A mere year later everything was supposed to have changed. We weren't going to sweat the small stuff and trivial as much. Culture and everyday life was to be less harsh and meaningless. Community service and dedication was going to take on importance and we were all going to try and pull through this together. Has any of that happened? The lure of the pursuit of wealth, power, and instant/constant personal gratification remains. The saturating overkill of the one year anniversary of September 11 was to be expected. The way we guiltily honor, celebrate, and commemorate things is the essence of being American. Everything is a show, every emotion usually hidden in day to day interactions is worn proudly on our sleeves from time to showy time.
I tried to avoid any of the anniversary stuff as best I could. To me it wasn't about remembering on a particular day who lost their lives in a violent and senseless attack; to do that seemed an insult to the survivors affected with a loss. I would presume for them every day of this past year has been about remembering as much as trying to overcome the reminder of the devastation. Anniversaries are convenient and reassuring but when something so overwhelmingly significant occurs it is supposed to change things day to day in some way and for some it did. For the rest of us it may be cathartic to recognize one year has passed but it may mean even more to realize what and what hasn't changed about who we are and what we tell ourselves we believe.
I'm almost ashamed to admit I've personally gone on in much the same way as I did before the attack. But at the same time what is without isn't what is within. Something has changed. I've spent a lot of the past year avoiding attachment to the usual, to the past and rather instead tried to find something more spiritually significant. I was reading a rather interesting essay the other day comparing the use of art in Existentialism versus Christianity. The essayist's theory was that the difference between the two philosophies was that Christianity views the world as inherently good and it is the sins of humans that makes stuff difficult and bad. Existentialism meanwhile assumes the world is pointless and it is human perception that can make it a little more bearable and that is why art exists in such a realm.
The day before the anniversary I did my now annual community service of serving as an election judge. Having worked in that particular area since 2000 I have come to realize a rather scary thing or two. We base our theory of democracy and the belief that our elections are fair and accurate. And yet as our friends south of us in Florida have at least twice demonstrated we should wonder about that. Elections are only as good as the people running them. And what I personally saw last Tuesday I became afraid, VERY afraid. My job was to run between precincts in a ward of St. Paul and to help out where I could and evaluate what was going on in the voting stations of some of the city's finest churches, schools, and retirement homes. 140 miles later let me just summarize my observations of the day by saying I have less confidence in the system than ever before.
My belief in anything and all things political was slightly restored the following day after I attended the governor led ceremony of 9/11 on the Capitol steps. Yup I saw Mr. Ventura choke up. And afterwards I was walking back to my workplace having picked up a needed cup of coffee at the DOT building. I saw our next governor, Tim Penny coming toward me. We made eye contact and he greeted me with a way too friendly "HI!" I'm sure that is enough to get my vote.
Later I had the increasingly ultra-rare free evening so I headed over to the Lagoon Theater in Uptown for one of the final showings of the documentary, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, chronicling the making of the latest CD from the critically adored but publicly ignored band Wilco.
The band is one that those who somehow know me probably think I like a lot more than I do. Yup they got down that folk/rock/country mixture thing that is my musical lexicon; yup they got the morose lyrics and melodies that some have associated with my musical taste. But other than their second CD, the brilliant Being There, I really haven't liked much or their work. And call me a potential future record executive weasel but when I first heard their last CD, Yankee Foxtrot Hotel, I really thought it was way too much a downer, a self indulgent self examination to ever justify anything.
I must admit after having seen the movie, seeing the powerful images of the group creating and performing I confess something connected and I have since taken the time and effort to re-examine my perceptions of what has come before. Sadly the past year music has meant less to me than I've ever known. Absorbing the struggle Wilco has gone through (being dropped by their label and firing a band member) and still managing to come up with some eternal and admirably internal music was somehow inspiring. Yup, art can save us even if the dust may never ever settle upon any of us in quite the same way again.
Monday, September 16, 2002
Monday, September 9, 2002
Rap it Up
Everything I learned about life I learned from watching the Iron Chef. On the program the two chefs battle fiercely for 60 minutes but when the judgment is in, when Chairman Kaga announces the results and the winner, the two rivals usually are very gracious and humbly shake each other's hand as they congratulate the up to then unforgiving competition on the effort put in. It's as if since they are the only two put through the grueling high pressure ordeal they are more alike than different, and they understand one another on a whole other level than the folks watching in.
This was all reinforced when I recently had coffee and conversation with a friend and it was one of those rare times in life when you are glad to be exactly where you with who you find yourself with. Among the things I learned was that in the kitchen she doesn't have the patience of her mother who is a fine cook. When it comes to following the precision often necessary in making a recipe turn out tasting right she admitted that touch isn't one of her strongest points. At least, I thought to myself, she actually tries to follow some precise steps. I tend to be the type of chef who just experiments and throws things together and hopelessly hopes that somehow it will turn out tasty.
Prime example: my sister gave me a bottle of hot stuff aptly named "Da Bomb" that is a liquid combination of the hottest peppers known to man and Mercurian. It's so potent that I once got some on my skin and it burned for days. (Just imagine what it does to one's stomach lining!) Since I generally get a kick out of spicy food I was most thankful for the gift. I dutifully tried it in stir fry after stir fry only to find out that just a drop of the stuff made whatever combination of stuff I chose to try together taste inedible.
Frying meat and vegetables together is about as ambitious as I have gotten ever since moving out on my own, trying to create the right combination of ingredients to call a dish my very own. I usually include chicken and broccoli but the other elements tend to rotate from vegetables ranging from carrots and onions to potatoes and scallions; to spices like garlic, ginger, curry, Worcestershire Sauce, and thyme. I have for a long time desperately sought something to counter the bite of "Da Bomb" and add some taste to the kick- everything from chicken mushroom soup and yogurt to lemon juice and milk. The best I could come up with to add flavor to the oppressive oral ouchability was mushing up some bananas. Oddly that combo actually turned out kind of OK.
Now if you've gotten this far in this week's entry you are probably wondering what the point of all this is. Well listening to my friend at the coffee house, a kindred Bob Dylan fan, I found myself thinking that life too often can be like cooking. There are those that follow the recipe and those that spontaneously and boldly chart their own course. Often those two end up in the same place with the end result not turning out as well as hoped. Often being a great cook means keeping it simple and basic. Other times those that know enough to use fancy ingredients and fancy mixtures and timing can create a dish that simply cannot be replicated by mere mortals.
