Mad Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Bee 40

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

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

But I was glad to be in Cleveland again.

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

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

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

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

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

Very Twee, Very Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broken Flowers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock 'n' Ichiro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing Lasts Forever in the Cold December Rain

"A bad writer is just a good writer with writer's block."
-Bucky Katt

After giving me my airline snack of apple juice and buttery pretzels the stewardess looked at the book I was reading, Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles Vol. 1. She asked how it was. I said good although it later occurred to me that she may have been talking about my apple juice. If I had known I would have said the whole thing was sticky. The ride was nearly over and we were preparing to land. I always read with amusement those personal ads in the independent weekly newspapers, the ones that list a person's turn on's and turn off's. I'm not sure what I would list if forced to do so. Bad hygiene perhaps. Rude behavior probably. Landing in the dark- bingo! I hate being on a plane at night when the weather is bad and you can't see the ground until the last second. I like to know where I'm going. I like to see that there is something down below.

For a guy with a growing case of agoraphobia I sure do get around. This year alone I've taken trips to Portland Oregon, Auburn Alabama, and now Toronto Canada, sort of the Sunni triangle of North America.

This would have been nothing in past days as I used to love the freedom and adventure of going to a place I had never been. As lost as I often felt at home in my own skin the feeling of seeing some place new was quite appealing.

But now even if the trip is scheduled and booked by another, even if all I have to do is step on to an airplane and follow a mapped out route it seems to be daunting to the point of being paralyzing. I'm not sure exactly what's changed or how I've gotten to this point nor do I know where the line is between irrational fears and the people on the streets of any big city you visit who are mumbling to themselves living from day to day.

I had troubles. I found myself in the office of a minister telling him that after having seen a boatload of psychiatrists and psychologists with their cures of medicines and electrical currents I had decided my problems seemed to be more spiritual than psychological. He listened intently. I asked him if there were relevant passages of the Bible I should be reading which of course is a bit akin to unfolding a roadmap and asking someone to point to relevant places to go.

I had stopped writing, which for me was like the disease, but for those I spoke with was merely an annoying symptom. But it wasn't a writer's block it was the absolute terror of what I needed to write even if I wasn't sure what that exactly was. It just seemed like I shouldn't be writing what I needed to write. That voice that had always guided the words on paper was gone and when I mentioned this to the doctors they were alarmed at the confession I heard voices. When I mentioned it felt like God's voice was gone the minister seemed more like a clinician, another expert with a degree.

My writing wasn't merely an outlet for emotions or a canvass for expression it was part of who I was. Losing my writing was like cutting off a limb an analogy with now serious consequences as I watch every day with growing and loving admiration, a special soul, a cat who is getting by in life with only three legs. As important as something may be to surviving sometimes you just cut it off so the rest can remain and you can go on.

I left the minister's office feeling more lost than ever. And that's when I took a trip out west. I had been there before. My sister lived in Los Angeles but this was different. There was no itinerary or purpose for going. I wanted to write and I knew that the world was bigger than any problem that was wearing me down. It wasn't a matter of digging deeper within it was a matter of looking further out. I knew that, even if I was sure the minister and any of the doctors would have suggested I was running away.

Out west I went here and I went there. I didn't make it everywhere. But I did some writing. I would drive to a secluded area and sit for a while and then write whatever was on my mind. It mostly was all about stuff back home but I didn't care. Someone had to get it down. When I came home I fell in love and I carefully showed her some of what I had written. Her reaction was to tell me that my writing personal as it was couldn't ever mean anything to anyone who didn't know me. She eventually broke my heart so I headed out east to the other coast. Took a train this time. Philadelphia, Washington DC, Boston and everywhere in between. Went south far enough to see some historical Civil War stuff. Wrote a poem that was the best thing I had ever written. Wrote it on a train as the words rolled out of me faster than the tracks underneath.

Crickets grow silent whenever she's near/was it from comfort or out of fear?/A lucky rock a break or two/leaned on her crutches as good as new/A moth flips and flutters to its light /mended wing restores its flight/A walker in spirit the nurturing kind,/gentle friend with an original mind./She draws the map to all ahead/gave him a place to rest his head/Her knee had a screw, broken and scarred/the lone accident to which she starred/Her limp he saw before in a dream/Vitamin B ointment for self esteem.

Came back home and was comforted by the best friend I had ever had. Her daughters gave me bandages for my feet after I had tried to walk from work to home in a terrible blizzard one grave night tearing up the souls of my feet in the process.

