Peradventure, Somebody's Confused Miracle in the Backyard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Eyed Ingenue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary and Aimee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong Eyed Jesus

Words don't suffice. They may have once but that stopped at some point, at some time that I don't even remember. I've been feeling dead inside since right around the time Buffy's mom died. A series of events both real and imagined left me overwhelmed and the end result is you don't feel way too much to handle as you might expect after some big life events, but rather as a necessity you don't feel anything at all.

And I don't think I'm alone in this. As you get older and life beats down on you there are times you just have to shut down and let your defenses take over. Living in a time when no one seems to get upset that our news media has fallen in such a state of disrepair that phony news is now accepted as being OK and that phony reporters who ask phony questions at White House press conferences don't set off any more alarms than news columnists paid off to shill a political agenda. Hopefully this is a temporary state of affairs and the bone deep cut doesn't end up as an I've fallen scar.

And you know what I've found? That the little things I might have once taken for granted now mean a little bit more to me. A couple of weeks ago the coffee place across the street from my house began selling sushi. Of course it's not the stuff you can get at a good Japanese restaurant- it's mostly fake crab meat or tofu wrapped in tasteless rice served with mild wasabi and stale ginger. Still I find myself wandering over there quite a bit more than I used to and whenever I do I end up happily purchasing the new product. One package doesn't quite make a meal for me so I eat it with a serving of those really cheap ramen noodles you can buy at any chain grocery store.

Maybe it's my feeble attempt to feel just a little bit more Japanese but I'm quite enjoying my new diet. There's little raw fish (an occasional piece of the coffee shop sushi has a little piece of raw tuna in it) and my favorite pieces contain cream cheese so along with the cookie cutter (probably really bad for you) grocery store ramen it's not like I'm going to authentically turn Japanese any time soon. But nonetheless it sure beats a Big Mac or a Arby's roast beef sandwich any day of the week.

The other thing going on in my life that makes me more aware of the soulless funk I've been in (and being way too aware of the state of things) is that I think I may be falling in love with music all over again.

It started when my family bought me an iPod for my 40th birthday last fall. Yes I've heard all the criticisms of the device- that it steals your soul, that owning one is giving in to the corporate sellout to the almighty Apple god, but I don't care. I've loaded most of my favorite CDs and all of my favorite songs and I hit the shuffle button and am in an all day "I love this music" atmosphere. How wonderful is it to be at work and have a Sarah Vaughn song come up next to a Liz Phair song right after Willie Nelson segues into Outkast?

That said, with the unveiling of Minnesota Public Radio's 89.3- The Current!- I must admit I'm just about ready to say that my iPod is so yesterday. Those same wacky juxtapositions of a variety of eclectic artists has become the station's greatest quality (among many to choose from). In my stupor state of mind I have noticed a couple of politically related things: that people with John Kerry bumper stickers are some of the worst drivers and; that most of MPR's attempts at being funny are really annoying. (With the occasional exception of Garrison Keillor and the all the time exemption of This American Life). The network's quiz show Wait Wait Don't Tell is an excellent example of this. It is perhaps the least funny thing I've heard in my life as hard as they try.

Thus I wasn't holding out much hope when MPR announced that they were going to be changing one of their classical music stations to an "alternative music" format. I feared an attempt at being hip would fall equally on its face as the awful attempts they make at humor. But the station plays all the time in my car now. The best thing I can say about 89.3 The Current! is not that it's great that they play Devandra Banhart, but it's great that I'm not surprised that they play Devandra Banhart.

So I've stopped listening to the news and rediscovered how great a great song can be. This may mean I will become temporarily less aware of what is going on in the world but it also means I will likely become more aware of what is going on inside of me and I think that for awhile that is a tradeoff I'm willing to make.

Addendum: I've even started playing the piano again on a regular basis. The newcomer to these premises, Theo the Third Cat has quickly let me know what he thinks of my piano playing. Every time I bang out a Barry Manilow song Theo climbs inside the piano and sits on the hammers so the felt covered devices can't rise and fall upon the dreadfully out of tune piano strings. This effectively brings a quick end to the cacophony and my impromptu midnight performances.

What Ever Happened to the Girl in Me?

News last fall of the closing of First Ave didn't make me as sad as it maybe should have. It's not a venue I've ever terribly enjoyed seeing a show at, from being jostled and groped and surrounded by really bad dancers and people who think their conversations are more important than the music on the stage, to the dark and smoky atmosphere, it's a place that I'd always tolerated watching a show more than anything else. If it weren't for the intimacy of the place- and the quality of acts it attracts- and the historical significance of the club- I'm not sure I would have missed it all that much if it never opened again.

Sure I've seen plenty of memorable shows there- from L7 in 1993 to Freedy Johnston in 1998 to the Jayhawks, Liz Phair, Wilco, and Lucinda Williams in various appearances but I'd never seen a great show there until last Friday night.

Growing up we had a term for rock music that was sonically impressive. We said it blew the roof off the dump. Friday, the Ike Reilly Assassination blew the roof off the dump during a scorching set that had everybody boppin and singing along.

From the opening reflective "St. Joe's Band" to the chaotic closing cover of the Pogues "If I Should Fall From Grace with God" where Ike did a passing Shane MacGowan imitation (right on down to being in a rather lubricated state), the IRA never let up with penetrating rocking good guitar based music that held your soul hostage and proved if nothing else great rock and roll music is as good a reason to exist in this world as anything else.

Reilly is as charismatic a performer as he is a songwriter, a nearly impossible trick to pull off. In song after song he creates a world of chaos and disorder where drink, drugs, and attitude help make some sense of politics, women, and all the trouble lacking (and sometimes having) money can cause. His music makes one want to get into the car, crank up the tunes and live the life of whatever is to be, no matter where the road ahead leads. In recent years I've come to use Ike as my standard to judge how good a music store is. If they carry his CDs I can proceed to shop. If they actually have his CDs in stock, they clearly are paying attention to what they need to be paying attention to.

The first highlight of the show packed with so many was the second song that may have been new (or really old) which had a refrain about maybe how an assassination could be OK if you apologize afterward. Reilly poured his heart out in the bit about how the union girls didn't like paying their dues that were put towards buying uniforms especially since shortly after the factory closes down. With an unexplainable lack of business success the working class message in many of Ike's songs takes on added authenticity.

My favorite song of the evening however was a cover of Dylan's "From a Buick 6." Reilly has covered the song in every show I've seen of his and each time the song gathers more and more power. It's the only Dylan cover that for me is better than the original and the original is darn good.

I also particularly liked the version of "Holiday in New York" my favorite song from the latest CD, Sparkle in the Finish. The song takes us on a typical Reillyesque journey of lusting after a toll booth worker and some sexual difficulty to a cynical look at a particular Memorial Day experience to an ultimate drug based encounter with an old friend. The refrain of the song "It's starting to look like a con game to me now..." was sung with stinging sincerity.

Before launching into "Last Time" Ike explained the band was against two things- racism and sexual malfunction (or at least one of the two for the past four days). He said the song was about the importance of always speaking your mind and then the band managed to raucously live up to that revelatory introduction.

2004 Woman of the Year

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

Because of the fiasco of last year's Newsletter Woman of the Year process, Congress passed several law changes to address some of the issues that caused such controversy. The laws were meant to eliminate shoddy voting equipment and discriminatory administrative practices that kept committee members from casting their votes.

The result? More scrutiny over the process and less scrutiny over the actual candidates. As usual there were two major candidates (and as it will be revealed- no major differences between the two) and several minor candidates. The minor candidates were dismissed almost immediately because they weren't seen as having a viable chance winning even though they were the ones raising the important issues though they might as well been spitting into the wind for all the good it did them.

