10) For a television show where many of the characters are by definition without a soul, Buffy the Vampire Slayer has an abundance of that particular attribute so rare for the medium. There was a fear that with the departure of Angel and Cordelia the show would not be able to consistently continue its faithfully fluid storyline. That fear has been alleviated with the return of Spike, the introduction of Riley and the mean psychology professor (played by the wonderful actress, Lindsey Crouse). The dark humor, the unique pathos, the tragic plight of each of the characters- television rarely sees writing of this caliber, so rewarding in its creativity.
9) He was led by hand to his piano before the show started by an assistant showing him where he was supposed to go. His vocals on the opening number, The Little Girl I Once Knew, were shaky at best, mostly disappearing into the vocal mix behind the backup singers, as he strained to hit the higher notes. Yet despite all the stories of his legendary stage fright, Brian Wilson seemed to grow more and more at ease during his appearance at the State Theater. At times his mind seemed to wander but when he opened the second half of the show with inspirational versions of Wouldn't it be Nice and Sloop John B it was one of the most magical musical moments I've ever witnessed.
8) I love watching Dolores O'Riordan move. Herky jerky yet still quite perky, her walk is more of a sway than a swagger, more a pigeon imitation than a strut. The diminutive lead singer of the Cranberries is most certainly a magnetic performer. The group's appearance at Roy Wilkins was an affirmation of the joy of artistic expression. It was an evening full of melodious and fine kinship.
7) Despite continuing sagging ratings it was a good year for David Letterman. His show won its second Emmy in a row for the best "variety" show. Dave seemed to calm down from a growing tendency to act maniacally for laughs. It was if part of him said, if we're going to fail we're not going to give a crap and we're going to fail on our own terms. Thus his show night in and night out was Letterman at his best, at his crankiest, at his most anarchist. The man who helped create a generation of sarcastic adults that communicate by saying things that mean totally opposite of what they're supposed to mean, was at the top of his game. His best new bit was sending a crewmember to stand behind a local convenience store counter with a hidden camera and as the clerk gave the customer change, say to the unsuspecting (and often times bulky) patron, "Next time bring your sister, you hump." It brilliantly straddled the line between being uncomfortably funny, and dangerously peculiar- Candid Camera gone slightly awry.
6) Due to a lack of funds this past year I bought the fewest CDs of any year since I first started collecting. Thus not being a radio listener I didn't get to hear a lot of new songs. But my favorite was without a doubt, Sugar Ray's Someday. Behind its lovely latin rhythm is a soothing song about the virtues of self-solace. "Some say better things will come our way/No matter what they try to say you were always there for me/Some way, when the sun begins to shine/I hear a song from another time and fade away/And fade away"
5) I was sitting wistfully watching the last day State Fair traffic flow by my house when I put on Tubby Esquire's Return of the Last Castrato! CD for the first time. I had no idea what to expect but I think the last thing I was expecting was polka rock music. My somewhat melancholy mood immediately was changed by the infectious joy of the songs. It is the best CD I heard this year, 13 tracks full of insightful and clever humor.
4) The night before my Mom's funeral my stressed out family had a bit of a disagreement. Tired and sad I drove home, wondering how any of us were going to make it through the next day. As I got to my house I walked to my front door and saw it was slightly ajar. Oh great, I thought, somebody's broken in. But as I got closer I saw it was a plant not allowing the door to close. My friend had sent me a Cyclamen- one of the many small perfectly timed gestures of her supportive friendship. I leaned on her hard often throughout the year and she remained a true friend. Suddenly the dark night became memorable in a different way.
3) The day after my Mom's funeral I had tickets to go down to Shakopee to see a Paul Simon/Bob Dylan concert. Through a bit of a misunderstanding I had no one to go with. Because of the week that was I wasn't much in the mood to make the drive, wasn't much in the mood to stand outside in the drizzling rain at a horse track. Most of the show is now a blur but Mr. Dylan, as he often does, provided a moment of spark- a soft and heartfelt version of Not Dark Yet. "Sometimes my burden is more than I can bare. It's not dark yet but it's getting there."
2) In a year full of personal and professional turmoil it was always nice to come home to the familiar bellow of a hungry Mr. Max. And much as it was desirable not to make any more changes, we added a new wrinkle to his dinnertime. Before I put his dinner dish down, I make him twirl in circles following his supper as it orbits his body. Don't call the Humane Society quite yet- I swear the two of us have the mostest fun.
1) Mom
Monday, December 27, 1999
Monday, December 20, 1999
Whew, This Dream is Over
Happy Holidays! I sincerely hope you and yours are having a good one. If I may interrupt for a second I have a question for all you dream interpreters out there. Friday night I had a doozy and would appreciate someone (anyone) telling me what it meant. I dreamt it was an unbearably hot summer day. My brother and I decided to do the smart thing and go out to the Dairy Queen to get a snack. We hopped into a white convertible (I don't think I've actually ever been in a convertible) and headed out to what I thought was the neighborhood DQ. But my brother drove right by it and I didn't question why, figuring he knew what he was doing. We kept passing DQ after DQ, many of which I never knew existed. I finally asked him where he was going and he told me we were going to the one by his house in Eagan. This seemed a tad peculiar since we had planned to eat the ice cream back at my house in St. Paul.
We got on the freeway and the flowing overhead open air wasn't much of a relief against the stifling heat. We then got underneath a flock of geese. I was worried about being below them with no roof over us. What they might drop turned out not to be our biggest worry however. The huge squawkers kept swooping down closer and closer. Finally a couple of them darted at us, pulling up just before they got within reach. One brave goose however tested the line and he dove down between my brother and myself. Right as he got within arms' reach I flapped my own arms like crazy to drive him away. At this point I woke up and found I had flung the covers of my bed briskly toward the ceiling. Problem was Mr. Max was sleeping soundly, as he often does, on the blankets covering my stomach. He thus had been rudely awaken by being catapulted upwards. He of course pranced into the other room figuring his domestic associate had finally lost it. I had to get up, bring him back all the while both sweating and apologizing profusely. And that, my friends, is how I mistook Mr. Max for a goose.
