Landed fine in Boston. (Although the flight was the scariest I’ve been on. It’s good to know the seat belts work. As the turbulence hit its height, after the meal service was cancelled and things started really shaking, the thought crossed my mind: How lame would it be to die while watching Legally Blonde? [Quick crabwalk.com review: Not bad, although I’m amazed at any movie that can turn an obscenely wealthy, beautiful, pampered blonde into a victim of discrimination and turn a bunch of nerdy academics into evil social excluders. Not how I remember college.)
I’ve gotten enough of a response to make me think the CD Mix of the Month idea might work. So here’s how it’ll work.
Once a month, I make a mix CD of music I like. Doesn’t have to be new music or have any theme, although it might. If you want I’ll give you a copy of this mix. In exchange, you make a mix CD of music you like and give me a copy. Everybody gets new rockin’ tunes, everybody’s happy. (Ideally, if we get, say, eight people making mixes, everybody could get a copy of everyone else’s mix. In other words, you burn eight copies of your mix and get eight different mixes in return. But that might be down the line.)
If you live outside the DFW area, we’ll trade by mail. If you’re local, we could either mail ‘em or figure out a way to swap in person. (Or through a clandestine network of operatives specially trained in the art of polycarbonate disc exchanges. Whatever.) Lemme know if you’re interested. At d.saint’s suggestion, let’s set an informal goal of having mixes done by Dec. 7.
I am pleased to announce the birth a new baby blog, Stupid McNupid, the creation of my friend Kelly. If I had any cigars handy, I’d be handing them out tearfully right now.
Damn! I hate the difference between Mac and PC monitors. The above photo doesn’t look so painfully dark on my Mac at home. Sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, as one might guess from above, I’m off to Boston in a few hours. I’m going to the Nieman Narrative Journalism Conference at hated Hahvahd. There are some amazing, amazing journalists scheduled: my man Ira Glass (of This American Life), Gay Talese, Nora Ephron, Jon Franklin, Tom French, and more. Should be a blast. And I get to see my friend Fiona and my newly engaged college roommate Bob. Woo hoo!
No Comment Necessary Dept.: MADRID — Sevilla’s Francisco Gallardo is totally surprised that the Spanish Football Federation has opened an investigation into his bizarre goal celebration during his team’s 4-0 victory over Valladolid last weekend. Gallardo was caught on camera bending down and biting teammate Jose Antonio Reyes’ genitals in celebration of the striker’s goal early in the second half of the match. “I don’t think what I did was very noteworthy,” Gallardo was quoted as saying by Spanish media Wednesday.
“I just felt a slight pinch. I didn’t realize what had really happened until I saw the footage on television,” Reyes was quoted as saying by the French Press Agency. “Gallardo hasn’t heard the end of this. The worst thing now is the stick I’m getting from the other players,” he added.
Goal celebrations have been the cause of previous controversies. Former Valencia player Leandro once imitated a urinating dog at the edge of the field, and Liverpool’s Robbie Fowler drew criticism for crawling at a field marking and pretending to snort cocaine.
UPDATE: A photo of the offending privates-nibble.
Some of the finer search terms people like you used to find this site in November: “falwell water park ride photo,” “swedish freshman initiation,” “carrottop biography,” “where can i buy turducken,” “bono gets in debt,” “chewy and leia f—-ing photo” (ewww), “old coins value indian head pennies,” “my tetris natalie portman edition,” “funny osama turkey,” “dallas debutantes,” “marlon brando personal email,” “sloan chris murphy girlfriend,” “charo+humanitarian,” “ricki and swing,” “osama’s desktop theme,” “how to ace bandage the wrist,” “kobe racing leather,” “download booty shaking contest,” “determination of benzoic acid in soy sauce,” “most frequented indian site porn,” “franklin planner daily scripture reading lds,” “12 most brilliant 3 on 3 football plays,” “pennsylvania chattanooga blog,” and my all-time favorite: “john stamos+socks.”
I had to go look over some documents at DISD headquarters this morning, and in the room where I was sitting, The Price is Right was on. I hadn’t seen the show in many years, but I was quietly pleased they’ve kept all the garish ancient sets, the ’70s typography on all the signs, and the technicolor-dream-coat back curtain behind the audience. (I was disappointed that they’re evidently requiring implants for the female “presenters” now; I see that two of the three of them are Playboy alums. Not that their predecessors were hired for their ability to deconstruct Sartre, but still.)
Needless to say, the Internet is home to at least one certifiable Price is Right obsessive.
Maybe it’s for the best that my dreams of covering America’s New War didn’t work out. After all, the number of Western journalists killed is beating the number of Western soldiers killed, 8 to 1.
As you brace yourself for the brutal winter tumult tomorrow — or at least for what passes for “brutal winter tumult” in Texas — comfort yourself with one little reminder: it’s not as cold as it used to be. I’m not talking global warming; the National Weather Service has changed the way it calculates the wind chill factor. The original calculations were, kid you not, “based on measurements of heat flowing through a beaker of water in experiments in Antarctica in the 1940’s.” (Like so much in today’s society.) The new calculations take into account things like the heat-generation abilities of humans. The result is that things will look warmer than they used to. (AccuWeather has been pushing something called the RealFeel Temperature as a repaired wind chill for some time, despite its slightly pornographic name.)
(The other way to look at it is that our ancestors were a bunch of reverse braggarts who exaggerated how tough they had it. Those old stories about walking uphill both ways to school through a blinding blizzard can now be neatly answered: “But Grandpa, wasn’t it actually about ten degrees warmer than you claimed at the time?”)
This is retroactive. For Cowboys fans, the infamous Ice Bowl game against Green Bay wasn’t played in 46-below wind chill, as was reported at the time. Now, it’s just a downright balmy minus-35.
Meet Paul Morgan. “Prepare yourself for an adventure like you have never before experienced,” says his web site. “In an unprecedented event… LIVE via webcam access… you can watch me amputate my legs with a homemade guillotine on November 30th!” (You may have seen this story before; we ran it in the DMN some months ago.)
Morgan has no feeling in his feet as a result of a childhood accident. And he can’t afford prosthetic feet. So he’s offering to chop them off — live and uncut! — if it’ll raise money for his surgery. (It’ll cost $20 to watch; while his web site hasn’t been updated, he’s postponed the event to Jan. 5.)
Favorite lines from his web page: “Now you may be wondering what kind of demented website you have found. People read the words AMPUTATE and GUILLOTINE and automatically freak. What I am doing may be a little untraditional but that doesn’t mean this is some kind of freak show.” Um, okay.
I love winter weather. Always have. It’s odd, I know, coming from someone born and raised in south Louisiana, where heat indexes make the news more often than wind chills. But spending seven-plus years in Connecticut and Ohio convinced me that I’ve got some inner Nordic. I can’t stand heat — that was honestly one of the biggest mental obstacles I had to overcome before moving to Dallas. (It was 112 degrees on the day of my job interview. The hotel I was staying at was exactly one block from my future place of employment, but I drove to the interview instead of walking. I knew that if I walked, I’d be reduced, Wicked-Witch-like, to a mere puddle by the time I arrived.)
Shoot me now: I just typed the phrase “some bad-ass census tables” in a memo. Clearly, I’m delusional.
While I will again be out of town this weekend, two shows might be worthy of your collective interest here in the dee-eff-double-you area. Trees has Man or Astroman? and Trans Am on Friday night. Sez CMJ of MoA?’s last album: “This latest collection finds Coco The Electronic Monkey Wizard and company exploring the depths of math-rock angularity and effects-driven psychedelia without losing focus of their primordial style. The result is like mainlining a compound of high-power blotter acid and some Capri Sun into your inferior human cranium.” Make what you will of that. Trans Am is alternately brilliant and boring, but probably worth a little of your time. (Examples of their Teutonic flavor of brilliance: Play in the Summer and Let’s Take the Fresh Step Together/I Want It All.)
Then Saturday, the scene breaks out the big guns, with the Dismemberment Plan coming to Rubber Gloves. If any member of the crabwalk.com Denton contingent wanted to record the show, that person would get the favor of his or her choice from Site Management.
(Incidentally, to any Austinites out there, these two tours unite Sunday for a giganto show at Emo’s. Six bands, ten bucks — what a deal.)
Stolen from the morning news (not the dallas morning news, mind you): Ex-Hooters Waitress Sues Over Toy Yoda That Wasn’t Car.
Self-Promotion Dept.: My Q&A with Michael Beschloss ran yesterday. It’s a must-read for, well, people deeply interested in the private thoughts of Lyndon Johnson circa 1965. Both of you.
And my Japan story should be in the paper tomorrow or Sunday, so reserve your copy now.
