Live. Solo. Acoustic. With A Pug.

So the story goes that Rhett Miller was walking down State Street in Madison last Saturday, and he happened to stop in at Ragstock, a sort of retro-wear clothing store. There he saw the clerk wearing horned-rimmed glasses and a T-shirt that said, "Science Nerd," and that served as a reminder for him to play his song, "Four-Eyed Girl," at his show at The Majestic later that night.

Or at least...that's how he told it before he played the song. I have a feeling he'd have played it anyway, but it was a good story. And I do believe that he was wandering on State Street during the day before his show. Because...well, State is a street that lends itself to wandering.

His version that night of "Four-Eyed Girl" was a little messy and out of rhythm, and at times more spoken than sung...and it was fantastic.

After missing a couple of chances to see Rhett Miller in Wisconsin in the past few years, I didn't pass on this one, and I was glad I didn't. He played solo and acoustic, and while I haven't been in attendance at a great many acoustic shows, I've never seen anyone put so much effort and energy into playing an acoustic guitar and standing alone on stage, entertaining a crowd of several hundred people.

The rather eccentric lead singer of the Old 97s did very well for himself, by himself, up on stage. He's got this...presence...I guess, that makes you uncertain whether that's just him, or if he's a bit aided by chemical substances. Either way, he delivered a solid hour and a half of energy, playing a handful of songs from his first solo effort, The Instigator, which is the only album of his I owned prior to the show.

He also played songs from The Believer, which I now own, and need to listen to a few more times before I can say if it measures up to his first disc, and from his upcoming solo release, plus a few songs from The Old 97s as well. I'd tell you more about The Old 97s, but I don't have a clue who they are or what they're about. All I know is Rhett Miller is their frontman, and they're still together and still making music.

Part of the mystery of Rhett Miller and his music is that it's a bit difficult to classify. It's rock 'n' roll, no doubt. But there's something else to it. It's probably no coincidence that he went into Ragstock, because he and his sound have a retro vibe to them. And he can go from a hundred miles a minute to a weepy ballad with equal success.

The Old 97s I think are actually described by some as alt. country. Quite a category.

If you've never heard of Rhett Miller, I would suggest that downloading "Four-Eyed Girl" on iTunes would be 99 cents very well spent. And then go see a show.

— • — • —

I almost wanted to write this as the lead to this blog post, but after waiting for a Rhett Miller show for several years, I knew I had to put the headliner at the top.

But the opening act on Saturday was a welcome surprise...also an acoustic performer, a guy named Joe Pug from Chicago. A decent guitarist and an impressive lyricist, he held my attention during his set and got me to spend a few bucks on his EP, Nation of Heat, before I left the theater.

He's also got a full-length CD coming out in a couple of months, and I'm eager to hear more of his songwriting talents. I see myself actively searching out another of his shows sometime this year, because while much of the crowd at The Majestic was spending its time talking over Joe Pug as they waited for Rhett Miller, I spent that time, um...listening. To the songs. And the lyrics. (novel concept at a concert, I know.)

One reviewer writes a great line when he says, "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you who Joe Pug sounds like..." And if you click over to the link above, you'll get it right away.

But...give him a listen. He's in his early 20s, and he had a modesty and sincerity about him that might indicate that, if he catches a break or two along the way, more people might soon know the name Joe Pug.

And spend their time listening when he's up on stage.

"Two of us in a double feature,
I'm a rock and roller she's a science teacher.
I send her looks, they don't reach her.
She does not know I'm in love with her."
—Rhett Miller

Three Down. How Many More To Go?

I went to another show last weekend at The Rave in Milwaukee, and that place is quickly becoming one of my favorite venues...if not always for the acoustics, then for the mystery of the building and its contents.

I say mystery, because I'm finding out that I don't really know how many separate musical venues are located there. And I'm beginning to think that maybe nobody does!

I've seen a couple shows in the Eagles Ballroom (upper level). Late last year I saw Sister Hazel in the Eagles Hall, or The Rave II (lower level). And on Friday I was in what I believe is called The Rave Hall. There's also The Rave Bar, The Rave Vibe Room, the RockStar Lounge...none of which I've seen. Yet. At least not knowingly.

I'm fully expecting to one day order tickets to a Crows show, and when I get there, be led up several flights of winding, twisting stairs, down a long dark hall and into a small room with a couple tables and a fridge, and Adam Duritz standing by the sink playing a solo acoustic show for eight people in The Rave Kitchen.

Or maybe not.

— • — • —

The concert on Friday night was Big Head Todd & The Monsters, a band about which I know very little. I own Strategem, and can fumble along with the lyrics of a few of their songs, most notably, "In The Morning." Aside from that, I can't say I'm their biggest fan. I went mainly because it was a Friday night, a few good buddies, a few over-priced beers, and live music. Hello?? I can't say no to that! Well...I can. But I rarely do.

And after seeing what I saw on Friday night, I suspect I'll be returning to another Big Head Todd show in the future.

There was very little banter or crowd interaction between songs. All Todd and his three Monsters did was play high-energy, high-quality rock 'n' roll music. For two..and a half...hours. Todd's one hell of a guitarist, and I don't know how to describe the drummer...if he had, like...opposable wrists, or something? (yes, I just made that up. no, it doesn't make any sense. I know this.)

His hands just seemed to float above his cymbals, and then he'd go into an arm-flailing drum fill a second later, toss one of his sticks up in the air, catch it and switch back to a cymbal float. Hard to describe, except that he was a lot of fun to watch, really into what he was doing, and made so much of it look effortless.

The night included a few cover songs...."Boom Boom" by John Lee Hooker; a good but not spectacular version of "Ring Of Fire," by Johnny Cash; and a blow-me-away-good rendition of Clapton's "Forever Man." Anyone who's geeked out about setlists can go and check out the rest of the night's lineup.

