From The Ghost Writer by Philip Roth:
"Purity. Serenity. Simplicity. Seclusion. All one’s concentration and flamboyance and originality reserved for the grueling, exalted, transcendent calling. I looked around and I thought, This is how I will live."
Monday, November 24, 2008
The New Angle
Once again, I've been MIA for some time now. The reasons are fairly concrete: I write often, but seldom for this blog, and when I do, I feel like I probably shouldn't be. With what time I have, which I'll admit is not nothing, I have a responsibility to be working on my craft, which is fiction. That said, I very much like having a blog, so here's what I plan to do:
1.) I'm going to start posting photos from my everyday life. These photos will be of those things that, together, comprise my daily routine. They will not necessarily be exceptional; that is not their point. What I want is for you to have a sense of the goings-on in my life.
2.) I read a lot, and I've decided to also draw on this part of my life, posting quotes from the books I pass through.
3.) I will also, when the spirit moves me, quote from or review music I'm listening to.
What this means, more or less, is that this blog will carry less of my own writing and more of the world that inspires/surrounds me. At least I'm back, right?
1.) I'm going to start posting photos from my everyday life. These photos will be of those things that, together, comprise my daily routine. They will not necessarily be exceptional; that is not their point. What I want is for you to have a sense of the goings-on in my life.
2.) I read a lot, and I've decided to also draw on this part of my life, posting quotes from the books I pass through.
3.) I will also, when the spirit moves me, quote from or review music I'm listening to.
What this means, more or less, is that this blog will carry less of my own writing and more of the world that inspires/surrounds me. At least I'm back, right?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Interruptions
I’ve been away because I’ve been reading, and because I don’t know what to say.
There are things I’ve been thinking about.
It’s autumn again. A tree across form us has already turned bright red. The Twins need to win tonight and tomorrow’s games to take the division, or the White Sox need to keep losing. School’s four-weeks deep; I’ll be starting thesis this winter. I still think that The Band’s Visit is the best movie of the year, though that could change still in the next few months. I’ve been barrowing Dave’s old car, so we now have two. I’d prefer to have zero. I wish we lived somewhere more concentrated. Andre Dubus was onto something; am I going to always be a short story writer? Where will Jamie’s practice be? Six years - we’ve been married for six years. We told people we’d wait for four or five years before having kids, thinking that that was maybe a bit long. Now six, and still no kids. There are all these endings – endings for friends and of jobs, of this stretch of life. If the Twins win the division, they’ll lose in the first round, I’m sure, but at least the ChiSox won’t be around. I’m trying to write something about dads again, drawing on the work of Virginia Woolf. What is it about our fathers?
I wrote an opening to a story over the summer. Where do I take it?
The scene is difficult to imagine. Everyone was angry, there was a great mess.
I have to pick up Sam now for the game. Adam will meet us there.
There are things I’ve been thinking about.
It’s autumn again. A tree across form us has already turned bright red. The Twins need to win tonight and tomorrow’s games to take the division, or the White Sox need to keep losing. School’s four-weeks deep; I’ll be starting thesis this winter. I still think that The Band’s Visit is the best movie of the year, though that could change still in the next few months. I’ve been barrowing Dave’s old car, so we now have two. I’d prefer to have zero. I wish we lived somewhere more concentrated. Andre Dubus was onto something; am I going to always be a short story writer? Where will Jamie’s practice be? Six years - we’ve been married for six years. We told people we’d wait for four or five years before having kids, thinking that that was maybe a bit long. Now six, and still no kids. There are all these endings – endings for friends and of jobs, of this stretch of life. If the Twins win the division, they’ll lose in the first round, I’m sure, but at least the ChiSox won’t be around. I’m trying to write something about dads again, drawing on the work of Virginia Woolf. What is it about our fathers?
I wrote an opening to a story over the summer. Where do I take it?
The scene is difficult to imagine. Everyone was angry, there was a great mess.
I have to pick up Sam now for the game. Adam will meet us there.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Where Have I Been?
Well, let’s see. I’ve been to five concerts—the Prine/Harris show was the best, the Drive-By Truckers show was the most rock‘n’roll, and the Ramblin’ Jack Elliott show had the best stories.
I’ve been bicycling about. Maybe you’ve seen me—I’m that guy on the old Lenton Sport, or that new Surly. They're both green!
I went to New York to see myself some of the game of base they call “ball”—the Twins lost (Boo!); A-Rod and Jeter both homered (Shocker!); the Mets threw it away (Double Shocker!), but Johan pitched (Nice!); Yankee Stadium should stay (it’s not—Sorry Ruth!) and Shea Stadium should go (it is). Lots of nice people were met.
I’ve been writing in my studio on Mondays and Tuesdays, and sometimes on other days. Sigh—writing’s hard and lonesome!
I’ve been drinking lots of beer. Yum!
A story of mine was accepted for publication in a book. Score!
I’ve been reading, but not like I should—certainly not as much as I did last summer. In my hands now is Junot Diaz’s new book The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which is fantastic. Go Pulitzer!
I’ve been adding to my stash of sunglasses (You've got nothing, Mr. Sunshine!), but I typically only wear the one pair (see above). They just fit better.
And, well, that’s about it. Sorry it’s been so long.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
After the Game
We spill into the city like members of a congregation leaving a domed church, our footsteps, clapping down the concrete landings, resounding the benediction:may your come-from-behind win over the Yankees give you peace, may this moment keep you warm deep into the spring night, and may your road ahead be filled with victories like this one, forever and ever, amen. Fireworks cast flashes of yellow and blue across the shifting crowds. We divide into lines and veer off in search of our way home. I follow my friend through a human maze, across intersections and around corners—each block grows quieter than the last, each block thins the crowd. We are almost alone when he turns to me and says that his dad died two years ago today, that this is the second anniversary of his passing.
The first Major League game he attended was in ’86. His dad brought him to the Dome for a match up between the Twins and the A’s. Puckett batted for the cycle, Blyleven threw his 3,000th strikeout, and to top it off, the third base ump tossed him a game ball between innings. His dad, who grew up watching Mick and Koufax, told him that watching Puck was just as good. Years later, only weeks after Puckett was inducted into the Hall of Fame, they traveled together to see the hallowed grounds of Cooperstown. Three years after that, his dad was gone.
Tonight, as we walk beyond the reach of the Dome and its crowd, he says to me, “Grief is not as painful as regret, and dads were invented to go to baseball games with, and as long as long as your dad’s still around, there’s nowhere else you should be.”
("After the Game" is an excerpt of "Easter Baseball," an essay I wrote in 2006.)
The first Major League game he attended was in ’86. His dad brought him to the Dome for a match up between the Twins and the A’s. Puckett batted for the cycle, Blyleven threw his 3,000th strikeout, and to top it off, the third base ump tossed him a game ball between innings. His dad, who grew up watching Mick and Koufax, told him that watching Puck was just as good. Years later, only weeks after Puckett was inducted into the Hall of Fame, they traveled together to see the hallowed grounds of Cooperstown. Three years after that, his dad was gone.
Tonight, as we walk beyond the reach of the Dome and its crowd, he says to me, “Grief is not as painful as regret, and dads were invented to go to baseball games with, and as long as long as your dad’s still around, there’s nowhere else you should be.”
("After the Game" is an excerpt of "Easter Baseball," an essay I wrote in 2006.)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
"...On Memory" addendum:
This afternoon, after posting my last entry, I sat down with yesterday's Star Tribune and found the following passage, which, I think, does a better job than myself in explaining the way we story information.
"The brain does not simply gather and stockpile information as a computer's hard drive does. Facts are stored first in the hippocampus, a structure deep in the brain about the size and shape of a fat man's curled pinkie finger. But the information does not rest there. Every time we recall it, our brain writes it down again, and during this restorage, it is also reprocessed. In time, the fact is gradually transferred to the cerebral cortex and is sepaarated from the context in which it was originally learned."
Wang, Sam. "Whose Words These Are I Think I Know..." Star Tribune, Op-Ed. Sunday, June 29, 2008.
"The brain does not simply gather and stockpile information as a computer's hard drive does. Facts are stored first in the hippocampus, a structure deep in the brain about the size and shape of a fat man's curled pinkie finger. But the information does not rest there. Every time we recall it, our brain writes it down again, and during this restorage, it is also reprocessed. In time, the fact is gradually transferred to the cerebral cortex and is sepaarated from the context in which it was originally learned."
Wang, Sam. "Whose Words These Are I Think I Know..." Star Tribune, Op-Ed. Sunday, June 29, 2008.
Some Thoughts on Memory
This was us the other night:
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Olive juice.”
Laughter.
“Olive juice too.”
“What movie is that from?”
Neither of us could remember.
“Isn’t it weird how I could reach over and grab my computer (or my phone or iPod, even) and find out the movie in two seconds? Ten years ago, we would’ve had to ask around and wrack our brains, and we maybe never would have figured it out.”
We talked about this for a while and went to sleep. But in the days that followed, I couldn’t let it go. I kept coming at it from different angles. I was excited that we now have so much information at our fingertips, but I was curious if by not wracking our brains we suffer a crucial loss. I wondered if there was something in spending a few days trying to remember something that is essential and balancing.
On a related note, a few days before our “Olive Juice” conversation, I was standing in line at Starbucks and this young couple in front of me ordered seven espresso drinks from memory, most of which had at least one variation—i.e. decaf, non-fat, etc. Not having a list to help them, their order came out as a rambled trip through free-associations.
She would say, “Bridget wanted a mocha with white chocolate, and she didn’t want any whip cream and she wanted it to be non fat. It was non-fat, right?”
And he would say, “And decaf!”
For seven drinks, they did this…much to mine and the barista’s chagrin.
What was interesting was that when it was all said and done, when they had ordered and I had ordered and we had all left, I could still recall every drink they ordered, variations order included.
1. Grande non-fat, no-whip, decaf White Chocolate Mocha.
2. Venti Caramel Frappuccino.
3. Grande, no-whip Vanilla Crème Frappuccino.
4. Double tall non-fat Latte.
5. Grande Latte.
6. Grande non-fat, w/whip Mocha.
7. Tall, decaf Caramel Macchiatto.
Memory works like this: we take in, file away, then recall. Unfortunately, most of what we take in and file away, we lose. Only the surface oil of memory matter remains within our reach. And usually, what comprises that oil—that residue that sticks—is something we have a strong emotional connection to, a common relationship to, or have some strong and clear grouping for.
