Monday Mud

2006-12-22T00:34:00.000-06:00

2006-12-22T00:15:00.000-06:00

2006-12-22T00:06:00.000-06:00

Best Winter Solstice Ever!

2006-12-21T23:45:00.000-06:00

went to see the christmas carol at the new guthrie

that story still works on me

vowed to be better

one will be rewarded

got my nightly news from conan

marijuana has surpassed corn as a cash crop in america

let's put 2 and two together, huh?

happy solstice!

I'm Only Happy When It Rains

2006-12-20T23:02:00.000-06:00

I mean "snows".

Did the Commies Win?

2006-11-08T01:29:00.000-06:00

I love the way the word "LIBERAL" is spewed out with disdain by all the Neocons and the Old Guard Fascists from the Republican Party.

It's a word that seems to have changed meaning since I began striving for that title in the early 70s. Back then, I thought it was a good word ... it meant that you were open to other opinions, as long as they weren't conservative in any way, and it also meant that you could probably score a nickel bag for a Brother or a Sister of "The Revolution".

We were into helping, not only humanity, but each other ... let's say you knew a cute hippie chick with big, brown eyes and a Ziggy Stardust shag (but with gorgeous, chestnut brown locks instead of bright orange), whose Old Man had just split on her. She was having a bum trip over the whole scenario, but as a "Liberal", you were always prepared with a little extra love to give, and that would be your gift. Of course, you'd be rewarded for it later in life, through Karma. So it was always worth your time to help out your friend, (maybe her name was Melanie) by sharing your gift of love.

Liberal is a word Rush Limbaugh stole from the "Slightly-left-of-centers" ... we're stealing it back!

A Late Night Thought

2006-11-03T02:11:00.000-06:00

A friend of mine thinks that when I say "it was late", it means "I was stoned"; and it doesn't ... I don't think. I argue with him about it for a while and then I usually see some type of snack on the kitchen counter that looks interesting and next thing you know, I'm sitting in front of a lava lamp in a dark room with my acoustic guitar writing a song about all the shit that just went down.

But ... back to the point of tonight's post ...

What the fuck would happen if somebody spiked the water coolers at FOX News with some type of truth serum, maybe something tangy with a twist of lime?

Best Halloween Ever!

2006-10-31T23:34:00.000-06:00

Who is Bob Dylan?

2006-10-13T11:29:00.000-05:00

I was taking a break from cutting Styrofoam circles to look at a link listing the 7 worst fonts. If I give you the link you'll click on it and never finish reading my blog; so screw them, you can always Google it.

I just Googled:

"something more interesting than monday mud"

... and was surprised to see only about 740 links ... that was before I realized I misspelled "something" and after making the correction, it only took Google 0.24 seconds to find 2,010,000 results more interesting than Monday Mud.

You have to have a thick skin to survive in the short attention span theater of this modern world. You ever have somebody remove you from their Top Friends list on MySpace? Marriages have possibly broken up from this situation.

You know what would really suck? If you were Ross Geller and you saw that not only Chandler Bing dropped you from his top friends list but so did Rachel, Joey, Monica and even Phoebe. Then to add insult to injury, the only one who kept you on was the "Eggs a la Eddie" guy.

You know who probably has a thick skin? Bob Dylan. He probably has rhino hide.

During my surfing I found a post from a guy who will be attending a Bob Dylan concert with his friends. The kicker is, he as no idea who Bob Dylan is.

First of all, I don't believe it and second of all, if it were true, and it could be ... where would you start if you felt the need to educate him?

He was a folk singer?

Just seems a tad funny.

In a few weeks, I'll be attending a Bob Dylan concert with my 12 year old son. It doesn't hurt that the opener will be the Foo Fighters who will be performing an acoustic set. They're one of his favorite bands, along with Nirvana if you're counting the old school stuff.

I don't push my hippie music on my kids but my heart is always warmed when I see they've grabbed a Neil Young CD from my collection to burn to their iTunes library. I try not to don a Nehru Jacket and gold medallion like Norm from the Courtship of Eddie's Father then try to use slang and tell them that I really "dug" that Smashmouth CD that I found in their bathroom waste basket.

But the kid did look surprised when, after seeing his newly installed braces, I said "Nice grill."

It's interesting to make that verbally silent ride to school in the morning listening to bands like Wolfmother full blast. The ride isn't silent till we pick up their shaggy-haired buddy "Kid Doe" who's wearing a Cradle of Filth t-shirt and I begin to pick up those signals that perhaps I shouldn't say anything. But, I catch myself whistling along to the more melodic songs on their "oldies" playlist like Black Flag's "Nervous Breakdown."

But Wolfmother cracks me up a bit because ... well, the name to start with ... but the sound is pretty much related to those riff heavy bands from the 70s that I listened to at their age. But these bands from Down Under take those riffs and oversaturate the works out of them to the point that it's almost comical. And I never dare say it but as soon as the singing starts I toy with the idea of asking them if the singer is the guy who used to be with STYX.

But I just stay quiet and enjoy the ride.

House Cleaning Art Show #1

2006-10-13T01:31:00.000-05:00

As I've sorted through papers to ditch over the years, I keep finding this one because I can never seem to ditch it. It's a freaky photo from the Strib from 2001. GW and Tommy Franks face, and are dwarfed by, White House mutt, Spot who is apparently a bit closer to the camera lens than they are.

It's a twee bit surreal, like a scene from the 50's classic, The Incredible Shrinking Man.

So this is how I can use Blogger, as an archiving, house cleaning aide.

Wild About the Wild

2006-10-13T01:12:00.000-05:00

Wow, 4-0 ... first time in franchise history? Love the shootout endings.

How the NHL Shootout Works
From Jamie Fitzpatrick,
Your Guide to Pro Ice Hockey.
FREE Newsletter. Sign Up Now!
2005-06 marks the beginning of the NHL shootout era.
As of the 2005-06 season, the NHL has adopted the shootout to settle ties in regular season games. The shootout is used if the game remains tied after five minutes of overtime.
Under the NHL format, each team names three shooters. If the game remains tied after the three shooters are done, the teams continue shooting in "sudden death" mode.

With the adoption of the shootout, ties are eliminated from the NHL standings. Teams are credited with two points for a win (listed as "W"), zero points for a regulation loss ("L") and one point for a game lost in overtime or a shootout ("OT").

Goals scored during the shootout do not count towards a player's total goals. Goals allowed during the shootout are not added to the goaltender's total goals against. The winning team is credited with one extra goal in the final score, and credited with one extra goal in its total goals scored.

To facilitate the shootout, it will be preceeded by a two-minute break, during which the ice-clearing machine will cut a fresh lane from centre ice to each net.

The shootout will not be used in Stanley Cup playoff games. The format of playoff games remains unchanged.

An nescis, mi fili, quantilla sapientia mundus regatur? Latin Makes a Comeback in the Catholic Church

2006-10-12T18:18:00.000-05:00

I was grabbing a cup of coffee in the break room and I skimmed an article about Latin making a comeback in the Catholic Church. I haven't read it thoroughly yet so I would feel very Presidential if I were to spout an opinion about it. I'll read it and maybe write more later. Maybe it's no big deal.

Jon Stewart

2006-10-12T02:49:00.000-05:00

Caught the end of a Jon Stewart segment on Letterman earlier tonight. He does a humorous GW impersonation. Says that W always sounds like an 8 year old that has to talk about a book he didn't really read. Yeah.

He always reminded me of one of the kids in grade school who, when reading aloud, would speak in a one-word-at-a-time cadence and always pronounce the word "a" as "ey".

South Park took on 9/11 conspiracy tonight. Dick Cheney took a shot with a cross bow in the Oval Office, he missed.

Weather & Sports

2006-10-12T02:35:00.000-05:00

I think it actually snowed today, do flurries count as snow?

The Timberwolves played their first pre-season game. The Big Ticket, as they call him, says he's achieved many things but not a championship ... yet. Could this be the year? It always feels like "the year."

Got tickets to the Wild this year, 3 games ... actually remembered to get them on the day they went on sale. Something to look forward to over the Winter months. Not that I mind Winter.

Too bad about the Twins though it was the best season in years ... very exciting, caught 2 games in Cleveland. Outdoor baseball, it's a great concept. But give us Minnesotans and open-air ball park and we'll be bitching in a couple years.

Is it just me, or do the Vikings seem to be lacking a vibe this year? I don't know why I bring it up, haven't even really caught a game yet so I'm just a ramblin'.

What the Hell am I doing up at 2:30 in the morning? Probably feeling guilty about my earlier post, a real heavy number about religion. Whoa, deep thoughts. Hope I don't get hit by lightning tomorrow.

Time to hit it.

Confessions of a Cafeteria Catholic (I'll Take the Lime-Green Jello and a Trojan Please)

2006-10-11T12:49:00.000-05:00

This is your brain on pure Catholic Doctrine.

It really blows my mind that religion can exist at all because of the "you're either with us or against us" attitude of certain groups. Lately, I've been hearing the term "Cafeteria Catholic" and it makes me laugh because once I thought about it, I feel more like a Taco Bell Drive-through Catholic.

According to my research, Cafeteria Catholics are those who pick and choose what doctrines they want to follow and what doctrines they want to ignore.

Following is a list of the problematic Cafeteria Catholic beliefs that I found in my research (pulled off a web site):

• They see no problem with artificial birth control
• They see no problem with premarital sex
• They see no problem with divorce and remarriage
• They see no problem with abortion
• They approve and promote the ordination of woman
• They approve and promote the marriage of priests

When you're born Catholic it is part of your culture and your heritage is something to be proud of. It's difficult to suddenly quit but people do it all the time because the institution is outdated and has obviously veered off from it's original direction. As a teenager, I became aware of the hypocrisy and decided that I could no longer be part of it. I'm sure I broke my mother's heart when I told her I didn't believe in God. And it wasn't true, it was really about the fact that I knew I couldn't follow the doctrine without being a hypocrite.

Somewhere along the line, I found a particular church that made sense to me. They welcomed you wherever you were on your journey and as far as I could tell, they really meant it. It was the first time in my life when I felt that religion could work, that you could believe in God with a community that allowed some free thought.

But, this particular church has to defend itself continously because it is under constant criticism from groups that don't agree with this type of freedom. And the reason why these groups are taking time away from their own congregations to observe and judge is anybody's guess but my guess is that they feel threatened.

So if "My way or the highway" Catholicism is your thing .... well, good luck in the Holy War.

The U.S. vs. John Lennon

2006-10-09T21:07:00.000-05:00

We went to see "The U.S. vs. John Lennon" down at the movie theatre at 50th & France in Edina.

A zillion years ago when we were in Minneapolis as tourists, my Uncle recommended that we go see a movie they'd been playing straight through for months, maybe years. It was called Harold & Maude and it about the most interesting movie I'd seen up to that point. If you don't count Pinnochio, Planet of the Apes and 2001: A Space Odyssey. I don't think I've seen it since.

It starred Bud Cort, as a young, death obsessed man who falls in love with a free-spirited women in her 70s. They met at a funeral, a cermony they both were fascinated with. The film featured music by Car Stevens.

They showed a short film before it called De Düva: The Dove. When it first came on, I groaned as I saw the black & white film, the subtitles and heard the Swedish dialogue. At the age of 13 or so, I wasn't a big fan of the foreign film world though that was to change later as I entered my pretentious artist phase that went on for the next 25 years or so. Staying up late to watch Wild Strawberries, The Seventh Seal and other flix that I could discuss in case I were ever to meet Woody Allen.

Some people in the theatre began to laugh and slowly, I began to notice the subtitles on the screen. When the subtitle said the word "cow" the woman said mooskie, or "water" as H2Oska. That kind of thing.

Anyway ... back to the Lennon film. They did a great job putting it together. Telling the John (and Yoko) story from the angle of their political beliefs. The primary platform they shared was their search for a world of non violence. They came off to the public in a variety of ways, silly, serious, naive, dedicated, etc.

There is excellent Lennon performance footage at various, politically oriented concerts. Appearances on various televison shows like Dick Cavett and benign Mike Douglas, sometimes with some of their close radical friends, like Panther leader Bobby Seales, jerry Rubin, etc. Amazing.

There was a lot going on at the time. The voting age had been lowered to 18 and the Nixon Administration saw Lennon as a direct threat to the election and the new demographic. Something must be done!

Check it out ... it's an incredible story.

Negative Ads

2006-10-09T21:05:00.000-05:00

Don't negative ads make everyone look bad?

Dropped

2006-10-04T23:46:00.000-05:00

By chance I noticed that Monday Mud was no longer listed in the City Pages Minnesota-based blog directory. One hand I'm cool with that because I haven't exactly been updating the ol' bloggeroo, nor does the Mud have much of a mission statement or consistent style ... and heck, maybe it lacks content, humor or any remote morsel of insightful thought, but ... Schwing & Grimstone are still on the list???

Gig Alert!

2006-09-11T22:54:00.000-05:00

The Great American Pastime v9.11

2006-09-11T22:24:00.000-05:00

I Love Happy Endings (Part Deux of ze Drilogy)

2006-09-11T21:30:00.000-05:00

I Love Happy Endings ...

2006-09-10T17:52:00.000-05:00

So Far ... So Good

2006-09-10T13:45:00.000-05:00

The Great Minnesota Get Together

2006-09-07T21:48:00.000-05:00

I've noticed a polar opposite opinon on the State Fair among various people.

It took me years to "get" the Fair (Oh, shit, have I already written this? I get the feeling I have). Though I was born in Minnesota and have lived in the state for 3 separate stints, I didn't exactly grow up here. I moved to New York when I was 4, then back to north Minneapolis to catch the rest of kindergarten and all of first grade (my one and only year at a Catholic school).

Then, I guess my parents received new orders from the FBI Witness Protection Program and after moving into 5 more houses in 3 different states we wound up back in north Minneapolis just in time for me to start 12th grade. It was in the same vicinity so I was going to school with many of the same kids though instead of being 6 years old, they were 17. It was like a ride in the Time Machine.

Over on Washburn Avenue there was a guy I started playing electric guitars with. He was a couple years younger and also feeling a little displaced. He had just moved back in with his Dad after he and his older brother proved to be a bit too wild for his Mom to deal with. His Dad had remarried and started a new family, my buddy seemed to be killing time for a couple years until he could head out to college, or anywhere, maybe even to a run down duplex in Nordeast. Hop the river of dreams baby via the Lowry Avenue bridge.

In the meantime though, he hung out quite a bit with a trio of wild thing brothers from a family of 6. You'd walk in their house and it was a mixture of marijuana boys, polite sisters in Catholic school uniforms doing their homework and a Mom who was too busy loving and cooking for her kids to notice that she had raised a few bad boys. They had that combination of bad behavior and warm hearts.

They were a close knit family and when their late night games of Risk turned into bloody fist fights and calling each other stupid fuckheads you could just feel the love. It's a little hard to explain but it's how it seemed to work for them.

Anyway, those guys absolutely loved going to the Fair. I didn't take them for Fair Folk. I had been once and didn't really see the appeal at the time. My brother and I did our best to absorb the vibe at Machinery Hill, got our free drink of water at the Culligan Water place and drank all the milk you could drink for a quarter.

After that was a trip down the Midway where we felt a little more at home. It was my first experience seeing a Freak Show tent and it was intriguing. The style of painting seemed interesting, primitive folk art, a gallery of Lobster Boys, Big Foot, Giraffe Ladies, etc.

The closest we'd been to this type of culture is when we hit the carnival at Midway Plaza in Opelika, Alabama. The attractions there were animals, "See the Smallest Horse in the World!", etc. You'd lay your nickel down, walk up a ramp, look down in a pen and see a real tiny horse munching away on hay. You'd think to yourself, "Yeah, that's a small horse" and then you'd leave.

Was it really the smallest horse in the world? Maybe, you just had to take their word for it. But, it never matched the painting on the tent. In the painting, the horse was pictured next to people and it looked like it would fit in the palm of your hand; not exactly the case but what the hell?

The big showstopper attraction at Midway Plaza that week was "Big Sam" the biggest bull in the world. There was no denying that there was some bull of mass proportion at this carnival. The barker would be ranting on endlessly about the specs on this beast. The music was non stop, I wish I knew the name of the song they played but it was that cliche one with dramatic trumpet swells and the clicking of castanets that would instantly conjure up a vision of a bull fight arena in sunny Spain.

The painting showed a majestic Toro towering over people and multi-level buildings, puffs of smoke shooting out of his flared nostrils as he dug his front hoof deep into the Spanish dirt.

At some point you have to give in and check this thing out. Put down your dime, go up the walkway and there it is ... a big fucking cow. Unless this was a trick done with mirrors I'd have to say this was the biggest fucking cow I'd ever seen in my life. Impressive but not quite like the painting.

There's something about a black & white cow that makes it difficult to match up to the expectations of El Toro, the mass murdering cow from sunny Spain, ready to gore you in a second.

I mean, a Holstein cow just ain't that scary ...Even it if it is 60 feet long or whatever. It's like a drive through Wisconsin.

So when my brother and I walked up the ramp to see Big Foot, I figured, there'll be a guy in a Big Foot suit smoking a cigar and reading Variety. Well, he was smoking a cigarette but he wasn't exactly reading Variety. He was holding gauze and dabbing away at puss oozing from his elephanitits striken foot. I remember him looking up at me with a "What uh you lookin' at?" look and I could hardly wait to get out of there.

After that it was off to the Grandstand to see a popular group of the day named Kansas. I remember getting so high that I had both a nervous breakdown and an epiphany at the same time watching satin-robed, long haired musicians of uber-virtuosity playing long, dramatic solos on electric guitars and violins endlessly. All I could think about was that there was no chance of me ever becoming a rock magician, I mean, musician. It appeared that one would need to study at a conservatory in order to rock out in that day and age.

I had not yet scraped up the money to buy the matching tuner to accompany my Kenwood integrated amplifier, (you know the one ... the one that had that gigantic volume knob dead center begging you to TURN IT UP!!!) and it was right there and then I knew I could scratch that tuner off my wish list and run home, grab my copy of "Leftoverture" and bring it and a dead cat to a graveyard at midnight so that when I heard a devil talking to a corpse I would say "devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, Kansas follow cat, I am done with ye." while throwing the dead cat.

Vinyl at Cheapo

2006-09-06T23:49:00.000-05:00

I had a pile of work to do and couldn't get into it so I went to Cheapo in Fridley where they have finally opened up their "vinyl room".

The musician/clerk told me that right now it's mainly stocked with stuff from the warehouse but people are just starting to bring some things in and the selection is picking up. I had just finished a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and was feeling a bit "jazzed" about picking up a few things and when I'm staying crunchy, even in milk, I tend to think everything looks like it's worth picking up but that's a bit of a misconception.

I've never been a real record collector, I just loved listening to all kinds of stuff and next thing you know, you are surrounded by sound ... I still have crates of vinyl, half a human tall. I'd never set out to collect beer cans or TV Guides either but that just happened by default.

Several few years back, our basement flooded and I lost quite a few records. I hadn't been storing them with much love, partially due to the cold & clinical yet very convenient CD thing and partially because my turntable really didn't turn anymore. That can be a problem.

I ended up with a couple hand-me-downs from an audiophile friend who also loaned me a very heavy-duty record cleaning machine to use for a while. The machine was the type used by radio stations,. It had a spinning platter like a turntable but instead of a needle it had a brush that dispensed a cleaning solution while it scrubbed out all the grooves as the record spun.

The results were impressive, I even tried some of my worst records, like a copy of Neil Young's "Time Fades Away" and the Byrds "Untitled" that had a big ol' "X" scrawled on the label. I had quite a few of those from the special section at the Cheapo on Snelling, the section where underemployed victims of trickle down economics swarmed to get their fix at a quarter apiece.

Gradually I began to buy used vinyl again, even new NEW vinyl, real heavy records, 180 grams (I think) by certain types of artists like Wilco, Elliott Smith and Bright Eyes to name a few. By the way, heavy records sound really fucking good. When I left off in the late 80s, many records were so thin, they were almost flexi discs and they sounded terrible. If I want to listen to flexi discs I'd break out "It's a Gas" that was a playground classic that came with a MAD magazine somewhere around 1967.