Among this group of candidates were all those involved in the BALCO steroids scandal. Regular readers of the newsletter, once they awaken from their naps, likely have noticed an obvious change in these pages since around 1996. For those wondering how the newsletter has kept appearing week after week for going on to 13 years- use of performance enhancing substances long rumored became obvious and confirmed publicly this fall. The editor's ensuing excuse of not knowing what the cream he's been rubbing on his belly seemed disingenuous at best.

Another candidate that the committee considered if only for a brief moment was George W. Bush. What is the deal with the endearing if not goofy way he over enunciates certain words as if he is learning them for the first time? David Letterman had a one off video spot called "Bush Shows Off" that showed our President speaking to a crowd saying that he had eaten KOYHBAY beef with Prime Minister KWIIZOOMEE. And then he breaks into his goofy smirk. It was the darndest video clip of the campaign- a reminder that we should all just grin at this lil affable fellow's antics.

Yet another minor candidate considered for the top honor was former indie-rocker Liz Phair. Just as her music almost tries too hard to get her hardcore fans to label her as the penultimate sellout, her clothes get skimpier and skimpier as if there's some perverse connection between the two. Yet she still has a way with words and her minor league wannabe Madonna act is quite charming because who can actually resist the catchy "Why Can't I" that informs us she was already wet before she went swimming?

Dan Rather was also considered because of the notion that bloggers brought him down that has spread from the Internet to mainstream media much like much of the news from campaign 2004 did. The basis of Rather's undoing was reporting on a story of our President's military career that was based on what turned out to be phony documents. Ironically just when Rather got the frequency right it was just then his wacky homespun Texas metaphors were too liberal, went a bit too far. In other words who cares about the story if what led us from here to there is more interesting?

So despite all the blogging and vote fixing it came down to two. The runner up was Ms. Martha Stewart herself, the queen of artificial homespun goodness because each and every one of the committee members felt bad that Martha was sent away for lying about a crime she never committed. Yes there are more legitimate political prisoners (Thank You! Mr. Ashcroft!) but Martha was the classic example of how our government has to make an example out of somebody in times of trouble. Yes the boys and gals from Enron destroyed actual people, and yes there might actually be just as much indifference in corporate America as there is in the much maligned public sector but goll darn it we gotta lock up Martha because someone's gotta pay! Besides, she's got seven kitties so how bad can she really be?

So the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee rifled through the hanging chads grassroots impassioned, yet ultimately hot air blown pleas, and came to a decision that could almost be called a mandate what with 50.0001 percent of the committee's support- a decision that will reverberate through the years what with the judicial subcommittee's appointment to the ultimate Newsletter Woman of the Year's Committee process hanging in the balance... Our winner in 2004? The Apple iPod. Why? Because it allows us all to tune everything out and just listen to our music. Repeat- OUR MUSIC. That it allows us to do that while changing the music biz itself should be seen as less a threat to the retail portion (and social strata) of our society as it is the opportunity that it really is. Take your iPod ladies and germs, and take your music with you wherever you wanna go. Shuffle Sinatra and Hole. Mix Dylan with Bananarama. Go ahead and listen to all that can and already has change(d) you. Just do it.

A Portrait of Everyday Eddie

Great art often times is born out of pain. Likewise great art can also inflict pain with its insight and eye (and wound) opening familiarity.

A good example of both is one of my all-time favorite CDs, John Lennon's Plastic Ono Band. The music portrays Lennon's feelings about the Beatles breaking up, the need for the Beatles to break up, his alienation about the world's rejection/revulsion of his relationship with Yoko Ono, and the after effects of his recent Primal Scream therapy where he literally tried to scream out the demons of hurts past- going all the way back to the death of his mother in his childhood.

It's an emotionally searing CD, difficult to listen to in life's lighter moments and as deeply personal and painful as the music is, it ultimately always leaves me feeling like I do after a long cry- sad, drained but somehow refreshed at finally letting out (and go) of some of the pain. Lennon screams and whimpers (and whispers) his way through music used as a cathartic device. The songs aren't as universal as say Lennon's best Beatles work like "In My Life" or "I Should Have Known Better" yet it is a fascinating study of an artist using his art to painfully express himself.

I kept thinking about this while watching Mike Nichols' new film Closer. The movie is not a pleasant viewing experience. It's basic purpose seems to be to make the viewer feel uncomfortable as we watch four not so nice people manipulate and hurt each other in malicious ways.

These people know the concepts of love and intimacy yet they don't seem to believe in the benefits of either.

I went to Closer with the New York Bound Blue-eyed Editor and she of course was the most appropriate one of my friends to go with since one of the great things about our relationship is the ability to talk about the relationships in our lives. After a tasty sushi dinner at the impressively refurbished Sakura in downtown St. Paul (where she made the observation the restaurant was full of very old people and very attractive young women) we were off to the movie.

Closer isn't exactly a date movie, more of a cinematic portrayal of what Liz Phair sings about in her "Divorce Song." "It's better to be friends than lovers/And you shouldn't try and mix the two/Because if you do it andyou're still unhappy/Then you know that the problem is you..." except one could argue that none of the characters in the film is a friend of any of the others.

Just like the state of the fish I had just eaten- the movie is full of raw emotion as two couples (played by Julia Roberts, Jude Law, Natalie Portman, and Clive Owen) screw with each other both literally and figuratively. Based on a play by Patrick Marber- Nichols' doesn't quite successfully transfer the story on to film- it feels staged and the dialogue driven story makes it feel like these actresses and actors are acting their brains out making us care even less about utterly unlikable characters.

But Closer is well made, thought provoking and ultimately a movie that etches its way into your psyche and irritates as it enlightens. Maybe none of us is quite capable of behaving as cruelly and selfishly as these characters yet there is something ever so recognizable about our ever present ability to hurt (and devastate) those that care about us most (and vice versa). Closer clearly cements the point that some people tell the truth in difficult circumstances despite the fact it will hurt another, others do the same precisely because they know it will hurt the other. And the consequences can be equally severe. Any revelations gained by the characters comes way too late. Or as Roger Ebert accurately writes in his thumbs up review of the movie, "Is there anything more pathetic than a lover who realizes he (or she) really is in love, after all the trust has been lost, all the bridges burnt and all the reconciliations used up?"

********

A better example of art as a painful experience is the BBC television series The Office. The 12 episode show is a devastating portrayal of human behavior in the workplace setting of a paper merchant.

Having heard and read great things about the series (including glowing recommendations from the Reporter and her husband The Attorney and also David Letterman who said that after having watched the show he didn't need to watch any more TV since nothing could ever be better), I have to admit my high expectations were not met by the first few episodes.

My measuring stick for television excellence of course is Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Office as clever as it is, doesn't have the emotional layers of the best Buffy episodes. The humor of the show (brought out effectively by the pseudo-documentary style) is based on how unaware human beings can be of the way others truly view each other. Ricky Gervais plays the manager of the office, David Brent, note perfect as David who thinks he is beloved by his staff couldn't be a bigger putz. The rest of the cast of the show is equally stellar, particularly Mackenzie Crook who plays the militaristic Gareth Keenan, Brent's assistant manager who is perhaps the most likable TV creep of all time.

The Office isn't exactly situational based comedy as the storylines are organic and subtle. Rather the plots are character driven often times based on the childish observations of David and Gareth. Yet it isn't exactly humor based on stupid behavior; instead the show makes you uncomfortable at how utterly clueless the characters are about their own behavior. The show doesn't seem to want to make you laugh comfortably but rather laugh nervously as you cringe at the dynamics of the interactions of the workplace.

The heart of The Office comes from a not to be, and at times painfully mis-timed romance between the two most sympathetic characters, Tim and Dawn. Tim sits next to Gareth and spends half of his time egging on his co-worker's worst tendencies and the other half of the time astounded by Gareth's sometimes rather psychotic thoughts. Dawn, the receptionist seems at a loss at what to do about her life, her relationships (she's engaged to an obnoxious warehouse worker) and her feelings for Tim.

