Last Tuesday night I joined 25,000 other people and watched the Minnesota Twins take their turn against baseball's latest phenom, Chicago Cubs' 20 year old pitcher, Kerry Woods. On this night Woods was less than phenomenal as he couldn't control his impressive fastball and the Twins hitters knocked him out in the fourth inning on the way to an 8-0 win. The Twins ace, Brad Radke was masterful, keeping the Cubs off balance and without a solid hit all night long. Radke, the American League's second best pitcher next to Boston's Pedro Martinez, proved on this night that he is every bit the pitcher Woods is only without the hype.
At the beginning of the game 70% of the fans in the Dome were rooting for the Cubs, America's trendiest losing team. By the ninth inning those same fans, many wearing Cub hats and jerseys were cheering on Radke and the Twins. I arrived early for the game to watch the Cubs take batting practice. Many other fans joined me and were oohing and aahing at every high arching, hard hit smash off the bat of red hot Sammy Sosa. The little kids were chanting "Sammy... Sammy," bringing to mind my trips to Chicago many years ago when the little kids' chant of "Jody... Jody," (for catcher Jody Davis) annoyed me endlessly but inspired my friend (or so was my observation) of wanting to name her first son Jody.
In a state where baseball has pretty much been declared dead and buried, Tuesday night was a reminder of how things can be and how things once were not all that long ago. The Dome was abuzz with excitement and the Twins played one of their crispest games of the year. The historical and trivia nature of the game is still unmatchable; the symmetry and poetry of the game is even occasionally present in the league's worst stadium.
During a break between innings I watched Radke warm up, and thought back to the winter of 1986 when my former roommate from my freshman year of college chided me for my devotion to the Twins. He had lived with a lot of dweebiness on my part but he no doubt thought my love of baseball was the strangest of my quirks. The Twins were losers he was constantly reminding me, especially after particularly rough 1985 and 1986 seasons that followed a promising 1984 season which was lost on Lake Erie one cold September night when Ron Davis gave up a home run to the Indian's Jamie Quirk to complete a loss that dropped the Twins out of the pennant race. This series also included the Twins blowing a 10-0 lead and losing the game 11-10. So to get my former roommate off my back I made a bet for a case of beer: that the Twins would finish the 1987 season over .500. He laughed at what he thought was easy money (or free beer). That of course was the year that everything fell into place and they went on to win their first World Series. Unfortunately the season ended in October and having graduated the previous June, I couldn't collect on my bet. I haven't seen my former roommate since, and am still owed one case of beer.
Of course if I were to see him these days I would no doubt offer him the option of double or nothing. Despite all the logic that points to the Twins finishing the season with a losing record for a record seventh straight time some things are worth having a little faith in. It's never wise to bet with the heart in spite of what the head says, but there are times when you think that believing in something will increase its chances of actually happening.
Besides I'm on a roll of sorts. The combined record of the two softball teams I am on is 9-1. Neither of these two teams has ever come close to having this kind of success and to tell the truth, I am not used to all the winning. I keep waiting for the other foot to drop and things getting back to normal.
Monday, June 15, 1998
Monday, June 8, 1998
Grand Old Days
"Of course all life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work- the big sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from outside- the ones you remember and blame things on and, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don't show their effect all at once. There is another sort of blow that comes from within- that you don't feel until it's too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again. The first sort of breakage seems to happen quick- the second kind happens almost without your knowing it but is realized suddenly indeed... The test of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise. This philosophy fitted on to my early adult life, when I saw the improbable, the implausible, often the 'impossible,' come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort, or to what proportion could be mustered by both."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
Well, it was sort of a rough week at the office. Not the least of which was made a bit more stressful by the rumor that I'm not exactly along for the long term. Possible future careers? 1) The father of Madonna's next baby; 2) A Presidential doorstop; 3) A burly security guy on the Jerry Springer show; 4) The next Ginger Spice. And similarities to the plot of Jim Carrey's new movie, The Truman Show in which Carrey's character's life is all one long TV show got me thinking. Could the same thing be true for me? It was a scary thought since the closest thing to TV that my life reflects is an episode of Moesha (is my life more of a comedy or a soap opera these days?). If I don't get my ratings up they will pull the plug which may or may not be the worst possible thing.
Of course a lot of the stress was as always, self inflicted. A wise election official just at the right time shared something that I didn't know. He said that we are all capable of out running a horse, since a horse runs as fast as it can to escape. If you keep chasing it, eventually somewhere down that road the horse will stop running. Perseverance pays off. So after watching another failed Triple Crown effort it dawned on me that Real Quiet is not the same thing as deliberate silence. But to be confused can be the same as to be intrigued. It's all a matter of perspective. I used to live life believing that my soulmate was out there somewhere, that there just might be an angel around the next corner. I've since learned it's better not to believe such things, because it only leads to disappointment when hopes fail to materialize.
The week also included some poor planning and unlucky timing on my part. Typical of this was the little yard work I was able to get done. After much delay and procrastination I finally got my tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and beans planted. The next day the temperature dropped off the scale. There were even some warnings that frost was possible. Figures. Just as my sense of humanity was all but gone down the drain I witnessed a few reminders of the number of good people who are out there if you are willing to look (which pretty much only entails keeping your eyes open). I was at Wednesday night's Twins/ Indians game with my friend Spunky. It was a crisp, well played game won by our local team. A couple rows in front of us sat an enthusiastic elderly lady (who we cleverly dubbed "grandma"). This woman would bolt from her seat and raise her arms toward the roof of the dome every time a Twins player did something well. Her loyalty to the home team was as amusing as it was infectious.
And then there was my Quien Mas Sabe who continues to impress me with her insight and friendship. She told me early on that one of her strengths was knowing what her weaknesses were. I'm beginning to see how important that really is. If you know where you are vulnerable you can either put yourself in situations where you will succeed, or you can make the adjustments necessary to strengthen what you don't do well. Her week too sounded a bit frustrating and I only hope that my reaching out did matter because her inspiration has led to me doing some actual writing for the first time in a long while.