We got on the freeway and the flowing overhead open air wasn't much of a relief against the stifling heat. We then got underneath a flock of geese. I was worried about being below them with no roof over us. What they might drop turned out not to be our biggest worry however. The huge squawkers kept swooping down closer and closer. Finally a couple of them darted at us, pulling up just before they got within reach. One brave goose however tested the line and he dove down between my brother and myself. Right as he got within arms' reach I flapped my own arms like crazy to drive him away. At this point I woke up and found I had flung the covers of my bed briskly toward the ceiling. Problem was Mr. Max was sleeping soundly, as he often does, on the blankets covering my stomach. He thus had been rudely awaken by being catapulted upwards. He of course pranced into the other room figuring his domestic associate had finally lost it. I had to get up, bring him back all the while both sweating and apologizing profusely. And that, my friends, is how I mistook Mr. Max for a goose.
The Second Greatest Song in the World
Come a rainstorm put your rubbers on your feet,
Comes a snowstorm you can get a little heat;
Comes love nothing can be done
Having listened to literally dozens of songs in my life, I'm often approached by women wearing strange hats who inquire, "What do you think is the second greatest song of all time?" I'm not quite sure how or why the lasses zoom in on me. Maybe I look like a fellow who must just know what it means to be second best. But when asked I do not hesitate in my answer. Even under the pressure of a skunk-eyed glare of one Regis Philbin probing if this is my "final answer" I still would never change my mind. Nope, no way. I've heard this particular song too many times to know that I am right. And every time I hear it my heart and soul coalesce.
Comes a fire then you know just what to do,
Blow a tire you can buy another shoe,
Comes love nothing can be done.
Comes Love was written by Charlie Tobias, Lew Brown and Sam Stept, with the most famous versions being by Artie Shaw and Benny Goodman. But the quintessential rendition is without a doubt, Billie Holiday's. Like just about every other song that Holiday chose to sing, her cover compared to all the others is like a brick of Gouda set next to aerosol cheese. Her vocals caress the melody and words wrapping itself around the feelings evoked, extracting all the inherent irony and melancholy with great passion.
Don't try hidin 'cause there isn't any use,
You'll start slidin when your heart turns on the juice.
The song uncovers the undeniable truth that all life predicaments we bitch and moan about, no matter their inconvenience have a solution or alternative except one- love. The song's list of human struggles is universal yet creative- from the weather and elements to varmints and ailments. At the end of the list is a declaration that once you fall in love, your doomed future has already been written.
Comes a headache you can lose it in a day,
Comes a toothache see the dentist right away;
Comes love nothing can be done
The subtle deadpan surety of Holiday's delivery is echoed in the bridge by a simmering trumpet solo from Harry "Sweets" Edison, and its accompanying understated guitar solo by Barney Kessel, which combined sound like two wised grizzled men standing in the corner nodding their heads in agreement with the singer. The geometric bass playing of Joe Mondragon and drums by Larry Bunker lay a shifting foundation underneath it all.
Comes a heat wave you can hurry to the shore
Comes a summons you can hide behind the door;
Comes love nothing can be done.
Comes the measles you can quarantine the room,
Comes a mousie you can chase it with a broom;
Comes love nothing can be done
The climax of the song is in closing stanza with the lines, "Comes a nightmare you can always stay awake, Comes depression you may get another break. Comes love nothing can be done." There is something very special about the way Holiday sings these couplets. Her voice doesn't noticeably waver or falter although there is a resigned explicitness distinct from the rest of the song. This is clearly a woman who has lived this song and knows what she is singing about. It is a great performance from our greatest singer, emotional and bare, letting the listener in on a lesson while acknowledging that to be human means knowing first (and second) hand the very essence of the substance being expressed.
That's all brother, if you've ever been in love,
That's all brother, you know what I'm speaking of
Comes a snowstorm you can get a little heat;
Comes love nothing can be done
Having listened to literally dozens of songs in my life, I'm often approached by women wearing strange hats who inquire, "What do you think is the second greatest song of all time?" I'm not quite sure how or why the lasses zoom in on me. Maybe I look like a fellow who must just know what it means to be second best. But when asked I do not hesitate in my answer. Even under the pressure of a skunk-eyed glare of one Regis Philbin probing if this is my "final answer" I still would never change my mind. Nope, no way. I've heard this particular song too many times to know that I am right. And every time I hear it my heart and soul coalesce.
Comes a fire then you know just what to do,
Blow a tire you can buy another shoe,
Comes love nothing can be done.
Comes Love was written by Charlie Tobias, Lew Brown and Sam Stept, with the most famous versions being by Artie Shaw and Benny Goodman. But the quintessential rendition is without a doubt, Billie Holiday's. Like just about every other song that Holiday chose to sing, her cover compared to all the others is like a brick of Gouda set next to aerosol cheese. Her vocals caress the melody and words wrapping itself around the feelings evoked, extracting all the inherent irony and melancholy with great passion.
Don't try hidin 'cause there isn't any use,
You'll start slidin when your heart turns on the juice.
The song uncovers the undeniable truth that all life predicaments we bitch and moan about, no matter their inconvenience have a solution or alternative except one- love. The song's list of human struggles is universal yet creative- from the weather and elements to varmints and ailments. At the end of the list is a declaration that once you fall in love, your doomed future has already been written.
Comes a headache you can lose it in a day,
Comes a toothache see the dentist right away;
Comes love nothing can be done
The subtle deadpan surety of Holiday's delivery is echoed in the bridge by a simmering trumpet solo from Harry "Sweets" Edison, and its accompanying understated guitar solo by Barney Kessel, which combined sound like two wised grizzled men standing in the corner nodding their heads in agreement with the singer. The geometric bass playing of Joe Mondragon and drums by Larry Bunker lay a shifting foundation underneath it all.
Comes a heat wave you can hurry to the shore
Comes a summons you can hide behind the door;
Comes love nothing can be done.