In a crowd of maybe 500 people—most of whom were very close to my age—it was a night of easy, relaxing, kinda bluesy, kinda rockin' live guitar music that did not disappoint, even for someone who was an almost fan going into the night.

One quick mention down here of something that did disappoint...and that was the opening act, Joan Jones. Had a hard time finding something to like during her short set, except for the saxophone player, who was as hot as she was talented.

Other than that, the songs were mostly filler until the crowd gathered for BHTM. One of her lyrics was, "Everybody wants to come to my party...wearing nothing at all." And I think that was supposed to be a ballad. 'Nuff said.

"Whoever fights monsters should
see to it that in the process he
doesn't become a monster."

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The (Not So) Super Bowl

It’s been said that baseball is a game of inches...although I think that cliché has been borrowed for almost every other sport by now as well, from horseshoes to badminton.

But I found out Sunday that sports, and football in this particular example, can be a game of percentages, too.

As in...what are the percentages that the team that wins the coin toss in the Super Bowl defers to the other team, and kicks off instead of taking the ball first?

Or what are the percentages that a rumblin’, bumblin’ linebacker intercepts a pass at one goal line and stumbles through a traffic jam of pads and helmets and grasping hands, dancing along the sideline without stepping out of bounds and falling head first into the other end zone to score a touchdown seconds before the end of the first half?

These two specific plays had my undivided attention on Sunday, especially the latter, because it changed the score from 10-7 to 17-7, which may or may not have rendered a square with my name in it completely worthless.

And this wasn’t a you’ve-just-won-a-free-cheeseburger square, either. More like an all-your-hotels-in-Vegas-in-June-are-paid-for square.

Such is my luck during the Super Bowl. And football season in general, for that matter.

A couple of other musings as we head into the off-season:

• Hines Ward had a 38-yard reception early on that stood for much of the game as the longest pass play between him and Larry Fitzgerald, until Fitzgerald caught one over the middle in the fourth quarter and streaked past Pittsburgh’s defense for a 64-yard touchdown. Ouch.

• Rarely did you hear Troy Polamalu’s name called or see his long hair blowing in the breeze on camera, as he was virtually silent and barely sniffed the ball during the game. I thought he’d find his way into position to get at least one pick.

• Both running games were anemic, with the Steelers hovering around 60 yards, and Edgerrin James gaining all of Arizona’s yards on the ground. Thirty-three.

• Kurt Warner managed to pick apart the league’s best defense for 377 yards to become the all-time greatest passer in Super Bowl history. The former Arena Leaguer has the three best passing performances in Super Bowls...in three attempts. Like him or not, that’s a rather impressive feat.

• There were 23 points scored in the fourth quarter alone, which turned out to be a big boost for those of us who were watching the all-important 46.5 number.

• The Super Bowl was, in fact, so unpredictable that The Boss himself didn’t even play a note of “Born In The U.S.A.” on the grandest stage in all of sports. I would’ve bet against that. I didn’t...but I would have.

• Probably the tastiest tidbit of the day was that I got to devour some of my buddy’s chili. Which has nothing to do with the Super Bowl or football or anything else in this blog entry, but it’s always worth a mention, because it’s the best chili on the planet.

OK, heads I write about something other than football in my next post, and tails I break down the Pro Bowl.

Don’t worry, if I win the toss, I’ll defer to you, anyway.

“We’re at the Super Bowl and the people
are thanking us for coming. Thanking us
for coming to the Super Bowl?
Are you kidding me?”
—Lorrie Fair

The Oil-Free Bowling Alley

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."
Right?

There's also a slightly lesser-known mantra that goes something like:

When a Wisconsin winter gives you temps below zero and enough inches of ice on the lake to drive a semi on...go bowling!

Ice...bowling.

I spend many of my summer holidays with friends up nort (the "h" is optional, but frowned upon. nort!), and we often get together for a Winter Weekend as well. This year someone suggested ice bowling, if we could find some old pins and bowling balls. We did.

While the primary activity on Saturday morning was sitting around a table watching the needle on the thermometer slowly creep toward zero degrees (whether it reached its goal is debatable, depending on your angle to the thermometer), about noon, a couple of people started migrating out-of-doors and down toward the lake. And then a couple more. And a couple more.

I was one of the last ones down to the dock...by choice. But I had to go and see if in the frigid weather the balls and/or pins might shatter upon impact, or if there was maybe one very thin patch of ice on our "lane," and if the ball was unfortunately dropped in that spot, we'd hear a "Puh-lunk!" as the ball disappeared to the bottom of the lake to be fished out in spring.

Nothing shattered.
No puh-lunks.

I was outside for half an hour, to snap a few photos, most of which had a strange blue hue and unfortunate shadows (stupid manual camera settings and users who don't know how to set them!), before I decided that a heated garage would be a much better place to sit and enjoy a cold beverage.

The rest of the crew spent more than an hour outside, setting up various creative pin configurations (see the lonely bonus pin in the photo as an example), and occasionally knocking them down.

And then...ice bowling was over, and other weekend activities ensued, including (but not limited to) drinking beer out of 9-ounce plastic cups, eating Tobascoed chili, singing along to songs by artists as diverse as Kenny Rogers and Guns 'n' Roses, observing (but not participating in) the new exercise craze, called Eight-Minute Stairs, and debating the difference between the terms "sexy" and "attractive" (which can be an entire blog post on its own).

Quite a full day. And night.

"Building a mechanical device
for its appearance is like
putting lace on a bowling ball."
—Andrew Vachss

Blindsided. (but in a good way)

So did you all see what my Guest Blogger did last week?