Finally I was honored that my 12 year old niece, Brynna, postponed her birthday party partly on my account since I couldn't make the original date. "We have to talk Uncle Dave," she said. "You better be there..." I even made it out to the mall, my least favorite place to be. After spending many frustrating minutes looking for the perfect gift at the Imaginarium I was approached by a young sales clerk who wowed me with her stellar service. She helped me pick out two gifts and then offered to wrap them. She was personable, funny, and I quite enjoyed her effort. When her wrapping took a bit of time she apologized saying how much she enjoyed wrapping and how she wanted to get it perfect. After some recent frustrating shopping experiences, the timing of this one was much appreciated. And you wanna know the end result of the week's events? Whereas I wouldn't trade my troubles with a monkey on a rock I actually came to the conclusion in the end I still wouldn't want to be anyone other than who I am. Wow.
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
Well, it was sort of a rough week at the office. Not the least of which was made a bit more stressful by the rumor that I'm not exactly along for the long term. Possible future careers? 1) The father of Madonna's next baby; 2) A Presidential doorstop; 3) A burly security guy on the Jerry Springer show; 4) The next Ginger Spice. And similarities to the plot of Jim Carrey's new movie, The Truman Show in which Carrey's character's life is all one long TV show got me thinking. Could the same thing be true for me? It was a scary thought since the closest thing to TV that my life reflects is an episode of Moesha (is my life more of a comedy or a soap opera these days?). If I don't get my ratings up they will pull the plug which may or may not be the worst possible thing.
Of course a lot of the stress was as always, self inflicted. A wise election official just at the right time shared something that I didn't know. He said that we are all capable of out running a horse, since a horse runs as fast as it can to escape. If you keep chasing it, eventually somewhere down that road the horse will stop running. Perseverance pays off. So after watching another failed Triple Crown effort it dawned on me that Real Quiet is not the same thing as deliberate silence. But to be confused can be the same as to be intrigued. It's all a matter of perspective. I used to live life believing that my soulmate was out there somewhere, that there just might be an angel around the next corner. I've since learned it's better not to believe such things, because it only leads to disappointment when hopes fail to materialize.
The week also included some poor planning and unlucky timing on my part. Typical of this was the little yard work I was able to get done. After much delay and procrastination I finally got my tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and beans planted. The next day the temperature dropped off the scale. There were even some warnings that frost was possible. Figures. Just as my sense of humanity was all but gone down the drain I witnessed a few reminders of the number of good people who are out there if you are willing to look (which pretty much only entails keeping your eyes open). I was at Wednesday night's Twins/ Indians game with my friend Spunky. It was a crisp, well played game won by our local team. A couple rows in front of us sat an enthusiastic elderly lady (who we cleverly dubbed "grandma"). This woman would bolt from her seat and raise her arms toward the roof of the dome every time a Twins player did something well. Her loyalty to the home team was as amusing as it was infectious.
And then there was my Quien Mas Sabe who continues to impress me with her insight and friendship. She told me early on that one of her strengths was knowing what her weaknesses were. I'm beginning to see how important that really is. If you know where you are vulnerable you can either put yourself in situations where you will succeed, or you can make the adjustments necessary to strengthen what you don't do well. Her week too sounded a bit frustrating and I only hope that my reaching out did matter because her inspiration has led to me doing some actual writing for the first time in a long while.
Finally I was honored that my 12 year old niece, Brynna, postponed her birthday party partly on my account since I couldn't make the original date. "We have to talk Uncle Dave," she said. "You better be there..." I even made it out to the mall, my least favorite place to be. After spending many frustrating minutes looking for the perfect gift at the Imaginarium I was approached by a young sales clerk who wowed me with her stellar service. She helped me pick out two gifts and then offered to wrap them. She was personable, funny, and I quite enjoyed her effort. When her wrapping took a bit of time she apologized saying how much she enjoyed wrapping and how she wanted to get it perfect. After some recent frustrating shopping experiences, the timing of this one was much appreciated. And you wanna know the end result of the week's events? Whereas I wouldn't trade my troubles with a monkey on a rock I actually came to the conclusion in the end I still wouldn't want to be anyone other than who I am. Wow.
Monday, June 1, 1998
To Make Me Feel Your Love
Dear Sandra,
I have a little confession to make. I didn't see Speed 2 until last Wednesday. I hope this isn't too big of a disappointment to you. It certainly is nothing personal, I haven't gone to too many movies since my sequel movie going partner and I parted ways. She after all was the perfect person to go to movies with: great taste, timing in knowing when to laugh, a quiet laugh, and critical but still a fan of the medium. She even helped launch my movie career with our appearance together in Jingle All the Way (RIP Mr. and Mrs. H.) which has now grown with my starring role in the Secretary of State's Election Judge video (coming soon to the cable station near you!). It's hard to replace that. But this is only an excuse, I know this probably drops my status as your biggest fan, and I only hope I can make it up to you somehow.
I have to admit part of my procrastination in seeing Speed 2 was the feeling that nothing could quite top the first one. Plus I read and heard all the negative reviews and I didn't want to be disappointed. Still both Siskel and Ebert gave it a thumbs up, and my favorite mother of two said she liked it better than the first (probably because she has a thing for boats) so I knew at some point I would have to see it. And not to be a wise guy here but the movie didn't exactly stay all that long in the theaters (I remember seeing big billboards for it when I was in Japan but figured we probably didn't want to spend our limited time indoors viewing an American movie).
So after watching I admit I not only enjoyed it I thought so much of it I bought my own copy. I may be accused of being love blind but to tell you the truth I didn't exactly enjoy The Net, or A Time to Kill so it isn't like all my faculties are down when it comes to your career. The sequel starts out slowly and there is a certain melancholy that hangs over the picture because it seemed sad that the relationship between Jack (Keanu Reeves) and Annie didn't work out. But the movie has some fun with the philosophy that "relationships that begin under extreme circumstances never work out." The first scene of you in a driving test with Tim Conway brought a bit of a groan ("This is the end Alex...") but once you get on the boat with the maniacal villain (William Dafoe) the fun starts. This of course contrasts with the first movie which grabbed my attention immediately with the elevator scene while this one takes a bit to get going. But get going it does. Speed 2 may not have a flying bus but it has a careening cruise ship. If one can only see one sinking boat movie from 1997 this is the one to see because director Jan De Bont manages the near impossible of recapturing some of the energy of the first movie. I was a bit dismayed to see your comments about the movie, "I'll be the first to tell you it was a stinker. The first time I saw it, I just kind of laughed." Come on Sandra, don't give in to popular opinion. Stand up for your work.
