Just an average guy from California Wine Country

(or, a Sonoma County wine education in 90 minutes or less)

In a crowd of strangers, I usually enter bunker mode --- rapid sips from my drink and not a word to anyone. When this gentleman started chatting to me at the bar, my first thought was, "I really hope he's not trying to pick me up." At first I had no clue what to think when he told me he was a winemaker from Sonoma County, California; maybe he picked up conversation with me because of my decision to skip my usual beer in favor of a glass of pinot noir.

Ninety minutes later, after trading drinks back and forth, talking about the ultra-competitive wine market, how a $100 bottle often varies little from a $10-15 bottle, and everything else from Muirfield Golf Club to fate turning against Floyd Landis, I received an education. My eyes opened to facets of the wine business I never imagined. I quickly realized this man from California was the real deal.

I marveled at my luck. Make no mistake - it was dumb luck. My usual standoffishness with strangers didn't hold me back. In fact, it bloody well evaporated above the bar, or got smashed by the soothing jazz tunes easing the audience into night.

As much as alcohol wasn't on my mind the next morning, I could not avoid The Andersons General Store's massive wine section; I needed to track down one of Michael Sullberg's wines. Sure, enough, I found the Chardonnay (haven't tasted it yet).

While circumstances should prevent from returning, as the night marked well-known pianist Joe Dunlap's final performance at the Inn, I must say the chance at conversation like that could bring me back.

In an instant. I've spent too much time in the wrong places on my stretch of High Street. But the next time I walk into a bar alone, I won't take such measures to barricade myself from strangers.

From the pre-blog vaults

Amazing. A few months really throws everything in upheaval at times.

I wrote this on April Fool's morning and forgot it when my roommate left me a voice mail to inform me of her intent to move out. I've moved on, moved up and just remembered this pre-blog posting of sorts. Since then I've managed to drink almost every day and not feel bad for it in any way, so take it for what you will...


Breaking up, the Chimay hat trick and the smoking ban survivor (from 4/1/06

Drinking fades in importance as the unsightly pounds on my waistline grow more prominent. A few weeks of no alcohol during the work week – paired with regular exercise ---- and those pounds have receded slightly. Rather than let the break-up turn me down a road of broke, hazy evenings --- instead, they’re just broke right now --- I have tried to turn to a path of better living. Just in a week, I biked, ran a 30-minute routine on the treadmill twice and punished my muscles with Tae Bo twice. None of those things added a penny to my ledger, so as with many Fridays in 2006, I accepted staying home or watching movies with friends would await me at the weekend.

Empty Account Fridays for my good engaged friends DA and WE and myself are the new tradition --- a few hours of Marx Brothers movies, then a quick trip to the dive down the street chased with a warmer walk home.

In honor of the break-up and the need to spill a little good alcohol in the name of recovery, I pulled a bottle of Chimay Grand Reserve from my makeshift beer cellar (the top two shelves of my pantry). Corked and able to mature in the bottle for up to five years, this was a long overdue treat.

When I popped it open in WE and DA’s kitchen, its bottling date gave it up as a 16 months old; that’s hardly ancient for the strongest of Chimays, but enough age to increase its complexity. By the time Groucho and the boys were hip deep into their usual mayhem, the beer had warmed me up considerably.

That night at the old dive, I turned onto a new path, as I finished a little beer accomplishment without thinking about it until ordering the final beer. Grand Reserve only began the little Chimay tour; the old dive supplied the subsequent destinations.

I drank those masterful ales in the only order possible. If the evening starts with the red, then the white and the Grand Reserve, the morning will be bleak. Grand Reserve weighs in at 9 percent alcohol (Cinq Cents hits 8 percent, while Premiere still packs some heft at 7 percent); end the night sipping it at your own peril. The Cinq Cents, already the ugly duckling of Chimay brews (it still possesses a high degree of craft, but other Trappist brewers produce better triple-fermented ales), is the ballast. Its heavy spice bouquet and crisp, apple fruitiness evens out the dark heaviness of the other two Chimays.

