HOPE

As a new season of baseball is upon us, it would appear to be bleak for those of us unfortunate enough to be Minnesota Twins fans. After a miracle campaign in 2006 that led to a AL Central division pennant, Twins fans have suffered greatly ever since. Last year's team failed to rise to expectations and saw the team's most popular player (Torii Hunter) sign with the L.A. Angels, and the best pitcher on the planet (Johan Santana) traded to the Mets for a group of unproven prospects. I really think the second event (Santana trade) stung me the most. The new ballpark is 2 years away, the Minnesota weather is dreary, and our starting rotation features Livan Hernandez as the opening day starter. And oh yes, Detroit is going to score a billion runs this summer, because they have a lineup full of genetically enhanced offense machines.

Help us Lord.

But you know, there is something magical about the beginning of the baseball season, some unknowable thing that causes even us Twins fans to carry our heads high. Our team is being shat upon by every major publication's season preview, they play in a plastic nightmare of a stadium, we traded our best pitcher, and our last great hope hasn't pitched since 2006. But on the first day of baseball season, we're all tied for first. There is optimism. Glimmers of greatness, even. The prospect of another miracle. Remember, the 1991 Twins club was picked to finish dead last.

Dare I say it, there is hope in the air...



Yes, maybe I am suffering from a hope overdose. But this season, I am going to subscribe to the Barack Obama School of Baseball Thought (BOSBT). Even though Minnesota plays in baseball's toughest decision, is outmatched in practically every single statistically measurable category, and by all reason and convention, has no chance to make the playoffs, they do have hope. We have hope. I have hope. Sometimes that's all we can hold on to. Sure, this may all fade by Friday. That is quite possible. But it's no fun to go through baseball season with nothing to hope for.

Aaron's BOSBT World Series Prediction- Twins over Mets in 7 games

Divorced

In many ways, I am divorced from reality. This is not a discussion of continuing adolescence. I'm not drifting away in my own private dreamworld, deluding myself with ideals of grandeur or any such thing. What I'm referring to is a phenomenon that I see arising as I speak with people who exist from areas of my life outside Luther College.

I literally just hung up the phone with a friend of mine from high school. Now, we had a very pleasant chat, I was quite glad to hear from her. So don't misinterpret this. But it reinforced ideas I've long fomented about how people from separate experiences address each other. In many ways, to old friends, college is like an archipelago. We're all on these islands, many of them similar. But they are islands nonetheless. They're separate, they're distinct. I look around my room, at what defines me, and how it differs from what used to define me.

There's a St. George's cross hanging on the wall, which would take a whole other blog to explain the significance of to my life (conveniently, such a blog exists, just click on the link to the right). I have posters of Led Zeppelin, Dylan. I have a stack of jazz CD's and LP's littered about my space. Two devices to brew coffee. A masterfully heisted Starbucks mug. A canvas of a trombone. Scarves. Photos of places of been, but more importantly, photos of my friends.

Obviously, I'm a lot different person than I was 4 years ago. And I'm sure most of my old friends are too. But we don't know what sort of new people we all are to each other, so we're stuck communicating in this sort of antiquated fashion. We're talking, but it's like we're screaming from one island to the next, instead of getting in our canoe and paddling over to talk face to face.


*On a quick side note, the archipelago pictured above is from Finland. I love Finland, and I don't really know why. Maybe it's because no one else does.



Plus, who can forget how cool Sibelius' "Finlandia" was when arranged for trombone choir?

Vinyl Roots

No, I'm not talking about the popular Luther all-female jazz choral ensemble. Rather, I'm literally talking about vinyl records. You know, those black things that you see tacked up to the walls at Applebees or the Hard Rock Cafe in the major city of your choice?

On a quick side note, I frekking hate Applebees. Their food tastes like microwaved rubber. I'd much prefer a delicious Chipotle burrito.

Anyways, I'm sitting in my father's basement in St. Paul, listening to some of the vinyl records that lie about in huge wooden cases, lost to the much sexier media formats of cassette, CD's, and mp3's. And I've decided, it's a shame. It's a damn shame that they sit down here, neglected, unloved. I will love them. And let me tell you why.

Now, mind you, this is not a rant against digital music or CD's. That would be hypocritical, as I have an iPod full of music and other wonders of the digital age. Nor is this a call to return to the stone age of music. Rather, I am just requesting equal treatment, and appreciation.