"It's a Gas" was simply a 60s surf sounding instrumental complete with Farfisa organ tones blasting away. When the band got to the turnaround, they'd break and the break was filled with a loud belch. It was quite a hit with some of my third grade pals, I don't remember the girls being too impressed. My friend Derek said wait'll you hear the flip side. I went home to check it out but it was just a flat, grooveless backside with no sound waves, a victim of my first urban legend.

It's easy to get carried away when first getting back into purchasing vinyl, I learned my lesson about buying records for ironic reasons only. There's only so many times a guy can fall for an Andy Williams record where he's posing in a Nehru jacket with a gold medallion covering songs like Cream's "Tales Of Brave Ulysses" or perhaps sporting a colorful Dashiki, holding up the Black Power fist and covering Curtis Mayfield's "Superfly". Actually before you Google either of these, I have to admit I haven't looked at these records since I hid them when we had company so I may be off on the photo details and song selections.

The point is ... sure, a couple are good for a laugh but they never ended up spinning as much as I'd expected. Same goes for the Mario Lanza and Sing Along With Mitch.

Once I found a Smothers Brothers LP recorded live at the Purple Onion in San Francisco from 1961. The Purple Onion, I think, was a beatnik era comedy club where Lenny Bruce and people like that used to challenge the restrictions of the Eisenhower era. It was pretty interesting but I'd have to say, it's still in pretty good shape.

Since this blog is just collecting dust like these records, I thought maybe I'd start giving them a spin and jot down a few thoughts about them once in a while.

Election '06

2006-09-05T23:07:00.000-05:00

So ... lemme see if I have this right ... we all vote DFL and the world will improve immediately. Gotch'ya ...

Say ... I don't know much about politics or world events but tonight I heard George Bush mispronouncing a lot of Arabic names. This usually means that Karl Rove has emerged from his parents' basement ready to brainwash the fuck out of us again, right?

Do you realize that our current, and most disastrous administration ever, was put into power because Jay Leno kept showing that clip of a very wooden Al Gore dancing with Tipper? Yeah, the last thing we want is an intelligent, conscientious, environmental-friendly president with a low pulse and 2 left feet.

When I was growing up, we had NBC, ABC, CBS, NET and maybe a local independent affiliate. I used to spend a lot more time outdoors.

Okay you smart Monday Mud reader(s), are Liebermann and McCain both goofy or something?

Okay, quick reality check ... stand in front of a mirror at Midnight with a flashlight under your chin and say President Hillary Clinton 3 times ... go on ... I double-dare yuh!

Remember at the Republican Convention when Georgia Democrat Zell Miller got all red-faced and cable-necked while screaming about U.S. troops being referred to as "occupiers"? That was pretty intense.

Did you know that the polar ice cap is melting?

Did you know everytime the earth doesn't wear it's polar ice cap, it loses 60% of its body heat?

Senate candidate Mike McGavick is in big trouble for hitting the sauce 13 years ago then running, what he called, "a yellow light." The cop said he'd call it more like orange. Mike was going to argue with him and say it was more like greenish-yellow but he wasn't sure what you call that color so he didn't get into it with him. That stuff goes on your permanent record kids.

When Karl Rove heard that immigration was going to be the hot topic for elections this year, he secured the rights to use Led Zeppelin's "The Immigrant Song" for Republican campaigns this fall. In related news, singer Robert Plant and legendary guitarist Jimmy Page have been missing for several weeks, no further information has been released.

Speaking of Mike McGavick, he and his rival for the Senate, Democratic incumbent Maria Cantwell, both agree that the U.S. should stay the course in Iraq. I don't know what Maria's fucking problem is but at least Mike has an excuse ... the dude's always shitfaced!

Voters in Lake County, Florida headed to the polls today to cast ballots for more than a dozen candidates in several statewide and local primary races. "But it all depends on the weather," Elections Supervisor Emogene Stegall said. If it rains, fewer people likely will turn out .... Yeah, I always like to see the concept of freedom disappear because of a few raindrops.

Job Opening in Florida: Governor — Gov. Jeb Bush is leaving office after eight years, and Florida voters will take the first step Tuesday in deciding whether they want to elect someone who shares his values or a governor who will seek to dismantle some of the Republican's key programs ... I keep reading that paragraph after each hit and it just seems funnier each time.

Carp 18 Reunion at the 400 Bar, Friday, October 27th

2006-08-07T17:32:00.000-05:00

May as well use this space for something.

The Dixie Chicks

2006-06-21T07:50:00.001-05:00

So my wife and I were cruising back from the Dog Park and Strib music writer Chris Riemenschneider was the guest on the Current’s local show. They were raving about Tim O’Reagan’s new one and, not that I keep up, but I keep hearing a buzz on the far side of my blinders and figger … I gotta get that one.

You all know about the Leatherwoods right? If not, go find a copy of Topeka Oratorio. I don’t know if there’s a dingier cover around so don’t be fooled by bad print production, the sound is in full technicolor.

So I sez, “Hey Honey, I have to stop at Cheapo on the way home here.”

Ahhh, the Central Avenue Cheapo … please never close. It’s Fridley’s finest achievement aside from Udupi, the vegetarian Indian restaurant (that could be Heights but close enough).

So I get there and scan the new releases, man, there’s millions it seems. By the way, vinyl is once again available at that location. That’s very important to some of us.

One of the musicians, I mean, clerks asks if there’s something I’m looking for. I said, “Yeah, Tim O'Reagan’s new CD.”

He sez …

“Oh we’ve all been waiting for that one … for, like … hmmmm … the last 6 years or so. Is that actually out now?”

I sez …

“I think so, they were just talking about it on the Current.”

He goes and chats with his coworkers.

“No, but we’re real close, it comes out on the 27th. Anything else I can help you find?”

I can’t believe these words came out of my mouth but I said (quietly) …

“The Dixie Chicks?”

But I know that he knows what I mean. Still, I feel the need to justify it by explaining that some of the songs were cowritten by Dan Wilson and by Gary Louris. And also, importantly, I think we all know that the Dixie Chicks have been outspoken in the recent past but for once in my recent life I choose not to start talking about the asshole we know as W.

You know, in my little world, the Dixie Chicks have always represented an art/business form I’ve never related to or understood. At least in my spacious head. Honestly, pop country, is that what it’s called? That whole world of Pro Tools hiccupping yahoos? I just don’t get it. Alabama (see archives about bands named after cities, states, countries, continents etc.), Brooks & Dunn (okay, maybe I don’t mind that an imbecile has access to “the button), Alan Jackson (this prefab motherfucker seems to be Jay Leno’s idea of real country, what a douche bag, Leno I mean, and Alan now that I think about it).

Okay, didn’t mean to start name calling … maybe offstage Leno is cool but he has to play that NBC early late night game and I’m sure deep down inside Alan Jackson is … ummm … yeah… back to the Blog.

So he gives a quick nod and a knowing smile, and walks me over to the country section, takes a CD out (there’re many copies) and hands it to me.

He says …

“I’m not normally a fan of this kind of stuff but I like them.”

I can’t keep it in but decide to keep it general, it’s Sunday for Allah’s sake and I don’t feel like getting into it (this normally never happens).

Like a naive citizen of the Universe I blurt out …

“I like how they feel about the President.”

Jeez, what’s wrong with me … “THE PRESIDENT????” it’s like I’m admitting that he won the elections but I’m trying to stay benign. I seriously doubt that I need to guard my opinion anywhere, let alone to a Cheapo musician/clerk but I was in a weird mood.

He says “Right on” or something.

I hop in the car, crack open the CD, see who wrote what and throw it in.

Slick as "all git-up" but damn it sounds good.

Thank you Dixie Chicks for your Patriotic behavior and for your sweet voices.

Boss Seeger & the B-Street Band (The "B" Stands for Bourbon)

2006-06-20T23:06:00.000-05:00

Man, I'm I behind on my Blogging. Seriously ... it gets to the point where you realize maybe this is all you got. You cover a few quaint childhood memories, a couple stream of consciousness poems, a tale or two of debauchery and you think ... "Yep, that pretty much takes care of my life ... see ya."

But, then, one night you go to a concert that rejuvenates your spirit and you think, uh, maybe one more Blog. So you're so pumped up you wait or a week or two and realize you still haven't written a damn thing.

I had plans to write 2 Super-size Blogs this month, you know, the ones where you keep scrolling & scrolling wondering "Is this Mofo ever gonna take this Baby home or what?"

One was going to be called ...

"I'm Not the Biggest Springsteen Fan But I Own All His Albums On Vinyl Up to Tunnel of Love (Except for Born to Run), and the Same Batch on CD PLUS Born to Run and Everything Else With the Exception of Tracks, 18 Tracks, Hammersmith Odeon London '75, the Born to Run 30th Anniversary Edition (though I did pick up a bootleg of outtakes from Pastor Paul's Garage Sale) nor the "The Essential Bruce Springsteen" Which I Bought a Cassette Version of From a Holiday Station in Two Harbors When I Was Jonesing for Some Springtunes on a Road Trip ... and Also I've Seen him in Concert 4 Times Which Isn't That Much for a Dedicated Fan But Kind of a Lot for a Casual Fan Such as Myself)."

And the other one was going to be called ...

"Confessions of a Hardcore Alice Cooper Fanatic, Yet, Who's Never Seen him in Concert ... Until He Hits the Taste of Minnesota this July 30th"

The goals for these 2 blogs were so lofty that I kept putting them off, waiting for that 2-4 hour block of time to attack the keyboard. You think, okay, do I start this Blog about Bruce in 11th grade Study Hall, October '75 when I grabbed those Time & Newsweek issues and loped back to my desk thinking "I wonder if this guy's as good as Rush?" or do I start with ... then I took my seat at the Excel Center only to discover that the Boss (like some bosses in the real world) meanders in to his desk 70 minutes late.

Okay, maybe I'll start there since I've already exhausted myself writing that long title (above).

But, unlike other bosses, this boss doesn't have a desk like the other bosses we all know and, umm, love. This Boss doesn't have a Newton's Cradle, a Blackberry and a collection of cliche phrases backing up a 3% raise, this Boss has a stable of acoustic Takamine guitars (okay, I gotta speak up here, "Bruce, those guitars aren't naturally worn out are they? I mean, how long has Takamine been around, I've seen Gibsons from the 30's with a better shine than those, you have an assistant who smacks those things with a bicycle chain right?) and ... shoot ... the momentum has been broken by parenthetical ramblings again ... let me try it again ...

This Boss doesn't have a Newton's Cradle, a Blackberry and a collection of cliche phrases backing up a 3% raise, this Boss has a stable of acoustic Takamine guitars, a 19-piece band and an extraordinary ability to pull a hockey arena full of strangers into one tight-knit community all singing "I danced with a gal with a hole in her stockin', And her heel kep' a-rockin' and her toe kep' a-knockin', I danced with a gal with a hole in her stockin', And we danced by the light of the moon." For one night at least, but for many people, a much longer experience, maybe even a lifetime for the willing.

It's hard not to like Bruce Springsteen though I know a few who say they don't. But, maybe like the great humorist and everybody's fantasy girlfriend Mary Lucia once said (and I'm paraphrasing), "There are 2 kinds of people in the world, those who love Neil Diamond, and those who pretend they don't."

Last time I saw Bruce at the Excel, I had, by some fluke and enough knowledge of graphics software lingo, ended up in a corporate suite, which turned into a drunken party. Picture yourself dangling from the balcony suite, wine bottle in hand, pumping your fist, hollering in your hoarsest rock & roll party voice "RENO---REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENO" toward the lone introspective artist with an acoustic guitar who has requested no beer sales 20 minutes prior to showtime. Then, as he plays "Part Man, Part Monkey" one of your suitepartymates gets oddly offended and walks out of the concert ... knuckles dragging along the carpet as he leaves the confines of the suite.

Many light years ago I wound up at a Sarah Lawrence College summer art program in the South of France that was largely attended by Ivy League students from wealthy families. I'm pretty sure I was the only one who had scrubbed toilets, emptied Kotex refuse containers and swung a mop to get there (actually, my Dad was a millionaire and that was just a weird hobby of mine).

Anyway, above the bed I ended up with in the dorm, was a picture of Bruce Springsteen rocking out onstage with a Tele (or Esquire or whatever). It was like a mini-poster from some rock & roll magazine. About halfway through the semester, I noticed it was a double-sided poster so I flipped it over for variety. On the other side was a modern band of the day, Siouxsie & the Banshees.

One of my roommates went by the name of "N", he was named after his father who was named after his father who was named after his father and so on but I can't remember what the "N" stood for. He grew up in the Park Avenue area of Manhattan and spoke slowly and carefully, he sounded very much like John Malkovich. He had long, straight, dark brown hair that rested on his shoulders and often dressed in tweed suits and wore a Fedora hat, which looked a little warm for the South of France in the summer. He was the only guy I've ever known under the age of 50 who smoked a pipe (for tobacco) and if you listened closely, the dude was absolutely hilarious.

We became good friends that summer and he always seemed amazed by my stories from, what he called, "Out West." He considered anything on the other side of 9th Avenue as "Out West."

He hadn't been introduced to the concept of "kidding" till we met. For example, every once in a while, I'll tell a story where I'm, like, pulling your leg or whatever, seriously, I have done that a few times in my life, I don't know why but I've seen other people do that too. So, one day, we're chatting and I say something totally absurd that I assume will not be believed, like, I studied life drawing under Pablo Picasso. He'd casually puff on his pipe and say, yes, Pablo was an excellent mentor to him also, when he was a child the Picassos would often visit them at the Hamptons and he was very good about giving away a trade secret or two.

At this point I thought he was pulling my leg but one evening, Picasso's daughter and her entourage came up to the school to see the student art show. When she saw N, she came over and gave him the peck on each cheek and they began to reminisce about their childhood memories out on the Hamptons then they went out to dinner.

A couple quick more memories about N and I'll get back on track with this tale. N went to camp as a child just like all of us ... only his camp was in the Swiss Alps. No member of N's family had ever learned to drive an automobile. It just wasn't ever seen as necessary. N told me once that he had always wanted to try LSD but could never seem to block that much time out in his schedule. I often think about that comment, I think it's the most pragmatic anti-drug message I've ever heard. I could almost picture N on one of those NBC public service announcements ...

(Zoom-in shot on N, sitting in a Chippendale wingback puffing on his pipe)

"Remember kids, drugs are for miscreants who don't have their Day Runner filled."

(Dissolve as chirpy music plays)

-----

(Zoom-in shot on Gather T. Swanson sitting in a lime-green Red Foreman chair puffing on his pipe)

"Remember kids, a schedule is only a schedule if you stick to it."

(Dissolve as Hendrix's Purple Haze plays.)

-----

Okay, okay, it's time to get back on track here.

So one day, N does a double-take (in slow motion) as he looks at the Siouxsie poster on the wall.

"Ahhhh, Siouxsie, she's such an exquisite vamp wouldn't you say? Where did you get that faboo poster, was it when we were Aix-en-Provence?"

"No, I just flipped the Springsteen poster over."

"Oh? Where did you get that poster?"

"It was on the wall the day I got here."

"Oh thank God, oh thank God, oh thank God, GT I wasn't sure what to say all this time. I thought your were some type of, you know, huge fan of Monsieur Springsteen."

"Oh, I wouldn't say I'm a huge fan but I have some of his albums, I guess "Asbury Park" is probably my favorite. Why, do you not like him or something?"

"Oh I don't know how to say this but ... ummm ... well ... he's just so ... so .... so ..."

"So what?"

It was like he was scanning the air above him looking for the right adjective to describe his less than stellar feelings for the Boss, his hands were talking but they had nothing to say. Then he just lost it a little, he stood up and yelled ...

"SO NEW JERSEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know GT, I don't know, I'm just not into the whole Wild West thing."

He asked to be excused and he spent the rest of the day in solitude near the lion fountain up in the shaded oak grove near the ancient Chateau where the Marquis De Sade had once resided.

By dinner he seemed to have come around and while we were all enjoying our first glass of wine for the evening, he put on one of the 2 LPs he had brought with, "Blood On the Tracks" on the Mattel Close "N" Play that was provided by the school. The other was actually a triple album, the Grateful Dead's "Europe '72."

----

So, way back when I'd heard that Springsteen was releasing on album of songs made famous by Pete Seeger, I have to admit, it just shot past me like an incidental breeze. In these modern days of Internet irony I just thought it was some type of joke that I didn't have time to delve into. I felt like if I brought it up to any Boss-fanatic friends they would just tell me, "Oh that's a just a joke from the Onion." Then, with a twinkle in their eye they would say "THEY WERE JUST KIDDING, you know, PULLING YOUR LEG, like you used to before you went to that fancy art school in France."

But, as time went on ... I slowly began to realize it was real. I still hadn't connected the dots yet, frankly, I was still thinking about the Devils & Dust show. That show sat in the storage locker of my head for a long time. I didn't hate it ... I love when artists play their songs stripped down to the acoustic format ... LOVE IT!!!!! And Nebraska may be my favorite record by Bruce so this approach is my thing and all but for some reason I was wary of this upcoming Pete Seeger thing.

Maybe it was because I got rip roaring drunk that night ... maybe it was because I was feeling guilty being an old married guy and flirting with a young girl in the suite and my opening line was ...

"Sho, what'ya sink of the new version of Quark XPress?"

Maybe it's because that line worked and made me wonder if young girls across the globe were lowering their standards.

Anyway, I just never really listened to Devils & Dust again. I never even popped the Dual Layer disc into my DVD player and checked out the video footage. But, no big deal, I'd rather see an artist taking a chance than working the same routine for life.

So somebody asked me if I was going and I firmly said "No". Next thing you know I start giving my spiel about how I've had it with high-priced arena shows citing a recent Van Morrison show I'd seen as evidence. I was going to Blog about that show but if your not gonna Blog something nice about somebody, maybe you shouldn't Blog at all.

If anyone's interested drop me a line and I'll try and give a fair account of the Van Morrison experience but for now I think I have my hands full trying to get to this Springsteen show review(?)

I have to admit, since I've started particular post, I've just cooked dinner for 2 kids (1 of them a vegetarian) and done a soccer practice drop-off and a pick-up. No wonder I don't do LSD anymore.

Okay, I hate to do this but I think I'm going to have to make this one of those lame 2-parters .... I didn't know that writing could be so strenuous.

I'll be back in a couple days, hang tight, I'm sure YOUR boss can find something for you to do in the meantime.

Weird Childhood Memory #4,371 — The Dramatic Conclusion!

2006-06-13T00:34:00.000-05:00

Okay, it took a bit longer than I thought to find a break to write the ending to this tale. I apologize to all the people left hanging ... hmmmm ... lemme check the comments page to see how many people I've let down ... ummm ... none. Hmmm, there must be a Javascript error or something on the Blogger server.

Okay, so where were we ...

So every Tuesday I come home and the kitchen is in a bit of a mess. There's an open bag of Wonderbread on the counter, an open jar of Skippy's and an open jar of Welch's grape jelly. There's a knife caked with peanut butter and jelly laying on the counter and crumbs everywhere.

Little did I know that the kitchen in my first apartment would look very similar someday but I'm getting ahead of the story. There was something strange going on here. A phantom PB&J-maker in our house.

This had happened several times; then one day I saw a little blonde girl with a little puff of smoke kicking off the botttom of her left Hush Puppy dashing across the alfalfa field at breakneck speed. In her hand, was ... a sandwich!

I go in the house, and sure enough, we'd been hit again.

I was pretty sure it was Kay Anne's younger sister, Betthie Thoo, or, for those of you without a lisp ... Bessie Sue.

Bessie Sue Springsteen stacked seashells in the sandbox on certain Sundays. She was the Cindy Brady of the neighborhood, lisping & snitching 24/7 and now swiping the basic food groups out of our domain.

But Bethie Thoo was a quick little one and I didn't get a positive ID for quite some time ... and her time synchronization with the school bus sighting was impeccable. I had a better chance of photographing Thath-thquatch reading the Catch O' the Day on a handmade latrine than getting a picture of Betthie Thoo running through the alfalfa.

