Blind Bim's Emporium

2012-01-16T23:43:00.006-06:00

Once a great place, now a prison

It's wanting either a dose of cold-charged reality or indulging in a streak of masochism that has me listening to Sufjan Steven's Michigan album. It includes tales of lonely desperation; of lives propelling against forces conspiring to thwart all attempts to craft a wholesome enriching life. It's not something I should listen to in my current state of joblessness. But I do and my listening of it has changed as I've navigated different phases of this transition. When I first heard "since the first of June I lost my job and lost my room" it was a jarring reminder of a condition that I barely wanted to mention to neighbors or professional colleagues. Now it feels more like a statement of the weather: nothing to deny and everything to accept.

There is a savage frontier aspect to the album's narrative. It's populated by characters in trailer parks living far from the Interstate who in their economic straits may be close to joining the state militia. I don't know about you, but that's my idea of the ultimate gothic horror film- something frightening and real. Michael Moore picked up a thread of this when he explored the roots of the Oklahoma City bombing. When the hate is real, there doesn't seem to be a way to escape it. I don't need a Bates Hotel scenario. For that reason, I'm seriously spooked by the Brandon Teena story in "Boys Don't Cry."

I don't know how the pain of economic dislocation leads to violent hate, but I believe that most of our social ills stem from economic sources. People feel desperate and lash out at accessible and vulnerable targets, and later try to justify their actions through convenient and distracting rationales.

Happy MLK Day.

2012-01-11T23:21:00.001-06:00

Stoking the starmaker machinery

I remember when my graduate school Kevin told me breathlessly about a new indie music website. "They use a 10 point ranking system and nobody gets a 10." Having been reared on the inadequate Rolling Stone five star ranking system, I immediately liked it. The site was Pitchfork.

For that 2003-2004 period it was really my go-to site for reviews and news. I respected the site so much that I wanted it to reach back and review older recordings so that I can find out their perspective on them. But then it became too overwhelming. Suddenly there was another recording from Xiu Xiu and I didn't know about their last one. And I didn't like Deerhof's latest offering. Then one writer raved about the Wren's "Secaucus" and I dearly wanted to hear it, but it was way out of print. (It was re-released and it turned out to be great.)

So I veered away from the fold. I don't think the site missed me and I didn't miss it. (For the record, I sought out used CD bins and music blogs like Brooklyn Vegan and Gorilla v. Bear to satisfy that new music itch.) But I had to laugh when there was a backlash to their sanctimonious posturing, which included Subpop records recreating them as Popdork.

Which brings us back to the present: starting mid-month every December music websites issue their "Best of" lists for the year. This is the time that I get to catch up on what I missed the preceding year. It's actually an exciting time because all the work of distilling out the dreck has been done for me. (Largehearted Boy aggregates the lists. What a guy.)

As part of this year-end review I listened to Pitchfork's list of 100 best tracks of 2011. I could only stand twenty of the songs. Many of the musicians seemed preoccupied with textures and rhythms to the exclusion of caring much about the songs. The site used to have more guitar-based bands and now... get this... they give some recordings the vaunted 10.0 ranking. As you can see, things have gone downhill over there. I mean, how is anybody going turn this current crop of chartbusters into the elevator music of tomorrow?

I refuse to think that I'm all crusty and unyielding to the music uber-trends that have all the kids going gaga.

2012-01-08T22:49:00.013-06:00

We can return and we can look behind

During my infrequent trips to Minneapolis in the 90s I used to make my rounds at the thrift stores and the record emporiums, scanning for the odd flotsam and jetsam that would make my life complete for about a day or so. Inevitably, I would pick up the free weeklies that lay in the racks by the door. One of these publications was Cake, which I enjoyed for its sense of humor and topical issues. There was the usual information intended to push product for the latest trendy bands, but it was presented in articles that were often by band members, which had the effect of dissolving the musician's artificial stage posture. Thus, the articles were very readable and there was a jaunty sense of humor about the whole affair.

I became so enamored of the magazine that not only did I subscribe to it, I submitted articles for publication. So I began to correspond with Hap, the editor. Soon we were exchanging phone calls and found that we shared much. She had a very fluid and inquisitive mind. Of course, she had a fetish for food and knew all sorts of fun facts about candy. I also seemed to gain an acquaintance with her regular staff of writers, which included Heidi and Chank, who were a couple. There were issues devoted to pirates, spies, candy, sports, etc.. so all the music info was funneled through these themes. As I said, the mag was fun. Hap had great taste in music- except for the time she lionized Jewel when her first album was released. But I've forgiven her many times over because she introduced me to Mary Lou Lord.

When I moved to Minneapolis a decade later I was disheartened to find out that Hap had moved to Austin and the magazine had turned to Toast (literally- that was the name of it)
and then folded. I poked around and found out that a friend knew Heidi and Chank, but I never pressed him for an introduction. I once approached one of her former boyfriends (who had gained some renowned as boozy cable access show host) and he said that he could only reach her by Facebook messaging. I made a quick contact with her to receive an address and sent a holiday card to her a week ago.

This past Saturday I was at the dance studio hanging out while K & L did their shuffling and gallivanting and I picked up a local magazine. There were a couple photo spreads about art events. I looked closely at an art bicycle show from last summer and realized that I was looking at photos of Heidi and Chank. They both happened to be located in this same event write-up. A quick text to my friend confirmed their identities.

I stand amazed at how we can keep returning from whence we came. Then I came home to find the holiday card that I had sent to Hap had been returned to sender, address unknown. So, where are you Hap? A lonely nation turns its eyes to you...

2012-01-06T23:36:00.002-06:00

I believe in yesterday

It's Syd Barrett's birthday today. The tendency is to look at this like it's something we should mourn, since he died in 2006. But in the larger scheme of life, it's like grieving the passing of the 100 watt incandescent light bulb. I never knew him. I only know him through a few recordings. (I've known a few light bulbs, but let's not get too literal here.)

There are the officially released tracks on "Saucerful of Secrets", "Piper at the Gates of Dawn," and a few solo albums that I haven't kept track of. In the past few years, however, there are multitudes of album outtakes, BBC studio sessions, and random live recordings that have surfaced.

So I guess my point is that Syd lives. There is music emerging and new crumbs to digest. Harkening back to Syd's life doesn't grant us much richness, but listening to the music does. So I think it's time to cue up some of those early BBC sessions...

Later: While listening to c. 1967 "Interstellar Overdrive" freakout, my six year old daughter cocked her head a little bit and calmly remarked: "That sounds like Star Wars ships."

I always wondered where George Lucas got his inspiration.

2010-04-13T11:09:00.000-05:00

One man sings about what another man spills

The man in black gets serious about trash.

2010-04-13T09:21:00.000-05:00

Greasy kids stuff

This is how you do a trick that I used to do as a kid but have been unable to remember by myself. So if I found this video to help me:

2010-04-10T21:41:00.000-05:00

Sometimes a dream is what makes you a slave

It was around Thanksgiving 1995 when I was given a few snippets of Girly Sound by a Madison friend. Girly Sound were Liz Phair's bedroom 4-track recordings before Matador records rescued her from obscurity. Soon after I received the tape, which had only about 10 songs, I sat on a Wicker Park stoop late into the night listening to the bare fragments of melodies and rhythms. Sure, it had the tales of sexual bravado that dominates her "Exile to Guyville" release, but there was plain pop songsmith and spookiness that made it highly listenable. (That was also the week when I first saw Palace, so them's were some heady days.)

I still have that recording, but with the availability of so many obscure recordings, I've longed for a better version. (My copy came reportedly came via John Henderson who lived with her for awhile and helped her bring the Girly Sound songs into the studio realm.) So it was with ample delight that I found it on the web recently in a profusion of riches that was originally self-released as three cassettes. The song quality is very strong and the collection includes seminal versions of songs that would later appear on her albums.

But I must admit that it's some depressing stuff. Many of the songs feature narratives of lost love, alienation, and aimlessness. On the other hand, if you've been unemployed for four months those are feelings that are not unfamiliar.

2010-03-15T23:12:00.000-05:00

War is Over- If you want it

It's about time.

2010-02-26T21:57:00.000-06:00

Let's Active

I suspect that these guys are over-caffeinated.

2010-02-26T21:54:00.000-06:00

I've got a bike you can ride it if you like

It can seem like an eternity since the time I thought I was capable of anything. It wasn't like I woke up one day and decided that I couldn't attain all that I dreamed of, but the quotidian richness and demands for time and energy has distracted me from the type of dreaming I did in high school. But truth be told, it was a delusion that I was capable of anything. Or to put it more accurately, I wasn't capable of everything because a steadfast devotion to one pursuit or ambition would inevitably render other dreams unattainable.

Yet the recognition that I didn't pursue some dreams and realization that it's OK allows me to appreciate the fantastic achievements of others, such as Danny MacAskill's bicycle acrobatics:

2010-02-19T09:34:00.000-06:00

Appetite for Destruction

While waiting at the corner bus stop with K yesterday, I heard the sad news that the father of one of K's bus stop friends had died. Previously, the mother had told me that the girl's dad was living in LA and wrapped up in drugs and probably wasn't going to make it. As the mother was describing how Ronnie was making amends and preparing to move back to Minnesota, the girl blurted out: "He played in Guns'n'Roses."