I could remember the line “olive juice” because it had affected me. I must’ve had a strong reaction to it when I first saw the film. And probably, the rest of the film was not nearly as memorable. And then, regarding the espresso drinks, I have spent a year working at a Starbucks, so when I hear a complicated order, it’s still just a single drink to me. I only had to remember seven things, not seven lists, like they did, which draws both on familiarity and grouping.
One more example, then I’ll get to my point.
In high school, I used to tell people that I had memorized a 100-digit number and that I could prove it. Without skepticism or enthusiasm, they’d agree to play along. I would give them a pen and paper and tell them to write each number down as I said it and to then read along as I recited the number for a second time. And every time, it worked.
Half of the people I did this to were impressed. The other half recognized that there was a trick. And at least half of those figured out what my trick was, which allowed them to turn around and immediately compile their own 100-digit number.
My trick was to draw a mental, geographical map of fourteen friends whose phone numbers I had memorized (This was before cell phones and speed dialing—most people had at least this many numbers memorized). Then all I had to do was follow my map, going from one friend to the next, reciting each of their numbers along the way. I didn’t use area codes for obvious reasons—imagine if I had said 6 then 1 then 2 after every seventh number (again, seeing as this was pre cell phones, every suburban region did not yet have its own area code). And because 14 x 7 is two shy of an even 100, I’d start my list with the numbers 1 and 2.
Now, alas, my point: we’re getting dumber.
We used to have dozens of phone numbers memorized, and we used to have to try and solve for ourselves what movie a line came from. And now, drawing on my example of the hefty Starbucks order, we have focused our memory capacity on function. Think of that espresso bar as a computer. I mastered how to enter and operate the computer. I could easily remember complicated lists by simplifying each run-down into a single image. We do this with almost everything now. I know, for instance, that to get to my photos on my cell phone, I have to press the center, right, center, center, up, up, center. I don’t have to read the screen as I go, looking for the next page to be listed somewhere. I just know.
The problem is, I haven’t actually learned anything. The phone is still the answer. I don’t have those photos frozen into my memory. Instead of being unsophisticated computers, we’re becoming very sophisticated operators. And I can’t help but feel that that’s not an equal trade.
I could go on, but I won’t. I’ve probably already broken the longest entry for my blog. And it was all just to say we’re becoming dumb. How nice.
But before I go, does anyone know what movie (or wherever else) saying “olive juice” came from? I’m refusing to Google or Wikipedia it. I’m going old school on this one.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Olive juice.”
Laughter.
“Olive juice too.”
“What movie is that from?”
Neither of us could remember.
“Isn’t it weird how I could reach over and grab my computer (or my phone or iPod, even) and find out the movie in two seconds? Ten years ago, we would’ve had to ask around and wrack our brains, and we maybe never would have figured it out.”
We talked about this for a while and went to sleep. But in the days that followed, I couldn’t let it go. I kept coming at it from different angles. I was excited that we now have so much information at our fingertips, but I was curious if by not wracking our brains we suffer a crucial loss. I wondered if there was something in spending a few days trying to remember something that is essential and balancing.
On a related note, a few days before our “Olive Juice” conversation, I was standing in line at Starbucks and this young couple in front of me ordered seven espresso drinks from memory, most of which had at least one variation—i.e. decaf, non-fat, etc. Not having a list to help them, their order came out as a rambled trip through free-associations.
She would say, “Bridget wanted a mocha with white chocolate, and she didn’t want any whip cream and she wanted it to be non fat. It was non-fat, right?”
And he would say, “And decaf!”
For seven drinks, they did this…much to mine and the barista’s chagrin.
What was interesting was that when it was all said and done, when they had ordered and I had ordered and we had all left, I could still recall every drink they ordered, variations order included.
1. Grande non-fat, no-whip, decaf White Chocolate Mocha.
2. Venti Caramel Frappuccino.
3. Grande, no-whip Vanilla Crème Frappuccino.
4. Double tall non-fat Latte.
5. Grande Latte.
6. Grande non-fat, w/whip Mocha.
7. Tall, decaf Caramel Macchiatto.
Memory works like this: we take in, file away, then recall. Unfortunately, most of what we take in and file away, we lose. Only the surface oil of memory matter remains within our reach. And usually, what comprises that oil—that residue that sticks—is something we have a strong emotional connection to, a common relationship to, or have some strong and clear grouping for.
I could remember the line “olive juice” because it had affected me. I must’ve had a strong reaction to it when I first saw the film. And probably, the rest of the film was not nearly as memorable. And then, regarding the espresso drinks, I have spent a year working at a Starbucks, so when I hear a complicated order, it’s still just a single drink to me. I only had to remember seven things, not seven lists, like they did, which draws both on familiarity and grouping.
One more example, then I’ll get to my point.
In high school, I used to tell people that I had memorized a 100-digit number and that I could prove it. Without skepticism or enthusiasm, they’d agree to play along. I would give them a pen and paper and tell them to write each number down as I said it and to then read along as I recited the number for a second time. And every time, it worked.
Half of the people I did this to were impressed. The other half recognized that there was a trick. And at least half of those figured out what my trick was, which allowed them to turn around and immediately compile their own 100-digit number.
My trick was to draw a mental, geographical map of fourteen friends whose phone numbers I had memorized (This was before cell phones and speed dialing—most people had at least this many numbers memorized). Then all I had to do was follow my map, going from one friend to the next, reciting each of their numbers along the way. I didn’t use area codes for obvious reasons—imagine if I had said 6 then 1 then 2 after every seventh number (again, seeing as this was pre cell phones, every suburban region did not yet have its own area code). And because 14 x 7 is two shy of an even 100, I’d start my list with the numbers 1 and 2.
Now, alas, my point: we’re getting dumber.
We used to have dozens of phone numbers memorized, and we used to have to try and solve for ourselves what movie a line came from. And now, drawing on my example of the hefty Starbucks order, we have focused our memory capacity on function. Think of that espresso bar as a computer. I mastered how to enter and operate the computer. I could easily remember complicated lists by simplifying each run-down into a single image. We do this with almost everything now. I know, for instance, that to get to my photos on my cell phone, I have to press the center, right, center, center, up, up, center. I don’t have to read the screen as I go, looking for the next page to be listed somewhere. I just know.
The problem is, I haven’t actually learned anything. The phone is still the answer. I don’t have those photos frozen into my memory. Instead of being unsophisticated computers, we’re becoming very sophisticated operators. And I can’t help but feel that that’s not an equal trade.
I could go on, but I won’t. I’ve probably already broken the longest entry for my blog. And it was all just to say we’re becoming dumb. How nice.
But before I go, does anyone know what movie (or wherever else) saying “olive juice” came from? I’m refusing to Google or Wikipedia it. I’m going old school on this one.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
About Which I Could Write
Here I am, staring at this picture, wondering if there’s something here about which I could write, and it dawns on me that in this wonderful city of ours, in this pair of communities we call home, there are many things that I love – crowds outside of movie theaters and smokers outside of bars, clubs with histories and buildings on registries, and streets with trees and sidewalks with cracks, and people walking and people bicycling, and radio stations that get to play anything they want and bookstores that choose to carry anything you’d want, and teams, both professional and bad, and weathers, both warm and never-come-outside cold, and parks, and lakes, and good people with good ideas – but at the end of the day, when you've really given it a careful thought, we have no sea and no giant rubber ducky. So no, there is nothing here about which I could write.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Place in History
Rocco Mediate lost the 2008 U.S. Open Championship to Tiger Woods today. Imagine if he had won.
Tiger tied it on the final hole of the final round, forcing an 18-hole playoff. At the end of the playoff round, on the final hole, Tiger did it again, sinking a birdie putt and forcing a round of sudden death. Then, as if the winds of fate finally began to blow, Tiger clinched the 'o8 U.S. Open title on the first hole of sudden death - the 19th hole of the day - the 91st hole of the tournament.
As a big enough fan to have been watching golf's majors since junior high, and who is fully aware of how incredibly nail-biting the game of golf can be, I have no words for this tournament. Certainly, it was the best I’ve ever seen.
I would give just about anything that’s not bolted to the ground to have been at Torrey Pines these past few days, to be able to have the "I was there" story to tell, so I can’t begin to imagine carrying with me the story that Rocco Mediate now will.
But again, imagine if he had won.
In the moments that everything swung from Rocco’s favor to Tiger’s, I realized something: that a win by Rocco would give him one of the greatest upset stories in golf history, but that by losing he now can claim one of the most exciting chapters of the biggest story in golf’s history – the story of Tiger Woods.
The 2008 U.S. Open title was Tiger’s 14th major championship, and he called it the "greatest tournament" he's ever had. Jack Nicklaus has the current lead in majors with 18 wins, and none of them have been in this fashion. But drama aside, there's something more to this.
Look at Tiger’s clip. Nicklaus played a full tour schedule until he was 46, needing that final year to win his last. Tiger is only 32; it’s only a matter of time before he crosses the line from being the greatest golfer playing today to being the greatest golfer that ever was. And when he does cross that line, Rocco will be there, holding his head high, saying, “I was this close.”
Here's to losing!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Being Seen
The instructor dismissed us for a fifteen-minute break then confronted me in the hallway. She asked me what I was going to get. We were both examining a bank of vending machines. I said that I didn’t know. She said, “Has anyone ever really looked at you – ever really seen you?”
Again, I said that I didn’t know.
She said, “I can feel you looking at me when I’m teaching.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Yes, you are. I can feel it.”
“I never even do the assignments.”
“No,” she said. “You’re right, you don't.”
“What does it feel like?” I said.
“What does what feel like?”
“When I’m looking at you, what does it feel like?”
“It feels like you can really see me.”
I thought about this for a moment then put two dollars in the nearest machine and punched in the numbers for a pack of gum.
She said, “I probably spend a hundred dollars every year on gum.”
The students started filing back into the classroom then.
“I’ll try and do my work from now on,” I said.
“Yes. That would be nice.”
I asked her if she wanted a piece of gum.