Comes the measles you can quarantine the room,
Comes a mousie you can chase it with a broom;
Comes love nothing can be done
The climax of the song is in closing stanza with the lines, "Comes a nightmare you can always stay awake, Comes depression you may get another break. Comes love nothing can be done." There is something very special about the way Holiday sings these couplets. Her voice doesn't noticeably waver or falter although there is a resigned explicitness distinct from the rest of the song. This is clearly a woman who has lived this song and knows what she is singing about. It is a great performance from our greatest singer, emotional and bare, letting the listener in on a lesson while acknowledging that to be human means knowing first (and second) hand the very essence of the substance being expressed.
That's all brother, if you've ever been in love,
That's all brother, you know what I'm speaking of
Monday, December 13, 1999
Losing My Fragility
The first time I saw Andy Kaufman was on an early episode of Saturday Night Live. Out on stage a sheepish man stood wide eyed as he gently placed the arm of a phonograph on to a scratchy sounding record. It was the "Mighty Mouse" theme and the man remained mostly still as he diligently seemed to be counting the beats of the music in his head. He remained totally silent until the refrain of the song played, "Here I am to save the day. Mighty Mouse is on the way." With this he broadly mouthed the words sweeping his hand in the air with a superhero's confidence. He then returned to silence only "singing" every time the chorus played. At the end of the song he gently removed the arm of the phonograph from the record, bashfully smiled at his audience and said in a tiny little voice, "Dank u veddy much." It was peculiar, it was sweet and it was about the funniest thing I'd ever seen.
I followed Andy through his subsequent appearances on SNL and the Tonight Show. Every time I saw him my admiration grew. There was the time he did imitations in his foreign man voice, each imitation from John Wayne to Richard Nixon sounding exactly alike only with the different phrases associated with the subjects. Then he got to his Elvis impersonation and the transformation was startling. From the twitchy lip to the hiccuping vocals Andy did Elvis better than Elvis did Elvis at that point. Another time Andy was telling silly little jokes without remembering their punchlines. The audience politely played along, laughing nervously. With growing trepidation he finally began to break down accusing the audience of laughing at him and not with him. He began to sob, choking on his own breath. As the sobbing became more rhythmic he began to dance as he turned the cry of his voice into a musical instrument.
When it was announced Andy was to be a regular on the new sitcom Taxi, I made sure I had all my schoolwork done so I could watch the new show. His character, Latka Gravas, immediately became my favorite part of a very well cast ensemble. A popular part of my own minor celebrity in junior high school was my ability to imitate Latka's trademark accented thank you.
With his debut as the first inter-gender wrestling champion Andy's sweetness turned to weirdness. His frequent appearances on Late Night with David Letterman showed him not so much a comedian but as a performance artist- a performer who was looking as much to make his audience squirm as much as laugh. He no longer was always funny but that seemed to be the point. Even his Taxi character, Latka, lost his innocence and became the obnoxious alter ego- Vic Ferrari.
Then there was an unforgettable appearance on Letterman following Andy's first wrestling match with a man. His opponent, Jerry Lawler appeared on the show with Andy. Andy was wearing a neck brace compliment of being the victim of a pile driver by Lawler. The two uncomfortably sat next to each other and exchanged their accounts of the match. More and more Lawler became agitated with Andy's demeanor. Just before Dave was going to a commercial Lawler slapped Andy. At this point, and to this day, I'm not sure how much of this was put on and how much was real. Dave didn't seem to know either. It was the most bizarre, and one of the most seemingly dangerous moments of television I ever saw.
When the news came out that Andy had cancer I was among the many who wondered whether maybe it was another of his stunts. When he died I was truly saddened. His death prompted Letterman to, for one of the only times in the history of his show, drop the sarcasm and speak genuinely from the heart- about how Andy had always been such an entertaining guest that would now be greatly missed.
I wasn't aware of how influential Andy was until he remained a much talked about performer years after his death. My favorite REM song remains their affectionate tribute to Andy, "Man on the Moon." I was excited to hear about the movie project of Andy's life starring Jim Carrey. Although I am now officially retired from movie-going I may have to make a temporary exception and go see the movie. I'm not sure anybody can ever make sense of Andy's skewed vision of life, but I think it's safe to say we will always forever enjoy his unique talent.
I followed Andy through his subsequent appearances on SNL and the Tonight Show. Every time I saw him my admiration grew. There was the time he did imitations in his foreign man voice, each imitation from John Wayne to Richard Nixon sounding exactly alike only with the different phrases associated with the subjects. Then he got to his Elvis impersonation and the transformation was startling. From the twitchy lip to the hiccuping vocals Andy did Elvis better than Elvis did Elvis at that point. Another time Andy was telling silly little jokes without remembering their punchlines. The audience politely played along, laughing nervously. With growing trepidation he finally began to break down accusing the audience of laughing at him and not with him. He began to sob, choking on his own breath. As the sobbing became more rhythmic he began to dance as he turned the cry of his voice into a musical instrument.
When it was announced Andy was to be a regular on the new sitcom Taxi, I made sure I had all my schoolwork done so I could watch the new show. His character, Latka Gravas, immediately became my favorite part of a very well cast ensemble. A popular part of my own minor celebrity in junior high school was my ability to imitate Latka's trademark accented thank you.
With his debut as the first inter-gender wrestling champion Andy's sweetness turned to weirdness. His frequent appearances on Late Night with David Letterman showed him not so much a comedian but as a performance artist- a performer who was looking as much to make his audience squirm as much as laugh. He no longer was always funny but that seemed to be the point. Even his Taxi character, Latka, lost his innocence and became the obnoxious alter ego- Vic Ferrari.