My interest was piqued, but I listened sympathetically as the mother told the tale of how he had died a few hours shy of his 44th birthday from a heart ailment that his mother had succumbed to when she was 44 years old.
A little sleuthing revealed that Ronnie was in Slash's pre-GnR band and was a roadie for GnR from 1986 to 1988. During that period the band recorded and released "Appetite for Destruction", which sold 28 million copies.

I felt sad to hear of the loss, but I was also struck by how the ordinary is simply the extraordinary hidden by a thin veil.

Photo: GnR in 1986. Ronnie is in the middle with the sailor's cap.

2010-01-27T22:02:00.000-06:00

A Volunteer of America that we could've used

Grace Slick:

"See, Trish Nixon’s daughter went to Finch College, and it was so small that she invited all of the alumni to a tea at the White House. But my name when I went there was Grace Wing, that doesn’t mean anything right? Now, Grace Slick meant something.

So I get an invitation to the White House and I call up Abbie Hoffman and say [Sing-songy] “Guess what I have….I’ve got an invitation to the White House.” So I put 600 mics of acid under a long fingernail I had for cocaine, and we go and we’re standing in line, and the security guard comes up to me and says, “I’m sorry you can’t go in. You’re a security risk.” And I go, “What?!” And he says, “You’re on the FBI list.” And I go, “What?!?!” And I found out that the members of Jefferson Airplane were on a list because of “suspect lyrics.”

They didn’t know why I was a security threat, but they were right."

2010-01-13T11:45:00.000-06:00

Pushing out the '50s

I know it's been a matter of much scholarly discourse and tavern brawls, but I think I have found the definitive moment when the '50s ended during this episode of "Mother-in-law" (produced by Desi Arnez).

It's at about a half minute in:

2009-06-03T11:59:00.000-05:00

It's all too much

The tubes taught me this today:

Sounds of 165 dB would cause a person's hair to catch fire from the frictional heating caused by air undergoing such intense compression and expansion.

Don't tell that to Spinal Tap.

2009-05-30T11:49:00.001-05:00

I headed west to grow up with the country

The national professional association for my profession recently met in our fair city. During one lunch I sat between one gentleman from Missoula, MT and another easterner who had ventured west in the '70s after his stint in the Army. They traded stories about the old and current days, skiing, places long ago, etc.

And then strangely I, a skinny little boy from Cleveland, OH, was able to swap some stories as well. I realized that starting with age 15 I spent some or all of my summers out west. In '81 I went hiking with the Boy Scouts in NM; the next year was a time in Utah working on a restoration project; and in '83 I found myself as a "ranchhand" at a camp in Steamboat Springs. During these trips I discovered Jack Kerouac, "Siddhartha", and that some women sprout hair from their areolae.

2009-05-30T11:24:00.000-05:00

Dark side of the moon

Lately I've stricken in an area of my body that is the source of 90% of the jokes of boys age 3 to 15 and South Park fans of any age. While I've relished the ability, with my special credentials, to add to that voluminous body of scatological humor, I've resisted adding my special stamp to the genre.

'Cause it really does hurt. I've hurt off-and-on since mid April, with minor surgery planned in a few days. So in one sense I'm dealing with my mortality and it shows most acutely when I go for appointments at my special doctor. I pull into the parking ramp and the parking ticket is spit out of the machine. I wait for the lumbering elevator impatiently in the quiet hallway with dingy carpet. I enter the hushed waiting room and hand my parking ticket to the receptionist to be validated.

I feel like Jack Lemmon in one of those Florida retiree movies. Except I don't have a big space egg growing in my indoor pool. Instead, it's growing in my... oh never mind.

2009-05-11T12:32:00.000-05:00

Big three killed my baby

One thing that's been revealed in this Bush recession is how the auto and housing industries are economically intertwined as the bleeding edge of the Sprawl Industry. Their products are both required to create a successful suburban ecological niche that is the predominant form of new residential and commercial development.

And there has been scarce talk in the national media of how the long term sustainability of the society is not served by the ad infinitum production of these human environments (though I hear there's a new brand of Cheetos that will do well there. But watch out for this bag.) , and it simply does not make sense for federal public policy to support these environmentally damaging industries as the twin pillars of our economy. But you already knew that.

I really like the idea that similar to having banks prove their worth, land uses should be subject to that type of review.

2009-04-08T12:25:00.000-05:00

He lived on the outside of town

There seems to be Hollis Browns popping up all over.

2009-03-27T10:16:00.001-05:00

Send in the clowns

First, they came for the clowns.

2009-03-26T10:04:00.000-05:00

Even the President of the United States must stand naked

I can't think of a more useless but strangely satisfying use of about five seconds of my time than slapping celebrity British DJs.

2009-03-17T16:47:00.000-05:00

Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee

Ma Bim is coming to visit this weekend. She asked me what she should bring to wear to K's 6th birthday party. So a conversation about what to wear turned into a conversation of the most appropriate wear based upon what one was drinking, which morphed into a walk down Liquid Lane circa 1958:

"At Sweet Briar [College in Virginia] I learned to like beer and preferred scotch. I wore skirts for most dates, or Bermuda shorts, which could be no more than three inches above my knees to comply with the dress code. I didn't own a pair of jeans. The college allowed us students to drink only 3.2 beer, and only off campus. I drank scotch on weekends at U. Va, at fraternity houses. It was BYOB. For my Sophomore year my usual date had rich parents and we drank good scotch.

[While at Tulane] I drank a variety of things in New Orleans with the French Quarter so handy. It also depended on who I was with and their financial situation. I especially liked one medical student with whom I drank mostly beer. I remember liking Singapore Slings, Moscow Mules, Pousse cafes, and an occasional Hurricane at Pat O'Brians. EitherTom Collins or gin and tonics, I forgot which, were $ 1 at "Breakfast at Brennan's". I drank beer at the Napolean House."

2009-03-16T13:40:00.000-05:00

Find a levee and burn it down

I'm doing a market study for a small town in Minnesota and need assistance on some technical details. Maybe Jim Kramer has some to time to share to help me with his knowledge.

2009-01-22T12:36:00.000-06:00

Forget the future, the present times are such a mess

I was having lunch with the Big Guy, my former boss, and he was shaking his head at the inconsistency and shortsightedness of the decision to put me on part-time status. "I'll never understand it."

It doesn't seem so confusing to me. I never had any expectations that I would understand or adopt the values of the behommeth corporation where I'm currently employed that places its all-holy faith at the altar of Numbers. "How can you understand a number? You can't," I responded. How can you be passionate about numbers? Find wisdom and beauty, or be inspired by them? I don't think I'll ever get it.

And I don't think I'm alone in that.

Maybe that's why Bush and McCain, if he could've snookered the American public into electing him, targeted their tax cuts to the rich. Us folks in the middle class don't get numbers.

2009-01-09T12:31:00.000-06:00

I'm a safe surfer, darling

I'm riding the crest of trend!

2009-01-07T15:26:00.000-06:00

Wednesday's worse and Thursday I don't know

Started off Monday morning with news from the dentist that I needed a root canal.
Then Tuesday the office manager called me and said he was cutting me to half time.*
I can't wait to see what happens today.

*In reality, if I can bill hours I'll get paid for them- I'm just in a more tenuous position.

2009-01-06T11:36:00.000-06:00

Can't stand them

Coincidence: I get a gift certificate from Ma Bim and do a big CD purchase. I unwittingly come up with two Scottish selections from the post rock and first wave punk genres. Can't recall the last time I bought music from Scotland. (Though I must say that the Rezillos are more suited to bopping around my bedroom afterschool as a 14 year old with "Somebody's Gonna to Get Their Head Kicked in Tonight" at full volume to piss off my parents downstairs. Or maybe I shouldn't take myself so seriously and enjoy it now...)

Coincidence: Right now I'm listening to a musician who Mrs. B and I saw one hot July evening in a Denton, TX bar as we waited to see the latest incarnation of Karla Bozulich (oh, was I disappointed- she was doing some gospel shouting catharsis instead of Geraldine Fibbers rawk that I had waited 10 years to see). Anyways, the musician filling the opening slot for a handful of Shiner swillers sang and played unconventional fiddle. Noting that she referred to the cold and a glacier in her lyrics, we approached her after the set and introduced ourselves as denizens of the North where such things did not seem as odd as they did on that July afternoon in Texas. She revealed that she was from Minnesota. Then later we find out that she was a former student of the Fra. Still later, I learn that she put out an album at 4AD, the esteemed British label.

2009-01-02T11:41:00.000-06:00

The masquerade is over

There are plenty of DC politicians, pundits, lobbyists, and shills that are simply not going to be thrilled when the O Generations puts their hands on the levers of power that the previous Administration and various sycophants operated so recklessly and corruptly for the last eight years.

To hide for their inevitable sourpuss expressions, I think they should be forced to wear smile masks.

2008-12-23T12:29:00.000-06:00

The Christmas song

While we at the Emporium generally hew to the secular and not get too involved with pagan gatherings and events, we do recognize that Christmas does represent something special to our patrons.