Only one order of drinking remained -- Grand Reserve, Cinq Cents and Premiere. One champagne-sized bottle of Grand Reserve usually sets down tough roots for drinking. But if it goes down first, it won’t be there to surprise me as the hat trick nears completion.

The old dive actually has all three in its sprawling beer cooler, a wise addition several years ago. For much as mass-market American lager as the bartenders sling, they offer an outlet for beer snobs. On this Empty Account Friday, the place was thriving with all walks of middle and lower class life.

The manager weathered the worst; a year ago, when the city’s full smoking ban went on the books, the old dive stayed on the straight and narrow, and its patrons fled for nearby bars that conveniently ignored the ban. Months passed, employees (including the previous manager) were sent packing, and on most nights, a dozen people stopped for a brew. But a patio and two heat lamps later, the crowds returned, and some of the area’s smoke-easy bars turned off their neon signs for good. Through the worst, the dive endured.

Once I squirmed among the crowd to reach the bar and order, the manager pulled out a Chimay goblet identical to the one I use at home, and admonished me to return it safely when finished. When sipping the Cinq Cents, I realized I had to finish off the third Chimay; if only for a night, drinking offered me a mission. I saw little recourse but acceptance, and did so gleefully, though the torrential rains of spring and my own inebriation later conspired to send the night into deeper haziness.

Wonderful ...

So it wasn't just guts and a bad hip pushing Floyd Landis to his amazing come-from-behind Tour de France championship ... SI.com reports he "tested positive for high levels of testosterone during the race".

At least his name lends itself to an easy nickname if his test failure came from performance enhancers: Steroid Floyd.

Remind me again why I still care about sports, when any competitive advantage means cheating if necessary?
With steroids and Human Growth Hormone, how can you trust that any of these guys actually plays clean? HGH makes everyone in baseball a suspect by association, since it requires a blood test for detection. And don't tell me the NFL somehow avoided its infection.

I think I'm going back to watching the NBA -- all those guys do is smoke weed and run nine miles a game. Now that it's said, of course, some superstar will test positive.

Because deaths generally come in threes ...

and the meter just rolled over to 2 in July, I'm wondering if there's a third on the way. Not hoping for it in any way, but wondering. A lot.

So long, Mr. Garb

When my Dad sends me his first text message and it simply says, "Please Call," I knew someone died.

A second later, after ruling out my maternal grandmother, I knew it was Mr. Garbincus (always called Mr. Garb by my Dad), the father of dad's best friend, and almost a second father to my dad.

We saw him and Mrs. Garb briefly on the day after Christmas, since he had been recently diagnosed with lung cancer and we anticipated it might be the last chance to see him. he was pretty spry at the time, moving around with a cane but not acting his age (he was 87 then).

I barely spoke (this one wasn't about me) but remembered Mr. Garb's joy at seeing his first name become the middle name for his recently-born great-grandson. He seemed content, as if life turned one more time to finally come full circle.

That contentment didn't last his final seven months.
The lung cancer didn't get him. After months of chemo treatments, Mr. Garb suffered a stroke eight days ago. Dad told me when Matt, his son, visited him, he spent hours wailing wordlessly from the hospital bed, frustrated that he could speak no longer. On Tuesday evening, his labored breathing just stopped.

88 years. That's quite a run. For no matter how long we avoid it, life catches up with us, and rarely is it pretty. Take a poll, and I wager most people would choose "falling asleep and never waking up" as the best way to die. Most do, but go through a tremendous amount of pain before they reach that end.

Settling a bet about Christopher Walken

If life offered nothing but small victories, that would be fine by me. More than a year ago, I questioned my friend on whether I left my Saturday Night Live: Best of Christopher Walken DVD at her house. She told me it wasn't anywhere to be found - yesterday, while unpacking at her new place, it was found. Today, it was returned - and immediately given to the person who bought me a replacement copy for Christmas last year.