Then there was an unforgettable appearance on Letterman following Andy's first wrestling match with a man. His opponent, Jerry Lawler appeared on the show with Andy. Andy was wearing a neck brace compliment of being the victim of a pile driver by Lawler. The two uncomfortably sat next to each other and exchanged their accounts of the match. More and more Lawler became agitated with Andy's demeanor. Just before Dave was going to a commercial Lawler slapped Andy. At this point, and to this day, I'm not sure how much of this was put on and how much was real. Dave didn't seem to know either. It was the most bizarre, and one of the most seemingly dangerous moments of television I ever saw.
When the news came out that Andy had cancer I was among the many who wondered whether maybe it was another of his stunts. When he died I was truly saddened. His death prompted Letterman to, for one of the only times in the history of his show, drop the sarcasm and speak genuinely from the heart- about how Andy had always been such an entertaining guest that would now be greatly missed.
I wasn't aware of how influential Andy was until he remained a much talked about performer years after his death. My favorite REM song remains their affectionate tribute to Andy, "Man on the Moon." I was excited to hear about the movie project of Andy's life starring Jim Carrey. Although I am now officially retired from movie-going I may have to make a temporary exception and go see the movie. I'm not sure anybody can ever make sense of Andy's skewed vision of life, but I think it's safe to say we will always forever enjoy his unique talent.
Monday, November 29, 1999
Traveling Man
For those of you who have not had the luck to travel with me (sign up now!), one thing that is becoming more and more clear is that the trips I take are never uneventful. I'm not sure if that's because my advancing old age has just naturally led to more "eccentric" moments, or if I truly am a magnet for misadventure.
Last Monday I drove my signed out state car, a shiny silver 1998 Ford Taurus, all the way up to Fergus Falls to hear our constantly moving Governor address the House Governmental Operations and Veterans Affair Committee. The auditorium was full of personality gazers ready to let out a whoop on whether or not the state should adopt an unicameral legislature. I won't say much about the hearing itself other than the atmosphere around Mr. Ventura as he entered the Fergus Falls Middle School was akin to that surrounding a rock star. There was a certifiable buzz in the air, as the young crowd members positively oozed excitement from merely being in the same room as their Jesse.
I must say the drive to Fergus Falls is one long mother of a drive. I kinda missed having my beat up little Honda Civic, but didn't exactly want to put any more miles on it than I had to. Plus the damn Taurus (that only seemed as if it was twice as wide as my Civic) didn't have a tape or CD player. I brought with me my boom box but had inadvertently left my "A" collection of tapes in my own car. Thus I was forced to grab a handful of tapes that I had no idea the content. Turned out all right if listening to "Wolverton Mountain," "Afternoon Delight," and "Puff the Magic Dragon" (still makes me cry every time I hear it- it's bad enough Jackie Paper and Puff's friendship ended but Jackie just abandoned the woebegone dragon for Pete's sake) is your idea of all right.
I got to sunny Fergus around three in the afternoon and checked into the Super 8 right off the freeway (you know the one with a potholed plagued parking lot). The check in lady was Super 8 nice and as I found my room the stress of the drive definitely dissipated. I went back to my car to get my stuff, all the while being quite paranoid that I had my room key as to not lock myself out. (The check in lady seemed so impressed by me when I said I worked for the House, "You a member?" she asked... tee hee) I grabbed my suitcase from my car, made sure the vehicle was locked (wouldn't want to be stranded with no wheels in Fergus!) and headed back to my room. Again I made sure I had my room key in my pocket. I continued feeling my pockets (not a habitual quirk of mine trust me) only to notice a distinct absence of my car keys. I quickly wheeled around, looked inside the thoroughly locked car and saw the keys sitting quite serenely on the back seat. Gulp.
Luckily I'm a member of AAA so I called them and they were quite kind (both the person who took my call and the actual tow truck guys that opened up the car in no time flat). They didn't at all make me feel like the fool I actually was. And with that turn of events I figured the rough part of my trip was now behind me. Au contraire mon ami.
After the hearing was over I looked at the gas gauge and saw I would need some gas to make it back to St. Paul. I pulled into the Holiday station (suitably ironically named with the dread this season is bringing) I got out of that silver Taurus that earlier had the audacity of locking me out in the vast middle of nowhere. I turned on the pump and noticed the gas tank was on the other side of the car and the hose didn't reach. Darn the luck. I sheepishly got back in the car and turned it around all the while hoping the clerk didn't wonder what in the hell I was doing. I got back out and noticed for some inexplicable reason the tank was still on the opposite side of the gas pump. I ain't no physics genius but I was too tired to try and figure out how that happened. I got in the car and turned it around once more. Once again the gas pump and the gas tank didn't correspond. I gave it one more effort and this time I was able to fill the tank.
I was due at work the next day for a 9:30 meeting that I knew I'd never make but still I diligently hit the road at precisely 7:00 a.m. I, as I often do while traveling, was measuring time and my progress by the number of tapes I played along the way. As I hit the lovely town of Alexandria I gauged my progress and thought, "Damn, I'm making good time here..." No sooner than I was thinking I could stop and enjoy a rare breakfast when I had to slam on the old brakes. What had been unusually balmy conditions when I left Fergus (no frost on my car windows! None of that dreaded scraping!) quickly turned into swirling snow and quickly icing roads. Right as I hit Albertville things came to a complete standstill. I was right in the middle of the largest parking lot in the state as we awaited a turned over semi to be removed from the traffic grid.
By the time I finally reached my often under appreciated lil' home I was thinking that this end of the world unseasonable weather has ill equipped me to face the inevitable winter (of our discontent?). I don't want to brave the elements no more, and I don't find any of the past comfort of being a hearty midwesterner sufficient. Conditions these days are too slick, too messy and I just want to take it easy for a while.
Last Monday I drove my signed out state car, a shiny silver 1998 Ford Taurus, all the way up to Fergus Falls to hear our constantly moving Governor address the House Governmental Operations and Veterans Affair Committee. The auditorium was full of personality gazers ready to let out a whoop on whether or not the state should adopt an unicameral legislature. I won't say much about the hearing itself other than the atmosphere around Mr. Ventura as he entered the Fergus Falls Middle School was akin to that surrounding a rock star. There was a certifiable buzz in the air, as the young crowd members positively oozed excitement from merely being in the same room as their Jesse.