Since then the trips have come fewer and farther between, slowing to a trickle, a mere crawl. Years back I did take a trip across the world (and back) but it was more of a trip to remind me where I came from not where I was going. As I got more serious about my job, about my life I guess, the option of just taking off and going somewhere had to be cleared by somebody else. I had to accumulate the needed amount of vacation hours and with the growing fear of leaving my home it just never seemed worth the effort. But perhaps the biggest difference about hitting the road between now and then is you can now connect to the Internet, the super information highway, from just about anywhere and read your emails and hometown newspaper. I used to just write on a rock. Now days you can't ever really get away.

So these days where anyone who is someone is going south to Mexico this winter, I decided to buck the trend and head the other way, north to Canada. And like trips past there really wasn't much of a plan. My boss was kind enough to pay for my ticket and hotel room and he plopped me down right in the heart of downtown Toronto with plenty to see.

Of course first came the incessant worrying. Who would take care of the kitties? Their favorite person in the world bar none. Could I afford to take time away from work when we remain ever incredibly and hopelessly busy? I'm not taking much time off anytime else so don't I deserve a few days now? How would I make it to the airport? I'd park my car in my 24/7 secure location downtown Minneapolis and take the light rail to the airport. How does one ride the light rail? The little redheaded girl and I took a long break one day and did a trial run. What if I don't make it through airport security what with my always-guilty look? They didn't look twice.

On the practice run to the airport with the little redheaded girl our return trip had us seated in seats facing away from the front of the train. I told her that when I was a kid my parents bought a station wagon that had a back seat where my brother and I sat. My parents thought that since the seat faced backwards it would give us a little area we could play and have to ourselves. It wasn't until the past few years that I revealed to my Dad that my brother and I hated that car because we couldn't see where we were going, just where we had been.

I arrived in Toronto late morning and took a cab to my motel. It was disorienting that the cabbie's accent was French rather than one of the Middle Eastern accents I've grown accustomed to hearing from that profession. It was also a little weird that the guy was wearing a limousine driver's outfit. On the ride I made a point to look for interesting places to visit. I paid particular attention once we got closer to the motel since I knew I would be doing a lot of walking. After checking in I decided to grab a bite to eat. Right outside my motel room window was a Japanese restaurant. A reasonably priced one at that. (I would only eat three out of my eight meals at Japanese restaurants despite that there were two within walking distance of the motel.) I also checked out the immediate vicinity but spent the evening in my room trying to draw a mental map of the next few days.

The next day the primary goal was to figure out the subway system and to find our CD store downtown. I looked up the address of the store and figured out where the nearest subway station was located. Once there I decided to buy an all day pass figuring I'd be riding the subway throughout the day and I didn't want to bother figuring out how to purchase the correct fare along the way. It turned out not to be an economically sound decision since when you are riding the subway you can't exactly spontaneously see when there is someplace that looks interesting to visit. Not knowing what I wanted to do or see necessitated that I do most of my traveling on foot.

The Yellow Pages ad to our store said it was within walking distance of the Bloor Street Station. I just hopped on to a train figuring I'd figure things out as I went along. Surprisingly the conductor called out Bloor Street two stops down from where I hopped on. I got off and walked up to street level. A light cold drizzle filled the air and with the address in hand I headed off. Of course is my nature I immediately headed the wrong way. The store's address was on Bloor Street West and the subway had dropped me off on Bloor Street East. I headed the direction that felt west but once I walked a few miles and was now out of any business type district as the numbers grew more and more out of range, I decided it was time to head back the other way. With the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up tightly around my head I thought I might look a little like a less than grown up Holden Caulfield, a somewhat average Cheapo customer.

It was quite the walk the other way so it was kind of comforting once I found the store to find somewhere that felt a little like home. It's a nice space in a nice area.

Much of what I had seen of Bloor Street was the typical big city chain store alley- The Gap, Pottery Barn, Pier One, etc. Closer to Sonic Boom were independent shops and even a piano bar. There were some colorful names like Spotted Dick's and FCUK (French Connection United Kingdom) but once inside the CD shop things looked familiar. It's a nice store and atmosphere. I browsed through the recent arrival bin and found some stuff I wanted to buy but I felt it was my duty seeing where I was to buy something Canadian either Leonard Cohen or Shania Twain, maybe Gordon Lightfoot or Celine Dion or perhaps kd Lang or Alanis Morissette. Anne Murray? I could only be so lucky. I almost settled on a Neko Case CD but I figured she was only an honorary Canadian having gone to college there.