So, in the spirit of unity and financial dissolution, I offer a Merry Crisis and a Happy New Fear to all.

2008-12-19T13:34:00.000-06:00

Some people ride the wave

The year 1991, regarded by some as the year punk broke, left me unimpressed. I really think the status quo was improbably upended when Elliott Smith suddenly had a Oscar Awards appearance and nomination for his song "Miss Misery" in the film "Good Will Hunting." What was improbable or punk wasn't the song itself, but that the singer had done little to insert himself onto that larger stage (other than be a homeboy with filmmaker Gus Van Zandt) but nonetheless achieved a level of market place acceptance that many performers with much more ambition failed to achieve.

My contrarian view comes from the viewpoint that punk is more than a music genre, but an ethos that undermines and subverts all that is currently standing. This of course means that it must always be re-inventing itself as the loyal opposition when its ideas, cultural artifacts, etc. become commonly accepted, and thus is subject to being undermined and subverted. For instance, new primitivism became the new totalitarianism completely removed from its original meaning and intent.

Or maybe the meaning of the 'Year Punk Broke' has another meaning than I didn't recognize before. I had interpreted the phrase as when this style of music burst upon the national media consciousness, but maybe it is simply a statement of the time when a music style became disfunctional because its success fixed its meaning in so many people's minds and it lost its fluidity. It had become a commodity to be marketed and sold.

2008-12-18T10:01:00.000-06:00

Same as it ever was

Commerce through the ages suffered because credit markets were sporadic, unregulated and didn't extend much across borders between sovereign nations. However, beginning in the late 17th C the Quakers, with limited access to education and the traditional trades, found that trust could be very profitable. Therefore, in the age before every transaction was bound by a legal contract, the invented the handshake deal where both parties followed through. Thus "Quaker" become synonomous with honesty and quality and some manufacturers capitalized on this reputation, such as with Quaker Oats.

Unfortunately, recent events have found that some handshakes aren't worth the flesh that's being warmed.

2008-12-16T11:26:00.000-06:00

The "Priest" they called him

Sometime back in the mid-90's Isaac Sanchez said to me, regarding my choice of a potential helpmate: "You don't need to go for your analogue." That statement really stuck with me. In fact, it was touchstone guidance, along with Ms. X's advocation that I "go for the good," that led me to find and attach myself to Mrs. B.

Yet sometimes, and I believe I can say this in the same breath that I pronounce my unwaivering love for her, I wish she would sit down and appreciate "A Junky's Christmas" with me.

2008-12-15T10:08:00.001-06:00

Trenchtown rock

After seeing Slumdog Millionaire (plot synopsis: uneducated former Mumbai slum dweller wins trivia TV show and is tortured by police to reveal how he cheated because they can't believe he answered the questions honestly.), I noticed how it seemed to fit very neatly with a political narrative that recently occurred on these shores: an ambitious politician, armed only with only his smarts and compelling rhetoric, seeks to win the prize of the nation's highest political office. To obstruct him, the establishment responds with accusations that he cheats, associates with criminal types, and lies. When all that bluster fails and he miraculously wins, the same voices try to diminish his victory.

I guess nobody believes Horatio Alger stories anymore.

Also, recent events pit the Audacity of Hope against the Audacity of a Dope.

A question arises here: What if an ambitious politician didn't have smarts or inspiring words, how could he/she gain the White House? I think that one answers itself ...

2008-12-11T10:26:00.000-06:00

It's only castles burning

After reading South and seeing a 1999 documentary on his Ulysses-strength odyssey, I was quite agog at the endurance of the sailors of the Endurance. (In 1915-17 they walked and sailed across Antarctic as part of a 20-month journey back to civilization after their ship was imprisoned by ice.) Imagine my dismay when I discover they may have been using a performance-enhancing drug! (In 1909, history reports this was this case.)

In a cruelly ironic twist, the cocaine tablets were marketed under the name of Forced March. As it happens, some intrepid fools are re-creating the 1916 journey in honor of the upcoming 100th anniversary of the event. I sure hope they're keeping it real with tablets!

2008-12-10T14:58:00.000-06:00

Can you hear the lonesome whistle moan?

I can't help but to compare the US auto executives' arrogance and intransigent resistance to change to how railroad officials haughtily responded to demands for accountability and signs of its eroding power in the 20th C. Both industries formed the basis of the transportation system and were economic powerhouses, their influence far-reaching and pervasive. The impact of the both industries on commerce, land use, transportation would be hard to overestimate.

It is, of course, way too early to write an obituary for the domestic auto industry, but there is little evidence to suggest that it will survive in its current form. Meanwhile, we'll all driving Fords lately.

Caption text:
You probable thought it was smart to buy a foreign import of superior quality, with better mileage and resale value. Maybe you even thought that years of market share loss might prod up into rethinking our process and redesigning our products with better quality in mind. But you forgot one thing: We spend a shitload of money on lobbyist. So now you’re out $25 billion, plus the cost of your Subaru. Maybe next time you”ll buy American like a real man. Either way, we’re cool.

Below the three logos:
We’re the Big Three. We Don’t Need to Compete.™

2008-12-09T10:51:00.000-06:00

Their satanic mill majesties request

In a move that surely has Mr. Blake's tiger burning bright, we are now driving our dark satanic mills among our clouded hills (in the form of SUVs); not just sending our youth and unwed women to labor in them.

2008-12-09T10:40:00.000-06:00

Finest worksong

I know it isn't like I'm hollering in the field from "can to can't" at Angola, but I do like my iPod that supplies me with work songs. Yesterday's highlights included Explosions in the Sky mixes, the Missourians and Die Goldenen Zitronen.

2008-12-05T13:31:00.000-06:00

Sweet Leaf

In a blow to Mr. Palin's status, archeologists discover First Dude.

2008-12-03T09:36:00.000-06:00

Mr. Crab walks sideways

Through 1,800 miles of highway driving and a week stay in Texas, I saw only one "McCain for President" bumper sticker, which is the same number of "Biden for President" bumper stickers that I saw.

Full disclosure: I did see one McCain-Palin billboard. But that fits the pattern where McCain had pricier real estate than Obama.

2008-11-23T17:48:00.000-06:00

What a difference a president makes

One believes public transit is only for people who wish they could afford to drive, and its funds are low-hanging fruit to be plucked to build more highways.

And one that recognizes that transit is a sustainable transportation mode worthy of public investment and that there is no better option for a long-term transportation infrastructure...

2008-11-19T10:38:00.000-06:00

Millions of mind guerrillas

At my local hardware store, presidential candidate puzzles appeared for sale in October. (To add some flavor to the display there was puzzle glue and darts positioned nearby to enable puzzle purchasers to make their own dartboards.) Every time I was in the store, I noted the number of puzzles on display and wondered which was the better seller. Although the store is in the Socialist Republic of Mpls, I thought the free market might have something different to say about the relative popularity of the candidates.

Yesterday I received my answer. The store initially ordered 10 Obama puzzles and (just to have some balance I was told) 3 McCain puzzles. Final score: 10 Obama sold and 0 McCain sold.

But I think McCain's puzzle had a distinct disadvantage. With a background of skeletal post-nuclear holocaust trees, it looked more like an advertisement for Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas. (Added bonus irony: he's leaning against Greek columns, an architectural element subject to right-wing derision when they were part of Obama's DNC stagecraft.)

In the end, McCain suffers too because his name, which doesn't alternate vowels and consonants like Obama's, is not crossword puzzle-friendly.

2008-11-07T12:05:00.000-06:00

'Cross that Minnesota border keep 'em scrambling

For the first time in my life, save for a quick stint to satisfy a high school civics class requirement, I campaigned for a political campaign last weekend. The cause of my sudden politicking activity was my fervent desire to see Al Franken unseat Norm Coleman in the US Senate.

Due to the closeness of the race neither candidate immediately made it into the winner's circle. Coleman, continueing his campaign against decency and common sense, called for Franken to call off the state-mandated recount since he says "I just think the need for the healing process is so important."

Heal yourself, Norm, before you worry about us. How's preparation for your latest lawsuit coming? Oh, which lawsuit? Not that one, but this one.

2008-11-05T13:35:00.000-06:00

Around the world in a day

On the Google Maps website there were two maps created by a user that show the geographic lifejourneys of each of this year's presidential candidates. Each geographic place is accompanied by a description of people and dates. One thing that is cool was how each candidate has been around the world in their individual life journeys. (Quite different from the Republican's vice presidential candidate who only received her passport a couple years ago, and then just for the purpose of photo ops in Iraq for political gain.)

But the narratives created for Obama and McCain are quite different. Obama's is rather matter of fact while McCain's had this sense of breathless drama. "On the USS Forestall McCain nearly lost his life when a missile accidently exploded" and describes in graphic detail what the VC had done to his body during his 5+ years of captivity.

The narratives starkly reveal how biography is often conflated with character, and how biography substituted for character development in the packaging of John McCain. Yes, McCain's journey included Panama, the waters off Cuba, and Vietnam. But the true consideration is: how did each place impact him, to shape him as THE one to address the serious issues that the country is facing?

