Album of the Week: Blood on the Tracks

Hi folks, hope you all had a good Christmas/Hanukkah/Holiday. In case you didn't get enough stuff under your tree, lucky you, I have another gift. A brand new Album of the Week review, back from hiatus!

I don't quite know what my deal has been lately, but I've been on a bit of a Dylan fetish. I ordered a poster (for those of you at Luther, the poster that used to hang in my and Klein's dorm), have bought/have been gifted two albums, and was gifted a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses, the kind he wore in the poster I bought two subjects ago. Maybe I have a seasonal mancrush going on.

But then gain, how can you not have a mancrush on a guy who produces albums like "Blood on the Tracks"? I'm sorry folks, but this is fantastic music. Actually, you know what this is? This is Real music. This is like, essential music. Let me tell you why.

If Wikipedia is to be believed, and I'm sure it is, Blood was recorded shortly after Dylan's separation with his wife at the time, thus serving as the inspiration for most of the songs. And you can certainly tell. I think the most distinctive part of this album is the intense, powerful emotion that radiates forth from Bob's singing. It's emotional involvement in a song brought to the cusp of being tangible, you almost feel as if there is a man sitting next to you ripping his heart out and putting it on a plate. It's like Bob Dylan is forcefeeding you, the listener, his most inner turmoil. Now who doesn't want to be witness to that?

I know, I know, some of the more fragile types out there probably don't want to subject themselves to tales of emotional damage and broken relationships. But along with the melancholy is a certain sort of, well, let's call it sweetness. Maybe that's not the right word, but frankly, I can't think of anything better. Although the subject matter is depressing, it's not as if the album is a dirge. There's a sort of je ne sais quois that allows songs of such desperation to be so pleasing to the ear.

As you no doubt have realized, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I haven't named any songs, have gone into no detail. That's not to say I haven't listened to this record, I've listened to it almost constantly for a week. But I decided it would be foolish for me to try to review music in the same way Rolling Stone reviews music. I decided it's better for me to review the broad wash of the music, to evaluate what it made me think about or feel.

But since we're talking about details, I think my favourite songs thus far would have to be "Tangled Up In Blue," "Simple Twist of Fate,""Shelter From the Storm," and "Buckets of Rain." A few of these will probably be instantly recognizable to the common listener, but that's okay. They're good songs, there's a reason they're recognizable.

What I like most about Dylan's songs are the fact that they actually have something to say. They tell a story, they don't attempt to reduce the vagaries of human interaction into some sort of bullshit cliché. I think Dylan has a gift for diction and the fitting of words into songs. He can manage to cram in 15 syllables in the space a lesser singer could only do 4, and still make it sound elegant and musical. It must be liberating to have such a gift to tell the story you want to tell to music, and the world is benefiting from said liberation.

You know, most of this album is quiet and acoustic, suitable for the subject matter. It's the kind of music that's probably best listened to alone, or if you've been recently jilted. A lot of folks object to Bob's nasally voice, but set to the simplicity of a few guitars, a bass, and occasionally some drums, it sounds like the sweetest sound on earth. I would highly recommend checking this album out. Probably don't want to play it at your New Year's party, but I'm sure it would be good once all the guests have left.

Radio Show (Updated with Hilarious Link!)

I've been listening with increasing frequency to NPR this fall, somewhat spurred on via a few friends of mine who enjoy their Saturday quiz show. Needless to say, I have not listened to the quiz show, but have enjoyed their news coverage. Another item I've taken to listen to via podcast is the "This American Life" show put out from Chicago, hosted by Mr. Ira Glass as pictured above. Some of the stories I find uninteresting, but mostly, I'm a fan. Being a child of the internet generation, I'm typically dismissive of entertainment that is so, what is the word, non-visual. Non-interactive, if you will. It's hard to interest folks in sitting down and listening to the radio when in the alternative, you could watch videos of guys getting kicked in the balls on Youtube.

But there is a certain old time charm to radio. An FDR, fireside chat kind of vibe. I liken it a lot to how people suddenly seem to favour vinyl over CD's. In some ways, the sparseness of radio makes it more tangible, the history of it makes it more relatable. Distilled down to the simplest of communications, the effect of the spoken word comes through with more force than it ever does on television. No distractions, at least none through the fault of the radio. No asshole talking head commentators raving into the camera while throwing what is essentially, a five year old's tantrum.

Of course, maybe I just like public radio because I can then tell people I listen to public radio. After adjusting my scarf and wiping the snow off of the "Obama 08" sticker still on my car.

I know, it needs to come off now.

Anyways, the point. I thought about what I would talk about if I had my own radio show. I find it very doubtful that I could fill 55 minutes or so of myself talking. I find myself to be one of those folks who has a myriad of semi-strong interests, but no real defined niche. Meaning, I love to play music, and am a fairly good trombonist, but could not do it for a living. I probably would not make an effective busker, unless I practiced for about a year. I'm a fan of red wine, but really have very little knowledge of what I'm talking about. I know more about craft beer, but that is still rather limited knowledge. I like the idea of social justice, but don't have the intellectual info-bank to back it all up. I do enjoy a cup of good coffee, but maybe lack the patience to really sit down and try different beans from different regions. I'm interested in good food, but cannot cook. Enjoy working out, but lack motivation. Like history, but would rather read a book than write one myself. Do enjoy watching the game of baseball and philosophizing about it, but cannot play. I like to try though. Maybe that's the whole point.

I could maybe talk about music, I maybe have increased my knowledge of music to a level of limited expertise. Jazz, perhaps. I could spend an hour chatting about the history of jazz, album reviews, etc. And I think I'd like that a lot. But I lack the technical expertise to break down scale choices and chords. It would be more just myself talking. Maybe telling stories. Who knows. I think maybe I could choose a topic, and then bring on qualified experts to talk to me about it.

Perhaps, maybe we could do a show on, say, Somalia. Why is it so messed up? Why are there pirates? What can be done? What should we be doing? Just, what the hell is going on, and why should we care? And every week, there would be a new topic. What does a peace corps volunteer do? How did black nationalism relate into popular culture? How does one make Scotch whiskey? Who knows?

In effect, I have no idea what I would talk about on the radio. Often times, I think maybe I should focus my interests and free time to a single area, and get really good at that. I tried to do that in the past with jazz scales, chaos theory, French language, to little effect. I think I've come to the conclusion that I'm more comfortable with having a wider range of more limited interests, with a few areas of specialty. Undoubtedly partially related to my liberal arts background, it's good to be fluent in many languages, as it were.

I once told a friend of mine in high school that if she were to come to a costume party, she would have to be an undefined niche, because she didn't have a "defined" sense of who she was, besides being scorchingly attractive. I thought it was all a gag, but maybe that was a better idea than I thought. Being an undefined niche is not so bad an idea after all.

Update - The Onion documents a stunning achievement of This American Life

1/6

1/6 of the way complete with my legal education. I feel as if I should have some sort of wise insight to share with humanity, relating the intrinsic worth of law to society. Unfortunately, I don't quite think I have such immortal wisdom. Or at least, I don't necessarily feel the urge to relate it at present. I can say this though, it's a very different world than Luther College. Not a better or a worse world, but a very different one. I like it, but I'm excrutiatingly happy to have a break.

Final went well. It was a very intense two weeks, but it's now over. I'm looking forward to a weekend spent with good friends, of like mind, and of good conversation. Plus, it will be fun to play some trombone. Anyways, in celebration of the end of the semester, I also ordered a Dylan CD off of the internet. Plus My Morning Jacket. Never bought an album of theirs before, but I listen to their stuff on the current quite often, and I like it.

Speaking of which, the Album of the Week feature has suffered with the stresses of law school. I assure you, it will return with a vengeance. I know all of you have besides yourselves without my telling you what music to listen to.

If any of you all are not busy on Sunday night, please check out the holiday party at my pops' place. It will be good. Wear a sweater.

Round 4

"The groans, ineffably and mournfully sad, of Davies' dying donkey, have resounded around the earth. The last lingering gaze from the soft, mild eyes of this docile animal, like the last parting sunbeams of the softest day in spring, has appealed to and touched the hearts of men. There has girdled the globe a band of sympathy for Davies' immortal “critter.” Its ghost, like Banquo's ghost, will not down at the behests of the people who are charged with inflicting injuries, nor can its groanings be silenced by the rantings and excoriations of carping critics. The law as enunciated in that case has come to stay." 56 So. 783.

The above is both a perfect reason to love and despise torts. Seriously, it's from an actual case.

Last exam, the end of the first semester is nigh. I can trim my NHL playoff beard. If you need to contact me between 5:00 PM on Thursday, December 18 and mid January, probably just check at the nearest bar.

Round 3

Promissory estop this.

Round 2

Suck it.

Round 1

Civil Procedure, prepare to become my bitch.

Nothing.

I have become convinced that there is no more perfect balm for educationally induced stress than a half hour spent with Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer.