I must say the drive to Fergus Falls is one long mother of a drive. I kinda missed having my beat up little Honda Civic, but didn't exactly want to put any more miles on it than I had to. Plus the damn Taurus (that only seemed as if it was twice as wide as my Civic) didn't have a tape or CD player. I brought with me my boom box but had inadvertently left my "A" collection of tapes in my own car. Thus I was forced to grab a handful of tapes that I had no idea the content. Turned out all right if listening to "Wolverton Mountain," "Afternoon Delight," and "Puff the Magic Dragon" (still makes me cry every time I hear it- it's bad enough Jackie Paper and Puff's friendship ended but Jackie just abandoned the woebegone dragon for Pete's sake) is your idea of all right.
I got to sunny Fergus around three in the afternoon and checked into the Super 8 right off the freeway (you know the one with a potholed plagued parking lot). The check in lady was Super 8 nice and as I found my room the stress of the drive definitely dissipated. I went back to my car to get my stuff, all the while being quite paranoid that I had my room key as to not lock myself out. (The check in lady seemed so impressed by me when I said I worked for the House, "You a member?" she asked... tee hee) I grabbed my suitcase from my car, made sure the vehicle was locked (wouldn't want to be stranded with no wheels in Fergus!) and headed back to my room. Again I made sure I had my room key in my pocket. I continued feeling my pockets (not a habitual quirk of mine trust me) only to notice a distinct absence of my car keys. I quickly wheeled around, looked inside the thoroughly locked car and saw the keys sitting quite serenely on the back seat. Gulp.
Luckily I'm a member of AAA so I called them and they were quite kind (both the person who took my call and the actual tow truck guys that opened up the car in no time flat). They didn't at all make me feel like the fool I actually was. And with that turn of events I figured the rough part of my trip was now behind me. Au contraire mon ami.
After the hearing was over I looked at the gas gauge and saw I would need some gas to make it back to St. Paul. I pulled into the Holiday station (suitably ironically named with the dread this season is bringing) I got out of that silver Taurus that earlier had the audacity of locking me out in the vast middle of nowhere. I turned on the pump and noticed the gas tank was on the other side of the car and the hose didn't reach. Darn the luck. I sheepishly got back in the car and turned it around all the while hoping the clerk didn't wonder what in the hell I was doing. I got back out and noticed for some inexplicable reason the tank was still on the opposite side of the gas pump. I ain't no physics genius but I was too tired to try and figure out how that happened. I got in the car and turned it around once more. Once again the gas pump and the gas tank didn't correspond. I gave it one more effort and this time I was able to fill the tank.
I was due at work the next day for a 9:30 meeting that I knew I'd never make but still I diligently hit the road at precisely 7:00 a.m. I, as I often do while traveling, was measuring time and my progress by the number of tapes I played along the way. As I hit the lovely town of Alexandria I gauged my progress and thought, "Damn, I'm making good time here..." No sooner than I was thinking I could stop and enjoy a rare breakfast when I had to slam on the old brakes. What had been unusually balmy conditions when I left Fergus (no frost on my car windows! None of that dreaded scraping!) quickly turned into swirling snow and quickly icing roads. Right as I hit Albertville things came to a complete standstill. I was right in the middle of the largest parking lot in the state as we awaited a turned over semi to be removed from the traffic grid.
By the time I finally reached my often under appreciated lil' home I was thinking that this end of the world unseasonable weather has ill equipped me to face the inevitable winter (of our discontent?). I don't want to brave the elements no more, and I don't find any of the past comfort of being a hearty midwesterner sufficient. Conditions these days are too slick, too messy and I just want to take it easy for a while.
Monday, November 22, 1999
11/19/99
A friend told me during a phone conversation last Friday, and follow up email, that the day was the last in our life time that would be comprised completely of odd numbered digits (1-1-1-9-1-9-9-9). With that anomaly came a shared whispered promise that it would be the last odd day we would ever have to endure. (I suspect this means there will be no more occurrences of such things like Bob Dylan appearances on Dharma and Greg.) Talk about odd. Recently after spending an afternoon racing around our northwestern suburbs desperately trying to find a church I didn't have the address of or name to, I arrived barely in time for an important service just as we were walking candles down the aisle. Afterward my brother-in-law asked me how my new job was going. I told him it felt so strange to finally have a job where I'm doing what I always wanted to be doing, that actually incorporates what I got my college degree for. It feels completely foreign to have to go into work and do something I actually enjoy doing. What a concept. He smiled and acknowledged that he understood. That an unexpected source showed such appreciation was a small moment that made the difficult but bearable day memorable.
Indeed last week as I stood in the middle of an abandoned Minneapolis flour mill looking at empty beer bottles and walls painted with gang graffiti, staring at the girl with soccer field eyes, I certainly hoped our odd days are finally behind us. Amongst the rubble and ruin I found a shiny nickel. I felt like a blessed man. I have often wished that we could measure how rich we are in life by the amount of nickels we have. I like nickels.
I used my new nickel to go toward some art supplies necessary to begin my second major painting project this year. The first was slapping a fresh coat of taupe on to my reluctantly scraped and primed garage. Besides that home improvement project historically this next stab at painting is my second attempt at actual artwork. My first try came back in 1993 as I attempted an oil paint portrait of Max. This new project is an effort to usurp angelic beauty defined and reconnect a part of me that I hope is still there. One of the subjects of the painting asked if it meant having to come over and model. I told her, no this is an attempt to get what's inside across, not outside down. No small task especially considering my limited artistic ability and my decision to work in a completely new medium- water colors. Heck I may as well try and do this thing left-handed. I'm more Claude Rains than Claude Monet after all. I can't imagine I can possibly get the shapes and images right but at the very least I hope I can capture some of the color that my mind constantly sees and appreciates.