His years of captivity are supposed to imply that he is a tough son-of-a-gun who will sacrifice everything for his country. That no doubt could be true, but it also had the impact that decades later he still harbored anger against his captors and felt entitled to label them as "gooks."

On the whole, I see that Obama's world journey had the effect of making him more inclusive and compassionate for others who didn't share the same viewpoints, abilities, social and economic standing as he, while McCain's worldview narrowed and became a reflexively bellicose.

2008-11-05T09:52:00.000-06:00

Black President

Drove to work today listening to Fela's incendiary indictment of corrupt power at high volume. He sings, "No more sorrow, tears, and blood- their regular trademark." I concur.

Congrats, O.

2008-10-31T11:13:00.000-05:00

Spin your wheel of fortune

This morning occupants of the Tall Building exhibited their carved pumpkins in the downstairs lobby. While there were the creative presentations of a pumpkin turned into a large tortoise, or a pumpkin house squashing striped-stocking feet a la the Wicked Witch of the East, the best pumpkin had to be the spooky merry-go-round "Scare-ousel" from Wells Fargo Consumer Credit Services.

Thanks, Wells Fargo, for taking us on the ride.

2008-10-29T11:08:00.000-05:00

We gotta clean up the human being side of town

Though the outcome of this year's presidential campaign hasn't been decided, I really hope that one thing has been revealed: Campaigning for the 51% win isn't a way to lay a foundation for effective governance to address the massive changes we need to make as a nation to maintain any semblance of the quality of life we currently enjoy.

Though we may never reach the people who don't want to be reached- the 29% who think Bush is such a peachy keen Prez of the Ages and the fringe lefties whose identity is consumed by the need to oppose the mainstream no matter where the stream diverts itself- I truly believe that we need to have some sort of consensus to move forward and re-invent the American Dream(s) so that is attainable for a majority of citizens and is less energy and resource consumptive.

This also requires us to redefine economic indicators so that our economic health isn't measured by how severely we bludgeon the earth and deplete valuable resources. Current indicators trumpet how many cars and houses the sausage factory spit out last month to maintain our Sprawl Life, and leave us anxious if the earth had a good month. A steady state economy may seem far-fetched right now, but eventually it may be the only choice we have left. But we have to chose it- more than 51% of us.

2008-10-28T12:32:00.000-05:00

Ode to Billy Joel

As Woody Guthrie once spoke for a generation (or a nation, take your pick), an unlikely fellow spoke to us early Gen-Xers when we were growing up. Yes, I'm talking about the Piano Man. Although there are few that would readily admit it, but we didn't have Glass Houses in our record collections because our distaste for modern architecture was aligned with the leather clad man about to hurl a rock through the windows of a bland weekend chalet.

No, we loved Billy Joel because he provided a soundtrack for our school gymnasium dances, girls synchronized swimming routines, and basement party sing-a-longs. I didn't realize this until I looked at the track listing for one of his greatest hits packages that Mrs. B owned. I was amazed. He did so much for me, yet I left him by the side of the road while I trudged along to loftier listening ambitions. Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone, I said.

Despite my negligence, Billy J is undeterred. He's still relevant and hasn't been in the news for a messy divorce or traffic accident for years. I don't need to worry for him, 'cause he's all right.

2008-10-27T14:51:00.000-05:00

I found a reason to keep living

It comes from a quote attributed to John Maynard Keynes: "Words ought to be a little wild, for they are the assaults of thoughts on the unthinking."

2008-10-27T10:25:00.000-05:00

A connecting principle linked to the invisible

I don't know if it's just me, and this sort of stuff happens to everyone but they don't make a big deal out of it, but my life is littered- heavily laden I tell you- with coincidences. While I haven't done any statistical analysis of this phenomenon, it appears that simple conjoining of random events could produce this string of events, all of which have occurred in the last week or so:

--I notice that the publisher of one of the kid's books is Troll Publishers. That's odd, I think, because that's my grandmother's maiden name and it does not have wide currency. (Dear Reader, I can see you smirking out there and asking when we moved out from underneath the bridge. It's a German name and we pronounced it "trawl." So there.) I wonder if it's a family business and if we're related to that family. The next day I do some research and find out that Troll Publishing has been absorbed by the Scholastic Book empire. Then the day after that, the kids bring home a Scholastic Book catalog.

--On the iPod I hear Dylan doing "This Land is Your Land." The next song, randomly played from a set of over 10,000 songs, is Woody's version of the song.

--I come from a humble suburb of Cleveland. On a single day I read the name of the suburb in a mid-90s American novel and a research paper on transit-oriented development.

--I've thinking lately about how I used to travel the Money road, which folks said at night was a dangerous road because of the risk of running into a drunk driver. (Money, MS was where Emmitt Till met his tragic end.) So today I read that the town is in the news again because to some folks what happened in 1955 still makes them uncomfortable.

See what I mean? Is it just me, or does this regularly happen to everybody? Well, I guess it happened to Jung with enough frequency that he developed his concept of synchronicity around it.

2008-10-24T14:21:00.001-05:00

Here comes the sun

A 5MW solar thermal plant went on line today in California- the first new one in 20 years.

2008-10-24T10:37:00.000-05:00

Through the eyes of a child

"Nobody around here is voting for Senator McCain and Senator Palin. Senator Obama is going to win. I just know it."
-K, age 5

2008-10-23T10:53:00.000-05:00

Saw her today at the reception

I imagine that Ms. Palin envisions her first day of being in charge of the Senate like a debutante party, similar to how Emily Post describes it in "Etiquette": "It is your evening, and you are a sort of little princess! There is music, and there are lights, and there are flowers everywhere … all for you! Up the wide staircase come throngs of fashionables ... on purpose to bow to you!"

I wonder if she's printed invitations yet.

2008-10-18T10:25:00.000-05:00

Come Sail Away

While riding home today, I saw the Pedal Cloud parked in a front yard!

2008-10-15T10:29:00.000-05:00

Johnny Too Bad

The underlying meme for conquest in the 2004 presidential race, scribed by the mysterious Men by the Curtain, was "certainty." Resoluteness was seen as the pre-emptory leadership quality for our national leader. Although stubborness without accompanying good judgement seemed to me a virtue more appropriate for when a South-going Zax meets a North-going Zax, millions of voters dutifully absorbed this message and re-elected G. Bush to a second term.

It is of course too early to state unequivocably the victory meme of our current presidential campaign, but the fear of imminent terrorist acts and gut certainty are not a big part of the conversation. If I could hazard a guess based on the current state of the race, the big meme is composure- who will act responsibly and prudently in the midst of a crisis and provide stability, or at least project the aura of stability. In this arena, Sen. McCain fails miserably.

Between his campaign "suspension" historionics, racist demogogue impressions by his running mate, and outright lies, he is not running with a Zax mentality but more like the Cat in the Hat who arrives unannounced and creates havoc on unsuspecting house caretakers.

John McCain, will you please go now!

ps. and on a not entirely off-topic note: Alton Ellis died. May he rock steady in peace.

2008-10-10T10:54:00.000-05:00

Thane to the Throne

The political campaign season incites a whole host of horrors and stupidities, particularly evidenced by campaigns in their last throes. But rarely do campaigns inspire the sort of brilliance that will last long after the ballot boxes are toted away. This post sets the stage for all that is comic and tragic in the McCain/Palin Scare Talk Express.

2008-10-09T21:04:00.000-05:00

Sons of northern darkness

I can't imagine that the scions of Wall Street ever thought they would have to learn Swedish.

2008-10-09T10:30:00.000-05:00

Now I've got a recipe for hate

Sarahcuda has taken off her gloves (and hood) and the Hatefest roadshow continues.

2008-10-08T09:56:00.000-05:00

When the levee breaks

William Alexander Percy's autobiography "Lanterns on the Levee" contains passages that chart the rise of resentful poor whites who overthrow the paternalistic plantation landowner class from elected offices. As a teenager in 1910 Percy witnessed a crowd of poor Mississippi whites who had assembled to listen to his father, a member of the planter ruling class, speak in his campaign for US Senate. Percy describes them as "the sort of people that lynch Negroes, that mistake hoodlumism for wit, and cunning for intelligence, that attend revivals and fight and fornicate in the bushes afterwards. They were the undiluted Anglo-Saxons. They were the sovereign voter. It was so horrible that it seemed unreal."

Even though one hundred years have passed, the current tactics of the McCain/Palin campaign show that the same ingredients- demagoguery, hatred of the "other", and baseless accusations-can be manipulated to whip the right crowd into a frenzy.

2008-10-07T12:54:00.000-05:00

Calamity John comes to town

Due to a scheduled McCain/Palin appearance at the city center, a school district in suburban Cleveland is cancelling a half-day of classes for students. The local news report: "A school district spokeswoman said the half-day will not be counted as a calamity day."

2008-10-03T12:52:00.000-05:00

And the silence was astounding

It is a much repeated axiom that what isn't said/played is as important or more important than what is said/played, whether it's prose, politics or music. I don't think I've experienced this so acutely on a few recordings that begin with a slight stir- a brush on strings or tinkle on a piano-such the initial songs of Sufjan Steven's Illinois or the Mountain Goats' Get Lonely. I felt those intimate beginnings just suck the wind out of my lungs and I had to gasp to recover and wonder: what in the hell happened?