I hate to say I was right all along, but ... wait a minute, no I don't.

So yeah, it's time for a cat

A familiar cat aloofly strode into a waking dream Sunday, 10 minutes before I sprung hazily into a hectic morning.
As I tried to jury-rig an impossible radio, the brand label that only exists inside pockets of REM sleep, the most talkative cat I've ever known walked in without a meow, never taking his eyes off the carpet.
Then he gave me that familiar rub with his tuxedo-patterned torso, and starting purring with the rumble of a car on a morning below freezing. His ribs rattled from the unexplained noise, as they often did in the real world as he prowled for a warm spot to lie in winter.

So when I return from vacation in August, it's time for a trip to Cat Welfare, so long as I remember the reality of chewed books, wires and leaps to forbidden heights ...

The brunch at young adulthood's end

Brunch did a great job making me feel old --- yet not bitter about getting there. With CS and her friend north of the Mason Dixon Line for a lightning visit, a crew of 10 people gathered at the Northstar Care for breakfast burritos, pancakes and frittatas. Two of the couples had very young children (the oldest wasn't two yet). While in the past that might have made me uncomfortable, I didn't bring out any feelings like that --- aside from my usual socially awkward tendencies.

A few weeks shy of 29, I was the youngest one there, and probably the least likely to have children of my own in the near future. But the old inhibitions about the presence of children vanished between sips of medium roast. Having a few more people at the table --- children widening the circle of friends --- felt totally natural. Just don't ask why ... because other than aging, I have no good answer.

Tour de France: Ready to care again?

After everyone bemoaning the retirement of Lance Armstrong and predicted it would kill American interest in the great race, look what crept back to the front pages of this country's Sports sections ... Floyd Landis rides into Paris as the 2006 champ, making it 8 straight for the Americans.

And Landis comes with a compelling story: a bike wreck left him with an arthritic hip, which leaves him in pain with every pedal revolution. It isn't Lance's battle with cancer, but as a cyclist with a pair of healthy hips, I huff and puff my way up Central Ohio's meager hills. This guy fell back to 10th in the French Alps stage, the hardest part of the tour, and rallied to win. He's got a plastic hip on the schedule, but at least he gets to go with a victory. He stands virtually no chance of repeating, but he leaves a champ.

One year AL (After Lance), and people suddenly care again. The grand race will always outlast its riders...

The concessions man turns racist actor

Amazing what helping out a community theater group by selling sodas and candy will do to the psyche ... Thursday night, two days prior to my sophomore effort at the concessions counters, it came up with this:

Instead of the usual gentle theater atmosphere, I found myself lurched back to a juke join in the Roaring 20's. And when one of the play's actors didn't show, they turned to me to deliver a few lines. I remember trying to memorize them through fuzzy dream vision, and somehow they stick.

On stage, I realize the lines I'm delivering were meant for an African-American actor, and then, totally out of character, I let them go.

Every word sounds awful and blatantly stereotypical. This was no lucid dream and my mouth went on without my consent.

I could have only been more insulting if I appeared in blackface.

How my brain turned their actual production of Neil Simon's Rumors into my turn into that, I don't know. Maybe reading The Sound and the Fury left a greater, hidden impact on me (though I don't remember a scenario like that in the book, it's the only thing I have that's even close).
The real moment on Saturday went fine, and I managed to avoid embarrassment when handing out Twix and Nestle bars.

But I'm staying away from juke joints for the near future...

Finding it harder to be a gentlemen...

every time I jump on my bicycle in this increasingly fair city.

On a two-mile ride to work on a Sunday afternoon, I get yet another driver who tries to run me off the road, this time at a railroad crossing. I don't know people get aroused by doing this, but it's getting old quickly ... and I'm seriously thinking about mothballing the bike and finding a less-hazardous way to exercise.