After I wrote a rambling intro that was about the same length as his entire post, warning my readers to brace themselves for the worst, and how much of a bashing I was about to take, from my sports teams to my music choices to...well, to everything and anything...did you see what he did?

He took the high road!
(never saw it coming.)

That had to be the most painless wager I ever lost, because it got us all several paragraphs of thoughtful, clear, opinionated writing. Looks to me like everybody won. (except for maybe Mr. Guest Blogger, who's now probably kicking himself that he had the stage on which to bash me, but instead passed to focus his entry on current events.)

I knew he had it in him, and I know he has more. Much...more.

Should he ever decide to start his own blog and post such opinions on a regular basis, I will be certain to include the link here. I know I want to keep reading.

Don't you?

"To be an ideal guest, stay at home."
—Edgar Watson Howe

Settling My Debt

Today at Ton-Fifty-ONE, there will be a bit of a change of pace, as I'm bringing in a Guest Blogger. You see...I lost a bet. When the Chargers upset the Colts during Wild Card Weekend, I was out drinking with some buddies...one of whom is a Chargers fan. So we made a little wager, and as we were thinking of what to bet, this blog came up, and my buddy said, "Oooh! I can write a guest post on your blog!"

Sounds painless enough, but you have to understand that we have a hate/hate relationship. He hates me...and I hate the fact that I have to give him free reign of my blog for a day.

Well, maybe it's not quite as bad as that, but suffice it to say that sarcasm and insults flow freely between us...in e-mail, txt msgs, and of course...in person. We have to clarify statements of sincerity by prefacing them with, "But seriously...no, seriously......" because those instances are so rare.

Being a believer in freedom of expression, and honoring my bets, I assured Matthew that I would not alter his post in any way. So all opinions, typos, lame jokes, and misused punctuation are his and his alone.

Truth be told (ouch, here it comes), he's a pretty good guy, and knows at least a little something about almost everything. And about some things, he knows a lot. We bounce questions and ideas off of each other. "What's the plural of 'analysis'?" he'll ask me. And, "Teach me all about computer geekery," I'll beg of him.

He's a constructive critic when I ask him to be. And he's funnier than you. (I'm not sure if I'm saying that because it's true, or because I want to put added pressure on him to write a good entry...because he saw this intro before sending me his post. Probably a little of both.)

In case you were curious...if I would've won the bet, he would have had to wear my Lions jersey during our draft party, and pay for all of my beer. Oh, all the microbrews I'm missing out on!

So for today, Ton-Fifty-ONE belongs to Matthew.
Please come back tomorrow. I beg of you.

— • — • —

During the past week a cold snap has overtaken Wisconsin, and from what they tell me, pretty much the eastern half of the nation as well. Maybe cold is too kind of a word. It's not the kind of cold that just makes you button your coat all the way to the top and shiver just a bit before continuing on your way. No, it's the kind of cold that makes you question Darwin and his theory of evolution. Surely there has to be a greater power at hand making decisions for the human race, because there's no way that we would evolve to live in the type of climate where taking one step outside results in a headache. If you're unlucky enough to stand outside for longer than 5 minutes, you run the chance of frostbite... over 200,000 years of evolution — and still people can literally freeze in a matter of minutes. Nature, on its own, could never be so cruel to let an animal live in a region they are so obviously unsuited for.

The deep freeze though, does have its benefits. It has a way of clearing the mind and prioritizing the important things. When you venture outside and the air temperature is minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit, you do not have the time for anything but the task at hand. You help the person who's car won't start or you donate those unused coats to a charity. The task at hand is to stay warm and help others stay warm. Your mind doesn't cloud with frivolous thoughts that seem important in warmer climes. In a teaser for Simon Schama's new documentary, "The American Future: A History", a woman from Texas rails against immigrants from Mexico, stating they were sneaking into the United States just to commit crimes and spread disease. Commit crimes and spread disease. To me, it sounds like that woman could use some frigid weather to clear her mind. When the temperature is so cold that taking a deep breath is impossible, fantasizing about the perceived evils of a people is not a priority.

The bitter cold is also contradictory. As uncomfortable as it can be to stand outside, the sheer beauty of the uniformly colored, barren landscape and the deep stillness and quiet that encompasses it can be strangely enticing. Maybe it's the sense of a new beginning. When it's so quiet that you actually believe you hear your breath crystalizing mere seconds after you exhale, and the land is as blank as a new sheet of paper, its hard not to believe that this is just nature's way of starting over. Anything seems possible when the mercury has nowhere to go but up and the terrain is so completely devoid of life that any sign of another living thing hints of all that is possible when spring finally emerges.

Maybe then this latest deep freeze is just nature's way of ushering out the national nightmare that has engulfed us all these last eight years and providing a clean slate for Tuesday. All of the atrocities committed in the name of the people of the United States... an unnecessary war, a climate on the verge of a tipping point, the human rights violations, an economy in ruins.... Is there anything we need more than a complete break from the past and a chance to start over? As the cold weather rolls east towards our nation's capitol, nature is giving us her answer. Wipe the slate clean... a new beginning is here. Welcome back America, I missed you.

Fresh Copy.

I found a site a few months back that grabbed me from the first word and never let go.

The site is called Copyblogger, and provides writing tips for anyone who needs to generate..um..copy.

Their ideas seem new and fresh, or maybe it's just a different-angled approach to the same tried-and-true ideas. But it's a great blog...and ever since I found it I thought that if I could take away even 20 percent of the lessons and ideas and tips offered there, I might be writing for a living instead of, you know...not writing for a living.

Some of the titles of their entries draw you in enough that you can't help but click over and see what they have to say. Titles like, "Are You A Fancy Nancy Writer?" (my answer: not as often as some other people) or "The Art of One Butt Cheek Blogging" and "The Winnie The Pooh Guide To Blogging." (Pooh and his friends teach us more than we know.)