In a similar vein, the quietness is equally compelling when restraint far exceeds the volume, as on Slint's Spiderland. I mean, those dudes were in a third tier southern midwestern town(Sorry, Louisville shares more with Cincinnati than Memphis) in the nascent years of "grunge." They either should've been worshipping Pavement or Amphetamine Reptile bands. So they release this thing that has melody, roars, and has this oroboros ability to snake around and eat it its tail. I guess Tortoise coming out of its shell wasn't that unprecedented.

2008-09-30T11:05:00.000-05:00

I'm out on the lawn watching a hundred typewriters soaked in green paint

It being something of the zeitgeist- and I'm all about contributing to the spirit of the age- I decided to pursue some turf change I can believe in. So I ripped up the front yard, filled in some hollows with dirt from the patio excavation, and planted grass seed. I felt like Blind Bim shaving the earth dry and regaining some of the Lost Farm.

(I especially liked the 19th C yeoman's tool used to remove the old sod. The Maine Woods Thoreau essays I've been reading put me in the proper mood to slave away on that implement that resembles a medieval torture device. )

2008-09-29T13:52:00.000-05:00

Bailout the banks, loan art to the church

Does anyone remember the other $170 billion stimulus package that was supposed to fend off a recession?

We have always been at war with Eurasia.

2008-09-22T22:57:00.000-05:00

Been too long at the fair

"I'm all out of sick days. Next time I'm calling in dead."
"Not as lean, not as mean, but still a Marine."
"The Bible talks about St. Paul but doesn't mention Minneapolis"

-t-shirts seen at the State Fair

2008-09-11T13:31:00.001-05:00

A melody haunts my reverie

I used to have that lonesome ability to be ensnared by melodies that played endlessly in my head. But I haven't felt found myself in that state of addiction since, say, the emergence of Neutral Milk Hotel's last opus. Noting how my latest listening excursions weren't "sticky" (to borrow that Web 2.0 term), I wondered what changed. I'd lost the ability to become haunted: was it me or the music?

I decided it was me. I chalked the change to having a much fuller life with Mrs. B, with school, then a fledgling career, then kids, so I didn't simply have the time to drown myself in any single aural ocean.

But then along came a record that has upset my internal jukebox apple cart. I think it's the seduction of the hopelessly obscure- I just can't get enough of those private sonic thrills. Who else would be interested in a collection of low-fi ditties from '90s Buckeyes?

Well, I would or Bob's your uncle. It has all the right personal connections for me to kindle that delusion that I'm Almost Famous. The album contains cuts from a guy from Gaunt I met at a French Quarter party in the mid-'90s and from the Scat Records owner who lived down the street from me in high school. It even has the cache of possessing a song from the Yo La Tengo bassist who's anonymous on the track listing. But the two songs that really slay me are from a guy who shamelessly steals the Galaxie 500 sound (and gets away with it) and a song from a Guided by Voices member.

So excuse me while I go hit "play."

2008-09-05T10:51:00.000-05:00

Evil Minds that Plot Destruction

After witnessing the St. Paul Hatefest put on by the Republicans, I was feeling a little uncertain about the likelihood of Democrats prevailing in this year's presidential race; that is until I heard Black Sabbath's "War Pigs"* on classic rock radio while driving through rural Wisconsin yesterday.

I think it can be safely said; when you've lost classic rock radio, you've lost the nation.

*for the Sab illiterate, I offer the lyrics below:

"Generals gathered in their masses

Just like witches at black masses

Evil minds that plot destruction

Sorcerers of deaths construction

In the fields the bodies burning

As the war machine keeps turning

Death and hatred to mankind

Poisoning their brainwashed minds, oh lord yeah!

Politicians hide themselves away

They only started the war

Why should they go out to fight?

They leave that role to the poor

Time will tell on their power minds

Making war just for fun

Treating people just like pawns in chess

Wait till their judgement day comes, yeah!

Now in darkness, world stops turning

As the war machine keeps burning

No more war pigs of the power

Hand of God has struck the hour

Day of judgement, God is calling

On their knees, the war pigs crawling

Begging mercy for their sins

Satan, laughing, spreads his wings

All right now!"

2008-09-02T13:22:00.001-05:00

Jokerman

Call me clueless because I don't get John McCain's jokes.

"Why is Chelsea Clinton so ugly?
Because her father is Janet Reno."

What's funny about that?

2008-08-25T09:52:00.001-05:00

Hey, that's no way to say goodbye

I was out of phone reach last weekend attending a wedding in Maine. But, frustratingly enough, every now and then my phone would alert me that I had voice mails from Mrs. B. As three voicemails piled up in one day I thought: What is the deal, did someone die or something?

Well, sadly, that turned out to be true.

I've known Indian J since the second day I started attending school in Madison in 1985. By coincidence we sat next to each other at an orientation session, which was quickly followed by beers at the lakefront student union. At that time he was extracting himself from the wreckage of a premature marriage that had produced two toddler boys. Through the college years we weren't consistent running pardners, but our friend circles intertwined and we shared a couple girlfriends (though not at the same time- well, almost once) and were even roommates during senior year.

After I had left Madison for frontiers beyond what a liberal midwestern college town could offer, Indian J and I kept in touch. He remained in Madison and I periodically returned to visit- which included a couple month couch-surfing stint one summer- and eventually we found our life partners.

Indian J had found F., a native of Die, France who taught school. I didn't see them much, but understood something of the dynamic where she wanted to start a family and Indian J was reluctant: he felt burned by his first experience and he didn't know if he could devote himself to the project again. But divine intervention occurred and they decided to bring forth Little M into the world in '01 and were wed in '02. I watched as he joyously danced with his little daughter at the barnyard reception.

I'm a little hazy on the chronology, but F. was diagnosed with cancer around '03. She doggedly pursued treatment and was able to continue with a somewhat normal life for some time. But her health began to decline over the last couple years. By last fall she was spending some time in a wheelchair and was incapable of working. I saw her again several weeks ago and she was largely bound to a bed, but she could still hold a conversation. She wanted to hear about my world, and I kept my questions about her to a minimum. I had already sat with Indian J and asked how he was doing. "It sucks watching your wife die." I didn't need to ask her to explain how she was doing.

Shortly after my visit, her condition began to rapidly deteriorate. She needed professional help and was moved to hospice, where she lasted another week.

In the spectrum of human tragedies, individual deaths are the equivalent of a calendar year in geologic time. They don't really register as a blip when measured as a part of the whole. But as we live through our lives, we don't have the luxury of that larger perspective. The most minute events are often the most painful and medicine has yet to concoct ways to heal the wounds that need the most immediate attention.

I use the word "tragedy" because I witnessed Indian J, having reached for the brass ring of domestic felicity long after cynicism and resignation from a failed first marriage should have kept him on the sidelines, find that his grasp could not hold on as F.'s body failed her.

Indian J and Little Miss M will continue on: she to second grade and he back to his high school counseling duties. From my outside vantage point I can't escape seeing his life as a story flavored by the cruellest of ironies. It is a story of a runner who stumbled once, then rose to race again, only to find that the location of the finish line had changed.

2008-08-12T13:29:00.000-05:00

In tall buildings

One of my favorite albums (does it rise to the level of a Desert Island Disc? I dunno- I've never counted to 10) since time immemorial- or at least since I was a 17-year old pup working at a Colorado summer camp- is John Hartford's Aereo-Plain.

Spun from Hartford's eccentric prowess and David Bromberg's perpetual irreverence, the album must have seemed when it came out in 1971 like some unwanted hippy crapgrass encroachment on idyllic bluegrass turf. But I love it and have a cherished memory of streaking through a girl's locker room at the Colorado summer camp to the sound of "Boogie" coming from a shoulder-perched boombox.

So, aided by the recent uncovering of a 1983 UW-La Crosse solo recording, John Hartford has been in my ears and on my mind lately. One of the songs he plays- though it's not on Aeroplane- is one where the singer laments a change in life where he submits to a lifestyle where economic burdens and a quotidian schedule frame his existence.

..."Someday my Baby when I am a man, and others have taught me the best that they can, they'll sell me a suit and cut off my hair and send me to work in tall buildings. So it's goodbye to the sunshine, goodbye to the dew, goodbye to the flowers and goodbye to you. I'm off to the subway, I must not be late, I'm going to work in tall buildings. When I retire, my life is my own, I've made all my payments, it's time to go home, and wonder what happened betwixed and between, when I went to work in tall buildings."

Our firm recently moved its offices and I now work on the 15th floor.

2008-08-06T14:16:00.000-05:00

Time

So, back home from our lovely wedding weekend in Madison, I picked up the shovel to continue my Herculean labor project for the summer: excavating some 120 cubit feet of dirt so we can lay down a patio and a back walkway for our 103 year old house. As I began laboring, K came out of the house, excited about the prospect of finding buried treasure. "We can find a treasure chest. And we can put a storybox in it!"