Similarly life, often times more complex than we can hope to understand, is about trying to find a mixture between work, friends, and family. When everything comes together and crashes it can often be about sorting through the aftermath, plowing through and hoping for the best. Or it can be about stripping away and simplifying wherever possible.
Ever since the day more than a decade ago of making the decision to take in a feline roommate, I have struggled with the never ending fight against cat hair lying in unsightly clumps around my home. It quickly got to a point early on where I gave up and realized I couldn't ever stay ahead of the fight. But the last few weeks I've noticed that Mr. Max is shedding at a rate even more prolific than normal. I don't know if it is the goofy weather we've had all summer or if it is another sign of his increasing deteriorating health but I've tried to comb him more regularly and tried to breathe through my nose and not my mouth in hopes of not consuming more hair into my lungs.
Then it struck me: since he has no hopes of creating an offspring (snip snip) he may be attempting to create a next of kin by shaping a lump of hair into another fully formed kitty. Failing this scheme the hairballs urped up contain enough of his DNA to be gathered by some sympathetic scientist who will choose to clone him. Call me paranoid but I'm sure this is what is going on.
To foil his plot and to energize one who more and more just doesn't have the energy to do anything but to hang his head at edge of the bed and sleep (looking way too cute) I've decided the two of us will hit the road and form a Rap duo: Notorious Bad Sleeper and Puss Pussy Max. His bellowing meow embellishments to my rants about oppression and sulking cry wolf pigeon philosophy relating to the meaning of life can only make us a hit with the kids. Look for us in a venue near you. But I'll warn you you'd best be advised to stay away from any stir fry that may be part of the offering.
This was all reinforced when I recently had coffee and conversation with a friend and it was one of those rare times in life when you are glad to be exactly where you with who you find yourself with. Among the things I learned was that in the kitchen she doesn't have the patience of her mother who is a fine cook. When it comes to following the precision often necessary in making a recipe turn out tasting right she admitted that touch isn't one of her strongest points. At least, I thought to myself, she actually tries to follow some precise steps. I tend to be the type of chef who just experiments and throws things together and hopelessly hopes that somehow it will turn out tasty.
Prime example: my sister gave me a bottle of hot stuff aptly named "Da Bomb" that is a liquid combination of the hottest peppers known to man and Mercurian. It's so potent that I once got some on my skin and it burned for days. (Just imagine what it does to one's stomach lining!) Since I generally get a kick out of spicy food I was most thankful for the gift. I dutifully tried it in stir fry after stir fry only to find out that just a drop of the stuff made whatever combination of stuff I chose to try together taste inedible.
Frying meat and vegetables together is about as ambitious as I have gotten ever since moving out on my own, trying to create the right combination of ingredients to call a dish my very own. I usually include chicken and broccoli but the other elements tend to rotate from vegetables ranging from carrots and onions to potatoes and scallions; to spices like garlic, ginger, curry, Worcestershire Sauce, and thyme. I have for a long time desperately sought something to counter the bite of "Da Bomb" and add some taste to the kick- everything from chicken mushroom soup and yogurt to lemon juice and milk. The best I could come up with to add flavor to the oppressive oral ouchability was mushing up some bananas. Oddly that combo actually turned out kind of OK.
Now if you've gotten this far in this week's entry you are probably wondering what the point of all this is. Well listening to my friend at the coffee house, a kindred Bob Dylan fan, I found myself thinking that life too often can be like cooking. There are those that follow the recipe and those that spontaneously and boldly chart their own course. Often those two end up in the same place with the end result not turning out as well as hoped. Often being a great cook means keeping it simple and basic. Other times those that know enough to use fancy ingredients and fancy mixtures and timing can create a dish that simply cannot be replicated by mere mortals.
Similarly life, often times more complex than we can hope to understand, is about trying to find a mixture between work, friends, and family. When everything comes together and crashes it can often be about sorting through the aftermath, plowing through and hoping for the best. Or it can be about stripping away and simplifying wherever possible.
Ever since the day more than a decade ago of making the decision to take in a feline roommate, I have struggled with the never ending fight against cat hair lying in unsightly clumps around my home. It quickly got to a point early on where I gave up and realized I couldn't ever stay ahead of the fight. But the last few weeks I've noticed that Mr. Max is shedding at a rate even more prolific than normal. I don't know if it is the goofy weather we've had all summer or if it is another sign of his increasing deteriorating health but I've tried to comb him more regularly and tried to breathe through my nose and not my mouth in hopes of not consuming more hair into my lungs.
Then it struck me: since he has no hopes of creating an offspring (snip snip) he may be attempting to create a next of kin by shaping a lump of hair into another fully formed kitty. Failing this scheme the hairballs urped up contain enough of his DNA to be gathered by some sympathetic scientist who will choose to clone him. Call me paranoid but I'm sure this is what is going on.
To foil his plot and to energize one who more and more just doesn't have the energy to do anything but to hang his head at edge of the bed and sleep (looking way too cute) I've decided the two of us will hit the road and form a Rap duo: Notorious Bad Sleeper and Puss Pussy Max. His bellowing meow embellishments to my rants about oppression and sulking cry wolf pigeon philosophy relating to the meaning of life can only make us a hit with the kids. Look for us in a venue near you. But I'll warn you you'd best be advised to stay away from any stir fry that may be part of the offering.
Monday, September 2, 2002
Leave It To The Missus
Date: August 26, 2002
To: Laura Kay Lee Maeda
From: Uncle David
RE: Your Welcome Wagon to the World
Dear Lil' Laura,
I'm sure it all seems rather strange to you right now. I wish I could reassure you and tell you as you grow older some of this will make a little more sense. All you probably are worried about at the moment is why you just can't sleep all the time, when you'll be fed next, and when someone will be so kind as to come along and change you (plus maybe why everyone makes these annoying cooing noises while sticking their fingers in your face). With the possible exception of the last concern, believe me all those others unfortunately will continue to be issues throughout your life.
It has become tradition that whenever a nephew or niece is born into our family I devote column space to a letter of wisdom to the new member. It's part of my award winning "tough love" program. I know none of my words will ultimately amount to much but the letters prove if nothing else as you grow older you will one day realize your uncle, the old eccentric pretentious has been you hopefully will see, was indeed once a young eccentric pretentious has been. I offer the following not so much as advice but as what was on my mind the day I heard you were born.