Back in Dallas, after a much more traffic-laden trip back than normal. (Well, duh.) Listened to the usually inconsistent Studio 360 along the way. If you haven’t heard it, Studio 360 is Kurt Andersen’s little foray into public radio. Kurt’s brilliant, of course, but I’m not sure he’s a perfect match for the medium; his words look better on paper than they do in his awkward phrasing, and the thematic setup of the show is a little odd. But tonight’s show, on the role of secrets in the arts, was great.
The main guest was Teller, the silent half of Penn & Teller. (And yes, he talks when he’s not on stage. It wasn’t an hour of radio mime.) He’s a very smart guy, speaking intelligently about the way P&T play with the idea of a magician’s secrets on stage (by revealing tricks as they go along) and about his book about his father’s secret life as a hobo/cartoonist as a youth.
In a Penn & Teller performance, the giganto Penn does all the (booming, high-decibel) talking, while meek little Teller stands mute off to the side. But Teller’s the real genius of the act. He’s actually considered one of the top four or five magicians of the last century by those in the know; unlike most, who simply modify tried and true illusions, Teller’s actually invented new tricks. (I’m not one of those “in the know.” I just read a terrific profile of Penn & Teller by Calvin Trillin a few years back. It’s in his [amazing] compilation, American Stories.) Anyway, the show’s worth a listen this week.
Note to self: check to see if something really can be “usually inconsistent.”
I love unproductive vacations. Every time I get some time off, I give myself a long list of tasks to complete. This time, they ain’t getting done. I’m just kicking back, doing a lot of reading, watching too much History Channel, and taking many naps. (And doing Utah research for the Olympics. “Did you know Theodore Roosevelt once took a bath beneath the Rainbow Bridge?” asks the author of “Utah: A Guide to the State; Compiled by Workers of the Writer’s Program of the Work Projects Administration for the State of Utah,” 1940. No, I did not.)
Tonight continues the Parade of Ex-Girlfriends, as I go hang out with Lauren, who I dated for a few months in high school. (That parade concludes next weekend when I see college girlfriend Fiona in Boston, where I’m going for a conference. Fiona is, by the way, the latest reader of crabwalk.com. Hi, Fiona! Feel free to leave nasty comments below.)
Fiona and Lauren have never met, but together they define the most disturbing trend in my life, which is: date me and you get cancer. Not long after I went off to college and stopped seeing Lauren, the docs found cancer in her thyroid. (She’s fine now — who needs a thyroid, anyway?) And Fiona got diagnosed about a year and a half ago with malignant melanoma; she just finished up a successful year of treatment.
Honestly, what are the odds of two women I dated, at the time aged 18 and 24, getting cancer? I am seriously bad luck. To anyone out there who might consider dating me: stay away, for your own health! (Then again, both of them were fine when they were actually going out with me. Maybe it’s stopping going out with me that’s the culprit. Yeah, that’s it.)
Ah, those were the days — when airplane hijackers could still be considered folk heroes. Tomorrow will be the 30th anniversary of the famous D.B. Cooper hijacking. Anybody 45 or over knows what I’m talking about, but those my age probably need a refresher.
Cooper got on a plane from Portland to Seattle and, in between draws on his cigarette, told a flight attendant he had a bomb. (Whether or not he did is questionable; it is certain he had a bunch of scary-looking wires in a briefcase.) He had the pilot land at Seattle, evacuated all the passengers, then had his demands met: $200,000 in used $20s and four parachutes. He then ordered the plane back into the air, headed for Mexico. He told the pilots to fly below 10,000 feet with the flaps partially down to decrease air speed. After about 40 minutes, he jumped out with the cash. That was the last anyone ever heard from D.B. Cooper.
He became something of a cult figure, almost Robin Hoodesque. There were D.B. Cooper sitings all around the country. Tips flooded FBI offices. But no trace of D.B. Cooper was ever found until 1980, when an 8-year-old boy found $5,800 of Cooper’s loot.
The common wisdom has always been that Cooper died from his jump. One of the two parachutes he took down with him was defective and wouldn’t have opened. Jumping out of a 727 at that height and speed would have meant a wind chill of about 70-below. (The temperature that night was -7; there was a nasty storm with freezing rain. Cooper was jumping into a heavily forested area, miles from anywhere, in just a business suit and loafers.)
But last year, a woman in Florida claimed that her husband had told her, on his death bed, that he was D.B. Cooper. (Check out the photos.) Maybe the ol’ rascal survived after all.
I want your feedback on an idea I had a while back. Let’s say, hypothetically, I created a mix CD every month of music I like. And let’s say I’d send you a copy of this mix CD each month if you sent me a mix CD of music you like. Would you be interested? If enough people are, I think it could be a good way to get to hear something new once in a while. Let me know, via comments or email.
Time for that 19th nervous breakdown: Mick Jagger released a new album last week. So did Robbie Williams. On the first day of his album’s release, Williams sold 73,000 copies in the U.K. Mick Jagger sold 954. (Thanks, brandhast.) Yep, three digits. That’s got to sting.
Albums that would sell more than 954 copies on the first day of release: *Nsync, Justin Timberlake Hums Indiscriminately With Britney In the Next Room; Garth Brooks, Early Recordings: Lil’ Garth Makes Armpit Noises, 1972-1974; U2, All We’ve Left Behind: Bono Speaks Out on Third World Debt Relief; various artists, Now That’s What I Call Arbor Day!
Well, we know that at least two people have something to be thankful for today. Congrats, you crazy kids.
Today, I went to Crowley — which I’d call the nearest town of any significant size, if only it was of any significant size — to pick up my grandpa. He lives in an old folks home there; when I left to pick him up, my grandmother uttered the memorable words: “Make sure he remembers his teeth.” Then we picked up food at Chef Roy’s, Rayne’s finest restaurant. I had the seafood platter — shrimp, oysters, stuffed shrimp, catfish, crab cakes, and (not technically seafood, I suppose) a fried frog leg. (Yep, tastes like chicken.)
Of course I’m thankful for all the usual things: family, friends, health, continued employment, etc. But at the moment I’m particularly thankful for all of you people who read this mess every day (all four of you), and all the great people I’ve met through this page. Happy thanksgiving.
I like the Brits as much as any right-thinking quasi-Frenchman could, but that dry Oxbridge sense of humor can get annoying. (Via kaus. The Economist — inhouse motto: “Simplify, then exaggerate” — is just about the most overrated magazine around. Hell, I’m agreeing with Andrew Sullivan! Shoot me now!)
Want to convince Aunt Jolene that the time-tested two-table Thanksgiving system should be upgraded to three (the adult table, the kiddie table, and the freak table, just for you)? Try putting Colonel Jeffrey Pumpernickel on the CD player during your turducken carving. What an odd compilation of indie rockers obscure (The Minders, Howe Gelb), really obscure (Weird War, Goldcard), and not so obscure (Guided By Voices, Stephen Malkmus). It’s that weariest of old ideas, a concept album. (Although at times it appears the concept is limited to, “Hey guys, let’s all make a concept album.”)
Underwater fire battles, the great animals vs. robots debate, Oedipal complexes, severe allergies: it’s all in there. Spotty, and a bit too odd at times, but always interesting, and in the Ann Magnuson/Dave Rick tune “Dr. Mom,” it might have the oddest song of 2001. (It details, among other things, bedwetting, muhajadeen guides, an encounter with John Entwistle, spawning salmon, and the trouble with playing with baby bears.)
Switching topics, I don’t watch much TV back in Dallas, but I always catch up when I’m in Rayne where, to be brutally frank, there ain’t much else to do. So my first (and likely last) television review of the new season: that Ed show is pretty darned good. Wow, that blonde is pretty damned hot. But the true star (I hope at least, after viewing part of one episode) is Michael Ian Black. I have no idea if he’s any good as Phil, but he was brilliant at the English-challenged Johnny Bluejeans on the late, lamented Viva Variety.
Only a few hours to Thanksgiving, so it might be a little late, but I feel that as a Cajun Activist, I must alert you all to my people’s contribution to Turkey Day: the Cajun deep-fried turkey. (I’ve never actually had it, but I’ve heard rave reviews. Of course, eating it means instant death. And maybe preparing it too: the recipe starts off with these words of warning: “You must cook this turkey outside. You should wear goggles and gloves. Also have a fire extinguisher on hand. Remember - your safety is the first step in this recipe.” Other safety hints mentioned: “You want to wear some old shoes that you can slip out of easily and long pants, just in case you do spill some oil on you…Avoid frying on wood decks, which could catch fire, and concrete, which can be stained by the oil…dont allow children or pets near the cooking area.” In related advice, do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.)
The other Cajun gift to the holiday is the turducken, which is a whole turkey stuffed with a whole duck stuffed with a whole chicken stuffed with, well, stuffing. You can see know why we Cajuns are such a svelte people.
