any single one.
Months after Max's death I couldn't quite find it within myself to put away his dishes, his toys, or his bed. I looked at the pictures a most talented photographer took of him in his senior years and I'm so glad that his many wonderful and wondrous faces were captured so memorably on film. I've never been a been fan of photography but these pictures have come to mean more and more to me each day. And as much as they remind me of how much I miss him they also remind me of the stability he helped bring into my life. Didn't matter how good or bad a day I was having, didn't matter how tolerable a year's worth of events were, Max was always there to come home to and rely on. He had his quirks but he was consistent and in a significant way he read me like no one else ever has. Losing Max was like losing a limb. Kinda taken for granted at times, always a remarkable thing to have, the loss of which causes you to lose balance.
In my mind I knew I had to find a way to separate how much I missed Max from how much I missed having a cat around. I went to a cat shelter a few weeks back not because I thought I was going to bring home another cat but almost because I missed Max so and wanted to be around his species, a species he wasn't at all fond of. It was another thing we kinda shared in common - I find myself not always so fond of my own species. I had to sneer whenever someone told me "Max would want you to have another cat." I know that isn't true- the other found comfort words "He would want you to be happy" most certainly are true but my happiness and allowing another cat into his house are two distinct things. Max disliked other cats so much that whenever I tossed him a ball of his own fur he would mercilessly attack it.
While I was at the shelter a beautiful calico cat named Kat hopped up on a stack of bags of kitty litter next to me. She reached her paw out to me and meowed. She kept at it until I touched her. She even followed me into the next room. The shelter guy said he had never seen her do that before that she tended to be the anti-social type (birds of a feather). He asked if I had tuna in my pocket or something. My only thought was Max had possessed her soul for a moment. Later a rational reassuring voice told me it was perhaps a sign I wasn't quite ready for another cat quite yet.
My friend Stooey emailed me web sites for a couple of local cat shelters. Reading the stories of some of the cats in the shelters brought a tear or two to my eyes. There seems to be no shortage of abandoned or abused kitties in our area. With the monkey option becoming less viable, my pet plan was becoming a little more focused. I thought it might be a good idea to adopt a mother cat and one of her kittens. This would ensure I'd get cats of different ages (meaning they'd reach various stages of their lives and decay at different times). It would also increase the odd the two cats would get along with each other. I also decided that I would adopt two female cats to try to make them as different as Max as I could. The plan of getting two cats was hopefully also a way to not get so attached to any one of them making any upcoming loss a little bit more palatable. Practical? Probably not but that has never exactly been my middle name.
I talked with a woman at one of the shelters. She didn't seem too keen on the mother/kitten idea and she sent me to a foster home that had three female cats that were bonding fairly well. One of them, Mamie was ultra-friendly. Another, Savannah couldn't get away from me fast enough. I never saw the third, Baby Cakes, who left me asking an obvious question of the foster mom, "If I adopt them is it all right to change their names?" Yup, she said, that's quite a normal thing to do. I could live with Savannah and even Mamie but somehow despite my obvious lack of mature manliness and attachment to felines I could never picture myself living with a cat named Baby Cakes.
A few days later I visited Mamie again at an adoption held at the Roseville Petco. The rational voice of reassurance came along. While at the store we saw some sweet and mellow greyhounds that got me thinking again about a completely different course of action. The cat adoption lady had also told me about a pair of male cats living in another foster home, Thompson and Diego. I had remembered reading about Thompson on the web page- how he had one of his front legs amputated after getting his paw caught in a trap. He had bonded with Diego so the shelter wanted to adopt the two of them together. Seeing I wanted two cats the adoption lady asked me if getting two female cats was my absolute number one criteria. Being as wishy washy and Charlie Brown-like (in my always annoying way) as ever I wasn't quite sure. Seeing the two boys at the store changed my way of thinking.
I felt an immediate sympathy for Thompson. When I was a kid I had a pink stuffed cat. I'm sure like all of you I named all my stuffed animals after baseball players. The pink cat's name was Hefty Thompson- named after Twins' shortstop Danny Thompson who died of Leukemia (a disease that plagues the cat community). The thought of having a cat named Thompson seemed reasonable. And Diego was as advertised- an extremely social and friendly cat. The foster mom told me that someone had wanted to adopt Diego by himself but she remained firm the two of them go together.
Men are often accused of thinking with a certain body part other than the brain but as I told my soulmate many moons back I couldn't be any lesser a man without somehow disappearing altogether. As a battery of analysts might someday attest (or testify depending on the circumstances) I tend to think with my heart (or maybe it's my spleen... whatever). I liked the idea of bringing in another ultra friendly cat along with another cat who has something special about him. That the two got along so well and somehow needed each other almost made me want to adopt Thompson and Diego on the spot.
My friend sensed I was rushing things. I did too. She was kind enough to invite me over to her house to spend time alone with her two cats, Maya and Marabou. I went over one night and was glad I did. Yes it was weird to spend significant time with cats again, but the look in their eyes was as reassuring as it was amusing. Marabou is the queen of the house- and she greeted me at the door as I suspected she would. Maya, who seems to have seen it all in her short lifetime, eventually came out and ultimately spent most of the evening in the bathtub. She sat beneath the tub's faucet quite clearly expecting me to know enough to turn it on so she could get a drink. I picked up on the vibe but didn't want to splash her with water. She pawed at the metal and lapped up any drop of water that dripped out. And after winning a staring contest with Marabou I somehow knew what I had to do next.