Perhaps my lack of loyalty can be made up with my efforts to see your newest effort, Hope Floats right away. I rushed out of a Friday afternoon meeting and proceeded to break the speed limit to see it on the opening day. Despite having to listen to the ongoing commentary from the couple behind me (why is it the people that talk at movies never say anything at all clever?) I still enjoyed the movie. Sure I felt manipulated by the melodramatic story but your earnest belief in the material popped out on the screen. I may be typical of your male fans in that I tend to score high on the dork scale, but I don't think what attracts me to you is what attracts most other people to your movies. The wet shirt scenes in Speed 2 made me blush. What has always gotten me ever since I saw Demolition Man was your uncanny resemblance to my original movie going and much missed traveling partner. Something about your eyes, your lazy smile (and the connection between the two), your mannerisms and your inherent empathy and intuition reminds me so much of her that it brings a familiar anticipation into my heart every time I see you (it's odd how memories can live on in movies). In Hope Floats your character, Birdie, distills much of what my lost friend was about: her sadness and triumphant spirit; her spunkiness and admirable determination; the rare gift of understanding the unspoken as well as the spoken. I can see why you so wanted to make this movie- it tells the story of someone who gives of herself until she loses who she is but she learns not to forsake hope because as long as hope exists you can believe in yourself and your own ability to mend your own ways. The small quiet vignette like moments add up to something quite moving.
The movie perfectly captures the spirit of the Bob Dylan song that Garth Brooks covers. "When evening shadows (shatters?) and the stars appear, and there's no one there to dry your tears, I could hold you for a million years- to make you feel my love." You learn in life it's the beginnings we always struggle with and the endings that are almost always inevitably sad- so it is the middle that we must learn to appreciate. The place we are at is the result of the place we've been and may not be as good as the place we are going but it's the attitude we carry along that will get us by. In both Speed 2 and Hope Floats it is your undying spirit that is as appealing as ever. Though I don't know where I will be in life when your next film opens I do know I'll take the time and stand in line to see it.
I have a little confession to make. I didn't see Speed 2 until last Wednesday. I hope this isn't too big of a disappointment to you. It certainly is nothing personal, I haven't gone to too many movies since my sequel movie going partner and I parted ways. She after all was the perfect person to go to movies with: great taste, timing in knowing when to laugh, a quiet laugh, and critical but still a fan of the medium. She even helped launch my movie career with our appearance together in Jingle All the Way (RIP Mr. and Mrs. H.) which has now grown with my starring role in the Secretary of State's Election Judge video (coming soon to the cable station near you!). It's hard to replace that. But this is only an excuse, I know this probably drops my status as your biggest fan, and I only hope I can make it up to you somehow.
I have to admit part of my procrastination in seeing Speed 2 was the feeling that nothing could quite top the first one. Plus I read and heard all the negative reviews and I didn't want to be disappointed. Still both Siskel and Ebert gave it a thumbs up, and my favorite mother of two said she liked it better than the first (probably because she has a thing for boats) so I knew at some point I would have to see it. And not to be a wise guy here but the movie didn't exactly stay all that long in the theaters (I remember seeing big billboards for it when I was in Japan but figured we probably didn't want to spend our limited time indoors viewing an American movie).
So after watching I admit I not only enjoyed it I thought so much of it I bought my own copy. I may be accused of being love blind but to tell you the truth I didn't exactly enjoy The Net, or A Time to Kill so it isn't like all my faculties are down when it comes to your career. The sequel starts out slowly and there is a certain melancholy that hangs over the picture because it seemed sad that the relationship between Jack (Keanu Reeves) and Annie didn't work out. But the movie has some fun with the philosophy that "relationships that begin under extreme circumstances never work out." The first scene of you in a driving test with Tim Conway brought a bit of a groan ("This is the end Alex...") but once you get on the boat with the maniacal villain (William Dafoe) the fun starts. This of course contrasts with the first movie which grabbed my attention immediately with the elevator scene while this one takes a bit to get going. But get going it does. Speed 2 may not have a flying bus but it has a careening cruise ship. If one can only see one sinking boat movie from 1997 this is the one to see because director Jan De Bont manages the near impossible of recapturing some of the energy of the first movie. I was a bit dismayed to see your comments about the movie, "I'll be the first to tell you it was a stinker. The first time I saw it, I just kind of laughed." Come on Sandra, don't give in to popular opinion. Stand up for your work.
Perhaps my lack of loyalty can be made up with my efforts to see your newest effort, Hope Floats right away. I rushed out of a Friday afternoon meeting and proceeded to break the speed limit to see it on the opening day. Despite having to listen to the ongoing commentary from the couple behind me (why is it the people that talk at movies never say anything at all clever?) I still enjoyed the movie. Sure I felt manipulated by the melodramatic story but your earnest belief in the material popped out on the screen. I may be typical of your male fans in that I tend to score high on the dork scale, but I don't think what attracts me to you is what attracts most other people to your movies. The wet shirt scenes in Speed 2 made me blush. What has always gotten me ever since I saw Demolition Man was your uncanny resemblance to my original movie going and much missed traveling partner. Something about your eyes, your lazy smile (and the connection between the two), your mannerisms and your inherent empathy and intuition reminds me so much of her that it brings a familiar anticipation into my heart every time I see you (it's odd how memories can live on in movies). In Hope Floats your character, Birdie, distills much of what my lost friend was about: her sadness and triumphant spirit; her spunkiness and admirable determination; the rare gift of understanding the unspoken as well as the spoken. I can see why you so wanted to make this movie- it tells the story of someone who gives of herself until she loses who she is but she learns not to forsake hope because as long as hope exists you can believe in yourself and your own ability to mend your own ways. The small quiet vignette like moments add up to something quite moving.