One day, it appeared that her timing was off but as it turned out, something had gone horribly awry.

When I got to the the end of the driveway I noticed that both sliding glass doors were wide open, I heard crashing noises and some screaming from inside the house. Out of the house shoots Betthie Thoo and she almost runs into me, she's panting and crying but in a flash she's sprinting across the field again. (Can you picture that little puff of smoke coming off her shoe or am I the only stoned one here?)

I go into the house and the first thing I see is Nanny, the goat (pretty cool name, huh?), prancing around on the dining room table. I'm not sure if you know what goat turds look like but they were all over the table. I hear a crash and I see a frickin' donkey in the kitchen galley knocking shit off the counter and slurping out of the jelly jar.

All right, I guess I'm done with that story.

Weird Childhood Memory #4,371

2006-06-06T07:33:00.000-05:00

When I was in about 3rd or 4th grade, there was 1 day a week (Tuesday I think) when I'd be the first one home after school. My Mom and 2 sisters would be at Girl Scouts and my younger brother and 2 younger sisters would be at some type of day care setup.

This was in Colorado, all the houses in the neighborhood were on at least an acre of land, many people had corrals with horses. Our neighbors, the Springsteens (no relation that I know of... you know ... to Ed Springsteen?) had a few horses, one of them was "17 HANDS HIGH!!!!!"" That's all you ever heard from Kay Anne, the Elvis-loving braided-pig-tail blonde girl who was a year younger than me.

Pueblo was his name-O and he was the Springsteen's pride & joy. A massive Apaloosa who stood 17 hands high, for you city slickers, let me explain (with the help of Google) ... horses are measured from the ground up to the withers (the ridge where the neck and back join) in "hands." One hand is four inches, the average horse is 15 to 16 hands. 17 is very tall and unusual specimans reach 18 hands.

One thing I learned about horses while taking a shortcut through the alfalfa field while Pueblo quietly grazed is that you don't walk too close behind a horse, especially a horse that's 17 hands high. I didn't think I was that close, but Pueblo thought otherwise, the last thing I remember seeing was that hoof gracefully making contact with the area an inch or 2 above my right hip. I remember everything going black while all the air shot out of my lungs then waking up about 10 feet away from the horse in a soft bed of alfalfa.

I got up, dusted myself off and went in the house to grab a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and watch Lost, I mean Gilligan's Island.

Unlike the native Coloradans, we had a different type of corral. A simple metal wire strung along a series of green metal posts. It housed a friendly but unridable burro named Brighty and a rambunctious goat named Nanny. They were good buddies and much more like a pair of friendly dogs than your usual burro-goat combo that most people grew up with.

They often hopped the fence and met us at the bus stop where they would wait patiently for our arrival. Though it may sound unique and charming now, it really wasn't the type of thing you wanted to see while pulling up in a bus full of your peers.

On Halloween, they jumped the fence and went around the neighborhood eating Jack O Lanterns down to the base. All that would remain was a tiny island of pumpkin holding a burning candle.

One time at about 6:00 in the morning, an upset neighbor in his robe holding the donkey by her bridle banged on the door and began to yell about how she'd eaten his wife's bed of flowers.

But I haven't got to the weird part yet ...

I have to run to work (no, Blogging does not pay the bills).

More later ...

Right On Target

2006-05-23T23:55:00.000-05:00

It wasn't the first time I had done this, I'd sat down at the Target application computer before with bad intentions. But, I had to do it again, just to see if things had changed.

This time I was a little deeper into the Northern Suburbs due to a 6 month closing of my main location while they build one of those mega-ones that will have groceries, foot massage stations and rooms for rent in the back but it's difficult to gauge who thinks what where these days so it makes no nevermind, plus ... it's all piped through the mainframe anyway.

The application station (hey, that rhymes!) was red I'm pretty sure. Like most of Target, you walk in and out of that place to buy some toilet paper and a James Blunt CD and you feel like you were just part of a video shoot for the White Stripes.

Speaking of James Blunt, did you know that he swears like a motherfucker?

I couldn't believe it ... my wife wanted me to listen to his CD and I was apprehensive because of minor shit like, his name, his picture on the cover and the sanitized sound of polished folk pop rock without the brain damage that I generally enjoy. It sounded pretty safe.

I'm listening to the Big Hit that feels RADIO FRIENDLY for any mainstream radio station on the planet, you know, something about something being beautiful (?) and I could swear to God that he said the effenheimer.

I ask my wife, "Did he just swear?"

She said "Oh yeah, he swears all over this record."

I said "Why, he doesn't seem like the type."

She said "What do you expect, he's irish."

I said "What the fuck is that shit supposed to mean Honey?"

But, you know, he is swearing yet it doesn't totally sound like he is. He's that fucking good of a singer. You know, like that the wedding band in Old School where the sleazy singer is throwing fuck fills into Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart causing some quick double takes from the guests.

But way smoother, in fact, he's smoother than baby shit when it comes to filling a catchy pop song with fuck this, fuck that ... it may be a first. I haven't really followed popular radio since Kansas warned me about the Point of Know Return so many times that I sold my fucking receiver and bought an integrated amp without a tuner so I didn't have to hear shit like that at home anymore.

!!!!!!!!!! Audio Geek Break !!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Kenwood, you know the one, it ran 150 bucks at Sound Inn Music on EZ credit; they gave you that funky credit card with a picture of George Washington smoking a doobie without asking your age or checking ID. The salesman looked like Lindsey Buckingham and he treated you like you were the shit and when you told him you and your friends had tried some home recording on the TEAC cassette deck you got later he giggled and asked you if you were all getting "silly" and that's when you started to back away slowly for the door and then when you were late on a payment that guy drove up the alley and started questioning your brother who was a little ornery because he was changing out the rear differential on a '67 Barracuda with a set of cheap tools from Champion and he ended up chasing him off with a tire iron.)

So ... where were we ...

Okay, ummm, James Blunt ... Target. Oh yeah, Target.

So I sit my ass down at the White Stripes Application Station and started applying for a postition.

Like I said, I'd done this before, maybe 3 or 4 years ago when we were still at the Honeymoon stage of living in a Facist regime.

I give my name, address, phone info etc. (I can't remember if I used my real name or not ... wait a tick ... what is my real name?) then comes the $24,000 Question (I'm estimating that being the average salary at Target, couldn't seem to Google it, found Wal-Mart, the average annual there is $13,861) and social security number (or some number, maybe I used Hurley's (the big guy from Lost and also the pot dealer from a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where Larry David goes to buy pot for his Dad's glaucoma and I think he picked up a hooker so he could use the Car Pool Lane because traffic was heavy) winning Lottery number.

"Will you take a drug test?"

I sit and look at this for a while and wonder how Thomas Jefferson would answer it. I like to throw Jefferson's name around like I know more about him than I do. I mean, we all know enough about him to know that the guy was a visionary, especially in the area of everybody's favorite "F-Bomb" ...

Freedom.

I mean, sure, his ownership of slaves clouds that a bit in the modern age but, again, I've been meaning to read a book about him someday. I was browsing for one at that bookstore at St. Anthony Main, or is it Riverplace? Doesn't matter, think it's been closed for a couple decades. Maybe I'll hop on Amazon. Any top reviewers out there who could recommend a kick-ass Jefferson bio for me?

Okay, any regular people? That might be be better.

And what's the Hemp connection with TJ anway? Was he just a straight-laced slave owner in a powdered wig making rope or was the Dude up against the stem?

I think Karl Rove would have had a field day with this guy.

So there I am ... reading this question over and over. A line of Spanish speaking people behind me are getting impatient.

I click >>>

No

The screen freezes in time, it seems like it's forever but it's probably more like 10 seconds.

Then for a second it goes blank ...

then it displays a message that I can't remember but it was something to the effect of ...

"Now get the fuck out of here."

And that's the exciting story, have a good one.

That 70's Show is Over

2006-05-18T22:13:00.000-05:00

Next on FOX ... "That Conservative Fucking Uptight 80's Young Republican Show" Followed by "The Out of Sheer Necessity, Punk Rock Becomes Real in Middle America Show"

Nevermind!

2006-05-17T18:32:00.000-05:00

Guess the Bush-whacko and his friends at the NSA are trying to discourage my theory ... just heard the chime and I have 2 fresh e-mails in my inbox ... one says ...

"picture such as had disappeared long before on the continent of Europe" from Logan Shaw

... and the other says ...

"timber and again past tall stately pine-trees standing isolated in the" from Mathew Odom.

As Emily "Nirvana" Latilla once said "Nevermind!"

No e-mail on Wednesdays

2006-05-17T14:40:00.000-05:00

Just working out some thoughts on an old theory ... more on this later.

Neil's New One

2006-05-11T00:33:00.000-05:00

I zipped into Cheapo on "New Release Tuesday" to pick up the new Chili Peppers CD for my other son, Sport, the other kid, the one who rarely asks for stuff. So, naturally, you have to see what else is new while you're there. I'd heard the Drive By Truckers had a new one out today and those are always worth picking up just for the artwork alone.

Then, lo and behold, a new Neil Young record is staring at me.

I think I knew he had one coming out, heard there was a song called “Let’s Impeach the President” but there's news and hype 24/7 so not everything sticks, even when it's about my hero Neil Young. I mean, I own the "Shocking Pinks" on vinyl, I was there, you know ... "that night" ... the night (gulp) that the Shocking Pinks dashed out onto the stage on the site of the North Stars home ice.

This was after an unusual solo performance full of vocodors and other weirdness from Trans. I still have that burned-in image of the KQ faithful type denim jacket slightly overweight long haired wire-rimmed bespeckled stoner dude pumping that fist in the air all night screaming ROCK & ROLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLllllllll___________ each foghorn-phlegm blast slightly hoarser than the one before ...

... yet ...

... sorry Denim, no "Hey Hey, My My ..." tonight my good man.

Anyway, it was all part of the requirement of being a Neil Young fan, especially in the 80s, he was always working hard to keep his distance from that Heart of Gold. At one point he publicly approved of Ronald Reagan. I remember feeling like I'd just left Planet Earth as I read the interview in the attic recording space of my guitar Yoda in Maple Plain.

I saw the Greendale concert a few years back, I loved it because I was in the mood for weirdness that night and it happened to be the right night to be in that kind of mood. I don't think I've listen to the CD more than a couple times though.

So the new one's called "Living With War" and I listened to it on a long commute this morning. I just love it. Musically I love it and lyrically it hit me big time as I drive passed the Burger King in Chanhassen ... "What did he say?"

The lyrics hit me like they were written by somebody who just said "What the fuck, if nobody else is gonna come out and say it here goes ..."

No time for clever wordplay or stargazing poetry ... just the facts Ma'am. Joe Friday's Rock Concert brought to you by Halliburton in Living Color.

[[Halliburton Energy Services (NYSE: HAL) is a multinational corporation based in Houston, Texas. With revenues exceeding $20.46 billion (U.S. FY 2004) and over 95,000 employees, Halliburton operates in two major business segments. The Energy Services Group provides technical products and services for oil and gas exploration and production. The KBR group is a major construction company of mainly refineries, oilfields & pipelines, and chemical plants.]]

Again, with no regard to copright laws, here are the lyrics to “Let's Impeach the President” by Neil Percival Kenneth Robert Ragland Young:

“Let's Impeach the President”:

Let'’s impeach the president for lying
And leading our country into war
Abusing all the power that we gave him
And shipping all our money out the door

He's the man who hired all the criminals
The White House shadows who hide behind closed doors
And bend the facts to fit with their new stories
Of why we have to send our men to war

Let'’s impeach the president for spying
On citizens inside their own homes
Breaking every law in the country
By tapping our computers and telephones

What if Al Qaeda blew up the levees
Would New Orleans have been safer that way
Sheltered by our government's protection
Or was someone just not home that day?

Let's impeach the president
For hijacking our religion and using it to get elected
Dividing our country into colors
And still leaving black people neglected

Thank god he'’s cracking down on steroids
Since he sold his old baseball team
There's lot of people looking at big trouble
But of course the president is clean

Thank God

E! Entertainment says "Keith Richards' Brain Just Fine"

2006-05-10T22:43:00.000-05:00

Keith Richards' Brain Just Fine

by Gina Serpe
May 10, 2006, 9:20 AM PT

The Rolling Stones want everyone to know that Keith Richards hasn't suffered any brain damage--at least not stemming from his latest misadventure.

A rep for the rock band has emphatically denied a report in the New Zealand Herald that the hard-living, accident-prone guitarist has undergone two surgeries for his head injury earlier this month and that his condition is much more serious than first thought. The spokeswoman claims that the coconut- (or Jet Ski-) induced incident--has been grossly overblown.

"Keith Richards did not undergo a second operation," Fran Curtis said in a statement Wednesday. "The first and only operation was done on Monday, May 8, and was 100 percent successful. There was no brain damage. He continues to improve as expected."

The statement was issued in response to a widely circulated report in the Herald Monday that the aging wild man had undergone an unreported surgery on Apr. 28, shortly after his initial injury, to stop bleeding in his skull.

The paper claimed that the 62-year-old received a craniotomy for a subdural hematoma, a blood clot that forms on the outer membranes of the brain, a major operation which requires drilling through and removing a portion of the skull.

The Herald also reported that although Richards was released after the first operation, he was readmitted Monday for a second surgery to release more pressure after passing out and suffering "major headaches." The Reuters news agency picked up the story and played up the possible brain damage angle.

Auckland's Ascot Hospital, where Richards was admitted, has declined to comment on any reports.

But Curtis insists Richards' surgery was minor, "a small operation to relieve the pressure" from a mild concussion, and that he was already on the road to recovery, having been "up and chatting, and phoning New York" since being released from the hospital.

Curtis continued to work damage control Wednesday, denying a second front-page report in Britain's Sun tabloid that the Rolling Stone's family had mounted a bedside vigil.

The paper claimed that the rocker's two daughters, 21-year-old Theodora and 19-year-old Alexandra, along with his missus, Patti Hansen, had flown to New Zealand to nurse their ailing patriarch back to health.

According to Mick Jagger's ex Jerry Hall, the Richards' family was indeed in New Zealand, but not because the guitarist was in any real danger.

"I hear that he is doing very well," she told reporters at a London charity event Wednesday, adding that she was in email contact with the family. "We are very upset about it. Mick is on holiday at the moment so he is hearing the same news we are."

Meanwhile, there's still no definitive answer on how Richards injured his head. The most persistent report is that the rocker fell while climbing a palm tree to pick coconuts at a Fiji resort on Apr. 27, while others have claimed he suffered the injury in a watercraft crash. (Richards has a history of odd mishaps, most notably a 1998 rib-cracking tumble from a ladder at his home library in Connecticut.)

Whatever the cause, Richards' latest injury has put a crimp in the Rolling Stones' touring schedule. The band had been set to kick off a 35-gig European run on May 27. The band's spokeswoman confirmed that the tour is still set to go on as planned with Richards some time in June.

Rearranged dates for the A Bigger Bang tour are expected to be announced later this month.

Rolling Stone Keith Richards Leaves Hospital

2006-05-10T22:40:00.000-05:00

Monsters and Critics.com, UK

Wellington - Rolling Stone Keith Richards was discharged Thursday from a New Zealand hospital where he had an operation to relieve pressure on his brain, after reportedly falling out of a coconut tree while holidaying in the South Pacific, his publicists said.

A joint press release from Rogers & Cowan and LD Communications said he had left the private Ascot Hospital in Auckland, where he was taken last month after his accident in Fiji, but would be returning as an outpatient for check-ups.

The statement gave no further information on the condition of Richards, 62, or any indication of when he was likely to rejoin the Rolling Stones, who have delayed the European portion of their world tour, which was due to open in Spain on May 27.

The release came after the New Zealand Herald ran a story headed 'NZ show may have been Richards' last,' which fuelled speculation that the guitarist could have suffered brain damage and may never perform live again. The Rolling Stones' last show was in Wellington on April 18.

The Herald had reported that minders for Richards and his family told waiting media outside the hospital on Wednesday that the ageing rocker was 'recovering well but was likely to be in hospital for some time.'

The paper said his four children - son Marlon and daughters Angela, Theodora and Alexandra - had joined his wife Patti at his hospital bedside.

Earlier this week, Richards' publicists rejected a Herald report that the rocker had undergone two operations in Auckland, one on April 28 to stop bleeding in his skull and another on Monday.

A statement from New York-based publicist Fran Curtis said: 'The first and only operation was done on Monday, May 8, and was 100 per cent successful. There was no brain damage. He continues to improve as expected.'

But London's Sun newspaper quoted a source close to Richards as saying the musician's condition was 'much more serious than the Rolling Stones' camp have been letting people believe.'

The source claimed there were concerns among medical staff that Richards could be left brain damaged or partially paralyzed by the fall, and the family had been warned Richards might never perform live again.

The Sun said doctors found Richards suffered a 'complete mid-line shift' - a condition where one side of the brain collapses on to the other - after his first operation.

The London paper said fellow Stones Charlie Watts and Ronnie Wood were believed to be watching Richards' progress from London, while Mick Jagger was 'monitoring the situation' from the United States.

Keith Richards Falls Out of Coconut Tree

2006-05-02T08:24:00.000-05:00

(photo unaltered as far as I know)

Rolling Stones guitarist and time cheater Keith Richards was brought into Mercy-Ascot Hospital in Auckland, New Zealand after a 3-1/2 hour emergency flight from Fiji. Reporters have been staking out the location for 5 days seeing only 3 guitars delivered to the patient (guess it's just what the doctor ordered).

Richards had fallen 15 feet from a coconut tree at the exclusive Wakaya Club resort on a Fijian island after drinking vodka all day and rum at night with fellow Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood.

Photographers and fans were there throughout, drawing scorn from at least one middle-aged woman reported by the New Zealand Herald who sniffed, 'If it was Elvis, I could understand it, but not that tired old codger.'

May Day! May Day!

2006-05-01T22:41:00.000-05:00

I was up for 4 hours before I realized it was already May Day. Is anyone else horny?

iTunes

2006-04-28T09:42:00.000-05:00

Sometimes as I'm clicking through used CDs at Cheapo I find a good one and think ...

"Or do I have this one ...?"

Meanwhile there's millions of loose CDs scattered around the house, some haven't slept in their own jewel box in years. It's gotten out of control. I find 2 separate copies of "Another Side of Bob Dylan."

My wife asks if I've paid the car insurance yet.

I was up late the other night, even Cheapo was closed it was so late. I was gettin' the fever ... you know what I'm talking about. I log onto to the internet, look both ways and then behind me, slide my ATM card out of my wallet and do what I never thought I would do ....

Item Number Description Unit Price

Q0002 Steady, As She Goes
Write a Review $0.99
Q0002 Hangar 18 $0.99
Q0002 Man In the Box $0.99
Q0002 Sour Girl $0.99
Q0002 Ace of Spades $0.99
Q0002 Caught in a Mosh $0.99
Q0002 Touch Me I'm Sick $0.99
Q0002 Revolve $0.99
Q0002 Cowboys from Hell $0.99
Q0002 Raining Blood $0.99
Q0002 Oh Brother $0.99
Q0002 Don't You Run $0.99

Subtotal: $11.88
Tax: $0.00

Order Total: $11.88

I felt much better afterwards.

for daddy

2006-04-27T22:21:00.000-05:00

I feel like I've grown up, somewhat, with Neil Young.

In fact, he helped me and my hooligan friends make a few prank calls back in the early 70s. I lived in Auburn, Alabama at the time. Auburn was, indeed, a Deep South town (You a Yankee or a Rebel?) but also full of displaced people through the University (War Eagle! Go Tigers!) and the Military (Vietnam is a Conflict, not a War).

Across the street from us, one of the houses changed military personnel from the quiet Lt. Colonel Brooks family to the Lt. Colonel Tucker family. Colonel Tucker was in fresh from the Philippines with his 2 long-haired (blonde) sons and an older daughter who lived on campus with her VW Bug driving R. Crumb reading husband. Eventually we'd spend a little time at their place reading underground comix and smoking Winchesters.