Yeah, right kid, I thought as I sweated in the 86 degree heat. After I had wheelbarrowed a large dirt pile to the rear garden and began digging about 6 inches down on one side, I hit some stray pipes. Then I began to reveal some ceramic shards, rusty nails, and burnt wood. Obviously, I had hit a trash pile that workers had buried there. I turned over a little more dirt and found a small clear glass bottle imprinted "Frostilla" on one side and "Fragrant Lotion" on the other side. Maybe K was going to get his treasure after all.

Next in the dirt I picked up a small coin or token that was octogonal in shape. K quickly grabbed it out of my hand and he washed in the hose that he and L had been playing in. The coin said: "Crescent Creamery- redeem with empty bottle for 5 cents."

I looked on the internet and found that Frostilla was a skin cream- made in Elmira, NY where we used to go for neo-natal checkups before K was born- and the bottle is probably from 1900-20. The Crescent Creamery operated from St. Paul until it was bought out in 1961 by Kemp's, whose milk we buy every week. The Crescent Creamery also employed a Greek immigrant who ended up being the father of the Andrews Sisters, who first came to fame in 1937 with their recording of "Bei mir bist du schon," a song the bride sang to the groom at the Madison wedding reception.

It's a small world and a small clock, afterall.

2008-07-30T12:19:00.001-05:00

Life during wartime

Evidently, there is a surge in porch music overseas.

2008-06-13T14:38:00.000-05:00

The devil's grip just won't let go

It occurs me that, contrary to the Obama's campaign claims, McCain is running for Cheney's third term, not Bush's. How else can you explain this?

This is not the face of vegetarian America.

2008-06-12T14:36:00.000-05:00

Summertime ain't coming but it's always on my mind

It's almost mid June and I haven't even gotten the kiddie pool down from the garage rafters. We have not had sweltering days that swell the corn and bake me on my daily commuting bike rides. When will summer come?

I'll save you the predictably jokes about Al Gore not doing enough to cause some real global warming.

2008-06-12T10:04:00.000-05:00

Baby, let's play house

See how you rank as a spouse in that golden era of matrimony.

2008-06-11T13:26:00.000-05:00

Brother, brother, brother

Somewhere in China there is a matriarchial society that has not followed the lead of the dominant Han culture in proclaiming 2008 as the Year of the Rat. Instead they have designated this year as the Year of Marvin Gaye.

Their proclamation has become prophecy. A brown-skinned man has ascended to be the presumptive presidential candidate for a major US political party. And his words seem to echo Mr. Gaye's:

"We don't need to escalate.

You see, war is not the answer."

"Bills pile up sky high,

Send that boy off to die."

"War is hell, when will it end,

When will people start gettin' together again"

and so on...

2008-06-02T10:50:00.000-05:00

Misty-watercolored memories

Ah, to remember the days when my best bud-running pardner and I painted our respective car doors with our names.

I don't remember such days, but I wish I did.

2008-05-09T10:40:00.000-05:00

Close to the Edge

When your love of the End brings a little more desperation than ecstasy, then why not fulfill your millennial fantasies with a little ghost dancing under the kleig lights at the Pump'n'Go?

2008-04-10T12:44:00.000-05:00

The boy next door is into better things

I think when I moved to Minneapolis I had this false illusion that the majority of my peers had bought into the place (as I had) as a mecca for hipsters and a place where irony was still alive and kicking.

But my illusion is dissolving as I get little kicks in the head to inform me that I'm in the Midwest after all. The other day K received a goody bag while attending a friend's birthday party. When he pulled out the star-shaped glasses in addition to the chocolate bars and plastic bars, I blurted out to the friend's mom: "Wow- good score on the Bootsy glasses." Her quizzical look in response prompted me to explain how Bootsy is. But the effect was lost. It's like having to explain a joke.

Perhaps I'm aiming too high. When I told friend Dave, he said that I should have used Elton John for my analogy. I guess it might serve to communicate my message so that the listener might comprehend it, but it's not as accurate or fun to compare anything to Sir John. Besides, it doesn't bolster my hipster credentials (which must be promoted at every possible occasion).

Update: I listened to two mothers today as they left the pre-school after dropping off the kids. One said: "I don't know much about that." The other said. "I'll do some research and find out what it's about. It's called "inner space" or something." I know now not to assume that she's talking about the legendary cinema outside Cologne where Can recorded some of their uber-tribal-psyche rock masterpieces.

2008-04-08T11:19:00.001-05:00

Today I lost a tooth

When Carlyle said that history writes the times of happiness in transparent ink, I don't think he had ever met a slacking writer. I've many tales to tell, accompanied by illustrative photos, but little gumption to lay them on this page.

But I finally sent out almost all of my Christmas cards out and am cleaning out my nest in order to lay some new eggs. I waver between accumulating tasks, junk, and detritus of the Undone and merciless purging.

Let the cartoons begin!

Ps. What ever happened to Joe Hunt and the Billionaire Boys Club?

2008-03-14T10:25:00.000-05:00

Border Radio

Every now and then there comes into my life a specimen of trash rock that enthralls me like nobody's business.

My latest indulgence, via the Big Brain, is King Khan and Barbeque Show. They infuse do-wop into infectious slattery rhythms, similar to what Doo Rag did with blues.

2008-02-16T21:30:00.000-06:00

Find a city to live in

"One thing I have realized is that I do not want to live a life in the suburbs like I grew up in and my parents now live. I want a big back yard and grass and birds. Or else I wish to live on a quiet street in the city, a close walk to stores and entertainment. I came to this conclusion this summer after being home unexpectantly to recover from an operation.

"I looked at the suburbs with a fresh vision and judged it. I saw that the suburbs are asleep. During the day the only people outside are the hired hands of the homeowners- lawn and tree service people, roofer, painters and asphalt blacktoppers. The streets and sidewalks are vacant: no mothers walking slowly with their children, no dogwalkers.

"It is lonely. I decided I did not want to live in such a place where life is so far away. Nothing feels immediate in the suburbs; money has distanced the suburbanite from everything."
- written fall 1986 when I was only a year out of the suburb

2008-02-07T13:00:00.000-06:00

If everybody went to bed at the same time, the whole world would die

... Sayeth Allen Toussaint (via Lee Dorsey). And I think Jane Jacobs would agree.

Her recommendations for multi-use neighborhoods were well known to me, but it was a revelation to read her advocacy for 18-24 hour districts. Her strict condemnation of civic single-use districts were also compelling.

But those districts are here (in the form of large governmen complexes, hospitals, schools, sports facilities and the like), so what to do with the edges which are barriers rather than zippers to connect two unmatched (land use) suitors?

2008-02-07T12:42:00.000-06:00

Got my prescription filled

I went to caucus and the Mayor was at the door wearing an Obama sticker. I said, "You can't do that, Hillary's the establishment candidate. His response was to tag my chest with an Obama sticker.

I saw Zeb, whose yard contains the biggest black walnut tree on the block. Chemotherapy had shorn him of the beard he'd grown for 40 years.

2008-01-29T09:59:00.000-06:00

Talking about revolutions

When he was young at the beginning to the 20th C my grandfather sang temperance songs with his family. My dad birddogged to the Red Tops at high school dances in the Mississippi Delta. But by the time I was growing up he only hummed country tunes from AM stations.

My budding music tastes were nurtured by Don McClean's "Miss American Pie," (B'rer Bob received it for Christmas) and the Stylistics' recreations of the '70's pop parade (mail order). My neighbor Charlie introduced me to "Rubber Soul" and "Mystery Tour" in 5th grade. I had my brief Kiss infatuation, via my older brother, when I was in 6th grade. Then by 7th grade it was the Blues Brother's album, Jethro Tull's live "Bursting Out," another Aerosmith's "Bootleg"- another live recording that disappointed me because it didn't have snippets of Joe Perry addressing the crowds. By 8th-9th grade it was all over. I was gaga for prog rock- Yes, Genesis, King Crimson- and Skynyrd live and Black Sab's "Paranoid" for those special Genessee Cream Ale moments.

My brother's music tastes were highly influential in those early years. It wasn't until I was 17 that I became fixated on Elvis Costello's "My Aim is True" and Adrian Belew's "Twang Bar King" that I ventured on my own. Then senior year it was all Beatles all the time with the Fra.

By the '80's and'90's I tried to label a certain recording as my favorite, or in hindsight I can identify favorites by their heavy rotation that year:

1985: many Windham Hill artists

1986: Sweet Honey in the Rock

1987: The Feelies "The Good Earth"

1988: tie- Tar Babies "No Contest" and the John Water's Hairspray soundtrack

1989: any Galaxy 500

1990: Pere Ubu "Modern Dance", "Dub Housing"

1991: Talk Talk "Laughingstock"

1992: Victoria Williams "Swing the Statue"

1993: quadruple tie: Uncle Tupelo "March 16-20, 1992", Jayhawk's "Hollywood Town Hall, Boredom's "Pop Tatari", and Bettie Serveert "Palomine"

1994: Liz Phair "Girly Sounds"

1995: K. McCarthy "Dead Dog's Eyeball"

1996: Mary Lou Lord and Palace Brother's firsts

1997: The Olivia Tremor Control "Dusk at Cubist Castle", Elliott Smith "Either/Or"

1998: Neutral Milk Hotel "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea", Tortoise "TNT"

1999: Jim White "Wrong-Eyed Jesus"

By the new millennium swung around I was in way too deep to identify anything but the main veins that I continue to mine: Elephant 6, '70's punk, 60's pysche, just about anything out of New Orleans, delta blues, field recordings, Richard Thompson, Montreal bands, krautrock, and indi pop favorites like the Decemberists, Sufjan Stevens and Yo La Tengo.