Instead amongst my other purchases I grabbed a Gabrielle Destroismaisons CD. She's from Quebec and the French titles of her songs caught my attention. I wanted to tell myself that the reason I chose her CD was that she mentioned one of her favorite artists to be Bob Dylan but honestly really it was her looks reminded me of the girl who sat across from me at breakfast that morning who I embarrassingly couldn't take my eyes off of. She looked like a combination of Elisabeth Filarski and Judi Dutcher and the girl next door I used to work by. She had to be at least the second most beautiful woman I've ever seen. As I browsed the store I couldn't help but wonder if all the United States produced CDs shouldn't have been filed in the International section rather than in the main bins of the store.

When I was a junior high school kid a new kid, Ted, moved to town from somewhere in Canada and I thought his Canadian accent had to be an exaggeration. "Hey did you see last night's owkey game?" I thought Ted was putting me on. But those speaking English in the establishments I visited really talked that way. And the whole country (at least all that I saw on TV) seemed to be in mourning about the National Hockey League's player lockout. The thing I remember most about Ted was he was the first person I met who had actually smoked a joint. I remember he offered me one but I didn't take it, although I did inhale. The sweet smell of the weed surprised me. I expected something much more poisonous. As I left the store on the street in front of me was a young man who looked blue collar and like he had a plan. He was puffing on a cigarette and every now and then he'd glance back at me as if he was afraid I was sneaking up on him. Some of his smoke wafted back to my nostrils and it wasn't tobacco he was smoking. Suddenly I was in Amsterdam or at least wondering what ever happened to Ted.

I headed on back towards the subway. The drizzle had turned into a light rain. The drops from the rain clouded my glasses as across the street I saw a big sign for the Bata Shoe Museum. The sign was too tempting to pass by so I stopped in looking something like an Asian Travis Bickell. The elderly ticket lady wasn't sure what to make of me and she sheepishly asked if I wanted to see the museum. I did. I did indeed. The first display featured the tiny shoes (though bigger than my own) of Monkee Davy Jones. Right nearby were the somewhat larger shoes of Michael Jordan.

I also got to see shoes worn by Marilyn Monroe, Tiger Woods, Winston Churchill and Elvis. Shaquille O'Neal's shoes could house my entire leg. The shoes of the Chinese women who had their feet bound were frighteningly tiny. What seemed like a goofy idea for a museum turned out to be great visit. The displays showed that throughout different decades and centuries how tastes changed to reflect the times. I decided the ornate beauty of the 1700's best captured my taste in things. My friend Spunky once told me he first judged people by the shoes they were wearing. It never had occurred to me up to that moment that such a thing was possible. And I'm not even sure how it is to be done. But a person in a good pair of shoes says something. The museum proved nothing if not that.

There's a box at the club I curl at full of what's labeled as "lost shoes." If I was in charge of the club I'd change the label on the box to read, "lost soles." That joke would never get old. The shoes are of all size and styles, not only all stripes but some swooshes as well. It would be interesting to decipher the story behind how each landed in that box. (If only shoes could talk- they do have tongues after all.) I doubt many people leave the curling club in their bare feet so it must have something to do with that most of us change shoes when we take the ice. We don't want to drag anything from the street on to that fresh sheet of ice. That would make it difficult to do the necessary sliding, make things a little too bumpy to play the game.

I could have walked around the streets with the music from my new iPod serving as some type of soundtrack, a musical backdrop to the sites of the city. At my disposal I had just about any relevant song in my collection at my fingertips available to color my thoughts like I was in some cinematic story. But I didn't want to do that. Whenever I'm in a different place I like to experience the place relying on all my senses. I needed to hear the sounds of the streets and the people as much as I cherished the smell of fresh fruit as I walked by an organic market. Toronto is a nice sized international city. It looked a lot like it does in all the movies shot there. Overcast skies and the constant drizzle gave the city that certain Midwestern industrial feel although the diversity of the faces was like opening up a broom closet only to find a spice rack full of flavors you'd never tried.

My first official acting job was as a pussy willow in a second grade play. My Mom sewed me a brown cloak that was supposed to have balls of cotton affixed but before that step I got sick and missed the performance. Gone was the chance to sing about shivering in the cold waiting for Jack Frost to arrive. I cried because I missed the big moment, my chance to shine. Mom comforted me by telling me there'd be other chances as she served me some chicken soup.

Walking the streets of Toronto I must have looked like I knew what I was doing. Two people approached me at different times and asked me for directions. I had to turn them away because I didn't know a thing. When I got back on the subway to head towards Queen Street, what was described as the bohemian part of town, I of course headed the wrong way and had to double back. Once I got to the right stop the rain was starting to freeze so I decided to cut my adventure short and go back to my room.