Winchesters were a hybrid of cigar and cigarette. They were really cigarettes I think, same shape and size with filters but they were had brown paper instead of white, were a nickel or so cheaper than a pack of regular cigarettes and could fly under the radar for advertising purposes. As of January 2 of 1971, we could no longer be seduced by cigarette ads on TV (wait a minute, I thought this was going to be about Neil Young).

In a way, I'd like to see some TV ads for cigarettes from the 60s. Each brand had their own vibe, and as a viewer and consumer, you could form your identity around these brands. If you were the strong, silent type wearing a denim, wool-lined ranchers jacket, you'd smoke Marlboro (this was way before Brokeback Mountain). Salem smokers were generally very Anglo Saxon-ish couples who loved cavorting in the fresh outdoors in Springtime, generally near water .... lakes, creeks, streams, waterfalls ... they would probably smoke up a storm and then fuck like rabbits near a babbling brook afterwards.

Camel smokers were generally fans of the Duke, that's John Wayne, not Daisy. Winston was for the racecar fans and don't forget, it was the brand Fred would offer Wilma after he rolled off her after some hot, primitive lovemaking. Hard to believe but episodes of the Flintstones would end with the Flintstones and the Rubbles enjoying a round of heaters together. Barney would let out one of his hee-hee-hees with smoke shooting out of nostrils as Betty & Wilma giggled. I always thought they were a little too hot for Fred & Barney, the Beauty & the Obese, a TV tradition that lives on with the King of Queens, etc.

Man, am I getting off track.

So, the last televised cigarette ad was at 11:59 on January 1, 1971 during the Tonight Show. Johnny had probably just asked Zsa Zsa Gabor to move that damn cat. It was a Virginia Slims commercial. I don't actually remember all these details ... I have Google.

So, through a loophole that only Satan or a Tobacco ad guy could come up with ... Winchester ads could run freely on television because it was a cigar, not a cigarette. You could advertise cigars on TV. The theme song, appropriately, was a lame rewrite of Santana's Evil Ways. I think instead of the line "... Lord knows you got to change ..." it was "Winchester's something else!"

There was a mustached, macho, half-hippie, half Australian Outback survivalist dude looking all bad ass with a One Million BC Raquel Welch-ish babe on each arm. Sure looked like the image that fit me the most ... plus it was a nickel a pack cheaper!

One thing about military brass families, they always had kick-ass stereo systems, Honda Trail 70s and stockpiles of commissary cigarettes in the pantry. It didn't always have to be Winchester when you had access to those kind of C-rations. My new friend, Burgess Tucker, had no problem swiping a pack or 2 out the supply shack once in a while. The Colonel himself smoked filterless Lucky Strikes, Miz (cough, cough) Tucker smoked Kents (or instant headache sticks) and Burgess's older brother George smoked the best tasting of the lot, Marlboro Reds.

George seemed a lot older but he was probably about 15 at the time. I have to think back to how that worked, as Miz (cough, cough) Tucker prepared her grocery list before hitting the commissary down in Montgomery she'd probably ask the boys "I'm headin' to the commissary ya'll, is there anything ya'll need?"

George would probably toss his wavy, blonde locks to the side and utter "Uhhh yeah, I need some Jiff, some Zig Zags and a carton of Reds."

Burgess might say, "I'll take a box of Space Food Sticks, a Pioneer receiver and a Honda 70." He was only 12, another year or 2 away from the acceptable smoking age in this house.

We had the run of the house quite often, the Colonel and Miz (cough, cough) Tucker had frequent social engagements and George would be gone a lot too. He was often out in the woods with his long-haired buddies. Occasionally they would emerge and ask if we had any matches. Once he asked me if my house had any torn window screens and if so, could I cut him off a piece about the size of a half-dollar.

We'd usually sit around eating Jiff and watching Kung Fu for a while and then grab some smokes and sneak into George's room and take a run through his record collection. We'd listen to stuff like Alice Cooper's Ballad of Dwight Frye, Parisian Plight II by Shawn Phillips (featuring Glenn Campbell on pedal steel), Cheech y Chong's "Trippin' in Court" and a lot of Grand Funk Railroad. Burgess had all kinds of trivia to share, like how Grand Funk's name was really Grand Fuck but the record company wouldn't allow them to use the name.

How once, Alice Cooper (or was it David Bowie?) and Frank Zappa (or was it Iggy Pop?) held a gross-out contest onstage. The showdown ended with one of these rock stars pooping onstage and the other one trumping him by eating it. Funny thing, I never saw that on any of the VH1 Countdowns. Or the Rod Stewart stomach-pumping incident ... rufff!

As I thumbed through this collection I found one that stood apart somewhat in its simplicity, cover-wise. There was so much crazy art in this era that this one stood apart. It wasn't shiny like the others, flat, fabric-like, old timey script writing.

Harvest
Neil Young

A pullout with handwritten liner notes and lyric, primitive and slightly unsettling. A photo of some hippies playing guitars and drums in a beat up old barn. Open it up and there was a gatefold, a photo of a doorknob, in the reflection is some hippie standing by a corral.

Burgess says, "Oh yeah. That's a weird one, check this song out."

He puts on side 2, drops the needle (with no damage done), the familiar sound of crackles and pops is followed by some extremely strange, but haunting, chords played on an acoustic guitar. I was used to music that went on for a while before the appearance of any vocals but this one felt like there should be some singing right away, Nothing, more of this guitar ... how does he make it sound like that?

All of the sudden this high-pitched voice pops out of the speakers:

"Old Man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you were ..."

What the fuck???"

I look over and Burgess is laughing, taking a long draw off one of the Colonel's Lucky Strikes, exhaling a dragon's worth and making dry spitting sounds, trying to dislodge the little bits of tobacco off his lips.

"Isn't that weird?" he said.

Next thing I know ... we got the pre-caller ID phone out and we're taking turns imitating DJs to random strangers.

"Yeah, this is W-S-H-I-T and if you can correctly identify the name of this song ... you will win a FAAAAAABulous prize."

I cue Burgess, he drops the needle and I hold the phone up to the speaker ... the long, long guitar intro begins. Then this high voice says "Old Man ...."

The needle is quickly lifted off.

You'd be surprised how many people guessed the title as "Old Man" ... none. None at all, we hammered away at it for quite some time but nobody got it.

Eventually we started accepting whatever lame guess they had as the right answers so we could give them our brilliant punch line.

"Congratulations, you just won a bowl of shit."

Man, did people get upset.

That got old, man, so we switched our giveaways.

We began to call places we knew were on campus. Students at the University would be much more receptive to our clever humor, and they were.

If a girl answered, she would win either a subscription to Playboy or a box of rubbers.

If a guy answered, he would win either a subscription to Cosmo or a box of Kotex.

Oddly enough, most of them got a pretty good laugh out of it.

It's hard to believe this was all the beginning of my 35 year love affair with the music of Neil Young.

-----

I thought I was about the biggest Neil Young fan on the planet till the advent of the internet in the mid to late 90s, I found a fan site called hyperrust.org and signed up for the mailing list. After a week or 2, I couldn't take it anymore ... shitloads of e-mails every day from extremely obsessed, umm, fans. Did you know his middle name is Percival?

Looking back it at tonight, I have to admit, it's a great site for info, guitar tab & Neil tunings, lots of cool stuff but the mailing list was just a bit much. Gotta love the fans though.

A couple months ago I hooked up with some old friends to catch the film "Heart of Gold" playing at the Uptown Theatre. It's a documentary of Neil's performance at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville.

It was a couple’s night but I was flying solo that night due to my wife's schedule, so I was playing the part of the 5th wheel or whatever they call it. I was late getting to the Uptown Bar where we met for dinner & drinks. I'm always surprised what a punctual person I've become in my old age but, as this night reminded me, I'm only punctual if accompanied by my wife.

I didn't miss too much of the nachos so it wasn't the end of the world. There's been too much time that had passed without seeing this group of people and I felt like I wouldn't mind skipping the film and just spend the evening catching up. I can never decide what to drink but when I saw a bottle of Heineken sitting on the table it looked pretty good so I had a few of those.

We sat right next to the legendary stage at the Uptown which has held the feet, bodies and souls of some of the most amazing rockers you can think of. Talking about the heyday of course. I hadn't been that close to that stage since my country-punk band, The Soundholes, played there in the early 90s. We were never asked back even though I called almost everyday for the next 7 or 8 years. I think they may have had caller ID.

For sure I'd been eager to see this film but honestly, I wasn't that excited about Neil's new Nashville record Prairie Wind. I wasn't sure what things meant like whatever it was Chris Rock said. Anytime NY does an acoustic-ish record there's a lot of hype about it being a sequel or the final installment of Harvest. I'd listened to it a couple times and I wasn't all that sure ... when I hear those comparisons I expect to drop the needle (or laser) down and hear "Old Man." And "Old Man" is never there. Sometimes it's something just as good, maybe better, maybe not as good but the "Old Man" is gone.

Neil's Old Man passed away prior to or during the recording of the record. My Old Man had passed away a couple months prior to this evening.

We got to the theatre expecting it to be packed to the gills but it wasn't even a quarter full. A handful of people. Yet, of all the gin joints, I mean, seats in the theatre, some uptight Dude who will soon be shooshing my 47 year old ass for talking quietly to my companions and giggling about the guitar player who looks like Colonel Sanders (wonder what kind of cigarettes, stereos and motorcycles he bought from the commissary?) plops his sorry ass in a seat right in front of us. Can't people like this tell when there's trouble behind them?

Okay, so I thought I was going to nail this sucker in 3 paragraphs but let me start taking it home here.

If you have Prairie Wind and are like I was, not captivated yet. You have to see this film. You have to see Emmy Lou Harris and this bounty of singers, strummers, drummers and wives. See a row of acoustic guitar players that line up like swimmers in an Esther Williams flick ready to dive into the ionosphere of passionate living.

Backup vocals that go tick tock.

Listen to Neil tell the story of being a young Hippie with money explaining his success to the Old Man who was the caretaker of the ranch he purchased shortly before the success of Harvest. An album that enriched so many peoples lives and was the unexpected catalyst for a series of prank phone calls in the Deep South (sorry Neil, I'm truly deeply sorry).

Then hear him talk about how we're now at the age where our parents will be leaving us.

The closing scene is the solo performer, banging away on Hank Williams' old Martin on a song (The Old Laughing Lady) from his self-titled solo record.

The closing credits go by and you can hear a pin drop in the Uptown.

2 words, looking childlike in all lower case letters appear on the silver screen.

for daddy

Instantly, I hear the sound of a woman making a quick, clicking sound, her tongue snapping off the roof of her mouth followed by a quiet, compassionate "oh".

I don't know if I properly communicated that sound in words but it's like a beautiful musical note that plays in my head nearly every day now; it always makes my eyes water.

Folks Call Me Dill

2006-04-13T23:40:00.000-05:00

One Saturday night in the late 60s, I watched "To Kill a Mockingbird" with my sibz. We were all quite absorbed by the story, a year or 2 later, our family moved to Alabama, home of Harper Lee. We lived down South from 1970-1974 and even then, I wanted to write about it, I've just never been sure how to go about it.

As kids we were captivated with the characters and situations of the children in this story, probably (though I don't remember for sure) more than the bigger drama of the narrative.

When the character of Dill popped into the scene, fresh from Meridian, Mississippi, we just roared with laughter. "Folks call me Dill" he said, we couldn't stop laughing about it for hours, days, weeks, months, years. It was eccentric as hell.

Boo Radley had a different kind of impact, and it was frightening. But it turned out he wasn't a monster after all, the real monster was the fear itself.

And who would ever think of dressing up as a ham for Halloween?

I worked with a girl whose hippie parents gave her the nickname of Scout after seeing To Kill a Mockingbird in the 60s. She had a certain energy and uniqueness that made that nickname believable. Her computer would show up on our Mac network as "Scout."

I try not to fact check on Google too much while blogging because it can detract from actual writing (but make me look pretty gosh darn smart) but I think Boo Radley was played by Robert Duvall. There is (or was) a band called the Boo Radleys; I've never gone to see them or have bought any of their music. I'll have to hit Cheapo this weekend (it's open on Easter).

My older sister ended up moving back to Alabama many years later by some, simple, twist of fate. Not too far from Harper Lee's home town of Monroeville actually. I've only visited a couple times, I wish it was more than that but it isn't. The last time I went, it was a bit of a spontaneous trip, the kids were out of school for Spring Break, I was waiting to see if any freelance gigs were coming my way and they didn't. It was the Spring after 9/11 and work was sporadic.

I bought a set of tires and we hit Highway 61, the Great River Road. It's the slow road, a lot of 30 MPH speed traps through what used to be the heart of America. The Mississippi River was the main artery and the river towns were boom towns; it was were the action was, economically and otherwise.

We stopped in St. Louis and stayed overnight at my cousin's place. His girlfriend appeared to be a little apprehensive about impromptu house guests at first but we had a nice night. The Oscars were on that night, I think Halle Barry cried a little and we stayed up late playing guitars and catching up.

St. Louis is known as the Gateway to the West but it's also the Gateway to the South in a way.

The next day, which happened to be my birthday, we went up into the Arch. My cousin has always reminded me that the only time he's ever been up it is when I was in town. The security was tight and it was a little freaky. The threat of Terrorism was a new way of life and they checked bags, pockets carefully so we could enjoy our little notch & click ride in the space capsule-like elevator that rocked its way to the top.

I couldn't help but picture a group of terrorists screaming "Death to America and their stainless-steel Gateway to the West" as they tried to hit the arch with a commercial airliner but would just fly right through the big, open space in the middle. I didn't and don't want to think that way but I did and still do in certain situations, especially where there's security involved.

We had lunch at the coolest spot called Blueberry Hill. Chuck Berry has held a monthly gig there for, I don't know how many, years. I don't know why but that just blows my mind.

After lunch we said our goodbyes (we're huggin' cousins) and me and the lads hit the rainy road toward Memphis. We wound up at a motel where we had to change rooms 3 times due to a variety of unusual circumstances with the rooms, most involving plumbing. We settled for a room where the only glitch was that the metal door jambs had been freshly painted with an oil-based enamel and it was a bit hard to breathe.

We cracked a window and hit a rib joint near Graceland. It was very late at night and the bar area was the only part open. I don't know if you've ever brought your young children to a bar around Midnight but the patrons were swearing heavily during a competitive game of video golf that was displayed on a large screen over the bar and there was a slight feeling that a fight may break out soon.

The manager who was around my age came by and in a light twang said to the kids "Hey, I got a couple boys about your age and when they're here, they like to eat in the dining room." We followed him to the dining room, he hit a series of switches on the wall and the room lit up. It was very warm and cozy, he said "let me grab you some menus, the food here is great."

He disappeared and suddenly, the sound of Elvis Presley's voice came on over the speakers, it sounded real good. We had a nice meal and he hung out a bit and asked about our trip. Then he brought me a complimentary slice of sweet potato pie for my birthday, it was real good too.

The next day the kids were channel surfing like crazy, (we didn't have cable at home) and we sat around watching the Smurfs for a while and then hit the breakfast bar. There was a Cheerios and Frosted Flakes dispenser; milk, juice, coffee, assorted pastries, Serve yourself, sitting in a room with guys in suits reading USA Today and watching CNN.

We beelined to 706 Union Avenue and took a short, but goosebump raising tour of Sun Studios. I wish I could stand in that tiled room every day for the rest of my life and absorb the energy.

Next, was the "Aww, what the Hell" tour of Graceland and I'll have to skip the details for now but you have got to see this place, really.

We were trying to get to the end of the river to a little town they call New Orleans but we were running short on time. We hit the flatlands of Mississippi and aimed for Clarksdale, then the plan was to take a sharp left for Alabama.

Clarksdale was a real trip, originally we were going to spend the night there in a shotgun shack but the timing was off. They actually rent out old sharecropper houses down there. A shotgun shack (resist a Google search, resist a Google search) is a house that's one room wide, and at least 2 rooms deep. The name comes from the fact that if you open the doors from front to back, you could shoot through the house with a shotgun.

There's a Talking heads song that goes like this:

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

(Okay, so I Googled, sue me)

Aww, what the hell, everybody sing together:

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

At the crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 49, there is a monument made up of giant blue guitars that look like Gibson ES-335s (must resist looking up ES-335s on www.gbase.com to verify model number) that marks the spot where Robert Johnson allegedly sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for some hot guitar riffs (I guess they didn't have any Schmitt Music stores down there).

Clarksdale is a town of about 20,000 people and former residents include W. C. Handy, Muddy Waters, Ike Turner, Sam Cooke, John Lee Hooker, Bessie Smith & Morgan Freeman ... wow.

Ike Turner and his band drove up to Sun Studios in 1951 to record what people say was the first rock & roll record "Rocket 88." They say a guitar amp that was strapped to the top of the car fell off and hit the road on the journey. It didn't sound like it used to when they fired it up in the Studio, it was full of distortion. To this day I search for a distortion box that will give me the sound of an amp that fell off the roof of a car and hit the asphalt of Highway 61.

We made it to Alabama late that night, about 24 hours after the rib dinner in Memphis. It was great to see my sister and her family. It's beautiful in Alabama in the Spring, we enjoyed a full day cavorting around the Indian Mound Archaeological Park, picnicking and flying kites. We started talking about "To KIll a Mockingbird" then went to the local library, checked it out and watched it that night. My sister gave me a copy of the book, she had just recently read it.

The next day we headed up to Birmingham in separate cars and toured one of the most beautiful Japanese Gardens that I've ever seen.

When we lived in Alabama in the early 70s, we dreaded driving through Birmingham. It was called the Pittsburgh of the South because of the steel industry; it was difficult to see and to breathe in that city.

Now, it's amazing to finally see the city, it's gorgeous! It's where the Appalachian Mountains begin ... or is it end?

It's all relative.

We had dinner and went our separate ways, north toward Tennessee for us. Back to Minnesota via Nashville; Seymour, Indiana; Chicago & the Norske Nook in Osseo, Wisconsin.

Last weekend my wife and I watched Capote. I was curious about his relationship with author Harper Lee. I did some Googling and discovered that they were childhood friends in Alabama. He introduced himself to her, fresh from Meridian, Mississippi.

The character of Dill was based on Truman Capote.

Just sitting here at Schmitt Music thinking about Jackson Browne

2006-04-12T21:05:00.000-05:00

Just sitting here at Schmitt Music thinking about Jackson Browne. There’s a huge wall mural in front of me that says “WHEN YOU THINK OF MUSIC … THINK OF SCHMITT’S!”

It has a purple background and full of imagery of kids playing music and having one heck of a good time. There’s an energetic, cute gal in an orange shirt laughing away caught, for eternity, in a pose playing a red and a black conga. Her hands are slightly blurred, proving that she was, indeed, hammering out some funky groove. Well, I don’t know if it proves that exactly but it’s got me believin’.

Next to her is a young man in a rugby type shirt cranking away on a pair of blurry maracas as he stares down at her … blurry hands. He looks like he could play the teenage Wolverine in a flashback scene in some future sequel of X-Men and through the magic of graphic design he’s standing next to a gut-string classical guitar that towers over him as if Segovia was exposed to radiation in a 50s science fiction B-movie.

André leaves his axe by the wayside only to find himself entangled in a web of high-voltage power lines.

People pass and look at me like I’m some kind’a geek, I got my Titanium Powerbook open tapping away in Microsoft Word with my iPod nano tucked carefully away in the breast pocket of my new shirt I bought at the Gander Mountain 60% off sale (they’re closing the Fridley store and moving to a Super-Duper Gander Mountain next to the Super-Duper Target which is near the proposed site of the new Super-Duper Vikings Stadium where Ziggy will be jiving us that we was Voodoo and the kids was just crass.

It’s the year 2046 and Daunte Culpepper, the oldest Quarterback in NFL history (thanks to Steve Austin surgery and the addition of a bionic hamstring in the Fall of 2006 is leading his beloved Miami Dolphins (Super Bowl Champs for a record 40 seasons) to yet another ass kicking over the Minnesota Vikings.