Here it is: Do the best with what you have. And when things aren't going the way you want them to go just remember that it often comes down to the perspective you choose to take. It's easy to fall victim to getting bogged down in life's challenges. It isn't so easy to always appreciate how precious life can be until it is way too late.
My recently departed best friend and her best friend recently watched the movie Life as a House. Her best friend, a fan of schmaltz loved the film. My best friend said some of the sexual undertones were a bit jarring. I have no interest in seeing the film but was struck by the title and how if I were to write my autobiography tomorrow afternoon that might not be a bad title for the book.
When it comes to home ownership I tend to be a big picture type guy. The small nitty gritty every day details (that of course are of some importance when it comes things like home financing, repair, etc.) tend to bore me and are the type of things I prefer letting my imaginary wife deal with. Instead I like to dream of what my house may be one day- a yard full of artificial turf to avoid lawn mowing duties; a batting cage in back to keep my stroke in good shape; an elaborately finished attic complete with a skylight so I can lie awake underneath the stars. As for my decorating tastes? This summer every day on my way to work I've driven by a billboard with a large picture of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It somehow comforts me to see this large picture from what I think is the most brilliant artful TV show of all time knowing most people drive by without it registering much of a reaction. That is until the billboard started coming apart and the picture of Buffy began peeling down toward the street. I thought about driving by late at night some night, tearing it down, stuffing it in my little Honda and pasting it up on the side of my house. That would be my idea of home decorating. Think big, bold, and creatively...
Thus the reality and the minutia of refinancing my mortgage has been nothing short of excruciating as I try and determine what type of loan is best for me and I peruse an actual legal document the thickness of a novel hoping no one is trying to take advantage of me in any way. I was recently notified by my mortgage company that my loan application was being held up because the city said I was living on a "nonconforming lot." Nonconformity, usually a badge of honor in this case was an alarming word to hear. Seems my house is too big for my lot, a problem I've learned is common with homes in St. Paul.
But you want to know something Laura? Despite the latest troubles I'm proud to own a house: to arrived at a point in my life when I can afford such a thing. It ain't much but it's mine. And despite a financial worry or two, when it comes time to plop down my weary head I'm often comforted that I took a long but rewarding road to get this place (and am reminded of the blessing of such whenever I lie down at night with a happy purring kitty with a thumping tail lying next to me).
Life is often about timing. Being in the right place at the right time, or even better realizing the perfect moment of being in the right place at the right time. Think dental. I was at the dentist the other day for a return visit to repair a cracked filling. It was after I was loaded up with Novocain when the hygienist started talking with me. She asked me what I did for a living. "I woik for the wegislature witing about the waw making pwocess." I said. She seemed impressed.
When all the drilling and all the sucking was done I stumbled out to my car and started up the engine. The music that floated into the air from my speakers couldn't have been more perfect and more poignant. It was Bob Dylan singing his timely song "John Brown." "He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move," were the first words I heard. I don't know much but I do know this Laura: God has her plan and all we gotta do is listen.
To: Laura Kay Lee Maeda
From: Uncle David
RE: Your Welcome Wagon to the World
Dear Lil' Laura,
I'm sure it all seems rather strange to you right now. I wish I could reassure you and tell you as you grow older some of this will make a little more sense. All you probably are worried about at the moment is why you just can't sleep all the time, when you'll be fed next, and when someone will be so kind as to come along and change you (plus maybe why everyone makes these annoying cooing noises while sticking their fingers in your face). With the possible exception of the last concern, believe me all those others unfortunately will continue to be issues throughout your life.
It has become tradition that whenever a nephew or niece is born into our family I devote column space to a letter of wisdom to the new member. It's part of my award winning "tough love" program. I know none of my words will ultimately amount to much but the letters prove if nothing else as you grow older you will one day realize your uncle, the old eccentric pretentious has been you hopefully will see, was indeed once a young eccentric pretentious has been. I offer the following not so much as advice but as what was on my mind the day I heard you were born.
Here it is: Do the best with what you have. And when things aren't going the way you want them to go just remember that it often comes down to the perspective you choose to take. It's easy to fall victim to getting bogged down in life's challenges. It isn't so easy to always appreciate how precious life can be until it is way too late.
My recently departed best friend and her best friend recently watched the movie Life as a House. Her best friend, a fan of schmaltz loved the film. My best friend said some of the sexual undertones were a bit jarring. I have no interest in seeing the film but was struck by the title and how if I were to write my autobiography tomorrow afternoon that might not be a bad title for the book.
When it comes to home ownership I tend to be a big picture type guy. The small nitty gritty every day details (that of course are of some importance when it comes things like home financing, repair, etc.) tend to bore me and are the type of things I prefer letting my imaginary wife deal with. Instead I like to dream of what my house may be one day- a yard full of artificial turf to avoid lawn mowing duties; a batting cage in back to keep my stroke in good shape; an elaborately finished attic complete with a skylight so I can lie awake underneath the stars. As for my decorating tastes? This summer every day on my way to work I've driven by a billboard with a large picture of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It somehow comforts me to see this large picture from what I think is the most brilliant artful TV show of all time knowing most people drive by without it registering much of a reaction. That is until the billboard started coming apart and the picture of Buffy began peeling down toward the street. I thought about driving by late at night some night, tearing it down, stuffing it in my little Honda and pasting it up on the side of my house. That would be my idea of home decorating. Think big, bold, and creatively...
Thus the reality and the minutia of refinancing my mortgage has been nothing short of excruciating as I try and determine what type of loan is best for me and I peruse an actual legal document the thickness of a novel hoping no one is trying to take advantage of me in any way. I was recently notified by my mortgage company that my loan application was being held up because the city said I was living on a "nonconforming lot." Nonconformity, usually a badge of honor in this case was an alarming word to hear. Seems my house is too big for my lot, a problem I've learned is common with homes in St. Paul.
But you want to know something Laura? Despite the latest troubles I'm proud to own a house: to arrived at a point in my life when I can afford such a thing. It ain't much but it's mine. And despite a financial worry or two, when it comes time to plop down my weary head I'm often comforted that I took a long but rewarding road to get this place (and am reminded of the blessing of such whenever I lie down at night with a happy purring kitty with a thumping tail lying next to me).