I'd lie and say that after reading a new Copyblogger post, I immediately incorporate on this blog what I've learned in that day's entry. But most of you have visited here often enough, and would know that that's simply not the case. Yet.

I try to take away at least a little nugget of wisdom every time I click over to the site. For the most part, though, it serves as a fantastic read, and an example of what good copy can be, should be, and with any luck...someday, will be.

"Copy from one, it's plagiarism;
copy from two, it's research."
—Wilson Mizner

Blog Update

Somebody at Adobe must've known that yesterday was Monday and that I was in need of a good chuckle. This is what popped up on my computer screen at work about mid-morning:

Gotta be the best dialog box I've ever seen.

"The only thing God didn't do to Job
was give him a computer."
—I.F. Stone

Shoot The Moon

On Saturday night, I was jarred from my cozy apartment by a text message shortly after midnight that sent me scrambling for my jacket and camera bag.

Flipping open my phone, I found the following:

"Dude, you better be outside taking pictures of
this moon and the blue landscape!"

I went to my front window and peered up into the sky, and then to my back window. Nothing.

I sent back a quick text:

"I have no idea what you're talking about...
but I'm running out the door to look."

When I got outside, I realized I would've needed a hole in my ceiling, and the roof above, to see the moon from the comfort of my couch, as it was directly overhead.

It was full, and bright, and formed an eerie glowing ring around it. I tried to snap a few photos, but thought a big glowing ball in the center of the frame might make for a rather boring shot, so I almost leaned against my building, and shot straight up into the air.

If I tried to get the moon in sharp focus, the ring around it...and most of the building, for that matter...disappeared from the frame. So I settled for this shot, which makes the moon look almost like a headlight. It wasn't...but it was close. And I kind of like the weird angle of this shot.

And the ring. Had to get the ring. That's not a camera trick...that was actually visible in the sky.

Then I got in my car and drove a couple of miles out of town and parked on a dark, lonely road where I spent a little time several years ago, lying on the hood of my car at about 3:30am trying unsuccessfully to see some of the Leonids meteor shower.

Here's where I first understood what my buddy meant when he said "the blue landscape." The moon was glowing so brightly that it illuminated the earth pretty well, and as I stood outside of my car and looked around, there was a faint blue tint to everything.

As I stared at the moon straight above me, I knew there was no chance to get a shot that would include both the moon and any part of the landscape for reference, so I took out my zoom lens and fooled around with a few settings that I'm sure a professional would tell me weren't the "correct" ones...but as I brought the moon into focus in the middle of the frame, it showed a little detail and some of its features, and that was good enough for me.

I clicked around with my camera until my fingertips were nearly frozen, and hoped that I had something on my card that would look good on the screen.

It's not an artsy moon shot, and it's cropped so it looks more like a photo that you'd see in a textbook to define parts of the moon's surface.

But I took it. And I think it rocks.

I don't think I've ever been as grateful for
txt msging (and txt msgrs!) as I was on Saturday night.

"Yeah we all shine on,
like the moon,
and the stars,
and the sun."
—John Lennon

Baby Steps

Baby steps, they say.

We’ve all heard the phrase. When embarking on a giant new venture, or taking on something unknown...baby steps. Makes the task or the journey a little easier to tackle, one small step at a time.

You know when else you should use baby steps? When Mother Nature sprinkles down a nice freezing drizzle and coats...oh, just about everything...in a shiny, thin layer of ice.

I was out in Madison with some buddies last weekend, watching the football games, and while we’d heard the forecast and knew what was probably coming our way, it was still a sight to see when we came out of the popular chicken wing establishment (not the one with the orange shorts, the one with all the W's) after the games were over.

Rather than head for home, somebody in our group decided we should go downtown to a piano bar that was supposed to be popular. I left my finely iced car in the parking lot, and off we went in a car less affected by the elements, to listen to tunes from Billy Joel and Cat Stevens and Elton John.

Then someone else got the bright idea to head to another bar that was “just a block away.” This is where the baby steps came in handy on Saturday.

When we got outside, it was slow going, and balance was key. Any attempt at a regular walking stride would have been met with certain horizontality along the sidewalk, so there was much shuffling and reaching for stationary items to help us on our journey.

The one-block estimate was actually off by about three, so we stepped gingerly over ice and through snow that had better footing, turning to see the Capitol building lit up and glowing quite nicely in the night. (no photos to accompany this statement, however. because if I would have had my camera, I would certainly have wiped out, and been minus one camera.)

I found myself overwhelmed by a fit of laughter at the sight of the four of us as we slithered and slid up the sidewalk. Remember that Tim Conway character from the old Carol Burnett shows? The world’s oldest man? That’s how we were walking.

We got to the hipster bar and listened to a little jazz funk from a five-piece band crammed onto a corner stage that could really only comfortably hold about three people. And when the lights came on after last call, it was time to slide our way back.

This time, as we walked past the Capitol, there were about a half dozen people using the long, slanted approach to the building as a slide, not caring much about their clothes as they lay on their backs and came down the angle to the sidewalk below.

It looked like fun, but I didn’t want to shuffle all the way to the top just for a 15-second joy ride to the bottom.

The laughing fit that struck me on the way up came back and hit me again on the walk back to the car. Apparently ice plus late nights in Madison plus trying to stay upright (plus more than a few beers) equal one funny scene.

There were three wipeouts among our group during our round trip (I was not one of them), and after taking inventory that no wrists or hips or elbows...or skulls...had any new cracks in them that weren’t there before the spill...well, that just added to the hilarity, of course.

I don’t have much use for winter, but I guarantee the sight would have been much less entertaining if it was just a walk in a cold spring rain.

“When I see a slippery slope,
my instinct is to build a terrace.”
—John McCarthy

The Slows.