The movie perfectly captures the spirit of the Bob Dylan song that Garth Brooks covers. "When evening shadows (shatters?) and the stars appear, and there's no one there to dry your tears, I could hold you for a million years- to make you feel my love." You learn in life it's the beginnings we always struggle with and the endings that are almost always inevitably sad- so it is the middle that we must learn to appreciate. The place we are at is the result of the place we've been and may not be as good as the place we are going but it's the attitude we carry along that will get us by. In both Speed 2 and Hope Floats it is your undying spirit that is as appealing as ever. Though I don't know where I will be in life when your next film opens I do know I'll take the time and stand in line to see it.
Monday, May 25, 1998
Oh to Be a Tube
Her shadow cast a figure that looked like Pebbles (or was it Bam Bam?) against the wall. Deep inside the little boy felt warmer (muy muy caliente) than the hot afternoon sun whose intensity was determined to make everybody sweat as it turned a tan into a burn. She told him of a scene five years in the future. He understood clearly and wanted to at once be there with her. She was a spray painter with the soul of a blues dancer. He was beginning to sense that she had that rare gift of great intuition- of being able to see what the sum of the parts truly was. His preference always was toward people who thought before they spoke. "Observe; listen; think; feel; use your intuition- then speak."
A closet full of shoes, neatly shelved and arranged by the master decorator. A puppy dog look of affection as her two dogs showed enthusiasm demonstrating how to give ten and play paddy cake all for the love of an ice cube. She was a keeper of roses and he continued to admire her attitude. It was a mere week after the passing of the boy's blued eyed idol. He was more shaken by the loss than he thought he would be. It made him recall a period frightfully not that long ago where he worked in a vault and needed to call upstairs whenever he wanted someone to let him out. As a self reward for his endurance he went out and bought a fancy felt hat, the type his idol might wear. He got looks from the people of downtown whenever he wore this hat but it was the beginning of his recovery. His current closet collection of hats was a nice reminder of how far he had come in just a few years. Now for this one rare moment he was in a perfect place and time.
The confusion was lifting. The storm that blew through a neighboring community left its scars and inconveniences. Those that endured pondered the most vital inventions of all. TV? Telephones? Electricity? Nope. Adhesive: whatever binds us together and provides the ultimate connection. He walked into a store and said, "Shuegoo," to the weary and bewildered young clerk. She looked at him as if he had asked for his favorite Japanese blow fish. "Shoogue," he repeated. She clearly wasn't understanding. "The heal of my shoe is detached," he began. She finally got it: Shoe Goo. She directed him to the nearest shoe repair shop. He then visited a new dentist who affixed a crown in his mouth that the boy's father had made. A perfect fit. It's good once in a while when something sticks. A good adhesive and a little electricity all adds up to rock and roll.
"It licks away like the tide on a stone. It ticks away at you genius of America. Break even, burn gas. Buried in waste right up to your ass. Turn a bottle to a bag on the ground, get used to living in a cardboard town. A visionary luminary, futures looking kind of scary." Later on in the week the boy was having dinner with his friend Spunky. The conversation turned to relationships passed and Spunky told him he couldn't imagine anything worse than dating the boy. "Equal parts frustrating and annoying."
The same could be said about the moment the boy stood in the darkness of the Medina Ballroom listening to the current incarnation of the rock group the Tubes plow their way through yet another concert in yet another venue on a long, long road. This group hasn't been around forever, it only feels that way. As lead singer Fee Waybill tore his shredded shirt from his body and handed it to an adoring female fan, his furrowed brow gave away the familiarity of the moment. Just another gig on another night, trying to recapture the spirit of what brought all this up to begin with.
They performed all the perfunctory songs from White Punks on Dope to A Matter of Pride and Mr. Hate. If nothing else they've become quite the professionals able to strike the right riff to get the crowd bobbing in satisfaction. Waybill's arrogance only matched his ability to give the crowd what they were looking for. On this particular night he made several comments about the recent settlement between the state and the tobacco companies, making smoking in Minnesota even more of an outlaw activity. As he spoke several cigarettes were flung his way. He feigned his death in front of the understanding throng.
Hard as they tried (and they did seem to try awfully hard) the current Tubes lineup couldn't convey anything other than this was yet another stop on the long road from being a famous band to just another act that people come to hear to remember what once was. The ever luring promise of sex, drugs and rock and roll remains the goal (betrayed only by the promise of eternal youth), the attraction for both the band and their loyal fans. In the rare instances when the band was able to recapture the essence and share it, the power of rock and roll was properly caught once again if only for a moment.
The Tubes have taken their place next to the Journeys, the REO Speedwagons, the Styx's of the world as occupying the growing up period for a generation of people. And their performance in Medina replayed memories from another time for many in the room. Rock and roll can be revolutionary in its nostalgia as well as its ability to say the wrong things just at the right time. And it seems like quite the way to make a living.
A closet full of shoes, neatly shelved and arranged by the master decorator. A puppy dog look of affection as her two dogs showed enthusiasm demonstrating how to give ten and play paddy cake all for the love of an ice cube. She was a keeper of roses and he continued to admire her attitude. It was a mere week after the passing of the boy's blued eyed idol. He was more shaken by the loss than he thought he would be. It made him recall a period frightfully not that long ago where he worked in a vault and needed to call upstairs whenever he wanted someone to let him out. As a self reward for his endurance he went out and bought a fancy felt hat, the type his idol might wear. He got looks from the people of downtown whenever he wore this hat but it was the beginning of his recovery. His current closet collection of hats was a nice reminder of how far he had come in just a few years. Now for this one rare moment he was in a perfect place and time.
The confusion was lifting. The storm that blew through a neighboring community left its scars and inconveniences. Those that endured pondered the most vital inventions of all. TV? Telephones? Electricity? Nope. Adhesive: whatever binds us together and provides the ultimate connection. He walked into a store and said, "Shuegoo," to the weary and bewildered young clerk. She looked at him as if he had asked for his favorite Japanese blow fish. "Shoogue," he repeated. She clearly wasn't understanding. "The heal of my shoe is detached," he began. She finally got it: Shoe Goo. She directed him to the nearest shoe repair shop. He then visited a new dentist who affixed a crown in his mouth that the boy's father had made. A perfect fit. It's good once in a while when something sticks. A good adhesive and a little electricity all adds up to rock and roll.