Life is often about timing. Being in the right place at the right time, or even better realizing the perfect moment of being in the right place at the right time. Think dental. I was at the dentist the other day for a return visit to repair a cracked filling. It was after I was loaded up with Novocain when the hygienist started talking with me. She asked me what I did for a living. "I woik for the wegislature witing about the waw making pwocess." I said. She seemed impressed.
When all the drilling and all the sucking was done I stumbled out to my car and started up the engine. The music that floated into the air from my speakers couldn't have been more perfect and more poignant. It was Bob Dylan singing his timely song "John Brown." "He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move," were the first words I heard. I don't know much but I do know this Laura: God has her plan and all we gotta do is listen.
Monday, August 26, 2002
Why My Hero is Bleeding Gums Murphy
With all the recent kind words being expressed about me both in and out of the newsletter my head is now officially the size of Toledo. So to combat this condition I did what any normal (in the loosest sense of the word) male would do- I scheduled an appointment with the dentist where I could be belittled about my personal hygiene habits.
I don't go to the dentist as often as I should (even though I do have a very real fear about losing my teeth when I'm an elderly gent) because it has always been such a miserably memorable experience. I remember one summer as a youth when I was feeling like way too stale and deflated pancakes when my Mom dragged my brother and I to Dr. Oliver Johnson's office for our annual dental checkup. When we arrived at the clinic (ironically right down the street from my current abode) I showed Mom a blister I had on my finger and she immediately identified it as chicken pox and dragged me back home with my fever and soon to be itchy epidermis. I remember another time when I literally burst into tears at Dr. Johnson's office. I've carried this terrible burden with me into adulthood (or as near as I come- and I simply haven't had time to reveal all this to the battery of shrinks I have visited).
I have a sneaking suspicion that as different as I am from most people, most people really don't like to go to the dentist. Whenever I hear a drilling sound I do notice that I'm not the only one who noticeably cringes. Besides being poked and prodded in a sensitive area, who wants to be disparaged by health care specialists who are none too quick to observe that we aren't taking care of ourselves as well as we should? Is it really a surprise that gums tend to bleed after being jabbed by a sharp metallic object? Does this really necessarily indicate some mode of personal negligence? I can't recall a time when my eye doctor jabbed something in my eye and was surprised to discover that it teared up.
OK so it was my first visit to the dentist in a couple of years (more like three or four). The seed for what is supposed to be a regular event was planted when I sat next to a dental hygienist at the Lucinda Williams' concert at the beginning of summer. She told me that anxious patients now could receive laughing gas at the most simple and routine appointments. I like to laugh yet I ultimately didn't even ask about the gas upon my visit.
So the first difference I noticed this outing from the last time was they asked me who they could contact should something go wrong. That didn't exactly inspire a lot of confidence in what was to transpire. I jokingly asked the front desk ladies if my contact had to be human or if he could be of a feline species. They laughed and said that a cat probably couldn't pick me up if the need should arise. I then told them about arriving home the other day to the unexpected smell of toast and the sneaking suspicion that my kitty is more talented than is easily seen by the human eye. We all chuckled at that.
Another difference this time around was the behavior of my dental hygienist the extraordinarily chipper Angie, who assigned a number and called out to an assistant the amount of space and sensitivity condition of my gums as she went about cleaning my teeth. Normal, Angie told me was in a one to three range and thus any four or fives she identified in my teeth caused me pain in an area inside my chest rather than inside my mouth.
When the elderly masked Dr. Renelt came in to give me the official state of my mouth I was a bit anxious when he said he saw a cracked filling with some decay behind it. What was even more alarming was the mention of the words "root canal" when he described a potential remedy to my malady. I have always heard that procedure ranks right up there with giving birth in terms of unpleasant human experiences. When the good doctor left the room Angie noticing the look of alarm on my face reassured me by saying my potential root canal probably wouldn't be as severe or as painful as those words usually signify. She proceeded to show me the correct way to floss, genially observing how straight my teeth were ("You didn't have braces? You should have kids- just to pass on your teeth," she cooed. "Oh I guess that really isn't a reason to have children...") She then scheduled a return visit for me and sent me on my merry way with semi-shiny teeth plus visions of (more) pain headed my way and brochures educating me all about gum disease. Oh what a joy it is to be alive.
I don't go to the dentist as often as I should (even though I do have a very real fear about losing my teeth when I'm an elderly gent) because it has always been such a miserably memorable experience. I remember one summer as a youth when I was feeling like way too stale and deflated pancakes when my Mom dragged my brother and I to Dr. Oliver Johnson's office for our annual dental checkup. When we arrived at the clinic (ironically right down the street from my current abode) I showed Mom a blister I had on my finger and she immediately identified it as chicken pox and dragged me back home with my fever and soon to be itchy epidermis. I remember another time when I literally burst into tears at Dr. Johnson's office. I've carried this terrible burden with me into adulthood (or as near as I come- and I simply haven't had time to reveal all this to the battery of shrinks I have visited).
I have a sneaking suspicion that as different as I am from most people, most people really don't like to go to the dentist. Whenever I hear a drilling sound I do notice that I'm not the only one who noticeably cringes. Besides being poked and prodded in a sensitive area, who wants to be disparaged by health care specialists who are none too quick to observe that we aren't taking care of ourselves as well as we should? Is it really a surprise that gums tend to bleed after being jabbed by a sharp metallic object? Does this really necessarily indicate some mode of personal negligence? I can't recall a time when my eye doctor jabbed something in my eye and was surprised to discover that it teared up.
OK so it was my first visit to the dentist in a couple of years (more like three or four). The seed for what is supposed to be a regular event was planted when I sat next to a dental hygienist at the Lucinda Williams' concert at the beginning of summer. She told me that anxious patients now could receive laughing gas at the most simple and routine appointments. I like to laugh yet I ultimately didn't even ask about the gas upon my visit.
So the first difference I noticed this outing from the last time was they asked me who they could contact should something go wrong. That didn't exactly inspire a lot of confidence in what was to transpire. I jokingly asked the front desk ladies if my contact had to be human or if he could be of a feline species. They laughed and said that a cat probably couldn't pick me up if the need should arise. I then told them about arriving home the other day to the unexpected smell of toast and the sneaking suspicion that my kitty is more talented than is easily seen by the human eye. We all chuckled at that.