I really think vinyl is the ideal format for music recorded prior to the advent of the CD. For one thing, the sound is much darker, a little dirtier. It doesn't have that sterilized feel of digital mastering. I don't know, I'm listening to Keith Jarrett right now, and I feel like the music is damn near enveloping me. Like I'm literally being tucked into a regulation letter size envelope. The security ones. Except this envelope has big speakers blaring Keith Jarrett, as he's improvising a whole concert in a Swiss metropolis. Maybe it's the fact that records just seem to capture a little bit more of that rock/jazz/funk/classical/pick your genre spirit. The spirit of the age, the sounds of the age. I mean, as we learned in jazz history, the history of jazz is tied up with the recording industry. That has to follow through with other forms as well I think.

In any case, I'm digging it.

Went and saw the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra tonight. A good show, they played a pretty sweet modernist violin concerto, and Schumann No. 4. I enjoyed it. In the morning, I go masquerade as a law student. Bring it, I'm out of here.

Burrito Rage

Once, probably over Christmas break, I went to Chipotle for lunch at work. Desiring a delicious burrito, I decided to expand my horizons and add guacamole to my usual combo of meat, rice, black beans, cheese, sour cream, limited lettuce, and the corn salsa stuff. You'll never believe what happened to me. Guacamole, apparently, costs 75 cents extra. I couldn't believe it. I was horrified. HORRIFIED.

I think my rage took a few different levels. First of all, why wasn't the price of guacamole more explicitly stated? Secondly, why didn't the burrito-maker inform me of the price jump as he casually asked if I wanted guac? Thirdly, damn it, I'm a poor college student, and with tax, that's basically another dollar. It's not like guacamole is one seventh of the actual burrito's composition. So why should I be paying that much? Exactly.

Why is it that condiments are so expensive? You wouldn't pay for ketchup, would you? Mustard? No, none of these, unless you're cheap like Luther College.

Bottom line, I was pissed.

Ellington Video

Here's another jazz diatribe.

Today in History of Jazz, our instructor was gone so we watched a video entitled "On the Road with Duke Ellington." Basically, it was like a 1967 version of Behind the Music. Here are some fun facts.

1- Duke Ellington always started his day with a large breakfast and a glass of hot water

2- There are hundreds, possibly thousands of Ellington compositions that were never written down or recorded, but were played once or twice

3- Duke got his nickname when he was 8, because he had such impeccable style and a well bred air

4- Ellington has an honorary doctorate from Yale

Here at Luther, our jazz director (coincidentally, also my history of jazz prof.) is literally in love with Ellington. He has dreams where he eats lunch with Duke and Mozart. Consequentially, every jazz concert we put on has at least 2 or 3 Ellington tunes. Only recently have I discovered the true genius of America's greatest 20th century composer, possibly our greatest composer ever. I guess thinking about it, watching the movie, and more importantly, listening to the music; well, I've been a little bowled over. Listen to "Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue" from the 1957 Newport recording, and you'll get a taste of it.

Anyways, at the end of the movie, the camera focused in close on Ellington as he played the opening piano improvisation to "Take the 'A' Train." And I was just mesmerized. I sort of felt like I was catching a glimpse into a portal leading to a whole other dimension of creative existence. Very hard to verbalize. I was left sitting in the classroom in a state of shock and awe, it was just so powerful to see him create these tremendous sounds, and to see the intense passion that brought them forth. It really made my day. So, this one's to you Duke. Now everyone go buy some music.

And check out this video. Search "Duke Ellington" on Youtube for more cool stuff.

The Past Three Days

For the past three days, I've had some variation of a cheeseburger for dinner. What does that mean? I'd say it means about three things.

1. I am disgusting
2. I like cheeseburgers
3. I am traditionalist in my food choices

Regarding the first statement, I have the hard body plan to save me from self destructive eating habits, so check that sucker off.

The second point is entirely valid. In fact, there have been times when I've gone so far as to declare the noble cheeseburger as my favorite food. However, it comes with certain caveats. Maybe requirements is the better term. For one thing, a sharp distinction must be made between three different classes of burgers.

First class- independently owned shop, signature burger
Second class- national chain restaurant burger
Third class- fast food burger

Two out of the three days, I dined at a first class establishment. Alas, last night featured a quick stop at a third class restaurant. Had to have some nourishment on the long, hard, winding road back to Decorah. However, no burger created by the hands of man has yet compared to the glory that is contained in this humble building.



I don't want to ruin the surprise or the ecstasy, but Matt's Bar in Minneapolis has the world's greatest burgers. No question

The third point, yes, I am typically traditionalist in my food choices. It's a bit of a crutch. I have been trying to branch out. Yesterday, my mom took me to lunch at Jimmy John's and I actually ate all the vegetables that came on my sandwich. That's a big step for me.