"It licks away like the tide on a stone. It ticks away at you genius of America. Break even, burn gas. Buried in waste right up to your ass. Turn a bottle to a bag on the ground, get used to living in a cardboard town. A visionary luminary, futures looking kind of scary." Later on in the week the boy was having dinner with his friend Spunky. The conversation turned to relationships passed and Spunky told him he couldn't imagine anything worse than dating the boy. "Equal parts frustrating and annoying."
The same could be said about the moment the boy stood in the darkness of the Medina Ballroom listening to the current incarnation of the rock group the Tubes plow their way through yet another concert in yet another venue on a long, long road. This group hasn't been around forever, it only feels that way. As lead singer Fee Waybill tore his shredded shirt from his body and handed it to an adoring female fan, his furrowed brow gave away the familiarity of the moment. Just another gig on another night, trying to recapture the spirit of what brought all this up to begin with.
They performed all the perfunctory songs from White Punks on Dope to A Matter of Pride and Mr. Hate. If nothing else they've become quite the professionals able to strike the right riff to get the crowd bobbing in satisfaction. Waybill's arrogance only matched his ability to give the crowd what they were looking for. On this particular night he made several comments about the recent settlement between the state and the tobacco companies, making smoking in Minnesota even more of an outlaw activity. As he spoke several cigarettes were flung his way. He feigned his death in front of the understanding throng.
Hard as they tried (and they did seem to try awfully hard) the current Tubes lineup couldn't convey anything other than this was yet another stop on the long road from being a famous band to just another act that people come to hear to remember what once was. The ever luring promise of sex, drugs and rock and roll remains the goal (betrayed only by the promise of eternal youth), the attraction for both the band and their loyal fans. In the rare instances when the band was able to recapture the essence and share it, the power of rock and roll was properly caught once again if only for a moment.
The Tubes have taken their place next to the Journeys, the REO Speedwagons, the Styx's of the world as occupying the growing up period for a generation of people. And their performance in Medina replayed memories from another time for many in the room. Rock and roll can be revolutionary in its nostalgia as well as its ability to say the wrong things just at the right time. And it seems like quite the way to make a living.
Monday, May 18, 1998
Farewell Mr. Frank
The week ended with a first. After the Friday storms blew by, I turned to Mr. Max and said, "Max, I'm going out to get the parsnips." I truly believe that is the first time that sentence has ever been uttered in the history of human language. Seems that when I was digging up weeds in the garden I discovered I had a dozen very large parsnips growing. I didn't know what they were- at first I thought I had grown some mutant plant combining a potato with a carrot. Just in time my next door neighbor stopped by and said, "Oh you have parsnips." And I nodded knowingly quite proud of this year's crop.
I put them in a pail out in my garage. So Friday evening as I was wistfully listening to my Sinatra CDs I desperately needed something to cheer me up. The brunt of the storm had passed over and the frightening dark skies were now looking more calm. I then remembered my parsnips. I hadn't a clue as to how to fix them so I fried them in butter. The end result wasn't exactly too impressive. Though they looked a lot like potato chips they tasted more like heavily buttered balsa wood.
They went down a little better as Mr. Sinatra belted out I've Got You Under My Skin. Life's accomplishments and disappointments always seem more palpable with a Sinatra tune in the background. "I'd sacrifice anything come what might for the sake of having you near. In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night..."
Years ago my best friend in high school turned me on to Frank. We were at his parent's cabin in Osakis when he played me Frank and Count Basie's It Might As Well Be Swing. I was forever hooked. The man defined the very essence of cool. All these years later when I hear Fly Me To the Moon, or The Second Time Around I get shivers listening to the man. How big a loss is this? It only means we have collectively lost our voice- one that spoke so eloquently for so many. I would argue that is among the saddest losses of all.
I would be extremely hard pressed to pick out my favorite Frank album. Songs for Swingin Lovers captures the essence of being in love better than any other music I can think of. Sings Only for the Lonely captures the essence of the loss of love just as effectively. On those rare occasions when I'm feeling sad and regretful Where Are You speaks volumes. The version of Laura in that song cycle is about as perfect a recording as I've ever heard. And I still think the most underrated album of all time is Sinatra's most thematic effort, Watertown, that tells a story in all its ups and down with emotion and precision just as accurately as the best of novels. "So a dream has to end when it's real and not pretend..." Picking out my favorite Sinatra song would be even more difficult. High Hopes? Little Girl Blue? The Way You Look Tonight? Witchcraft? Each one has touched me and I could listen to all of them over and over again.
My ill fated attempt at a college radio show featured all Sinatra songs. Each week I would get a call from the secretary of the Geography Department who was the campus' biggest Frank fan. Every week she would request One for My Baby (and One More for the Road). Most fans probably think of My Way or New York New York as Sinatra's signature songs. But One for My Baby defined him early on as the classic saloon singer: as the singer who could wring out every last ounce of emotion from the biggest tearjerker song of all time. In his recorded live versions he always introduced it with a long spiel telling the story of a man who has lost his love and is spilling his story to a bartender. The explanations were needless however because each and every version I've ever heard says it all. "It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me... We're drinking my friend, to the end of a brief episode. Make it one for my baby and one more for the road..."
For me the most impressive musicians are those that can write their own words and perform them in a way that makes the music uniquely their own while still making it appealing to the masses. Sinatra was the exception. It was his ability to take other's words and make them his own that forever won my admiration. He had the remarkable gift of being able to take a combination of words that had been sung many times before and always make them sound new. Regrets, I've had a few... one of the biggest of all is never having seen the man perform live. I was hoping for another chance. He was the comeback king from here to eternity- whenever anyone thought he was down for the count he would give yet another sterling performance. Despite his reported health problems of the past few years I was still hoping he had yet one more comeback in him. Sadly it wasn't to be. We'll never ever get his interpretation of another great song. We'll never again hear his voice take standard material and make it universally touching to so many hearts. The man had style and unmatchable attitude. For all his well documented faults he forever unflinchingly remained true to his code. His cockiness was only matched by his vulnerability. He sang to those in love and those now out of love; he sang to the hip and to the down and out. Every time one of his songs plays on the radio he opens up his heart and seems to share with what is in ours. That's quite the trick.