The show's funniest moments are when David does something he thinks will make him more liked, but his behavior is absurdly inappropriate and the others in the office just stare at him in disbelief. The show is good at bringing the viewer into a familiar place htat exists in a thousand other places yet turning the situation on its head and deriving laughs from how painful human interaction (and the lack thereof) can be.

My favorite of the twelve episodes (not counting the superb finale) is an episode where David is hired to be a motivational speaker for those looking to get ahead in business. He says all the same mumbo jumbo business speak that is spoken at every business seminar held anywhere in the world but as he tries to work the stunned audience up with his brand of humor and entertainment he just leaves everybody's mouth agape at his ever so terribly misplaced energy.

Yet the serie's big payoff is extremely effective because the humor is so deeply rooted in pain reminding us of the close relationship between tragedy and comedy. We laugh because the alternative is to squirm. Thus in the final moments as a light bulb illuminates in David's heretofore clueless mind, it truly is a touching thing to watch and feel.

How to Grow Old and Stay Hip OR How to Avoid Having Your Hip Replaced

Last summer my family helped my niece Megan turn 21 by giving her an iPod for her birthday. This past week, Megan made me chortle aloud when she sent me a thank you card. "Thank you for the iPod. I love it!" she wrote. "I can't believe that you can put 3,000 songs on it and it still weighs the same!" Megan clearly demonstrated that she got the sense of humor in our family.

Likewise for my 40th birthday my family helped me celebrate by buying me an iPod (and proving Megan is 19 years ahead of me). And like my niece I gotta say that I love the device. It has already changed my life.

I will say that having read all the glowing accounts of the iPod over the past few years I was skeptical. I remember when I was in high school and Sony came out with their first Walkman, my parents were kind enough to buy me one to keep me hip to my generation. It was the size of a Bible but it was so cool to be able to walk around outside the house and listen to MY music. Thanks to Sony the dreariness of my senior year of high school was punctuated by my own personal soundtrack playing in my ears.

The iPod is to the Walkman what the telephone was to the telegraph. First the thing looks damn cool. It's a little bit smaller than a baseball card and it's got such a sleek light look that even my over abundant dorkiness quotient is minimized by my carrying it around.

I've already downloaded (or is that uploaded?) over 100 of my CDs on to the iPod and to have that much of my personal music collection at my fingertips at all times is great. It even makes the 70 hour work weeks not so overwhelming to be able to dial up one of my favorite songs whenever I want to.

Of course Megan's joke doesn't quite work in my circumstances because how to best begin using the iPod weighed me down in moments of sheer panic. First, I had to decide what CD would get the honor of being the first on my new treasure. After much thought I chose Ike Reilly's new CD Sparkle in the Finish simply because prior to receiving my gift it was the CD that was getting my constant attention. Next, knowing that it would take me some time to fill up my iPod I had to figure out what order I was going to follow in transferring my CDs. This was where things really got tricky.

My listening habits over the years have developed thusly: there are about 50 CDs in my collection that get played all the time. There are another 10-15 that get played a lot but don't quite qualify as highly as the first group. There are then those new purchases that get a play or two a day for a week as I decide whether or not they mean anything to me. There are another couple hundred that get grabbed once in awhile just before work mainly because there is a song that I just need to hear that day.

Of course my music collection is skewed towards a few favorite artists: Bob Dylan, Frank Sinatra, Liz Phair, Lucinda Williams, etc. Their music eventually was the first batch I put on the iPod. The process itself became great fun as I somehow managed to rediscover my love of Sinatra's music in particular. Yes I'm an old man but I dare you to listen to Frank's version of "It Never Entered My Mind" and try to feel things quite the same ever again.

The other thing I re-discovered is what a great songwriter John Hiatt is. After downloading my collection of his CDs, I marveled at how even how when his lesser known songs come up when I hit the shuffle option on iPod how glad I am to hear that particular song again. The man simply has a marvelous way with words.

I did decide that as I enter the era of a looming AARP membership that I will continue to try and stay in tune with what the kids are listening to. And it doesn't hurt the matter any to listen to their music on the forum that is the latest technology. Yes the iPod may already have become my latest obsession but I'm not alone. Not this time anyway.

Idle Melancholy

Ike asks the musical question, if they are "angels or if they are whores?..." Yikes Ike!

The far from endless summer of 1986 was the last summer before the end of the academic sector of my career. I was feeling a bit adrift and it was the first time in my life not even music seemed to lessen the feeling of a fog like blues I couldn't quite shake. (And as regular readers of the newsletter can attest I'm usually such an upbeat chipper little bird. Some even have come to refer to me as Cap'n Happy.)

That summer three of the then artists who achieved the status of I buy everything new that they release, released new LP's within a month or two of each other. Yet the news of new releases from Paul McCartney and Paul Simon couldn't even get me off my rump and down to the neighborhood Cheapo. It took the release of the first new Bob Dylan LP since I had become a big time fan, Knocked Out Loaded, to convince me I needed some new music in my life.

Bringing my bag o' new music home I must admit my mood took a decidedly noticeable upswing. On my drive home I tried to decide which of the three new LPs I would listen to first. Since I had the highest anticipation for Dylan's I decided I would save his for last. Since I had the least anticipation for Simon's I decided that I would first listen to McCartney's Press to Play first.

I carefully placed the vinyl on my stereo (a Miida one piece component complete with radio, 8-track player, and turntable) and the first song, "Stranglehold" sounded promising enough. But as I made my way through the song cycle on side one it became quite apparent that the music in a word, sucked. Macca gets in trouble when he decides he has to be an artist with a capital "A" and produce what he considers avant garde art. Songs like "Pretty Little Head" and "Talk More Talk" are not only dreadful, but they drain the soul right out of you mighty quick. The whole thing was overproduced and overwrought with wannabe significance.

Strike one.

One look at him and she seemed to somehow see his soul was broken. They hadn't seen each other in a couple of years and she shows up looking elegant, tan, and rested. He shows up with a there to see for anyone who looked too closely, transparent spiritual state of being.

The night before he had come home and gotten drunk after having spent a hell of a lotta energy making love with the Brazilian beauty from the mountains with the perfect peaks. Their time together was electrically charged and yet he knew things seemed like they were just going through the motions.

Good lawd oll mayte!

Feeling even more sad than ever before I bumped up Dylan in the order of things. I gotta say the LP that made me a lifetime Dylan fan was his previous LP, 1985's Empire Burlesque, much maligned by just about everyone under the sun. Compared to that carefully produced effort, Knocked Out Loaded sounded like a complete throwaway- something that could have been made in a drunken stupor and in a day. The songs don't connect and the 11 minute epic "Brownsville Girl" sounds like a car wreck waiting to happen. At the time it sorta depressed me but since whenever I play that CD in my bluer moments it never fails to produce a smile. "Even the swap meets around here are getting pretty corrupt," Bob sez/sings seemingly without a smirk on his weathered face.

Strike two looking.

Simon's Graceland was a whole other story. The foreign sounding music caught me completely off guard. And the juxtaposition of the overly thoughtful (and ever thought provoking) lyrics with the joyful music was pure musical enchantment. As I sat laying on the furry heat absorbing lime green shag carpet of my bedroom, back up in a beam of sunlight, the music thankfully took me to a far away, cooler, and getaway place.

A tape measure home run that one.

Fast forward 18(!) years later to the summer of 2004. There's been far too little softball playing, and I'm far too busy to appreciate a Minnesota Twins season that will culminate in their fourth World Series appearance (you heard it here first) and music? Who has time to listen?