“Thank you,” she said. She took one, then said, “When you’re looking at me, do you see anything?”
“No." I thought about it for moment and said, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“It’s O.K.,” she said. “You know, I should save this piece of gum. Chewing gum is not conducive to teaching.”
“No, you’re right, it’s not.”
Monday, June 2, 2008
A Room with a View
I finally did it. I rented a writing studio. I’m there now!
What this means is that I have 24-hour access to a clean and quiet space, and that I’m now paying for the privilege to write…and by write, I don’t mean blog entries.
So enjoy the pictures and wish me luck on my new endeavor!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Lego Man in Black
Mixing a legend, a gospel staple and Lego's sounds flammable, right? You'd think. And I have to admit that when I first stumbled onto this video, I was flooded with annoyance. How irreverent of these kids, I thought. But then, after watching it all the way through, I realized that this was a labor of love...and probably not the work of kids. Misguided love? Maybe. But love just the same. Look at the details - at the characters, at their mouths, at the set, at the Man in Black. Look at the frames this must've taken. Look at the consistency from beginning to end. Look at the timing and choreography. This was a labor of absolute reverence. For the song? For Cash himself? Yes, and yes. I think maybe even reverence for Lego's too.
But I'm curious, what do you think?
White Rabbit!
The game is called "White Rabbit!"My junior high youth director taught it to me. His college professor taught it to him. We played it year-round through junior high and high school - then, after graduating from high school, I ended up going to the same college as my youth director. The professor who had taught him was still there and he was still teaching his students the game.
Here's how you play:
1.) On the first of every month, through whatever means you can think of, you have to be the first person to say "White Rabbit!" to whoever else is playing.
That's it. It's pretty simple.
But we found a way to turn it into a giant and raucous ordeal. It was a given that on the eve of every new month, we'd be out collecting white forks, then stabbing them into whoever's yard, spelling-out W-H-I-T-E R-A-B-B-I-T !, or lugging around a giant poster of a white rabbit that would get passed back and forth between us. Or, if we were all together at the stroke of midnight, there'd be a flurry of quick and directed declarations - whiterabbitwhiterabbitwhiterabbit... And because it picked up where it left off every month, there was never a sense that someone had won, at least not beyond the notion that "I got you this month!"
How many years has it been since we've played? It must be going on ten. Are we too old to play silly games? Too tired to run around in the middle of the night? Maybe. Probably.
It's sometimes hard to see the signs for what they are, for indicators that you, too, are getting old, that you are no different than your elders.
Because I resist the idea I'm getting old, and because I'm feeling nostalgic now, and because it's the first of the month, let me leave you with this... White Rabbit!
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Struggles
I once ran into Matt Damon and he asked me if I had anything to show him. He was referring to my writing. I had mentioned to him that I dabbled in screenplays - we were on the bus together and had somehow gotten on the subject. I told him that I didn’t have anything cooking at the moment. I asked him if I could get his email and send him something when I was ready. He said, “No, no. That’s okay.”I sometime try and write this opening scene where there’s a close up of spinning bicycle spokes and then we pan out to see the rest of the wheel, then the whole bike and these kicking legs, and then there’s the kid (sometimes it’s a hipster, sometimes it’s just a kid) and he’s focused and sweating, peddling through traffic in New York, or in a neighborhood in autumn. But it never goes anywhere.
When the time comes that I'm making enough money and am under no particular pressure, I would like to start each day by walking down to the café and eating breakfast and reading the Times. I imagine that this would set up a clear mind and a productive rest of my day.
I realize that studying another language would help with my writing.
I’ve heard that Matt Damon plays a lot of Scrabble. I would imagine that this is a helpful use of his time, learning all those funny words and all.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Walking Where Dylan Walked
Jamie pulled a jacket off the Salvation Army rack and handed it to me. I put it on. It fit. My dad said, “That looks so sharp.” Jamie said, “It’s only five dollars.” My mom said, “You should just get it.” I brought it to the counter. The lady said that it was half-off because of the yellow stripe on the tag. I paid her $2.50 and we left.We continued down Howard St., passing closed store after closed store, half of which were closed because it was a Saturday, and half because they had closed their doors for good. Not until the other end of the six-block drag did we find another store to go into. It was Howard Street Books. There, we met Toby Thompson, the first person to write about where Bob Dylan had grown up, which was here, where we were, in Hibbing, MN. We bought and had him sign reissued, soft-cover copies of his book. Then we left, turning back up Howard St. to our car.
We couldn't believe how quiet everything was. There was nothing, and no one. We had expected this to be a big deal. It was Dylan Days, after all. We drove up here expecting to find the streets clogged with tourists and the stores set up on the sidewalks and for their clerks to be out smiling and telling “back when” Robert Zimmerman stories. But this was it, Salvation Army and a small bookstore.
We drove out to our motel on the edge of town, checked-in and unpacked. I took off my over shirt and tried the jacket again. It felt good and went with the Dylan t-shirt I already had on, so I decided I would wear it for the rest of the night. My dad was jealous that he didn’t have anything that was so “rock’n’roll.” I said that I smelled like a thrift store. They assured me that I didn't.
We drove back into town and parked in front of Zimmey’s, a Dylan-themed bar and grill. We had an hour before the concert and the restaurant was full. They offered us a seat on the patio and told us what food would be the fastest. We ordered and while we were waiting, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott came walking by. He was the concert’s headliner and he was hitting up a bar minutes before the opening act went on. And did I mention that he's 77-years-old?
We finished eating and decided to walk to Hibbing High School, where the concert was going to be. I looked back at Howard St. and at the setting sun. I asked Jamie for the camera and she asked if I was going to do my “walking away” shot. I said that I was and we turned the camera to the auto-timer. I got down on my knees and began setting up the shot. My parents asked what I was doing, my mom made a comment about an oncoming car. Camera ready, I pressed the shutter and jumped to my feet. I took a few quick steps, then slowed to a strut.
And there I am, walking where Dylan walked, wearing my two dollar and fifty cent thrift-store coat.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Two Writers
The following was taken from Italo Calvino's If on a winter’s night a traveler. As an aspiring writer, I found this passage to be exactly right, and deeply inspiring. Whether you're a writer or not, whether you find this passage inspiring or not, I hope that you will take a moment and read it, and that in doing so you'll better understand some of the anxiety I carry. Enjoy.The tormented writer watches the productive writer filling pages with uniform lines, the manuscript growing in a pile of neat pages. In a little while the book will be finished: certainly a best seller—the tormented writer thinks with a certain contempt but also with envy. He considers the productive writer no more than a clever craftsman, capable of turning out machine made novels catering to the taste of the public; but he cannot repress a strong feeling of envy for that man who expresses himself with such methodical self-confidence. It is not only envy, it is also admiration, yes, sincere admiration: in the way that man puts all of his energy into writing there is certainly a generosity, a faith in communication, in giving others what others expect of him, without creating introverted problems for himself. The tormented writer would give anything if he could resemble the productive writer; he would like to take him as a model; his greatest ambition now is to become like him.
The productive writer watches the tormented writer as the latter sits down at his desk, chews his fingernails, scratches himself, tears a page to bits, gets up and goes into the kitchen to fix himself some coffee, then some tea, then chamomile, then reads a poem by Hölderlin (while it is clear that Hölderlin has absolutely nothing to do with what he is writing), copies a page already written and then crosses it all out line by line, telephones the cleaner’s (though it was settled that the blue slacks couldn’t be ready before Thursday), then writes some notes that will not be useful now but maybe later, then goes to the encyclopedia and looks up Tasmania (though it is obvious that in what he is writing there is no reference to Tasmania), tears up two pages, puts on a Ravel recording. The productive writer has never liked the works of the tormented writer; reading them, he always feels as if he is on the verge of grasping the decisive point, but then it eludes him and he is left with a sensation of uneasiness. But now that he is watching him write, he feels this man is struggling with something obscure, a tangle, a road to be dug leading no one knows where; at times he seems to see the other man walking on a tightrope stretched over the void, and he is overcome with admiration. Not only admiration, also envy; because he feels how limited his own work is, how superficial compared with what the tormented writer is seeking.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Someone Who Was There
I asked Ramblin’ Jack Elliott if Woody Guthrie had a favorite joke. He smiled and said, “He used to tell the corniest jokes.”I asked if he could remember any.
“No, it’s been so long now. But one funny thing I do remember is that he used to play his own songs on jukeboxes and stand there, tapping his feet and whistling along, not telling anyone that it was his song.”
“He also used to hold up his beer and say, ‘Good for your wife’s kidneys.’”
My dad asked if Odetta’s mom had really added the Ramblin’ to his name.
“She sure did, though it took some friends to make it stick.”
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Lit Here, Lit There, Lit Lit...
A piece of writing passes through many hands before it gets published. This is especially true with book-length manuscripts. But even with short stories and essays, there are still countless people involved. There is, for instance, the writer, the writer’s support group, the agent, the publisher (sometimes more than one publisher), the editor, the copyeditor and so on. But really, there are really only the two sides: the side of creation and the side of completion. At some point along the line of hands-involved, it goes from being about getting it down to being about getting it right.
Over the past five months, I’ve been involved with the publication of my university’s literary journal. The experience provided me the opportunity to spend some time on the “other side.” I went from being the creator to being the publisher. I wasn’t, of course, the publisher. But I was asked to think like one. I was asked to consider the merit and relevance of each piece, and how potential pieces played against each other. I was asked to defend my reasons for advocating on behalf of one piece and my reasons for rejecting another. I was asked to think in terms of the big picture and to simultaneously pay attention to the smallest of details. And by doing all of this—by juggling these responsibilities—I am now certain of two things: publishing is not for me and writing most definitely is.
The brutal reality of publishing is that the odds are against each and every piece. We began with over four hundred submissions and are only going to publish eight. The reasons something gets in are usually simple—the writing is strong, the story is strong, the voice is strong, the problems are few and far between. But the reasons something doesn’t get in are often much harder to define—the first readers didn’t like it, the editors had mixed reactions, there were maybe some problems with craft or grammar, there was a similar and stronger piece.