For all the touting of bicycle-friendly communities, drivers simple don't care.
I can only be so alert on the bike, and who can account for someone who actually gets their jollies off making trouble for a stranger. No biker really wants to take to the same roads as inattentive drivers (and let me tell you, riding a bike has exponentially increased my awareness of people walking and biking). Give us our three feet of asphalt on the major roads (drivers have trouble with this concept as well). Even the paths have numerous places where they join with major streets.

If I let my tires go flat, does that mean the drivers win? Absolutely, but it also means no one has to read about my run-in with a front fender and the abrupt end of my bicycling days or worse.

The little suburb that could

It always amazes me the way people who live in a newly-formed suburb act as though it's their ancestral home, as if their clans wielded Claymores to keep it in the family.

Fifty years, from now, I wonder if The Little Suburb That Could will teach its schoolchildren about 1. the front companies a big developer used to buy up all the land for its golf course communities or 2. will portray those developers as rough-hewn frontiersmen who bravely claimed land for their vision of a city on the hill.

Now these hearty pioneers who followed in the past decade, who arrived to wide roads with bike paths and $400,000 houses (the average, as many go much higher and feature elevators to match their heights), want to fight a utility about cutting down trees on an easement.

Now, in a less-stylish neighborhood of a nearby metropolis, a different utility swooped in, chopped down a wide swath of old-growth trees and invoked "national security" to validate their cutting. Seems to me it would be much easier for someone to attack a utility line when they know it's somewhere in the bald patch running through thick forest. But none of it seems fair if the nouveau riche whine enough to get what they want when the working class has no say in their matters.

One of these I have a theory to test: if I kick the row of buildings that form the Fake Town Square, would they topple like dominoes, or would I just break my foot. Fifty years from now, I'm betting schoolchildren will hear about The Fool With Broken Toes...

Summer's assault on sinuses ... not a sexy subject

Go ahead, hiss out that title.

Granted, you don't want to hear about this. But as long as my throat remains raw and scorched, I struggle to write about anything else. At least I'm not alone --- some carrier refused to take a sick day and now almost the entire newsroom's got than aching feeling. Last night I slept soundly though the early evening, tonight I expect the same crash; in the winter I could care less. In the middle of summer, it makes me long for the Southern Hemisphere. All I want to do awaits me outdoors, and the nagging throat keeps me captive.

So it's out of the way ... and hopefully the sinuses will return to their regular state before Sunday.

cut this poor creature some slack

Please ... please ...please, can the Columbus Dispatch get over its obsession with the two-faced kitten? A cruel stroke gave this poor animal a steep uphill start to life, and now that it's disappeared, the paper has taken to running the photo every other day. Today's edition brought the "Hope is running out" story.

It seems a little too much like a supermarket tabloid shot for a large daily newspaper. America's hidden obsession with freaks might sell a few more papers.

Sad thing is, in a popular comic book called Transmetropolitan several years ago, the main character had a two-faced cat for a pet ... and though it was set in a nonsensical future, the cat looked exactly like this one. Maybe that's why I don't feel pressured to look, and am content to leave this ill-starred cat in peace.

for two months they conquer the world

Judging by the chants of children raging down High Street and hitting fevered notes every time a car honks its horn at them, Graeter's Ice Cream could have the roots of the populist uprising. This is due in part to their rabidly-devoured peach ice cream,.

Every Two Weeks had the "ordeal" of writing the company's story about it, then returning with the expected cooler full of Graeter's plunder (my longevity in this journalistic life is now bare: 7 pints was the bounty in 2000, when I toured their soon-to-open HQ on Bethel Road, a temple to the American love of ice cream like no other). They scoop a mean, chip-filled, artery-cloggin' style of ice cream; a Graeters-induced heart attack, IMHO, would almost qualify as a good way to go.