Thus the list of CDs on my must hear list has been growing rather rapidly. Last Sunday in a far too late return trip to my neighborhood Cheapo I finally added four discs that I knew would eventually make their place into my collection, but hadn't yet for one reason or another. Each of the discs come from an artist whose work I've come to respect and admire for somewhat different reasons.

Just like a decade and a half(!) before, I found myself driving home trying to figure out the listening order because I desperately needed something/anything to lift my soul and spirits if only for a fleeting moment. Upon racing my this is now cat Diego-san up the flight of stairs to the recently completed Upper Wing of my house I decided the first disc to be played was Brian Wilson's Gettin' In Over My Head simply because the day before I made the pricy decision that I would buy a ticket to Wilson's Orpheum show where he is giving a live performance of the phantom greatest LP of all time (the one that's never quite been finished) the Beach Boys' long lost, and much written about Smile.

As sunny and surfin' as most of the most famous Beach Boy catalog is, Wilson has always endeared himself personally to me due mostly to his sad songs. Brian Wilson's sad songs are the saddest songs ever written. They are heart and gut wrenching personified, and thankfully forever inspiring in demonstrating how a wounded soul still has a remarkable capacity of self healing.

And that is why upon first listen the new CD revealed the no need to peel back the absolute, undiluted drivel. If this was music written by a teenager it would still sound juvenile. Coming from a sixty-year-old mentally abused, drug zonked out, and psychologically damaged survivor (and who would have ever thought that was possible?) the more stupid than stupefying songs aren't the least bit intriguing like I expected them to be. Wilson's has pulled off the trick of sounding like a crazed "does this guy really have functioning brain- I gotta listen to find out" before with his contributions to the Beach Boys' great 1974 LP The Beach Boys Love You where the songs are full of such childlike and childish lyrics that one can't help but think it's all a wonderful little joke and his first solo effort, 1988's Brian Wilson where Brian was (it was later revealed) under the cult like influence of his psychiatrist, Eugene Landy, cutoff from family and friends.

But the new CD isn't merely an effort to sound childlike and stupid. It is stupid. And insipid. And the effort put in goes far beyond the end result. Ick.

After they were done they lie together in bed, naked and she told him of the house she bought in Brazil and how she wanted to sell it but that any potential buyer was likely too poor to afford it. She came to the United States to help her ailing grandmother who broke her arm and thus couldn't keep her job as a cleaning woman. Her grandmother believed in the ethic of hard work and getting to where you want to get by your own efforts so to be out of work was killing her and depressing her at the same time.

He looked deeply into the overwhelming beauty of the nude young woman's eyes. It was a moment of true connection though he somehow sensed they were never going to see each other ever again.

Going to the wedding as a couple on a "date" was all her idea but he was thrilled that she had asked. He told his co-workers of his weekend plans and asked if dancing was to be expected and how she might feel if he declined. (He wanted his hands nowhere near her). They told him he better dance even if she held a blue belt in kickboxing.

So I adjusted the order of the discs I was going to listen to. Originally I thought I would play Los Lobos' The Ride next because of how the band over the years has been so dependable, workmanlike, and how their music never fails to be worth listening to. Instead I decided I would play the CD I most wanted to hear from the stack I bought, Wilco's A Ghost is Born.

Now I must admit I've never been an adoring Wilco fan like others I know. Yes, my copy of Being There has been worn out and I'd put it on my short list of greatest double discs ever released. But the follow-up, way too arty for its own good Summerteeth hardly ever finds its way in my CD player and their last major label won't release it because it's not commercial enough, so we'll do the admirable thing and do it all ourselves and make a great story out of it all, it's so great it will make a movie, Yankee Foxtrot Hotel, took many listens before I finally warmed up to it. (What is with all the production tricks when the songs could have spoke for themselves?)

And my first listen to A Ghost is Born made me fall asleep in the long lost sunny light beaming in from the skylight of the new addition to the place I call home these days yet I haven't been home enough to truly enjoy it, in blissful sadness if such a thing exists (and doesn't exist every night, night after night). The third song, a ten minute opus called "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" lives up to its title with its sinewy web like and hypnotic if not way too precious we know we are artists groove. The eight song later fifteen minute opus "Less Than You Think" doesn't fare as well. Not even close (not a cigar for the lads here). The electronic drone that makes up for most of the time occupied by the "song" is beyond annoying. It's Tweedy and gang thumbing their upturned noses in an effort to let us know they are a step or two ahead of us (and quite willing to remind us of that). But noise made isn't art just because the noise producer tells us it is (just go ask Lou Reed if he still thinks Metal Machine Music is his shining misunderstood moment of if it is just someone under the influence of something thinking he/she knows something we others can't possibly know and thus must prove it by doing something far too easy but in its easiness it creates an inherent uneasiness that by being what it is, it is art).

There's a word for the music on A Ghost is Born and it isn't art, it's crap. Yes the title insinuates something haunting and the group tries hard to produce. But Wilco needs a serious shot of humor somewhere and sometime. Seriously. What, after all, is musically asked, would we be without wishful thinking?

He arrived at the fort's chapel way too early and feeling way too hungover from many a thing from the previous night. He saw her in the distance as he was talking to someone else he really wanted to talk to. Entering the chapel together, he strolled behind her, as she was escorted to an empty pew by an usher. They caught up. She'd been through a hurricane. He'd been through some troubling winds of his own (making).

The wedding ceremony was touching and brief. At the reception that followed the two truly caught up and she asked him where his faith now was at these days.

The not expected downward spiral continued with the new Los Lobos disc. The Ride features guest appearances by notable musicians like Tom Waits, Richard Thompson, Elvis Costello, and Bobby Womack but I don't need to hear collaborations with the group. They are good enough themselves. It's all very professional, it's all very well produced, but nothing changed nothing inside. As I tried my best to understand I simply couldn't stop asking why Cesar or David couldn't sing the songs contained on the pressed disc?

This wasn't exactly what I expected (or needed). Thus I moved to the disc I knew couldn't disappoint because despite his inherent quirkiness, he doesn't seem to be doing it to impress, it's just the way he is, Devandra Banhart.

Why does the nonsensical deliberate stream of consciousness work for Banhart but not Wilco? Self consciousness I suppose. One tries the other just does.

This is as close to polished as I suspect Banhart will ever get. It's all recorded in a studio (rather than at home like his other CDs) and there is even an orchestral backing on a couple of the tracks.

The lyrics seem impenetrable yet that's their charm. I love the Elvis references sprinkled throughout something called "Poughkeepsie." My favorite track, "The Body Breaks" describes the aging process (something I'm keenly aware of these days) with such surgical precision that it cuts to the bone. My second favorite track, "This Beard is for Siobhan" with it's refrain of having a "real good time" is sung with such strength and conviction that one absolutely believes it can be true even if one is lying in the stifling summer air not believing a word of it.

The false start and giggling stop of "Todo Los Dolores" is made up for the seemingly perfect Spanish annunciation that follows I don't know a word of it but I believe everything Banhart sings.

He tried to explain how lost he felt, how his religion had so weirdly (and probably inappropriately been summed up by season six of the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Buffy comes back from the dead, brought back by well meaning friends, but torn from a heavenly peace, only to feel completely dead inside). She asked if his lost of faith (just kinda like Buffy's) was related to the death of his mother.

Yes, he said, that might have been part of it. He just didn't know how to feel anymore and didn't know if he really wanted to. She told him to read the Bible and promised to email significant passages to him. He ate a shrimp or two (you are what you eat), tried to act like it could make a difference and then on his drive home paid particular attention to how he felt when he shifted into a new gear in his breaking down car.

Is it somehow wrong to want, no expect music to save my dying soul? When I'm sitting in a throng of people listening intently to one of my favorite artists (Lucinda Williams or Liz Phair say) is it too much to expect it to be a life defining moment? Did I not once have those at least a couple of times a year?