I'm looking forward to this project. It is an attempt to force myself to see, think, and feel in a manner that doesn't come naturally. Each inch of the canvass has to be planned. Each stroke of the brush carefully controlled. The end result isn't as important as the process itself. The project will occupy a lot of my time and hopefully will make the holiday season pass on by quickly. We all need our stress relievers- and I think my usual outlets are in need of some reinforcement. Much as writing, banging away at my piano, and going out to shoot hoops blows away the troubles of the moment, it will be nice to come home and do something different. I don't like to repeat myself but I'm quite proud of my portrait of Max. I was so afraid it would turn out looking cartoonish but I don't think it did. And you can actually tell it's a cat I painted. Pomposity admitted, the lesson I learned from my first painting was the difference between a painting and a photograph. It may seemingly be an obvious difference but to me it was a refreshing lesson that had been somehow overlooked and taken for granted. Facts may be facts (and faxed) but creativity adds needed perspective.
Oddly enough, the last time I found a painted nickel was a somehow connected moment when I was in a similar state of mind. It was when we first opened up our Cheapo in Uptown. It was a big step for our company, coming right after our first name change to "Applause." It was right before the Uptown Art Fair and I had just gotten my head shaved. I looked good, damn good, though I think a tad frightening or out of the ordinary. ("Strike another match go start anew...") My task for the day was to stand outside our store and hand out fliers with a big bold "Applause" title on top notifying the area patrons of our store. Several people took our leaflet, glanced at it and threw it away just feet away from where I stood. Others walked by me refusing to take what I thrust at them. One kindly old lady, forever etched in my mind, smiled at me as she took the piece of paper from me. She quickly glanced at it and said to her companion, "Apple sauce, I like apple sauce." I can't possibly express how much that made me smile on a hot and weary day.
Yes indeed this painting will at the very least show that I see a contrast between windows and mirrors. One you see through and one reflects. Both are made from the same material and are necessary in our lives. Both show you things you sometimes need to know, sometimes don't need to know, sometimes want to see, sometimes don't want to see. Inside out outside looking in. That's what this painting is about.
Indeed last week as I stood in the middle of an abandoned Minneapolis flour mill looking at empty beer bottles and walls painted with gang graffiti, staring at the girl with soccer field eyes, I certainly hoped our odd days are finally behind us. Amongst the rubble and ruin I found a shiny nickel. I felt like a blessed man. I have often wished that we could measure how rich we are in life by the amount of nickels we have. I like nickels.
I used my new nickel to go toward some art supplies necessary to begin my second major painting project this year. The first was slapping a fresh coat of taupe on to my reluctantly scraped and primed garage. Besides that home improvement project historically this next stab at painting is my second attempt at actual artwork. My first try came back in 1993 as I attempted an oil paint portrait of Max. This new project is an effort to usurp angelic beauty defined and reconnect a part of me that I hope is still there. One of the subjects of the painting asked if it meant having to come over and model. I told her, no this is an attempt to get what's inside across, not outside down. No small task especially considering my limited artistic ability and my decision to work in a completely new medium- water colors. Heck I may as well try and do this thing left-handed. I'm more Claude Rains than Claude Monet after all. I can't imagine I can possibly get the shapes and images right but at the very least I hope I can capture some of the color that my mind constantly sees and appreciates.
I'm looking forward to this project. It is an attempt to force myself to see, think, and feel in a manner that doesn't come naturally. Each inch of the canvass has to be planned. Each stroke of the brush carefully controlled. The end result isn't as important as the process itself. The project will occupy a lot of my time and hopefully will make the holiday season pass on by quickly. We all need our stress relievers- and I think my usual outlets are in need of some reinforcement. Much as writing, banging away at my piano, and going out to shoot hoops blows away the troubles of the moment, it will be nice to come home and do something different. I don't like to repeat myself but I'm quite proud of my portrait of Max. I was so afraid it would turn out looking cartoonish but I don't think it did. And you can actually tell it's a cat I painted. Pomposity admitted, the lesson I learned from my first painting was the difference between a painting and a photograph. It may seemingly be an obvious difference but to me it was a refreshing lesson that had been somehow overlooked and taken for granted. Facts may be facts (and faxed) but creativity adds needed perspective.
Oddly enough, the last time I found a painted nickel was a somehow connected moment when I was in a similar state of mind. It was when we first opened up our Cheapo in Uptown. It was a big step for our company, coming right after our first name change to "Applause." It was right before the Uptown Art Fair and I had just gotten my head shaved. I looked good, damn good, though I think a tad frightening or out of the ordinary. ("Strike another match go start anew...") My task for the day was to stand outside our store and hand out fliers with a big bold "Applause" title on top notifying the area patrons of our store. Several people took our leaflet, glanced at it and threw it away just feet away from where I stood. Others walked by me refusing to take what I thrust at them. One kindly old lady, forever etched in my mind, smiled at me as she took the piece of paper from me. She quickly glanced at it and said to her companion, "Apple sauce, I like apple sauce." I can't possibly express how much that made me smile on a hot and weary day.
Yes indeed this painting will at the very least show that I see a contrast between windows and mirrors. One you see through and one reflects. Both are made from the same material and are necessary in our lives. Both show you things you sometimes need to know, sometimes don't need to know, sometimes want to see, sometimes don't want to see. Inside out outside looking in. That's what this painting is about.
Monday, November 15, 1999
Rainy Day Fatalist 12 & 35 (Fr... ...ers for M-)
It was either Johann Sebastian Bach, composer, or Fred Kueffer, geometry teacher, that taught me all of life is about mathematics. Thus I probably shouldn't have felt as bad as I did last week when I had the temerity of reducing Lou Gehrig to another mere number, killing him in this publication from a disease he did not have (MS vs. ALS) years after he died. There probably is a reason the man has his own disease named after him after all.
I read recently if we could shrink the earth's population to a village of 100 people, with all the human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following: there would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere both north and south, and 8 Africans. 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, and 30 would be white. 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, and 11 would be homosexual. Six people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States. 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, and 1 would be near birth. One would have a college education, 1 would own a computer and 1 would be a short little neurotic Japanese-American who forgot to read his map and stumbled into the scene apart from the rest, more than a little perplexed, the perpetual outsider looking in.