I spent the whole day milling about school, getting called on in Contracts (which I suppose wasn't that bad) and trying to wrap my brain around the vagaries of United States civil procedure, which may have been written by a group of confusing men and a very large bottle of scotch. Surviving only on a peanut butter sandwich, some sort of nut granola bar, and a cup of coffee. Then I spent some two hours at night sitting at Starbucks, once again trying to distill civil procedure into some sort of coherent, manageable framework. Lest I forget, there was also the contracts case I read that spent five pages poring over the correct interpretation of the word "chicken."

After all of that and a hellacious two weeks ahead, a show about nothing sounds like a very good idea.

Thanksgiving.

For the year, a list of sorts...

1- Family
2- Good friends, wherever they are
3- Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale
4- Having a working automobile
5- Free rent
6- Walking the dog
7- Health
8- Being able to play the trombone
9- Steady employ
10- Traveling to Brasil and playing music
11- Planet Earth BBC series
12- The number 12
13- Tom Paine
14- Revolutionary American history
15- Dry humour
16- Barack Obama winning the election
17- The three French sketches in my basement
18- Watching the Twins play baseball
19- Classy parties
20- Red wine
21- Plaid shirts
22- The color blue
23- Graduating from college
24- Crisp winter days, with light snow
25- Mulled wine on those crisp winter days
26- Mexican food
27- The ugly Christmas sweater I bought at Goodwill last winter
28- Having an equalizer that makes the little colored bars go up and down
29- The Nine
30- Large mugs, with plenty of stories behind them
31- Trombone choir
32- Dr. Smith
33- Law school
34- Half Price Books
35- This audio cabinet we "requisitioned" from Smith's office
36- Drinking good coffee
37- John Coltrane
38- Being able to play frisbee golf
39- The hard body workout
40- Being pretentious
41- Having my facebook profile photo on the front of the Luther yearbook
42- Glassware from foreign countries
43- Freedom from want
44- Tony Guzman
45- Being able to run a 5K without walking
46- The feeling after you turn in a big paper
47- California Burger Night
48- Bill Evans
49- St. Patrick's Day with Ryan
50- Having a semi-adult relationship
51- The new Twins ballpark
52- Mark Rothko prints
53- Watching Seinfeld on Friday afternoons after Jazz Orchestra, having a Coke
54- Doing juvenile things on the weekends
55- Being able to say things that needed to be said
56- American Airlines paying to fix my trombone that they broke
57- Making it back from Brasil in time for Scott's wedding
58- Books by Bill Bryson
59- Minnesota Public Radio
60- The view from Corcovado
61- Reminiscing
62- Feeling proud after my trombone recital
63- Making new friends
64- Playing "Who Puts His Trust"
65- Dressing up like a ballplayer and running around the CFL like an idiot
66- Being able to laugh at oneself
67- Possibilities
68- Bob Dylan albums
69- Living in community
70- Khaki pants
71- This green couch
72- Being able to think
73- Patience
74- That scarf I got in LaCrosse
75- Keeping in touch
76- Being content
77- That free cup of coffee I got on Election Day
78- Russian History class
79- The night in Cabo Frio with the caipirinhas
80- Live music
81- Catching a baseball at the Saints game
82- Cuban cigars
83- Luther College
84- Vinyl records
85- Good memories
86- Thursday evenings at La Rana
87- My blue pullover thing
88- Even numbered seats
89- Baking an edible pie
90- Keeping an open mind
91- Stride piano
92- Guinness
93- Older friends
94- Still having hair
95- Thoughtful conversations
96- People who read this blog
97- Organization
98- Remaining curious
99- J-term science with Grandpa
100- Thinking I'll enjoy what I think will be my job
101- Certain ladies
102- Coffeehouses
103- Getting emails from my Japanese friends
104- Organic chicken
105- Living spaces that do not feel like a middle schooler's wet dream
106- Trombone music
107- Black luggage
108- New glasses
109- Those New Yorker magazines all over the damn floor
110- Early mornings
111- Swing dancing
112- Being alive and well
113- European stuff
114- Snow

Globalisation

Hey folks, how's it going? I'm happy to report that I turned in my research memo this morning at approximately 9:10 AM, CST. The damn thing had basically been my life for the past 3 weeks or so. So, suck it memo, you got yours. Needless to say, I celebrated with a very large glass of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale with friends after class ended.

Now revising for finals starts. Can't seem to catch a break. Shit...

In other news, I'm once again joining my dad in the annual Turkey Trot 5K run on Thanksgiving this morning. And once again, I decided it would be a good idea to start training the week before the race. As this indicates, the solo attempt at the Hard Body Plan without my workout friends has been less than successful. Tomorrow morning will not be pleasant. Probably should put a pillow down to catch me when I inevitably fall out of bed after trying to stand on my useless legs. I must say though, today I ran with my iPod for the first time, and it is really quite revolutionary. Listened to the tail end of a broadcast of "This American Life," as well as some Arcade Fire. For those of you not familiar with "This American Life," I highly recommend you subscribe. It's really quite fascinating. This week's episode was about the Great Depression, and some of the stories were very moving. So this is why all those damn latté sipping, arugula eating, EAST COAST LIBERAL ELITES listen to public radio. It's interesting...

Anyways, I've had a recent email correspondence with a Japanese friend of mine, a woman who I stayed with for two nights on our Concert Band tour to Japan and China. Keep in mind, this happened nearly 4 years ago, but yet this woman (Chie) still loves to keep in touch with my friend Benjamin and myself. She teaches English at a local school. During our 36 hour stay with her and her family, we got to know them pretty well, and seemingly connected on a much deeper level than did many of our musical cohorts. The two of us made fast friends with her little boy Keito and had quite a few laughs with saké swilling Grandpa at dinner. Honest to God, the dude downed an orange juice carton full of saké in probably an hour and a half, all while talking about WWII and nuclear bombs. In Japanese. Once we finally figured out what the hell he was talking about, both of us felt just a little bit awkward.

Needless to say, those were probably the most fun times I had on the tour, speaking for myself only. Chie and Keito took us to an ancient samurai castle, a beautiful Japanese garden, and a shopping mall so I could purchase a horrendously overpriced Japanese baseball jersey with an idiot look on my face. We also explored around their house with Keito. And of course, we had more adventures in Japanese cuisine. If I remember, that was the night we dipped the raw meat and tofu into the raw egg, washed down with a Kirin.

See look, it really happened!







Look at that beautiful head of hair and the sweet pajamas! Some things never change. Still have the pajamas, still have that stunning Hawaiian shirt. The beautiful head of hair...

It's just somewhat amazing to me, that a singular interaction that lasted barely 36 hours over 3 years ago has continued to stay so vibrant. That with a click of a button, I can talk to a person worlds apart, both in time, space, and culture. Chie sent me some photos last week of her class Halloween party. She was excited that I was going to law school, hoped I enjoyed it. And every time she writes, she talks about how much they miss Benjamin and myself, and how eager they are to have us back in Kumamoto. Sorry, that's just pretty frekking sweet. There are people halfway around the world that I barely got to know who are inviting me to come hang out, 3 years after the fact. Fairly intense.

Chie, Hidekazu, Keito, Erin, Grandma, Grandpa, this blog post is hereby dedicated to you. Kumpai.

Grandpa, I still use those chopsticks you carved. And that decorative gourd thing you made is in my room. That was a much cooler gift than my Minnesota photo book and Benjamin's chocolate. Don't you hate being upstaged? Life's a bitch sometimes.

Sober Realizations

This title really has dual meanings. First of all, I'm sober as I'm realizing. Secondly, the realizations are sober. Amazing.

Although with this damn research memo, I could probably do with a change in the first characteristic.

But anyways, I was browsing my iPhoto library today, looking for the perfect photo to set as my desktop. As is my wont, I usually select a photo from my year in England, and the travels that accompanied it. So, I did have a scene of the Welsh highlands before, and I recently had a photo I took of a favourite road sign in Vienna. Who else thinks that the intersection of "Beethovengang" and "Eroicagasse" is hilarious?

But anyways, I settled on a photo that I took from the top of the Aiguille du Midi in Chamonix, France. Right in the shadow of Mont Blanc. And, I might add, one of my most vivid and happy memories. Hell, I'll just post the photo. It's absolutely magnificent.



Imagine actually seeing that with your own eyes, thousands of feet above the valley floor.

This past weekend, I got to talk to a friend of mine who is an "actual adult," working a steady professional job, (currently) outside the graduate academia that myself and most of my friends have cocooned up inside. And it was very nice to chat. One thing that came up was my friend's realization that barring a career change or further education, she was in the life cycle of work that could very well consume her for 40 some years. After college, in that working world, as a "real adult," well, it's a sobering reality.

I think of myself, who takes great pride in my European exploits. I've looked at the photos for so long, I've just sort of assumed that it was my destiny to continue that jet-setting lifestyle, going off for month long escapades without a care in the world. My conversation this weekend, combined with a sudden realization of my own imminent professional life, well, that kinda put a damper on things. The reality is that the likelihood of another month spent criscrossing the globe is rather slim. Maybe one more brief trip this summer. But after that, real life sets in. Work, school, friends, (presumably) a family. The proverbial "tying down" that inevitably happens.