(I rented a laptop this afternoon for the rest of my time in Louisiana, so I should be armed for continued bloggage in the coming days. And happy Thanksgiving, everybody.)
All of you are lucky there are miles of fiberoptics between us, because I need to strangle someone right about now. My company laptop — the same one that’s died and been “fixed” three times before — died again, in exactly the same way it has before. Except this time, it took a 1,500-word story with it, which meant I had to rush over to my uncle’s place to use his 1991-era Compaq to rewrite the damned thing.
(The computer used to be mine back when it was cutting-edge technology, so it was a brief little time warp. All my high school papers. All my college application essays. Letters to girlfriends. All still on the hard drive. I hadn’t typed “dir/w” at a command line in ages. The computer’s in horrible shape. The ctrl key has long been severed from its mother keyboard, which is encrusted in that yellowy dirt layer old computers get. The monitor on/off button is broken, so you have to stick a toothpick (!) into the monitor for it to work. The system boots into Geoworks Ensemble, a bizarre proto-Windows that crashed and burned soon after my computer teacher started evangelizing for it.)
Anyway, I rewrote about half of it at 6:30 a.m. this morning, then that computer too met its maker. I must have the IT equivalent of a black thumb today. So I waited until 8 a.m. for the Rayne library to open. The staff knows me well from my childhood, but now they know me well as the guy who rushes to the library computers in a panic everytime he’s in town because his company laptop has broken and he has to get something done quick. The story’s done and emailed off. I’m off to see if I can track down a laptop for the next few days. And if I can get the old clunker to work again, to look at my old high school essays and laugh at the 16-year-old me.
Since I mentioned it once before, I feel it is my responsibility to keep you up to date on the Peter Buck trial. It seems that, along with damaging British Airways crockery, the R.E.M. guitarist also stands accused of other offenses, including “cover[ing] himself with yogurt” and “mist[aking] a hostess trolley for a CD player,” all while drunkenly crossing the Atlantic. I bet Osama’s linked up in this somehow.
I’d like to apologize for the entry below. I’m almost certain that my Secret Santa gifts in the 1980s did not include a Victor Borge biography. My mention of Mr. Borge, perhaps the greatest of the great Danes, was simply an attempt to get Google to send me some of the thousands of Victor Borge hits it no doubt generates. My apologies, and govern yourself accordingly.
Remember the Htoo brothers, Luther and Johnny? The Burmese preteens who, unlike most of their peers, channelled their feelings of aggression into forming an “Army of God,” not video games? Who toted assault rifles around the jungle, willing followers in their wake, but still found time for naps? Well, they could be coming to a junior high near you. The U.S. is close to giving the Htoos green cards. Now, it’s bad enough when the guy sitting next to you in your MBA class might well be responsible for the genocide of 800,000 people. But can you imagine going to eighth grade with these guys?
The tentative Crabby(TM) for Best Christmas-Related Web Idea goes to Secret Santa. Yep, it’s just like you remember it from grade school, except your gift gets chosen from your Amazon wish list instead of the fevered imagination of a 12-year-old.
I remember my first and only Secret Santa experience, sometime around eighth grade. We had a $10 spending limit, but were supposed to buy three things to give over three days. The guy I had picked was into music, so I hatched a brilliant scheme: buy two really crappy gifts for the first two days, to fool him into thinking he was getting screwed over, then spring a shiny new tape from one of his favorite bands on Day 3. (I remember the tape well: Pink Floyd’s Animals.) So on Days 1 and 2, he got books straight from the 50-cent shelf at a Lafayette, La. bookstore — I think one was on raising goats, maybe the other one was a Victor Borge bio, I don’t remember.
Anyway, so this guy spends two straight days complaining about how crappy his gifts are to everyone within earshot. I felt like explaining: Don’t you get irony? The humor inherent in intentionally bad gifts, soon to be redeemed by a slice of Floyd? By the time Day 3 arrived, I was completely disspirited, and the guy wasn’t all that impressed — he already had a copy of Animals.
So everybody sign up for Secret Santa, on the off chance we might pick each other and I might have a healing experience.
Attention Harry Potter fans: you may not know what evil you have unwittingly been exposed to! The always (unintentionally) amusing fundamentalists at ChildCare Action Project has come out with a scathing report on the new movie. Some of its startling findings (all italics mine):
- Harry Potter is “a colorful display of goth art.”
- “Harry Potter present[s] evil as something to admire and emulate.”
- “[W]hat better time to embrace evil in entertainment than now when we have kicked God out of schools, government and many, many homes and what used to be the family. I guess Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is a logical extension of I Dream of Genie, Bewitched and Sabrina, the Teenage Witch, all benevolent on the surface and all since we kicked God out of our schools.”
- “Part of the rivalry is expressed in broom-riding sports much like roller ball with as little concern for the safety of fellow players.”
- “By the way, Harry converses with a snake in this movie. Not a cow, not a dog, not a cat, but a snake. And one of the characters is 665.5 years old.”
The CAP scoring system dings movies for crimes against Christianity; in Harry’s case, these include:
- in the “Wanton Violence” category: “floating evil being drinking blood from an animal’s neck,” “ghost removing his head,” “great falls, repeatedly,” “beating of a child with a club by a giant troll, seeing the club hit the child, repeatedly,” and “crumbling flesh.”
- under “Impudence/Hate”: “brutal sports tactics with audience of children cheering it on,” “encouragement by an adult to a child to break the rules to get even,” “parents submitting to child’s creaming.” (I assume they meant screaming; if there was creaming in the movie, maybe it really should be banned.)
- under “Offense to God”: “magic to grow tail on a boy,” “magic to change flag colors,” “paintings with moving subjects, repeatedly,” “broom riding,” “cat with red eyes,” “Christmas without Jesus.”
I know times are tough for everybody, and that Oval Office gig he’d been betting on fell through unexpectedly, but it sure is odd to think of Al Gore taking a job with a diversified financial services firm. He’ll be vice chairman of Metropolitan West Financial in L.A. (Since he did invent the Internet and all, I hope he can improve their sorry web site.)
This makes me think Gore won’t run again in 2004. It really wouldn’t make sense politically for the guy who ran on a “I’m for the people, not for the powerful” platform to run after three years of working for The Man.
My favorite quote from the article: “Gore, who has been teaching college courses since he narrowly lost the 2000 presidential election, will focus on developing private equity strategies in the biotechnology and information technology fields as well as explore international markets for MetWest.” Oh, please! Gore’s a smart guy, but he knows roughly as much about developing private equity strategies in biotech as I do. Nice gig, if you can get it.
The latest issue of Editor & Publisher magazine features a (lengthy) profile of the Block family, who own my old employer, the Toledo Blade. I don’t get mentioned directly, but my 1999 trip on the company’s dime to Pitcairn Island in the south Pacific does, and I was involved, to varying degrees, in several of the stories mentioned.
Hello, Toledo! (Saying that’s just one small step below my ultimate fantasy, yelling “Hello Detroit! Are you ready to rock?” to a crowd of millions.) To the Toledoans who are reading this page for the first time — and I’m betting there are a few of you — welcome to my humble abode. Just so you know, you should feel free to leave comments on my stupidity by clicking on the link at the bottom of each entry. Suggested topics of discussion: that llama incident in 1998; my tendency to shake uncontrollably at the mention of Kid Rock; the Toledo five-day forecast. (Actually, everyone should feel free to leave comments: they’re the gasohol on which this fuel-injected blog runs.)
A new photo above means I’m on the move again. I unexpectedly have to work tomorrow, alas, but as soon as I’m done with a Japan story and fill out some Olympics-related forms, I’m off to my home town, Rayne, Louisiana, to be among my fellow Cajuns for a week of vacation. Among my projects for the week: a freelance Q&A with Michael Beschloss for the DMN, a bunch of freelance marketing copy for a Toledo company, sleep, a couple of new web projects, lots of Louisiana historical research, too many po-boys, too much crawfish etouffee and rice dressing (which uninformed New Orleanians and Popeye’s franchisees call dirty rice). It all sounds wonderful.
Moosedogtoo (who needs an about page, btw) got a nastygram from some British lawyers. Of most interest to me was the way the barrister closed his letter, after the usual array of legal language, veiled threats, etc. Where one might expect a “sincerely” or a “best wishes” or whatever, this letter has “Govern yourself accordingly.”
I think I’m going to start using that. Maybe at the end of every DMN story I write, after I calmly lay out the pertinent facts, there’s a little kicker: “Govern yourself accordingly.”
I’m back in Dallas, having forgotten only my cell phone, which Kelly has promised to FedEx to me in Louisiana. (Kelly, by the way, will soon be the parent of her own brand-spanking new blog. Oh, you watch — it’ll be spectacular. More to come on this front later.)