But the peaches are blanched, the natives are sated and after one final fevered roar from the sidewalk in front of the Old Worthington store, the army disbands. Have no doubt - there will be more games, and pieces of that army will drift back together, desperately lick the ice cream in a race against this sticky July, and scream once again.

A veto virgin no longer

I usually keep the politics out of it, but let's here it for W punching his V card today and finally leaving the exclusive club of presidents (Adams, Jefferson, Quincy Adam, William Henry Harrison, Taylor, Fillmore and Garfield) who never issued a veto

Granted, it was about expanding federal stem cell funding (something i agree with), a source of ire for him in the past (funding for the existing stem cell lines when he address the issue on Aug. 9, 2001, then no more).

That's too bad he went for it now. But he was in line to become the first two-termer since Thomas Jefferson (almost 2 full centuries ago) to never issue a veto. We've got journey back to antebellum mediocrity to see someone who served out a term (Fillmore finished Taylor's term, so we'll count them as one) but never cast a veto.

Plus, Garfield is from my hometown and I'm not ragging on a man who spent most of his short presidency being slowly killed by doctors who couldn't handle a treatable bullet wound.

Up next for this GW : the first GW, who issued 2 before giving the farewell address America should have never stopped heeding (that brilliant line "steer clear of permanent alliances" that we should still heed today), then James Polk (3) and Warren Harding (6).

I wonder if the prez is glowing --- from what I hear, the first one is supposed to be the greatest veto of your life...

Melting with the evening

Quit yer whinin' --- it's 90 in July. So what? Did you expect a blizzard or are you riding on Jym Ganahl's winter-lovin' wavelength?

For all the complaints about the scorching hear hitting most of the country, it amazes me how many people forget that the 90-degree streaks come in the mid-July. If we get hit with 90s in October, then we can knight it as "unseasonable weather" and complain, but I expect to run through 3-4 T-shirts a day when a hot spell hits.

That said, this hot spell is killing crops in Kansas ... and people still talk about global warming like it's a myth, or some fantasy dreamt up by scientists, who, if I remember correctly, deal in cold reality (in this case, "hot reality" is more applicable).

Maybe the outside temperatures aren't hotter --- maybe the people sitting comfortably at 60 degrees indoors have grown softer. My air conditioning is of the antique variety --- a vent on the ceiling of each room, it serves only to cut the heat by 10-15 degrees. It also has a sharp edge for the humidity.

But my apartment will not qualify as comfortable. Of course, until the temperatures nest around 90, I ignore the thermostat. Until it hits those heights, it isn't worth it. And it isn't a money thing: I just don't mind a little heat in August.

Glutton for punishment, mildly sadistic, slightly crazed ... and air conditioning rouses my allergies. After all the junk that lingered in the air until mid-June, I appreciate the chance to breathe through my nose again.

Scalp these fools

I rooted for worse Cleveland Indians teams in my lifelong fandom, but never a team as maddening as this bunch. The talent refuses to coalesce into a team effort.

Here's the season's pattern: Indians mash the ball for a night, score 10-15 runs, then struggle to make contact for the next two nights. When the pitching works, the hitting doesn't (even though the pitchers don't have to when the hitting is on). Too many of the pitchers are good enough not to win.

But a bigger problem lurks throughout this mess of a team.
The flawed fundamentals irk me more than anything. This team is an error-making juggernaut. Calling the defense "terrible" showers it with credit. These guys can't make basic plays -- all rank among the worse in the American League by position -- our catcher cannot throw out a runner stealing a base.

Five years ago, we had Roberto Alomar and Omar Vizquel turning anything hit close to them into a double play; now Indians fans count themselves lucky if a routine throw to first doesn't wind up in the stands.

At least Indians fans can always rely on futility from their team.

Butter me up at your own risk

Irregularly, people from the past pop up, with a little small talk attached to a truckload of motive.