Another difference this time around was the behavior of my dental hygienist the extraordinarily chipper Angie, who assigned a number and called out to an assistant the amount of space and sensitivity condition of my gums as she went about cleaning my teeth. Normal, Angie told me was in a one to three range and thus any four or fives she identified in my teeth caused me pain in an area inside my chest rather than inside my mouth.
When the elderly masked Dr. Renelt came in to give me the official state of my mouth I was a bit anxious when he said he saw a cracked filling with some decay behind it. What was even more alarming was the mention of the words "root canal" when he described a potential remedy to my malady. I have always heard that procedure ranks right up there with giving birth in terms of unpleasant human experiences. When the good doctor left the room Angie noticing the look of alarm on my face reassured me by saying my potential root canal probably wouldn't be as severe or as painful as those words usually signify. She proceeded to show me the correct way to floss, genially observing how straight my teeth were ("You didn't have braces? You should have kids- just to pass on your teeth," she cooed. "Oh I guess that really isn't a reason to have children...") She then scheduled a return visit for me and sent me on my merry way with semi-shiny teeth plus visions of (more) pain headed my way and brochures educating me all about gum disease. Oh what a joy it is to be alive.
Monday, August 19, 2002
Big Dipper
We all used to do it as kids. Lying on our beds staring at the ceiling, trying hard to fantasize a certain something in our minds... It's merely part of human nature to wonder about our place in the universe. I remember when I was a kid I used to stay up nights contemplating concepts like eternity and infinity. Is there really no beginning or end to the edge of space? Is there something awaiting us beyond when our final hours on Earth tick down?
Looking out my window up in the nighttime sky and seeing all those stars and other heavenly bodies it was just mind blowing to think that we know so little about what's really going on out there. So sheepishly I admit that despite the best efforts of my mother and Professor Sherman Shultz the Macalester astronomy professor, I never really saw the Big Dipper until last week when my favorite Beantowner was nice enough to point to the sky and show me the three stars that make up the handle. It was the highlight of an unusually eventful weekend and swell walk.
At the center of things was of course my favorite game (and we're not talking Parcheesi here). With the news of a strike date set by Major League Baseball players, an event that would ruin such a charmed season for our beloved Minnesota Twins, I am of the firm belief that there will be no strike. There has to be a God and God wouldn't let that happen. I was sitting in the Metrodome the other night watching Joe Mays mow down the Red Sox and I thought to myself, "life doesn't get any better than this..." I love the game and I think the most restlessly peaceful moments of my life have all involved baseball (the actual game and the high schoolly metaphoric kind too).
Unlike most other aspects of my life it isn't just about watching from the outside in either. This was the first summer in many a year I wasn't on a softball team. Thankfully I was asked to participate in the state league's tournament last weekend. Being a tad out of shape (McDonalds' Value Meals purchased so that a Corey Koskie mini-bobblehead could be collected can do that to a lil guy) I was a bit worried about blowing out a groin muscle (just my luck, my own). We ended up playing four games in about five straight hours with no break. My legs (my bread and butter in softball) began cramping in game two. We went 2-1-1 due to an accounting error in our first game where our scorekeeper failed to give us credit for a run leading to a loss that was really a tie. Oh well. By the end of the last game my feet ached so much I was praying (to the aforementioned God) that we would lose to put us out of our misery in the double elimination tournament.
We did. Lose that is. As I limped back to my car with my father my friend asked if I wanted to go to the Saints' game that night because she had an extra ticket. For many a year I've boycotted Saints' games as trendy as they are even though their stadium is within walking distance of my house because the focus seems to be on all that between inning pig running around crap, and not on the most beautiful game ever itself. Good baseball doesn't need distractions. But I've known all this time at some point I'd have to attend a Saints' game just to see what all the fuss has been about all these years.
My feet hurt but I suggested to my friend that we walk to the game and avoid any parking fees. I wasn't exactly sure of the best route to Midway Stadium having only been there for a couple of memorable concerts (REM and Dylan). So we scampered off and found ourselves fenced in and having to cross some railroad tracks and very high weeds. We made it in time to see most of the game (a Saints' win) and indeed the most entertaining thing was the stuff going on between innings from pillow Sumo matches to lil go carts driven by kids. There is however, something to be said about outdoor baseball on a beautiful summer night with a witty and perceptive companion.
We decided to take another route home on the way back. Unfortunately it was much longer and we had to walk through some sprinklers in Energy Park. We stopped for a restroom break at the funky Holiday Inn in the old railroad station and though my blistered feet could have probably used a break we ended up saving a couple of bucks in parking costs that can go towards the purchase of the next McDonald's Value Meal for our Torii Hunter mini-bobblehead.
The next day I enjoyed a dim sum lunch with one who probably will never be a baseball fan. Ironically we both had the same colored purple toenails. Hers were of the nail polish variety, mine were a naturally painful hue. I'm always glad when I have something in common with someone. I got home to the smell of toast which seemed rather remarkable since my rather remarkable feline roommate is without thumbs. I wonder what that was about. None of it made any long term sense but it all made me hark back to the days when the universe seemed so big and mindbending. And as my friend Bob once observed, we all need to bend our minds now and again.
Looking out my window up in the nighttime sky and seeing all those stars and other heavenly bodies it was just mind blowing to think that we know so little about what's really going on out there. So sheepishly I admit that despite the best efforts of my mother and Professor Sherman Shultz the Macalester astronomy professor, I never really saw the Big Dipper until last week when my favorite Beantowner was nice enough to point to the sky and show me the three stars that make up the handle. It was the highlight of an unusually eventful weekend and swell walk.
At the center of things was of course my favorite game (and we're not talking Parcheesi here). With the news of a strike date set by Major League Baseball players, an event that would ruin such a charmed season for our beloved Minnesota Twins, I am of the firm belief that there will be no strike. There has to be a God and God wouldn't let that happen. I was sitting in the Metrodome the other night watching Joe Mays mow down the Red Sox and I thought to myself, "life doesn't get any better than this..." I love the game and I think the most restlessly peaceful moments of my life have all involved baseball (the actual game and the high schoolly metaphoric kind too).