Conversation overheard on the Air Tran flight from Atlanta to DFW:
Off-duty pilot: Have you ever flown with Mark W—-? That guy never shuts up. “Hello from the cockpit, this is your captain speaking. I’ve got nothing important to say, but I want to keep disturbing you by talking to you throughout the whole flight.”
Off-duty flight attendant: I hate it! It’s like he thinks the passengers bought their tickets to hear him, not to get where they’re going. After a while, I just tune him out, because I know when he’s talking it can’t be important.
ODP: The only good thing about it is that he’s so busy talking to the passengers that he never talks to me, even though I’m sitting next to him.
ODFA: It’s like, “To those passengers who are trying to sleep — fat chance! I’m gonna keep talking!”
Conversation overheard in line, waiting to board the plane:
College student who appeared to be of Arab descent: (sarcastically) Gee, I wonder if they’re going to pull me out of line and search my bags.
College student who appeared to be of Indian descent: (even more sarcastically) Yeah, that never happens to guys like us. They wouldn’t do that just ‘cause we’re dark-skinned, right?
CSWATBOAD: (dripping with sarcasm now) No! Of course not! If they want to look through my bags, I’m sure it’s just random, silly ol’ bad luck.
CSWATBOID: (puddle of sarcasm now forming around his feet) Absolutely! And they’d certainly never pick both of us to get inspected, because I’m sure they’re just selecting every tenth or fifteenth or whatever person.
Of course, they both got picked. Govern yourself accordingly.
Now that I’ve given away my weakling CDs to fellow DFWbloggers, I’ve got room for some more, courtesy Toledo’s Boogie Records. Freshly purchased used: Kool and the Gang, Live at the Sex Machine ($3!); Ornette Coleman, The Shape of Jazz to Come; Treble Charger, Self=Title (more Canadian rock); David Holmes, This Films Crap Lets Slash the Seats (from the man who did the Out of Sight soundtrack linked below); Chocolate Genius, Godmusic; DJ Deep, Respect is Burning Presents: Respect to DJ Deep. (And freshly purchased new: Radiohead, I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings.)
John Denver used to sing a song called “Saturday Night in Toledo, Ohio.” The lyrics go:
Saturday night in Toledo, Ohio, is like being nowhere at all
All through the day how the hours rush by
You sit in the park and you watch the grass die
Ah, but after the sunset, the dusk and the twilight
When shadows of night start to fall
They roll back the sidewalks precisely at ten
And people who live there are not seen again
You ask how I know of Toledo, Ohio
Well I spent a week there one day
They’ve got entertainment to dazzle your eyes
Go visit the bakery and watch the buns rise
Is there any greater insult than to have John Denver — John Denver! — slag on your city as not being sophisticated or interesting enough? John damned Denver! Like most people who’ve lived in pretty lame places, I alternate between attacking it wholeheartedly and righteously defending it whenever anyone — particularly a dead folk singer — dares attack it.
I’ve actually wanted to write a story for sometime about Toledo’s place in music history — it’s always been the stand-in (alongside maybe Peoria) for the most boring, awful place imaginable. The Elvis Costello/Burt Bacharach album a few years ago had a song called “Toledo” insulting the place. Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille” doesn’t insult the place per se, but it does make the city the place where people “pick a fine time to leave me, Lucille.” (Aside: for years, I thought the next line — “With four hungry children and a crop in the field” — was “With four hundred children and a crop in the field.”) And earlier this year, when I thought Toledo had finally dropped off the national radar enough to put an end to these references, the White Stripes’ new disc comes out with “Expecting,” which uses the lyric “You sent me to Toledo” as a metaphor for being dumped. It’s just not fair.
(I wanted to write that story until I realized no one but me would be interested in reading it.)
Anyway, last night I had dinner at the one decent Indian place in town, where I am proud to say the waiter/owner remembered my standard order, despite my not having been there in more than a year. (Mmmmm…chicken tikka massala.) Then it was up to Detroit to see Sloan.
For some reason, it was an early show — we got there around 8:30 and the opening band, Ultimate Fakebook, was already done. (The show was over by 10:30!) It was interesting seeing Sloan play a big venue like the State Theater; I’d only seen them at the cramped Main Event in Toledo (along with one outdoor show in Detroit), but here they had their full rock-star treatment going — big lighting, films projected behind them, a huge crowd, etc. About half the crowd was Canadian, although I detected no Quebecois separatist sentiments. Great show, as always, although Andrew, the drummer, was sick, so his songs were a bit off. (All four Sloaners write and sing about a quarter of their songs, and they rotate instruments a lot.)
One puzzling feature, though: a guy not far in front of us on the floor kept raising a sign that said “Eat Beef.” Was there some sort of mad-cow incident in Canada that I didn’t hear about? Is the Beef Council resorting to guerrilla marketing? The only possible explanation I could think of came during the set closer, the classic 1991 boy-wants-girl grammar-police anthem “Underwhelmed,” when Chris sings: “We were talkin’ about people that eat meat / I felt like an ass ‘cause I was one / She said, “It’s okay,” but I felt like / I just ate my young.” Maybe.
The absolute highlight of the show was during “It’s In Your Eyes,” my favorite song from the new album, when they showed what looked like a late ’80s/early ’90s short film made on the cheap. The “protagonist,” if one could call him that, of the movie looked familiar. “Hey, I think that’s Matt Murphy, lead singer of the super-tuneful Flashing Lights, and ex- of Halifax stalwarts the Super Friendz,” I told Kelly. “Wow, you’re such a Canadian rock geek,” she didn’t reply, but should have. Then, after the song, Sloaner Chris mentions that it is indeed Matt Murphy in that 1991 film. Score! I think I deserve Canadian citizenship for that level of obscure Can-rock knowledge.
This morning, we had breakfast with friends Jennifer and Chris, then went off with friends Luke and Leslie to the Toledo Museum of Art, which is just about the only thing Toledo has going for it culturally (other than lots of Sloan shows). It’s really a top-notch museum, and worth a couple of hours if you’re ever passing through. (And since the country’s longest north-south interstate, I-75, and its two longest east-west interstates, I-80 and I-90, all intersect here, there’s a good shot you’ll be passing through sometime.)
The main exhibition now is Star Wars: The Magic of Myth, which, while much less high-art than most of their stuff, was still quite entertaining. It’s a collection of all the drawings, paintings, storyboards, models, and costumes used to create the Star Wars movies. (We didn’t get the audio tour, mainly because we didn’t find out until later it was voiced by Darth Vader his own bad self, James Earl Jones.) It’s amusing to see what passed for futuristic in 1977: the Tie fighter pilots had these big clunky “computer” switches on their uniforms that look taken off an early Coleco machine. (And did you know one of the transport ships was called the Mos Calamari? Did George Lucas have some bad squid one night?)
I left the museum with good memories, and three Star Wars Pez dispensers (Chewbacca, Boba Fett, and a Stormtrooper.)
Toledo Blade party at Kelly’s tonight (see? Saturday night in Toledo, Ohio, isn’t so bad!), then back to Dallas tomorrow.
After a restful night of sleep (much needed after catching only two hours before leaving at 4 a.m. yesterday), lunch was with Murray, my old boss here in Toledo. He’s a really great guy — besides his days editing, he spends his free time running a non-profit mentoring program for kids in trouble. He obviously cares about these kids a lot; he told me about the problems the kid he mentors is having (not the least being he’s in jail at the moment). I admire the hell out of him. A reminder: Dallas ISD is launching a mentoring program this year, and they’re looking for 1,000 people to give one hour a week to mentor an at-risk freshman. I’m signed up (although still going through the background check process) — please consider doing it yourself. As some one who has researched the dropout problem far more than any human being should, I can tell you that mentoring programs are just about the best way to keep kids in school, and it’s often a load of fun for the adult in question.
(Speaking of the dropout problem, I had another [kinda boring] story in yesterday’s paper about it. Probably for JB completists [and dropout-data-crunching gurus] only.)
Two signs spotted in the last couple of hours:
- Outside a Marshall Field’s women’s dressing room (yes, Kelly roped me into some shopping): a sign warning that “for your security and ours,” the dressing room may be staffed by “female Asset Protection” investigators. I know female is lower-cased, but I had this vision of a corps of Female Asset Protection agents, wandering the earth, searching for anyone threatening the protection of Female Assets.
- On a street sign, across the street from a fire station: “Stop here on fire run.” Unfortunately, it’s an old sign, and the bolt that fastens it to its pole is rusted, and years of rain have made it look just like a comma. So it reads as “Stop here on fire, run.” Which sounds like a good set of suggestions to me. (Although wouldn’t running just fan the flames? What ever happened to stop, drop, and roll? Okay, I’ve taken this too far already.)