A few years ago, a voice from the past dropped in with an e-mail that started off light and sweetly, then descended into a pitch for a column idea.

If that former friend bothered to drop a line at some time in the year between conversations, I might have considered it, but I was put off by her methods. I shot her down, she shot back with a vitriolic tone never indicated in her first message, and we haven't spoken since, aside from her attempt to confront me about the column shoot-down at a friend's good-bye party (the departing friend intervened and backed her off).

I think of it like this: if that guy from college who hasn't sent you a personal e-mail in years but keeps bombarding you with forwards out of nowhere sends a personal e-mail, run a warning flag up the pole.

I was a bit shocked at the latest one. While riding the bike today, I stopped to answer a call from someone I'd not heard from in a few months. Without answering or listening to message, I know someone close to me called with a hand out. This one pulled the same routine, but wanted a bail-out. Her demand almost made my jaw drop


And right now, I'm too riled up to put out anything more for the five readers of this blog to see.

Sunday's kittens (or, anthropomorphism is too damned easy)

This morning I realized a new tradition sprouted in the absence of a cat to share my apartment (though I understand the legendary Little Mister still speaks with the best of them). While walking to Kroger to pick up the Sunday Dispatch and a dozen eggs, I pass the local pet store, then spend a good five minutes eyeing the latest batch of kittens in their front window. A little interest four hours before the pet store opens (and when the shopping center's foot traffic never equals a trickle) never hurt anyone, let alone caged young cats.

Stacked three cages high and three across, the cage residents change if I miss a week or two. Miss three weeks, and some of them lose those bulging kitten eyes -- they grow up before your eyes. Just like any other cats, some pay no attention to the other side of the glass, while others perk right up at the unexpected interest. Today, one of them who lounged at the back of his-her cage pounced right up to the bars and let loose a string of meows (I couldn't hear them due to the glass, but the expression was unmistakable). He-she even pawed at the glass a few times -- we understand so little about cats, but they don't appear to enjoy being stuck indoors when someone outdoors shows them attention.

As I passed on my way home, I saw the same boisterous kitten curled tightly into sleep. A tap on the window failed to rouse him. Cats are the damnedest creatures: Their moods and attitudes change on a dime. And unlike dogs, you have no possibility of ever domesticating them. They own you, not vice versa.

I know if I ever walk into that pet store, I will leave owning one, possibly two of them (They never actually see each other, only swat random paws through the cage bars). So for now, I'll steal a few minutes when it's too early for anyone else to look.

"Take me on a flat boat, Dover down to Covington, Covington to Louisville..."

With a voice stolen from the dark side of Judgment Day, Tom Waits is no help with the ladies. He's a hell of a songwriter and some of my least favorite pop musicians have sullied his work (Rod Stewart and the Eagles), but they can't get beyond the voice.

Put simply, Waits is the anti-Billy Joel. He's a piano man, but one who got kicked out for letting the drink interfere with his performance. After he blew out his voice in the mid-1970s, turning him from Randy Newmanesque into the lost son of Howling Wolf. And he has fostered a major cult following since then, though he rarely tours. His albums, increasingly theatrical in the past two decades, often defy easy description. The bare bones, thudding percussion and off-kilter guitar lines don't help the casual listener; actually, I don't know that the man has any.

Right now, I could care less, after my morning ordeal to land tickets to his first tour anywhere near me since I've been a fan ( well over a decade). Just a week ago, he announced his first tour of the Midwest and Southeast in almost 30 years ---- he's playing a whopping 8 shows.

As soon as Ticketmonster posted the tickets, my fingers flew, and when they gave me problems with their bizarre delivery methods (I should have known; this is Tom Waits) I got knocked past their three-minute hold on the tickets. When I logged back in, Akron was a goner.

Plan B kicked in immediately: Louisville, a city I've never visited, still had tickets, and at $55 (compared to $65 for Akron). Thirty seconds later, I bought a pair of seats for the one living musical icon of mine I never expected to see perform. That was a tense 15 minutes ... just for concert tickets.