I made a visit to the foster home where Diego and Thompson were staying. Diego nearly leapt into my arms and was purring within seconds. Thompson was a bit more reserved but I was won over by how intently he watched Diego's every move as if he needed reassurance before he tried anything. I could see quite clearly why those who knew the two insisted that they be kept together. And I knew a certain fellow who was quite willing to do so. I called the adoption lady a few days later. She told me before I made any final decision that I should visit the two again. So I did. Again Diego was as friendly as could be and I watched as my heart intrinsically marveled at how well Thompson got around on his three legs. The thought of letting other cats in my home, in Max's home, still played on my mind but the thought of taking in a pair of compadres, one of whom was especially idiosyncratic made me think that maybe I was ready despite how faraway all this made me feel Max was. Approaching Mother's Day another unexpected feeling welled up inside. Somehow it didn't seem right to be able to replace Max knowing I'll never be in a similar position of replacing my Mom. And I so wished my Mom could meet Thompson and Diego. One of the last things I whispered in Max's ear was I expected he had to be sure to go and keep Mom company.
I brought Thompson and Diego into their new home. Diego immediately ran away and hid in my basement for the next two days. Thompson surprised me by being the braver of the two- exploring every room and sitting with me before he too went somewhere downstairs not to be seen. When I finally drew Diego out he almost immediately reverted into the uber friendly cat I saw at the foster home. Yet the first few days were about bonding with Thompson, marveling at how his handicap isn't a handicap- he does what he has to do to enjoy his life.
Max and I had several stupid pet tricks. We sounded alike when we ate corn chips. On laundry night he would scamper underneath my bed's clean sheets and paw at me. Once in awhile he'd get so wound up that we would chase each other around the house like Inspector Clouseau and Cato. I miss him so. Thompson and Diego, only a year old, are a bundle of energy but we will have to work on our bag of tricks. They love to play, love to chase each other around. Diego who's a big black teddy bear of a guy loves the sound of flowing water for a reason I've yet to figure out. Thompson loves to talk- all the time, anywhere. Before their arrival I put away most of Max's toys out of respect leaving out a select few as if to acknowledge the transition. We've had a fun first week getting to know each other. I wouldn't think of changing their names or anything else about them.
Monday, April 28, 2003
Fondue'd
The week began with a call from the intern who had just finished (literally) her undergraduate college class career. She was unwinding (quite apparently) at a Wilco concert on the Duke campus. She held up her phone just in time for me to hear the bouncy and irresistible "Heavy Metal Drummer." Even over the tinny sound of a cell phone the song sounded good. And I was more glad than you would ever know that she shared.
The next day I inadvertently went to work in a holey shirt. My boss thankfully pointed that out to me before anyone else could see. Some day I may show up to work in a holy shirt. I think I may have it in me. Of course that's when I read a quote in the St. Paul Pioneer Press from the world's biggest Wild fan, the haven't heard from in a long time, Mary Meek. Mary wasn't so meek.
By the end of the week I was indeed ready to unwind and quite looking forward to seeing jazz chanteuse (and local gal done good) Connie Evingson debut live versions of the songs from her new CD Let It Be Jazz. The CD features covers of Beatles songs arranged in a variety of jazzy styles.
Let me preface this with a couple of personal tidbits: 1) Like countless others the Beatles music was the first music that changed me. Listening to their songs and falling in love with their music in junior high helped me get through the trials and tribulations and angst of my teenage years. 2) My best stupid human trick is that I can play any of the Beatles songs on the piano.
Prior to the concert my wedding planner and I stuffed ourselves at the Melting Pot in downtown Minneapolis. The new restaurant features a four course fondue feast and it was a great (if not slightly pricy) meal and the perfect prep to go to this particular concert at the Illusion Theater down the street. As Twin Cities' radio personality Jason Lewis tries to demonstrate every night the best Beatles fan is a bloated Beatles fan.
Evingson's jazz treatments of overly familiar (and comforting) songs worked extremely well. She opened the show (as she does her CD) with the one interpretation that failed to add to the original, a mystical reading of "Blackbird." The Beatles simple acoustic arrangement of a song about flight, freedom, and release is perfect and the jazz version with scat singing leaned toward something lounge like that took away from the message of the lyrics. On the other hand the next song "Can't Buy Me Love" skillfully turned the Beatles version inside out. The rocking affirmation became a cool and sedate declaration of the power of love. Evingson caressed the words with such precision that she added a sophistication to the rather simple yet still universal statement. Perhaps the best re-interpretation was on "The Night Before" a peppy early Beatles song that always has brought a smile to my face. I love how John and George's backup vocals ("AHH! the night before) encourage lead singer Paul to become more mournful and more aggressive. Evingson turned it into a reflective lament about how we all change at different speeds.
Halfway through the show (during a transcendental reading of "Fixing a Hole") I found myself transported back to the days I first fell in love with the Beatles songs, falling in love more deeply than ever before. I remember a warm spring day lying on the lime green shag carpet of my bedroom listening to a "new" Beatles LP I just bought, a compilation of their love songs. At the time I was becoming smitten, if not head over heals so, with a young lass named Karen Weiss who happened to be our junior high's best basketball player/french horn player. I was learning to hone my own versions of the Beatles songs on the piano including a version of a song I hadn't heard their version of, "For No One." I had no idea what the song really sounded like yet I loved the melancholy self consoling spirit inherent in the lyrics.
Plopping the newly purchased LP on my stereo I finally got to hear the song. "Your day breaks, your mind aches/You find that all her words of kindness linger on when she no longer needs you..." McCartney's vocals never sounded better and the bridge of the song appropriately featured a wailing french horn (who would have thought that term could ever exist?) solo. I couldn't help but become transfixed by the melodic expression of unrequited love echoing what I felt (or thought I felt) for Karen. Suddenly I could see as clearly as the sunlight blinding me the glare she would give me in my attempts to impress her.
Evingson's performance of "For No One" was terrific even to my less than discerning ears. Everything I learned about jazz I learned from former Cheapo employee Johnny Baynes who helped me establish my jazz collection. After a while I noticed Johnny didn't like any jazz musicians who weren't black. Albert Ayler or Lester Bowie were acceptable. Keith Jarrett and Dave Brubeck were not. The one exception was a little known singer, Shelia Jordan, who was once Charlie Parker's secretary. To me Evingson's sultry pure voice is reminiscent of Jordan's. Her voice ached as it poured out a soul's contents in a torch ballad arrangement of "For No One." Minus the french horn solo the song struck deeply with pianist Mary Louise Knutson's answering the vocalist's heart, and I hoped the one with me kinda felt the same.