Buying CDs these days isn't on the list of top priorities yet every time I do I want to be changed at the very least, elevated to another place in a perfect world. I just have to keep reminding myself that has always been a lifelong expectation whether the carpet is green and shaggy, or looped and fully of cat hair.

How I Yearn to Grow Up to Someday be a Chick with an Attitude

I was driving to work early Wednesday morning thinking that it was way too soon to return to the office feeling like I had just been there not that long ago. Here I had left late the night before, burning memory cards and the midnight oil with the repressed actress and original chick with an attitude. Now here I was returning, making what just about felt like a soul sucking loopy U-turn. Not that I'd ever complain.

Quite deliberately my choice for music for the don't want to do it this one more time drive was a Liz Phair compilation I burned for the blue-eyed editor last summer. In the moment the particular song that thankfully perked up my ears was "Red Light Fever" from her not so new now but feels like it was new way back then, CD, Liz Phair. Maybe it was my sleep deprived state of mind but the song hit me like never ever before- a catchy little ditty that asks the musical (and most accurate and pertinent question imaginable) "How are you going to make it through the year?"

A mere 14 hours later I found myself with the wise blue-eyed editor standing at our seats, 20 feet away from Liz listening to her sing that very same song at the Orpheum. I swear Liz looked right in my eyes when she sang, "Lying awake in the dark/Trying to figure out where you are/Always going nowhere/Afraid of going somewhere/And somewhere's a place in your heart..."

Liz was the closing act of a show billed as "Chicks with an Attitude." The first two "chicks" were Charlotte Martin who added a new dimension to the word pretentious, and Katy Rose who the blue-eyed editor turned to me after the set was over and said exactly what I was thinking. "That was what I imagine sitting through an Avril Lavigne show would feel like." Granted, both Martin and Rose lived up to the show's billing. The third act, the Cardigans, proved to be a major step up, delivering a tight set full of catchy little tunes (tho' the only one with an apparent attitude was the bass player who was in a cool place all by himself).

Liz Phair, original as she still is, put the capital C&A in the term "Chick with an Attitude." She entered to the pounding buzz saw power chords of "Flower" where she persuaded us all she still wants is a "fresh young jimmy ramming slamming jamming in me" and closed her performance assuring us that a certain white bodily fluid is indeed the fountain of youth. In between, she gave a better performance than either the other two she's given in this town the past year. The band was tighter (better bass player) and her confidence was evident in the grin she wore all night along with a nice snug outfit.

The crowd was shockingly young- the blue-eyed editor was born in 1980 (the year I got my driver's license) and even she was probably on the upper edge age-wise of all the overall ticket buyers. (I swear the kid in front of us was no more than eight or nine- and he scored a Katy Rose autograph program). And yes maybe it's because with age comes a necessary nudge toward nostalgia but what was apparent to me throughout the evening was that Liz's older songs (like "Never Said" and "Divorce Song") are still heads and shoulders (and all other body parts) above her newer material. Hard as they rocked (or as hard as Liz tried to make us) songs like "Bionic Eyes" and "Love/Hate" just don't resonate with the impact as "Fuck and Run" or "Polyester Bride."

That said the highlight of the evening was the juxtaposition of my new favorite Liz song, "Extraordinary" (serving as a personal little theme for a variety of reasons- "I am extraordinary/If you really get to know me/I'm just your ordinary, average, everyday sane psycho..." -go ahead and sing that at the top of your lungs on your drive to work and tell me it isn't cathartic, or attend a Twins' game and hear it blaring over the way too loud Friday night speakers and tell me you'd ever thought you'd live to see the day where Liz was played in the sterile Metrodome) with one of her best songs ever , "Mesmerizing." The mocking tone of the former raises a smile but the sentiment of the latter still oozed out from every tiny inch of her frame throughout.

During an early song, the scratch yourself "Rock Me," Liz jumped down from the stage and danced with some of the patrons. Though I wasn't fortunate enough to personally participate I must say she did eventually get me out of my seat (like she stated was her overall goal for all during the evening). She is one of the few women remaining that has the ability to do that.

Go Tigers!/War Eagle

I've done a fair amount of traveling in my day. I've been to both coasts and all around the world to Japan. Still there is so much of this place that I still hope to see someday. I think China has to be a must see. The Middle East intrigues me almost as much as Australia/New Zealand (the place that exists in a faraway fantasy). And the book I'm currently reading, Theresia Lewis and Louis Bittrich's Betrayal in Mexico has certainly opened up my heart to that sunny dreamscape.

Yet in this mindset of wanting to be someplace else I have to admit I never thought I'd find myself in the American Deep South. Further I must also admit that I am a less than wide eyed bigot because just about all my thoughts about that region of our country have been influenced by Gomer Pyle, Green Acres, Jeff Foxworthy, and the Dukes of Hazzard. Thus when my boss and employer paid for and sent me to a class at Auburn University in Auburn, Alabama my nagging (and growing) bout of agoraphobia hit me stronger than ever before.

Part of my anxiety was due in part to having to fly into Atlanta alone and rent a car to drive two hours to Alabama. It was the most economical route to take. My first big break came in arriving at the Atlanta airport (billed as the busiest airport in the world) and asking the gal at Thrifty Rent a Car if they had anything with a CD player. (I needed to blast Ike Reilly as some kind of northern-rooted statement). All they had was some type of SUV and a Sebring convertible. I chose the latter though I'm not the type anyone will ever miss going topless.

On my way down I shunned Ike and blasted Liz Phair instead. The drive through the mostly tree-lined landscape was pleasant although I noticed that there were more than the usual fellow travelers that didn't seem to grasp the concept, the importance, especially on a four lane interstate, of slower traffic staying to the right. Danger came once in awhile as a large barreling semi tried to weave through the unnecessary congestion caused by someone unwilling to get over to the right.

Auburn is a city that is certainly centered on its university (and its university centered on its football team). The university is right smack in the middle of town and all the shops and restaurants are in walking distance of the campus. I stayed at the Auburn Hotel/Conference Center that was located across the street from the college's library. I arrived late in the afternoon and walked into town to try and find a bite to eat. I found a Chinese restaurant that had a most excellent shrimp dish- a combination of two dinners, one spicy the other tastefully spiced and I brought it back to my air-conditioned room and watched an awfully English dubbed TNT presentation of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Still etched in my mind were the embedded stars in the sidewalks of town that honored Auburn alum. Far from Hollywood I was glad I came across stars for Charles Barkley, Frank Thomas, and Bo Jackson. If only I had a camera.

The class I was taking was about the history and philosophy of democracy and not only did I find it endlessly fascinating it also reinforced the importance of my day job as an election official. Still what played on my mind was a question. What is the deal with none of the local TV anchor people having southern accents? If I were from that region I'd be offended that the Northerners got the better jobs while my Southern kinfolk were mere reporters at best.

I did have one hidden agenda on my trip. I wanted to for the first time taste grits. TV's Flo used it as an expletive and now I can honestly say I understand why. I had a side order of the dish with my over easy egg breakfast and I must say I wasn't too impressed. My cheesy grits were like really gritty malt-o-meal only with less taste. Later on I had some Cajun flavored crawfish that more than made up for that other southern based food. I was equally impressed by the hotel staff that demonstrated where the term "southern hospitality" came from. The attractive young southern belle who was the hostess of the hotel's restaurant remembered my room number (that they used to charge my meal to) by the third day of my stay. Yeah perhaps it had to do with I was the only Asian face in sight but she sure was nice.

At the hotel was also a group of Russian speaking guests and I really wondered why they were there. I didn't wonder too hard as I breathed in the intoxicating perfume of a rather attractive Russian blonde with more than Bullwinkley drawn good looks who sat close next to me on the hotel lobby couch one evening. Trotsky has nothing on me.