However, there is more to the burger family than the simple cheeseburger, to which I can heartily attest. There is a lamb/avocado burger (thanks Carol). A peanut butter burger. The popular bacon cheeseburger. The southwest burger. The mushroom swiss burger (this sounds disgusting). The bleu cheese burger (highly recommended). The Wild West burger. The bison burger (recommended). The California burger. In terms of size, the burger comes in a plethora of options, including single, double, triple, and beyond. Fuddruckers features a 1 lb. burger, which I challenge each and everyone of you to do battle with. I did once, and failed in my quest. The jucy lucy (probably my all time favorite, see photo immediately above).

In England, a hamburger is referred to as a "beef burger."

So, I will not repent for the past three days. Instead, I will glorify the burger, which remains that most distinctly American of consumables. The perfect summertime food. Hell, the perfect anytime food.

The real sad thing is, I think I know what's for dinner tonight...

Pale Ale, and then some

I'm drinking a Boulevard Pale Ale. Although not quite as delicious as either Summit EPA or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, I'd still classify it as a pretty quality beer. Probably the best thing coming out of Kansas City about now, especially the way the Royals have played. As I was thoughtfully sipping, I started to think about what differentiates the American style pale ale to its big brother over in England. With sadness, I couldn't exactly recall what real British ale tasted like. It's sort of become mythologized in my brain, I remember it was completely delicious, but I can't quite remember what made it that way, besides the pub atmosphere and the REAL ALE requirement of being pulled up from the cellar. I remember English ale is just a lot more full bodied. It has that pleasing bit of head on the top. It's served in a proper imperial pint. Yada, yada, yada.

After I got to thinking of this, I started snooping around the website of Discover card, interested by their 0% APR rates and cashback bonus. I noticed that one can get any number of hundreds of pictures on their cards. Absentmindedly looking at travel, I now know that I can have my Discover card be a huge Union Jack, a picture of Parliament from across the Thames, some of the Queen's guard, or a shot of the Tower Bridge from the south bank. Which strangely, oddly, just made me somewhat sad.

Maybe I'm suffering a certain extent of backlash, as in the past few days, I've heard a lot about other people's J-term trips, have seen photos of people's semester abroad on Facebook, and had my (now subconscious) British pronunciation of "literally" be made fun of. But I've been thinking a lot about Nottingham as of late. Or England in general. London, perhaps. My mind has been sort of wandering off into the English countryside, rambling off into the Lake District or careening about Yorkshire. In any case, it's been on my mind. I've been starkly reminded of my nostalgia for last year and my present yearning to return. It's sort of unreasonable to go through life, subconsciously counting down to an event that has no guarantee of ever occurring. But I feel I might have a bit of that going. It's like I'm on the waiting list for season tickets on the club level of the new Twins ballpark. I don't know when, if ever, I'll get in. But I'm waiting to go back to England, I guess. Which is strange, because at the same time, I've been feeling some heartfelt fondness for my native land. Spring training might have something to do with that. But I'm resigned to the fact that my destiny includes a return to England, I'm pretty sure.

No disrespect whatsoever to those who have traveled abroad for smaller amounts of time, but that entails a distinctly different experience. A trip, a chance to see sights, to get a taste of culture, etc, etc, etc. When one literally has an address in a foreign land, actually lives there, I think a fundamentally different relationship is formed. As much as some think they can relate with tales of J-terms abroad, in the big picture, it really doesn't quite work out. Because of this seeming isolation of experiences, I often times feel like I'm doomed to bottle all these memories and experiences up, save for those few happy times when some of us flatmates can get together and talk. In a way, it's only appropriate. It was a year of self and group discovery for the 9 of us, plus M and C. But in another way, it's very sad. I wish I could tell people.

Anyways, my Boulevard is getting down to its last hoppy swigs. I figured sentimentality had made a long absence on this blog, it was time to bring it back before people got too used to stupid humor and top 10 lists. Have to keep it real, you know?

As a tribute to the hardship I am currently under, being without any coffee in my room, I'm going to post the following photo. And I will be without coffee until this weekend, leaving me to rely on the pond sewage passed off as coffee here at Luther. Anyways, to the photo. It's of a cup of coffee from a place (Cafe Vergnano) that I frequented in London. If you're in foggy London town, check it out at 62 Charing Cross road, a hop, skip, and a jump from Leicester Square. Probably the most delicious latte of my life (sorry Sarah and the Nott'm 'Bucks). It's just one of those little reminders...




Shit, this damn thing won't load the photo. Just trust me, it was there, still is there, and it was fabulous.

Block

I have blogger's block. I'm trying to break it.