Though Tommy Kramer had a similar surgery in the Fall of 2006, he was outfitted with a bionic whiskey bottle instead. Much different results, much different.

Everybody Loves Ray Man

2006-04-07T08:26:00.000-05:00

(cell phone photo by
Dr. Knightrous)

A few months ago, I see a listing for an upcoming Ray Davies show at First Avenue and I think ... "I gotta see that guy."

This happens a lot ... a listing for an artist I've always want to see, plan to see, but then ... never do. You may have a list like this, people who you've listened to all your life and idolize but you've never seen them perform. I could lay out a list of reasons but they're all pretty inexcusable so I'll save it, you may know a few of them yourself (I had a hard day at work, short on cash, couldn't get a baby sitter, oh, that was last night? etc.)

When I chat with folks about bands, shows, etc. I do realize how lucky I've been to see so many artists but there is still that nagging list of misses.

Black Sabbath, International Amphitheatre, Chicago; July 16, 1975, the Sabotage Tour.

My friend John and I stand in my driveway all evening waiting for Tim to pull up in his '63 Valiant. He never shows. We had spent the previous 5 pre-cell phone days following a trail of rumors concerning some very rare Panama Red like we were characters from the friggin' DaVinci Code. We are both wearing what we thought were cool shirts made by the Levi Strauss Company. At that time, any light colored, muslin shirt with embroidered green leafage put you on Blackwell's list of the year's best-dressed weed hoppers.

Tim never showed.

Though he made a Valiant effort, it's difficult to make a clutch repair when you're stranded on a country road and the closest coat hanger is a 7 mile walk away.

At about 11:30 PM, we face reality ... a concept that we avoided on a daily basis. Tim's not gonna make it, the concert is 90 minutes away and, though rock shows at that time were known to begin anywhere from 2-8 hours after the scheduled start time ... it was time to head out into the darkness and knock down mailboxes.

I said to John as he was smashing a nice model with cast iron horses and stagecoach on top ... "Maybe next summer we can catch Sabbath."

John crickets out a cynical "tchh" sound followed by a "Chuh-yah, right!" and says "Have you seen Ozzy? You really think that fucker is gonna live through the summer?"

Flash forward 30 years, 1 month, 3 weeks and some change later, Ozzy is still alive. My son GT Jr and I stand in front of an Apple e-Mac drinking Panamanian Fruit Juice from the Coop, nearly weeping as we read the posting on the official Ozzfest web site.

"Ozzy has the sniffles ... Somerset, Wisconsin show cancelled."

-----

July, 24, 1974. My friend Jay and I are hitchhiking from Boulder, Colorado to Mile High Stadium in Denver to see Crosby, Still, Nash & (what's that last guy's name?) ummm, Young.

One of the oddest equation pairs in rock history:

C + S + N + Big Deal

C + S + N + Y = BIG DEAL!!!!

We have spent the previous several pre-cannabis.com days in search of the elusive Acapulco Gold. If you jumble the letters around in the words Acapulco Gold, you can spell out Holy Grail ... I'm serious, try it ... well, oops, ok, it works late at night, I swear.

We actually did find a pot of Gold at the end of a rainbow. We were riding our 10-speeds up toward "The Hill" (Boulder's notorious counter-culture zone ... I mean one of them). Boulder weather was quite a range, I remember days leaving for school in the morning trudging through snow, then walking home the same day in the dry, beating sun, temps in the 70s-80s.

This day, a 10 minute rainstorm of Old Testament proportions had just cranked over the mountains and then headed east toward the Today Show studios in New York where Al Roker wasn't in this neck o' the woods yet.

Ahead appeared, like a vision, a most beautiful rainbow.

Jay stopped his bike, gazed off into the distance and pointed. "Up there, at the end of the rainbow ... that's where he lives. We headed off in our quest for the golden pot of gold, I was riding on a burned out Huffy, with the full sun in my eye, I was hoping for complacement when the rainbow hit the sky. There was a band playing in my head and I felt like getting high ...

... up onto this hill ... had to downshift from about 8 to 3 ... when your legs go from quicksand inertia to crazy legs with zero friction.

We get to this little bungalow on top of the hill and this Devendra Banhart looking freakazoid is holding court in the living room, giggling and purple-microdotting away under a blanket with 2 girls wearing leather strings for headbands and nothing else. Jay sez "You got it?" and he sez yeah, plus I can score you some exquisite moonshine.

Now that scared the shit out of me? Alcohol? That's dangerous shit man, the opiate of the Bourgeoisie and hillbilly community. After filling up the glass tower with ice cubes for a taste test, a flask and a zip lock were handed over in an exchange for some wadded up bills, a switchblade and a huge, crude cherry bomb with a twine fuse that Jay's friend had brought back from Mexico.

There's a knock at the door ...we freak for a second. Turns out to be the Dude's brother. He's holding a unicycle and asks if we want to take a ride. We go out on the street and he gives us a 5 minute account of the 30 mile trip he made to Denver on this thing, said you could get up to 2 to 3 times faster than a 10-speed bike. That piques our interest, maybe we can ride this thing to Mile High Stadium ... hitchhiking was the fastest way to get the sheriff after your ass so this looked like a good alternative.

I check this thing out and wonder how you could get 2 guys on a unicycle ... he sez no problem he's done it a lot. He goes into the sample room for inspiration and comes back red eyed and ready to demo this ride. Another 5 minutes is spent on the 30 mile Denver trek before he takes the driving position on this weird rig. He does a quick pedal check and I'm prepped to see him crank down the hill on this sucker like Clark Griswold on a metal saucer with a fresh spray of a new poly-synth no-stick.

He focuses straight ahead, the girls come out to watch in their casual atttire and I notice they also have a leather string tied around their left ankles.

The bro says "ready, set go" and takes off out the gate like a rocket. Immediately the spoked wheel leaves the Earth, does a 180 and shoots 12 feet into the air as you hear the sickening thud of backbone and skull against pavement.

Ouch!!!!

He lays there moaning for a while, wondering why the stars are out so early and how pretty the bluebirds from Snow White are singing, then slowly closes his eyes, The naked girls grab his arms and drag him into the house. One of them sez "You guys can take the unicycle, he won't mind." We cordially pass on the offer, ditch our bikes in Dude's garage, head down to the Turnpike with our thumbs out and encounter the first of several cops to chase us that night.

We never got to Mile High that night ... the stadium I mean.

Flash forward 25+ years and 25+ lbs in each of Steven Stills' thighs later. We're in the Target Center and there they all are ... Oriental rugs and a potted plant on the stage (no, not Crosby, a real potted plant, very California) ... and other relics from the hippie past. A race car driver hands me a doobie and I partake ...

Oh jeez, I'm sorry ... I didn't get to my Ray Davies review and I have to split ... here's the set list (2 sets) for now ...

Ray and Band on stage at 8:25 p.m. CST
Approximately 1,200 fans in attendance

I'm Not Like Everybody Else
Where Have All The Good Times Gone
Till The End Of The Day
After The Fall
20th Century Man
Oklahoma U.S.A.
Village Green
Picture Book
Sunny Afternoon
Dead End Street
Next Door Neighbor
Creatures Of Little Faith
Over My Head
The Tourist
Low Budget

(15-minute Intermission starts at 9:45 p.m. and ends at 10 p.m.)

Stand Up Comic
Things Are Gonna Change (The Morning After)
Apeman
Alcohol
Stop Your Sobbing
A Long Way From Home (Dedicated to Dave Davies)
The Getaway (Lonesome Train)
Tired Of Waiting
Set Me Free
All Day And All Of The Night

First Encore
Days
Lola

Second Encore
You Really Got Me

Uh-Oh, Looks Like My Wife Found My Blogs

2006-04-05T21:08:00.000-05:00

OK crew, I'm calling a Code "Kilo Alpha Tango Hotel Yankee" ... we may need to take this baby down.

They Say it's Yer Birthday

2006-04-03T22:43:00.000-05:00

If you can ever arrange it ... make sure your birthday lands on a Saturday.

I was just talking to my brother who was describing his challenges of time management with his one year daughter. Parenting is a such a gradual and natural path of rewards and challenges it all cruises by like the wind, from cool breezes to warm hurricanes. It's easy to forget with today's challenges, that there were times in the Baby Days when you'd wished you had enough free time to read the water meter or have enough time in the bathroom to just barely do the physical things you needed to do.

But now things are different and you deal with those things because that's just what you do. You just finished reading an e-mail from the 3rd in as series of teachers who tell you that, "... while little Gather Jr. appears to be a natural leader, he has been very disruptive in class."

This time he had merely been dancing around with pencils up his nose, a good upgrade from teacher #1 in the series who showed me a paper where he announced that his favorite number was 666. And you're sitting in this meeting with her directly after work when you notice that both you and your kid, by sheer coincidence, are wearing Nirvana T-shirts. Your next step is to explain to her that you have things under control at home and how everything's "cool."

During the recap on the nightly dog walk, my wife said maybe I should have skipped the part about how we're an art & music family ... and part of an artist's responsibility is to challenge the system once in a while.

----

So it's yer birthday one day and it's on a damn Saturday, and a rare one that's errand and project free. It's in between kid's basketball and soccer seasons. You decide where you wanna go have dinner with the family and discover that you have the green light to go off on your own and do whatever you want to do for a few hours. So it's this "the world is an oyster" thing and the first thing you can think of is bee-lining to a record store in the big city.

The last time my birthday was on a Saturday (and it may have been my 40th), I used my Birthday Boy Freedom to go to the Yoko Ono exhibit at the Walker by myself. Not something a lot of people would instinctively do but I highly recommend it for anyone in need of a spiritual recharge. There's the general public perception of Yoko which we all think we know and there's the real Yoko whose art actually makes you smile, laugh and fall in love with her.

So before I get to the record store, I get to the even more serious shangrila, the hip, vintage guitar store where the guitars are made of Swiss Chocolate and I'm frick'n Homer Simpson. Mmmm ... 12-string Rickenbacker.

So you're just browsing on a Saturday but you really wanna check out this new delay pedal that the user review gang on Harmony-Central.com have been having miniature orgasms over for quite some time now. It's a new product (actually new & improved) from the Ambigutron Electronix Company" based out of Lawndale, California. It's called the "Analog Delay Crusher", a very cool pedal.

Not to get too technical here but what it does, is, it takes your direct signal from your guitar and adds a delay (analog of course, none of that digital nonsense). Next, that delay signal (remember analog which is superior, you know, like a Dodge Hemi) runs through a miniscule Jacob's Ladder Conductor and is sprinkled with fairy dust by a small compressor-powered sprayer.

Next, it runs through the Roundabout Capacitor (manufactured in Liverpool) which reroutes the signal BACK through the Jacob's Laddder where a small vacuum sucks up any remaining fairy dust.

The signal is then rerouted through the Cleveland Cloverleaf Capacitor (manufactured in Cinncinatti) and sent to the 1/4" output jack of the stomp box, then through your 6 dollar Radio Shack cable and into your $2,500 vintage amp where the final tone is identical to the sound you'd get if you had plugged your guitar straight into your amp.

It sounds subtle but believe me, purists can tell, it's a much more identical tone.

You walk in and there's a group of young, hip musician types chatting by the counter. You keep hearing one of them say "Gatherrrrrrr???" is that you "Gatherrrrrrr?????" but you let it coast by because you been out of the scene for a long time and when it comes right down to it, maybe you were never in it. Must be some other Gather you think, it's a common name like Joe, or Dave or Paul or something.

So I walk over to this batch of friendly faces and the one guy says "I don't know if you remember me but I played piano on one of your songs last year in the studio."

Wow, I knew who this was immediately, he had provided one of my favorite moments from my solo album project "Baggage Claim." For one of the first time's ever, I actually remembered somebody's name other than my own and as I uttered it, I could see in his face how important it is to remember names of people who have enriched your journey. It was an unusual name so I surprised myself even that I was able to recall it on the spot like that.

I said "Hi Gather, yes, I remember you very well, in fact, I was just telling somebody the story the other day about how you played that piano part on "Artsy-Fartsy Gallery Opening" (the most rocking tune on an otherwise fairly mellow, introspective record).

The producer and I had both attempted to play a fairly straight-forward Jerry Lee Lewis type thing but neither one of us was quite clicking on it all the way through. That afternoon, there was a young studio intern keeping busy cleaning up the recording rooms and organizing cables and the like. I had chatted with him a bit earlier, he was a nice guy, a musician from the North Country who had studied piano and was currently exploring experimental worlds of composition and performance.

He mentioned several influential artists and aside from Philip Glass and John Cage I wasn't familiar with any of them. I listen to a wide variety of music but I have to say, that is an area I've never explored.

I asked him if he wanted to take a stab at this part and he was up for it. I have to say, it didn't go well at first. He was struggling with the 12 bar blues format when I endured my first panic attack of the day. Have you ever heard how loud a clock ticks in a recording studio?

It goes like this "Tick-ching-tock-"yer an unknown making a solo record at age 45"- tick-ka-ching-tock-"you promised your wife it was going to be a quick record"-tick-(slot machine sound)-tock-"yer kids want to go to college ... or steal their Daddy's cue and make a livin' outa playin' pool"-tock.

12 bar blues is the only musical theory I barely even knew and I wasn't sure how to go about this, other than to show him how to play an E-chord for the third time. In the world of experimental composition and performance, there might not be an E-chord as we know it. There could be an E-concept or a suggested-but-not-determined-E-motion.

Well, through the power of rock & roll, it wasn't long before those ivories were getting tickled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy swigging a bottle of Boone's Farm "Tickled Pick" and we knew we had a keeper. Thanks Kid!

I'll pick this up later, I'm tired and the buzz has worn off ... remember, we left off at about 10:25 A.M. on Saturday.

Random Shuffle

2006-03-20T16:12:00.001-06:00

I was going to plug my iPod into my stereo for the noon time cruise but I was pretty sick of the 9,387 songs I had loaded on it so I switched to the Current.

Moments before I'd been listening to a few Johnny Cash songs including K.K's "Sunday Morning Coming Down", "Personal Jesus" by the Fashion Dispatch and the one Boss tune that rips through my core everytime, "Highway Patrolman". Jeez, did the Dude in Brood ever write any of his own stuff????

But of course, he penned a few ... "Big River" came up next, it was just the weirdness of the shuffle ... or wait, never mind. I was shuffling what they call a "playlist". And this playlist was called "Cash Covers", which I'd set up ... life is rough in the 21st Century ain't it? Then I switched to a standard artist shuffle and that's when "Big River" came up. I love that song. He mentions St. Paul, MInnesota; even cooler than when Rod Stewart sang "I been meaning to phone ya, but from Minnesota." I'd be cruising through the 70s in the wee hours listening to KQ thinking, "Did Rooster-Do Rod really just say something about Minnesota? (cough, cough)

Was Mary Richards real?

Moments before that I'd been fantasizing about throwing a CD release party and since I don't know any other bands I could get my band to dress up in Chuck E. Cheese costumes and play some covers. I just put the ol' iPod on random shuffle to create a first come, first serve set list and here's how it went down.

1. General & Majors/XTC
2. Uncontrollable Urge/Devo
3. Bad Moon Rising/Creedence (I've actually seen the real Chuck E. Cheese combo play this one and they do it very well though the Gorilla on the keyboards was grumbling about how CCR is all layered guitar and no keyboard).
4. (Can't Get My) Head Around You/The Offspring
5. Acony Bell/Gillian Welch
6. Ariels/System of a Down
7. Sunday Morning Coming Down/Johnny Cash
8. Aero Zeppelin/Nirvana
9. Are You Experienced?/The Jimi Hendrix Experience
10. All I Have to Do is Dream/The Everly Brothers
11. Red Rain/The White Stripes
12. Too Drunk to Dream/Whiskeytown
Encore: Mambo Sun/T. Rex

Now, I realize I've had more than my fair share of decision altering goodies in my day but I think if I walked into a bar and saw Chuck E. Cheese himself singing these here lyrics, I would feel that, whatever the cover charge, it was well worth it:

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.

So back to the high drama of switching from the iPod to the radio. In the old days, it would have been a dramatic transition but with The Current around it's a bit like listening to a random shuffle on a found iPod.

By coinky-dinky, the first tune that came on after the ol' switcheroo was the Cashmeister himself. The percussive sounds of "Get Rhythm" got me ol' toe tapping and I actually sped up to about 57 MPH in a 55. Now, that's pretty good for 50's music, sure, anything off Back in Black would crank you up into the 70s easy but that's because it's from the 70s and has the unfair advantage of being produced by Mutt Lange who was known to not only use a stack of Charles Atlas Iosmetric Compressors but also was rumored to dabble in a bit of witchcraft.

Plus, and this may just be urban legend, but Lange is rumored to collect a percentage of the take off every speeding ticket issued by State Troopers while AC/DC was being played on any local radio station at the exact time of the clocking. Most modern radar guns are optically connected to BMI's New York office for verification which results in a direct wire transfer of funds from the State Trooper headquarters of said State to Shania Twain's Swiss bank account.

So, 57 ain't bad for some ol' tune from 57 and I when I came over the hill and saw a guy in a civilian leather jacket standing to the side of a Trooper vehicle (clearly marked on the front doors ... yeah, like that's gonna do you any good when you're checking the rear view) aiming the gun my way. At that point I was glad to be in Johnny's hands rather than Angus Young's.

Thanks Johnny, you, in a way, saved me about 80 bucks. Angus, you still owe me from last Rocktober!

So that put me in a "feel good" mood, I was money ahead in a sense and getting fond memories of Joaquin doing a double-take when he saw the skillfully choreographed shoeshine boy defying the caste sytem by never getting low down with the dirtiest job in town. In Hollywood, nobody does a double-take without some importance to the narrative, it would be too expensive and doesn't test well. Hollywood doesn't understand the free form format of the Blog yet like we do.

Next comes this song, the kind that can drive you crazy with the question "Who is this?" I know this voice, I know that guitar sound. It's Minnesota comfort music, twangy enough for Grandpa, hip enough for college boy majoring in Alt Country at the night school of clubland and lonesome lyrics sexy enough for his "I've just been to the Spectacle Shoppe and 'gasp' it was in New Brighton" girlfriend.

Yer like, "Man, whoever this is I'm gonna look up 'em up on guitargeek.com and see what kind of rig this guitarist uses because I been after that tone all my life and I need the ingredients (maybe a little soul wouldn't hurt either)". Could it be Blue Mountain? Ryan Adams? That upcoming Golden Smog Album????? (that's always a good guess because they have close to 40 lead singers and it could make you correctomundo among your hip friends ... wait a tick ... they dumped you years ago when they found that ELO album hidden under your couch."

So I was almost to my destination and I hadn't heard the:

"... and before that was (insert elusive band name here)"

So I quickly took the exit heading in wrong direction to buy me some time. Who cares if I get to the hospital late? I'm sure my wife will have another baby one of these days.

Then ... just as the song ends ... in a very Currentesque fashion ... the Doo Wop sounds of the Monotones doing "The Book of Love" kick out of your speakers like a blast of 1958 Newark air:

"I wonder, wonder who, who, ooh ooh...who ... who wrote the book of love?"

I look down at my speedometer and see I'm suddenly doing 58 miles an hour. Wow this is getting weird, I better not switch to that Grunge-X station now or I'll be cranking it up into the 90s.

Okay, the song's a little short and as it ends, up comes a patented Currentesque thematic 180 transition. Another song called "The Book of Love". This one, though, doesn't make you feel like skidding to a quick stop and grabbing the first girl in a poodle skirt and dancing down I-94. This one makes you feel like commiting suicide for a few seconds, then it makes you laugh as you hear this morbidly funny Nick Cavish voice moaning:

"The book of love is long and boring No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing ..."

(By the way all lyrics, published on the WORLD WIDE WEB without regard to any legal ramifications)

Then you start pulling your hair out, I know this voice, I know this sense of humor. GODDAMMIT Current, don't you have some type of glass replacement commercial to squeeze in quick! That would force you to announce the artists at some point!!!!!!!!