It also doesn't help that my old friend Rick Steves keeps sending me emails. He always seems to be sitting in a Parisien cafe sipping coffee as he blogs, too. It's like rubbing salt in a wound. Not you too Rick.

Now, I'm not exactly a believer in the dichotomy that once work starts, dreams die. Or something to that extent. But I'm also a realist, I suppose. The likelihood of me living and working in London is probably rather slim. Doesn't mean it won't happen, but the odds are stacked against it. Barring that though, I'll just have to take advantage of other situations, I suppose.

I might buy a Chamonix poster. Or go hear a symphony this weekend. Who knows.

Album of the Week: Elis & Tom

Evening folks. We're heading back to Brasil for a little bossa nova action for this week's recommendation. Music fans, say "Oi! Tudo bem!" to Elis Regina and Antonio Carlos Jobim.

I picked this album up in Rio de Janeiro this summer. And I'm not just saying that to sound pretentious, I literally did purchase it in Rio, at an extremely overpriced record shop near our hotel. I had taken down a list of musicians from Tony and went in there and showed it to an employee, and asked him in Portugenglish if he could point me to some good albums. This particular album is the one he told me I absolutely had to walk out of the store with. I quickly realized why. This is music of such intense passion, it is incredible.

The thing that I believe distinguishes this from other bossa nova albums is the fact that many of the pieces aren't really bossa pieces at all. There's a lot of string action going on, and a lot of solo voice work. Because of this, the overall tone of this album is incredibly intimate. Intimate to the point that you almost feel as if you're intruding on something you have no business hearing. There's a certain nakedness to the production, a harsh juxtaposition of voice and piano, or voice and strings. Not harsh in the traditional sense, but harsh rather in the starkness of the music.

By far, my favourite track on this album is Só tinha de ser com você. The use of the electric piano gives it just the right tinge of beachside schmaltz, while utilizing a funky little swing figure throughout to give it some bounce. Simply fantastic. There's also quite an emotional rendition of Corcovado. I think I like it better than Astrud Gilberto's version. The fact that everything is in Portuguese, and there is no lameass attempt to translate the meaning into English helps greatly, I feel. I'm sorry, but I am not a fan of translation in music. People should listen to art in the form that it comes to them. There's this idea out there that everything needs to be tailor made to the consumer. Maybe in some sense, this is true. Like if I were buying a kitchen appliance or something. I'd want my appliance to do what I want. But when it comes to works of art, the point is to tailor it to one audience, if there's one at all. Art is a product of the society in which it is made, and to try and cram it into a different societal framework, well, I think that's a bad idea.

So listen to this in Portuguese and don't complain that you can't understand it. That adds to the romance, the exoticism.

I really don't have a whole lot else to say. I drank too much coffee too late at night after getting up too early and have a bit of a headache. But I popped this into the carousel, and life was good again. Can't say much more than that. If you're into bossa nova and/or want some genuinely fantastic music, go buy this album.

You'll almost certainly pay less than I did.

I would kill for a caipirinha right now.

YES YES YES YES YES

Remember this night folks, because this is the sort of stuff that gets written down in history books.

Tonight, America elected a black man as our President. Less than half a century ago, black people could not eat at a lunch counter with you or I, nor could they use the same drinking fountain. They were routinely disenfranchised.

And right now, America has selected a black man as our President, the individual who personifies our nation to the rest of the world.

This is momentous. Earth shattering, absolutely incredible. I will be telling my kids in the future that I voted for Barack Obama. People will look back at this night and say, "That generation did something special."

But we did not just elect a black man. We elected an individual with the highest degree of intellectual curiosity and vigor, an individual with sound judgment and a broad worldview, an individual who chooses to bridge our divisions rather than exploit them. And I'm sorry to my Republican friends, but the current occupant of the White House is the absolute antithesis of President-Elect Obama.

We showed the world that we choose to live up to our ideals of equality and freedom. Ideals that so often seem like shadows or illusions, ideals that seem out of reach for too many of our countrymen and women. "All men are created equal," our most sacred document states. For too long we neglected that. And to a certain extent, we still do. But tonight, we took a giant step towards that nebulous ideal that we always seem to be striving for.

For too long, this nation has chosen to favor the wealthy over the many. For too long, we have conducted our foreign affairs with arrogance and disdain for other viewpoints. For too long, we have allowed our people to suffer. Here, in the richest nation on earth, we have folks who cannot afford health care, cannot find jobs, cannot keep up with inflation. This is no time to play around with strategies already proven to fail. This is the time to try something new. This is the time for transformation.

Idealistic? Yes. Overly hopeful? Quite possibly. But folks, this country was founded on idealism. It was founded on the ridiculous hope that 13 backwater colonies could defeat the greatest military power known to man. It was founded on a complete change from the Old World, a transformation to a bastion of freedom and respect for human rights. I'm sorry folks, but idealism is woven through the fabric of this country. Those of you afraid of it, afraid of change, maybe you need to rethink exactly what this country is.

I've never felt so proud of my country. Absolutely incredible.

Nov. 4th

Vote.

Vote

Hey folks. Just a quick reminder to the internet void, if you live in the United States, make sure you go out and vote on November 4th.

I will never forget, my 4th grade baseball coach (and subsequent middle school principal) told our team one day that as soon as we turned 18, we had to register to vote. It's a civic duty that far too many people brush off. Millions of our countrymen and women have died supporting rights like these, and it would be shameful to repudiate their sacrifice and our own democratic heritage so tastelessly.

The fact of the matter remains that this election is important. Probably an understatement. And we're all sick of the campaigning and all the TV ads, yada, yada, yada. It will be over on Wednesday, but the choice we make will have repercussions far beyond. Our own national interest is at stake, that's true. We have a lot of problems that need fixing, from the economy to education. But, even though we may scoff at it, the international interest is at stake as well. The US remains the world's foremost power, and whether we realize it or not, our actions have massive effects on the world community. And frankly, I'm tired of having to add the caveat to foreign persons that no, not all Americans are like George W. Bush.

I believe that our nation needs transformational change. That doesn't necessarily mean that we radically alter all of our policies or whatever. It doesn't mean instant Scandinavian style social democracy, or anything like that. But it does mean that we need to project a substantially different version of ourselves to the rest of the world. We need to show that we are still the America that people used to idealize, that people trusted. No more of this cowboy mentality, let's embrace the opportunity to coordinate and cooperate. Let's live up to our best version of ourselves.

A new America needs a new leader. It needs one who represents the best in all of us, it needs one who has the ability to adapt to a changing world. John F. Kennedy once said that the torch had been passed to a new generation of Americans. That's what we need now, a new generation, a new face for a new age. We cannot base our politics and our national discourse on pettiness and cultural warfare when there are so many challenges to face. That's what I'll vote for.

But even if you don't share my views, make sure you go out and vote. It's something we take too lightly, the privilege of living in a country where we have a say.

Plus, Starbucks will give you a free cup of coffee.

Video Fun

Absolutely ridiculous. Utterly stupid. In no way advantageous to the advancement of the public discourse.

But damn, it's the funniest thing I've seen all week. God love ya Dave.



I especially like the bit where the guy in the dog suit joins the gaggle of Sarah Palins.

Did everyone enjoy the Barack Obama variety half hour show the other night?



But this one takes the cake I think. Fantastic.

New Glasses

Selecting a new pair of glasses is probably the most difficult task any individual faces. It's not like buying a shirt, which can be impulsive, or buying music, which springs out of a hobby or interest. Glasses, if you're so burdened to require them, are an accessory that is probably more vital than anything to how you are perceived by the world.

Going along with my trait of indecisiveness and guarded action, I had quite the time attempting to pick out new glasses in the last week or so since my old ones finally succumbed.

I have to say, it was bittersweet when they broke. I mean, these are items that I've had on my face for the better part of 3 years or so. When I look back at photos of myself in my college glory years, be it traveling Europe or playing trombone or whatever, I'm wearing those glasses. That's saying something, you know? But it was time to execute some sort of change anyways. The lacquer was starting to wear off, which isn't quite as desirable on glasses as it is on trombones. Mellower sound, you know?

Far more than any other accessory, glasses need to say something fundamental about who you are as a person. As such, any potential glasses-buyer needs to walk into the vision store with some set of requirements to be fulfilled. A list, if you will, of things the glasses need to say about your persona. Or at least, how you want your persona to be outwardly projected.

My list, you ask?

1- I listen to lots of jazz
2- I listen to lots of other music too
3- Slightly pretentious/sophisticated
4- Grounded in reality
5- Normal
6- Individual
7- Of course I'll take you (insert beautiful woman here) to the concert
8- Dammit, I'm socially incompetent, but try to ignore that

As you can clearly see, buying glasses is an exercise in contradiction. Because people are inherently contradictions, at least the people I know. You think they feel one way, and then it turns out completely the opposite. Whilst you remain supremely oblivious.