The next day I inadvertently went to work in a holey shirt. My boss thankfully pointed that out to me before anyone else could see. Some day I may show up to work in a holy shirt. I think I may have it in me. Of course that's when I read a quote in the St. Paul Pioneer Press from the world's biggest Wild fan, the haven't heard from in a long time, Mary Meek. Mary wasn't so meek.
By the end of the week I was indeed ready to unwind and quite looking forward to seeing jazz chanteuse (and local gal done good) Connie Evingson debut live versions of the songs from her new CD Let It Be Jazz. The CD features covers of Beatles songs arranged in a variety of jazzy styles.
Let me preface this with a couple of personal tidbits: 1) Like countless others the Beatles music was the first music that changed me. Listening to their songs and falling in love with their music in junior high helped me get through the trials and tribulations and angst of my teenage years. 2) My best stupid human trick is that I can play any of the Beatles songs on the piano.
Prior to the concert my wedding planner and I stuffed ourselves at the Melting Pot in downtown Minneapolis. The new restaurant features a four course fondue feast and it was a great (if not slightly pricy) meal and the perfect prep to go to this particular concert at the Illusion Theater down the street. As Twin Cities' radio personality Jason Lewis tries to demonstrate every night the best Beatles fan is a bloated Beatles fan.
Evingson's jazz treatments of overly familiar (and comforting) songs worked extremely well. She opened the show (as she does her CD) with the one interpretation that failed to add to the original, a mystical reading of "Blackbird." The Beatles simple acoustic arrangement of a song about flight, freedom, and release is perfect and the jazz version with scat singing leaned toward something lounge like that took away from the message of the lyrics. On the other hand the next song "Can't Buy Me Love" skillfully turned the Beatles version inside out. The rocking affirmation became a cool and sedate declaration of the power of love. Evingson caressed the words with such precision that she added a sophistication to the rather simple yet still universal statement. Perhaps the best re-interpretation was on "The Night Before" a peppy early Beatles song that always has brought a smile to my face. I love how John and George's backup vocals ("AHH! the night before) encourage lead singer Paul to become more mournful and more aggressive. Evingson turned it into a reflective lament about how we all change at different speeds.
Halfway through the show (during a transcendental reading of "Fixing a Hole") I found myself transported back to the days I first fell in love with the Beatles songs, falling in love more deeply than ever before. I remember a warm spring day lying on the lime green shag carpet of my bedroom listening to a "new" Beatles LP I just bought, a compilation of their love songs. At the time I was becoming smitten, if not head over heals so, with a young lass named Karen Weiss who happened to be our junior high's best basketball player/french horn player. I was learning to hone my own versions of the Beatles songs on the piano including a version of a song I hadn't heard their version of, "For No One." I had no idea what the song really sounded like yet I loved the melancholy self consoling spirit inherent in the lyrics.
Plopping the newly purchased LP on my stereo I finally got to hear the song. "Your day breaks, your mind aches/You find that all her words of kindness linger on when she no longer needs you..." McCartney's vocals never sounded better and the bridge of the song appropriately featured a wailing french horn (who would have thought that term could ever exist?) solo. I couldn't help but become transfixed by the melodic expression of unrequited love echoing what I felt (or thought I felt) for Karen. Suddenly I could see as clearly as the sunlight blinding me the glare she would give me in my attempts to impress her.
Evingson's performance of "For No One" was terrific even to my less than discerning ears. Everything I learned about jazz I learned from former Cheapo employee Johnny Baynes who helped me establish my jazz collection. After a while I noticed Johnny didn't like any jazz musicians who weren't black. Albert Ayler or Lester Bowie were acceptable. Keith Jarrett and Dave Brubeck were not. The one exception was a little known singer, Shelia Jordan, who was once Charlie Parker's secretary. To me Evingson's sultry pure voice is reminiscent of Jordan's. Her voice ached as it poured out a soul's contents in a torch ballad arrangement of "For No One." Minus the french horn solo the song struck deeply with pianist Mary Louise Knutson's answering the vocalist's heart, and I hoped the one with me kinda felt the same.
Monday, April 21, 2003
David's Justice or My Life in a Nutshell
"Gonna sit at the welcome table/I'm as hungry as a horse/Sitting at the welcome table/I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse/I'm gonna revitalize my thinking/I'm gonna let the law take its course..."
-my favorite sly yet clever V. Secret's Salesperson
Our legislative process somehow survived my scrutiny and participation the past four years. So this past week I was left to wonder if the judicial process would be equally as fortunate. Yup I got summoned for jury duty.
I may be in the minority (gosh now that'd be unusual) but I actually have been hoping for quite some time that I would get so lucky as to be called for jury duty. Most people seem to look at it as some kind of nuisance, an inconvenient interruption in their daily lives. But for years I've wanted to serve on a jury, watch a court proceeding first hand and have the chance to deliberate with others to reach our version of justice. Now that it's all finished I wish I could go back tomorrow. I think I've found my calling- a permanent jury member. For those who have yet to be called and don't know what to expect there ought to be some kind of manual... Oh I can remember it all as if it just happened...
DAY ONE: It was everything we were told it was and more! My favorite pregnant reporter, who lives in the Mansion on the Hill told me that she parks by the Cathedral and walks down to work. So I decided, being the cheapskate I am that I would do the same to avoid any parking costs. The walk down is actually most pleasant until I get to the area by the Xcel Energy Center where a throng of people have gathered to celebrate the first NHL playoff game ever in the city. A bar band is playing on the sidewalk but I don't bother walking around on the street so I mosey on down behind the drummer all the while getting quite the evil eye. With the size of the crowd I'm a bit afraid seeing this is the state that gets worked up over a college hockey championship win over New Hampshire (NEW FRICKIN' HAMPSHIRE FOR PETE'S SAKE) that a riot occurs... Who knows what professional fans might be capable of doing...