Then ..... there's a pause .... you look up and see a green sign that says "St. Cloud 6 Miles Behind You, Yuh Missed it Buddy)." The pause goes on forever ... has the DJ gone to the corner to assume the Lotus position (inside joke for my Yoga instructor).

(The following DJ talk is not quite accurate, by the way ... are Current DJs called DJs or something more austere, like Vinyl Priestesses of High?)

"That was the Magnetic Fields from their CD "69 Love Songs" with their song called "The Book of Love" preceded by (exhale ... giggle) the Monotones with their song called "The Book of Love."

Wow, the Magnetic Fields. A friend of mine lent me that CD before I did the Route 66 thing and I loaded it onto my 10 Milllion song iPod (sorry, it was only in production for a couple weeks and the battery died before I was able to listen to 9 million songs I'd loaded onto it ... it was an "open box" deal at Circuit City that I got for $300 American, I went to the Apple Store to have the battery replaced and they told me it would cost $4,500 so I passed."

He told me that the songs reminded me of the ones I wrote; I've been reluctant to fall into that type of compliment ever since somebody told me the same thing while handing me a copy of Bobby Goldsboro's Greatest Hits (I was told we had similar hair also).

Anyway, 9 million songs on an iPod shuffle can get to you in a certain way that's hard to describe but every once in a while I'd hear a weird song that would strike a chord with me. I'd look at the display and it was often The Magnetic Fields, once in a while it would be Bobby Goldsboro and i would shudder and apply another coat of Armor-All to my hair.

Then the High Priest ID'd the mystery song and band. It was called "Don't You Run" by Bellwether.

Okay, now I'm going to post this and spend the next few days checking spelling errors and look for a linear thread in the narrative.

Have a great week.

Mr. Whipple's Surprise Sprint

2006-03-07T23:50:00.000-06:00

Okay, back to the quaint little burgh in Upstate New York.

There was this old fashioned grocery store at the corner of Terwilliger Road and Albany Post Road. During the warm months it was like an open-air market with green canvas awnings and a huge selection of fresh produce. Inside the store was a huge lobster tank and I loved to look at those strange, antennaed creatures with those thick rubber bands on one of their claws as they cavorted around at the bottom of the tank looking all space alien.

I can't remember which claw had the rubber band on it, lobsters have one claw that's bigger and slower called the crusher and the smaller one is the quick reacting pincher, which, now that I'm working through this, was probably the more logical claw to put the rubber band on. But when? When it's sleeping?

The owner was this guy who looked a hell of a lot like Mr. Whipple from the Charmin commercials. I was still at that age where it was difficult to differentiate between things I saw on TV and real life. I finally grew out of that in my early 40s but then the trend of Reality-based TV shows began and I was back to square one.

But, I'd be in the store and I'd see him and think "Wait a minute, is that the guy who likes to squeeze toilet paper or what?" It took me a long time to figure out the schtick with the toilet paper squeezing and I'm not sure I ever really did but I was able to get to the point where I didn't think about it anymore ... till now of course.

He was always friendly to everybody and generally ran the joint with a low pulse, you'd see him heading off to Aisle 5 with a broom or maybe carrying an elderly woman's grocery bag out to her horse & cart. One day, he was reaching into the lobster tank and one of those nasty buggers got him good.

Must have worked the rubber band off the pincher claw, he let out quite a yelp. There's a good possibility he yelled out "Son of a bitch!" but I wouldn't have known that was a bad thing at the time. I do remember several ladies cranking their heads when he yelled out whatever he yelled out.

Anyway, one day I was with a buddy and we were just hanging out at the store, looking at comic books or whatever and out of the corner of my eye I see my friend bolt, and I mean BOLT out of the store. He was just a cloud of dust on the horizon in seconds and there was Mr. Whipple right behind him.

He collared the kid and dragged him back to the store. The kid was crying a little as he placed something in the grocer's outstretched palm. It was a piece of that Double-Bubble gum, worth about a half-pence on the Black Market. I couldn't believe it! First of all, I was standing right next to the kid and had no idea he had pocketed this gum, secondly, I didn't even know what stealing was at the time ... and thirdly, I couldn't believe that old son of a bitch could even move that fast!

Wow!

Bug-O-Nay-Ge-Shig

2006-03-07T23:33:00.000-06:00

You ever watch the school closings in the morning on KARE 11 and dream that you were a student at Bug-O-Nay-Ge-Shig School? It seems like they're closed damn near every day but that's not the only reason for dreaming.

The Bug O Nay Ge Shig School was founded in 1975 in Cass Lake, Minnesota as an alternative school to serve 35 Ojibwe students from Leech Lake Reservation. The school was named in honor of Bug O Nay Ge Shig, a local Ojibwe who lived in that area at the turn of the century. It is located in the Chippewa National Forest in North central Minnesota.

At Bug-O-Nay-Ge-Shig they value love, respect, wisdom, humility, bravery, honesty and truth. The school symbol is a silver eagle and their motto is "I am smart, I am beautiful, I can do anything."

Rock on Bug-O-Nay-Ge-Shig.

I Forgot the Ending

2006-03-06T02:37:00.000-06:00

The whole point was that I had this moment, at the age of four, watching Tubby McGoo swinging around in a galvanized tub and spitting on kids; this moment of realization that life would be interesting.

Wow ... people actually read this. Thanks.

Not Everybody Loves Raymond

2006-03-06T00:20:00.000-06:00

When I was about four, I was invited to a birthday party for a kid named Raymond. I don't recall being close friends with him or anything, most of the kids in the neighborhood were invited and you just go ... you don't ask questions.

Raymond was one of those chubby kids, or "husky", the polite word invented by the garment industry to avoid embarrassment at the store. ("Yeah, throw in 2 pair of the Levi's Lard-ass Fit for Tubs here"). Many years have passed but I believe he had a similar appearance to the Pugsly character from the Addam's Family television series. Quick fashion tip here, when you resemble Pugsly, please, avoid the horizontally-striped T-shirts, it just makes things worse.

We lived in a big red house at the end of a dirt road in a small town in upstate New York. Raymond lived about 6 houses up on the same road, Terwilliger Road, the main drag in our world. The link between the banks of the Hudson River to the endless woods that started in our back yard. The enchanted forest to us, dense with evergreens, exposed rock formations and the possibility of various characters from the Grimm Fairy Tales living somewhere back there.

I walked up to Raymond's house and went in. The party was held out on the 3-season porch, and it was in full swing when I got there. Apparently, the birthday boy had received a pulley from somebody before the party, maybe his parents. Whatever the case, it was attached to a beam that ran across the peak of the ceiling. When I walked in, I see Raymond sitting in a big galvanized bucket (or tub) with a rope attached to it which runs through the pulley above and back down. He gives the rope a great big yank and hoists himself up into the air, laughing, the bucket gyrating and swinging wildly as it makes its way to the top of the room.

It was quite a sight and obviously it never escaped my mind as I'm writing a damn blog about it decades later all jazzed up after my third bowl of Cap'n Crunch late on a Sunday night/Monday Morning. (For some reason, I associate late Sunday nights with that outdoors show on KARE 11 where that guy explores Minnesota with his Black lab, Raven).

But back to the era when Sunday nights was all about Ed Sullivan and his cast of crazies ... remember the guy spinning dinner plates on top of tall wooden dowels with that cartoonesque, piccolo-drenched attack & sustain trombone-nightmare mind fuck music playing?

How am I doing on the story here? Obviously, I'm trying to pull 800 words out a 5 second childhood memory, I just want you to know that I know that you probably can sense that.

So there's the whole neighborhood crew, all dressed up and sporting fresh coats of Mercurochrome from recent bike accidents and various beehive-related mishaps, watching this fat kid pull himself up using a pulley. Then, the gobbing begins. As if Raymond hadn't won us over completely with this physics excercise he makes the unusual decision to start spitting on his guests.

I can almost astral project the overhead boom shot of a roomful of four year olds backing off from the center of the room. The choreography as synchronized and as beautiful as a performance by the June Taylor Dancers.

The memory gets real fuzzy after that part of the story but I think the party wound down not long after our chubby host began hawking loogies at his guests who'd just presented him with gifts (think I gave him an Addams Family Colorforms set)honoring his grand entrance to the Kool-Aid-filled age of five.

Okay, I really thought I could do 800 words but I'll take the 625 and prep better for next week (oooh! just by writing that, I made it to 642 ... wait a sec, that's a few more words ... now I'm up to 670 ... hold on a sec, I think I can do 800 ...)

Sayyyyyyyyyyyy, speaking of Terwilliger (the name of the road mentioned above), did you that Sideshow Bob's last name was Terwilleger? (How many times have you overheard people using Simpsons trvia to fill up a conversation, Holy Grail works too of course).

You might not be able to tell it from his narrow frame, but "Sideshow" Bob Terwilliger has one huge chip on his shoulder. After years of being Krusty the Clown's sidekick and foil for his sadistic antics, Sideshow Bob finally snapped and attempted--unsuccessfully--to frame his tormentor. After a stint in prison, Bob tried to reform by marrying Selma Bouvier (they divorced after he tried to explode her), murdering the Simpson family, running for mayor of Springfield and blowing up the town. One possible reason for Bob's hostility may be displeasure with his early career choices. An erudite, urbane scholar-type, Bob was never really cut out for Krusty's foolish gags and bits. He currently resides in prison, where he shares a cell with his equally brilliant and evil brother, Cecil. (All text cut & pasted from http://www.thesimpsons.com/bios/bios_townspeople_sideshowbob.htm).

862 words.

Aloha.

Stays Crunchy ... Even in Milk ... The Dramatic Conclusion!

2006-02-20T10:19:00.000-06:00

So it was a Monday, I was running a little late and thought I had time for a quick bowl of Cap'n Crunch. In some ways it feels like it was just the other day but as I do the math on my fingers I think, wow, that was over 30 years ago. But, as my index finger touches the ring finger on my left hand (the thumb representing the turbulent 60s, the index finger the 70s, the middle finger appropriately pointing at the 80s) I realize it was over 40 years ago! Shudder!!!

(Editor's note — if you were counting on your fingers using the decade system, you would not start on the thumb for 1965, it would be 1975. But, for writerly reasons, you would miss the whole thing about the middle finger and the 80s reserved for Reagan, Bush I, the rise of the Neo Cons, the Religious Right etc. Plus, you never want to split up the Decades. Even though the cultural vibe of a Decade usually doesn't kick in till about halfway through, it's easier for all of us, including Time-Life, the VH1 Lists etc. to categorize cultural movements within the chronology of said Decade — thank you and have a nice day.)

The shudder is not so much for the realization of how old I am but more for the fact that after 40 years, I still haven't managed my time properly so that I can enjoy a bowl of cereal in the morning. It makes me think about Brian Regan's bit on microwave instructions for Pop Tarts. "If you have to zap-fry your Pop Tarts to make it out the door in time, you really need to loosen up your schedule".

This particular Winter morning though, things were a little different. The 2 older sisters weren't going to school due to the sniffles or some other childhood illness. They both went to the Catholic school, St. Austins, while I went to Kindergarten at the public school, Loring Elementary, where I was majoring in Blocks, Macaroni & Elmers Glue Art, and Nap.

I was never quite sure why the Catholic school didn't have Kindergarten. Was KIndergarten frowned upon by the Pope? Deemed as unholy in some way, after all, we did dim the lights and lay, coed, side by side. The whole religion thing was confusing at the time, as opposed to now, and I remember when we'd quiz kids on their religious beliefs with the question "Are you a Catholic, or a Public?"

So there I was, running late, a bowl of Cap'n Crunch half eaten and the big hand on the clock saying it was time to skedaddle. What do I do? Dump the rest of the Crunch while there were kids starving in China? Then it hit me, my first encounter with advertising. I could hear Cap'n Crunch's kind, trembly voice in my head assuring me that this cereal ".... stays crunchy ... even in milk."

At that point I made the decision to leave the bowl intact on the table and finish it when I came home. The floating, gold morsels would be as crunchy as they were when I left them because that's what the Cap'n had promised me. (By the way, were they supposed to look like treasure chests or something?)

In the defense of Madison Avenue, I'd never heard a claim from the milk company that said "... stays cold ... even after 4 hours of Kindergarten." but I hadn't thought it out that far.

Having only eaten half a bowl, there was only half a spring in my step as I forged my way through my Kindergarten session that day. I was doing okay assembling blocks to build what resembled a city but without all the sugar in my bloodstream it looked more like St. Paul than Minneapolis. I glued together a pretty nice Creamettes landscape but it was more quiet, more introspective than than the usual chaotic city scenes I would glue up. Nap time went pretty well though, I think it was the only time I ever slept. Normally I would lay there with my heart racing and my hands and legs doing little spasms as I was bored out of my skull wondering when this event would end.

What did get me through the day was the thought of those crunchy treasure chests awaiting me at home. They would make a good appetizer before downing a bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup. That would be my salt fix for the day, especially after loading the bowl with a pile of crushed Saltines.

When I got home, there was my bowl sitting on the table. What once was a sea of golden crunchy treasure chests was now a big bowl of mushy stuff. I was pretty sure what would happen but I did test a spoonful of this stuff ... yuck ... it was nasty.

So, no big deal, I learned my lesson; to this day when I hear a product being boasted, a CEO telling me that the employees are a company's greatest asset, or a leader telling me that things are going well in Iraq ... I think of that kind, trembly voice saying "Stays Crunchy ... even in milk!"

Stays Crunchy ... Even in Milk!

2006-02-15T14:12:00.000-06:00

I just spent a fair amount of time creating this cool animated Cap'n Crunch GIF image but Blogger converts it to a JPEG everytime (it's a good thing we can use terms like these in today's world and not sound like nerds). Oh well, you'll just have to pretend that the psychedelic background is moving like Kitty Foreman's cosmic kitchen wallpaper. We can do that right? I'm assuming that most of my readers still have enough chemicals swimming around in their bloodstream to make this effect work properly. By the way, this ain't some image pulled off the web, this is from an actual photo I took this morning of Bowl #3 in my new health trend: "A bowl a day keeps the doldrums away" (notice the healthy bunch of bananas rotting in the background as Cap'n Carb takes the wheel).

So this all brings me back to the pre-70s and into the age of innocence. No, please don't start humming that Don Henley song, though that does bring up my first tangent ... I saw Dylan once on Halloween Eve and it was a very strange night. First of all, on his first song he was sitting at one of those modern keyboards and it was a little disorienting. It would have been much different if he was using an old upright like we've seen him pictured during the Highway 61 era or so but this was one of those minimalist current contraptions like a Korg or a Roland or something. But that wasn't the weirdest part ...

I'll skip the part about any herbal enhancements because ... because ... umm, it's not that important to the story, right? More importantly, my concert buddy, Dr. Knightrous and I were doing that ritual of finding your seats in a darkened arena where you flick your Bic to double-check the row & seat number then politely ask the person on the end "Is this row K?" and they say "No, it's row L, and you apologize Minnesota-style as you run that Alphabet song through your head and figure it out (it's the next row down). Dr. K (whoa, what a coincidence, Dr. K, row K!) zeroes in on the middle of the row (I hate that spot!) and politely says "After you!"

It seems like a nice gesture until you see that you will be sitting next to a rough looking biker who must weigh 3 bills and whose girth requires his huge tattooed biceps to invade a healthy portion of the seating space on either side of him. Dr. K on the other hand sits next to a young attractive brunette woman who also turns out to be very friendly and a very in-tune Dylan fanatic. I turn around and say "Thanks" to Dr. K; he smiles, and says "No problem GT."

Maybe it was the healthy air flow in the Xcel Center or maybe it was the joint my new biker friend had just shared with me but I suddenly felt a little spacey and very relaxed. I'd seen Dylan in concert around 10 times and part of the thrill is in trying to identify the songs (Bob mumbles a bit). I'm not complaining, with great musicians like Charlie Sexton on stage it's not always critical to know what song it is ... just that it sounds incredible. But still ... I find myself thinking "Quinn the Eskimo, You Ain't Goin' Nowhere, Girl From the North Country etc." Usually, before the song ends I can identify it but I still feel like there are many songs I just don't know. I only own about 30 or 40 Dylan records so there are some missing links.

He dedicated a song to his man Paul Wellstone who met the end of his road up in the Range or something like that ... I suppose I could look it up and ...

Oh shoot, I have the title wrong, I blew it. The shocker was going to be that he played a Don Henley song and tie everything back to paragraph #2 but I just realized that I have the title wrong. End of the Innocence, not the Age of Innocence, right? Any Don Henley fans out there willing to comment and leave their names? I'm not a big fan of Henley's music, just his shirts.

Oh well, I've wasted a fair amount of time on that segue and the whole point was going to be this cute little story about having a bowl of Cap'n Crunch as a tot, not having a bowl of something else at a Dylan concert.

Tell you what, I'll take another run at it tomorrow. Then I'll finish the Dylan story at a later date, I'm on the clock at work right now.

Can you give me a couple days?

Throwing Out Some Mud Before Midnight Monday

2006-02-13T23:55:00.000-06:00

I've got 5 minutes to write this ... ok, I've read some other Blogs since I've started this one and I'm not sure if Monday Mud is actually a Blog anyway. I'll give it a shot from what I've seen ...

I got up this morning and realized I had an extra 2 or 3 minutes before we had to make the mad dash to start the day. I thought, "What the heck, maybe I'll pour myself a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. I don't think I've had a bowl of cereal in about 6 months.

So I did, it was quite refreshing, the milk was cold and out of a brand new, unswigged-from carton; it put an extra spring in my step throughout the entire day. I kid you not, I'm serious ... try it sometime.

Julie Christie, the rumors are true ...

2006-02-06T09:55:00.000-06:00

When I left you last week I was trying to get in a creative mode about the State of the Union Address. I'm still working on it, I've studied the tapes and done some research but I'm coming up empty. In the old days I was always inspired to mock the government. Maybe it's a sign of my advancing age, too many listens to "Acoustic Sunrise", too much happiness in my life ... it just felt like there was some ingredient or substance lacking from my life.

——— Suddenly I have this Smiths song running though my head:

They said :
"There's too much caffeine
In your bloodstream
And a lack of real spice
In your life"

(By the way, I heard that Heather Graham loves to dance to the Smiths ... just a little tidbit I read in yesterday's paper.) ———

So I decided to take a day off and catch up on mundane house projects to cleanse the palate, then add some spice later; paint some rooms, organize my Pack Rat room and wax floors like friggin' Vincent Van Gogh (sorry, for some reason I can't quit using the word "friggin", I think I've been reading too many low-brow Blogs lately).

I had recorded the Address on one of those fancy-schmancy digital recorders that comes free with my free Time Warner cable service ... sorry, just checking to see if you're reading. It's sort of like Tivo but not exactly, you set it up to record all first-run episodes of your favorite shows like "Lost" etc. and then you can watch whenever you want and forward through commercials. It's very similar to a VCR but you get a monthly bill so it's gotta be better. By the way, since it's set up to record first-run episodes of Lost it's only been on a few times this season.

I can already tell this is not one of my better Blogs.

So, ummmm, yeah .... I saw Tim Robbins on Conan way back when bragging about Tivo and his Hybrid car. He was describing how Tivo has improved his family values by not exposing his kids to all the hard sell advertising that is in our face 24/7. Then he plugged his new movie and suggested we all see it.

It made sense what he was saying. I've hated advertising ever since it dawned on me at the age of 18 in a state of altered consciousness that TV wasn't my friend after all. It wasn't set up as a vehicle for entertaining the masses without us giving back. I thought back to my old friends Casey Jones and Roundhouse Rodney pushing that Maypo crap on us and giving away free plastic moustaches at Uncle John's Pancake House. Jonsie would look into camera #1, ask you if your Dad was gainfully employed and then tell you to beg him to take you out for pancakes. Then you'd get your free plastic moustache.

Now here we have George Bush trying to sell us his plastic moustache, the Freedom Moustache, guaranteed to prevent terrorism. All we have to do, is follow along. The State of the Union ran all day on my TV, apparently it was on a repeat mode. It was like the big wall screen from Fahrenheit 451, Julie Christie sitting around the house popping pills and watching the government programs all day. I kept hoping inspiration would hit me by this repetition but it never did. GW just reminded me of some of the CEOs I've seen at various jobs that speak for an hour about the state of the company but never really say anything exactly ... kind of like certain blogs you might read.