We've become good at measuring our lives by the numbers: through time- whether chronologically or by a more pastoral method (the arc between dreams and memories for example); by money earned or not earned; by the distance traveled geographically as well as professionally and personally; and by the people known and left behind. There are a fortunate few who can step outside statistical constraints and see life in a more cosmic sense, but to do that is a difficult challenge indeed.
Last Wednesday, a day after I turned 35, I was in Rochester on a work assignment revisiting the Mayo Clinic eleven years after I went there on a more personal assignment. Back in 1988 I went on what I now refer to as my "secret government mission" two years before I actually started working for the government. The purpose for that visit had something to do with poetry and the meaning of life. The irony of this most recent visit was bringing with me a business card uncomfortably labeling me the very thing that was at the root of my last visit- a place I couldn't possibly imagine or believe I'd ever get to or return back. By any numeric standard it was a large step nearly impossible to measure.
As I was walking through the halls of St. Mary's Hospital, I passed an ATM machine. I remembered withdrawing cash from that machine during my first visit on my second to the last day there. I needed the cash to get a haircut from the hospital barber. The haircut was more symbolic than cosmetic- as if cutting my hair would give me a fresh start.
After surviving a tenacious downpour complete with being pelted by small chunks of hail, I found myself at the Mayo Clinic this second time around early in the morning, a witness to open heart surgery. Again there was something ethereal about the moment, about my last visit also being about an open heart that needed mending. The sight of the purple blood leaving the body and returning in its more recognizable red form didn't bother me as I expected it might, but rather was a reminder of how we shouldn't take for granted our next heart beat. To see the essence of life in the palm of somebody's hand was rather humbling.
On the morning of my birthday I opened my refrigerator and in the upper right hand corner, as it has for the past couple of years, sat a circular thermometer that my Mom loaned to me. She had read an article about how health officials were concerned that many refrigerators weren't storing food at safe temperatures. After I determined mine was fine I meant to give the thermometer back to Mom. I never got around to it, one of the simple life tasks that just never got done. The little metallic device made me feel sad inside. It was one of the many numerous things my Mom had given to me over the years- with love and concern. Now somehow it was a monument of all the scars my 35th year left behind. It was a difficult birthday. Even my friend with a song and dance got the number wrong and gave me a stroke instead of a stork. My father cooked my favorite meal, shrimp (I remain what I eat), and I went out to the cemetery to spend a moment with Mom. I made it through the day by reading some sacred books a friend loaned to me that were originally meant for her own children.
The days (daze?) surrounding the birthday were a little brighter. Sister number three, who was born nine years to the very day before we took our first steps on the moon, took my Dad and I out the night before for a sushi dinner. Three days later my favorite mother of two and I went out to lunch and shopping. I actually ended up getting my first Christmas gift of the season, with a mere 44 days before that particular holiday.
More numbers: About three months ago when I got the oil changed in my car I noticed on the reminder sticker that my car would turn over 100,000 miles before my next visit. Despite better made cars, turning from five to six digits on the odometer remains a milestone for any automobile. Now I've never been one to be too impressed by the cars people drive. I think the only one that ever really impressed me, impressed me for as an accomplishment, not as a status symbol. Back before she became the urban planning superstar, my friend Alex once was a tried and true Minnesotan. Though she passed on through much too quickly I forever and greatly will admire her for many a thing. One is working and paying her entire way diligently to a Masters Degree. Another is being perhaps the most determined person I've ever had the luck to know. When she was here it was always clear to me bigger and brighter moments were awaiting her. Perhaps an early clue that she wasn't long for this state was her first car, one of those fancy little Toyota MR-5 sports cars. I remember Mr. Max and I looking out the window of my tiny efficiency off Grand Avenue impatiently awaiting for her to pull up. Alex and I spent a few nights under the downtown stars, on our library nights that inevitably ended up at a coffee shop. That MR-5, one of her first tangible possessions of success, was stolen and later found wrapped around a tree. And still she took that all in stride.
My current Honda is the first car I bought all by myself. Last winter the front fender received a rather nasty looking dent due to its owner suffering a careless lapse. I thought about getting it fixed immediately because it was rather disheartening to look at but this all happened in the midst of my Mom's illness. Somehow I didn't have the heart, or it didn't seem that important to worry about the outward appearance of my car. Then as the old saving's account took a hit, there wasn't enough money to justify fixing something that didn't need immediate repair rather than for more pressing needs.
Still dented with the milestone closing in, I kept one eye peeled on the road and the other on the odometer in anticipation of letting out a holler, and short toot on the horn when the big moment arrived. On the evening I was to make a rare visit to my new wardrobe manager, the one who taught me how to blouse a shirt, turning a pumpkin into a jack o lantern- proceeded by a dozen roses because she knows the value of a nickel back, I patiently made my way through the madness of 35E during rush hour. As I arrived at the restaurant I glanced down and my mileage read 100,019. There was a palatable disappointment in the air- both from the car itself ("you ruin my fender, now you miss MY moment you lunkhead!") and from myself. We've traveled many roads together, always gotten safely to our destinations when that seriously seemed to be in doubt. I took a little comfort knowing the milestone was reached while going to see the person who is so effective in reminding me about the necessity of taking small steps to reach a more distant goal, and not writing a future that is not mine to write.
Recently a man shared with me a saying he used to help him through the difficult time of the death of his wife. "I keep what I have by giving it away," he said. As he relayed the saying I nodded although I had no idea what it meant. But it stuck inside and I now think I get the gist. At the end of the road when it's time to count up all the beans you've accumulated, the ones that carry the most weight aren't the ones in your possession but the ones you have shared with others. And if you've done your math right that number hopefully ends up to be too large to count.