So basically you want your glasses to showcase different and conflicting sides of your personality, while still unifying those different sides under some common theory. Maybe it's an exercise in futility, like Einstein trying to find a single unifying theory to nature. But I can go through my realistic life without knowing a unifying theory to nature. The same cannot be said for glasses that make me look like a douchebag. And if you take a look at people around you, I think there are many people who could have spared a little more time and thought process into the purchasing of glasses.

Anyways, to tie this up, the glasses I showcased here last week are alas, not to be mine for much longer. Through the fortuitous blend of ill fit and the voice of God booming from burning bush in the middle of Pearle Vision, I upgraded my new glasses to rimless frames. Rectangular ones. The sort of pair I used to drool on while browsing the eyeglass stores in Nottingham. And yes, that most assuredly played a role. Glasses just wouldn't fit on me if they didn't contain some sort of half pained yet still real memory of a far off home. Anyways, they had to be sent away to be made, I'll attempt to post photos once they show up again. Maybe the internet void can match them against my list.

Album of the Week: Symphony No. 9

Evening folks. There are some things in the world that are so significant, it really doesn't do much good to "review" them in the traditional sense. In a natural sense, it's rather worthless to write out impressions of the Grand Canyon. There's a hugeness to it, a complexity that is so incredibly beautiful and mind boggling as to nearly touch whatever man considers to be the sublime. But people try, nonetheless. There are man-made artifacts that approach this level of complexity, albeit on a much more mortal scale. I think of buildings like the Hagia Sophia or the Colosseum. Or maybe monumental paintings, works of literature, etc. Composers attempt this sort of task as well. But as far as I can tell, out of all the combined wisdom of humankind and all the genius of its brightest minds, one item seems to stand above the rest in touching the sublime. That would be Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

It's a strange existence, being a monumental piece of art. On one hand, you're revered. On the other hand, by no fault of your own, you become a piece of pop culture, far removed from the fluffy red pillows and gilded concert halls that you're used to. Folks use your image to decorate their trendy loft apartments, they nod off references to you in order to appear more "cultured," your own integrity sometimes seems worn away by overexposure. I mean, most everyone in the world has seen photos of the Mona Lisa. It's ubiquitous. So when you would actually come across it, you're so desensitized that you don't even quite know what you're looking at. Reminds of Platonic forms and such. You think maybe the scales will fall from your eyes and you will observe the "true" Mona Lisa. But instead, no matter how hard you try, you still see the shadows on the wall of the cave. Such is life also for Beethoven's masterwork. It's become so infused with our society that no one in the general public knows what the big deal is anymore.

I could rattle off a whole bunch of shit that I learned in classical music history about Beethoven. I could talk about him "flexing his musical muscles" and nearly single handedly changing the course of Western musical expression, yada, yada, yada. But most people, unless you're a music geek, don't care. Most everyone knows my fondness for "integrated" works of music. I love pieces and albums that are interconnected. A few months ago I wrote a review of "Abbey Road" that focused almost exclusively on that fact. Well, Beethoven's Ninth is like Abbey Road. Integrated musicianship at its finest.

The kicker to Beethoven's Ninth of course, is the monumental final movement. The choral movement, the one with the "Ode to Joy" theme. Most people don't pay attention to the beginning of the movement, where the orchestra basically recaps the first three movements in a little dialogue between the cellos and the remainder of the orchestra. Just as you would read personification into great literature, you can read it here, as each section of the orchestra becomes a distinct personality, coming alive in either acceptance or rejection of the prior three themes. Quite ingenious, when you think about it. It's sort of like a movie trailer, previewing what's going to happen next.

Eventually, the "Ode to Joy" theme wins the cello's approval, and the rest of the orchestra tosses it about for a bit. And then a very odd instrument picks up the musical football: a voice.

Never before was anyone stupid enough to write a voice into a symphony, much less an entire chorus. The world of the symphony was a segregated one. The voices picked up their proverbial lunch at the rear of the proverbial orchestra. Mixing voice and orchestra together in this manner was akin to the four Greensboro boys sitting down at the lunch counter at Woolworth's and refusing to get up. The "color line" in orchestra music was broken, and it afforded a new intermingling of colors and musicianship to the symphonic repertoire. Jackie Robinson stepping onto Ebbets Field. Martin Luther King Jr. speaking at the Lincoln Memorial. Barack Obama (fingers crossed) winning the Presidency. Voices singing along with orchestra in a symphony. All the same.

But there's so much more to this than just a couple singers sitting in with an orchestra! The poem that Beethoven chose for the 9th Symphony was written by a German fellow by the name of Friedrich Schiller, who was widely known as an intellectual, philosopher, playwright, and advocate of natural rights. The poem, "Ode to Joy," did not just mean something so prosaic as odeing to joy. "Joy," in the early 19th century meant a lot more to the general populace than it does today. Basically, it was a buzzword for "freedom." And in the aftermath of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution, a lot of folks had freedom on their mind. Freedom from centuries of feudal government and class dominated social structure. Beethoven, who was himself something of an outsider, couldn't get enough of this idea. And this dude lived it, he was the first major freelance composer, beholden to no noble or other princely figure. In fact, he got pretty pissed off when you talked about aristocracy. In essence, the liberation of the symphony from the traditional chains of form and expression, the setting of the Schiller text, the addition of the human element in voice, Beethoven created a musical establishment of his utopian idea of universal brotherhood. No barriers, no classes, nothing.

This piece is an absolute behemoth. It clocks in near an hour. And every nanosecond of it is a masterpiece of the highest caliber. In my opinion, which I will shove down your throats since this is my blog, this is the single greatest piece of music ever created by man. In fact, it almost seems so magisterial that it could not have come from man, that instead it was only transmitted through a mortal's pen from the gods. I don't know what other explanation there is. It's a tribute to Beethoven's genius, that this came from the pen of a deaf man. No way a mere human creates this sort of thing. No way.

Not to pour on the sap or anything, but this is also one of very few things in life that almost without exception, brings tears to my eyes. I listened to the fourth movement as I wrote this post, and I did tear up. Like I said, it's incredible. I would get the manuscript tattooed around my leg.

I don't care what recording you get, but make sure it's a quality one. I have the London Symphony Orchestra recording of the entire Beethoven symphonic cycle, and they do a fantastic job. Our own Minnesota Orchestra also has an extremely highly regarded Beethoven cycle out there, in fact it's kind of freaking the classical music world right out. But make no mistake, this is a piece of art that you absolutely must own. I mean, damn it, we should be having to pay Jesus a thank you tax or something every time this is played. Or we should have to put on tuxedos whenever we listen to it. But we don't. Artwork this amazing is available to us for a one time purchase fee, and after that, it's always there.

Cut through the popular caricature. Buy this symphony, put it on in a darkened room, and just sit and listen. I don't care if all you listen to is horrible punk music, or KS95, or jazz, or Broadway shows, or whatever. Listen to this whole symphony, the whole damn hour. Do not do anything else. Don't talk, don't even think. Just listen. And play it real loud, especially the fourth movement.

You'll thank me for it.

Jewish Glasses

I had an interesting cross cultural experience tonight.

By luck of the draw, I was one of 9 students picked from a signup sheet to have dinner at my civil procedure professor's house. But this was no ordinary dinner party. Rather, my professor is a fairly devout Jew who constructs his own sukkah in his backyard each year to celebrate the Jewish festival of Sukkot. Basically, the sukkah is a temporary wooden shelter, where the family eats its meals during the festival. It's meant to remind Jewish folks of their ancestors wandering 40 years in the wilderness following the exodus from Egypt. Needless to say, I got chosen and I went. Conveniently enough, it turns out he lives about a block and a half from my place up here in St. Paul. So I walked. Literally maybe 3 minutes away.

And you know, it was really insightful. His wife cooked an amazing meal which the 11 of us shared outside in the sukkah. Some great salad, sun-dried tomato/pesto lasagna, and this amazing apple cake with cinnamon ice cream for dessert. It reminded me a lot of our family meals in Nottingham, where 11 of us would gather around a table to eat and share stories with each other. In fact, I daresay it reminded me how much I missed those times. Food has to be one of the most powerful tools of unification in the whole of human existence. That's for another blog post though.

Anyways, his wife spent a lot of time explaining the customs to us, attempting to parse out the various blessings that she and my professor laid upon the food for those of us who don't understand Hebrew. Needless to say, I was incredibly moved, in an odd way. Here were two extremely intelligent individuals, people who have devoted their lives to teaching others. Prof. C was a teaching fellow at Harvard. His wife was a Jewish school principal for her whole life. They lived in the sort of house you expect intellectual people to live in: hardwood floors, art on the walls, a sort of soft dim light pervading, books strewn everywhere. Their front yard was festooned with Obama and Al Franken yard signs (much like the one that was heinously stolen from me), and Mrs. C. proudly displayed an Obama-Biden button on her coat as she talked about canvassing for votes in Mendota Heights. She talked about local food and environmental sustainability in a most thoughtful way that would probably make my friend Benjamin's eyes well up with pride. Proudly she remarked about the completely local aspect of our meal, she having purchased nearly all the ingredients either at farmer's markets or her local co-op. Prof. C. drives an electric car to school everyday that doesn't travel over 30 MPH.