All of us lucky ones gathered in the basement of the county courthouse. It's a room that you would expect a less than diverse group of people to gather in on a Monday morning. The computer coded grocery bar code printed summons (how slick in a 1980's type of way) signals an alarm that indicates I hadn't answered the question on the form about whether or not I was or was not Hispanic (invite the Italian in I'm sure it'll all work out in the end- doesn't it always?). And I'm not even an ex-roofer either, I say to the competent, but weary and I'm more than sure heard more than her share spectacled county court employee I was sent back to clear things up with. I answer the question and she sends me rather anonymously into the room with all the others.
I had brought with me the book recommended to me by the Blue-eyed intern My Year of Meats by Ruth Ozeki. I had started to read it on my trip to L.A. last fall and hadn't gotten very far. But on this day the third of the book I had gotten through prior soon became two-thirds against the clicking clock of the all too white filled room I was sitting in. Every time someone sneezed I thought about SARS and wondered if everyone else was as well. Some precarious time we're living in I thought about saying to my neighbor but he had a little bit of a crazed look in his eye. I don't even consider any discourse with the guy on my other side, with his extra red face, crew cut, and American flag T-shirt, he didn't seem to like me much as he eyed my Asian face.
A respectable looking woman steps up to a podium in the middle of the room. She switches on the microphone and gives a spiel welcoming us all and thanking us for doing a most important civic duty. She kind of tells us what to expect and lays out the rules of the week. There are 85 cases awaiting jury trials. Once we get on a jury we are done once the trial is complete. Otherwise we are to report to the same room every morning at 8:30.
She cues up a video on the jury process narrated by of all people former Channel 11 anchorette Kirsten Lindquist. I'm not sure anyone else recognizes Ms. Lindquist (she was here in the early 90's I believe) but I let out an audible snicker/gasp. It's a real life(?) imitation of the running Simpsons joke of having Troy McClure host all the instructional videos. I also chuckle when Lindquist begins the video by telling us how one of the fundamental truths about America is how everyone has the right to an open and fair and public jury trial when accused of a crime. Earlier that morning I read yet another article about our current government's detaining citizens and non-citizens alike without even charging them of a crime all in the name of the "war" on terrorism.
I sit around most of the day as a couple of groups of six and ten are called for criminal and civil cases. For lunch I wander further downtown to the World Trade Center and Town Square. I used to visit those two places regularly when I worked downtown seven(!) years ago. I can't believe how much has changed in that period. I hardly recognize either place. I choose Subway to eat partially because I'm beginning to look like the pre-diet Jarrod these days.
After lunch I'm actually called up for a gross misdemeanor criminal case. One of the other jurors called is named Jonathan Tuttle. I chuckle. My Mom and I shared a similar sense of humor and her favorite episode of M*A*S*H (and mine too) was an early episode where Hawkeye and Trapper invent an imaginary captain that sends medical supplies to the sisters at an orphanage nearby. They name him Jonathan Tuttle and all chaos breaks loose when Henry, Frank, and Hot Lips hear that there really is no Tuttle. "No Tuttle?" they humorously simultaneously mutter. The episode still cracks me up even though I've memorized each and every line.
A young gentleman is accused of domestic assault and interfering with a 911 call. He's black and I'm the only other minority in the room so I wonder if that will help or hinder my chances of getting on the jury. The interview process begins and the first potential juror asked questions by the judge says he wants to meet in private with the attorneys and judge. They all go back to the back chambers. We are sent to a nearby conference room. After a bit of a wait the judge reappears and tells us the defendant has changed his plea to guilty and we are sent back downstairs.
My favorite pregnant reporter failed to warn me about the walk back to the Cathedral area. It's all uphill. I once again walk through a Wild gathering. Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Loving You" blares from some speakers. Playoff hockey in Minnesota and Joan Jett: have I wandered through some sort of time warp? It's nearing 90 degrees out and struggling up the steep hill I begin to wonder if I'll ever make it.
DAY TWO: I check in once again. I finish my book. I look around as more are called upstairs. I'm beginning to think I'll have the misfortune of spending the entire week waiting. I think about lunch, about treating myself to a sushi meal for my travails. Then the county woman steps to the mike and says a jury is being called for a civil hearing. My name is the first to be called out. As the chosen group gathers we head up in an ultra speedy elevator to the 16th floor. The judge gives us further instructions about how we will be interviewed, how the attorneys have the option of dismissing some of us for no cause and others of us because they think we may have a bias about what will be presented. I'm the first to be asked questions. I'm asked about my marital status, my education background, and my profession. The others are asked the same. The attorneys then ask specific potential jurors other questions though I'm not asked anything else. I'm chosen much to my surprise (and delight).
The case involves a dispute between two companies. Company A has just gotten in the business of collecting used oil from places like Jiffy Lube and Tires Plus. They have hired Company B to help store and ultimately truck the used oil to a recycling plant in the Duluth/Superior area. Company A agrees to allow Company B to store a couple of tanks on Company A's leased site in the Cretin/Vandelia area in St. Paul. The storage site is a parking lot with a slight slope and an asphalt surface. Late one Sunday night in December 1999 a driver from Company B delivers an empty tank to the site and hitches up a full tank right next to where he placed the empty tank. He notices the slope and asphalt lot. He knows that it is common to lay down lumber underneath the tank on an asphalt surface. There is no lumber around so he drives off. Sure enough when Company A begins to fill the tank it sinks through the asphalt and tumbles down the slope. Oil makes its way to the Mississippi. We the jury are to determine who is responsible for the costs of cleanup and the Pollution Control Agency's fine.