The next day I set off in the other direction where I found an interesting music store called Sam the Record Man's. They had an intriguing Japanese Bob Dylan import but the price wasn't right. I just kept walking. I saw signs for the Hockey Hall of Fame. I haven't been a fan of the sport since the late 80's and early 90's. What changed my mind about hockey I'm not quite sure as I spent many a wintry day ruining the ceiling of my parent's basement picking up a high sticking penalty or two playing my brother in a ferocious game of floor hockey in a much too small space. I remember being terribly disappointed in visiting the Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth on a family vacation. Turned out it was only the American Hockey Hall of Fame so I was not too impressed by the many names and faces of unrecognizable stars. Seemed to me like you should be recognizable to appear in a Hall of Fame. I think I gave up on hockey because it only reminded me of how much I hated winter. And Mary Meek. Besides a sport that takes place on a slippery surface seems to be trying too hard. But then I took up curling.

I was surprised by visiting the Canadian Hockey Hall of Fame at how much of the sport's history I already knew. It was great fun seeing and touching the actual Stanley Cup but it was equally fun seeing a video clip that had a snippet of an interview with Gump Worsley, the Minnesota North Star goaltender who happens to hold the distinction of being the last goalie not to wear a face mask.

Just about everything else I know about Canada came from watching SCTV. The show mocked the Canadian Broadcasting Company (CBC). Even though I knew nothing of that station I still found the show's spoofs of the slower pace of Canadian TV (fishing shows, Doug and Bob McKenzie, Count Floyd, Floyd Camembert and Bobby Bittman) that tried hard to imitate American TV to be endlessly entertaining. Little did I know how on the mark those spoofs were. As I sat in my room at night surfing the Toronto stations I couldn't help but enjoy the real deal. I just hoped that I would come across a televised curling match. Leave it to the last day and I did. (Though in all honesty it was shown on NBC so it likely was broadcast in the States as well).

Long ago my friend Fernande (who used to torture me with all things French even though she knew it was the last nail) asked me if I wanted to take ballroom dancing lessons with her (she also knew my worsening aversion to being touched). I considered the idea quite seriously for awhile, kind of always fancied myself as a song and dance man, but ultimately couldn't do it. In my mind I still pictured the still black and white photos my parents took off the black and white TV when I squared danced at the halftime of the state high school boy's basketball tournament back in grade school. My partner that day, Shelley Loomis said I was swinging her much harder than normal. I do know the adrenaline of being in the spotlight was causing me to dosey doh much more energetically. I told Fernande that I wasn't sure how my square dancing experience would effect my ability to learn to ballroom dance. The concepts were similar but the moves were entirely different.

Wandering around downtown on a Saturday afternoon the sound of bagpipe players (dressed in their requisite knickers) competed with the homeless looking who felt it in their best interests to put on some type of competing show. One guy tinkled on a toy-sized xylophone. Another caterwauled in a tone that sounded so inhuman I wasn't sure it was until I passed him by. The faces of Toronto were the diverse faces of a big city. Mine blended in quite well I'm quite sure.

In 1995 on a trip out East I was visiting my friend Alex in Washington DC. We were in a Baskin Robbins seated at a table at the front of the restaurant with seats facing toward the street. As we were enjoying our ice cream a homeless guy sat in the bushes in front of the store in front of us. If he had moved down a few feet he would have sat on a ledge but he chose instead to mush the plants. Still I was a bit surprised that Alex criticized his actions. I'm the type of guy who often time drops a coin into a cup. It's hard to look at the homeless like you're supposed to act like there is nothing unusual about seeing someone lying on the street trying to stay warm in a ratty blanket. Still more often than not that coin has probably been more for my own conscience than any real relief it could possibly provide. Alex's unmatched skill and ability to get to the real heart of the issue thus eliminating the otherwise cloaking sentimentality was one of the things I admired most about her.

I passed a woman in the hallway of my Toronto motel and she was wearing a fragrance similar to the one that Alex used to wear (and I do wonder if she still does). It's funny how far the sense of smell can take you. I miss Alex's scent. I almost felt like turning around in the hallway and following the woman for a while just to keep the fading scent in my nose for just a while longer. If smells could be seen, her fragrance would be a combination of something between a vivid flash and a multi-colored pastel. The pattern would be as precise as it is bright like the lingering image you see when you close your eyes after looking at something intensely absorbing and brilliant.