I put them in a pail out in my garage. So Friday evening as I was wistfully listening to my Sinatra CDs I desperately needed something to cheer me up. The brunt of the storm had passed over and the frightening dark skies were now looking more calm. I then remembered my parsnips. I hadn't a clue as to how to fix them so I fried them in butter. The end result wasn't exactly too impressive. Though they looked a lot like potato chips they tasted more like heavily buttered balsa wood.
They went down a little better as Mr. Sinatra belted out I've Got You Under My Skin. Life's accomplishments and disappointments always seem more palpable with a Sinatra tune in the background. "I'd sacrifice anything come what might for the sake of having you near. In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night..."
Years ago my best friend in high school turned me on to Frank. We were at his parent's cabin in Osakis when he played me Frank and Count Basie's It Might As Well Be Swing. I was forever hooked. The man defined the very essence of cool. All these years later when I hear Fly Me To the Moon, or The Second Time Around I get shivers listening to the man. How big a loss is this? It only means we have collectively lost our voice- one that spoke so eloquently for so many. I would argue that is among the saddest losses of all.
I would be extremely hard pressed to pick out my favorite Frank album. Songs for Swingin Lovers captures the essence of being in love better than any other music I can think of. Sings Only for the Lonely captures the essence of the loss of love just as effectively. On those rare occasions when I'm feeling sad and regretful Where Are You speaks volumes. The version of Laura in that song cycle is about as perfect a recording as I've ever heard. And I still think the most underrated album of all time is Sinatra's most thematic effort, Watertown, that tells a story in all its ups and down with emotion and precision just as accurately as the best of novels. "So a dream has to end when it's real and not pretend..." Picking out my favorite Sinatra song would be even more difficult. High Hopes? Little Girl Blue? The Way You Look Tonight? Witchcraft? Each one has touched me and I could listen to all of them over and over again.
My ill fated attempt at a college radio show featured all Sinatra songs. Each week I would get a call from the secretary of the Geography Department who was the campus' biggest Frank fan. Every week she would request One for My Baby (and One More for the Road). Most fans probably think of My Way or New York New York as Sinatra's signature songs. But One for My Baby defined him early on as the classic saloon singer: as the singer who could wring out every last ounce of emotion from the biggest tearjerker song of all time. In his recorded live versions he always introduced it with a long spiel telling the story of a man who has lost his love and is spilling his story to a bartender. The explanations were needless however because each and every version I've ever heard says it all. "It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me... We're drinking my friend, to the end of a brief episode. Make it one for my baby and one more for the road..."
For me the most impressive musicians are those that can write their own words and perform them in a way that makes the music uniquely their own while still making it appealing to the masses. Sinatra was the exception. It was his ability to take other's words and make them his own that forever won my admiration. He had the remarkable gift of being able to take a combination of words that had been sung many times before and always make them sound new. Regrets, I've had a few... one of the biggest of all is never having seen the man perform live. I was hoping for another chance. He was the comeback king from here to eternity- whenever anyone thought he was down for the count he would give yet another sterling performance. Despite his reported health problems of the past few years I was still hoping he had yet one more comeback in him. Sadly it wasn't to be. We'll never ever get his interpretation of another great song. We'll never again hear his voice take standard material and make it universally touching to so many hearts. The man had style and unmatchable attitude. For all his well documented faults he forever unflinchingly remained true to his code. His cockiness was only matched by his vulnerability. He sang to those in love and those now out of love; he sang to the hip and to the down and out. Every time one of his songs plays on the radio he opens up his heart and seems to share with what is in ours. That's quite the trick.
Monday, May 11, 1998
Mums the Word
Put on those special glasses Pedro, for the first time ever this week's newsletter is printed in color! Yes indeed it may not be noticeable to the normal human eye but gosh darn we have stepped ever so slowly into 1998. Last week while printing the final proofs of the newsletter our old HP printer made a screeching noise and came to a grinding halt. Thus eagle eyed readers might have noticed even more errors than those that appear in our average issue. There simply was no way to print corrections. While frustrating I spent my time debating whether the saying should be "In perfection lies imperfection," or whether it should be "In imperfection lies perfection"? Both made equal amount of sense at 3:00 a.m. Sunday morning. So after accepting life's latest challenge/ frustration and putting yet another newsletter to bed, I was left with a dilemma. Without a printer it would be mighty difficult to produce a newsletter. I could use my mother's computer which lacks compatible software and thus would create a different looking publication, or I could drive all the way in to Stillwater and use my work PC. Or I could pry open the wallet and either fork out the dough to repair the printer or buy a brand new one.
Utilizing another computer seemed the best option for it would afford me some time to make the final decision. Yet clearly it was not a long term solution. Fixing my old printer was perhaps the most logical solution for I knew the reliability and quality I could expect. Still it seemed silly to shell out the price of parts and labor on a five year old piece of computer equipment when the advances in technology seemed sufficient enough to buy a new printer (color!) for a competitive price. So I did some shopping and pricing all the while trying to stymie the impulse buy impulses. I ended up at the Roseville CompUSA. I looked at a variety of printers from simple black and white inkjets to multifaceted printer/scanner/fax machine units. My attention focused upon a NEC color inkjet which seemed to produce a quality print out balanced against a reasonable price.
I checked out the Web for information on that specific printer. I asked my computer "guy" about NEC products. He had nothing negative to report so I decided to take the plunge. I returned to CompUSA following a rather long day (a broken tooth and a broken lawn mower which I won't go into here). I was set in my decision of buying the NEC printer with the condition I see an actual printout to determine quality and with the need of an answer as to whether CompUSA's three to five year service plan was worth the extra cash. (I'll admit here that I was open to the possibility of being talked into buying a much more expensive printer if they could convince me the fax/scanner options were worth it.) So I returned to the store, went straight back to the printer aisle and waited for some assistance. No salesperson was in sight so I wandered back to the nearest counter (software and hardware upgrades) where I asked the clerk for help. He informed me he couldn't assist me but that he would page someone. Several minutes passed and he tried his intercom announcement once again, "MOD to printers for customer service..." After waiting a few minutes someone finally returned his page and he was instructed to tell me to stand by the printer and flag down a salesperson when they became available.