DAY THREE: Testimony begins in earnest. The driver seems like an humble sort. Officials from both companies are oily trucker types (not that I'm into stereotyping). The attorneys remind me why I have discouraged a couple of youngsters from applying for law school.
DAY FOUR: Closing arguments are given and we are given our instructions. After lunch at the Radisson (no sushi dammit) we begin going through all the evidence. We all agree that the trucking company is negligent because the driver really should have at the very least made a call or left a note expressing his concerns about the storage site. Another juror and I disagree about whether or not the oil collecting company is negligent as well. His argument is that Company A hired Company B as a vendor and was totally dependent on their expertise on the risks of where oil can be stored. I point out that the end product is the oil company's responsibility and they should have asked for more information from the trucking company about what is needed to store oil. The rest of the jury listens to us (well him mostly) and surprisingly enough comes down on my side. The other juror seeing he wasn't going to sway any opinions agrees to go along with the rest of us even though he still thinks the oil collecting company is completely innocent of the consequences of the accident.
We go back to the courtroom and announce our verdict. The judge (Judy) takes off her robe and comes over to us to thank us for our service and to answer any questions we may have. I leave with much more confidence in this branch of government than any other.
-my favorite sly yet clever V. Secret's Salesperson
Our legislative process somehow survived my scrutiny and participation the past four years. So this past week I was left to wonder if the judicial process would be equally as fortunate. Yup I got summoned for jury duty.
I may be in the minority (gosh now that'd be unusual) but I actually have been hoping for quite some time that I would get so lucky as to be called for jury duty. Most people seem to look at it as some kind of nuisance, an inconvenient interruption in their daily lives. But for years I've wanted to serve on a jury, watch a court proceeding first hand and have the chance to deliberate with others to reach our version of justice. Now that it's all finished I wish I could go back tomorrow. I think I've found my calling- a permanent jury member. For those who have yet to be called and don't know what to expect there ought to be some kind of manual... Oh I can remember it all as if it just happened...
DAY ONE: It was everything we were told it was and more! My favorite pregnant reporter, who lives in the Mansion on the Hill told me that she parks by the Cathedral and walks down to work. So I decided, being the cheapskate I am that I would do the same to avoid any parking costs. The walk down is actually most pleasant until I get to the area by the Xcel Energy Center where a throng of people have gathered to celebrate the first NHL playoff game ever in the city. A bar band is playing on the sidewalk but I don't bother walking around on the street so I mosey on down behind the drummer all the while getting quite the evil eye. With the size of the crowd I'm a bit afraid seeing this is the state that gets worked up over a college hockey championship win over New Hampshire (NEW FRICKIN' HAMPSHIRE FOR PETE'S SAKE) that a riot occurs... Who knows what professional fans might be capable of doing...
All of us lucky ones gathered in the basement of the county courthouse. It's a room that you would expect a less than diverse group of people to gather in on a Monday morning. The computer coded grocery bar code printed summons (how slick in a 1980's type of way) signals an alarm that indicates I hadn't answered the question on the form about whether or not I was or was not Hispanic (invite the Italian in I'm sure it'll all work out in the end- doesn't it always?). And I'm not even an ex-roofer either, I say to the competent, but weary and I'm more than sure heard more than her share spectacled county court employee I was sent back to clear things up with. I answer the question and she sends me rather anonymously into the room with all the others.
I had brought with me the book recommended to me by the Blue-eyed intern My Year of Meats by Ruth Ozeki. I had started to read it on my trip to L.A. last fall and hadn't gotten very far. But on this day the third of the book I had gotten through prior soon became two-thirds against the clicking clock of the all too white filled room I was sitting in. Every time someone sneezed I thought about SARS and wondered if everyone else was as well. Some precarious time we're living in I thought about saying to my neighbor but he had a little bit of a crazed look in his eye. I don't even consider any discourse with the guy on my other side, with his extra red face, crew cut, and American flag T-shirt, he didn't seem to like me much as he eyed my Asian face.
A respectable looking woman steps up to a podium in the middle of the room. She switches on the microphone and gives a spiel welcoming us all and thanking us for doing a most important civic duty. She kind of tells us what to expect and lays out the rules of the week. There are 85 cases awaiting jury trials. Once we get on a jury we are done once the trial is complete. Otherwise we are to report to the same room every morning at 8:30.
She cues up a video on the jury process narrated by of all people former Channel 11 anchorette Kirsten Lindquist. I'm not sure anyone else recognizes Ms. Lindquist (she was here in the early 90's I believe) but I let out an audible snicker/gasp. It's a real life(?) imitation of the running Simpsons joke of having Troy McClure host all the instructional videos. I also chuckle when Lindquist begins the video by telling us how one of the fundamental truths about America is how everyone has the right to an open and fair and public jury trial when accused of a crime. Earlier that morning I read yet another article about our current government's detaining citizens and non-citizens alike without even charging them of a crime all in the name of the "war" on terrorism.
I sit around most of the day as a couple of groups of six and ten are called for criminal and civil cases. For lunch I wander further downtown to the World Trade Center and Town Square. I used to visit those two places regularly when I worked downtown seven(!) years ago. I can't believe how much has changed in that period. I hardly recognize either place. I choose Subway to eat partially because I'm beginning to look like the pre-diet Jarrod these days.
After lunch I'm actually called up for a gross misdemeanor criminal case. One of the other jurors called is named Jonathan Tuttle. I chuckle. My Mom and I shared a similar sense of humor and her favorite episode of M*A*S*H (and mine too) was an early episode where Hawkeye and Trapper invent an imaginary captain that sends medical supplies to the sisters at an orphanage nearby. They name him Jonathan Tuttle and all chaos breaks loose when Henry, Frank, and Hot Lips hear that there really is no Tuttle. "No Tuttle?" they humorously simultaneously mutter. The episode still cracks me up even though I've memorized each and every line.