Boy, when things get slow after the holidays...they really...get slow...after the holidays.

And I'm not talking only about my eight-day hiatus from this little space I called home throughout December.

There's very little hustle and no bustle to speak of in the stores. The Christmas decorations that lined several intersections in my village have been taken down. And work? Let's just say it's gone from missing a few lunch breaks and working extra hours here and there, to the quote I heard today: "The workload is a little lean today, so you can probably knock off at four."

Whew! We've definitely hit the January Slows.
(yes, I thought about that phrase for a couple of hours both yesterday and today, and that's the best I could come up with. apparently, work isn't the only thing that's not moving at full speed these days.)

During my calendar year at work, there are a couple of very noticeable lulls, and the first few weeks in January definitely qualify. (part of July does a pretty good January imitation, too.) After running ourselves ragged writing stories and laying out and pasting up bigger issues, and special sections, January comes and the page total takes a hit. A few 16-page papers signify the dawn of a new year.

(I know what you're saying. "Did he just say sixteen?? What's he complaining about?" Yes, I know we're not the New York Times or the Detroit Free Press, but they've got more than four and a half people on their staff, now don't they? And they don't split time between newspaper pages and newsletters, raffle tickets, business forms, yaddayaddayadda.)

What I was trying to say...before I so rudely interrupted myself with what I thought you might be whining about as you read this entry...is that there's a big difference between a 16-page paper and a 20- or 24-page paper.

Pasteup on Wednesday mornings is done at an almost...dare I say...leisurely...pace. I get 30 entire minutes to eat lunch and check my mail, instead of wolfing something down during the drive to the printer.

I have time at the end of the week to work on tasks that were overlooked during the holidays, like...oh, I dunno...file backup. Machine maintenance. Breathing. Focusing.

Kinda feels like one big, "Ahhhhhhh."

Things will pick up again soon, and while they won't be Christmas season crazy, they'll be...active. But pretty soon, football season will be over, and we'll have a couple tough, slow months to continue slogging through.

A concert here and there, and maybe a baseball game in spring. A big Vegas trip to look forward to in June, and then a beer or two on the Fourth of July. Wind down the summer over Labor Day and put on a scary mask for Halloween. Cry in my wine over another crappy Lions season while stuffing myself with Thanksgiving turkey, and then wait until four days before Christmas to finish my shopping.

Whoa.

What was that I said about...slow?
Because that sure feels like how last year went.

Enjoy the down time when you get it, friends.

"I value the friend who for me
finds time on his calendar,
but I cherish the friend who for me
does not consult his calendar."
—Robert Brault

Pop The Cork on 2009

"It's just another New Year's Eve,
Another night like all the rest.
It's just another New Year's Eve,
Let's make it the best.
It's just another New Year's Eve,
It's just another Auld Lang Syne
But when we're through this New Year
You'll see, will be
Just fine."

Didn't really expect to be quoting a Barry Manilow song, but it seems fitting for this particular New Year's Eve.

My view of New Year's Eve has changed over the past 20 years or so. When I was younger, I had to be at the right party, with the right people, and the right amount of beer and champagne. If the party or the plan on New Year's Eve was a bust, it brought with it much disappointment because of the days or weeks of anticipation of ringing in the new year in style.

I've spent time at friends' houses before I could get into bars, and then at crowded bars where the New Year's Eve scene quickly became stale. In past years I've reverted back to hanging with a group of friends at someone's house, or spending time with family.

This year, I can either go to a friend's house and enjoy some beer/wine/champagne, talk a little foolish, laugh a lot, and play some Wii, or I can get together with family and enjoy some beer/wine/champagne, talk a little foolish, laugh a lot, and play some board games or cards.

I'm seriously considering option No. 3: renting a movie or two, wrapping up in a blanket and trying to kick my cold.

Hey, don't ever say that I'm not the life of the party on New Year's Eve, OK?

I guess New Year's Eve hasn't provided me with too many front-page, big-headline memories, so I don't get all bent out of shape about it anymore trying to figure out what. to. doooo. for the (quote)big night(unquote).

I should probably retract that statement from above. New Year's Eve has provided at least one unforgettable memory, and taught me a great lesson...and that lesson is: Beer and champagne, both in large quantities, do not mix.

I was at a friend's for New Year's Eve many many years ago...I can't remember if it was before I was 21 or not. And maybe a dozen of us were celebrating the last night of the year. The beer was flowing (cheap beer, if I remember that crowd correctly), and at midnight, the champagne started flowing as well. And then, more beer, and more with the champagne, and then...oh, more beer.

I walked the six blocks home during the wee hours of the morning on January 1, and fell into my bed and "went to sleep." The next thing I remember I was waking myself up by puking the contents of my stomach into my bed, and against the wall where my bed was pushed. Not a pretty sight.

An even un-prettier sight? I rolled over in my drunken grogginess and saw my parents standing a couple feet away from my bed, watching the unfortunate...incident. From what I can recollect, they didn't say a word, just...watched...for a bit, and then left a pail on the floor alongside my bed. (which, I really didn't need anymore, because I'd so conveniently used the wall instead. but it was a kind and loving gesture on their part.)

I spent almost all of the next day on a couch in the basement, flipping through the channels and generally ignoring the TV, suffering through what remains to this day one of my worst hangovers ever.

And that's the night I learned that champagne consumption should be measured in glasses, not in bottles.

Thanks for reading. I'll understand if you never want to come back and visit again.

— • — • —

And with a click of the mouse on the "Publish Post" button of this thirty-first entry of the month of December, having thirty-one days, I can tell November to kiss...my...ass. I may have stumbled during the "official" month of NaBlahBlah, but I finished the year strong.

Expect my next entry sometime in mid-March.