Tonight, we’re up to Detroit Rock City to see one of my favorites, Sloan, at the State Theater. (Fans of the very fine movie Out of Sight may remember the State as the site of the boxing match where Snoopy and Jack meet up. And, as an aside, if you don’t have the movie’s soundtrack, you’re missing out on a great party CD.)
I first heard Sloan in 1996, when I was an intern at the Toledo paper. Toledo radio is abysmal, so the only decent station to listen to was 88.7 CIMX, out of Windsor, Ontario. At the time, they played a ton of great Canadian bands, like Jale, the Super Friendz, and Thrush Hermit, and I really got into the Halifax early ’90s scene, which produced a lot of great music. (Unfortunately, the station now just plays the same unlistenable stream of Korn-derived crap every other formerly cool “alternative” station now does.)
Sloan was clearly the giant standing bestride the whole Confederation. One of the few benefits of living in Toledo was easy access to Sloan: on tours they generally stayed in Canada, but they’d usually dip down for shows in Detroit, Toledo, and Cleveland. So I think this’ll be my sixth or seventh time seeing them — they’re great fun live. (If you’d like to sample some, this site has several MP3 concerts saved. I recommend the Atlanta 1999 show, and was at the Toledo 1998 show — see if you can hear me in the crowd noise.)
I’ve also started a bit of a crusade to get Sloan to come to Dallas. I interviewed the band once for a story, so I had their manager’s email address. I let him know that there’s actually a Sloan cover band operating in Dallas; that at the Built to Spill show a few months back, they played all of their fourth album, Navy Blues, in between acts; that I’d bring all my friends to the show; and that I really really really really wanted them to come to Dallas. But what do I get for my efforts? Bupkis. Maybe next tour.
Bloggin’ at ya from T-Town, Toodle-ee-do, Toledo, on the workplace computer where I read some of my first blogs lo these many years ago. (This was in the dark ages of Internet access, when there were two computers in the whole newsroom with connections — oops, make that three, because there was one old 386 with a 14.4K modem. Boy, that made for fun surfing.) Unsurprisingly, Toledo hasn’t changed all that much since I left. (A sentence that could have been written at just about any point since 1950.) Downtown is still pretty much abandoned, despite regular pledges from all the right people to do something about it.
The current mayor, the wonderfully named Carty Finkbeiner, has actually accomplished much more downtown than his predecessors — getting a new baseball stadium built, turning some ancient buildings into apartments, etc. — but he’ll be out of office soon, alas. His successor, elected a couple of weeks ago, is a fine guy (if a bit walrus-like), but not the sparkplug Carty was. (I covered Carty on and off for a couple of years — he’s a former football coach known for the occasional physical outburst, and he’s often borderline insane, but he gets things done. Anyway, Carty won’t ever be remembered for his downtown work; he’ll always be remembered for advocating the creation of a deaf-only neighborhood near the Toledo airport, because they wouldn’t mind all the noise. Yes, he seriously said that.)
Anyway, I’m off to Fort Wayne, Indiana, tonight (seriously, do the exotic locales ever stop?) for a benefit dinner for one of Kelly’s friends. (Kelly’s the ex-girlfriend/current very good friend I’m staying with here.) The planned highlight of the event: a performance by a ragtag rock band made up of writers and editors at the Fort Wayne Journal-Gazette, where Kelly used to work. The inspired name of this ensemble? Paper Jam. (Get it? They work at a paper, and they…never mind. If my DMN band is ever revived and I consider Paper Jam as a name, please shoot me.)
If the photo above is changing, that’s your clue that Josh is ditching town. I leave in too few hours for lovely Toledo, Ohio, my former home, to visit friends and generally raise heck (as they’d say in the polite Midwest.) The photo above is of iron ore being offloaded from a ship on the Maumee River in Toledo. I used to live a few blocks from that offloading site, downtown in these apartments. (But wait! That’s not my building! That’s a building that looks a bit like my old building, but with about six extra floors and a slightly different shape. And the page mentions an indoor heated pool; I lived there for almost three years, and I swear there’s no pool of any kind. Clearly there’s some fraud going on — uninteresting fraud, but fraud nonetheless. Harrumph.)
The dfwblogs happy hour was tonight and fun as usual. And the mojitos at the Meridian were as tasty as usual. And I was able to offload all my homeless CDs to worthy homes.
If you’ve got a hankering for some close contact with polar bears, the Mars Society wants you. They’re now taking applications for volunteers willing to spend time at the Flashline Mars Arctic Research Station on Devon Island between December and August. (Any place meant to be a model for the Martian winter has got to be a major party locale.) So if you’re 18 to 60 and in good physical condition, do your part for interplanetary travel. Unfortunately, they don’t mention how long of a time commitment they want people to make; if it was short (2-3 weeks), I’d absolutely be applying. (They say they want applicants with “scientific, engineering, practical mechanical, wilderness, and literary skills.” Well, I might be able to get away with the last one — don’t they need an intrepid journalist to record the journey?)
As Leia would say, w00t! Just found out I get to go to Salt Lake City in February to be one of the 9,000 journalists covering the Olympics. My run of absurdly good luck continues…
Pedro es inteligente. En senor y la senora Garcia son profesores. Juana y Josefa son estudiantes. Tu perro se llama Galan. Yo preparo la limonada. Gabriel es un gato grande y gordo. Gerardo y Geronimo son gemelos. Donde esta Carmen? Esta en el supermercado. Que compra? Compra leche. Luis usa la computadora. Los muchachos estudian espanol. Yo pregunto en la clase. Ellos caminan en el parque. (In case you can’t tell, last night was Spanish class.)
At the risk of repeating myself: I fully expect all area bloggers to attend tonight’s dfwblogs happy hour at the Meridian Room. And I don’t want to hear that same old “I’m too busy fleeing from the Northern Alliance” excuse.
Been feeling uneasy since 9/11, unsure who America’s true friends are? Well, worry no more — the Principality of Sealand has “communicated directly with the United States of America offering its resources” in the wake of the attacks, along with “its sympathy and concern.” (For those who don’t know, Sealand is an offshore platform built by the Brits in WWII to ward off German air raids. When the UK abandoned it after the war, a man named Roy Bates realized it was in international waters and decided he would occupy it, proclaim himself “Prince Roy,” and declare Sealand an independent, sovereign nation. More info here and here.)
The Sealanders say they can help the anti-terrorist cause because the Sealand Criminal Code “provides for placing any persons suspected of such activities under immediate arrest and detention at the Sovereign’s pleasure.” One hopes the Sovereign doesn’t get too carried away with his pleasure.
People, people — how many times do I have to say it? Let law enforcement do its job. Never take the law into your own hands. Innocent clowns could get hurt. (More details; via the smack.)
Matt and I linked to the same article today. He is hereby jinxed. He may no longer blog until I say his full name; until then, should he blog illegally, I may freely punch him. (Ah, childhood.)
Searching for a couple good jinx linx brought me to a four-square page. Now that is the sport of kings — strategy, cunning, cat-quick reflexes. I’d pay good money to see a professional four-square league. Hell, maybe I could play in such a league: four-square was just about the only successful athletic outlet for a geeky kid like me. I was damned good, I tell you. (Well, I was also quite a star at benchball, an odd sort of volleyball/four-square/tennis hybrid invented one middle-school free period by Josh Caffery and me. Truly a tactical sport, with much more Olympic potential than silly events like synchronized swimming.)
I was disappointed to learn, however, that the International Church of the Foursquare Gospel is not an organization for believers in the sport, like me, but instead for followers of Aimee Semple McPherson. She was one of the first evangelists to learn how to work the media, with stunts like staging her own kidnapping, “faith healing” animals at a Los Angeles zoo, and shilling “Go With Me to the Holy Land!” cruises to the Mediterranean.
Interesting fact about the ICFG: It runs the L.I.F.E. Bible College in San Dimas, Ca., which had heretofor been best known as the setting for Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. So they’ve got that going for them. (In case it isn’t clear, San Dimas, not L.I.F.E. Bible College, was the movie’s location. Just to be clear.)
Peter Buck’s air rage trial has hit a snag, as the jury has been dismissed for reasons unknown. (Buck allegedly got drunk after 15 glasses of wine — well, who wouldn’t be? — and disrupted a British Airways flight in April.)
The only reason I’m linking this is because one of the four charges against him is “damaging British Airways crockery.” Is that a capital offense in the U.K.?
So I can’t read a calendar (see below). Is that a reason to vilify me? To attack my family, my good name, my heritage? To call me names like “silly nincompoop,” “cretinous ninny,” or “softheaded simpleton”? If you prick me, do I not bleed? I just (sniffle) don’t know (sob) if I can take (whimper) this abuse (howl) much longer.