On the last day of class I had to give a presentation of a chapter of Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America. Knowing nothing better I nervously stepped to the podium and made a lady from Louisiana nearly hack up a lung when I opened my presentation with, "Chapter five is a short chapter so I have a short summary to give and I'm a very short person."

The return trip home to Minnesota was marred by the folks at Northwest Airlines. I arrived back in Atlanta two hours before my flight home and waited in the airport watching the folks walk by. About forty minutes before takeoff there was an announcement that the flight had been canceled. The airline put me up in a room in the nearby Sheraton and gave me some vouchers for food. I was able to enjoy one more memorable meal- a seared tuna fixed to perfection. But my rescheduled flight was scheduled to takeoff at 6:40 a.m. Eastern time meaning I had to wake up around 3 a.m. Central time in order to get back to the airport and get through security temporarily shoeless to catch my flight.

Thankfully the waiter at the Sheraton restaurant sensed my state of mind and alleviated my agitation and tenseness. Being one of the few dining and with a slight delay in getting my food the waiter came over and told me the reason for my wait was that the tuna I was going to get was "this thick" (holding his forefinger and thumb more than an inch apart). Sure enough when my last meal for the trip arrived it was as advertised. "You were right it is thick," I said more out of trying to be socially polite than anything else. "Yup that's Charlie," he said making me chuckle in a rare moment of knowing in this life exactly what someone else meant.

Just 10 in 2003

10) Get Fuzzy by Darby Conley- Recently I've sung the praises of my favorite comic strip as often and as loudly as I can. It's a comic whose humor is based on annoying behavior and it is a reminder that often the ones who annoy you the most (and the best) are the ones who often matter the most. I can't imagine beginning a day without first reading the newest installment.

9) Bob Dylan's "If You See Her Say Hello" at Somerset, Wisconsin- The rest of the concert was pretty typical Bob (in other words pretty darn good and idiosyncratic) made more special by finally going with the biggest Dylan fan I know. When he sang this tune from Blood on the Tracks with wacky new lyrics (something about a woman with blue hair) it was the best single moment of my summer.

8) John Hiatt 9/7 at the Zoo- Someday near the end of time someone will chronicle the history of American music and John Hiatt is sure to get a surprising to most mention. His catalog of songs is such that when he opened this show deep in the suburbs of Minnesota with the rollicking "Lincoln Town," it was one of dozens of great songs he could have sung that would have made my heart more glad than I can ever explain.

7) Dinner at the Melting Pot and then Connie Evingson's show at the Illusion Theater- I enjoyed yet another enjoyable evening with the one who remains my favorite person on the planet. Cheese fondue appetizer, meat fondue meal, and chocolate fondue dessert. My tummy ached. Then we enjoyed an evening of Beatles' songs performed in jazzy arrangements by the Twin Cities finest chanteuse (dressed in some fetching funky pants). But you wanna know the best part of this late spring night? That I got to spend it with my best friend, the one who always continues to be there for me just when I need it most.

6) "Hey Ya" Outkast- There is something so infectious and wonderful about this song that every time I hear it I almost feel like dancing. Yes it's cooler than cool- it's ICE COLD!

5) Lost in Translation- I went to this movie with my wise well beyond her time blue-eyed friend. Both of us had seen it before and both of us NEEDED to see it again. It's a story about a friendship. It's a story about being lost in a strange land and meeting someone who not only makes you not feel so alone but makes you feel if where you've been isn't the only place you have to go back to. It's also a story about an older man befriending a young woman. Geez, how could we relate?

4) Wilco, at the Rock the Garden at the Walker- Before the concert the smartest person I know (but is she truly intuitive?) and I strolled around the garden and she most memorably identified all the plants for me. We then stood waiting for the show to begin and a friend of hers came by. Then my friends came and stood with us. And then Wilco played, and played well and in many ways it was the warmest and most comfortable I felt all year.

3) Liz Phair at First Ave- Years back when Exile in Guyville first came out and blew my socks off (and as it turns out many others as well) I honestly didn't even know what Liz looked like. Then I discovered she's a drop dead gorgeous babe so when she sings about being a "blow job queen" I kind of get defensive about why she remains one of my all time favorite songwriters. Does anyone believe me that I love Liz's songs because she is perhaps about the most perceptive rock writer writing about the confusing nature of relationships? And for the record I like the new CD if only for the devastating song to her son (but in actuality for much much more). I enjoyed this concert more than any other this year.

2) Ike Reilly's Cars and Girls and Drinks and Songs EP- All five songs are superlative. All five songs make you wonder why this guy isn't the biggest thing in the music biz today.

1) Mr. Max- My best friend died this past year. I watched him gasp for his last breaths and each gasp tore the heart out of me. I've tried my best to move on, to remember the things about him that were so special to me. I've even welcomed two other cats into my house this year. But Max changed my very being, my very outlook. We shared a lot in our 12 years together and I still miss terribly the look he'd give me when I got home and how he drooled whenever he was happy.

The Brain Draining Play of Stumbling Mediocrity

There are those that don't need Halloween to be haunted, frightened, and spooked. Believe me, these days every day life does a good enough job. So here then are a few recommendations to escape and calm down if only quite temporarily:

Kimya Dawson's I'm Sorry That Sometimes I'm Mean: A CD from the lead singer of the Moldy Peaches (wouldn't that look great on a resume?) is a bit of a downer to say the least. She sings like a child but writes like someone whose scars stretch beyond the moon (and back). It's a hypnotizing song cycle with "Everything's Alright" worth a definite listen (typically here, Kimya sadly sings about spooning a guy and pretending to still be just friends) and "Hold My Hand" (a most devastating personal song about child abuse) making this CD a must hear (as difficult as that might be).

The Bangles' "Doll Revolution": Their first CD since 1988 the entire disc doesn't manage to hold one's attention (it's like it's like 1985 all over again!) but the title track, a cover of the Elvis Costello song proves the group still knows a good songwriter when it hears one (Alex Chilton, Bob Dylan, Jules Shear).

About a Boy: I usually don't care much for Hugh Grant but his performance here is note perfect. Grant plays a sleazy, yet charming, bachelor who stoops to anything including joining a single parents' group (despite falling short of qualifying) just to meet desperate women. He eventually befriends a young boy and learns a thing or two about how caring for someone/something other than one's self might actually be worth the risk. And who would have thunk that the song "Killing Me Softly" (one of the world's greatest soccer player's favorites) could ever mean quite so much?

8 Mile: Eminem's Rabbit is the Hugh Grant of About a Boy if that Hugh Grant once upon a time grew up on the wrong side of the Detroit tracks. Charming is what usually accompanies Mr. Grant's name be that as it may there is nothing charming about this particular movie. Gritty, coarse, and often mean spirited (much like Em's music!) what is truly fascinating about this movie is the mixture of realism, fiction, rewritten history, and fantasy. When the stunning "Lose Yourself" plays during the credits and Eminem mentions Mekhi Phifer and how this really ain't no movie and sings about losing himself in his music, it's quite inspiring stuff even for those of us who haven't quite met (though might be well on our way there) his anger level. That rascally rabbit- tricks are for eternally wannabe kids.

Bob Dylan's Saving Grace, Tunica, Mississippi, April 27, 2003: Gospel Bob pulls out a song he wrote 23 years ago when he was under the influence of born again Christianity. The song happens to be built upon one of my all time favorite Bob melodies but it's the lyrics here (and ever present quirky vocals) this time around that truly get to me. "I've escaped death so many times/I know I'm only living/By the saving grace that's over me..." He's banging out keys on his keyboard as he's carefully caressing the words about redemption. "By this time I'd-a thought I would be sleeping/In a pine box for all eternity/My faith keeps me alive, but I still be weeping/For the saving grace that's over me" For a moment or two it all, and I mean IT ALL, makes some kind of acceptable sense.