Happy New Year, everyone! May you keep all the resolutions you make...and may you not make any, because then I won't feel guilty for not making any, either.

"An optimist stays up until midnight
to see the new year in.
A pessimist stays up to make sure
the old year leaves."
—Bill Vaughan

What Do You See? Hear? Feel?

"Get up and walk around. Fix yourself a beverage — tea, water, a soft drink, something caffeinated, something not, whatever you like. Find something to write with. Then settle somewhere comfortable. Write a sentence about your surroundings. Then describe at least one object in great detail. Move on to your clothing. What are you wearing? Write it down. Is anything uncomfortable, particularly colorful or dark, too big or too small? Write it down. Continue writing about everything you see, smell, taste, or hear until you have written two pages. Cross out and erase nothing. Turn the page when you are done and turn to your own writing project."

[Writing exercise from The I Ching For Writers, Chapter 43: Kuai, Writer's Block Overcome]


I don't know that I was exactly blocked tonight, but I was paging through this book, and this particular exercise stood out for me. I've seen it before, in a number of other incarnations.

Goldberg uses it often in her books. She'll begin a chapter describing the café she's writing in, or the salt and pepper shakers on the table, and eventually it will lead to why her heart is breaking that day.

And my Muse has taken to visiting me in this way a couple times a week, with prompts like, "What sounds do you hear right now?" or "What do you see in front of you?" or "What do you feel in your fingers?"

No matter what I'm doing, or how busy work might be, it makes me stop. And notice. And pay attention. And isn't that what life boils down to...paying attention? (geez, did I just sound like Ferris Bueller there? sorry.)

I like to think that I'm pretty good at paying attention, whether it's to myself, or to a group of friends around a table, or in a concert crowd of a few hundred or a few thousand.

Sometimes I soak it all in...everything. And other times I realize that I can miss something that's right in front of my nose. Which tells me I've still got a long way to go.

And in the exercise above, the "cross out and erase nothing" directive is key. Goldberg's stressed it many times, and I did timed writing exercises with that guideline in the workshop I took last winter.

It's hard! Try keeping your hand moving and your pen moving across the page for five or ten minutes without stopping, and wondering what the point is to writing such total garbage as you find yourself scrawling, "I don't know what the point is to writing such total garbage," across the page just to keep your hand and pen in motion while your mind is...blank.

But it must be useful, because it's preached over and over in many chapters of many books and by writing teachers and coaches everywhere.

It's like stretching. It loosens you up, makes you more receptive to thoughts and ideas, and it makes you look around...

...and pay attention.

(Speaking of paying attention...did you click over to Goldberg's website and pay attention to the announcement at the top of the page, that said her book tour is coming to the Midwest in March? I...live...in the Midwest. Oh. my!)

"To pay attention,
this is our endless
and proper work."
—Mary Oliver

Bombs Dropping...Everywhere!

Pardon me for two football posts in a row, but this is the time of the year when stuff is happening minute to minute, and some of it is downright shocking.

I came home for lunch today and saw a link on my homepage that said, "Mangini out as coach after Jets miss playoffs."

I had to shake the coughy, sneezy, watery-eyed cobwebs out of my head and read that link again. And again. Yeah, the Jets imploded down the stretch, and how they're out of the playoffs is as much of a mystery as how the Eagles and Chargers are in the playoffs.

But I never saw that one coming. Am I the only one who thinks that Eric Mangini's something of an up-and-coming genius? The guy's 37 years old, he's learned a little bit under Bill Belichick...and he gets canned after three years with the Jets.

I think I actually made the sweeping "c'mon over" arm motion to nobody in particular, and said out loud, "Heyyy! There's a job open in Detroit!"

A couple hours later I got a Twitter update on my phone that said, "Brian Billick will not be the Lions next coach," and I nearly jumped out of my chair and yelled, "Hooray!!" but today was another one of our Monuesdays at work, so I didn't really have the time. I was shouting it on the inside, though.

That is...until I came home and clicked the link and found that it was really just the opinion of Lions beat writer Tom Kowalski. I sure hope he's right. I don't...want...Billick...screwing up my favorite team. The Lions have a long history of hiring outstanding head coaches who accept nothing but the best effort from their players, and produce some fine, fine results.

(Did I mention I'm not feeling well? Forgive me for that last sentence. But I STILL don't want Billick on the Lions' sideline. Why? Because. That's my in-depth answer.)

I saw a little blip across the scroll line last night, that Brett Favre wasn't too happy playing for Mangini, because he'd call out the quarterback in front of other players for making bad throws during games. And as I watched the scroll line for a while longer, that was the only time that little tidbit showed up. Either I missed it again, or it magically disappeared after that.

I haven't read other stories confirming or denying that, but...gee, do you think Favre made a few bad throws at the end of the season?? What's the stat, something like nine picks in the last five games? If he was crying for getting called out for making bad throws, that's pretty prima donna-ish, don't you think?

So. No idea if the Favre story has anything to do with Mangini getting fired, because 99 percent of people who watch and analyze and cheer for and know how to spell football think that Favre is finished.

But there's also a little story out there today that Bill Cowher told the Cleveland Browns he wasn't interested in their coaching position, but that he'd listen to what the Jets have to say.

Do you think Favre would stay around another year to play for Bill Cowher? I kind of...do.

I'm straying way off topic here...which is easy, seeing as how there are so many topics to jump to.

Bottom line: Bring Mangini to Detroit, and I will have renewed interest in what I realize will still be a horrible football team for the next couple of years. OK, decades. A head coach is one part of it, but the Lions filled front office positions by promoting from within, so the dream of Parcells coming to Detroit was short-lived.

Just to keep things in perspective, Mangini's name hasn't even been mentioned on the list of possible coaching candidates. Yet. Right now there are a bunch of offensive and defensive coordinators being penciled in for interviews.