Unlike most other aspects of my life it isn't just about watching from the outside in either. This was the first summer in many a year I wasn't on a softball team. Thankfully I was asked to participate in the state league's tournament last weekend. Being a tad out of shape (McDonalds' Value Meals purchased so that a Corey Koskie mini-bobblehead could be collected can do that to a lil guy) I was a bit worried about blowing out a groin muscle (just my luck, my own). We ended up playing four games in about five straight hours with no break. My legs (my bread and butter in softball) began cramping in game two. We went 2-1-1 due to an accounting error in our first game where our scorekeeper failed to give us credit for a run leading to a loss that was really a tie. Oh well. By the end of the last game my feet ached so much I was praying (to the aforementioned God) that we would lose to put us out of our misery in the double elimination tournament.
We did. Lose that is. As I limped back to my car with my father my friend asked if I wanted to go to the Saints' game that night because she had an extra ticket. For many a year I've boycotted Saints' games as trendy as they are even though their stadium is within walking distance of my house because the focus seems to be on all that between inning pig running around crap, and not on the most beautiful game ever itself. Good baseball doesn't need distractions. But I've known all this time at some point I'd have to attend a Saints' game just to see what all the fuss has been about all these years.
My feet hurt but I suggested to my friend that we walk to the game and avoid any parking fees. I wasn't exactly sure of the best route to Midway Stadium having only been there for a couple of memorable concerts (REM and Dylan). So we scampered off and found ourselves fenced in and having to cross some railroad tracks and very high weeds. We made it in time to see most of the game (a Saints' win) and indeed the most entertaining thing was the stuff going on between innings from pillow Sumo matches to lil go carts driven by kids. There is however, something to be said about outdoor baseball on a beautiful summer night with a witty and perceptive companion.
We decided to take another route home on the way back. Unfortunately it was much longer and we had to walk through some sprinklers in Energy Park. We stopped for a restroom break at the funky Holiday Inn in the old railroad station and though my blistered feet could have probably used a break we ended up saving a couple of bucks in parking costs that can go towards the purchase of the next McDonald's Value Meal for our Torii Hunter mini-bobblehead.
The next day I enjoyed a dim sum lunch with one who probably will never be a baseball fan. Ironically we both had the same colored purple toenails. Hers were of the nail polish variety, mine were a naturally painful hue. I'm always glad when I have something in common with someone. I got home to the smell of toast which seemed rather remarkable since my rather remarkable feline roommate is without thumbs. I wonder what that was about. None of it made any long term sense but it all made me hark back to the days when the universe seemed so big and mindbending. And as my friend Bob once observed, we all need to bend our minds now and again.
Monday, August 12, 2002
Doomed Love or Summer of Rejection
I'm smitten with the girl next door and the only person that knows will be leaving in a week. Think I'm not a wreck? By all indications the girl next door doesn't even know I exist, other than the few polite innocent "hellos" we've exchanged and the other day when she stuck her chest inches from my face (hooya!). It begs the question "how can one survive unrequited smittenness(?) (smittenery?) without having a helping ear to lean on?"
Actually I've developed a nice little friendship with the only one I've shared my smitten secret with. I've probably talked with my confidante more than I've talked with anyone (that isn't feline or that I haven't paid to listen) in say the past decade or so. We've worked on a secret plan to arrange "chance" encounters with the girl next door but my friend now wants nothing to do with the scheme since she thinks the girl I'm smitten with is bad news and will only end up breaking my heart (further).
My friend has endured an uneventful summer before her senior year at that prestigious school, Duke University home of the fightin' Blue Devils and preppy rich kids. Doesn't sound like it's been much of a summer for her (she's dubbed it "the summer of rejection" a reflection of missed connections with various friends) and on top of being slightly bored she has had to put up with sitting next to me day after day. One thing we do have in common is a love of movies and loads and loads of free time on our hands.
Personally I've detected a certain unintentionally persistent theme running in the movies I have chosen to watch this summer and it hasn't been a deliberate decision. Many of the movies have a mentor type relationship involved between a lost young person and an embittered older person. There was Ghost World, Scent of a Woman (hooya!!), and Celebrity (great my life, wildly careening out of control as it is, has somehow become a Woody Allen film). The last movie to fall into this pattern is the mostly entertaining Tadpole that the 21-year-old Duke senior and I chose to see as we went out on our first "date."
The movie is about precocious and passionate 15-year-old Oscar (Aaron Sanford) who speaks fluent French, thinks Voltaire is a stitch, and who is terribly smitten with the person who would probably top the list of the people you shouldn't be smitten with- his stepmother Eve (Sigourney Weaver) because she has great hands. Oscar ends up sorta accidentally sleeping with Eve's best friend Diane (Bebe Neuwirth) and then all hell breaks loose. But not really. One of the oddest things about an odd movie is that no one (particularly Oscar's father played by John Ritter) seems all that alarmed that a 40 year-old-woman has had sex with a minor. Reverse the genders involved and the Christian Coalition (are they still around or are they simply mainstream America these days?) would have been calling for heads.
My "date" said she thought the underlying theme of the movie had to do with "doomed love." Sometimes we're simply attracted to disaster. We fall in love literally with the last person on earth that would be good for us or that there is a smidgen of a chance for a successful relationship. That's why there are so many broken hearts (or broken livers as Oscar and Eve would say) in this world. Can't say I disagree.
"Doesn't try to please me, doesn't even tease me/And she never sees me glance her way/And I though I'm heart sore, the girl next door/Affection for me won't display/I just adore her so I can't ignore her, the girl next door"
Tadpole harkens back to the ultimate coming of age film The Graduate not only with its story of a serious young man being seduced by an older woman he doesn't especially like- but also with the use of Simon and Garfunkel songs- this time a cover of perhaps my favorite S & G tune- "The Only Living Boy in New York." The fact that the filmmakers used that song rather than better known Simon efforts created an immediate fondness for me with the movie. The song is about leaving friends behind (it chronicles Simon's reading of his breakup with Artie) and I played it over and over my freshman year of college as feelings of homesickness intermingled with feelings of a lack of replacements for old friendships.