Somehow I've managed not to list James Blood Ulmer, Patti Smith, Dinah Washington and Dylan, but so it goes. At this point, my collection database lists almost 2,200 CD's (that doesn't include vinyl or mp3's).

But, I assure you: All of them are special to me.

2008-01-29T09:50:00.000-06:00

O Superman. O Judge. O Mom and Dad.

Daughter L: You wear underwear?
Dad: Yes
Daughter L: White or Batman?

2008-01-15T13:23:00.000-06:00

Entertain Us

K and I went to the grocery store on Sunday afternoon. After we were done shopping, and since I wanted to make it something of an outing for him, we went to the nearby record store. I thought we could find some Farmer Jason. That's Jason from Jason and the Scorchers in his new gig. With some help from the store clerk, we did find that disc. Meanwhile, Kieran piled in my hands many other discs that he wanted. Because he can only recognize a dozen or so words, he was simply going by the cover images for what he preferred. It is a study in marketing. Invariably, he chose recordings that had colored drawings on the covers, reminiscient of his beloved comic books. It's no wonder Joe Camel was so successful.

So Kieran got his reformed punk rocker kid music CD and I found one as well. When we arrived home, I showed Mrs. B our finds. "Here's one for Kieran, and this other one with a underwater baby chasing a dollar bill on the cover- I think that's some kid music too."

Mrs. B. peered at the cover. "What's that?"

I tried to hide my disbelief that she didn't recognize the iconographic image from THE album of the '90's- an album that launched a fleet of Led Zep-Black Sab soundalikes and made "alternative music" mainstream. "It's Nirvana."

"Oh, I'm into more obscure bands," she sniffed.

"But they only sold 30,000 copies of their previous album," I countered.

We had a little dustup about my failing to hide my disbelief - I imagine Harold Bloom had the same difficulty with his wife - but I had to chuckle in the end. When Nirvana broke, I wasn't into them; I was too cool. It was fun to do "Teen Spirit" karoake on Bourbon Street, but I couldn't take it seriously as music. I had seem them live the year before and it didn't appeal to me.

Later I put the CD on and it is good. It didn't get K doing his hot foot wiggle leg dance like he does for R.L. Burnside, but I enjoyed it.

Update: Today I was able to pass off Led Zep's "Mothership" collection as family music.

2008-01-09T10:10:00.000-06:00

She's a clean machine

My most Punjabi in-laws gave their grandson the most American gift: a vintage Hot Wheels Sizzler track that had lain dormant in their garage for close to four decades. It is complete with original packaging and juicebox for refueling the cars.

The working parts don't work anymore, but K has got the niftiest track on the block. Fortunately, Mattel started manufacturing the cars again in the mid '90's so we'll have to get those Gremlins, Corvettes and other boss cars revved up for some serious laps. (K wants to do loops like it shows on the box, but I'm not optimistic that my civil engineering skills are adequate.)

2008-01-09T10:07:00.000-06:00

Call me Mellow Yellow

I told my office manager that my goal for the year was to be able to distinguish Merle Haggard from Waylon Jennings.

Then a few days later I was awarded a 6% raise.

Think there's a connection?

2008-01-04T12:35:00.000-06:00

Like Miles said

The audacity of it all...

That Barak Obama is one clean motherfucker. And all you motherfuckers who read Miles Davis's autobiography know what I'm talking about.

2007-12-17T12:17:00.000-06:00

There's no surf in Cleveland USA

Oh, Cleveland, how you've taken it on the chin. You get knockout punches in the national media about an epidemic of house foreclosures. The Rock Hall doesn't even hold its awards banquets where the Hall is located. I tell ya: growing up in a place that is lampooned on Saturday Night Live leaves a self-esteem bruise that is slow to heal. Got Cleveland Vice? You betcha! (On the same night in '86 when the 'Mats were on the show!) Poor Cle: you can't make a living, can't walk the streets, and worst of all, can't field a winning baseball team.

The economic history of the city is similar to a number of northeast industrial cities where the canal provided the original impetus for growth (1825-1855), railroads cemented it (1860-1890) and then heavy industry produced goods for the developing world. In the first half of the 20th Century, the fields of communications, energy, and transportation were energized by Cleveland residents and companies who contributed their innovations.

Then the slide began. In 1950 the city was fifth largest in population in the entire U. S. of A. By 2000 it had tobogganed to 40th.

Now, we can take refuge that the future of Cleveland's economy is based on its artists bringing their particular North Coast Cloudland aesthetic to the world. As it was in the '70's when Pere Ubu, the Electric Eels, the Dead Boys, the Mirrors, ruled the mean streets of the decaying industrial town, a whole new crop of songsters, sirens, and sonic deadbeats will rise again.

2007-12-11T13:42:00.000-06:00

Sorry Ma, I took out the tracks

Often tripping on the shadows of others when it comes to timely cultural appreciation, I find myself suddenly inexplicably (well, thanks to Mrs. B) able to offer a timely review of a cultural artifact. The book is the new Replacements oral history. I didn't really grow up with that band as an integral part of my psycholgical or aural development (concept dramas like "Quadrophenia" did the trick for me), but have appreciated them since the mid '80's. But I was a dilletante: I have fragmented versions of "Trash", "Stink", and "Hootennanny" where I excerpted the cuts I found pleasing, leaving much of their punkness out in the cold. Thus was the state of my classic rock-infested musical tastes.

A couple weeks ago, I hauled out "Trash" and spun it on the turntable- it rocked! It has a jagged spin art sonic madness that I never noticed before. I can't even remember buying the album.

Then I read the book and love its compendium of gushing fan notes, august puffery from rock aristocrats, and loose chronology. Lacking a strict chronology, it has the uneveness of tone and timing, but devotion to passion, that a recording of a drunken wake of the band would possess.

The dramatic center of the book is the character of Paul Westerberg. He comes off as a cranky inscrutable genius and posterchild of punk petulance. He is a figurehead of an unresolvable tension that the band represented: the choice between respected permanence (music career, bulky catalog of recorded material) and blazing comet ephermality (frenzied live shows that owe all to the moment).

The band itself could not figure where it stood in this matter. In their history they vacillated between the poles: Say Yes to a Saturday Night Live performance but piss off Lorne Michaels; kick out the founding guitarist for being fuckup but continue to revel in beer-soaked live sets; make a video but it is a guitar amp still life portrait.

In the end I felt a little dirty after reading the book. I can't say that I personally liked the main protagonist (Westerberg) but found the book compelling. And now I'm on the hunt for recordings of live shows from different eras and am having fun with what I found.

I especially like this photo of the Placemats on the abandoned couch on the rail line. That particular rail line has been revamped to be a bike trail (part of my route to work) and sadly has lost the ability to be a backdrop for a punk band publicity photo. Makes me nostalgic for blight I never knew.

2007-12-03T12:49:00.000-06:00

Electricity comes from other planets

There are many days when I ride my bike to work and it affords me time and the inclination, since I am powering myself, to ponder my means of locomotion and its place in the big arc of History.

The other day while riding, Henry Miller's words came to mind: "I'm delirious because I'm dying so fast." I considered the speaker of this quote to be our carbon-powered age admitting that current conditions has it on the ropes.

Apart from the usual glum soothsayers, I don't think anyone could have predicted these shocks so soon: an oil price of $100 dollars a barrel, the Smart car sold in the US, continual media stories on climate change and peak oil, etc. Big Business is usually cast as the villian in this environmental and economic transformation, but the Titans understand that they have to plan long term, even if current federal leadership believes that Frostbite Falls should relish its new ability to offer Club Med weather.

What next? It doesn't seem like a far stretch to imagine that we will enter an age of electricity where motion will generate energy that will be transferred to other uses. Whether it's solar, hydroelectric, wind, geothermal, tidal or even crowd movement, we won't be extracting it from below as we have in the past.

Or, I should say "we" in the developed world. As it is increasingly happening, the developed country is exporting our pollution and industrial processes to the developing world. They'll be faced with the bloody and expensive competition for carbon-based natural resources to fuel the energy-hogging industrial processes. As our biggest export is entertainment, we'll film it for the Thunderdome Consumer reality TV show and sell it back to them in syndication.

Of course I'm offering a very simplistic summary of a decades long process. There will be wars, market upheavels, political skirmishes fought over the pace, direction, and structure of our future energy market, but the way in which we live our lives won't force us to have daily interactions with Big Oil.

Instead, we'll face Little Energy where innovative startups will attempt to capture markets: new cars, new sources of plastic and other materials. These companies will of course compete and at some time in the future settle into conventional wisdom as entities necessary to our Way of Life, as the Railroads were considered unassailable in their day. But as De Gaulle said, the graveyard is full of indespensable men.