A young gentleman is accused of domestic assault and interfering with a 911 call. He's black and I'm the only other minority in the room so I wonder if that will help or hinder my chances of getting on the jury. The interview process begins and the first potential juror asked questions by the judge says he wants to meet in private with the attorneys and judge. They all go back to the back chambers. We are sent to a nearby conference room. After a bit of a wait the judge reappears and tells us the defendant has changed his plea to guilty and we are sent back downstairs.
My favorite pregnant reporter failed to warn me about the walk back to the Cathedral area. It's all uphill. I once again walk through a Wild gathering. Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Loving You" blares from some speakers. Playoff hockey in Minnesota and Joan Jett: have I wandered through some sort of time warp? It's nearing 90 degrees out and struggling up the steep hill I begin to wonder if I'll ever make it.
DAY TWO: I check in once again. I finish my book. I look around as more are called upstairs. I'm beginning to think I'll have the misfortune of spending the entire week waiting. I think about lunch, about treating myself to a sushi meal for my travails. Then the county woman steps to the mike and says a jury is being called for a civil hearing. My name is the first to be called out. As the chosen group gathers we head up in an ultra speedy elevator to the 16th floor. The judge gives us further instructions about how we will be interviewed, how the attorneys have the option of dismissing some of us for no cause and others of us because they think we may have a bias about what will be presented. I'm the first to be asked questions. I'm asked about my marital status, my education background, and my profession. The others are asked the same. The attorneys then ask specific potential jurors other questions though I'm not asked anything else. I'm chosen much to my surprise (and delight).
The case involves a dispute between two companies. Company A has just gotten in the business of collecting used oil from places like Jiffy Lube and Tires Plus. They have hired Company B to help store and ultimately truck the used oil to a recycling plant in the Duluth/Superior area. Company A agrees to allow Company B to store a couple of tanks on Company A's leased site in the Cretin/Vandelia area in St. Paul. The storage site is a parking lot with a slight slope and an asphalt surface. Late one Sunday night in December 1999 a driver from Company B delivers an empty tank to the site and hitches up a full tank right next to where he placed the empty tank. He notices the slope and asphalt lot. He knows that it is common to lay down lumber underneath the tank on an asphalt surface. There is no lumber around so he drives off. Sure enough when Company A begins to fill the tank it sinks through the asphalt and tumbles down the slope. Oil makes its way to the Mississippi. We the jury are to determine who is responsible for the costs of cleanup and the Pollution Control Agency's fine.
DAY THREE: Testimony begins in earnest. The driver seems like an humble sort. Officials from both companies are oily trucker types (not that I'm into stereotyping). The attorneys remind me why I have discouraged a couple of youngsters from applying for law school.
DAY FOUR: Closing arguments are given and we are given our instructions. After lunch at the Radisson (no sushi dammit) we begin going through all the evidence. We all agree that the trucking company is negligent because the driver really should have at the very least made a call or left a note expressing his concerns about the storage site. Another juror and I disagree about whether or not the oil collecting company is negligent as well. His argument is that Company A hired Company B as a vendor and was totally dependent on their expertise on the risks of where oil can be stored. I point out that the end product is the oil company's responsibility and they should have asked for more information from the trucking company about what is needed to store oil. The rest of the jury listens to us (well him mostly) and surprisingly enough comes down on my side. The other juror seeing he wasn't going to sway any opinions agrees to go along with the rest of us even though he still thinks the oil collecting company is completely innocent of the consequences of the accident.
We go back to the courtroom and announce our verdict. The judge (Judy) takes off her robe and comes over to us to thank us for our service and to answer any questions we may have. I leave with much more confidence in this branch of government than any other.
Saturday, April 12, 2003
Liquid Blue Lemonade like Romulan Ale
I remember, as if it was but yesterday, the first time I confessed my love for potstickers. It was my first year as a reluctant state supervisor and a department potluck led one of my employees to bring in the pseudo-but-true-Asian delight. "Man these boys are tasty," I said to her after scarfing down a few more than my alloted share.
Those days are far removed if only because I doubt I would utter such a purposely profound confession in public anymore. We're at war dammit and not to sound as narcissistic as I often do in these pages but things just aren't so funny these days. Having said that I will admit that one of my current favorite friends, Lisa Anne Marie, earns that moniker because she's just about the only one now who laughs at my admittedly self-inflicted tepid jokes.
Not that it's always been that way. One of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me was the time when I was going through more than a minor difficult period and my mother, before she went to the nearby Rochester salad bar, told me one of the things she appreciated most in me was when our family was going through a hard time how I had the ability to make everyone smile by something I said. Yup I don't or never have said much but that was one heckava compliment from my Mom.
So who better than L.A.M. to go along with to a book reading with from one of my these days favorite writers David Sedaris? After all he is one of the few people who can make me laugh being part standup comedian, part keen social observer, and total wise ass. I told Lisa beforehand that I would only go if she didn't laugh like a hyena. I was kidding of course because I could listen to her laugh all the time, every day.
It was the third time I attended a reading from Sedaris of some of his wonderfully wicked well-written personal essays. And he didn't disappoint.
He opened with a piece about his younger brother's recent wedding conducted near Atlantic Beach by a psychic. Like much of his work it was laugh aloud stuff even from those of us who don't laugh out loud that much. I couldn't help but think of Lisa the entire time as she had just told me over dinner her helping out with the planning of her older brother's soon to be held wedding.
Sedaris plugged the book An Obedient Father he recently read by a writer from India, Akhil Sharma. In describing the writer Sedaris gave the ultimate compliment- that Sharma makes writing seem so easy. He also said the book made him never want to visit India at the same time as it made him want to visit India. He explained this incongruity through a typical Sedaris anecdote- that the book begins with a woman getting bit in her stomach by a monkey and thus having to get a medically curing shot from a needle about a foot long. Sedaris said that he didn't want to go to India only to be bit by a monkey but he wanted to go there because he'd love to see someone else be bitten by a monkey.