Anyway. My photos are back from Japan. Horrible, every last one. All my attempts at “creative” shots for the paper are out of focus. I hope the photo desk can work some magic on them. (And if someone wants to buy me a scanner, perhaps you’ll see some of the horror yourselves in a very special episode of crabwalk.com.)
Still time to lay claim to some free CDs. I plan on bringing whatever’s unclaimed to the happy hour (whatever day it is), so get yer orders in now.
Advice columnist breaks up with husband: couple announces split in chat room. And it somehow all ends up with the happy, charming smugness of, well, a couple who shouldn’t be splitting up.
I fully expect all area bloggers to attend tonight’s tomorrow night’s dfwblogs happy hour at the Meridian Room. And I don’t want to hear that same old “I’m too busy fleeing from the Northern Alliance” excuse. (Okay, I’m a bit calendar-challenged today. Is it too late to claim a jetlag excuse?)
Got a flu shot today, for the first time ever. (I’ve always preferred leaving my health in fate’s hands.) Not so bad an experience. Although the list of the flu strains I’m being protected from (New Caledonia! Guangdong! Johannesburg! Panama!) reads like the itinerary of the world’s worst Grand Tour.
If I was Iraq — and thank heavens I’m not — I don’t think I’d pick now as the time to start launching mortars across the border into Kuwait. (A story that isn’t getting much attention today, thanks to that small matter of another plane crashing in New York.)
Let’s see: ever since 9/11, there’s been a huge debate in the administration over whether or not to make the War Against Terror a War Against Saddam and let Bush fils finish what Bush pere did not. For the moment, the Wolfowitz kill-Iraq wing seems to have lost the debate. If I’m Saddam, I’m on my best behavior right about now. But then again, I’m not a megalomaniacal dictator, so maybe I’m missing something. (Attention ex-girlfriends: it is neither the time nor place to comment on my megalomania.)
Plus, you’ve got to love any wire story with a sentence like this: “[UN spokesman] Bagga said Kuwaiti border police have also complained that 15 minutes before the mortar firing, two Iraqis ‘in khakis’ were spotted firing several rounds from a Kalashnikov in the direction of the Kuwaiti border.” Iraqis in khakis. Is Halloween already over? ‘Cause I’ve got a costume idea.
Death Cab for Cutie was quite good, I thought. Ben Gibbard, the lead singer, was much more, well, kinetic than I thought: on disc, he sounds like this fragile, sensitive soul who writes sad, gorgeous songs, but on stage, he’s a wild man, forever doing that shoulder-jerk dance geeky high school boys do when they’re rockin’ it on the dance floor. They didn’t play one of my favorites, the ultimate breakup song For What Reason, but they hit on just about all the other highlights of their back catalog. And the stuff from the new album sounded great live.
Plus, unlike certain bands I could mention, they took the responsibility of a Sunday night show seriously and were done by 12:30. They also dispensed with the most irritating rock and roll ritual, the lengthy wait for the encore. Twenty seconds of crowd yelping, and they were back out on stage to recreate the odd Bjork cover that comes on the bonus disc of the new CD. I like my bands user-friendly.
Leia and Matt, who came with, were quite tired after a long day of hamster declawing, and unfortunately they had to leave a bit early. Hope they liked ‘em. If you missed the show, here’s a good downloadable Death Cab concert from April 2000. (Matt, I assume you’ve already found this page, but if you haven’t, go hog wild — lots of stuff you’d like. And here’s some more DCFC MP3s. Hey, that kinda rhymes.)
A group of us blogish types are going to see the illustrious Death Cab for Cutie tonight at the Gypsy Tea Room. Let me know if you’re interested in meeting up.
I was thinking about going to see my old local college team, the Ragin’ Cajuns of the University of Louisiana, take on UNT. Of course, I was still sound asleep this afternoon when they played, but in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t go.
(UL used to be known as the University of Southwestern Louisiana [USL] before an unfortunate name change a couple years back to the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. It’s unfortunate because no one knows what to call the school now. You can’t just call it “Louisiana” or “UL,” since there’s also a UL-Monroe. [Even though Monroe is a much weaker school than Lafayette.] “UL-Lafayette” is a mouthful; just try saying “ULL” five times fast. The best solution I’ve heard is “ULaLa,” pronounced “ooh-la-la.”)
And remember, free CDs available a few posts down. Four already taken — grab the rest before they’re all gone.
Wow, my body is more on Japan time than I thought. I couldn’t sleep until 6:30 a.m. this morning. (I spent the time doing some coding — geek! — and checking my server stats — ego-driven geek!) I thought after the very fine birthday party for Mark last night I’d be ready for bed. Or at least after he and I were forced to down birthday shots. But no — and as a result, I’m just waking up now. (I’m a slacker extraordinaire.)
In unrelated news, I had a story in the Religion section of the paper today. I didn’t even know it was running today until someone mentioned they liked it. I wrote that story back in August, but terrorist-related religious issues have been filling the section’s space since then, so my little piece on a religious TV show kept getting pushed back.
Just because you’re listening to Prince late at night doesn’t mean you should actually look at the lyric sheet. “Let’s look for the purple banana ‘til they put us in the truck”? Huh?
I doubt much of what I write appeals to a particularly broad audience, but I worry most about the times I write about sports — I imagine most of you couldn’t care less about problems on the Saints’ offensive line or Erubial Durazo’s postseason stats. But hey, it’s my blog, so I’ll post what I want.
But the sportsphobic among you do have one thing to be grateful for. The estimable Jason has set up a blog dedicated to our shared obsession, North Carolina basketball. Each fall around this time, UNC hoops becomes an addiction, and I’ve bored countless girlfriends over the years with tales of Shammond Williams heroics, Derrick Phelps’ defense, or other such madness. (Okay, not countless, but several.) College hoops is, without a doubt, the finest sport of them all, and you’d probably be hearing about it in the coming months if Jason hadn’t set up this blog. Now, I’ll just post my thoughts there and spare you the bother. (My first post just went up.)
And, in case you can’t tell, I’m still on Japan time, which is why I’m posting at 3:12 a.m.
If you’re not as jetlagged as I am, get up a little early in the morning and go run the Freedom Run 5K. My friend Dena is helping organize it; your registration fee goes to the American Red Cross. Just don’t go and pull a Rosie Ruiz.
As a former Professional Rock Critic, I have too many CDs (over 1000 at last count, all anally sorted alphabetically and by genre). About a month ago, I pulled out about 70 to sell, but CD Warehouse on Oak Lawn (since closed) only wanted about 50. So I offer the remainder to you, my faithful readers, free of charge. Let me know if you want any of them. (If you’re in the Dallas, Toledo, Rayne, Boston, or Rochester area, I’ll give ‘em to you when I next see you; if you’re not, you pay for shipping. Starred ones might be worth a little extra consideration. And the first five takers get — free! — a one-yen coin. With variable exchange rates, that could someday be worth as much as $8 million.)
Deckard, Stereodreamscene / The Ernies, Meson Ray* (slightly smarter Blink 182 wannabes) / The Gufs, Holiday From You / Portable, Secret Life / Wade, Odd Man Out / Home Grown, Act Your Age* (ska punk) / Rob Dewar, Opening Night Jitters (Ann Arbor singer/songwriter) / lisahall, isthisreal? (and isherspacebarworking?) / Mansun, Six / Dan Bern, Dog Boy Van EP* (cranky Jewish Minnesotan songwriter not named Dylan) / American Lesion, American Lesion* (side project of Greg Graffin of Bad Religion) / Emm Gryner, Public* / Michelle Lewis, Little Leviathan / Getaway Cruiser, Getaway Cruiser (Detroit band) / Mary Cutrufello, When the Night is Through* / Mister Jones, Hail Mary* / London Suede, Everything Will Flow (single) / Arnold, Hillside / Bond, Bang Out of Order*
Is there a more horrifying prospect than to have a woman you had an unreturned high school crush on end up making a movie about you? Ben Greenman (who edited my college newspaper, although a few years before I got there) had that happen to him, and wrote a great piece about seeing his life played out on the big screen. (The article’s a couple years old; found via an interview with Ben [now a New Yorker editor, McSweeney’s contributor, newly published author, and new dad] at the excellent themorningnews.org.)
The best thing about coming back from overseas is that no one has the right to complain when you sleep 13 hours the next day. (That, and better availability of burritos.)
Oh, man — according to my referer logs, I just got my first hit from the nice folks at www.toledoblade.com, my old employer. My secret’s out. (Hi, Kelly!)
When I get old, I want to be Seymour Hersh. (Actually, I’d be thrilled to be Seymour Hersh now.) He’s what a reporter should be, kicking ass, taking names, then kicking some more and taking whatever names remain.