Nearly 20 years later I've enjoyed a summer getting to know the youth of America, having a long lost sense of fun restored while reflecting upon how far I have come (and not come) from all those years ago. I was a wee lad when I discovered that I was a hopeless romantic. Back then that meant thinking with my heart and idealizing the unattainable; now it means that there is no hope that I'll ever grow up to be anything different. The soon to be Duke grad will set the world afire. She's much brighter than I'am (she got a 1300 on her SAT; I almost broke triple digits.) I'm glad I got to know her and I'm sure if pressed she'd say the feeling was mutual. Hooya!!! The girl next door likely will never know what she missed.
Actually I've developed a nice little friendship with the only one I've shared my smitten secret with. I've probably talked with my confidante more than I've talked with anyone (that isn't feline or that I haven't paid to listen) in say the past decade or so. We've worked on a secret plan to arrange "chance" encounters with the girl next door but my friend now wants nothing to do with the scheme since she thinks the girl I'm smitten with is bad news and will only end up breaking my heart (further).
My friend has endured an uneventful summer before her senior year at that prestigious school, Duke University home of the fightin' Blue Devils and preppy rich kids. Doesn't sound like it's been much of a summer for her (she's dubbed it "the summer of rejection" a reflection of missed connections with various friends) and on top of being slightly bored she has had to put up with sitting next to me day after day. One thing we do have in common is a love of movies and loads and loads of free time on our hands.
Personally I've detected a certain unintentionally persistent theme running in the movies I have chosen to watch this summer and it hasn't been a deliberate decision. Many of the movies have a mentor type relationship involved between a lost young person and an embittered older person. There was Ghost World, Scent of a Woman (hooya!!), and Celebrity (great my life, wildly careening out of control as it is, has somehow become a Woody Allen film). The last movie to fall into this pattern is the mostly entertaining Tadpole that the 21-year-old Duke senior and I chose to see as we went out on our first "date."
The movie is about precocious and passionate 15-year-old Oscar (Aaron Sanford) who speaks fluent French, thinks Voltaire is a stitch, and who is terribly smitten with the person who would probably top the list of the people you shouldn't be smitten with- his stepmother Eve (Sigourney Weaver) because she has great hands. Oscar ends up sorta accidentally sleeping with Eve's best friend Diane (Bebe Neuwirth) and then all hell breaks loose. But not really. One of the oddest things about an odd movie is that no one (particularly Oscar's father played by John Ritter) seems all that alarmed that a 40 year-old-woman has had sex with a minor. Reverse the genders involved and the Christian Coalition (are they still around or are they simply mainstream America these days?) would have been calling for heads.
My "date" said she thought the underlying theme of the movie had to do with "doomed love." Sometimes we're simply attracted to disaster. We fall in love literally with the last person on earth that would be good for us or that there is a smidgen of a chance for a successful relationship. That's why there are so many broken hearts (or broken livers as Oscar and Eve would say) in this world. Can't say I disagree.
"Doesn't try to please me, doesn't even tease me/And she never sees me glance her way/And I though I'm heart sore, the girl next door/Affection for me won't display/I just adore her so I can't ignore her, the girl next door"
Tadpole harkens back to the ultimate coming of age film The Graduate not only with its story of a serious young man being seduced by an older woman he doesn't especially like- but also with the use of Simon and Garfunkel songs- this time a cover of perhaps my favorite S & G tune- "The Only Living Boy in New York." The fact that the filmmakers used that song rather than better known Simon efforts created an immediate fondness for me with the movie. The song is about leaving friends behind (it chronicles Simon's reading of his breakup with Artie) and I played it over and over my freshman year of college as feelings of homesickness intermingled with feelings of a lack of replacements for old friendships.
Nearly 20 years later I've enjoyed a summer getting to know the youth of America, having a long lost sense of fun restored while reflecting upon how far I have come (and not come) from all those years ago. I was a wee lad when I discovered that I was a hopeless romantic. Back then that meant thinking with my heart and idealizing the unattainable; now it means that there is no hope that I'll ever grow up to be anything different. The soon to be Duke grad will set the world afire. She's much brighter than I'am (she got a 1300 on her SAT; I almost broke triple digits.) I'm glad I got to know her and I'm sure if pressed she'd say the feeling was mutual. Hooya!!! The girl next door likely will never know what she missed.
Monday, August 5, 2002
Almost Famous Dave
"I truly like happy music," #46 declares- something that's been verified by a fact checking blue eyed intern. "So many people I know listen to all that sad stuff but it doesn't do much for me. Just depresses me I guess."
The avuncular lead singer of the group Don't Touch Me Dave is drinking a double latte, an indulgence he only partakes in on the weekends. He has his routines, a near neurotic discipline of patterns that almost seems to want to wipe away any notion of spontaneity. His shaved head gives him the appearance of a cross between Michael Stipe and Pat Morita.
"I can play all of Paul McCartney's songs on the piano. That's why I plopped down my seventy bucks to see him," #46 says looking pensive. "Well almost. I'm learning the stuff from his last CD. I can play a version of 'Your Loving Flame' that will knock your knickers off."
It's hours before the ensemble's first public appearance as a semi-official group. There is some dispute how long they have been together and whether or not a previous public appearance actually technically was the debut of Don't Touch Me Dave, who some are dubbing "the biggest thing since Wilco."
But a day before the scheduled performance July 28, 2002, at the Coffee Grounds' (1579 Hamline Ave N, Falcon Heights, MN) first ever "open mike night" Don't Touch Me Dave struggles through a set of Madonna songs. #46 croons his way through "Crazy for You" (which he later almost sheepishly admits is his all time favorite Madonna song), tinkling on his keyboard as if he is an overheated kitty. The others in the group, none of them exactly the kind you would call the following type, seem off in their own worlds. EmmyLou, who #46 calls his "favorite magnet giver, a kind kind soul" is responsible for the band's cryptic name; Need a Rose who serves as the go-go dancer, provides a shifting foundation; Spunky doubles as the group's accountant, counting up the money; the young cool Katrina (who walks on sunshine but is not the one formerly with the Waves) appears to be not all natural.
But there is a persistence to the performance that grows on you. After run throughs of "Vogue," "Secret," and "'Til Death Do Us Part," #46 wanders off to the side and says to an unknown someone that he is pleased. Yet he looks a little befuddled and more than a little tired.