Named Time Magazine's humorist of the year in 2001, Sedaris continues to be the type of writer I wish I could be. His work is as funny as it is neurotic and it is also as insightful as it is personal. Wouldn't it be a quite the life accomplishment to make a room full of strangers not only giggle for a brief time but also inspire all those in attendance to look hard at the scary world (covered on all the cable channels!) at the same time as appreciating their own private worlds?
Another essay Sedaris read was about disagreeing in front of dinner party company with his boyfriend about a volunteer work assignment (as if the writer could get nothing else) leading the blind around the subway station. His boyfriend refused to believe that the boss/chef was the owner of a rubber hand thinking the man's hand had to be made of plastic. Sedaris dug in and said he could smell better.
The sharing of a lover's quarrel was intimate but made me appreciate the humor of one who is as funny as all get out. Lisa laughed audibly a couple of times and I cherished sharing that sound more than ever.
Those days are far removed if only because I doubt I would utter such a purposely profound confession in public anymore. We're at war dammit and not to sound as narcissistic as I often do in these pages but things just aren't so funny these days. Having said that I will admit that one of my current favorite friends, Lisa Anne Marie, earns that moniker because she's just about the only one now who laughs at my admittedly self-inflicted tepid jokes.
Not that it's always been that way. One of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me was the time when I was going through more than a minor difficult period and my mother, before she went to the nearby Rochester salad bar, told me one of the things she appreciated most in me was when our family was going through a hard time how I had the ability to make everyone smile by something I said. Yup I don't or never have said much but that was one heckava compliment from my Mom.
So who better than L.A.M. to go along with to a book reading with from one of my these days favorite writers David Sedaris? After all he is one of the few people who can make me laugh being part standup comedian, part keen social observer, and total wise ass. I told Lisa beforehand that I would only go if she didn't laugh like a hyena. I was kidding of course because I could listen to her laugh all the time, every day.
It was the third time I attended a reading from Sedaris of some of his wonderfully wicked well-written personal essays. And he didn't disappoint.
He opened with a piece about his younger brother's recent wedding conducted near Atlantic Beach by a psychic. Like much of his work it was laugh aloud stuff even from those of us who don't laugh out loud that much. I couldn't help but think of Lisa the entire time as she had just told me over dinner her helping out with the planning of her older brother's soon to be held wedding.
Sedaris plugged the book An Obedient Father he recently read by a writer from India, Akhil Sharma. In describing the writer Sedaris gave the ultimate compliment- that Sharma makes writing seem so easy. He also said the book made him never want to visit India at the same time as it made him want to visit India. He explained this incongruity through a typical Sedaris anecdote- that the book begins with a woman getting bit in her stomach by a monkey and thus having to get a medically curing shot from a needle about a foot long. Sedaris said that he didn't want to go to India only to be bit by a monkey but he wanted to go there because he'd love to see someone else be bitten by a monkey.
Named Time Magazine's humorist of the year in 2001, Sedaris continues to be the type of writer I wish I could be. His work is as funny as it is neurotic and it is also as insightful as it is personal. Wouldn't it be a quite the life accomplishment to make a room full of strangers not only giggle for a brief time but also inspire all those in attendance to look hard at the scary world (covered on all the cable channels!) at the same time as appreciating their own private worlds?
Another essay Sedaris read was about disagreeing in front of dinner party company with his boyfriend about a volunteer work assignment (as if the writer could get nothing else) leading the blind around the subway station. His boyfriend refused to believe that the boss/chef was the owner of a rubber hand thinking the man's hand had to be made of plastic. Sedaris dug in and said he could smell better.
The sharing of a lover's quarrel was intimate but made me appreciate the humor of one who is as funny as all get out. Lisa laughed audibly a couple of times and I cherished sharing that sound more than ever.
Scent of Obsession
Despite being a rather daredevilish type of fellow, I'm not going to replace Ben Affleck anytime soon but I always figured that if I was going to be a superhero my most sensitive sense has always been my sense of smell. Out of the blue I'll sometimes get a whiff of something that will dig up a long buried deeply hidden memory, and just for a moment I'll be transported to another time, another place. As much as I rely on my sight, touch, and taste, none of those tend to have that type of power over my heart. But I beginning to wonder if my ears aren't right up there with my nose. And we're not talking anatomically speaking.
Sitting in the airport watching and listening to things around me I overheard a conversation behind me about a high school hockey player who got a Division 1 scholarship from St. Cloud State. Peterson I believe the gentleman behind me said the kid's name was. The more he talked the more I listened, not because I care a whit about Division 1 hockey (particularly St. Cloud State) but because the man was talking in a familiar voice- both in it's cadence and it's timbre. I said to myself that it sounded an awful lot like Kevin McHale (who always sounded an awful lot like Gerald O'Keefe, my brother's best friend in junior high). I craned my neck and had to crane it some more because indeed it was Mr. McHale, with his familiar Frankenstein like noggin sitting about three feet above my own.
I amazed myself by recognizing McHale's voice from behind me but maybe I recognized it because my antenna was already up, primed to hear the voice of an artist that is in my pantheon of musicians.
Fittingly as I was waiting for my flight I had been planning on listening to the new Lucinda Williams CD I had picked up the day before. I was anxious to really listen to the disc because the only chance I had to listen to it the day before was at work, turned down real low on my PC and I couldn't much make out the words, which is kind of a major drawback when listening to Lucinda. But nonetheless her voice, that sometimes twangy, often times sultry and always vulnerable (but in an aggressive way) always gets me and listening to the music turned way down still had its impact on me.
The most impressive thing about World Without Tears is that the most impressive thing is her voice. It has never sounded better, more full of ache and sorrow, more raw and tender. I could listen to the disc no matter what words she is singing- just for the sound of her singing. But of course as one of the better lyricists around, that would be selling the CD criminally short.