I read recently if we could shrink the earth's population to a village of 100 people, with all the human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following: there would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere both north and south, and 8 Africans. 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, and 30 would be white. 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, and 11 would be homosexual. Six people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States. 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, and 1 would be near birth. One would have a college education, 1 would own a computer and 1 would be a short little neurotic Japanese-American who forgot to read his map and stumbled into the scene apart from the rest, more than a little perplexed, the perpetual outsider looking in.
We've become good at measuring our lives by the numbers: through time- whether chronologically or by a more pastoral method (the arc between dreams and memories for example); by money earned or not earned; by the distance traveled geographically as well as professionally and personally; and by the people known and left behind. There are a fortunate few who can step outside statistical constraints and see life in a more cosmic sense, but to do that is a difficult challenge indeed.
Last Wednesday, a day after I turned 35, I was in Rochester on a work assignment revisiting the Mayo Clinic eleven years after I went there on a more personal assignment. Back in 1988 I went on what I now refer to as my "secret government mission" two years before I actually started working for the government. The purpose for that visit had something to do with poetry and the meaning of life. The irony of this most recent visit was bringing with me a business card uncomfortably labeling me the very thing that was at the root of my last visit- a place I couldn't possibly imagine or believe I'd ever get to or return back. By any numeric standard it was a large step nearly impossible to measure.
As I was walking through the halls of St. Mary's Hospital, I passed an ATM machine. I remembered withdrawing cash from that machine during my first visit on my second to the last day there. I needed the cash to get a haircut from the hospital barber. The haircut was more symbolic than cosmetic- as if cutting my hair would give me a fresh start.
After surviving a tenacious downpour complete with being pelted by small chunks of hail, I found myself at the Mayo Clinic this second time around early in the morning, a witness to open heart surgery. Again there was something ethereal about the moment, about my last visit also being about an open heart that needed mending. The sight of the purple blood leaving the body and returning in its more recognizable red form didn't bother me as I expected it might, but rather was a reminder of how we shouldn't take for granted our next heart beat. To see the essence of life in the palm of somebody's hand was rather humbling.
On the morning of my birthday I opened my refrigerator and in the upper right hand corner, as it has for the past couple of years, sat a circular thermometer that my Mom loaned to me. She had read an article about how health officials were concerned that many refrigerators weren't storing food at safe temperatures. After I determined mine was fine I meant to give the thermometer back to Mom. I never got around to it, one of the simple life tasks that just never got done. The little metallic device made me feel sad inside. It was one of the many numerous things my Mom had given to me over the years- with love and concern. Now somehow it was a monument of all the scars my 35th year left behind. It was a difficult birthday. Even my friend with a song and dance got the number wrong and gave me a stroke instead of a stork. My father cooked my favorite meal, shrimp (I remain what I eat), and I went out to the cemetery to spend a moment with Mom. I made it through the day by reading some sacred books a friend loaned to me that were originally meant for her own children.
The days (daze?) surrounding the birthday were a little brighter. Sister number three, who was born nine years to the very day before we took our first steps on the moon, took my Dad and I out the night before for a sushi dinner. Three days later my favorite mother of two and I went out to lunch and shopping. I actually ended up getting my first Christmas gift of the season, with a mere 44 days before that particular holiday.
More numbers: About three months ago when I got the oil changed in my car I noticed on the reminder sticker that my car would turn over 100,000 miles before my next visit. Despite better made cars, turning from five to six digits on the odometer remains a milestone for any automobile. Now I've never been one to be too impressed by the cars people drive. I think the only one that ever really impressed me, impressed me for as an accomplishment, not as a status symbol. Back before she became the urban planning superstar, my friend Alex once was a tried and true Minnesotan. Though she passed on through much too quickly I forever and greatly will admire her for many a thing. One is working and paying her entire way diligently to a Masters Degree. Another is being perhaps the most determined person I've ever had the luck to know. When she was here it was always clear to me bigger and brighter moments were awaiting her. Perhaps an early clue that she wasn't long for this state was her first car, one of those fancy little Toyota MR-5 sports cars. I remember Mr. Max and I looking out the window of my tiny efficiency off Grand Avenue impatiently awaiting for her to pull up. Alex and I spent a few nights under the downtown stars, on our library nights that inevitably ended up at a coffee shop. That MR-5, one of her first tangible possessions of success, was stolen and later found wrapped around a tree. And still she took that all in stride.
My current Honda is the first car I bought all by myself. Last winter the front fender received a rather nasty looking dent due to its owner suffering a careless lapse. I thought about getting it fixed immediately because it was rather disheartening to look at but this all happened in the midst of my Mom's illness. Somehow I didn't have the heart, or it didn't seem that important to worry about the outward appearance of my car. Then as the old saving's account took a hit, there wasn't enough money to justify fixing something that didn't need immediate repair rather than for more pressing needs.
Still dented with the milestone closing in, I kept one eye peeled on the road and the other on the odometer in anticipation of letting out a holler, and short toot on the horn when the big moment arrived. On the evening I was to make a rare visit to my new wardrobe manager, the one who taught me how to blouse a shirt, turning a pumpkin into a jack o lantern- proceeded by a dozen roses because she knows the value of a nickel back, I patiently made my way through the madness of 35E during rush hour. As I arrived at the restaurant I glanced down and my mileage read 100,019. There was a palatable disappointment in the air- both from the car itself ("you ruin my fender, now you miss MY moment you lunkhead!") and from myself. We've traveled many roads together, always gotten safely to our destinations when that seriously seemed to be in doubt. I took a little comfort knowing the milestone was reached while going to see the person who is so effective in reminding me about the necessity of taking small steps to reach a more distant goal, and not writing a future that is not mine to write.
Recently a man shared with me a saying he used to help him through the difficult time of the death of his wife. "I keep what I have by giving it away," he said. As he relayed the saying I nodded although I had no idea what it meant. But it stuck inside and I now think I get the gist. At the end of the road when it's time to count up all the beans you've accumulated, the ones that carry the most weight aren't the ones in your possession but the ones you have shared with others. And if you've done your math right that number hopefully ends up to be too large to count.
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