In short, they were the epitome of the cosmopolitan liberal intelligentsia that is so often ridiculed in mainstream society. The kind of people that I can only assume, do not live in Gov. Palin's "pro-America" parts of the country.

But yet, they exhibited a faith and sense of their own place in creation that astounded me. One of the first things Mrs. C. did was let us know that the Jewish people have been performing these rituals for thousands upon thousands of years, and it comforted her to have that sort of historical precedent. She said that it was a connective trail to generations of people seeking to touch the transcendent. I mean, here are these sorts of people that we are usually trained to think of as godless, and they exhibited the sort of faith that is so real you don't even think it could exist.

It's a sad critique on society, I think, when we are trained to compartmentalize people into these small boxes. You're the liberal one. You're the godly one. You're the environmentalist. You're the soldier. And this sort of ideological block is only furthered by a power establishment that has sought to the best of its ability to expose and exploit for 8 years. It's as if people who are both simultaneously progressive and religious are an anomaly. Like you can't be an outdoorsman and still care about climate change. Life cannot be so black and white.

Anyways, I had a good time eating in the sukkah. I don't anticipate a pending conversion to Judaism, but I really appreciated the opportunity to participate in some Jewish customs and gain such a stunning peek into the lives of two folks who really seem to get what it means to be Jewish. I remember back in Nottingham, I knew a guy in my American History seminar who was a Belgian-Spanish-American Jew. One day, he invited me to come up to the Jewish Fair that the Jewish student group was holding in the union. So I went, and Daniel was manning a booth promoting travel to Israel. Bemused, I asked him what Israel was like, since he traveled there at least once a year. I distinctly remember him saying, as I ate a piece of baklava, that he didn't get what the big deal was, because you walk down the street in Jerusalem and you think, "Hey, everyone's cool." Or something to that extent. If that happy Jerusalem street in my mind is populated with folks like Daniel and Prof. and Mrs. C., I have to go take a trip.

This was a scattershot post, but I'm tired. I must alert my loyal readership though to the fact that I finally possess new glasses. The photo below doesn't quite distinguish them too clearly, but they're quite nice.

Frightening.

I don't know what else you can say about this. I realize not all Republicans are racists who take pride in their ignorance, but man, this is scary.



BTW, some asshole stole my Obama/Biden sign out of my front yard the other night. What sort of person does something like that? Some dude down the street had a McCain/Palin sign up, but you didn't see me go and steal it in the middle of the night like some sort of juvenile. Grow up people.

Album of the Week: The Red Door (... Remember Zoot Sims)

Alright world, you win. I've been oppressed by hate mail, desperate pleadings, and mental screams, all yearning for the same exact thing. Put your angst to rest. This week's album is "The Red Door (... Remembering Zoot Sims) as performed by Scott Hamilton on tenor and Bucky Pizzarelli on guitar.

As an exciting aside, I should let you folks know that I've actually had the privilege of hearing Scott Hamilton live. I caught him at London's prestigious Pizza Express Jazz Club in January of 2007. So I know what I'm talking about.

What's really interesting about Scott Hamilton is that, unlike nearly every other sax player post WWII, he has largely rejected the styles promulgated by greats such as Charlie Parker and John Coltrane. Meaning, Hamilton does not play bebop. For those of you who didn't take History of Jazz with Juan Tony Gúzman, let me quickly explain.

When you think of swing music, you think of Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, etc. From a musical standpoint, swing is pretty straightforward. It doesn't place great focus on virtuosity. It's dance music, and the purpose of the music was to entertain. After WWII, people like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie started playing extraordinarily fast solos over a complicated framework of chords. This style came to be known as bebop, and it basically signaled in the "modern" era of jazz music. Instead of music to entertain, bebop was "art music" which was made primarily for listening rather than dancing.

So it's quite odd that Scott Hamilton eschews the mainstream of jazz and basically plays a style that many people feel is outdated. I mean, swing is probably the most "accessible" of jazz styles, but it has not been at the mainstream of jazz since the Great Depression. In fact, this album is dedicated to the memory of Zoot Sims, a prominent swing era tenor player. And Bucky Pizzarelli is actually an old timer contemporary of Zoot Sims. So basically, this album is kind of like those retro-ish t-shirts that sell for $40 at Urban Outfitters. It's old, but it's new.

This album consists solely of tenor sax, guitar, and the occasional burst of vocal encouragement. That's one of the reasons I'm a big fan. It's so simple. There isn't anything to clutter up the melodies. And damn, Scott Hamilton really does weave some pretty incredible melodic solos here. That's one of the great beauties of swing soloing, they tend to focus on creating a beautiful melody instead of blowing your mind with waves of sixteenth notes. The word that comes to mind from this album is "loom." Partially because "loom" is a funny word, but mostly because Pizzarelli cranks out some really interesting chordal changes (a loom, if you will) upon which Scott Hamilton "weaves" some incredibly interesting solos.

And you know, these two guys are not chumps. They might not be playing as fast as Charlie Parker, or doing crazy stuff like John Coltrane, but this is music making at its finest. I think my favorite track is "Jitterbug Waltz," which I've been a big fan of for a long time. I think it should be a constitutional requirement that everyone listens to a jazz waltz every morning. They're just good ideas. And this version of "Jitterbug Waltz" might just take the cake. I love how Pizzarelli does this sort of stride pattern with his guitar strumming. I mean, it happens throughout the disc, but it stands out here with the 3/4 waltz especially.

Another good track is "It Had To Be You." Makes Harry Connick, Jr. look like a hack. Meg Ryan, eat your heart out. (Who can guess that movie reference?)

Hamilton plays with this fantastic breathy style throughout, quite reminiscent of Lester Young. Some of his swirling little bits also remind me a lot of Coleman Hawkins. And of course, Pizzarelli chomps away like Freddie Green would want him too. But it's not quite so simple. You usually associate interaction in jazz with a trio, or quartet. Bill Evans comes to mind for me, with his Village Vanguard sessions. But there is a very real and tangible interaction here between the two performers, and there's something about that nakedness of sound that makes it incredibly poignant. Two performers, and nothing to hide behind.

See folks, this is the beauty of jazz. There's no limitations. You can do anything.

"Hey Bucky, you're real old, and I play music that no one else takes seriously. How about we get together and play some of this old music that everyone thinks is a big laugh and not worthy of title of "art," and try to make it cool?"

"Well, gee, alrighty there Scotty, but goll darn it, you've got to be off your rocker if you think some poor sap is going to buy this fossil of an album. I mean, damn, what sort of poor graduate student is going to drop money on this?"

I picked up this album at Half Price Books (brand new, I'll add) for something like $7. A very productive day at HPB, I must say, look for another album review from this haul after Thanksgiving. But anyways, it's definitely worth the regular price. Highly recommended.

And I saw him play, so I know what I'm talking about.

Grocery Stores

I was at a Caribou Coffee tonight, doing some homework. Then I was at a liquor store, purchasing a bottle of imported English ale. London Pride, if you must know. After that, I decided to come home. But I was suddenly stricken by the sight of a great spotlight in the sky...

Drawn like a moth, I drove over to the light and saw that it was promoting the GRAND OPENING of a brand new Rainbow grocery store. Seeing that I was done with homework (I don't have Civil Procedure tomorrow because it's Yom Kippur), I figured, what the hell, I'll go check out the new Rainbow. I couldn't help but think a bit about my grandpa, whose favourite thing to do in his last few years was to go to the "new" Rainbow in Bloomington. He could barely walk anywhere else (he weighed near 400 pounds), but you gave him a cart and a deli section and the dude just flew.

Just to clarify, the new Rainbow I went to looked nothing like the Rainbow in the photo above. Instead, it looked like a giant Northwoods hunting lodge, resplendent with pumpkins, Indian corn, and other autumnal decor. That sort of Minnesota-y looking building that all of us like to think we live in, or at least want to.

Now, you have to understand, I have a strange fascination with grocery stores. I don't know what it is, human frailty or a personal foible or whatever, but I could spend hours wandering around in grocery stores. There's something so bombastic about the sheer quantity of food available when you think about how some kid in Africa lives on a bowl of rice a week or something.

When you think about it, your typical American supermarket is probably the preeminent shrine to capitalistic excess. The coffee and tea aisle was ridiculous. And I mean, I love coffee as much as any self respecting organic Ecuadorian grower, but it seemed a bit out of control. Especially since half of the coffee was sludge like Sanka or industrial fire cans of Maxwell House. But seriously, I walked down a frozen foods aisle that consisted almost entirely of various forms of potatoes. Steak fries, shoestring fries, french fries, hash browns, little smiley face fries, waffle fries, home fries, mashed potatoes, crinkle fries, shredded hash browns, double baked potatoes, etc, etc, etc. I felt like I was walking through that scene in Forrest Gump where Bubba talks for days about the different ways to make shrimp. Compare that mile long frozen potato aisle with the actual potatoes being sold in the produce section. Amazing, simply amazing.