Hours before their scheduled performance Emmylou helps #46 wheel his piano down a wooden platform placed precariously on his cement steps from his home across the street to the all too close venue. For those who believe in signs the ominous clouds above lend an eerie vibe to the struggle of getting the 102-year-old instrument to its anointed spot. But just as they all get inside the rain clouds finally let go, almost mockingly, setting the tone for what is to follow.
It's a dark and stormy night. Some say that there may have even been spottings of sparring flying Asian Carp and snakehead fish swimming on the otherwise sedate St. Paul street.
The group opens with a startling version of "Papa Don't Preach." The banging of the keyboard doesn't quite mesh with the percussive stomping of the rest of the group but #46's most earnest (if not slightly quiet and hoarse) reading of the lyrics refreshingly reassures that this isn't a joke. This is heartfelt and all involved truly mean it. "I'm in trouble deep... I'm in trouble deep... but I've made up my mind... I'm keeping my baby..." The percussive melody segues neatly into a surprise reggae tinged cover of McCartney's most insipid "Pipes of Peace." It's at this point that #46 allows a glimpse of what is behind the facade. "Help me to learn songs of joy instead of burn baby burn..."
Next up is an admirable medley of two Dylan songs, "Never Say Goodbye" and "Shooting Star" that doesn't quite work as #46 can't quite hit the higher notes. Yet the lyrics ring truthfully in the ears of the caffeine jacked audience. "You're beautiful beyond words. More beautiful to me. You could make me cry, never say goodbye..." and "Seen a shooting star tonight, slip away. Tomorrow will be, another day. Guess it's too late to say the things to you that you needed to hear me say..."
The disputed debut of Don't Touch Me Dave comes allegedly from a high school performance provided by #46 while his high school band was visiting an outstate town and as they had arrived too early for the other student body. #46 is said to have walked up to a piano at the center of the stage of the high school auditorium and led the entire ensemble in a lilting version of "Let it Be." "That was haunting," someone apparently told him.
Thus the performance bug had bitten. Don't Touch Me Dave closed with a not to be forgotten version of Brian Wilson's (that other shattered soul) "Caroline No." "Where did your long hair go? Where is the girl I used to know? How could you lose that happy glow?" And just like the second side of the Mekons' Fear and Whiskey, recorded in a one off performance, the sum of it all makes some sense in the end.
The avuncular lead singer of the group Don't Touch Me Dave is drinking a double latte, an indulgence he only partakes in on the weekends. He has his routines, a near neurotic discipline of patterns that almost seems to want to wipe away any notion of spontaneity. His shaved head gives him the appearance of a cross between Michael Stipe and Pat Morita.
"I can play all of Paul McCartney's songs on the piano. That's why I plopped down my seventy bucks to see him," #46 says looking pensive. "Well almost. I'm learning the stuff from his last CD. I can play a version of 'Your Loving Flame' that will knock your knickers off."
It's hours before the ensemble's first public appearance as a semi-official group. There is some dispute how long they have been together and whether or not a previous public appearance actually technically was the debut of Don't Touch Me Dave, who some are dubbing "the biggest thing since Wilco."
But a day before the scheduled performance July 28, 2002, at the Coffee Grounds' (1579 Hamline Ave N, Falcon Heights, MN) first ever "open mike night" Don't Touch Me Dave struggles through a set of Madonna songs. #46 croons his way through "Crazy for You" (which he later almost sheepishly admits is his all time favorite Madonna song), tinkling on his keyboard as if he is an overheated kitty. The others in the group, none of them exactly the kind you would call the following type, seem off in their own worlds. EmmyLou, who #46 calls his "favorite magnet giver, a kind kind soul" is responsible for the band's cryptic name; Need a Rose who serves as the go-go dancer, provides a shifting foundation; Spunky doubles as the group's accountant, counting up the money; the young cool Katrina (who walks on sunshine but is not the one formerly with the Waves) appears to be not all natural.
But there is a persistence to the performance that grows on you. After run throughs of "Vogue," "Secret," and "'Til Death Do Us Part," #46 wanders off to the side and says to an unknown someone that he is pleased. Yet he looks a little befuddled and more than a little tired.
Hours before their scheduled performance Emmylou helps #46 wheel his piano down a wooden platform placed precariously on his cement steps from his home across the street to the all too close venue. For those who believe in signs the ominous clouds above lend an eerie vibe to the struggle of getting the 102-year-old instrument to its anointed spot. But just as they all get inside the rain clouds finally let go, almost mockingly, setting the tone for what is to follow.
It's a dark and stormy night. Some say that there may have even been spottings of sparring flying Asian Carp and snakehead fish swimming on the otherwise sedate St. Paul street.
The group opens with a startling version of "Papa Don't Preach." The banging of the keyboard doesn't quite mesh with the percussive stomping of the rest of the group but #46's most earnest (if not slightly quiet and hoarse) reading of the lyrics refreshingly reassures that this isn't a joke. This is heartfelt and all involved truly mean it. "I'm in trouble deep... I'm in trouble deep... but I've made up my mind... I'm keeping my baby..." The percussive melody segues neatly into a surprise reggae tinged cover of McCartney's most insipid "Pipes of Peace." It's at this point that #46 allows a glimpse of what is behind the facade. "Help me to learn songs of joy instead of burn baby burn..."
Next up is an admirable medley of two Dylan songs, "Never Say Goodbye" and "Shooting Star" that doesn't quite work as #46 can't quite hit the higher notes. Yet the lyrics ring truthfully in the ears of the caffeine jacked audience. "You're beautiful beyond words. More beautiful to me. You could make me cry, never say goodbye..." and "Seen a shooting star tonight, slip away. Tomorrow will be, another day. Guess it's too late to say the things to you that you needed to hear me say..."
The disputed debut of Don't Touch Me Dave comes allegedly from a high school performance provided by #46 while his high school band was visiting an outstate town and as they had arrived too early for the other student body. #46 is said to have walked up to a piano at the center of the stage of the high school auditorium and led the entire ensemble in a lilting version of "Let it Be." "That was haunting," someone apparently told him.
Thus the performance bug had bitten. Don't Touch Me Dave closed with a not to be forgotten version of Brian Wilson's (that other shattered soul) "Caroline No." "Where did your long hair go? Where is the girl I used to know? How could you lose that happy glow?" And just like the second side of the Mekons' Fear and Whiskey, recorded in a one off performance, the sum of it all makes some sense in the end.
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