Liz Phair's"Jeremy Engle": An Internet only track available to those who bought Liz Phair (or who have friends who can burn it on to an unauthorized CD) is far superior to most of the other tracks on the official CD. It's good hearing Liz sing about a "gelatinous thingy" and the typically Phair like philosophy, "sometimes all you need is a napkin."

Get Fuzzy: This world became a profoundly more confusing place when Bill Watterson gave up writing his comic Calvin and Hobbes (about a boy and his feline friend- imaginary or not and about so much more). Yes our daily comic pages since have desperately needed a great comic to come along (Zippy and Monty come close but not close enough). Within the past year the Star Tribune started running Darby Conley's Get Fuzzy about a frazzled pet owner with his two pals Bucky (a self absorbed and somewhat caustic cat) and Satchel (a sweet dog but somewhat dim, in an entirely different way- much less malicious- than Bucky). I can't even begin to think about beginning a day without first reading this biting yet often times witty strip. Bucky rules.

Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius: The blue-eyed editor recommended I read this, one of her favorite books of all time. So I got me a used copy and made my way through (admittedly skipping parts of the preface and introduction) the first few pages. I really can't wait to see where this story ultimately takes me.

Little Digger

"I go out with a friend/Maybe a little music might help/But I can't pretend/I wish I was somewhere else/I wanna watch the ocean end/The edges of the sun then/I wanna get swallowed up in an ocean of love"
-Lucinda Williams

"What does it mean when something changes how it's always been?"
-Liz Phair

Dear Thompson,

I think I get it now. I think I understand why anything out of the routine startles you, how things new to you cause you apprehension; and how some things you don't understand simply frighten you. For example, I understand now why when I turned on the furnace for the first time the other week you couldn't handle it. You couldn't handle the strange noise, the blowing air, the new smells, the heat, and just somehow how the air around us was forever different.

I really wonder what you were like before that fateful day and the accident where you got your paw caught in some type of trap and ended up losing your entire leg. There are times you can be the sweetest little cat, so energetic, so well behaved, and even once in awhile a little cuddly. What convinced me to adopt you and your pal Diego-san was the way the two of you played together so well. I loved how when I visited the two of you in your foster home how you clearly looked at Diego to make sure things, that I, was okay. Once you saw Diego check me out then you were right behind albeit a tad apprehensive.

But Thompson we're going to have to continue to work on trusting each other. I know you have your ghosts and demons and I know that there will forever be issues related to your handicap. Believe me if there is something we truly do share (and ultimately can understand about each other) is that I too have more than few obvious ghosts and demons. I don't think it is an accident that we somehow managed to find each other.

I remember the first night we were together I rolled you a ball that your foster mom had given me as your favorite toy. Unfortunately I rolled it to the side of your missing leg and as you leaned down to grab it with your mouth you toppled over. A friend warned me that in adopting you I had to prepare myself for some psychological issues that might exist and while I listened to her (as I am always inclined to do), I don't think I truly was realistic in how I forever have to try to remember that you do, and probably always will have some trust and fear issues. There are times I just wish it was all easier for you.

As you know it has not been a easily understood few weeks for me Thompson. Going to the funeral services of my uncle and my neighbor and hearing a lost friend's death was ruled a suicide has truly been hard. She after all was in a way the one that talked me into adopting you in the first place. I remember how she told me of her love of her kitties, Jazzy and Pumpkin, and how they related to her and each other that when I met you that I knew what I would someday soon do. I wish I could tell her that.

Thus I appreciate how you and Diego-san continue to entertain me with your youthful curiosity, how everything still seems so new with you guys. I think more than anything watching you two has kept me from falling completely into the all too familiar abyss. Yet with you I have to keep remembering that the trust you have in me comes along with a unhurried learning process. I felt bad the other night when the Cubs fell apart and my chosen team this playoff season (the Florida Marlin{s}) came back from what appeared to be certain elimination to move on to the World Series and as they went ahead I let out a loud whoop with a clap and you fled in fear from seeing this new side of me. One step forward, two steps back (perhaps your distrust of me was deserved since I was rooting against the team my Mom rooted for when she was growing up despite having brothers who were Cardinal fans. Mom had her rebel side after all.)

So here is a lesson I will pass on to you Thompson. Having a broken heart doesn't always involve losing some type of love. Having a broken heart can also mean not being able to feel much at all except a feeling of isolation and a lack of connection with anything or anyone around. I was reminded of this lesson (which I learned a long long time ago) while attending Lucinda Williams' Saturday concert at First Avenue. As you know I prepared myself in seeing one of my pantheon of favorite performers and favorite writers the night before by listening to the sixth greatest song of all time, Williams' "Am I Too Blue?" I'm sure I drove you and Diego nuts by hitting the repeat button on my CD player but the song is great like a little lullaby and it probably is the one I'll sing to my first child someday somewhere. "Am I too blue for you? Am I too blue?/When I cry like the sky like the sky sometimes/Am I too blue?" Maybe my preparation was a bit too good because as I watched Lucinda I only grew bluer and bluer.

She opened with her pop hit (for Mary Chapin Carpenter), a terrific version of "Passionate Kisses." The show featured a lot of songs from her last CD World Without Tears the first being a slow and reflective "Ventura." The song is a tearjerker and indeed there was a jerk in the audience who spent most of the rest of the show inexplicably (and inscrutably? And I don't mean that as an insult) crying. I think I was thinking about how the night before as I was messing up meeting up with the blue eyed editor how I stopped into the local neighborhood Cheapo to try and make a phone call and CONNECT and I ran into Ms. Rose, a big Mr. Max fan, who showed me the picture of Max prominently displayed at the register. I was deeply moved if not a bit sad. I miss Max more than ever as I'm sure you know.

And as I got home that night I particpated in an online conversation with the newest member of the feline sympathizers, Ms. Lisa Anne Marie and that modern day typed conversation was well timed I must say. A connection if not just the most modern type. I must one day meet Lisa's kitty Sidda because she is the cute kitty who chases the cursor from a computerized mouse.

The two highlights of the Lucinda show for me were "Joy" which gathered steam like a runaway train, puncturing any defense that might stand in the way, and "Sweet Side" which is such a bitter tribute to a dysfunctional relationship that it reminds me of a thing or two about the one whose diamond earring I was proudly wearing at the show. Get Puzzy indeed.

During the show I drifted back to fifteen years ago this month when I worked a midnight shift at Cheapo and I had taped the first game of the World Series between the A's and the Dodgers. Not much meant much then so when I came home and numbly fast forwarded my way through the game to try and see as much as I could to taste the flavor of what was going on while at the same time trying to expedite things to get to bed ASAP, I just assumed that the heavily favored A's had won since they dominated most of the game. But that's when I was reminded why baseball remains the one truly great game, as the gimpy Kirk Gibson pinch hit in the end of the ninth against the A's unbelievable closer Dennis Eckersley, and somehow lived up to the Roy Hobbs myth and jacked one out of the park to win the game (and ultimately the Series for the Dodgers). I remember being stunned and happy and wanting to call everyone and someone at the same time. So coming home this night to a taped Marlin(s)/Yankees game was made all the more comforting after a stressful heartbreaking night out greeted by the familiar gait and grunt of your handsomely spotted face.

I'm quite sure none of the people in First Ave shared my now lifelong devotion to the Marlin(s) least of all the people I was with but Lucinda was great. Her voice crackled effectively; she interacted with her band in a mesmerizing way and man she looked great in that black Stephaniesque t-shirt. I bolted in a fashion reminiscent of you when you are unsure of things, when the show was over. I had to get back to the place that is all about trust.

So in the end I must say, I love you Thompson. And I'm trying to make the feeling familiar if not somewhat mutual.