So anyways, I wandered around Rainbow for probably about 25 minutes or so in a daze, stupefied at the sheer quantity and variety that surrounded me. And a grocery store is basically a gigantic sensory overload. You have these relatively narrow aisles, crammed with shelf after shelf of different products, each screaming for your attention. People rushing everywhere like maniacs with large carts. Consistently faced with decisions of infinite possibility, like what sort of fried frozen potato to purchase. There are so many options that it's almost impossible to make a rational decision. Eventually, you get to the brink, where it's a choice between having a freakout and knocking everything over whilst screaming or just grabbing something and running like hell. Going to a grocery store has to be the suburban equivalent of smoking crack.

The other interesting part of a grocery store is the fact that it is a social melting pot. I mean, everyone needs to buy groceries, be they black, white, big, tall, whatever. It's too bad they don't have benches just to sit around and people watch, preferably with bench-side coffee service. Maybe some of those two-way mirrors or something. I was quite confused by the woman shopping who was decked out in St. Paul Co-op gear. Seemed like sort of a conflict of interest to me. There was this one dude who looked like the only reason he was there was to enter to win the camoflauged ATV. Without going into extensive detail, it's sufficient to say that a lot of people there confused me.

I thought my trip would have been simple enough, I just wanted to check out the place and maybe grab some salsa. But like I said, it ended up an ordeal. Everything about it was so insane. I suppose, all grocery stores are the same way, but still. When you think about what a grocery store is actually like, it's absolutely insane. Why the hell would you ever need a sub sandwich the size of a small nuclear weapon? It was unbelievable, simply unbelievable. Seriously, if you dropped this thing off a building, it probably would have cratered the sidewalk.

Anyways, in a flash of panic, I grabbed some queso dip, waited impatiently for the ignoramus ahead of me to operate the self check out with her 50 children in tow, paid with my Discover card (cashback bonus for groceries), and got the hell out of there.

Food

I usually think I'm a fairly competent person. Fairly competent at the act of living life. Which is why cooking for me is an incredibly humbling experience.

My cooking skills are bad at best, horrible from an objective standard. I was always quite fearful, cooking in Nottingham, as my group tended to select elaborate and complicated dishes to make. My inherent inefficiency meant that practically anything I was assigned took about 4 hours, wiping out my afternoon with nerve-wracking culinary toil. Who can forget the episode where we attempted to grill chicken for an hour on a grill that wasn't actually lit? Brilliant.

My dad is in the Cayman Islands this week, leaving me to fend for myself in regards to food. I decided the lack of preprepared food for a week was a perfect opportunity for me to rise to the challenge and fend for myself. See also, I decided to cook.

So I biked over to Cub the other day and bought some groceries. And yes, I did feel superior for biking.

Last night I attempted to make chicken curry. I figured it was going to be interesting when I realized I made enough rice to feed a small Asian nation for a week. It only got better when it became apparent the rice was woefully undercooked. I splattered hot cooking oil all over myself and the rest of the kitchen attempting to stir fry the chicken. And of course, I ended up with a plethora of cooking implements coated with an impenetrable sealant of burnt rice and curry paste.

Needless to say, it didn't quite taste like the chicken curry that my mind's eye had envisioned when I decided to make it. But all in all, I suppose it could have been worse.

Remembering the wisdom of Mrs. Roorda in my 8th grade F.A.C.S. class, the best thing to do with old rice is to make fried rice. So, that was my burden today. And I must say, it was marginally more successful. I don't have second degree burns all over my forearms, nor did I spend 5 hours scrubbing pans. It did suffer from a lack of fresh vegetables though, and it seemed a titch bland. But life is full of small challenges.

I don't know what I'm going to attempt tomorrow, but I bought some pasta and some Cuban beans and rice. I don't quite think the two go together, so it's looking like pasta. As you can tell, with the pasta and the rice, it's been a carb-tastic week. I'm getting ready for a double century ride this weekend, so you know, it's all good.

That's a lie.

Book Review: The Lost Continent

I know, I know, everyone wants to know where the Album of the Week is. You have no idea how much hate mail I've received in the last week. But truth be told, I've been listening to quite a bit of music, but no one album has quite stuck out to me lately. I must be in some sort of slump.

So instead, I thought I'd review a book I just recently finished: "The Lost Continent" by Bill Bryson.

I'm quite fond of Bill, as is evident by at least one other review on this site and frequent references. He has what is best described as a unique flair for observation, and in this book, he turns it on small town America. He decides to take a few months away from England for an old fashioned cross country road trip. About two thirds of the book is devoted to the East, while the last third is to the West. That doesn't make as much sense to me, because the West is huge, certainly it warrants more than a third of the book.

One thing Bill is really fond of is bitching, which he does to great extent. Bitches about rude waitresses, bitches about ugly developments, bitches about "losing" some intangible element of "Americana." He spends most of his trip in the East searching for that mythical small town America you always see in old movies. Where everyone is well dressed and happy, where there's a cheery little town square with a clapboard church, a brightly painted post office, and some classic Cadillacs. As you might assume, he never actually finds such a place. Which is fairly understandable, being that no such place exists, except in the movies.

That's part of what is so fascinating to me about Bill's thought process. The man grew up in Iowa, the most Midwest of the Midwest, then goes off to live in England. His brain is literally trapped in some sort of freeze frame. And he seems loathe to admit that. So while he has one of the most astounding talents for people watching, he filters it through this bizarre I'm-American-but-wait-I'm-not-but-everything-should-be-as-American-as-I-remember-it lens. That Hollywood small town doesn't exist, there isn't some sort of remaining objective standard to judge how "American" a small town is. The beauty of small towns is in individual reactions, to people living there. It's entirely subjective, I think. So I sometimes think Bill is a bit harsh.

It is funny as he travels about, encountering different geographic regions and such. We forget just how big this country is. It is big, real big. And there's a lot of diversity. I enjoyed the part where he tries to communicate with people in Mississippi and can't understand a damn thing.

One other interesting thing, going along with the paragraph before, is how he travels with a certain degree of unconfronted melancholy. As stupid as he thinks small town people are, in a sense, Bill wants to be one. As arrogant and fat as he claims Americans are, deep down, he knows he's one of us. And whenever people pick up on his English accent and note how he must not from around there, he gets a little sad. The part at the very end when he returns home to Iowa is pretty indicative.

All in all, I'd recommend this book. I mean, it's good for a laugh, but it's also a pretty interesting survey of the country from a pretty interesting viewpoint. People watching is a lost art. Good thing Bill is here to help if we need it.

I promise, my next book review will be from another author. I do need to branch out a bit.

You win, you lose...

Well, the Twins lost tonight. Their season is over.

And I don't know, I'm not quite as crushed as I had thought I might be. You had to have some sort of ominous feeling when the Twins dropped 2 of 3 to Kansas City. You had to have an ominous feeling when Chicago dismantled Detroit last night. And although the Twins gave a valiant effort tonight to defeat the Sox, in all honesty, this pennant should have been theirs a week ago. I am a little disappointed in my friends Mauer and Morneau though. No hits, no hits at all.

The cruel fact is, sometimes in life, you win, and sometimes you lose. Sometimes you want something so badly it hurts, you want it so much you don't even know what to do. Sometimes everything is great and you get what you want. And well, sometimes you lose that thing. You make a mistake, or you freak out, or you don't score any runs in 9 innings. And it's kinda inevitable, you're going to feel like crap for a while. There's always next season though. I mean, it's out of your control now, you just need to keep on going.

I'm no fairweather fan. I'm proud of our team, even if they lost. No one expected them to compete for the division title. They didn't sell their soul to the undead like the White Sox. And the Rays will most likely destroy them in two days anyways. Righteous vengeance, you know?

We'll get em' next year.

163

It will take a herculean effort to defeat the Sox in Chicago tonight, but I have a goat at the ready and am confident that the baseball gods will cause us to prevail. The White Sox are a team full of terrible human beings who probably rape and pillage on their off days. Whereas the Twins spend every waking moment visiting terminally ill children in hospitals and rescuing little old ladies from oncoming traffic. So, on a moral sense, it's only just that the Twins crash the party tonight.

But in any case, this would be one of the greatest victories in franchise history. How does this team want to be remembered? It's all in their hands now.

So anyways, I'm hoping for a dramatic night of baseball, and hoping especially that we come out on top. In the past 7 one game playoffs, the road team has a 4-3 advantage, so here's hoping we add to that. This Twins team has the heart and the skill to go in and win. Whatever our woes in the past, nothing matters except this one game. So, here goes nothing.

Win Twins!

Open Letter

Dear Minnesota Twins player,

I have hotly followed your 2008 campaign with bated breath. It's been a journey fraught with both joy and peril. With the loss of Torii Hunter and Johan Santana, no one thought you could compete. You proved them wrong, I'll admit, but it hasn't been easy. Numerous times I had an incredible urge to throw a brick through my TV during your telecasts.