All of these could be the culprit, but it could also be something else altogether. The one exception to this is stuff that is truly bad. And while very few stories and essays would fit into this category, there are always enough duds in a pile to make this a legitimate concern. What’s tricky is trying to explain to someone (or to yourself, if you’re a writer) that if something is truly good, it will eventually get published, while also reminding them that it’s not just about having a dozen pages double-spaced and tenacity.
In this day and age, with technology aplenty and every reason to chase your dreams, there are thousands of writers-to-be, hundreds of publications and dozens of readers. It’s an unhealthy food chain. Even I, someone who is by most standards a serious reader, must admit that I had never read a literary journal cover-to-cover before getting my feet wet with my school’s. I also have to admit that I have always thought (and still struggle with whether) there are too many places a story can be published—too many literary journals.
I can’t decide, however, where the blame should be put. Certainly, any place that is still fighting the good fight should be applauded, but ultimately, does having all this literature really contribute to the cause? I’d like to think so, but the skeptic in me is inclined to believe the opposite. A hundred years ago, there were no MFA programs and very few literary journals. What got published was the absolute best of the best. And while this would have wiped my future off the board, I think it did raise the overall standard to a much higher level than what we have now. But then again, one hundred years ago, there were no TVs or video games or internet…all of which literature has to now go up against.
Stephen King, as the guest editor of the 2007 Best American Short Stories, said in his introduction: “So—American short story alive? Check. American short story well? Sorry, no, can’t say so. Current condition stable, but apt to deteriorate in the years ahead.”
I have to agree. Maybe there are too many publications—too many literary journals. But I also have to say this: readers or no readers, writers and publishers need to keep at it. This is a noble fight we’re in, and while there are the two sides to what we’re doing—the creating and the completing, let me be clear: we’re all in it together.
Sick or strong, big or small, there will always remain a culture of words and stories.
Maybe there are too many words being sent to too few people. Maybe the standards are lower than they were before. And maybe the future is less than desirable. But I still believe that there are stories out there that need to be read, and that without little journals like ours, and without the hard work of everyone behind the scenes, these stories would disappear into the great and distant silence. So…
Go, Lit Mag, Go!
Over the past five months, I’ve been involved with the publication of my university’s literary journal. The experience provided me the opportunity to spend some time on the “other side.” I went from being the creator to being the publisher. I wasn’t, of course, the publisher. But I was asked to think like one. I was asked to consider the merit and relevance of each piece, and how potential pieces played against each other. I was asked to defend my reasons for advocating on behalf of one piece and my reasons for rejecting another. I was asked to think in terms of the big picture and to simultaneously pay attention to the smallest of details. And by doing all of this—by juggling these responsibilities—I am now certain of two things: publishing is not for me and writing most definitely is.
The brutal reality of publishing is that the odds are against each and every piece. We began with over four hundred submissions and are only going to publish eight. The reasons something gets in are usually simple—the writing is strong, the story is strong, the voice is strong, the problems are few and far between. But the reasons something doesn’t get in are often much harder to define—the first readers didn’t like it, the editors had mixed reactions, there were maybe some problems with craft or grammar, there was a similar and stronger piece.
All of these could be the culprit, but it could also be something else altogether. The one exception to this is stuff that is truly bad. And while very few stories and essays would fit into this category, there are always enough duds in a pile to make this a legitimate concern. What’s tricky is trying to explain to someone (or to yourself, if you’re a writer) that if something is truly good, it will eventually get published, while also reminding them that it’s not just about having a dozen pages double-spaced and tenacity.
In this day and age, with technology aplenty and every reason to chase your dreams, there are thousands of writers-to-be, hundreds of publications and dozens of readers. It’s an unhealthy food chain. Even I, someone who is by most standards a serious reader, must admit that I had never read a literary journal cover-to-cover before getting my feet wet with my school’s. I also have to admit that I have always thought (and still struggle with whether) there are too many places a story can be published—too many literary journals.
I can’t decide, however, where the blame should be put. Certainly, any place that is still fighting the good fight should be applauded, but ultimately, does having all this literature really contribute to the cause? I’d like to think so, but the skeptic in me is inclined to believe the opposite. A hundred years ago, there were no MFA programs and very few literary journals. What got published was the absolute best of the best. And while this would have wiped my future off the board, I think it did raise the overall standard to a much higher level than what we have now. But then again, one hundred years ago, there were no TVs or video games or internet…all of which literature has to now go up against.
Stephen King, as the guest editor of the 2007 Best American Short Stories, said in his introduction: “So—American short story alive? Check. American short story well? Sorry, no, can’t say so. Current condition stable, but apt to deteriorate in the years ahead.”
I have to agree. Maybe there are too many publications—too many literary journals. But I also have to say this: readers or no readers, writers and publishers need to keep at it. This is a noble fight we’re in, and while there are the two sides to what we’re doing—the creating and the completing, let me be clear: we’re all in it together.
Sick or strong, big or small, there will always remain a culture of words and stories.
Maybe there are too many words being sent to too few people. Maybe the standards are lower than they were before. And maybe the future is less than desirable. But I still believe that there are stories out there that need to be read, and that without little journals like ours, and without the hard work of everyone behind the scenes, these stories would disappear into the great and distant silence. So…
Go, Lit Mag, Go!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
What's On
There seems to be no rules left for television. It’s an anything goes world of faux reality and über drama. What was racy then is careful now. Violence is to be expected, nipples are to be slightly blurred and loser after loser is to be pushed out onto center stage for your review. Television has become a you’re-never-going-to-believe-this crapshoot, and like much of the rest of the world, I’m a near-junkie.I sometime hate myself for spending so much time watching television; I’ve even blogged about it here in the past. But now and then, albeit seldom, something comes along that changes everything, and I actually feel grateful for TV. Sometimes it’s a single episode. Sometimes it’s an entire series. West Wing was this for me; LOST and The Office have had their moments. This quality, whatever it is, is not formulaic or definable. It’s something organic. It’s usually of consequence and often imbued with hope. And as rare as these “quality” moments may seem, they are out there.
I give you Boston Legal.
On its surface, Boston Legal is about sleazy hookups and shallow men. But beneath that, at its truer levels, it’s about so much more. It’s about the lives of wealthy and broken people, each searching for purpose and intimacy, and trying when they can to do something meaningful with their lives. It’s about the past and about the future, and it's about the here and now of the world's affairs. Above all, though, it’s about something even greater—friendship.
Simply put: If you’ve lost faith in television, you need a dose of Boston Legal.
Front and center of Boston Legal is the friendship of Alan Shore (James Spader) and Denny Crane (William Shatner). Their dedication to each other is of the ages. It’s what makes the show go 'round, and it’s what makes me want to stand up after every episode and declare, “I am better off having watched this!”
Each episode of Boston Legal closes with Alan and Denny sitting together on Denny’s balcony. There, they share a glass of scotch, smoke a cigar and talk about their days. In these moments, television itself rises above being worthless and becomes something quite beautiful.
Here’s a taste from this week’s episode, “Indecent Proposals.”
Alan: One thing I do love about you.As Rooting McGreevy (also from Boston) used to say, ‘Nuf Ced.
Denny: Tell me.
Alan: While many people embrace the promise of tomorrow, too few celebrate the joy of now. And nobody does that like Denny Crane.
Denny looks off.
Denny: Well, let me tell you something. When you've got polar icecaps melting and breaking off, and when you’ve got Osama still hiding in a cave—planning his next attack, and when you’ve got other rogue nations with nuclear arsenals, not to mention some whack job homegrown who can cancel you at any second, now gets high priority.
Alan laughs. Denny looks over.
Denny: And when you’re sitting on your balcony on a clear night, sipping scotch with your best friend, now is everything.
Alan: Here’s to that.
Denny: Here’s to now.
Monday, April 21, 2008
A Gift
I drove through Starbucks this morning. I ordered a grande coffee and when it was finally my turn at the window, my debit card ready and waiting, the barista told me that the woman in the car in front of me had paid for my drink. Maybe I’m jaded, or maybe I’m just innately skeptical, but I had to ask the barista if she was serious. She was. Convinced that this was really happening, I asked if the woman had given a reason why. She had.
“She was paying it forward.”
Apparently, someone a few cars ahead of me had paid for the drink of the person behind them. That person, after learning this, then asked to pay for the drink of the person behind them. So on and so forth. Everyone happily paying it forward.
I was impressed by the generosity of this, and amused that it had gone on for several cars now, but something about it was also unsettling. Part of the problem was that I suddenly felt immense pressure to pay for the drink of the person behind me. And as much as I didn’t care about the cost of doing this, and as much as I liked the idea of endorsing such activities as this, I felt a strong resistance.
“What do you want to do?” asked the barista.
I looked at her. I was torn. Her asking me furthered the implication that there was an expectation here.
“You know,” I said, “I think I’m just going to accept the gift.”
She smiled and told me to have a great day, which was reassuring, but as I pulled forward into the parking lot, I suddenly felt panicked. What if a camera crew was waiting to capture on film the cheapskate who ended a good thing? What if the woman who had paid for my drink was waiting for me? What if I got caught?
It was ridiculous of me to think this way, but I didn’t want to be faced with what I had just done. It felt like I had just gotten away with something. Even now, writing this for you, I feel an urge to explain myself.
So here goes, my explanation…
I think we have a hard time accepting gifts. I don’t think it has anything to do with where we live or how much money we make. I think it’s just how we are. Gifts, to us, can sometimes feel like debt. We keep track of who gives us birthday gifts so that we can be sure to do the same for them. We take note of how much our significant others spend on us at Christmas or on our anniversary so that we can match or exceed this sum the next year. We have a mental cabinet reserved for this information. We might resent ourselves for filing it away, but no matter how hard we try to not care, we unfailingly do.
This morning, faced with the question of what I wanted to do, everything in me was ready to say, “Yes, I’d love to keep this going!” But there was also something in me that was concerned about being that guy, the guy who didn't keep it going. And this troubled me.
I don’t regret being “that guy.” I don't regret ending a good thing. I was given a gift. I accepted it as a gift. And you know, I think I probably will pay it forward someday. But I’m not going to do it because I want to even the score or simply to reciprocate. I don't want it to be about paying off a debt. And while I know it wasn't necessarily that for the few cars who kept it going in front of me, and while I am grateful that only by their doing so was I included, I am saying that pressure, not joy, was how it felt when I was faced with the decision to keep it going or not.