It’s a damned shame that Northwest Airlines got to www.nwa.com before the real N.W.A. It must lead to some interestingly misdirected search engine queries, though. (Of all the major carriers, Northwest has always seemed the most straight outta Compton to me.)
Well, after a 10-hour flight, a two-hour layover in the Twin Cities, a two-hour flight, 30 minutes of waiting at baggage claim, and an hour of SuperShuttle fun, I’m back home. And I discover I left the kitchen lights on for two weeks. Damn.
There’s nothing quite like blogging against the clock — my 30 minutes of rented Internet access come to a merciful close in a few minutes, and I’m racing to hit submit before having to offer up another 500 yen. Japan’s been great, if a little too Westernized for my taste. Anyway, it’s back to the lap of business-class luxury for me, in a few short hours. Now it’s time for a quick postcard-writing marathon. See you all soon back on the other side of the big puddle.
Final Japan aside: On the walk from my hotel to the Foreign Press Center every day, I pass the Bank of Pakistan’s Tokyo branch? Who’s their customer base nowadays? What kind of CD rates and home equity lines must they be offering to make Joe Tokyo think, “Boy, that’s where I want to put my money — it’ll surely be safe there”?
Final blog-format aside: I hereby promise fewer blog posts in the form “Declarative phrase: pithy commentary after the colon. Rhetorical question? Rhetorical question?”
According to election returns in my old hometown of Toledo, Bob McCloskey has defeated Shawn Gill in the District 3 city council race, 5,968 to 0. Zero. Did Shawn forget to vote for himself? Does his mother not like him? Has he no friends?
Well, nothing screams “birthday wishes” like a laptop that suddenly refuses to admit it has a hard drive. So it’s back to hitting shift-7 for an apostrophe on this bizarre Japanese computer that switches into kanji characters without warning. (Actually, this keyboard layout is very similar to the keyboard on my very first home computer: an Amstrad 1512, complete with 512K of RAM, no hard drive, two 5 1/4-inch floppies, and a screen resolution slightly worse than most Palms today. Amstrads were/are British-made, so maybe we Americans are the ones with the screwed-up keyboards. Ah, I remember waiting anxiously for MS-DOS 3.3 — those were the days.)
Tuesday: I didn’t realize it was my birthday until I saw the date on the day’s paper at breakfast — I guess life’s a little too disorienting right now. I met up with Kiyomi, my translator, and headed to the Tokyo Institute of Technology (where, one hopes, they aren’t too attached to their acronym) to interview Prof. Hiromitsu Muta, who researches educational trends. When reporters conduct interviews, there are two basic possible outcomes: either the subject will answer in curt, three-word answers in an attempt to be as unhelpful as possible, or he will go on and on for hours on end without even the slightest prompting, like a windup toy. And within that second group, there are the people who go on and on helpfully, and those who go on and on about the most bizarre, off-topic subjects until you start to feel dizzy. Dr. Muta was a talker — I think I asked two questions in the first hour — but the good kind. The man knows his stuff.
That afternoon, Kiyomi and I went to the education ministry to interview Satoshi Ashidate, who is in charge of Japan’s national curriculum standards. (Actually, it isn’t the education ministry; it’s the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology. I’m trying to picture what the American equivalent would be: one person in charge of the GED, the Museum of Modern Art, the Super Bowl, particle-accelerator research, and Windows XP.)
Interviewing people through a translator is tough. Kiyomi is great, but everything takes twice as long, for obvious reasons. So it’s hard to get any sort of flow going. But everybody’s been a pro.
That evening, I was planning to blog, but my laptop decided to pine for the fjords, cease to be, go to see its maker, join the choir invisible, which left me without a connection to the wired world. (Marie, one of the reporters here, teases me constantly about my computer addiction. I think she’s right.) I was settling in for an evening of Japanese rugby on the telly when a couple of the other journalists decided to take me out for a birthday dinner, which was quite nice. Since it was a special occasion, we went to get some Kobe beef, the legendary Japanese luxury. (These cows get more massages than businessmen at an airport brothel.) Unfortunately for Kobe producers, Japan recently had its first case of mad cow disease, so the Japanese have pretty much cleared all the beef from their menus. The place was empty, and the owner was obviously quite happy to see four gaijin willing to risk their lives for steak you can cut with chopsticks. It was delicious, and less utterly outrageous in price than I’d expected. (Just $55 or so — thank heavens for a per diem.) Then we all went out in search of beer in Shibuya, Tokyo’s version of Times Square. Along with the three of us Americans was Mike, an editor at the National Post in Toronto, who was shocked by my knowledge of Canadian media gossip (I was shocked too, to be honest). We spent most of the night taunting each other over the events of 1755, when my people (the Acadians, who became the Cajuns) got kicked out of Nova Scotia by his people (the Scottish johnny-come-latelys, who became unimportant drunkards). Much fun was had by all.
We wandered home guided by the lights of the Tokyo Tower, which is the biggest rip-off of the Eiffel Tower imaginable. I’m sure our hosts selected our hotel for us because it’s right next to the tower, which means that it’s basically impossible to lose your way home — if you can see the tower, you’re not lost.
Wednesday: Visited another school. (On Monday, I spent the afternoon at Azabu Elementary, interviewing people for the education story I’m working on.) This time, I went with Kiyomi to Mita Junior High School, which sits somewhat ominously in the shadows of the imposing Kuwaiti embassy. Japanese kids from junior high on wear uniforms, and the boys at Mita wear Nehru jackets, which look just smashing. I interviewed this one kid who had a slightly shaggy hairdo and round glasses; with the Nehru, he looked like John Lennon circa-Yellow Submarine. (Well, an Asian John Lennon, at least. Maybe a Sean Lennon?)
Then, when that was over, I went to MOO, I HATE YOU, MOO! MOOOO! YOU SUCK! MOOO! (Sorry — a little mad cow coming on.)
In Kiribati, it’s already my birthday. Here in Tokyo, I’ve got to wait another three hours. Were I still in New Haven or Toledo, it’d be 17 hours. Back in Dallas or Rayne, it’s 18. Wherever you are, I’m getting old.
As a kid, of course, 18 was the goal age; that was the drinking age in Louisiana back then. Then Connecticut drinking laws intervened, and 21 became the marker to match. Now 26 shoves itself in my face. I’ve long postulated — and will now, for the next 730 days, defend to the death — the idea that 27 is the peak human age. Why? Because that’s when, statistically, baseball players peak: they still have all their physical skills, but they’ve also got the mental maturity for greatness. But that still gives me only two years to win a couple Pulitzers, become a rock star, and bring peace to the Middle East.
Then today, in a discussion session at the FPC, I learned from the wonderfully named Teddy Jimbo that businesses in Japan have something called the Rule of 38. You see, until age 38, you’re giving more to your employer than you’re getting — working long hours, often for little money, trying to climb that infernal ladder. But once you hit that magic number, the poles flip, your production drops, and you start earning more than you’re actually worth. (This is the excuse Japanese companies use to defend never hiring older workers — they figure they’d be paying for their senescence without having gotten the benefits of those early go-get-em years.) So maybe I’ve got a little time before my uphill climb turns into a downhill slide after all.
(And in case you’re wondering, there were only two 27-year-olds on the two World Series rosters. The Yankees had superstar shortstop Derek Jeter; the Diamondbacks could offer only mediocre backup first-baseman Erubial Durazo. How’d they do? The overrated Jeter had 62 postseason at-bats, but was horrible: only four RBI, an anemic .226 average, and a .275 on-base percentage. Noble Durazo, in contrast, used his 15 at-bats wisely: three RBI, a solid .333 average, and a .455 OBP. No wonder good triumphed over evil in the end.)
Just got a spam (“amazing new income opportunity!”) from xpbunnies@yahoo.com. My first thought at seeing that address: Of course! I can’t believe it’s taken this long for Microsoft and Playboy to launch a joint venture!
There’s something oddly comforting about watching the World Series from your Tokyo hotel room. (Even more so when the Yankees lose.)
It’s Sunday, and I’ve devoted the day to doing as little as possible. It’s a lofty goal, but so far I’m doing a good job of achieving it. Yesterday was something of a washout, literally and figuratively: the rains started coming down in earnest mid-afternoon, which sent me and some of my colleagues scurrying for cover and, later, for the hotel. (Not before my leather jacket got soaked, alas. Any advice for dealing with sopping wet leather?)
Before the rain, we went to Meiji Shrine, a Shinto affair dedicated to Emperor Meiji (and Empress Shoken) after their deaths in the 1910s. (Although, like everything else in Tokyo, it was blown to bits during dainiji sekai taisen; it was rebuilt in 1958.) Saturday was ol’ Meiji’s 149th birthday, the Autumn Grand Festival, and Culture Day, a Japanese national holiday, so the place was packed. There were hundreds of little kids decked out in elaborate kimonos or traditional samurai outfits, their beaming parents walking beside them. (Kimono fact of the day: they can’t be cleaned by any traditional method. If a kimono becomes stained, it is taken apart, thread by thread, cleaned, then completely rewoven. It was a sloppy day, so I fear some serious unsewing was going on last night.)