Now here it is, you're either in the playoffs, or you're playing a single game to get into the playoffs. Let's focus on the latter scenario. I am fully prepared to do whatever is necessary to will you to victory. I mean hell, if I need to go out and find a goat to sacrifice on an alter sheathed in homer hankies, that's fine. Just let me know so I can get one in time. If I have to wear the exact same set of clothes for two weeks, I'm game. If it comes down to me chanting some sort of voodoo hex on the Chicago bats around a bonfire naked, no problem.

I beseech thee though, just go out and win. God knows you should have won on Saturday, then you wouldn't have this conundrum in the first place. And listen Mr. Morneau, now is not the time to slump. I had kind of a brain slump last week, but I busted out of it in time to write a fantastic office memo, even with a cat-voiced lady screeching in my ear. So get your shit together.

I mean, it's a simple game, right? Catch the ball, throw the ball, hit the ball. Hell, if I could do it in the British University Baseball League (minus the hitting part), you can surely do it in the major leagues.

Sincerely,

Myself

Sunday Morning Thoughts

I'm at a Caribou Coffee right now, attempting to finish revising my office memo due tomorrow. I know, I know, it's a Caribou, but the Starbucks around here is worthless. This place isn't much better, they ran out of scones. They must have taken their business model from AIG or something.

I would probably be a lot more productive if there wasn't a woman with a voice like a cat screeching to the left of me. I'm really quite amazed, I have never heard someone sound so much like a cat. I mean, yeah, it's probably some sort of skill. But damn is it offensive.

Thank you sweet Jesus for headphones and John Coltrane.

Concert Review: Sigur Rós

Few people in the world would choose to spend their evenings listen to a man warble falsetto gibberish in a made up language while playing a guitar with a violin bow. Lucky for me, I'm one of those few. So I put on my plaid, did my best indie nonchalant stride, grabbed a sweater, and headed downtown to catch Sigur Rós in concert at the Orpheum.

Sigur Rós, as some of you may know, is one of my most favourite bands. They hail from Iceland and almost exclusively sing in Icelandic or a made up gibberish dubbed "Hopelandic." They have a sound unlike any other, mixing distortion, keyboard, drums, and bowed guitar into a blend that is honestly otherworldy. And in general, they're just kinda out there. Watching the concert, I sort of felt like I took some sort of side trip to Saturn.

Then again, if you ever see what Iceland actually looks like, you'd be playing some pretty messed up stuff too.

One fantastic point about the show was the audience. For pure people watching, it was absolutely priceless, a veritable cavalcade of white hipster/indie culture. Plenty of facial hair, plenty of thrift shop sweaters, a whole lot of Sketchers, Pumas, and retro Adidas. The same pair after pair of skinny bearded man in a t-shirt with (what I would consider) an entirely too hot girlfriend wearing knitwear. I don't think I saw a single black or non-caucasian person there. The funny thing is, everyone is at such pains to look "indie," that when they all get together, they all look exactly the same.

I thought Sigur Rós played fantastic. It was moreso for me about the imagery, because their music sounded exactly as I had expected it to be. And it didn't help that I was a little distracted. But there's something about a man furiously bowing an electric guitar silhouetted by smoke and lights that creates a pretty striking scene. Like I said earlier, the whole thing was very otherworldly. Unlike anything I've ever seen or heard. Couple that with a video show in the background that was by any explanation, just plain weird, and you get something pretty memorable I feel.

Some of the tunes sounded a bit slow to me, and "Gobbledigook" from their new album almost got overwhelmed by the drums. But overall, fantastic. Going back to that same "Gobledigook" song, it was genuinely bizarre to see them playing acoustic guitars, especially when you are expecting this wash of distortion. I mean, I have the album, I knew it was coming, but it was still odd.

I'm just glad they played extensively from their album "Takk." I really got into Sigur Rós when I was in England, so I have this very intense emotional connection with their music to aspects of my life in Nottingham, especially the Takk album. I actually bought some of their music at a record shop in downtown Notts that I frequented. So as they played, I just got flashes of random scenes, stuff not spectacular in any way. The church hall in the basement, walking to the university, etc, etc, etc.

So yes, though there were considerably less riot police than at the Rage concert three weeks ago, I would say Sigur Rós lived up to the standard set by Zach, Tom, and co. in the world of live music witnessed by myself. I was happy to have gone and heard them play. I wish it would have been under slightly different circumstances, but sometimes I suppose you just have to deal with what is thrown at you. And if none of you have ever heard their music, I'd suggest checking it out.

I think this quote from a friend sums up the concert quite nicely.

"Even if you were high, and you came down, you'd probably think you were still high"
- A Friend

. . .

Sometimes it's good, I feel, to just chill out a bit.

Half Price Books

I am the scourge of Half Price Books. Literally, if we lived in a pirate society, I'd be the Jolly Roger or whatever to Half Price Books' peaceful British colonial town. Except for the fact that I actually have to pay for all the plunder I take from them. Hate how that works.

I'm really a fan of the one in my native Apple Valley. I've been to the one in Roseville and have concluded that it is worthless. Firstly, it's because they have some sort of pricing curve for music. A Beatles CD that would cost $6.98 in AV costs $9.98 in Roseville. There are all sorts of little discrepancies like that. And secondly, they usually don't have anything good. Which I suppose probably means that people in Roseville respect good music more than they do in AV.

That's the disadvantage to shopping at HPB, when you see something that just does not belong in a second hand store. For instance, today I saw a copy of Bill Evans' "Sunday at the Village Vanguard," one of the most legendary jazz recordings ever. A milestone in the development of modern jazz. And someone, somewhere, decided that the infinite glory of the music was worth little more than the $3 they got paid for it. Shameless, absolutely shameless. A part of me dies when I see that. I literally stood there and thought about purchasing the Bill Evans album and gifting it to someone, just to save it from the indignity of being peddled next to a copy of Burt Bacharach's greatest hits. But like I said before, I spend entirely too much money at this store in the first place. So I dried a tear and turned away. Once I saw a copy of "Kind of Blue" in the racks and had to go throw up.

I suppose other people's loss is my gain though.

I think one of the reasons I like the HPB in AV so much is that it is staffed by blissfully awkward people. I had a book recommended to me a little bit ago (which I bought at HPB) about snap judgments, and how people can seemingly instantly know stuff about things in a matter of seconds. I've only read about a chapter or two in it, but basically the gist is that you can know something fundamental about a person in the first few seconds you meet them. Needless to say, I applied this technique when I was milling about the store this afternoon. And with nearly ever person, I instantly knew they were socially awkward. Which means I would probably get along great with them.

There's the dowdy girl who you know spends every waking moment reading Jane Austen. She strangely reminds me of my 12th grade English teacher. Like, a clone from the past or something. There's also the nerdy looking dude with glasses who probably has to structure his work schedule around his World of Warcraft raids. The slovenly guy with the beard who looks really bored, he's always the guy buying your books. But two employees in particular stick out to me, they must be my favourites. One is this very pregnant girl who undoubtedly drives a car that runs on vegetable oil and only wears hemp clothing naturally grown by a small cooperative in the Ecuadorian countryside. She hasn't been around lately, so maybe she's not quite so pregnant anymore. The other guy has to go through life stoned out of his mind and he rocks the 1970's pornstar look to go with it. Kind of looks like he crawled out of a couch in his mom's basement. He also really likes Nirvana, because he talks to me about them nearly every time I stop in. Absolutely hilarious, I think.

Being that the majority of people who go into HPB are relatively normal, it's always funny to see the normal people try to interact with the employees. It's kind of like if I were to start talking to you in Yiddish about my thoughts on trombone mouthpieces. Complete lack of information transmission. Lucky for those of us who have deciphered the code though, we can communicate freely in front of the "normal" people without anyone knowing what's going on.

The scary thing is, I've had people ask me on at least two occasions if I work there.

Seriously though, cannot go wrong at this store. If any of you haven't gone, I'll gladly take you on a guided tour. I mean, where else can you pick up an LP of Don Ho's greatest Hawaiian hits?

Exactly, nowhere. Why the hell do you need that? I have no idea, but I own it. A friend of mine once went and got an LP of German Oktoberfest songs for 50¢. I thought it was stupid too, until we listened to it after a couple beers. Then it sounded like a brilliant purchase. Based on that, I'm sure Don Ho will prove his worth eventually.

Next time you need a book on self help, science fiction, or 19th century Russian history, check out HPB. Or if you need a Burt Bacharach album. Give me a ring, I'll probably want to come along.

Album of the Week: Loveless

I know the internet has been waiting with collective bated breath, anticipating my next album review. Well world, here you are. This week's album is Loveless by My Bloody Valentine.

This album is a trip.