When inspiration to do something like this next strikes me, whether it's at a Starbucks or not, whether it's a repeatable gesture or not, I really want it simply to be my way of saying, "Here’s a gift—I hope you enjoy it."
“She was paying it forward.”
Apparently, someone a few cars ahead of me had paid for the drink of the person behind them. That person, after learning this, then asked to pay for the drink of the person behind them. So on and so forth. Everyone happily paying it forward.
I was impressed by the generosity of this, and amused that it had gone on for several cars now, but something about it was also unsettling. Part of the problem was that I suddenly felt immense pressure to pay for the drink of the person behind me. And as much as I didn’t care about the cost of doing this, and as much as I liked the idea of endorsing such activities as this, I felt a strong resistance.
“What do you want to do?” asked the barista.
I looked at her. I was torn. Her asking me furthered the implication that there was an expectation here.
“You know,” I said, “I think I’m just going to accept the gift.”
She smiled and told me to have a great day, which was reassuring, but as I pulled forward into the parking lot, I suddenly felt panicked. What if a camera crew was waiting to capture on film the cheapskate who ended a good thing? What if the woman who had paid for my drink was waiting for me? What if I got caught?
It was ridiculous of me to think this way, but I didn’t want to be faced with what I had just done. It felt like I had just gotten away with something. Even now, writing this for you, I feel an urge to explain myself.
So here goes, my explanation…
I think we have a hard time accepting gifts. I don’t think it has anything to do with where we live or how much money we make. I think it’s just how we are. Gifts, to us, can sometimes feel like debt. We keep track of who gives us birthday gifts so that we can be sure to do the same for them. We take note of how much our significant others spend on us at Christmas or on our anniversary so that we can match or exceed this sum the next year. We have a mental cabinet reserved for this information. We might resent ourselves for filing it away, but no matter how hard we try to not care, we unfailingly do.
This morning, faced with the question of what I wanted to do, everything in me was ready to say, “Yes, I’d love to keep this going!” But there was also something in me that was concerned about being that guy, the guy who didn't keep it going. And this troubled me.
I don’t regret being “that guy.” I don't regret ending a good thing. I was given a gift. I accepted it as a gift. And you know, I think I probably will pay it forward someday. But I’m not going to do it because I want to even the score or simply to reciprocate. I don't want it to be about paying off a debt. And while I know it wasn't necessarily that for the few cars who kept it going in front of me, and while I am grateful that only by their doing so was I included, I am saying that pressure, not joy, was how it felt when I was faced with the decision to keep it going or not.
When inspiration to do something like this next strikes me, whether it's at a Starbucks or not, whether it's a repeatable gesture or not, I really want it simply to be my way of saying, "Here’s a gift—I hope you enjoy it."
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Christmas at Cheapo
I grew up in a house full of music. Vinyl, Cassette, CD...you name it, we had it. My dad was at the helm of this music addiction and I could tell you a million record-related stories here. But there's one in particular that rises above the rest. One Christmas Day afternoon, my father suggested that we don our jackets and scarves, walk as a family around Lake Calhoun and pay Cheapo Records a visit. We had spent the past day and a half over-stimulated with large dinners, gift opening and non-stop “family time," so the opportunity to get out was an easy sell.
I remember it being a mild Dec. 25th that year, but we were still cold enough after reaching Lake St. that we had to stop in at Cafe Wyrd (now Barbette's) for coffees and cocoas. After a quick thaw, we finally made it to Cheapo. Inside, we broke into our own private hunts. I can't remember what anyone else got, but my selection was Revival by Gillian Welch. I was sold when my dad pointed out that it was she, not Emmylou Harris, who wrote "Orphan Girl."
I remember sitting by stereo that night, playing "Orphan Girl" on repeat. I even remember going back to Emmylou's version for comparison. At the time, I thought first place remained in Emmylou's corner. Now, I'm not so sure. Either way, that Christmas trip remains one of my favorite family memories.
I wonder now why we didn't make it a family tradition. Did nobody suggest we do it again the next year? Did it not cross my mind? Maybe some things are meant to be inspiration and nothing more. Maybe it's best that it belonged only to that year. Or, maybe it will be a generational tradition. My dad handed it down to us, we'll hand it down to ours. So on and so forth, from one generation to the next, from our house to the house of music, forever and ever... or for as long as Cheapo keeps its doors open on Christmas Day, anyway.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with the words to "Orphan Girl."
I am a orphan
on God's highway
But I'll share my troubles
if you go my way
I have no mother
no father no sister
No brother
I am an orphan girl
I have had friendships
pure and golden
But the ties of kinship
I have not known them
I know no mother
no father no sister
No brother
I am an orphan girl
But when he calls me
I will be Able
To meet my family
at God's table
I'll meet my mother
my father my sister
My brother
no more an orphan girl
Blessed savior
make me willing
And walk beside me
until I'm with them
Be my mother
my father my sister
My brother
I am an orphan girl
Be my mother
my father my sister
My brother
I am an orphan girl
I am an orphan girl
I remember it being a mild Dec. 25th that year, but we were still cold enough after reaching Lake St. that we had to stop in at Cafe Wyrd (now Barbette's) for coffees and cocoas. After a quick thaw, we finally made it to Cheapo. Inside, we broke into our own private hunts. I can't remember what anyone else got, but my selection was Revival by Gillian Welch. I was sold when my dad pointed out that it was she, not Emmylou Harris, who wrote "Orphan Girl."
I remember sitting by stereo that night, playing "Orphan Girl" on repeat. I even remember going back to Emmylou's version for comparison. At the time, I thought first place remained in Emmylou's corner. Now, I'm not so sure. Either way, that Christmas trip remains one of my favorite family memories.
I wonder now why we didn't make it a family tradition. Did nobody suggest we do it again the next year? Did it not cross my mind? Maybe some things are meant to be inspiration and nothing more. Maybe it's best that it belonged only to that year. Or, maybe it will be a generational tradition. My dad handed it down to us, we'll hand it down to ours. So on and so forth, from one generation to the next, from our house to the house of music, forever and ever... or for as long as Cheapo keeps its doors open on Christmas Day, anyway.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with the words to "Orphan Girl."
I am a orphan
on God's highway
But I'll share my troubles
if you go my way
I have no mother
no father no sister
No brother
I am an orphan girl
I have had friendships
pure and golden
But the ties of kinship
I have not known them
I know no mother
no father no sister
No brother
I am an orphan girl
But when he calls me
I will be Able
To meet my family
at God's table
I'll meet my mother
my father my sister
My brother
no more an orphan girl
Blessed savior
make me willing
And walk beside me
until I'm with them
Be my mother
my father my sister
My brother
I am an orphan girl
Be my mother
my father my sister
My brother
I am an orphan girl
I am an orphan girl
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Driving a Pulitzer
Junot Diaz has taken home the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for his debut novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. This is the Dominican-American’s first novel and second book. His first book, Drown, a critically acclaimed collection of short stories, came out twelve years earlier in 1996. A gap? A gap indeed! But this hasn’t been a quietly passed stretch for Diaz. In these twelve years, he has done more than most writers, publishing nine stories in the New Yorker and placing countless others elsewhere. And did I mention that he teaches creative writing to undergraduates at M.I.T. and is the fiction editor for the Boston Review?But still – twelve years between books?
According to a recent article in the New York Times, “Mr. Diaz said he kicked around the idea for his first novel for about four years and then spent seven years writing it. ‘In some ways I think that this book waited for me to become a better person before it wrote itself,’ he said.”
When Diaz visited my school in the fall of 2006, he had a much less “Zen” perspective on his future Pulitzer-winning novel, which he was then working on. During a Q&A he was asked if he had something in the works. I can't quote his answer, but it went something like: “I’ve spent forever working on this thing, trying to figure it out. And I’m sick of it. It’ll be done soon, thank god.”
After his lecture, I had the privilege of driving Diaz to our school’s watering hole, O’Gara’s, where a few of us were going to meet for drinks. (Time Out – I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Josiah, you had a Pulitzer Prize winner in your car?!?!?! I knew you were thinking this because it's what I've been thinking all week. Anyway...) We talked about his lecture that evening, about his short stories and about his experience teaching at M.I.T. I told him that I teach a small creative writing class to adults with disabilities, and I asked about what it was like to teach the so-called “smartest” students in the world a subject like creative writing.
He said, “They’re all amazing at it. Everything they write is perfect, totally publishable. They scrutinize everything they do, pour over every sentence, so it all comes out beautiful. But they don’t care about it, at least not in the sense that it would ever be something they’d pursue.”
I told him that some of my students use adaptive equipment. I said, “They pour over every word too. But it’s because it’s a slow process for them.”
I didn’t quite know how to put what I was thinking then. I thought for a moment and said, “The thing is, they might not ever be able to publish anything they write, but they care about every word.”
He said, “That’s cool, man. That’s very cool.”
At the bar, a dozen of us (students mostly) pulled tables together, ordered fries and beers and watched the screens overhead as the Red Sox played host to the White Sox. I can’t remember much from the game, but remember that Diaz and I quickly established that we both loved baseball, and I remember that this was what dominated the rest of the evening's conversation. He, a Mets and Red Sox fan, confessed that he was doubtful that the Sox would win another World Series anytime soon. But then, and with some reluctance - as if he were obligated to remember, he started talking about how great it was to see them win in 2004.
A friend of Diaz came then. He joined us at the table and we all went through a series of brief introductions. I didn’t recognize his name, and I can’t for the life of me remember it now, which is my loss, because, as it turned out, he was a well-known local poet. After he and Diaz left, which was before the rest of us, everyone became outwardly excited. “Do you know who that was?” they said. I had no idea. They laughed at the fact that I had just spent that last half hour talking baseball with such a beloved poet.
Now, nearly two years later, I’m more enamored by the fact that I had spent the evening talking about baseball with a future Pulitzer Prize winning author.
But let me also say this: what I most value about my experience that night is not that I got to drive in my car or share beers with a celebrity writer, but that I got to hear then how exhausted he was from working over his novel and compare it to now, where he has a Pulitzer to show for it.