As I toiled around the house I kept finding interesting things ... up high on the shelf in the storage room, in an empty Dan Fogelberg Box set I found a little wooden box. I slid the top open and a little ceramic cigarette popped out. "Hmmmm, this looks vaguely familiar" I thought as I looked in the chamber which was half full of a green, leafy substance. I thought since it looks like a cigarette, maybe I'm supposed to dig into that chamber, filling the end, then smoke it. Eureka! It worked, just to make sure, I did it a few times, I like to pursue everything with great passion.

I went back upstairs and man, I gotta tell you, I felt real funny. Not funny enough to write a good Blog but funny enough to read one http://rrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnhhhh.blogspot.com/ and think it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen.

Then, I walked through the TV room and there was GW on the big Wall Screen with his eyebrows arched in his "stupid, yet sincere" pose and I began listening to him. He spoke of addictions to oil and how we should "all stick together". It was brilliant, I couldn't hear everything he said because at this point I had my iPod ear buds in and was listening to Fogelberg on random shuffle, which was also brilliant.

I hadn't felt like this for a long time, Suddenly I had this incredible craving for pancakes. I got the Yellow Pages out but became confused. When I was growing up, we had one version of the Yellow Pages, I don't know who put it out but it was like the Bible. Now, on the shelf above the phone, are about 12 versions of the Yellow Pages, each one with slightly incomplete listings. I looked in every one and could not, for the life of me, find a listing for Uncle John's Pancake House yet on every page, there was a phone number for the Republican Party Headquarters and also, Down in the Valley, your Grateful Dead Headquarters.

Damn, I just looked at the time, I have to go to a meeting about lawn signs.

Good Lunch

2006-02-01T13:29:00.000-06:00

Yes, Japanese food in Maple Grove, had the place to ourselves; hip electronica music and decor on an instant Main Street. Not to say we don't have fun working as referees at home between 2 teenagers but it was nice to have a conversation .... mostly about the kids of course!!!

Last night I pick up the younger Rebel Without a Clue at basketball. I'd been listening to Mark Wheat's cool voice and his introduction of an artist who was new to me; he then played a track off this artist's freshly released CD. Sure, sometimes when I hear new music that's about to challenge me I quickly switch to KQ or KOOL 108 for more familiar grooves like Skynyrd or Wilson Pickett (not to say they might not both be in the next set on the Current).

But I was feeling adventurous and decided to take the challenge, it's not like I was hopping on the Santa Maria or the first Space Shuttle but still, a risk of 3 or 4 minutes. The kid hops in the car and without a beat, switches to 93X to hear that night's Cage Match. I was going to complain but decided not to, not for total fear of being wished into the cornfield, but for the reason of trying something new.

They're at this age where they're old enough to know that Nick Drake and Vic Chesnutt just don't rock the same way as System of a Down and Avenged Sevenfold so I try and keep an open ear. They were pretty good about those road trip mixes for the first decade or so of being a family, driving through Yellowstone listening to Dylan, Neil Young, John Prine, Steve Earle, Son Volt, Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, Lucinda Williams, Blue Mountain, Jayhawks, etc. but there has been a regime change. I can handle it in medium doses. They do make me these nice iPod mixes with heavier stuff from this century mixed with cool but unusual selections from the Beatles, Kinks, Yardbirds, etc. And just to neutralize the palate and please all, a little Led Zeppelin. The White Stripes works equally too.

Then I pick up the older kid from his basketball practice and he wants to know who won the cage match. I said it was either the band with the long, funny name who sound like Körn or the band with the long, funny name who sound like earlier Körn. Then I switch to KOOL 108 and we loudly land on the craziest part of the 2nd guitar solo from Sweet Home Alabama where the guitarist sounds like he's making fun of, or paying tribute to, Neil Young's beautifully primitive lead guitar playing.

Then came the moment that some fathers wait for all their life, the older kid says "You think he's using a tweed amp?"

So back to Bush and all that ... I don't know, we're pretty far into it with this guy and if we impeach him now, The Penguin will take over and that guy's even more dangerous, he thinks. I'm not sure how we're going to get through the next couple years but let's stick together.

Just Tired of It

2006-02-01T10:51:00.000-06:00

Last night I was going to write a Blog while watching the State of Union and be a real smart-ass, which everybody is these days, but I just felt like there were better things to do. Sure, I like to hunch my shoulders like Jon Stewart and throw out a "Gitter done!" yelp once in a while but even my dog is getting bored with it. It's just not as much fun anymore!!!!

I was going to write more but my wife just called and wants to meet for lunch, more later ...

Kinda Busy This Week

2006-01-29T23:34:00.000-06:00

I'll be taking this week off to check facts and do some rewriting on my upcoming memoirs "Tales From Tabor Hollow." Also, please ignore any previous Monday Mud posts as I will be fact checking them as well.

You Can't Sell Yesterday's Papers

2006-01-23T10:10:00.000-06:00

When I was out hitting the bricks with a fresh degree in abstract-expressionist painting, I had an interview down at the Minneapolis Star & Tribune.

The position was for a part-time, on-call janitor. It was set up somewhat like a substitute teacher gig except instead of facing a classroom full of kids trying to trick you about what flies with the regular teacher, this assignment would have you swinging a mop on short notice for Union janitors who decided to call in sick at the last moment.

You basically had to sit by your phone between 2:30-3:00 and if you did happen to get a call you had to go in immediately. Sure, you could turn them down if it wasn't a convenient day but only 3 times, then you would be terminated. I don't remember the exact pay rate but I'm pretty sure it was slightly above minimum wage.

The 2 working stiffs I interviewed with were no-nonsense company men and they took their work very seriously, which is great! I was cooperating with them as I heard each bleak fact about the job, one after the other. One phrase that they liked to use was "You can't sell yesterday's papers ... " It made me smile a bit because there's an old Rolling Stones song with a similar title and I couldn't get it out of my head as we went through the interview.

I could only think that this would be a cliché that would haunt you for your entire career working at a newspaper. Of course you can't sell yesterday's papers ... or can you? My mind began to wander as I began to think up loop holes to beat this rule. Maybe you can sell yesterday's papers, as wood pulp for sure but I think on a higher level as well.

I actually began to picture an Amnesia Clinic in my head, yes, I'm sure I had seen one somewhere around the city; I believe it was in the Midway area of St. Paul, I can't remember. It doesn't matter now but I did think perhaps you could sell yesterday's papers (and beyond) to them for their waiting room.

I was about to make the suggestion when one of the gentleman used the phrase again and I thought "Wait a minute .. this is just how it will be here." For the rest of your career it would come up wouldn't it? In performance reviews, everytime you showed up late, just everytime you screwed up in general. I would think it would get quite annoying after a while. This is when I decided I would not accept this job ... unless maybe it were offered to me.

That's about the time the stockier, 2nd Banana of the team picked up my resumé and started moving his lips as he read it. You could tell he was beginning to lose interest around page 12 or so.

He said "According to your resumé, you studied Abstract Painting, Edification of the Spirit and Leisure Arts in the South of France through Sarah Lawrence College ... ummm, how do you you think this background would be useful in this postion that you are applying for today?"

I had BS'd my way through my BA on a daily basis but I could tell this was going to be a tough interview. "Ummm, yeah, I think what that shows is my ability to endure harsh working conditions ... uhhh, did I remember to mention that I sold subscriptions to Grit as a youngster?"

He shuffled through the papers and shook his head.

"Also, seeds, I sold packages of seeds door-to-door for a stretch of, ummm, several days. My parents' friends bought some and I think my Sister bought a package of Zinnia seeds. OH! and I did take over Bruce Dodger's paper route for, like a month, when their family went to Ohio in the summer."

"Should we look at your portfolio?" the foreman said.

"Sure", I pulled out my gunny sacks full of unstretched canvases and dumped them on the desk. They looked a little surprised, my work was at its most adventerous at that time and I was proud of it, especially the quasi-political stuff. The stocky one pointed at a canvas and said "What's this?"

I said "Oh, that's one of my favorites ... it's based on an article I read in Newsweek about how Soviet citizens are now using Vietnam as their #1 warm weather getaway vacations. I felt a conflict and actually an irony about the whole situation. I mean, Vietnam will always remain a dark smudge of the poor Foreign Policy tactics of the U.S. The very land that we helped destroy in order to fight Communism, the Cold War, of course is now being used as a 'warm' spot for the once 'cold" enemy of the 'Cold War'. Notice the young Vietnamese girl handing a conch shell to the blue-skinned, overweight Russian man who, not coincidentally, resembles Leonid Brezhnev."

"No", he said, "What's this, is it latex, enamel, what kind of paint is it?

"Oh, I used acrylic on that one. I would have used oils but I wanted to capture the immediacy of the emotion so I went with the quick-drying stuff."

"How quick does it dry, I think this color would look good in my garage, I just sheet-rocked it."

"Uhhh, yeah; it dries pretty quick but I think I'd just go with a flat latex for that project."

"Thanks" he said and jotted something down on his clipboard.

Then comes the next routine question. "How do you feel your educational background will benefit you in this postion?"

I thought about it for a bit and then said "Well, I have studied and been influenced by Vincent Van Gogh's dramatic brush strokes and I would have to say that would come in very handy when applying wax to a tile floor with a mop."

It was quiet for a bit. The 2 men sat there with their arms crossed thinking about it. The foreman laughed a bit and "26 years doing these interviews and I ain't never heard that one."

We went through the cordial last parts of the interview, I packed up my canvases, shook their hands with a sneaking suspicion that I would never see either of them again.

I never did.

I Read It in the Paper

2006-01-23T08:53:00.000-06:00

I read this article about blogging in the paper the other day and it was suggested that you update your blog frequently to keep your readers interested.

Household Hints / by Helen Wieles

2005-12-24T13:43:00.000-06:00

Reprinted from the Catch O' the Day/December 1996

The holiday season is upon us and as you know, can not only drain us of our warm & fuzzy synergism but it can also be a drain on the pocketbook. How many times have you found yourself unable to redecorate the living room because of the cash you shelled out for Hubby’s Wild Turkey Holiday Gift Set (which by the way, is a lovely package that includes a bottle of special edition premium bourbon in an attractive coonskin cap basket and includes a 357 magnum with a box of shells, and, last but not least, the permit he’s had his eyes on for so long but was unable to acquire on his own). Whatever Hubby’s expensive desires or habits are, I thought it would be helpful to share some cost-saving household hints & gift ideas:

1. Why spend money on expensive wallcovering when tree bark can be found nearly anywhere and provides a whimsical look for your home?

2. Old hubcaps make excellent dinner plates and are diswasher safe, or, store dirty dishes till the end of the week then have them cleaned while you're getting your car washed.

3. If you have a T-shirt with a remote control pocket but still find yourself getting up for a different remote, why not wear dorky pants with pockets everywhere and fill them with all your remotes. And why stop there? If you have a good extension cord just stick your stereo in your pants and you'll always be close to the music.

4. Window shades can be costly and a hassle to shop for. Here's an idea: attach a full paper towel holder above each window. It is inexpensive and paper towels come in a wide variety of decorative prints.

5. Here's a combination solution for 2 common disposal issues. Take useless, empty plastic milk cartons and fill them with used kitty litter. They'll make excellent holiday gifts as winter road survival kits that can easily be stored in the trunk and used for traction in emergency situations.

6. Tired of getting ripped off by trading in CD's for a fraction of your original cost? With a little bit of string and imagination you can make beautiful wind chimes from all your once favorite hits.

7. There is nothing more useless than an old worn sock until now.....if the heel is missing completely it will make an excellent bald eagle hand puppet. Simply insert hand into sock and flesh exposed at the heel will simulate the look of our revered national bird.

8. Are the kids getting restless in the late winter months? Why not build a simple carousel that can be driven by the kitchen's garbage disposal. One flick of the switch and the the little ones will be screaming with joy.

9. Next time you are having a party, encourage your guests to bring plenty of extra food and beverages, it will save you trips to the grocery store for weeks to come.

10. Instead of changing a burnt out lightbulb, just go into another room to do whatever you were doing.

Used Mud / Originally Published on March 8, 1999

2005-12-18T23:01:00.000-06:00

"I have measured my life out in coffee spoons."
--- T. S. Eliot

In a few short weeks I've gone from quoting Eddie Van Halen to T. S. Eliot. Don't panic, a colleague of mine gave me The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations for Xmas a few years back, said it would help me score with chicks ... you know ... pretending you're smart and stuff? So tonight as I look at the Van Halen quote I'm thinkin' ... is this going to be the set in cyber-stone forever? Like, the handful of people that actually read the Mud will go "Oh there it is, the weekly intro that never changes but makes me feel safe, comfortable and warm, there's nothing like tradition." well, I don't know ... if I were James Lileks I'd have you email me and tell me how to do my job but I'm not, I'm Gather T. Swanson, "Senior Styrofoam Circle Cutter" by day, "Cyber Bard" by night.

I could almost hear the gasp over the world-wide fiber optic cables as I revealed my actual day job title. Let's get a few things straight. We had almost a hundred hits last week on the Mud page and most of those were from me checking to see where the odometer was at. I'm subleasing server space from a rock band that hasn't had a gig in 8 months. Unlike that particular band I'm not about to jump on the self-deprecation vibe and try to to make a joke out it. I'm here to make money and lots of it. I don't know exactly how, but that's the plan.

In the meantime, the day job is what I still need to focus on to keep food on the table and Rugrats licensed paraphernalia in the kids' toy box. Hey, maybe cutting Styrofoam circles doesn't sound like much to you but that's my gig, I take it seriously and by the way ... I'm damn good at it! When I first started in the biz, I'll have to admit, I wasn't a natural. We're not talking about any automated process here either, this is nothing but one man, one sabre saw .. and a big hunk of Styrofoam. My first day on the job I was cuttin' octagons and ovals left and right and I nearly lost the job right there. A wise old vet named Everett Spencer (they called him Spence) saw me struggling and walked over to my station.

"Kid, you want some advice from an old goat like me? I ain't smart but I been cuttin' Styrofoam circles ever since they invented the stuff and prior to that, I cut circles straight out of balsa trees with a keyhole saw and before that we used to use honeycombs. Cuttin' them was a bitch cos' we were so busy, we didn't have time to chase the bees out first."

It was like I was listening but not really, I was eying the break room and couldn't help but notice a brand new Proctor Silex coffee pot. "Huh?" I said.

He pulled a pipe out his back pocket and it reeked like stale cherry blend tobacco, he clamped down on the pipe stem with his small corn colored teeth, fished a Zippo lighter out of his pocket and puffed up a series of clouds that that were so disgustingly pungent that my shoulders went into a series of uncontrollable spasms although I felt perfectly fine otherwise. I noticed a swarm of bees hightailing it up the stair well. Then he picked up my sabre saw, held it shoulder high and stared at the hunk of Styrofoam.

He said "Kid, the funny thing about a circle is ... it has no beginning, and it has no end , I suppose that makes all of it the middle then but I never thought'a that till right now. This hunk'o Styro may look like a square to you but when I look at it, I see a circle that just wants out. What you have to do is shift all of your energy to the Styro's heart, it's inner self, free your arms of their physical connection to your body and let them float like elegant swans in nature's finest ballet, and most important of all ..."

Now I was hanging on every word "What, what, what's most important of all?"

"Do you have any other job prospects?"

"Not a one."

"OK, gotch'ya ... Kid, you gotta approach each circle as if it were entirely different from the last. Though they may look the same, each one is different, just don't let the Q.A. Engineer know that. At the end of the day, you'll have a big pile of circles and that will be a monument for your honest toil."

I couldn't help but notice that the Proctor Silex had an automatic drip-stop on it so you could pull it off the burner while it was still brewing. "Huh? Oh, yeah, honest toil, gotch'ya gotch'ya ... say Spence, what do they do with all these circles anyway?"

He took a couple puffs off his pipe, shrugged his shoulders and said "Kid, I just work here, I ain't gettin' paid to ask questions."

He hobbled back to his work station, tapping the pipe against his hip then putting it back in his pocket. He walked no more than three more feet when he mysteriously vanished! Disappeared right before my very eyes, I'm not talking metaphorically or anything like that. This was pure Star Trek transport stuff.

Funny thing is, when I asked around, nobody had ever heard of Spence. There was no record of him on the payroll system and he had for sure never been to any of the after work happy hours. It worked out ok for me though because I copped his coffee mug and since he had left the keys for his car, I took that too. It wasn't the greatest, a '78 Plymouth Volaré wagon but it got me around for a few years.

One day, while I was sipping a fresh cup of mud on my morning break I caught a faint aroma of cherry blend tobacco. I got up and walked over by the time clock where they had photos from company picnics from years past on a bulletin board full of OSHA info that no one ever read. I just about spilled my sacred cup of mud as I looked at the photo from 1915. There, in the back row, was Spence! Then I heard a faint voice in the air, a whisper with a little reverb added, no, more like digital delay I suppose.

"They look the same but each one's different."

Someone was shaking my shoulder.

"Huh?"

I turned around and there was the QA Engineer with a micrometer and one of my Styro circles.

"Gather T., these circles, they look the same, but each one's different."

"Oh yeah." I said. "I'll umm, I'll be more careful."

I was still a little shook up from seeing Spence in that old photo and when I looked back at the bulletin board, there weren't any pictures at all, just a bunch of postings with OSHA rules and regs. I had a few minutes left on my break and I'd read all the People magazines in the break room so I thought I'd read the OSHA stuff.

"Blah, blah blah ... blah, blah, blah ...blah, blah, blah" that's when I saw the signature at the bottom of the page, Everett "Spence" Spencer, Chief Guy at OSHA. Below it in the finest fine print I've ever seen it said this...

"Kid, the QA Engineer's gonna be out sick on Friday, you been workin' hard and ya gotta give yourself a day of fun here and there .... cut a couple ovals for me...

...Your gruff but lovable guardian angel, Spence ... oh, and how's the car runnin'? Those slant-sixes'll run forever, have a good weekend!"

Tales From Tabor Hollow

2005-11-30T17:45:00.000-06:00

During my formative years, when I crossed that bridge from young adolesence to my current state of advanced adolesence, I lived in a small community known as Tabor Hollow. I'm in the process of writing my memoirs from this era and will be posting selected excerpts on the Monday Mud Blog on occasion (that's how serious I am about this project).

The book is entitled "Tales From Tabor Hollow" and will contain, primarily, the memoirs that I can remember. Until I get a chance to interview witnesses, it will be an incomplete journal, after all, it was the mid 70s and it's hard to recall all the events that took place in the various back seats, cornfields, garages, barns, basements, gravel pits and haunted farmhouses that made up the social community of Tabor Hollow.

Tabor Hollow couldn't have been a better example of Middle America; the site for the new town was selected because its geographic location was the dead center of the United States. This was pre-Alaska/Hawaii as states of course. Legend has it, one of the town founders took 2 pieces of twine and taped them criss-crossed on a map of the United States then set out to build the definitive American community. From the Northwest corner of the great state of Washington to the beaches of Miami; and from the sunny California/Mexico border to the chilly extremes of the North Atlantic coast of Maine.

The welcome sign at the edge of town boasted this fact "Tabor Hollow ... the Dead Center of America!" years later, that slogan that became a bit of a problem with VW van after VW van rolling into town with visitors asking folks if they'd seen Jerry around; but we'll get to those stories later.

One unfortunate day in Hollow History during the late 40s, a government worker from The American Congress on Surveying and Mapping dropped in to visit the town's acting mayor, Theodore (Teddy) Iverson. They say it went something like this:

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How's it going?"

"Not too bad Stranger, what brings you to our fine burg?"

"I was just driving through to somewhere important and I couldn't help but notice your sign. What's the deal?"

"I'm not following, Stranger."

"I'd prefer you call me by my name"

"What is it?"

"Vern ... Vern Stranger."

"Well what is it Mr. Stranger?"