And one of the scariest things I read so far today: "Lions owner William Clay Ford will have final say in the head coach decision."

Anybody wanna bet against 0-for-32?

"There are only two kinds of coaches—
those who have been fired,
and those who will be fired."
—Ken Loeffler

From Bad To...Just As Bad?

How does one officially sever all ties with a sports organization and direct one's fan affiliation elsewhere? What is the proper procedure for such an action?

I've been a Detroit Lions fan for 19 years, and after this remarkable season, I may have had enough.

While I may have known early on that the Lions probably weren't going to make a big playoff push this season, I never expected this. Sixteen games. Sixteen losses. An even greater mark of futility than the 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers who went 0-14 in their first season as an expansion team in the NFL.

Detroit's been around for a while. They even have a superstar or two: Calvin Johnson, who will reserve his untapped potential until such time as he's wearing another team's uniform; and Roy Williams, who was a superstar until he started dropping passes, and then was traded to the Dallas Cowboys where he complained about not being used enough in the offense; and placekicker Jason Hanson, who's old but can still boot the ball through the uprights. (How sad is it when your kicker has to be mentioned among your best players?)

But now...I don't know what to do. I've changed affiliations before, but it's been so long that I honestly can't remember the steps I took.

I used to be a New York Giants fan. I was, and still am, a fan of Phil Simms, and followed players like Mark Bavaro, Dave Meggett, Stephen Baker (The Touchdown Maker), Joe Morris, Ottis Anderson. And I was a big fan of Lawrence Taylor, until he retired and became a shell of his former self, wandering the streets looking for his next crack fix. (Seriously. Listen to that guy in an interview sometime. It is so sad how his life did such a 180.)

And on the sideline of the Giants games is where I first "met" Bill Parcells. There's only one other sports figure I revere more than Parcells, and that guy was the reason I became a Lions fan in 1989, having to split my time between the Lions and the Giants for a few years before Parcells went on to other challenges, and Simms retired, and LT went on a binge.

I guess I just answered my question of how I parted ways with the Giants. Many of the players with whom I was enamored were no longer there, and I had a one-of-a-kind running back to pay attention to in Detroit. Change focus, start buying new T-shirts, sweatshirts and caps.

Barry Sanders came into the NFL in 1989, and left it, disgusted with his poorly owned, poorly managed, poorly coached, go-nowhere team, in 1999. He could have played a 16-year career instead of 10, and built a career rushing record that would have stood untouched for decades.

Instead, he knew when to get out. The same cannot be said for at least one fan, who remained optimistic through the signings of Scott Mitchell (loudmouth bust), Charlie Batch (fragile bust), Herman Moore (great receiver on a bad team), Jon Kitna (too loose with his predictions on radio talk shows), Charles Rodgers (collarbones made of ceramic), Mike Williams (headcase bust, and too fat for a receiver), and a first-round O-lineman named Gosder with a bad attitude.

(the sad part is that I could keep going, but there's not enough room on the interwebs to list all the ridiculously bad moves the Fords and Matt Millen and the rest of Lions management have made.)

Add to all of that having to endure the final nail in a sixteen-nail coffin this afternoon. A perfectly awful season. No team can ever be worse than the 2008 Detroit Lions.

So if I decide to cut ties with the Lions and move on to another team, in which direction do I move? I'm a Peyton Manning fan, but if I cheer too loudly for the Colts in the playoffs, I'll be accused of jumping on their bandwagon. I can't really go back to the Giants, because while I've started to go a little easier on him in the past year or two, I've never been too high on Eli.

To avoid as much flack as possible, I'd have to slide over to another pretty bad team. And who wants to be a Chiefs fan, or a Raiders fan? (No disrespect to fans of those teams, of course. I mean...look at what I'm dealing with!) I could firmly plant my fandom in my home state and become a Packers fan, but...I was already chuckling before I finished writing those words. Clearly not an option there.

I guess I'm stuck, and will remain loyal (meaning I'll lie on the couch on football Sundays and fall asleep during the games) to the Lions for a bit longer. Rumor is that Parcells could be on the move, so there's a glimmer of hope he might end up in Detroit. And the Lions will be looking for a new head coach, which will be at least a mildly entertaining story to follow.

Unless they hire Brian Billick, the former Ravens coach. Not a big fan of his. If that happens, I may give up watching football altogether, and spend more time reading the classics. Which is what I should be doing anyway.

Dostoevsky's kicking my ass lately.

As badly as an 0-16 season by my "favorite" football team.

"The natural state of the football fan
is bitter disappointment,
no matter what the score."
—Nick Hornby

Speechifying: The Writers Who Make It Possible

As I flipped through the channels on this dreary, rainy, foggy Saturday afternoon, coughing and wheezing and looking for a knitting needle to poke into my nose and relieve some of the pressure building up in my sinuses, I was held up on C-Span for a while.

Sometimes there can be some great stuff on C-Span.

Today, I was met with an image of one of those humongous oval conference tables, with about a dozen people seated around it, all with notepads in front of them, and water glasses within reach.

In the bottom left corner of the screen was the title, "Writing Inaugural Addresses." That's what made me stop. Imagine, all the words and ideas and moments of great inspiration that have been poured from the minds of those sitting around that table. (maybe they should be our presidents instead, yes?)

I didn't get to see it all, but one of Reagan's speechwriters was there, as was one of Nixon's...and a presidential historian from I forget which university (if I'm on the ball and think I may be blogging about something I see on TV, I sometimes take notes, and would have had the writers' names and universities and ideas to add here...but I'm rather ill today and was far too lazy to go in search of a pen and paper) who strongly recommended that if the writers around the table hadn't read James Garfield's inaugural address in 1881, that it should be required reading.