He waited until it was right. Imagine if he hadn't.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A Lift
There's a story Joe Ely tells. It's about a chance encounter he had with a fellow musician. It's the sort of story that brings a pause to your life, sends a chill down your spin. If you know me, and if you know these players, you'll understand where I'm coming from. Now, without further ado, here it is, the story, in the words of Ely himself:
"Well, you know, I was living up in Lubbock, Texas, then. I was just out driving around and I see this long, tall scarecrow-lookin' guy carrying a guitar way out on the edge of town. He said he was coming from San Francisco, where he just recorded a record, and he was heading back to Houston.
"And so I gave him a lift, took him out across Lubbock, out to where I used to catch rides at, out by the old Pinky's liquor store. He said, "Thanks a lot," and he reached in his backpack. I kinda looked in his backpack and there's not any clothes in there—it's nothing but albums. He had carried these albums all the way across the desert. So he reaches in and hands me one.
"I was a little surprised; I had never met anyone who had actually recorded an album before. And I take the record back to Jimmy (Dale) Gilmore. We put the record on and we're just mesmerized by it. Ends up, we played that record over and over for weeks. It made us rethink what we were doing and what a song was all about."
That man was Townes Van Zandt. This story was transcribed from the documentary "Townes Van Zand: Be Here to Love Me."
"Well, you know, I was living up in Lubbock, Texas, then. I was just out driving around and I see this long, tall scarecrow-lookin' guy carrying a guitar way out on the edge of town. He said he was coming from San Francisco, where he just recorded a record, and he was heading back to Houston.
"And so I gave him a lift, took him out across Lubbock, out to where I used to catch rides at, out by the old Pinky's liquor store. He said, "Thanks a lot," and he reached in his backpack. I kinda looked in his backpack and there's not any clothes in there—it's nothing but albums. He had carried these albums all the way across the desert. So he reaches in and hands me one.
"I was a little surprised; I had never met anyone who had actually recorded an album before. And I take the record back to Jimmy (Dale) Gilmore. We put the record on and we're just mesmerized by it. Ends up, we played that record over and over for weeks. It made us rethink what we were doing and what a song was all about."
That man was Townes Van Zandt. This story was transcribed from the documentary "Townes Van Zand: Be Here to Love Me."
Monday, March 24, 2008
1982
I recently made a simple but profound connection. Apparently, when I was at the ripe old age of three, two of my favorite albums were released: Springsteen’s Nebraska and Richard and Linda Thompson’s Shoot Out the Lights. The year was 1982 and those of you who pay attention to such things as records and release dates might be thinking that this was also the year of Michael Jackson’s Thriller and Prince’s 1999. And you’d be right. In fact, it was quite the year for music. It was, for instance, the year The Cure kicked in the door with their aggressive and strangely brilliant Pornography. And it was the first time the world heard Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” and Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.” Duran Duran was at its best (original group and otherwise) in 1982 and with Imperial Bedroom, Elvis Costello was well on his way.
I don’t remember much of being three, or of any of these albums’ initial receptions. My sister was born 1982, I think—or was it in ’83? I don’t remember her being born, not really, and what I think I remember was probably constructed from photo albums and hearsay. What I do know is that Reagan was at the front-end of his presidency in 1982 and that it was the year the Cardinals defeated the Brewers to win the World Series. But again, I don’t actually remember any of this.
Maybe this is why we need music, or at least why I need music. Music is perspective. Music represents. I don’t remember 1982, but Thriller always will. And when I listen to an album like Thriller or to what Springsteen recorded at home on 4-track cassette, or to what became Richard and Linda’s final and greatest hurrah, I can feel the year that was—I can feel 1982. And if Nebraska and Shoot Out the Lights are symbolic of anything, it’s that 1982 was as lonely a time as any.
Every song on Nebraska has got something isolated and eerie about it. Take track six, for instance: “State Trooper.” What do these words say about 1982?
Maybe you got a kid
Maybe you got a pretty wife
The only thing that I got's
Been botherin' me my whole life
When Richard and Linda Thompson went into the studio to record Shoot Out the Lights, their marriage was nearly over. And you can hear it in their voices. They say it again and again on this album, but they say it best in “Walking on a Wire.”
I hand you my ball and chain
You just hand me that same old refrain
I'm walking on a wire, I'm walking on a wire
And I'm falling
And what do these words say about 1982?
Springsteen bounced back—he had to, Tunnel of Love was on the horizon (hah!). Richard and Linda toured for a while with Shoot Out the Lights and then broke up, professionally and otherwise. But again, what did these words—these favorite albums of mine—say about 1982?
I’d explain it to you if I could, but like I said, anything I know about 1982 is built on albums and hearsay.
So maybe you should read these words to someone older, someone who could remember. Or maybe you are older yourself. Either way, find someone who was there, who can recall, and ask them how it felt to hear for the first time "Sexual Healing" or "Billie Jean." Ask them where they were, what they were doing.
And there you'll have it, the year that was—1982.
I don’t remember much of being three, or of any of these albums’ initial receptions. My sister was born 1982, I think—or was it in ’83? I don’t remember her being born, not really, and what I think I remember was probably constructed from photo albums and hearsay. What I do know is that Reagan was at the front-end of his presidency in 1982 and that it was the year the Cardinals defeated the Brewers to win the World Series. But again, I don’t actually remember any of this.
Maybe this is why we need music, or at least why I need music. Music is perspective. Music represents. I don’t remember 1982, but Thriller always will. And when I listen to an album like Thriller or to what Springsteen recorded at home on 4-track cassette, or to what became Richard and Linda’s final and greatest hurrah, I can feel the year that was—I can feel 1982. And if Nebraska and Shoot Out the Lights are symbolic of anything, it’s that 1982 was as lonely a time as any.
Every song on Nebraska has got something isolated and eerie about it. Take track six, for instance: “State Trooper.” What do these words say about 1982?
Maybe you got a kid
Maybe you got a pretty wife
The only thing that I got's
Been botherin' me my whole life
When Richard and Linda Thompson went into the studio to record Shoot Out the Lights, their marriage was nearly over. And you can hear it in their voices. They say it again and again on this album, but they say it best in “Walking on a Wire.”
I hand you my ball and chain
You just hand me that same old refrain
I'm walking on a wire, I'm walking on a wire
And I'm falling
And what do these words say about 1982?
Springsteen bounced back—he had to, Tunnel of Love was on the horizon (hah!). Richard and Linda toured for a while with Shoot Out the Lights and then broke up, professionally and otherwise. But again, what did these words—these favorite albums of mine—say about 1982?
I’d explain it to you if I could, but like I said, anything I know about 1982 is built on albums and hearsay.
So maybe you should read these words to someone older, someone who could remember. Or maybe you are older yourself. Either way, find someone who was there, who can recall, and ask them how it felt to hear for the first time "Sexual Healing" or "Billie Jean." Ask them where they were, what they were doing.
And there you'll have it, the year that was—1982.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Blog Detour, Part I
As most of you know, I'm a fiction writer first and foremost. And after giving it some thought, I figured I'd start sharing this side of me with you. I'll keep it an occasional thing and I won't stop writing my usual drivel, I promise. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear what you think. Enjoy!
[DELETE]
The story that was is now no longer. I had to take it down. Those in the know informed me that there are people who, upon considering my story for publication, may search for it online to make sure it's not already "out there," and, upon finding it on a blog such as this, pass. So I had to take it down. That being said, if you're interested in reading it or any other story, post a comment on this entry with your email and I'll send it to you. I'm not trying to hide my work, I'm just trying to protect myself.
[DELETE]
The story that was is now no longer. I had to take it down. Those in the know informed me that there are people who, upon considering my story for publication, may search for it online to make sure it's not already "out there," and, upon finding it on a blog such as this, pass. So I had to take it down. That being said, if you're interested in reading it or any other story, post a comment on this entry with your email and I'll send it to you. I'm not trying to hide my work, I'm just trying to protect myself.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Long Distance Viewing
Have you ever lost an afternoon to a TV marathon? For us, it happens like this: we’re on our way out, or we’re getting up late, or we’re just getting home – whatever it is, it ends (or should I say begins?) with one of us turning on the TV and, lo and behold, it’s an episode of such and such reality show or of that one sitcom that we especially love, and – bang! – six hours later, we’re unmoved. We’ve 26.2ed it through more shows than I care to count. We are, as they say, experts.
And tonight is no different.
We’re watching Project Runway and we’re considering adding to the night a round of tequila shots. We don’t have any limes, though, and this lingers as a possible deal breaker.
“I’ll find some limes,” I say.
She laughs. “Where exactly are you going to find limes – in your secret stash of produce?”
I tell her I’ll find them somewhere. I even offer to go to the store. But she tells me it’s not really about the limes.
“I have a headache,” she says. “I just want to watch this and go to bed.”
It’s funny how the bottom can sometimes fall out of a moment. But then again, life’s not a party and sometimes there just aren’t any limes.
She falls asleep first and watching the light from the street ease across our bedroom, I can’t decide whether or not the night was a disappointment. We were together. We laughed. There were no shots, but it was low maintenance and rewarding enough. Plus, it was a Wednesday. Does that matter? I’m not sure that it does, or if it even should, but my conclusion on the matter is this: whether on DVD, bunny ears or cable, watching television shows marathon-style is something we have always done and will continue to do. Indeed, it is our sport. And when I look back at these childless, early-marriage years of our time together, I suspect I’ll remember this habit of ours with fondness. It’s nobody’s time to waste but our own, and as long as we’re doing it together, it’s really not a waste at all.
You can have your evenings out. We’re happy spending ours in.
And for the record, we’re gunning for Christian – the season is his to lose!
And tonight is no different.
We’re watching Project Runway and we’re considering adding to the night a round of tequila shots. We don’t have any limes, though, and this lingers as a possible deal breaker.
“I’ll find some limes,” I say.
She laughs. “Where exactly are you going to find limes – in your secret stash of produce?”
I tell her I’ll find them somewhere. I even offer to go to the store. But she tells me it’s not really about the limes.
“I have a headache,” she says. “I just want to watch this and go to bed.”
It’s funny how the bottom can sometimes fall out of a moment. But then again, life’s not a party and sometimes there just aren’t any limes.