"Sir, Mr. Stranger is my Father's name, you can just call me Stranger."

"I'm not following, Stranger."

"Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a manager of health and waste. I'm from DC, actually Maryland, American Congress on Surveying ... Health & Waste Department. I was just on my way out west to investigate some health issues related to waste disposal in a town much more important than your own."

"Okay, so what's up Stranger?"

"Well, as I rolled into town I couldn't help but notice that your sign says that you are the Dead Center of America."

"Yes, we're very proud of that, smack dab in the geographic center of this great country of ours. I like to think of us as representing the backbone, heart and mind of America."

"Jeez, I don't know how to tell you this but you ain't even close."

"What?"

"You're not even close to being the center of the map."

"Well maybe not down to the exact inch, we may be a farm field or 2 off but it's close enough to call it the center, closer than any other town that is."

"Well, my apologies but you're more than a couple farm fields off."

"How far off are we?"

"I'd say a couple states, and I'm talkin' some of the wide states, not that Vermont crap."

"I don't know what to say."

"If I were you I'd say "Son-of-a-bitch" and get busy finding a new identity for your town."

"Do you think that guy's twine was off?"

"What?

"One of the town founders used 2 pieces of twine to find the center of America and build this community."

"I don't know what to say, who was this guy?"

"His name was Jack McDaniels, the founder of the McDaniels Bourbon distillery that you may have seen on the way in to town."

"And not only was he the president, but let me guess .... I'll bet he was a customer as well."

"(Chuckle, guffaw) Welllllllllllllllll ... they do say he used to like to sample the product once in a while (wink-wink, nudge-nudge)."

"Sounds like he may have sampled a wee bit too much before he got the shears out and cut those 2 pieces of twine."

"Oh my God, what am I gonna tell the townsfolk?"

"Yeah, good luck with that. Say, I gotta shove off now, hope you find a new identity for your town."

"Yeah ..... see yuh Stranger."

And that's the legend. The exact dialogue can't be confirmed but in preparation for reading "Tales From Tabor Hollow", you're just going to have to get used to that possibility. See you soon!

Scented Candles

2005-11-29T23:22:00.000-06:00

Yo, I'd like to give a shout out to all the wonderful comments I've received in response to my revived Monday Mud online column. So, Rod, thanks for the positive feedback, I'd have to say, your comments related to my writings were so general and nondescript that for a sec I thought you were just using this forum to promote your own thing. But, after a second read, "Nice blog", "Your posts were interesting reading." I knew you had been reading my stuff.

Oh, and thanks for the link to your scented candle website. I forwarded it to fellow Blogger Gus Grimstone and said he'd like to give you a scented candle of some kind, special delivery, I'm not sure what he meant but I guess that's between you two for now.

Also, thanks to the Milton Twins, Marrisa and Melissa for their support as well. I think you're probably corrrect about what you wrote ... that you are "the hottest, wildest, and most willing set of twins you'll ever see in your life." There's a good chance that you're right; the wildest twins I ever knew were Milt and Fred Butterworth back in Junior High. Milt could turn his eyelids inside out and Fred used to steal cigarettes for us but they didn't do a whole lot beyond that.

HDTV ... You'd Better Get Used to Nose Hairs

2005-11-23T10:28:00.002-06:00

I remember the first time I saw HDTV, it was at the Smithsonian in Washington. All our lives, we've all heard the word "Smithsonian" and the word itself drops into the conversation with a powerful thud, like a statue from Easter Island dropping into your backyard on quiet Summer eve.

Yes, the Smithsonian felt like the vanguard of American culture and intellect and there I was standing slack-jawed in front of a wide-screen TV watching footage of a bull riding competition from Cody, Wyoming. It's not like I planned it, there were many important artifacts on my mental list that defined America in a much more relevant way, Edith & Archie's easy chairs, Hawkeye's martini glass and of course Dorothy's Ruby Slippers.

I know I'm beginning to slip into my ethnic homeland, Lower Sardonica but, come on, the Ruby Slippers ... that's important shit. Say I'm walking down a dark street and on one side is a street Hustler in a long overcoat saying "Psssst ... Buddy ... Holy Grail, right here ... 20 bucks." and on the other side of the street, another character is saying "Pssst, Buddy ... Dorothy's Ruby Reds, I'll even throw in a pair of Odor Eaters." I'd have to say, I'd go look at the shoes. And I don't have a shoe thing, or a feet thing, or a Judy Garland, Liza Minelli, Bette Midler, Barry Manilow thing ... just a Wizard of Oz thing ... I don't know why ... flying monkeys, Poppy fields, Buddy Ebsen lore, Pink Floyd, munchkin hangings, ... it's all one big draw.

So I snap out of it, get my eyes off the Hi Def rodeo and head down to the secret basement archive where I'll find out if Kevin Brannnigan from the 3rd grade playground era was bullshitting about this John Dillinger thing or not.

Flash forward a few years to some anonymous Best Buy store in some anonymous suburb somwhere. The twentysomething kid in the bright blue Polo shirt has just handed me his card (actually somebody else's with their name crossed out and his added in pen) is explaining the different types of Hi Def TVs there are to pick from and why one sucks and one doesn't.

This is a time when I wonder why all these shitty shows on TV look so great. I really just came in to look for the soundtrack to the Wizard of Oz and Bette Midler's Greatest Hits but I was drawn to all this illumination like a bug to a porch light.

He asks if I want to experience the surround sound demo and I figure what the H and sit down in this black recliner that looks like it belongs in Joey & Chandler's apartment. I'm picturing me buying this damn thing plus the 2 recliners and wondering if the guy in the Polo shirt would come over and watch Baywatch with me, a few times at least! I ask him if he knows 3 hot single women who are slackers like us and like to hang with us as we kill time on our way to our ultimate demise.

That's when he tells me that you have to buy some special Monster cable that's not included with the set. I ask how much, he says $150 and I act pissed off, like it's the excuse I'm using for not plopping down 2 or 3 grand on this effen' TV. Him and his "Sales Associate" (they give themselves promotions with a ball-point pen on their business cards) get all asshole on me and challenge me with comments like 'Hey I don't set the prices" and "You'd spend 3 Grand and not pay another $150 for a cable????"

Okay ... quick paragraph break here and a tip. I haven't learned a ton on this planet but please, trust me .. never, I repeat, never buy the Monster cable. You know that audio difference they're trying to sell you on? I'm sure there's a sophisticated alien culture somewhere out in the universe that could kick ass in an A/B comparison but, you and me? No, we'll never be able to tell. Just buy your big TV, then take an extra 15 minutes out of your day and go to Target where you'll buy some crappy cable for 5% of the price and no one in your family or small circle of friends will ever say "Dude, that signal to the rear, left is a little weak."

Also, these guys in the blue Polo shirts? They download the lowest rez MP3's known to man (the kind where the lead singer sounds like he's at the bottom of a well) and listen to them on crappy car stereos. Plus they steal the stuff and have shitty taste. But I'm just stereotyping here ... forgive me.

So, before I head out of bug light central, I take one last look at this incredible hi rez picture, it's Sunday afternoon and golf is on, They're interviewing this 50-ish golfer and all I can see is this jungle of hair sticking out of this guys' nostrils. I'm sorry to be so crude ... I'm just warning you. I feel as if I need to communicate this to all of you before we take one more step down this technological road.

As the Lion and Dan Rather say ...

"Courage!"

Where Did October Go?

2005-11-02T01:48:00.000-06:00

October has always been my favorite month. So many reasons why but the only thing that comes to mind at the moment is the KQ-coined word "Rocktober". It just sounds right, as the crisp air moves in, I feel like hauling amps and other gear through a back door of a club in some alley. People are ready then ... ready to do what we do in Minnesota when we know Winter's on it's way ... rock out, be rocked, be alive.

No obligation for sunlight at this point folks. It's okay ... we like that, feeling Minnesota. No doin' that Kalifornia thing.

Walking down a north Minneapolis alley in October with my brother. The air is crisp. This alley takes you everywhere except the 80s. We run into the fat kid kid with the perennial salad voice. He tells nothing but bullshit and we can't get enough of it. He retells his life through the thinly veiled exploits of protagonists from Rod Stewart and Lynyrd Skynyrd songs. A joint is lit and passed around, Bobby has never tried it before and nobody twists his arm. He goes inside and later his sister Carol comes out and confronts me. It's my first realization that I'm the bad kid.

Halloween, is there a better Holiday? I can't think of one, it puts me in touch with my spiritual side.

What's So Funny About Peace, Love & Understanding?

2005-09-26T01:34:00.000-05:00

There's something about being a full-time Peacemaker that makes you incapable of being available for others. When there's a war to stop, there's hardly time to send out birthday cards or see if your friends survived the recent straight-wind storms in the area. There's only so much one can have on their plate.

Sure, I've lost a lot of steam. A guy spends 4 years of his life searching for ironic news stories that make the President look like a boob and then taking several seconds to forward them to friends & relatives. Someday, when I have time, I think I might include a personal note too, like "Hi Grandma, are you still in the picture?"

When we arrived at Snelling & Summit, the fever I expected was more like a tepid ice cream headache. My eye was drawn immediately to a small group of mustached men holding up those familiar "Liberate Iraq" signs. Just between me, you, and 7 spammers who have seen this Blog, I fantasized about confronting these moronic assholes and maybe getting into an all-out bareknuckle boxing showdown. "You wanna throw down Bitch? I'll throw down."

But, common sense got the better of me and I didn't really want to wait for the cross walk signal to change. We continued on our way and were delighted to see what I would call, a medium-sized mob. Eternal West Bank folkie Pop Wagner strummed his old Gibson J-50 complete with droopy moustache and droopy eyes. Looking like a character actor from a 1920s Hollywood Western he sang Woody Guthrie's "This Land is Your Land."

Normally I would tried to make deep insights into the importance and significance of this song but at this pre-ice breaking moment it too, felt tepid and cliche. Pop somehow didn't look a day older than the first time I ever met him over 25 years ago. I was about 19 years old getting college credit for attending the Puget Sound Guitar workshop across the pond from Seattle. I was with a group of young hippie wannabes on a 3 week trek across America. The Workshop was only a week but we needed a week to get out there and a week to get back, one must allow extra time for spontaneous Frisbee & Hacky Sack breaks along such vistas as the scenic overlook of Beartooth Pass, Montana. And by the way, if you ever plan a trip like this, bring extra Frisbees.

I hadn't played guitar too long at this point, wait, let me take that back .... I hadn't practiced my guitar too much at this point so I signed up for some of the more basic level choices. Pop Wagner's "Boom-Chuckka" class to help drive the simple rhythms of the Folk style into our Hobbit-infested heads. I believe that class was followed by my Clog Dancing class, then there would be a nice vegetarian lunch followed by nude swimming down at the lake. I believe this all added up to 2 credits, filed under Humanities I believe.

Pop was real mellow and he was happy to see a fellow Minneapolitan, it was a great week. Carter was the President and I don't think we knew anything about Iran at that point. I don't remember if I ended up finishing that course or not, my syncopation was off from the late night jam parties and I was getting my booms mixed up with my chuckkas.

A couple decades later and here I was, watching Pop play one of my favorite songs about America, the chuckkas followed the booms and that part all made sense to me. Suddenly, on this narrow side avenue of Summit, an obnoxiously loud pick-up truck (I think it was a Dodge Hemi, and what the hell is a Hemi anyway???) comes barreling through our little peace cocoon.

There were American flags, Bush stickers and plenty of those Yellow Ribbon magnets hanging from, or attached to the vehicle. A sign on top of the truck read "We salute our troops and President Bush," and the Twisted Sister song "We're Not Gonna Take It" drowned out all of Pop's booms and all of Pop's chuckkas. Only temporarily though. The presence of this fairly obnoxious dude was unsettling of course. It was like you were in the middle of a quiet, tender conversation with a close friend and suddenly John Belushi raises his eyebrow and smashes your guitar while spitting a chewed-up hard boiled egg into your face.

It's like a reminder, don't get too sentimental, if you expose the jugular, some will take it. Also, don't buy any music by Twisted Sister. But, mostly it's a reminder that this guy who came off as an obnoxious moron, is an American and has a right to his opinion. He popped up frequently during our march to the Post Office to mail our "Stop This War" postcards to the White House and made sure that his opinion was given. To me, the war was always a hoax but to this guy, who appeared to be a Veteran, the war was necessary to protect our country. In some ways I respected him for having the guts to do what he was doing, but mostly I thought of him as the type of moron responsible for electing the most immoral, unworthy person ever to hold office in this country. Also, for some reason, it struck me that this guy really needs to get laid.

So, yes, I want Peace but I can't make peace in my own world, though I'm working on it. I want Love, and I am lucky enough to have love though I could always use more.

And as Chris Farley said to Paul McCartney "Uh.. remember when you were in The Beatles? And, um, you did that album Abbey Road, and at the very end of the song, it would.. the song goes, "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make"? You.. you remember that?"

And Paul McCartney said "Yes"

And Chris said "Uh.. is that true? "

And Paul said "Yes, Chris. In my experience, it is. I find, the more you give, the more you get."

Then Chris Farley starts to point at Paul and mouth "AWESOME!"

And as far as the last one .... Understanding ... well, I'm working on it.

Sunshine Feeding Daisies

2005-09-18T16:51:00.000-05:00

interceptions
or,
sunshine
oh ye lord
what shall I choose?

soon the blanket of snow
will tuck us away for the winter
is today the day
to absorb those rays?
or,
should I watch interceptions?
sports-obsessed chidren nearly tipping over couches like cows
I'll take sunshine

Picture This

2005-09-09T00:38:00.000-05:00

am I afraid
yes
of what
of my own thoughts
of course
aren't you
but you should be
otherwise
your thoughts would be unseen
vapor for breakfast
blank newsprint for lunch
tommy lee in college
pulling pranks
engaging in shenanigans
fuck that
fuck all that shit
what the fuck is wrong with us
we used to have patty hearst
now tattoo is taking english
it's about time
I'm sorry
I'm afraid
at some point
the right words
put in the right order
will infuriate some
anonymous offendee
of every nature
representing
every sensitivity
the universal taste bud
who sends signals to the cosmos
of the rightous and the decent
there's one in every crowd
a mutant taste bud
feeding off other's pain
and placing blame
waiting to set the snare
if they dare
and if not
it may not be in
this picture
picture this

treehouse

2005-09-09T00:25:00.000-05:00

new construction
nice treehouse
elevated to perfection
vertical sanctuary
nails that miss
nails that fasten
yolanda likes my treehouse
naomi does too
the autumn leaves are my peers
the muskrats share their beers
has it really been 10 years
since the last soul asylum record
it doesn't seem possible
let me check my math
wow
what is going on
chain link silver
chain link green
how I wish
you were unseen
crescent wrenches
on the moon
new orleans cries
richard simmons should really put on long pants
has he no respect
for the dead
they are elevated
yet still below
treehouse is my calgon
yer soaking in it

The Egging On of America

2005-08-25T23:24:00.001-05:00

In the suburbs no one can hear you scream. The only thing between me and the leg-breaking black-top 5 steps below me is a rickety wooden ladder and the need to scrub egg off the side of my house before it wrecks the paint. I've been alive so long I can't remember where I even got this shaky ladder, the way you remember so many other inconsequential transactions of the past; like plunking down a nickel at the Mom & Pop grocer at the end of our block in North Minneapolis for compass seated in a small rubber tire.

Why was there a compass in a miniature tractor tire with a key ring attached and why did I need a key ring? I'm not sure but it seemed important at the time. The old gentleman behind the counter was straight out of a Mainstreet America B-movie; apron, wire-framed glasses and a gentle disposition. He and his wife ran the place and it was one of those house/storefront setups where Queen Avenue dead-ended with 44th Street.

On Halloween, it was the stop I'll never forget, they were generous with double handle-fulls off Smarties and the like. I could unroll those babies and down 'em all night ... or at least until the tang of citrus burned a couple layers off the top of my tongue.

The following Easter .. or was it Easter Eve? It's all a blur now ... let's see, at some point we were upstairs in my sisters' newly remodeled attic renovation bedroom (complete with Holy Water dispensers at the door) looking out the front window because somebody had spotted a guy in a rabbit suit staggering down Queen Avenue on foot, maybe his lucky foot. We somehow determined that he was drunk and staggering home from Dick's Bar which was around the corner next to the Baskin Robbins and the future site of Jesse Ventura's Body Building Lounge. We also determined that he was the janitor from St. Austins' Catholic Guilt Factory where we attended school. Whether or not he was the janitor from S.A.C.G.F. is not important, we assumed strongly enough for so long he may as well have been carrying aluminum tubes and big hunk of yellow cake uranium.

Somewhere in the course of the evening a young man (a species know to us as dangerous-teenagerous-erectus) walked into that Mom & Pop store with a .22 caliber pistol and ordered the kindly old grocer to empty the contents of the cash register into his stocking cap. The old guy was either too slow to react or uncooperative; maybe the kid got nervous but at some point he made the decision to fire a few rounds into the throat of the guy who had recently sold me a pretty cool tire compass keychain.

As it turned out, the kindly old gentleman kept a .45 caliber revolver under the counter where he had kept generous supplies of Smarties & Sweet Tarts for the kids who didn't pull guns on him.

We saw my Mom's glittery gold hat shooting rays of reflected light on the 10 O'Clock News that night, one of the many spectators outside the store that night trying to figure out what had happened. When I heard that the kid was 16 it sounded so old but I remember my Mom talking about his hand sticking out under the sheet as he was lifted away from the scene and describing it saying "He was just a kid".

Words of Wisdom from Oh-Mih-Moh

2005-08-24T21:04:00.000-05:00

When I changed schools in the middle of 5th grade I found it quite traumatic. Adapting to a foreign culture can difficult on a preadolescent and I have to admit that moving to Alabama took some adjustments. Oh-Mih-Mo was a sweet old woman who taught English before lunch and math after.

Her actual name was Mrs. Moore, Old Miz Moore, or, as Southern shorthand dealt it, Oh-Mih-Moh. She would innocently answer double-entendre questions about her Blackberry Patch from some of the advanced students who would snicker afterwards. She enjoyed reading us poetry as she waltzed across the Terazzo tile with a spring of youth in her frame hunched over with age.

I remember the dead look on Milton's face as she told him that anyone of us could someday be President of the United States. We all laughed when Milton said "Even me?" because we felt that Milton was slower than the rest of us. Oh-Mih-Moh told us to hush up because yes, she believed Milton could certainly be the President of the United States if that's what he wanted to be.

I saw our current President on the boob tube the other night. A short distance from his Hide-Away Camp was a community of his critics demanding answers to harsh questions. He looked peaceful and at ease despite his six-gun stance and a blackberry inquisition smirk on his face. Beyond that, he looked happy with himself, like Milton used to look when he'd answered just enough questions to keep him afloat.

Life Imitates Disney

2005-08-24T20:49:00.000-05:00

Idealistic thoughts have filled my head since birth. When I see a valley before me, it looks like nature's finest wall-to-wall carpeting. But the closer you get to nature, the more imperfect it becomes. A perfect patch of green reveals itself to be nothing more than an uncomfortable bed of vegetation, earth and insects. I want to ask this patch of ugliness "What's your sleep number, liar?" but I don't.

It's Not the Amount of Home Runs He's Given Up, it's the Men He's Put on Base ..

2005-08-24T19:31:00.000-05:00

It's difficult to make a living these days as a Freelance Philosopher when you have words of wisdom such as these from former Twins pitcher, Bert Blyleven. I get up every morning precisely at, between, 6:05 AM & 7:55. The latter ensures a scene of chaos, Wonder Bread and deli meats & cheeses flying in every direction; the recycle vs. standard garbage triage routine, shirtless with shaving cream blotches wheeling the bin to the curb. I see kindly Old Mrs. G. fighting a snapping turtle with her razorback long handle shovel, clang, clang, clang as the reptilean beak meets metal.

It's Almost Midnight ... the City Pages is about to be e-Delivered and it's Trash Day Tomorrow

2005-08-23T23:57:00.000-05:00

The title says it all, no time to elaborate right now.