Culture Day at Meiji Shrine means lots of yabusame (archery on horseback) and martial arts demonstrations. It also meant bumping into none other than Sakurako Tsuchiya, the sake brewer from a few days ago. She was selling her wares to the crowds. (Bonus Sakurako fact: she got a master’s in computer programming before becoming the country’s most celebrated sake brewer! Could she get any better?)
If I’m going to pay $42 for dinner, I expect something more than a crappy buffet. And when there’s dessert — and at that price, damn it, there will be dessert — it shouldn’t be grey. This city is outrageously expensive; thank heavens I’m not picking up most of the tabs.
Life imitating crabwalk:
October 18, 2001, at crabwalk.com: “I’m also rooting for a long and productive career for these guys [New York band the Strokes], because that increases the likelihood there’ll someday be a cover band called the Diff’rent Strokes.”
November 2, 2001, at pitchfork’s music news column: “NME reported earlier this week that, with the insane hype following the band around the UK (it’s worse there than here, believe us), the Strokes have already inspired a cover band. Going by the downright shameful moniker of Diff’rent Strokes, the band apparently recreates all the 11 songs from Is This It (12, if you include “New York City Cops”) using a Casio-style keyboard. But Diff’rent Strokes are no run-of-the-mill Bjorn Again — they’ve got a record deal! The incredibly prestigious UK label Guided Missile (anyone? anyone?) will, according to a post to their webboard, release their debut album on December 3rd. Yay.”
I hope this will teach you all to listen to what I say very carefully. I can see the future. (And also, my apologies for the Internet-wide electron shortage, no doubt caused by the epic-poem length of my last post.)
I’m of questionable consciousness right now — 8 p.m. has felt like 2 a.m. all week, and it’s 11:30 p.m. now — but I feel so guilty about not posting for two straight days that I’ll write anyway. (Plus, I’m on my again-functioning laptop, so I don’t have to do the touchtype-bob-and-weave on a Japanese keyboard. Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to put the @ where the ] should be [unshifted, even!], or the apostrophe at shift-7?)
Thursday morning: A visit to Osaka Castle, a “centuries-old” building that, like many “ancient” Japanese structures, has been rebuilt so many times that it’s tough to call it old. (Earthquakes and American bombing runs have eliminated most of the really old stuff over the years.) The castle’s interior is modern and pretty well done; my favorite part was a series of holograms telling the story of Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s ascent to power. Really sophisticated holograms, but they were being projected into these little shoebox dioramas that looked like something a third grader might put together. (Plus, I couldn’t look at them without thinking: “Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”)
Thursday afternoon: Drove to Kyoto, where we met with fellow journalists from the Kyoto Shimbun newspaper. When we met the three reporters we’d be talking with, I realized one reason I, as a rule, like reporters: we’re easy to pick out of a crowd. Put these three guys in a police lineup, and I could peg them not only as reporters, but as specific types of reporters. The guy in the suede jacket with the shaggy hair: theater critic. The rolled-up sleeves, intense look, tiny cell phone: financial reporter. The guy with the conservative suit, the earnest do-gooder look: city hall reporter. All nice folks. Actually, everyone I’ve met in the last week would fall in that “nice folks” category. There’s something to be said for a country where that’s the case.
Then it was off to Kiyomizu Temple, where three mini-waterfalls dispense water that will make you brilliant, handsome, or long-living, depending which one you drink. I drank none, which I suppose makes me dumb, ugly, and ready to keel over at any moment.
Did you know that in Japanese hotel rooms, instead of Gideon bibles, you get a book called The Teaching of Buddha? Did you also know that air conditioning here is more like, um, air suggestion? Climate hinting instead of climate control? I called the front desk at 1 a.m. when it was sweltering hot to ask if there was anything unusual I needed to do to get the AC to work properly. “Open a window,” came the reply.
Friday morning: Kyoto was the only major Japanese city that didn’t get turned to rubble by American bombs in World War II, and as a result it has more real historic sites than anywhere else in the country. (If you ever want your faith in the punitive power of American military might strengthened, just come to Tokyo and search for anything pre-1945. When we feel like unleashing hell, by gum, we do quite a job.) Kyoto was also Japan’s capital for 1,000 years — 72 emperors worth, plus a whole bunch of shoguns — and the result is old building overload. 1,600 Buddhist temples! 400 Shinto shrines!
It’s also the most popular tourist destination in Japan. (Actually, it was until two years ago, when horror of horrors, Tokyo Disneyworld passed it.) This fact, like many others, came from our tour guide, a compact little woman whose name I never got but who brought us from temple to temple to temple today with a Mussolini-like efficiency. Things I learned:
- Some Buddhist temples are in such need of cash for repairs that they’re converting upper floors to condos. Yep, condos. (Wonder if late-night chant sessions downstairs hurt those property values.)
- Shinto has a god of divorce; pray to him/her/it when that bad relationship just won’t end.
- Being called Benton-san is pretty damned cool. (Actually, I learned this on Day 1, at the airport.)
- The Japanese love Thomas Edison, because he once endorsed the use of Kyoto bamboo in building construction. The Japanese also love Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and sing it en masse every winter.
- The geisha industry is dying out because Japanese businessmen don’t have expense accounts like they used to. The average age of a Kyoto geisha: 62.
- Events marked on your itinerary as “kimono fashion show” are invariably less interesting than they seem, involving in this case five young models on the catwalk and eight bored tourists forming their “audience.”
After a while, Buddhist temples do start to blend together, like cathedral fatigue in Europe. But three buildings were quite nice. The Golden Pavilion was lovely (and swamped, like all of these places, by schoolchildren — Japanese schools seem to be on permanent field trips, judging by the presence of the wee ones everywhere you turn). It looks nice and ancient until you learn the whole place was built in 1958, eight years after a crazed apprentice monk took a torch to the original. When I heard that, I thought that’d make for a great opening scene for a book or a movie; as the link above shows, my brilliant idea has already been taken.
Nijo Castle was pretty amazing; it’s where the shoguns held court for centuries. The floors were specially rigged with springs that squeak when walked on, to warn the shogun of any approaching assassins. Unlike most old buildings, it’s actually the same structure that was built four hundred years ago — same wooden floors, same paintings on the walls, same everything. It’s also the place where the Meiji Restoration took place and the shogun transfered power back to the emperor in 1868; being five feet from the spot where the transfer took place was, to use inappropriate language, very cool. (Call me weird, but the fact that we had to take off our shoes in the building also made it seem strangely intimate — only my socks were between me and the floorboards the shogun once walked!)
Okay, I’m clearly getting delirious — I’ll shut up soon.
Finally, we went to Sanjusangendo Temple, which is the longest wooden structure in the world and is filled with more than 1,000 golden Buddhas. Quite overwhelming, really — it’s hard to describe, but that’s a lotta Buddha.
A couple of final highlights from Kyoto (which I highly recommend, by the way — it’s my favorite part of the trip so far): Kyoto Station, the train station downtown, is architecturally amazing. I have a very limited architectural vocabulary even when fully conscious — I usually start off saying something about how a building “creates interesting negative space” or some such nonsense, before descending into “it’s neat” — so I won’t try to tell you why, but poke around some photos of the concourse to see for yourself. (Theyre not the greatest photos, either, so just trust me.)
And, finally (I promise!), I stumbled across a music store calling itself Jetset Records. I was confused at first, because I always knew Jetset Records as an American indie label (home of bands like Arab Strap, Mogwai, Macha, Congo Norvell, etc.), but this record store had the same logo as the label does, so I figured they must be affiliated. Plus, the store had a sufficiently oh-so-cool selection that I figured it must have indie cred out the proverbial* wazzoo. Anyway, I’m now convinced they’re just ripping off the label’s logo. I bought three CDs — the new Velvet Crush singles comp, a Bebel Gilberto remix album, and an Ennio Morricone soundtrack compilation — that I figured would be cool enough that the clerk wouldn’t laugh at me. (Verdicts on the CDs: better than expected, as good as expected, major disappointment.)
(*Ever need to know if I’m losing consciousness? Watch for my use of the word “proverbial.” It’s a clincher that I’m drifting off, every time.)
Anyway, the bullet train brought me back to Tokyo tonight, then dinner, then bed. If I owe you an email, my deepest apologies — I’ll write you when I wake up.
Joshua Benton is the director of the Nieman Journalism Lab at Harvard University, among other things. Before that, he was a staff writer and columnist for The Dallas Morning News. (More.)
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