She falls asleep first and watching the light from the street ease across our bedroom, I can’t decide whether or not the night was a disappointment. We were together. We laughed. There were no shots, but it was low maintenance and rewarding enough. Plus, it was a Wednesday. Does that matter? I’m not sure that it does, or if it even should, but my conclusion on the matter is this: whether on DVD, bunny ears or cable, watching television shows marathon-style is something we have always done and will continue to do. Indeed, it is our sport. And when I look back at these childless, early-marriage years of our time together, I suspect I’ll remember this habit of ours with fondness. It’s nobody’s time to waste but our own, and as long as we’re doing it together, it’s really not a waste at all.
You can have your evenings out. We’re happy spending ours in.
And for the record, we’re gunning for Christian – the season is his to lose!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Burial, Fire
We buried our grandfather on Wednesday. To be more specific, we buried his ashes. It was cold and windy, and the funeral, though nice, was too long. Graveside, we said a few words, the grandchildren passed the urn, and then we placed him in a frozen hole. After five days of goodbyes and two funerals, this was it, our final sendoff. After a tearful moment of silence, we returned to our cars and drove back as a caravan to the church where lunch was waiting.Two buffet lines greeted us, each scattered with bowls of various cold salads and fruit Jell-Os. The main course was tater tot casserole. It was, as you can imagine, a choice between mush mush and more mush. It was appropriately Minnesotan. I filled my plate and sat down.
And then I turned on my phone.
While we were singing my grandfather’s favorite hymns, listening to the winded homilies and burying his ashes, Maxwell’s had caught on fire and was now burning down. For those of you who don’t know, Maxwell’s was our watering hole, our Cheers. And it was on its way out. I had voicemails and text messages waiting for me. They varied in their intensity and details, but they all came to the same conclusion – that Maxwell’s was up in flames.
I had said goodbye to my grandfather already, and now I was faced with saying goodbye to my favorite bar. They don’t sound like equivalents, and of course, they’re not. But still, it was a lot to take in.
Maxwell’s was where we spent our Thursday nights. We had been doing so for years. It was a small corner bar with brick walls, battered wood floors, a full bar and great specials – and, of course, the lot of us. We were a random bunch. Some of us have known each other for all our lives, and some we were only getting to know. Either way, there we were, crowded around a tall table or three-deep at the bar. It was a popular place to be sure. And it was historic too. Rumor had it that writers and intellectuals tied to the University of Minnesota hung out there in the ‘60s. I'm not going to look any of this up; I don't want to be the one to discover that it's not true. I like to imagine John Berryman drinking at one of the tall tables with another poet, or alone before his long and final walk home across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I like to imagine that I was part of something larger than myself by going there, by drinking a pint and talking about ideas on these hallowed grounds.
Whatever happens – rebuilt or left alone – I will never forget. You, Maxwell’s, were my first true watering hole and may well be my last.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Every Ugly Side's Got Another Side
I come to you tonight drinking Schell and listening to Bobby Bare’s musical interpretations of Shel Silverstein’s poetry. And if you’re thinking that sounds like a winning combo, you’re thinking right. I could get used to this. What I can’t ever seem to get used to, though, is how everything’s got an ugly side. No matter how reliable a thing is – it’s never perfect, and eventually, it will disappoint. Good books fall apart in the end. A great meal takes extra care (and sometimes extra cash). The greatest ballplayers seldom go better than one for three. And new tires will eventually become flats. Great bands will sometimes put out shit albums. And your favorite pen will inevitably run out of ink. You can wish and pray and click your heels, but you can’t make this truth go away.
You're probably asking yourself why a guy like me (a "The Sun is Shining Somewhere" sort of guy) is going on all fatalistically like this.
Well, for one, I just spent four hours working on a story that’s probably worse off now than it was when I began. And for another, I can’t help but feel incredibly unhelpful about a certain situation in my life. And for a final thing, earlier today I was dwelling on the sobering reality that sometimes, albeit seldom, the only thing left to do is to do nothing at all.
I’ve got two thousand books and as many problems, but at least I’ve got two thousand books.
And that there, that’s my version of an up turn. As much as things can’t be given the benefit of the doubt, they can nearly always be credited with something good. A bad ending leads to a good idea. An evening’s worth of cooking feeds the soul. .300 will assuredly lead to runs. A flat tire will sometimes lead to a much-needed walk. And even a shit album is usually good for a laugh. And who knows, sometimes it takes letting go of something old before you find something new.
Earlier today, while watching Lifetime – yes, Lifetime – an old episode of Frasier came on. This particular episode featured Dr. Frasier Crane going toe-to-toe with a new and uber-fierce boss. This boss gets inside his head and he loses control of some highfalutin thought and starts rambling. His boss watches this, smiles and says simply, “Isn’t it sad when bad things happen to good sentences?”
I think so. But I also think there will always be more sentences!
You're probably asking yourself why a guy like me (a "The Sun is Shining Somewhere" sort of guy) is going on all fatalistically like this.
Well, for one, I just spent four hours working on a story that’s probably worse off now than it was when I began. And for another, I can’t help but feel incredibly unhelpful about a certain situation in my life. And for a final thing, earlier today I was dwelling on the sobering reality that sometimes, albeit seldom, the only thing left to do is to do nothing at all.
I’ve got two thousand books and as many problems, but at least I’ve got two thousand books.
And that there, that’s my version of an up turn. As much as things can’t be given the benefit of the doubt, they can nearly always be credited with something good. A bad ending leads to a good idea. An evening’s worth of cooking feeds the soul. .300 will assuredly lead to runs. A flat tire will sometimes lead to a much-needed walk. And even a shit album is usually good for a laugh. And who knows, sometimes it takes letting go of something old before you find something new.
Earlier today, while watching Lifetime – yes, Lifetime – an old episode of Frasier came on. This particular episode featured Dr. Frasier Crane going toe-to-toe with a new and uber-fierce boss. This boss gets inside his head and he loses control of some highfalutin thought and starts rambling. His boss watches this, smiles and says simply, “Isn’t it sad when bad things happen to good sentences?”
I think so. But I also think there will always be more sentences!
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Goodbye, Grandpa
It’s a quiet Sunday morning, and I'm sitting here in my living room, enjoying a cup of coffee and watching the neighborhood pass by outside. It looks warm out there – vests have replaced jackets and puddles have taken over the streets – but inside, our hearts hang low. Jerome Johnson died yesterday. He was my grandfather. He is survived by his wife and by the three generations that reach out below them. I'd like to take a moment here and pay tribute to him, to say my goodbye…
Grandpa, I think of you and of our time together with great fondness. You took me fishing and for blueberry pie. You taught me how to play golf and how to serve overhand in tennis. You made me your helper when it was time to fix doorknobs and replace sockets. You gave me a toilet paper roll with matches taped around the end and you told me it was a Norwegian flashlight. I didn’t laugh and you gave me my real gift, a complete set of Tops baseball cards. You were patient with me when I decided I didn’t want to hug anymore, and you didn’t give me a hard time when I changed my mind back again. You had long and gentle hands and thin and silver hair, and you looked most at home to me when you were standing up there in front of everyone, singing in your deep and holy voice. You jumped in after me when I fell off the dock. I said with conviction that you had pushed me in. I was embarrassed, I’m sorry. You stood taller than any of us until the day I stood taller than you. You let me borrow your car, a white Lincoln, for my high school dances. You always stood with both your feet on the foundation of the Lord, and though your prayers went on for what seemed like hours, I'm grateful now for your example. Even in the end, you never reflected on your life from a place of regret. You were an example of these things – of a life at peace and of a life in faith.
And then you were gone.
You went into the hospital two weeks ago. You declined quickly from there. You had trouble speaking and you must’ve grown tired of all the goodbyes. The days dragged on and we realized eventually that you were not going to be getting better this time. We started taking turns staying with you through the nights. We tried to make you comfortable and to keep your spirits up. We wanted you to know that we were there for you, by your side. We didn’t know when you were going to leave us, but we knew the day was getting close. On Friday, we came to you with bad news. Grandma was sick and too weak to come and see you. It was your wedding anniversary –your 61st. We could see it in your eyes how hard this was for you. You made it through that day and through a very long night. In the morning, when grandma was feeling better, we brought her to your side. You took her hand and you said her name. And then you died.
You’re going to be cremated, as requested, and there will be two services to honor you – one at the church here in the cities and the other at home in Jackson, MN. But don’t worry yourself with any of that. You are in a better place now and everything here will be fine. We'll take care of grandma, and we'll be there, holding her hand, when time comes for her. So you see - everything's fine. Enjoy your new life and be free.
I love you.
There's a story that Ramblin’ Jack Elliott tells. It's short and poigniant, and it's been on my mind a lot these past few days. It's about an encounter he had with Sweet Pete after a concert. As the story goes, Jack came off the stage and saw Pete standing there.
He said, “Well, Pete, we had some moments."
Pete said, “Let’s just remember the moments.”
I've been listening to Ramblin' Jack Elliott as I write this. To one song on repeat, in fact. It's a cover of a Townes van Zandt song and its words are how I'd like to sign off.
"Rex's Blues"
Ride the blue wind high and free
she'll lead you down through misery
leave you low, come time to go
alone and low as low can be
If I had a nickel I'd find a game
If I won a dollar I'd make it rain
If it rained an ocean I'd drink it dry
and lay me down dissatisfied
Legs to walk and thoughts to fly
eyes to laugh and lips to cry
a restless tongue to classify
all born to grow and grown to die
So tell my baby I said so long
tell my mother I did no wrong
tell my brother to watch his own
and tell my friends to mourn me none
I'm chained upon the face of time
feelin' full of foolish rhyme
there ain't no dark till something shines
I'm bound to leave this dark behind
Ride the blue wind high and free
she'll lead you down through misery
leave you low, come time to go
alone and low as low can be
Goodbye, Grandpa. I'll always remember the moments!