My favorite Lucinda fan has been all over Europe the past few weeks. Copenhagen, Athens, Prague, the southern part of France it sounds like quite the trip. And I thought it was a big step for me just to fly to Colorado Springs for a two-day seminar. There's an accurate photograph of our friendship somewhere in that juxtaposition. There's also a multitude of reasons why I can't wait for her to get back but one of the most important is I can't wait for her to hear World Without Tears because I know she'll appreciate the music as much as me and I dying to hear her impressions.
But alas she was halfway across the world and I was a stranger in a strange town trying to learn all about the new federal election law changes. I couldn't help thinking when sitting in that big conference room for hours that I just wanted to be back in my hotel room with its breathtaking view of Pikes Peak listening to the new Lucinda disc, and the new Jayhawks disc, the new Rosanne Cash disc, and the new disc featuring various artists covering Dylan's gospel songs (I have an aunt in Colorado who recently told my sister she had never heard of Bob!) knowing that there was probably few in the room who even had heard these artists let alone know anything about their music. Somehow for me the inspiring new work from some of our best artists seemed more important than helping America to vote.
I spent most of my time with a group of some my favorite local election officials and one evening I found myself at a Mexican restaurant. The hostess asked us if we wanted to sit out on the patio but some of us were afraid it would be a bit too chilly. When questioned if the patio area was any warmer from the weather we had just walked in from, the delightfully loopy young lass said, "It's the same temperature out back that it is out front." Made a lot of sense to me.
Sitting silently listening to conversations about dogs and cats and drinks and kids, a South Dakotan sarcastically asked me if I was always so talkative. I didn't want to tell her what was really on my mind- the voice from World Without Tears. It's not that I'm anti-social it's just that I didn't think anyone in the group would want to hear a rant best saved for these pages about the great new set of Lucinda songs, from the Patsy Cline-ish "Overtime," the heartbreaking "Those Three Days," and the wickedly sensual "Righteously." Indeed about the only thing on my mind in this not so far away place was the notion that this was the week that I gained a new criteria for any future Mrs. Maeda. After watching Lucinda perform "Righteously" on Leno the other night in a big furry hat, I knew that any future missus of mine would have to look that good in a similar hat- and have to have a voice capable of reaching so far inside.
Sitting in the airport watching and listening to things around me I overheard a conversation behind me about a high school hockey player who got a Division 1 scholarship from St. Cloud State. Peterson I believe the gentleman behind me said the kid's name was. The more he talked the more I listened, not because I care a whit about Division 1 hockey (particularly St. Cloud State) but because the man was talking in a familiar voice- both in it's cadence and it's timbre. I said to myself that it sounded an awful lot like Kevin McHale (who always sounded an awful lot like Gerald O'Keefe, my brother's best friend in junior high). I craned my neck and had to crane it some more because indeed it was Mr. McHale, with his familiar Frankenstein like noggin sitting about three feet above my own.
I amazed myself by recognizing McHale's voice from behind me but maybe I recognized it because my antenna was already up, primed to hear the voice of an artist that is in my pantheon of musicians.
Fittingly as I was waiting for my flight I had been planning on listening to the new Lucinda Williams CD I had picked up the day before. I was anxious to really listen to the disc because the only chance I had to listen to it the day before was at work, turned down real low on my PC and I couldn't much make out the words, which is kind of a major drawback when listening to Lucinda. But nonetheless her voice, that sometimes twangy, often times sultry and always vulnerable (but in an aggressive way) always gets me and listening to the music turned way down still had its impact on me.
The most impressive thing about World Without Tears is that the most impressive thing is her voice. It has never sounded better, more full of ache and sorrow, more raw and tender. I could listen to the disc no matter what words she is singing- just for the sound of her singing. But of course as one of the better lyricists around, that would be selling the CD criminally short.
My favorite Lucinda fan has been all over Europe the past few weeks. Copenhagen, Athens, Prague, the southern part of France it sounds like quite the trip. And I thought it was a big step for me just to fly to Colorado Springs for a two-day seminar. There's an accurate photograph of our friendship somewhere in that juxtaposition. There's also a multitude of reasons why I can't wait for her to get back but one of the most important is I can't wait for her to hear World Without Tears because I know she'll appreciate the music as much as me and I dying to hear her impressions.
But alas she was halfway across the world and I was a stranger in a strange town trying to learn all about the new federal election law changes. I couldn't help thinking when sitting in that big conference room for hours that I just wanted to be back in my hotel room with its breathtaking view of Pikes Peak listening to the new Lucinda disc, and the new Jayhawks disc, the new Rosanne Cash disc, and the new disc featuring various artists covering Dylan's gospel songs (I have an aunt in Colorado who recently told my sister she had never heard of Bob!) knowing that there was probably few in the room who even had heard these artists let alone know anything about their music. Somehow for me the inspiring new work from some of our best artists seemed more important than helping America to vote.
I spent most of my time with a group of some my favorite local election officials and one evening I found myself at a Mexican restaurant. The hostess asked us if we wanted to sit out on the patio but some of us were afraid it would be a bit too chilly. When questioned if the patio area was any warmer from the weather we had just walked in from, the delightfully loopy young lass said, "It's the same temperature out back that it is out front." Made a lot of sense to me.
Sitting silently listening to conversations about dogs and cats and drinks and kids, a South Dakotan sarcastically asked me if I was always so talkative. I didn't want to tell her what was really on my mind- the voice from World Without Tears. It's not that I'm anti-social it's just that I didn't think anyone in the group would want to hear a rant best saved for these pages about the great new set of Lucinda songs, from the Patsy Cline-ish "Overtime," the heartbreaking "Those Three Days," and the wickedly sensual "Righteously." Indeed about the only thing on my mind in this not so far away place was the notion that this was the week that I gained a new criteria for any future Mrs. Maeda. After watching Lucinda perform "Righteously" on Leno the other night in a big furry hat, I knew that any future missus of mine would have to look that good in a similar hat- and have to have a voice capable of reaching so far inside.
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