Seriously, unless you're a fan of post-rock or noise-rock or something similar, I can almost guarantee you've never heard anything like this before. It's a sound pretty much unlike any other, really more of a sonic dreamscape than anything else. I think I would characterize it as art music, rather than any sort of popular genre. Definitely part of its appeal is listening from an intellectual standpoint, figuring out what the hell the group is trying to do.

So what makes this so crazy, you may ask? Unlike most rock, My Bloody Valentine employs a constant sonic assault. There really is no discernible dynamic range, nor is there much diversity within the songs of different instrumentals. Add in the fact that their song formats just sort of go until they're done, they don't seem to have any sort of formal structure. Instead there's this cacophony of electric guitar, distortion, synthesizer, obscured vocals, and strangely rhythmic drumming. I mean, in reality, it is just bizarre. The music sounds so otherworldly, you can't even really believe that actual humans can wrest these sorts of sounds out of instruments.

Conversely though, it is absolutely brilliant.

I don't have any individual songs to really recommend, because everything blends together so perfectly. Well, I suppose I am partial to "Loomer" and "Sometimes." Those may be my two favourites. But this is a capital "A" Album in every sense of the word, and we all know how much I love Albums as opposed to albums. Meaning, this is a cohesive statement, and as such, it really is best to listen to it through, rather than nitpick it apart into 11 songs. That would just not do.

One intense part of their sound is how they have this sort of acoustic guitar thing going against what sounds like a wall of electric distortion. It's a really effective tactic, I think, keeping that ethereal distortion in the back with some rhythmic device that keeps it from sounding stagnant. Like I said before, it's probably unlike anything you've heard.

Many must know my fancy for the Icelandic post-rock band Sigur Rós. Who incidentally, I'm going to see in a week, but that's neither here nor there. They must have gotten some influence from My Bloody Valentine for sure, as they employ a lot of their tricks in terms of electric distortion. But it's a lot different. Where Sigur Rós employs almost a classical approach to the use of electric instruments, bowing guitars and other crazy stuff like that, My Bloody Valentine has a bit of a harder edged approach. In any case, I like it. A lot.

So there you go. Check out "Loveless," let me know what you think. Give it a bit of a chance though, it's kinda messed up. Like I said earlier, it's a trip.

Target Field

So, the Twins, aside from making me throw my TV through the window, today unveiled the name for their new ballpark: Target Field.

Now, it's obviously not perfect. I would have preferred some non-corporate name like Puckett Park or Killebrew Field or something like that. But it's the 21st century, so I'll be realistic. In light of these circumstances, I actually think Target Field is a pretty good name. I mean, Target is a Minnesota company and seems to do a lot of good work in terms of philanthropy and all that jazz. Additionally, it doesn't have the seedy/creepy/weird vibe of Wal-Mart, K-Mart, or other comparable retailers. I mean, Target, in comparison with other department stores, is kind of like a bottle of fine French wine standing in a field of Franzia. Plus their grocery wing sells delicious salsa.

Some other names I heard bandied about were Best Buy Ballpark and Land O' Lakes Field. I'll go on the record and say that dual name parks in MLB are not a good idea. The former Pac Bell Park in San Francisco? Forgettable. The former Minute Maid Park in Houston or wherever? Not a good idea. Seriously, we should maybe thank Target. Best Buy Ballpark sounds like some sort of juvenile tongue twister while Land O' Lakes Field had revenge of the technologically savvy and idiotic written all over it. LOL Field? No thanks. Target Field is concise, somewhat corporately ambiguous, and I'm sure there are many promotional opportunities. I will almost bet money there will be a giant Target target hanging in right field with the words "JUSTIN MORNEAU HIT IT HERE!"

If you're ever downtown, go check out Target Field under construction. I had the good fortune to catch a nice glimpse of it beyond a line of riot police at the Rage concert a few weeks ago. And I must say, it looks fantastic. If I have to sell an organ to go to the first game, so be it.

I need answers

I really need some answers.

Here are some facts.

1. The economy, according to Alan Greenspan, is in a "once in a century" crisis.
2. Over 4,000 Americans have died in Iraq, along with countless Iraqi civilians
3. We still have not found Osama Bin Laden
4. The US produces approximately 1/4 of the world's carbon dioxide emissions and we consume the most oil
5. Some 45 million people cannot afford health care
6. Our international standing in the world has plummeted

One would think that in light of such pressing facts, we need to find solutions. One would think that with a fairly important presidential election coming up, people would want to hear about how the two candidates are going to solve these issues. One would think people want answers.

Instead, we got John McCain talking about how Barack Obama insulted Sarah Palin when he, in the midst of criticizing McCain's economic policies, said that "if you put lipstick on a pig, it's still a pig." Don't mind the fact that Senator McCain made the exact same statement about Hillary Clinton's health care plan last winter.

Instead we get a barrage of flat out lying from the McCain campaign. I'm not joking, there are literally lies flying about the airwaves. I really like the one where McCain accuses Obama of sponsoring a bill in the Illinois Legislature that promoted "comprehensive sex education for kindergartners." In reality, he signed a bill which promoted age appropriate awareness of good touch and bad touch. Or there's that Spanish language one which accuses Obama of killing immigration reform last year. Don't mind the fact that McCain and Obama voted exactly the same. What's even more galling is that Mrs. McCain had the audacity to criticize the media for exposing such lies.

Gov. Palin has no excuse either. She claims to have "killed" the Bridge to Nowhere earmark that would have used federal tax dollars to construct a $400 million bridge to an island with 50 residents. Not so. She was for it before she was against it. And frankly, I feel it's pretty reasonable to say she's a pretty freaky person in general. For some reason, she is qualified to be a heartbeat away from the most powerful position in the world because she is a "hockey mom." Well, my mom was a "band mom," and she shops at department stores too. She might not be quite so adept as killing moose, which is apparently another key qualification. Love her as I do, I don't think my mom should lead the free world.

I forgot, she has foreign policy experience of her proximity to Russia. "They're our next-door neighbors," she said in a recent ABC interview, "and you can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska -- from an island in Alaska." That's fantastic. Alaska is also the closest point in the US to space (Mt. McKinley). She must also have space experience. It's also the closest US point to the North Pole, so she must also have experience dealing with Santa. This is the most pathetic form of reasoning I've never heard. If we talked about this in law school, we could probably spend months discussing how inane it is. I mean, I can see Lakeville if I stand on the road outside my house. I'm obviously in a position to officially negotiate with the Lakeville City Council on behalf of the City of Apple Valley.

I suppose this is to be expected. It's the same culture wars bullshit that has been used as a political tactic since Nixon. The same sort of thing perfected by George W. Bush and Karl Rove. I mean, it sort of makes sense. If you don't have any fresh ideas for yourself, why not just tear apart the other person?

Except the fact that this is coming from the founder of the "Straight Talk Express." This is coming from a man who I'm supposed to think is "honorable." There's nothing honorable about fear mongering. There is nothing honorable about sacrificing your integrity to get ahead. And McCain had integrity, he really did. But obviously not anymore. Doesn't the Republican Party praise our Christian origins? What sort of Christianity promotes this sort of sleaze? This is something our society should condemn, not lift up.

The fact that people want to turn this election into some sort of referendum on personalities is an embarrassment to a civilized country, I feel. Obviously, we want to elect someone who people can trust. But it cannot be that we elect people based not on their ideas, but on some sort of "image" they've crafted. Sure, Obama might sound like that kook professor you had in sociology or whatever. He might seem like a giant egghead. He's "educated." Wait a second though, wouldn't it be a positive to have an intelligent, thoughtful person in the White House. No, no, what was I thinking? That would be awful.

Seriously, I want some answers. I know I have some conservative friends out there. How is John McCain going to make this country better? How is he going to "reform" Washington when he essentially brings to the table the same policies of the last 8 years? How is he going to fix the economy by continuing the Bush tax cuts? Senator McCain is not going to lower your taxes. Literally, he's not. Check his website. Senator Obama will cut taxes to the middle class. If you're a senior making less than $50,000 a year, he's going to eliminate their income taxes. How is this a bad idea? How is it a bad idea to want to talk to countries that we don't currently talk to? Why is it that we think we're punishing people by not talking to them. It's not helping us deal with Iran. In fact, I would say its downright arrogant.

Honest to God, I want some real answers. Why should I desire to supplant eight years of near total failure with four more years of pretty much the exact same? How is that going to make things better? Seriously, someone tell me why.

The idea that we should be a nation of cowboys is a terrible idea. That's what got us into the shitstorm in Iraq. Non cooperation, arrogance, ideology driven policy. I'm not saying Obama is God's Chosen One to restore America to its former greatness or anything. He most likely will fail in some of his grand schemes. But the fact remains, Senator Obama has ideas that are different from the failed ideas of the Bush Administration. They are not the same, they set forth a different direction. For better or for worse, they are a change, a willingness to try something new. Why should I want four more years of essentially the same policy? It has not worked. Why are people afraid of doing something new? A great mentor of mine at Luther said that the reason he loved the United States is because it was always reinventing itself, it was never stagnant. This is not a time to be stagnant.

I need some answers.