Clearly, speechwriting has been a much-needed resource over the past eight years. And the historic speech that will be delivered next month will also be mined for phrases that may be used on David Letterman's "Greatest Moments In Presidential Speeches" segment.

The current buzz, much of it negative, surrounding the inauguration is Obama's selection of Pastor Rick Warren to give the invocation, but I bet many of the writers sitting around the big table and featured on C-Span today were instead thinking of past lines like,

"Ask not what your country can do for you—
ask what you can do for your country."

and hoping that one day there'd be another line that would stand for years to come, and that they might be able to say, "I wrote that."

"It is the high privilege and sacred duty
of those now living to educate their successors
and fit them, by intelligence and virtue,
for the inheritance which awaits them."
—James A. Garfield; March 4, 1881

Take The Money And Run

I'm not quite sure I understand this study I just read, wherein members of a group are given money, and then have some of it taken away from them. The other side of the experiment is that members of another group are simply given money by an unknown person.

Then, part two of the experiment is that the original two groups are given money and asked to give some away. The group that was originally given money gave away $6 out of $10, while the group that had money taken from them gave only $4.50 out of $10.

Seriously. It was confusing when I read it. It's confusing as I write it. But I can sorta make some sense out of it. The point is...why did they do it?

Researchers really spent...money?...on this experiment about money?? (I know. It goes so much deeper.) Must've gotten a grant. Apparently psychologists have a lot of time on their hands, and plenty of creative studies to record results for.

It's probably a good thing I wasn't one of the random people chosen to participate. Because after the study was explained to me, and I was given the envelope with the ten bucks, I would have said, "Thank you," and walked the other way and bought lunch.

I love the "conclusion" at the end that mentions the people who felt slighted. "It's not enough just to apologize."

I like my conclusion better.
Free lunch.

"To know oneself, one should assert oneself.
Psychology is action, not thinking about oneself.
We continue to shape our personality all our life.
If we knew ourselves perfectly, we should die."
—Albert Camus

Stirred. Fried. Smoked Out.

How To Stir Fry In A Wok:

Step 1:
Heat wok before adding oil or any ingredients. It's always best to begin stir frying in a wok that is already hot.

I know I've read this step somewhere before. And I've followed it many times, as well, and have had success making delicious meals of various colorful vegetables and other assorteds in my wok.

Today was Day Two of Christmas celebrating with family, and the plan was to hang at my sister's place and do some woking. An assembly line of vegetable choppers and recipe readers and sauce concocters...we've done this a couple times in the past, and it's a lot of fun.

I offered to bring my wok, as we had a few different recipes to sample. After our ingredients were prepped, I put my wok on the stove and turned on the burner. A couple of minutes later as I added the oil, I ran a plastic spatula lightly over the bottom of the wok...and it left a mark.

I brushed the spatula across the bottom of the wok again, and it left an even bigger mark. I wasn't sure if the spatula was melting or if my wok was disintegrating. As I examined the spatula and determined it was indeed safe for stirring at most temperatures, my wok started to smoke. The oil was getting hotter and the mark across the bottom surface was bubbling and flaking and...my sister's kitchen was filling with smoke, patio screen doors were being opened. It wasn't the prettiest of cooking pictures.

I'm not exactly the best of cooks, I'll freely admit that. There's no Food Network hosting gig in my future.

But I'm no fire hazard, either.

I poured the oil out of the wok into a metal can, and took a paper towel to wipe out the bottom, and the non-stick coating on a section about the size of a half of a dollar bill was wiped away in an instant.

One wok...retired.

We resorted to using deep fry pans and chicken fryers to finish cooking our dinner, and hopefully the smoke should be cleared out of their kitchen by the time the next major holiday rolls around.

I've just found a use for some of my Christmas cash (no, not cooking lessons, you smart-ass. a new wok!), and if we do this again next Christmas Day, I might suggest that my sister has the local fire department on standby as soon as I enter the city limits.


How To Stir Fry In A Wok (Revised):

Step 1:
Destroy wok on stove. Throw away wok. Look in drawer for local Chinese take-out menu.

"When it comes to Chinese food, I have always
operated under the policy that the less known
about the preparation the better. A wise diner
who is invited to visit the kitchen replies by
saying, as politely as possible, that he has a
pressing engagement elsewhere."
—Calvin Trillin

Rigging Up The Lights!

"Nothing says holidays,
like a cheese log."
—Ellen DeGeneres

Is It Bigger Than A Bread Box?

Do you ever try to disguise the gifts you give to friends and relatives at holiday time?

Like if you're giving someone a gift certificate, do you put it in an envelope and put the envelope in a box and wrap it, then put that box in an even bigger box and wrap that, and repeat those steps about a dozen times until the final outer dimensions of the gift are approximately equal to those of Saturn?

I might need to be a bit creative this holiday season as I begin my wrapping (yes, I know what time it is), or most of the gifts I bring to my Christmas celebration will bear a striking resemblance to a gift card with wrapping paper around it.

What can I say, I'm a fan of the gift card. In both giving and receiving.

I could pull something totally unexpected and hire an elephant to walk into my parents' living room tomorrow, and when someone says, "You got me an elephant for Christmas??" I could give an elephant command that I just learned that day, and the elephant would hold out its trunk and drop a peanut in that person's hand, and I'd reply, "No, I got you a membership in the Shelled-And-Salted Peanut Of The Month Club. Merry Christmas!"

And then the elephant would do his job on the carpet and ruin my niece's new Crochet-By-Number kit that she was so looking forward to using. (That's one scarf I would have to refuse.)

Perhaps I'll forget the elephant trick. After all...I want to be invited back to celebrate Christmas with my family next year.

"Feeling gratitude and not expressing it
is like wrapping a present and not giving it."
—William A. Ward