So I stood by the printer I wanted to buy and waited. And waited some more. I saw a salesperson assisting another customer so I approached him and asked if he could help me when he was available. He grunted. So I waited some more. Meanwhile a woman walked out because she couldn't find any help and another gentleman muttered to his son, "This place sucks..." I decided I would wait around to give them ample chance to correct the situation. The hardware manager, Steve Hirman finally appeared in the area so I asked him for help. He was assisting another customer and walked away. I waited some more. I flagged down a stock person and asked him if he could help me. He couldn't but for the first time during my visit I actually encountered an employee that seemed to care that I was a customer.
Hence my frustration. After talking to Mr. Hirman I was told three of his employees had not shown that evening and he was short handed. But it was clear he had no clue as to the nature of my frustration. He explained to me that CompUSA was a "self service" type of store clearly indicating that the prices were what mattered to his customers not the level of service. (CompUSA where we sell products that work better than we do...) The lesson I was learning that he didn't seem to comprehend was that the problem was something far more basic than the credo "the customer is always right." It was about basic human interaction and the need to see that someone at the store actually cared about the quality of work they performed. I almost felt like apologizing as a customer for being a burden and interfering with their more important work. I would have but all the employees I encountered seemed a bit cranky. The prices may sell the products but to have a group of employees so undercut by management philosophy destroys any job satisfaction that can possibly occur.
I don't expect my bad experience to stop anyone from shopping the company and this one location in particular. I bought the printer and they got their money from me. I've even thought about writing to the CEO of the company and thanking him for my new printer which I'm fairly satisfied with. "Dear Mr. So and So: I am writing to tell you how happy I am that I purchased an NEC printer from your company for such a great price. I would have thanked one of your employees if only I could have found one..."
Utilizing another computer seemed the best option for it would afford me some time to make the final decision. Yet clearly it was not a long term solution. Fixing my old printer was perhaps the most logical solution for I knew the reliability and quality I could expect. Still it seemed silly to shell out the price of parts and labor on a five year old piece of computer equipment when the advances in technology seemed sufficient enough to buy a new printer (color!) for a competitive price. So I did some shopping and pricing all the while trying to stymie the impulse buy impulses. I ended up at the Roseville CompUSA. I looked at a variety of printers from simple black and white inkjets to multifaceted printer/scanner/fax machine units. My attention focused upon a NEC color inkjet which seemed to produce a quality print out balanced against a reasonable price.
I checked out the Web for information on that specific printer. I asked my computer "guy" about NEC products. He had nothing negative to report so I decided to take the plunge. I returned to CompUSA following a rather long day (a broken tooth and a broken lawn mower which I won't go into here). I was set in my decision of buying the NEC printer with the condition I see an actual printout to determine quality and with the need of an answer as to whether CompUSA's three to five year service plan was worth the extra cash. (I'll admit here that I was open to the possibility of being talked into buying a much more expensive printer if they could convince me the fax/scanner options were worth it.) So I returned to the store, went straight back to the printer aisle and waited for some assistance. No salesperson was in sight so I wandered back to the nearest counter (software and hardware upgrades) where I asked the clerk for help. He informed me he couldn't assist me but that he would page someone. Several minutes passed and he tried his intercom announcement once again, "MOD to printers for customer service..." After waiting a few minutes someone finally returned his page and he was instructed to tell me to stand by the printer and flag down a salesperson when they became available.
So I stood by the printer I wanted to buy and waited. And waited some more. I saw a salesperson assisting another customer so I approached him and asked if he could help me when he was available. He grunted. So I waited some more. Meanwhile a woman walked out because she couldn't find any help and another gentleman muttered to his son, "This place sucks..." I decided I would wait around to give them ample chance to correct the situation. The hardware manager, Steve Hirman finally appeared in the area so I asked him for help. He was assisting another customer and walked away. I waited some more. I flagged down a stock person and asked him if he could help me. He couldn't but for the first time during my visit I actually encountered an employee that seemed to care that I was a customer.
Hence my frustration. After talking to Mr. Hirman I was told three of his employees had not shown that evening and he was short handed. But it was clear he had no clue as to the nature of my frustration. He explained to me that CompUSA was a "self service" type of store clearly indicating that the prices were what mattered to his customers not the level of service. (CompUSA where we sell products that work better than we do...) The lesson I was learning that he didn't seem to comprehend was that the problem was something far more basic than the credo "the customer is always right." It was about basic human interaction and the need to see that someone at the store actually cared about the quality of work they performed. I almost felt like apologizing as a customer for being a burden and interfering with their more important work. I would have but all the employees I encountered seemed a bit cranky. The prices may sell the products but to have a group of employees so undercut by management philosophy destroys any job satisfaction that can possibly occur.
I don't expect my bad experience to stop anyone from shopping the company and this one location in particular. I bought the printer and they got their money from me. I've even thought about writing to the CEO of the company and thanking him for my new printer which I'm fairly satisfied with. "Dear Mr. So and So: I am writing to tell you how happy I am that I purchased an NEC printer from your company for such a great price. I would have thanked one of your employees if only I could have found one..."
Monday, May 4, 1998
Sooner or Later
Welcome to the world Eon Trainor. While I don't suppose it's entirely accurate to call you the first Cheapo baby, that you are the first child born to two Cheapo employees is reason enough for a company-wide celebration (whoop-de-doo).
As you see things for the first time you no doubt will be full of questions. This world is nothing if not a confusing place. But you should have some peace of mind knowing you are in good hands. I don't know your mother and father all that well yet what I do know is enough to be confident that they will make better than average parents. Still, even with the best parents in the world (and I think I could go to any court of law in the land and personally stake that claim) you will make your mistakes here and there and face your share of troubles. But you'll be OK in the end as long as you stay rooted in the values you are taught.
Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about. Last Monday I was looking forward to going to the Twins game with my good friend. I got a call at 6:30 in the morning from this friend who told me because of a family problem she wouldn't be able to go with me. I was disappointed but I realized that family does come first (no matter how good the seats, which were great- just to the right of home plate staring straight down the third base line about twenty rows up). The family problem turned out to be some unspecified trouble her older daughter had gotten herself into. Being the self professed parenting expert I am (having successfully raised the most neurotic cat this side of the Mississippi) I immediately was there to give my advice and opinions.
My friend and her husband have worked hard at being excellent parents. I admire them both for the care and discipline they exude with their two daughters. And it shows- both kids have turned out to be really good people. Thus I know my friend and her family will be able to work their way through this latest crisis not only because both parents have demonstrated superior parenting skills but also because the kid is alright. Whether or not she can admit it, she someday will come to appreciate the strong foundation her parents provided from day one. Along the way, she'll learn relationships are built on trust which is a two way street. But with trust comes responsibility which ultimately depends solely on each of us individually. It's easier to find someone to give you their word than it is to find someone that will keep it.
And some days will be harder than others Eon. Just when you think you have things figured out to some sort of degree, life is always more than willing to throw you a curve, place an obstacle in your path. My new passion this spring is my garden. I have already spent nights turning over the dirt, clearing the leftover stuff from last fall, and digging up the weeds, some of which established quite the root system. All the while pictures of peonies and hyacinth run through my head. Starting in one corner and finishing up that spot only to look at how much is still left to do is discouraging work.
But the end result is an impressive sized rectangular black dirt plot ready for any plant I deem suitable. Getting down on your hands and knees and getting that fresh dirt underneath your fingernails has a certain raw appeal, and the end result of all the work is well worth it. There is something refreshing and redemptive about the renewal process of gardening. I slept well that night and even had a dream of my garden. In my dream I was out planting some seeds, and digging up more weeds with my hands. The sun was bright and blissful. Suddenly one of the roots grabbed a hold of me and tried to pull me under. I woke up startled at the sudden turn of events. I tried to decipher some deeper meaning: my roots were some type of burden; hard work can still lead to disastrous results; my garden represented some type of grave I was digging for myself... None of it seemed to fit although in the darkness it all made some sense. When I talked to my dream interpreter the next day she said it was probably caused by watching one too many episodes of Lost in Space when I was a kid. She said that show caused the same nightmares for her. She unburied the memories of those episodes when a strange planet's plants would grab one of the Robinsons. Another dream we shared independent of each other.
So Eon, sometimes you don't have to dig so deep to find answers, they can be right in front of you. And often it's even hard to tell what is a weed and what isn't. The distinction isn't important the perception is. Though you'll hopefully find people willing to help out, the most wonderful thing of all is the experience you gain learning these lessons by yourself. It can be life's greatest reward.
As you see things for the first time you no doubt will be full of questions. This world is nothing if not a confusing place. But you should have some peace of mind knowing you are in good hands. I don't know your mother and father all that well yet what I do know is enough to be confident that they will make better than average parents. Still, even with the best parents in the world (and I think I could go to any court of law in the land and personally stake that claim) you will make your mistakes here and there and face your share of troubles. But you'll be OK in the end as long as you stay rooted in the values you are taught.
Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about. Last Monday I was looking forward to going to the Twins game with my good friend. I got a call at 6:30 in the morning from this friend who told me because of a family problem she wouldn't be able to go with me. I was disappointed but I realized that family does come first (no matter how good the seats, which were great- just to the right of home plate staring straight down the third base line about twenty rows up). The family problem turned out to be some unspecified trouble her older daughter had gotten herself into. Being the self professed parenting expert I am (having successfully raised the most neurotic cat this side of the Mississippi) I immediately was there to give my advice and opinions.
My friend and her husband have worked hard at being excellent parents. I admire them both for the care and discipline they exude with their two daughters. And it shows- both kids have turned out to be really good people. Thus I know my friend and her family will be able to work their way through this latest crisis not only because both parents have demonstrated superior parenting skills but also because the kid is alright. Whether or not she can admit it, she someday will come to appreciate the strong foundation her parents provided from day one. Along the way, she'll learn relationships are built on trust which is a two way street. But with trust comes responsibility which ultimately depends solely on each of us individually. It's easier to find someone to give you their word than it is to find someone that will keep it.
And some days will be harder than others Eon. Just when you think you have things figured out to some sort of degree, life is always more than willing to throw you a curve, place an obstacle in your path. My new passion this spring is my garden. I have already spent nights turning over the dirt, clearing the leftover stuff from last fall, and digging up the weeds, some of which established quite the root system. All the while pictures of peonies and hyacinth run through my head. Starting in one corner and finishing up that spot only to look at how much is still left to do is discouraging work.
But the end result is an impressive sized rectangular black dirt plot ready for any plant I deem suitable. Getting down on your hands and knees and getting that fresh dirt underneath your fingernails has a certain raw appeal, and the end result of all the work is well worth it. There is something refreshing and redemptive about the renewal process of gardening. I slept well that night and even had a dream of my garden. In my dream I was out planting some seeds, and digging up more weeds with my hands. The sun was bright and blissful. Suddenly one of the roots grabbed a hold of me and tried to pull me under. I woke up startled at the sudden turn of events. I tried to decipher some deeper meaning: my roots were some type of burden; hard work can still lead to disastrous results; my garden represented some type of grave I was digging for myself... None of it seemed to fit although in the darkness it all made some sense. When I talked to my dream interpreter the next day she said it was probably caused by watching one too many episodes of Lost in Space when I was a kid. She said that show caused the same nightmares for her. She unburied the memories of those episodes when a strange planet's plants would grab one of the Robinsons. Another dream we shared independent of each other.
So Eon, sometimes you don't have to dig so deep to find answers, they can be right in front of you. And often it's even hard to tell what is a weed and what isn't. The distinction isn't important the perception is. Though you'll hopefully find people willing to help out, the most wonderful thing of all is the experience you gain learning these lessons by yourself. It can be life's greatest reward.
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