Yours truly,
-d

Just Your Ordinary Average Everyday Sane Psycho Super Goddess

"I still take the trash out/Does that make me too normal for you?"
-Liz Phair

Life is quite hard the day you become a parody of yourself. The one moment of my life I was vain enough to consider myself a "writer" (even though I didn't wear a beret at the time) was when I was obsessed with writing my novel and I was working at the warehouse and a thousand thoughts raced through my mind constantly and I found myself jotting down notes on little pieces of paper and stuffing them in my pockets and when I got home I'd unload them all into a cracked yellow plastic basket and later on to my roommate's (the pharmacist Pistol Pete) Apple computer.

I wasn't writing because I wanted to, I was writing because I needed to (and desperately)- I was bleeding words. So you can imagine how unbearably pretentious that novel became. My most familiar critic has since made the observation that the difference between then and now is I used to be inspired by such things as Love and God and Beauty and now I'm inspired by three-legged cats. Point well taken. "Moderation is a memory."

So I may not be capable of doing it with my words anymore (like I was ever any good at that in the first place dammit) but for awhile I did make it one of my missions in life to introduce as many people as I could to Liz Phair's music. It was the least I could do and of course I've said many times, never let it be said I didn't do the least I could do. Thus I was pleased last summer that when I gave Exile in Guyville to the blue-eyed intern now soon to be a world renowned editor (and the one who God bless her introduced me to Ike Reilly) that the CD has become one of her favorites. Cool beans is all I can say (and oh- also can a guy ever eat too many tomatoes? I ask this 'cuz I planted six tomato plants last spring that are now bearing the results of my haphazard gardening efforts so I'm eating tomatoes morning, noon, and night!)

I went to Liz's concert last Thursday in the stifling over-heated air of the unair-conditioned First Ave with my favorite wordsmith (who I must admit I'm insanely jealous of because of her abilities to write circles around lil old me) and I asked her to go because: a) I knew she was a respectful Liz Phair fan (despite hating the newest CD) and b) because if you're going to listen to songs that you absolutely love (and believe it or not due to my rather nondiscriminating tastes- there aren't that many in my life that qualify) who better to share the experience with than someone who can write ovals and figure of eights around your weeble little mind? C'mon people! Am I the only one who has been tempted to make the jump to Mars seeing it is as close as it is and given the state of this world at this time?! Are you with me or against me?

Did I say I love Liz's songs? Lemme clarify that a bit. I'm in love with Liz's songs. When I left my sheltered little Roseville life for the big world of a precious Macalester education (not exactly like one of them public institutions like Marshall State or St. Cloud State or the University of Duluth) what I was expecting (or was that dreaming?) was to meet my future wife-to-be, a woman who would strum a guitar (or plunk a concertina or know at the very least how to yodel) and play me excerpts from her diary. And while Liz Phair ain't exactly that woman she's the closest I've been exposed to, a familiar facsimile that exists (did I mention when the Teutonic Garden Lover and I were leaving our parking space in the urine soaked Target Center Parking Ramp we got behind a blue American made car that had a bumper sticker that was pro-clone and encouraged all its readers to support multiple lives?).

As for the concert itself let me say that despite my many growing neurosis (my concert partner scolded me that she is keeping me from sinking deeper into the insanity abyss "I think I'm losing my soul," Liz sings in "Only Son"), and despite ending up standing behind a girl with the most shrill voice (the type that could quite adequately take a coney-dog order through a tinny speaker) I quite enjoyed the music. From the efficacious opener of Exile's "6'1"" to the most recent attempt at a hit "Why Can't I?" the show was great fun. "Whip Smart" rocked, "Uncle Alvarez" proved what a great writer Phair is and she sang all her new (and highly criticized) songs with a great deal of passion. One of her new songs "Favorite" that is her singing about the virtues of her favorite piece of underwear somehow was most entertaining while on the new disc, ironically entitled Liz Phair, comes across as someone trying to be, in almost a desperate fashion, one who thinks those paying attention expect her to be. Somehow live it fit in with who she probably really is (in real life!). In other words it was like a favorite piece of underwear one might find one self singing about.

If nothing else she proved in concert that she knows that there is a difference between a stupid pop song and a bad pop song. Even at her simplest, at her most uninspired she can't help herself, Liz just has to be like no one else before.

The Resort Life

Dust rolled down a country road at the same time as a crew of florescently adorned workmen and workwomen painted a fresh white left turn emblem onto a newly paved suburban street. It wasn't so much that they were sweaty, it was that they were weary and wet, a difference as slim as the line separating a weed from a wild plant.

Jake Foote sat in an air conditioned metallic maroon SUV next to a flower garden loving, bicycle race enthusiast as they anxiously awaited the light in front of them to turn from red to green. The two had been made late by Jake's perpetual ability to get lost even if he thought he knew where he was going. The road ahead stretched out expansively like the bugs that covered the vehicle's windshield. Both occupants were lost in their own thoughts and their occasional conversation was suspended by a new rule they had agreed upon. Since Jake was wont to interrupt the driver's thoughts she told him he was to state, "Bookmark," as she would finish what she was saying and they would go back to whatever scattered theorem had meandered into his mind.

The car pinged for unidentifiable reasons (must be the octane Jake mused though he really didn't know what he was talking about). The driver wondered if it was more of a vibration than an agitation and it kind of sounded like the smoothie maker she had recently purchased from QVC, the cable shopping channel.

She didn't like anyone to think for her or to presume to do that much. She generally wasn't truly vain yet the scar on her accident prone leg caused her to rub Vitamin A and other ointments to hide the scar from a fall, a fall that led to a long, long and winding road much different from the one that they were now on (less metaphorically than realistically).

Over the years Jake had come to suspect that there was a whole other life out there that he knew nothing about. Of course it was more than a little futile to try to describe this suspicion due to its inherent nature but he sensed that some day he would stumble across this other place and his heart would palpitate (or vibrate or agitate) and his eyes would widen and still none of it would even then make much sense.

The SUV's CD player softly played the new Liz Phair CD, aptly named Liz Phair and the for the driver it was the first time hearing the new music. Jake had brought it along because he said he "needed" to hear it, that he couldn't stop listening no matter what the press said. The driver noted that it sounded synthetic yet she kind of liked it. Jake bopped to "H.W.C."

They finally arrived at the resort they were staying at, a mere hop, skip, and jump, down the country road from a larger resort that housed the county conference they were paid to attend. Further down another road lie an Indian owned casino next to an Indian history museum that told a story of sap gathering and wild rice jigging and of somehow surviving to the extent one desperately wanted to pass on the story to the next generation in hopes that it would somehow live on at the same time as its life was being drained like coins pouring into a slot machine's giveaway crevice.

The night after they arrived Jake and the flower loving, bicycle enthusiast, in-line skating disciple, arrived at the county conference they again hit the road in search of a lake house bought by someone that used to work in the same place they were employed. Their directions told them to turn off on the second dirt road off the highway, and look for the house two in from the left. In fact they ended up turning on a paved street in-between a couple gravel roads five houses to the right, the spiffy looking one with a semi-circle driveway.

They met their colleagues (most of whom Jake had never before met) on an incoming pontoon that splashed waves from a small for its size lake. The wife of the retired cabin recently retired employee asked Jake who was seated on the floor of the cruising pontoon if he was married, if he had kids, if he had a girlfriend. He wasn't sure of any of the answers to the questions but his mind raced back to his two recently adopted cats at home. Two cats with seven limbs between them he told any who would sometimes listen (or hear- he didn't like to talk much) even though the response raised more questions than it answered. Meanwhile back at the ranch the kitties were busy knocking over paper bags of plastic newspaper bags and spreading them all over a damp but cool basement thinking he'd never come back.