One penetrating impression I thought about in Canada is this psychological notion of borders. Somehow being a Minnesotan makes us different from being a North Dakotan. Somehow St. Paul residents are different from their neighboring Minneapolis kin. But being in Canada did feel different than being in the United States. Maybe it was the accents, maybe it was watching Canadian television with Canadian focused news, maybe it was the currency. I never did figure out on my purchases if I was getting a good deal. It struck me that in my day to day life the people I see in the Minneapolis skyways or on the streets of St. Paul may recognize me out of familiarity but don't know a thing about me. Looking into the gazing eyes of the people I passed in Toronto I wondered if the people knew something about me that I didn't know about myself. I've often been told that it is hard to read me by looking at my facial expressions (or lack thereof) but the reflection in the mirror I see is rather transparent.

Occasionally a Canadian would look at me funny and I thought back to a few months before when in my job I had managed to piss off more than a few residents from up North. There is an election law that allows a United States citizen who has permanently moved from the country to cast a vote for federal offices in the jurisdiction that they last resided in the United States. The issue I ran into was many of these people now had voting age children who had never lived in Minnesota but still were United States citizens yet were ineligible to receive a ballot from me. So I got to be the lucky one who told these soon to be angry people that they didn't get to vote. As I wandered the streets of Toronto and got a sideways glance, or as I received less than friendly service at an establishment I thought about letting go of my standard zinger, "I've stopped people just like you from voting!" I declared in my head. Funny what power does to you.

The last place I visited on my trip was a warehouse sized book store appropriately named "The Big Book Store." The bright florescent lights couldn't have contrasted more with the gray moist heavy air from the outside. A cheerful twentyish woman with pony tails and dressed in one of the store's smocks smiled at me as I entered the store. She was carrying around an empty shopper's basket and I thought she might like me until I noticed all the employees wore the exact same smile. Their chirpy banter with the customers seemed both forced yet natural as if this was how the interactions had been prescribed and preordained. The store was huge- one floor full of nonfiction subject books like computers and business and humor and war. The upper level had fiction and music and poetry and more of the stuff I'm used to reading save for the self help section. The prices seemed about right- lots of books on sale and discounted but I didn't need anything I had to then drag home. I had already packed my bags. I stayed longer than I wanted to in the sterile store but I had time to kill. It was a little spooky the way the employees acted- like they were in some kind of cult just waiting to brainwash you into joining their cause, their church.

The longest conversation my entire time in Toronto was with the cab driver on the way to the airport. I asked him how much snow the city usually got and got a five-minute monologue about Canadian weather. He mentioned it doesn't get much colder than ten below Celsius and I asked him what that was Fahrenheit and he really wasn't sure. As he continued telling me about weather patterns across the country my mind flashed back to one of the last cognitive discussions I had with my Mom. I remember when I was a kid and we were all being exposed to the metric system because America was finally going to join the rest of the world (we're still waiting for that to happen) we were taught the conversion formula for Fahrenheit to Celsius and vice versa. I brought the information home and my Mom showed me another way to do it, an easier simpler way. It was something her advisor had shared in college. So during her illness we were watching the TV weather and I asked her again how to do the conversion and she pulled out a sheet of paper from the crossword she had been struggling on for days (she was a cross word puzzle expert) and tried to show me. She had forgotten though and I could see her frustration and not being able to remember something so ingrained. It was the morphine that dulled her eternally sharp mind.

I asked the taxi driver what the weather was like in Vancouver. He said it was warmer than Toronto but it rained almost all the time in the winter. He also said that the traffic there was horrible, the road system just wasn't designed to deal with the tremendous population growth the city has seen. Plus he added, much of that growth was due to the large Asian immigration and "no offense" Asians tend to be poor drivers. He was from Mississauga just northwest of Toronto, sort of the St. Cloud of Canada. It's the seventh largest city in the country as more and more people are moving to the outer rings of the Toronto metropolitan area.

I arrived at the airport three and a half hours before my flight home. I grabbed a bite to eat and then headed towards my gate. The line at the customs area was incredibly long- a room full of people wound around and wound around again by those ropes you see at banks. People were antsy that they would miss their flight but there was no way to speed up the process that involves having custom officers ask each traveler questions about their visit and where they were heading. After several minutes in line, a little boy in a skullcap standing behind me told his father, "I love you." It seemed like a strange thing to declare in the customs line. The svelte woman standing next to me was reading a book about breast-feeding.

When I got to the front of the line I said a cheery hello to the customs officer who looked a little too much like Dick Cheney. He asked me the purpose of my trip. This time it really didn't have as much to do with writing as it did searching. I told him I worked for a music retailer and was visiting our store in Toronto. He looked at the form where I was required to declare all my purchases. "What does your store sell?" he asked. I said compact discs. "Then why did you buy some here?" He asked. I told him our stores back home didn't have everything. I was going to point out my attempt to buy Canadian artists' music but figured that was more information than he needed to know. He let me go on.