We'll sort out this conventional energy snafu in the next fifty years or so, just in time for the Viral Explosion that will make the Plague Years seem like a brief roll in smallpox blanket.

2007-11-20T12:45:00.000-06:00

The Sound of an Earthquake

Changes in the geomorphic world seem to tilt or ooze based on earthquakes or erosion, and in many ways our lives are altered similarly. Sometimes we are clearly the agents of this change, and other times we are simply acted upon by outside forces.

So I don't know what to make of this recent change in my beer preference, as not one but two favorite beers are receding quickly in the Tastebud Derby. First to fall was the Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA (Beer Advocate rating: 88). On a recent trip to a civilized Northwest Territory where it is distributed, I picked up a couple 6-packs to relish at home. But my enjoyment fizzled out like a sun-baked Budweiser. It was drinkable, but had nothing of the soothing pine-essence effervescence that had proved so endearing and enduring to my tastebuds of yore.

Next came the defrocking of the Victory HopDevil (BA rating: 89). We were out at the local Beer and Bowl and it was the third in a panoply of pale ales. I sipped it and immediately sensed that something was wrong- it did not have the special flair- that crisp citrusy hopolity. I called the waitress over to see if the pour was correct. She seemed knowledgeable that it was the beer brand I ordered. I couldn't say that it tasted BAD; it just wasn't the HopDevil that first wowed me at Quips Pub when I quaffed with their Tuesday night fish'n'chips wrapped in Brit newspaper.

So now we come to what has emerged victorious at the finish line. Sometimes at first sip, Bell's Two Hearted Ale (BA rating: 91) renders me breathless. And then sips number to 2 to n offer a parade of beatific bitterness.

So I'll let the geologists and theologians argue over the exact nature of this change. I'm going off with Nick Adams to fish that Two Hearted River.

2007-10-09T09:29:00.000-05:00

Tiptoe through the tulips

Energized by the recent awareness that Tiny Tim is buried not less than two miles from our house, the Kids and I hopped on the bike in search. However, we did not find any marker for the esteemed ukulele player, nor for the inventor of the bundt pan, a Soul Asylum bassist, the creator of the Mars bar, Lindbergh's dad, Paul Wellstone or Hubert Humphrey- all interned there as well.

In other news, Mr. Jimmy, who didn't get what he wanted, died.

2007-10-07T20:45:00.000-05:00

Wheel in the Sky

After moving into the New House, I found myself a shelf in a basement room that was ideal for storing my vinyl that I had been estranged from for six years. (They had lain fallow in a Cleveland basement.)

I cleaned off the shelf (finding local newspapers from 1943 and 1966- boy, those celebrants of the Greatest Generation omit mention of the deadly race riots that occurred during the war) and loaded up my collection.

Shortly after I had re-established this connection, Mrs. B, feeling guilty about an imminent Target buying spree, volunteered to buy a retro turntable. I said Yes and she came home with a 4-in-1 gizmo that could even play my 78s. I was psyched and started pulling out the old ELO, Carpenters, Wishbone Ash, ZZ Top, Big Star, and K-Tel gems.

Sadly, however, I alphabetized the records and am at a loss to explain the absence of many blues, R & B, and colored ELO vinyl. Wha? I did cull out some records along the way (bye bye Doors bootlegs), but would I have really jettisoned Ginger Baker and Fela jamming together?

2007-10-03T13:29:00.000-05:00

Misty-colored memories

Back when I was growing up, the mountains vaulted higher to the skies, the trees grew straighter, and the rivers ran clearer.

And the mysteries were real chin-scratchers. We wondered: was Klaatu really some reincarnation of the Beatles?

Now, the big question for kids these days is whether Guns'n'Roses is ever going to put out another album.

2007-09-25T15:39:00.000-05:00

By any other name...

I love the word "shambolic." It sounds like it should be a brand of rainbow shampoo.

2007-09-25T15:30:00.000-05:00

Product Endorsement

For fishing I use Shurcatch sinkers- Guaranteed to get you a hit everytime.

2007-09-18T11:08:00.000-05:00

Making the Rounds

Yesterday I drove home while blissful strains of Four Tet surrounded me. I bought the album while living in Maryland. It is significant how different it is listening to it in my nordic nirvana. I used to listen to it as succor, to provide me with beauty anchored by Modern Sounds as a bulwark against the Unbeauty. Now it is a supplement- the very cherry on the sundae.

Or to phrase it another way, I used to cling to it as a fundamental element of the Food Pyramid rather than the sprig of parsely framing the plate of an already delicious meal.

2007-09-18T11:06:00.000-05:00

Sun so hot I froze to death

Yesterday, Mrs. B told me to put hats and gloves on the kids going out in 50 degree weather and to pull the unicorn out of the clothes dryer.

2007-09-14T16:25:00.000-05:00

Scarlet fleece changes you

Heard the first Autumn leaf reports on the radio last week. And this week I noticed the sun's light had turned to a pale fall hue. And at work I heard someone explain that the "air is like champagne."
Indeed.

2007-09-10T12:12:00.001-05:00

They drove Dixie down

The Fam & I left Maryland over a year ago, but in some ways I haven't left it. I still have nagging thoughts about how my experience there fits into the larger narrative arc of my life. What remains within me is a jagged disconnect between my essentially "live and let live" nature and my urge to fling unpardonable epithets and brickbats in the general direction of the Old Line State.

While a Maryland resident virtually every day when I was out in the world, navigating public space, I suffered some insult to something that I judged a cherished element of a high quality of life. The drumbeat against decent disposition of the commons was constant: walking, biking, recreating, or passive appreciation of nature so often seemed to be a remote priority behind a host of private concerns. I left the state with a feeling of unease: maybe it was just me. Why couldn't I get with the program to drive everywhere, only interact with strangers at malls, buy an obscenely expensive house with water access, and ignore the environmental degradation that my lifestyle spawned? I better skeedaddle my po self back to the Midwest where I could find other bike-riding public amenity-obsessed losers like me...

Over the weekend I was reading a collection of Annapolis historical vignettes. The book contains a series of profiles of political and business leaders who founded prominent places or local institutions. Many of the family names mentioned are enshrined in places througout the city. So it's just history, right? No harm, no foul. But that wasn't my response. It felt very alienating to hear stories of a simpler, slower time from this city.

I find this response peculiar. I've lived in many places where I've happily accepted my role as the outcast: as a member of the middle class in an affluent suburb growing up; as a transient resident of New Orleans, where societal ranking was determined by your grandfather's identity- forget about your own esteemed accomplishments in this life; or as the faceless visitor in small towns where I lived for months. But something about the exclusivity that pervades Annapolis really got under my skin.

It took awhile for me to identify the root of my feelings: the roster of elites is somewhat mislabeled. They really represent the gallery of rogues. The decay of prime features of a sustainable quality of public life is a consequence of their direct (for economic or political profit) and indirect (negligence or ignorance) actions. City leaders didn't require sidewalks in new developments, push for adequate funding of the school system, preserve the rail right-of-way access to Baltimore, and based a street network on farm-to-market roads.

The result is a diminished quality of life for anybody who dares to venture from their private dwelling. The road network, often single roads on peninsulas stretching into the Chesapeake Bay, is burdened beyond capacity with little option to expand. The Bay itself is polluted, with algae blooms and a deoxygenated dead zone developing every summer. Private schools, all curiously founded in the same year- 1956- educate the wealthy's children. There is little public transit for commuters going to the major job centers, Washington DC and Baltimore. The strict regulatory framework that limits shoreline development is often disregarded.

To be fair, many of the decisions I criticize were made within the political arena, supported by the public, and mimicked national trends in development. Maryland shares Bay shoreline with Virginia and a huge influx of Bay water comes from Pennsylvania, so the environmental damage is not solely Maryland's responsibility. But those who benefited greatest from the loss of a vibrant public sphere are absent from any process to reclaim and revitalize it, yet retain the power to do so. It isn't even part of the public dialogue that the loss of vibrant public spaces is a problem. It's like the earth or public space is a color other than white, and thus can be dismissed, devalued, or otherwise shat upon.

Am I mad? Hell, yes. But I feel much more at peace with the realization that it's not just me.

Update: The reason I take such offense at Annapolis versus, say New Orleans, is that the elites of New Orleans still put the jelly jar on the bottom shelf so the little people can reach it. The essence of the place is still available to all, regardless of social or economic status. Possessing wealth will gain quite a different quality of life, but anybody can walk lazily under live oaks in the Garden District, peer into hidden gardens in the French Quarter, or swoon on the levee under a full moon. The same amenities aren't available in Maryland. The real gem of the place is the Bay, and unless you got the do-re-mi, you ain't doing that dance.

Water is the life blood of Minnesota as well, and access to it defines a quality of life. But here in the Socialist Republic of Minneapolis, a different rooster rules the roost. In Anne Arundel County, where I used to live, there are 534 miles of shoreline; only about 10 miles of that is public. In Minneapolis, home to 22 lakes with dozens of miles of shoreline, all the shoreline is public with the exception of about 5 or 6 house lots. Here, we've got the coddlewobbles because we're eating so much jam. (Some have even taken to slathering it all over their bodies, but we won't get into that.)