Grandpa, I think of you and of our time together with great fondness. You took me fishing and for blueberry pie. You taught me how to play golf and how to serve overhand in tennis. You made me your helper when it was time to fix doorknobs and replace sockets. You gave me a toilet paper roll with matches taped around the end and you told me it was a Norwegian flashlight. I didn’t laugh and you gave me my real gift, a complete set of Tops baseball cards. You were patient with me when I decided I didn’t want to hug anymore, and you didn’t give me a hard time when I changed my mind back again. You had long and gentle hands and thin and silver hair, and you looked most at home to me when you were standing up there in front of everyone, singing in your deep and holy voice. You jumped in after me when I fell off the dock. I said with conviction that you had pushed me in. I was embarrassed, I’m sorry. You stood taller than any of us until the day I stood taller than you. You let me borrow your car, a white Lincoln, for my high school dances. You always stood with both your feet on the foundation of the Lord, and though your prayers went on for what seemed like hours, I'm grateful now for your example. Even in the end, you never reflected on your life from a place of regret. You were an example of these things – of a life at peace and of a life in faith.
And then you were gone.
You went into the hospital two weeks ago. You declined quickly from there. You had trouble speaking and you must’ve grown tired of all the goodbyes. The days dragged on and we realized eventually that you were not going to be getting better this time. We started taking turns staying with you through the nights. We tried to make you comfortable and to keep your spirits up. We wanted you to know that we were there for you, by your side. We didn’t know when you were going to leave us, but we knew the day was getting close. On Friday, we came to you with bad news. Grandma was sick and too weak to come and see you. It was your wedding anniversary –your 61st. We could see it in your eyes how hard this was for you. You made it through that day and through a very long night. In the morning, when grandma was feeling better, we brought her to your side. You took her hand and you said her name. And then you died.
You’re going to be cremated, as requested, and there will be two services to honor you – one at the church here in the cities and the other at home in Jackson, MN. But don’t worry yourself with any of that. You are in a better place now and everything here will be fine. We'll take care of grandma, and we'll be there, holding her hand, when time comes for her. So you see - everything's fine. Enjoy your new life and be free.
I love you.
There's a story that Ramblin’ Jack Elliott tells. It's short and poigniant, and it's been on my mind a lot these past few days. It's about an encounter he had with Sweet Pete after a concert. As the story goes, Jack came off the stage and saw Pete standing there.
He said, “Well, Pete, we had some moments."
Pete said, “Let’s just remember the moments.”
I've been listening to Ramblin' Jack Elliott as I write this. To one song on repeat, in fact. It's a cover of a Townes van Zandt song and its words are how I'd like to sign off.
"Rex's Blues"
Ride the blue wind high and free
she'll lead you down through misery
leave you low, come time to go
alone and low as low can be
If I had a nickel I'd find a game
If I won a dollar I'd make it rain
If it rained an ocean I'd drink it dry
and lay me down dissatisfied
Legs to walk and thoughts to fly
eyes to laugh and lips to cry
a restless tongue to classify
all born to grow and grown to die
So tell my baby I said so long
tell my mother I did no wrong
tell my brother to watch his own
and tell my friends to mourn me none
I'm chained upon the face of time
feelin' full of foolish rhyme
there ain't no dark till something shines
I'm bound to leave this dark behind
Ride the blue wind high and free
she'll lead you down through misery
leave you low, come time to go
alone and low as low can be
Goodbye, Grandpa. I'll always remember the moments!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Pilsners and Prine
I bought two John Prine tickets tonight. He’s coming to town, and that’s what I logged-on to get, but that’s not the show I’ll be going to. Nope. I’ve got tickets to something even better. My wife and I will be traveling west this June to see (you guessed it) Mr. John Prine and (get this) Ms. Emmylou Harris play (wait for it...) amidst the beautiful Red Rocks of Colorado.
No way?
Yes way!
And to celebrate, I’ve spent the remainder of the evening playing through Prine’s catalogue and drinking pilsners. I've even started coming up with my dream set list. Here's what I've got so far: “Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone,” “Paradise,” “Hello in There,” “Illegal Smile” and “Christmas in Prison."
Even my wife, who’s been asleep on the couch for a while now, voiced a request - “Angel from Montgomery.”
Stay tuned and I’ll let you know. Heck, I’ll probably bring it up before then, but until then, it’ll just be wishful thinking and lots of hoping. And since you asked, here’s my greatest wish of all: Iris DeMent somehow shows up and I can have the chance to hear with my own ears the greatest love song of all time.
No way?
Yes way!
And to celebrate, I’ve spent the remainder of the evening playing through Prine’s catalogue and drinking pilsners. I've even started coming up with my dream set list. Here's what I've got so far: “Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone,” “Paradise,” “Hello in There,” “Illegal Smile” and “Christmas in Prison."
Even my wife, who’s been asleep on the couch for a while now, voiced a request - “Angel from Montgomery.”
Stay tuned and I’ll let you know. Heck, I’ll probably bring it up before then, but until then, it’ll just be wishful thinking and lots of hoping. And since you asked, here’s my greatest wish of all: Iris DeMent somehow shows up and I can have the chance to hear with my own ears the greatest love song of all time.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Sooner or Later
They say a blog should have a theme. They say a blog without a theme is a blog without an audience. To find a theme, they suggest picking a topic you know a little something about and then driving that topic home. I don’t have an audience, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. But if you know me, you know that this is easier said than done. By default, this blog will probably find a theme for itself. You see, I love music and I enjoy drinking. And when it comes to writing entries for this blog, I'm typically partaking in both.
Tonight is no exception. I’m drinking Miller Lite and listening to Dean Martin. A couple of nights ago, when I wrote my last entry, I was listening to Gordon Lightfoot and drinking Gin ‘n Tonics. Remember? Of course you do. So there it is, a niche! And let’s roll with it, don’t you think?
But listen, not everything I write here will be as neat and simple as what’s spinning and on what I’m sipping. Sometimes, albeit seldom, I might actually have something to say - something of substance and possibly even consequence. And when I do, for your sake and for mine, I want to have your permission to share freely and without boozal or tunal reference points. Until that day comes, though, let’s turn The Best of Dean Martin to its B-side and grab ourselves another beer. That’s amore!
Tonight is no exception. I’m drinking Miller Lite and listening to Dean Martin. A couple of nights ago, when I wrote my last entry, I was listening to Gordon Lightfoot and drinking Gin ‘n Tonics. Remember? Of course you do. So there it is, a niche! And let’s roll with it, don’t you think?
But listen, not everything I write here will be as neat and simple as what’s spinning and on what I’m sipping. Sometimes, albeit seldom, I might actually have something to say - something of substance and possibly even consequence. And when I do, for your sake and for mine, I want to have your permission to share freely and without boozal or tunal reference points. Until that day comes, though, let’s turn The Best of Dean Martin to its B-side and grab ourselves another beer. That’s amore!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Summer on the Mind
What is it about Gin ’n Tonics and Gordon Lightfoot that makes me think of summer? And why, waste deep in February, am I sitting here, indulging in both? Why do I kid myself? My toes are still cold and the sun went down sometime this afternoon. Winter is just like any other prison—you can close your eyes, but you can’t make it go away.
Here’s the why: I’ve been drinking whiskey since October and I feel like a change. I picked up Lightfoot and I didn’t analyze it.
But that's not really it either, is it?
Here's the real why: I’m practicing my survival skills. It's cheesy and hyperbolic, I know, but it's true. By doing this, I’m retaining my sense of play. I see people lost in their thirty-year mortgages and their nine-to-five jobs and I know I’ll be there myself someday. But I'm not there yet, and I know that before I get there, I need to prepare. And play is just the beginning. There's learning to let go of what you can't change or control, and to accept what you've got as being more than enough, and there's giving yourself permission to fall into fits of laughter--laughter's a big one. There's also simple pleasures. Pleasures like getting knocked-out by the ending of a book (Evelyn Waugh’s "A Handful of Dust") or arrested by the opening riffs of a song (Elmore James’ Dust My Broom), and there's the feeling you get when you don't give up on something important to you (this blog).
But even still, there’s more.
The really real, officially real reason I’m pretending like this, the actual thing that’s keeping me indulged in breezy fantasies, is that I’m supposed to be preparing a story for workshop, and doing this is more fun. Unfortunately, there's a greater truth here. The fact of the matter is, the only thing worse than writing is not writing.
So I'm going to let you get back to what you should be doing while I do the same. But before I go, let me leave you with a few words from Lightfoot himself …
“I’m on my second cup of coffee and I still can’t face the dawn
The radio is playin’ a soft country song
And if I don’t stop this trembling hand from reaching for the phone
I’ll be reachin’ for the bottle, lord, before this day is done”
Here’s the why: I’ve been drinking whiskey since October and I feel like a change. I picked up Lightfoot and I didn’t analyze it.
But that's not really it either, is it?
Here's the real why: I’m practicing my survival skills. It's cheesy and hyperbolic, I know, but it's true. By doing this, I’m retaining my sense of play. I see people lost in their thirty-year mortgages and their nine-to-five jobs and I know I’ll be there myself someday. But I'm not there yet, and I know that before I get there, I need to prepare. And play is just the beginning. There's learning to let go of what you can't change or control, and to accept what you've got as being more than enough, and there's giving yourself permission to fall into fits of laughter--laughter's a big one. There's also simple pleasures. Pleasures like getting knocked-out by the ending of a book (Evelyn Waugh’s "A Handful of Dust") or arrested by the opening riffs of a song (Elmore James’ Dust My Broom), and there's the feeling you get when you don't give up on something important to you (this blog).
But even still, there’s more.
The really real, officially real reason I’m pretending like this, the actual thing that’s keeping me indulged in breezy fantasies, is that I’m supposed to be preparing a story for workshop, and doing this is more fun. Unfortunately, there's a greater truth here. The fact of the matter is, the only thing worse than writing is not writing.
So I'm going to let you get back to what you should be doing while I do the same. But before I go, let me leave you with a few words from Lightfoot himself …
“I’m on my second cup of coffee and I still can’t face the dawn
The radio is playin’ a soft country song
And if I don’t stop this trembling hand from reaching for the phone
I’ll be reachin’ for the bottle, lord, before this day is done”
Sunday, February 3, 2008
A Super Week
From Super Bowl Sunday to Super Tuesday (and to the inception of this Super New Blog), this is shaping up to be a super duper week. And I'm glad. Last week was comfortable one moment and then below zero the next. And my gramps almost died. So there's that. Go Giants! Go Obama! Go Blog, Go!
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