But it's done, and now as I told the owner of my second ticket, he talks about Louisville in one of our favorite songs, so we're almost guaranteed to hear it. Unless Tom does something bizarre, which he .... well, let's drop the guarantee until 8 p.m. Aug. 7.

Abe Lincoln, your days are numbered

I'm getting a kick out of this move to finally get rid of our venerable penny. The math tells an unusually logical tale for killing the one cent'er--- it costs more to mint them than they're worth, and 60 percent of them fall out of circulation quickly. So we're making coins at a loss just to fill the change jar on American dressers.

Now there is something to be said for finding wheat pennies from the late 1940s in change from the grocery store (my friend Scott once fished an Indianhead penny out; it was minted more than a century ago). Or the occasional penny from north of Niagara. But really, it's time to give the copper a break.

There's some apprehension because Abe Lincoln is on the penny. You might have heard something about him during high school. The Republicans have long targeted FDR's eviction from the dime in their quest to deify Ronald Reagan, but maybe they can just offer Abe a nine-cent raise.

An even more compelling reason to eliminate them: Kevin Federline is one of the spokespeople (I can't call him a celebrity; this guy is a Kato Kaelin for the double 00's, but one who actually believe his worthless hide brims with talent) for a pro-penny campaign. Even that makes sense, in a way: find a guy who is worth pennies to fight for their survival.

This time, it founders

Boy, now that was an All-Star Game, wasn't it? American League gets a two-run, go-ahead triple when down to its last strike.

Hello, hello? Echo Echo Echo Echo ...

Oh, I forgot: no one cares.

Baseball clings to tradition so every year we still baste this turkey that no longer entices fans and interests prima donna players even less. The actual game wasn't a bad 2-1 pitchers' duel (there were 15 used) ... if you had the fortune not to hear the heinously bad announcing duo of Tim McCarver and Joe Buck, plus their annoying interludes with the players' families (I saw about six seconds of one and switched channels).

The highlights of games past are gone. No more Carl Hubbell striking out five consecutive future Hall of Famers in 1934 or (ugh) Pete Rose crashing into catcher Ray Fosse to win the 1971 game in the 12th inning (Cleveland fans aren't allowed to like that second one, since Fosse was never the same after the collision).

Half the starters fly home before the fifth inning, and the top vote-getter (space cadet Manny Ramirez) bowed out yet again with a lame injury excuse.

Interleague play siphoned a lot of drama from the All-Star game, but baseball needs to freshen up this thing before it sinks even lower. Offering home field advantage to the winning league doesn't draw fans to watch. Maybe the whole spectacle just doesn't work for a modern audience. If the players and fans don't care, maybe it's time to talk elimination, if only to give McCarver and Buck a much-deserved night off ... for the viewers.

The torch singer burns every song to char

It first seeped into the apartment on July 4, just as torrential rain overburdened the section of gutter outside my bedroom window: singing, of either the heavily drunk or the "not quite there" variety.

A week later, I'm leaning toward "not quite there." From the condo building across the street, this girl emerges irregularly to smoke, then spends another 20 to 30 minutes wearing down her throat on songs that cannot be identified by dental records by the time she finishes.

This is like the American Idol tryouts on steroids --- and it's just one woman. And those people, with talent rarely on par with enthusiasm, can usually sing legibly.

Even when it isn't raining, I reduce the open windows to slits, because even at 60 feet, neither radio nor computer has the volume to completely drown her out. Only the rain has impact, and even then, she just shaves a few minutes off her raspy opus.

Of course, she misses every word ---- the bulky headphones she wears are of the style that blocks out extraneous noise. Now I must find myself a pair ... or keep wishing for increasingly severe storms.

The Madcap passed

Just read the AP story about the death of Syd Barrett, a founder and later the guiding inspiration for Pink Floyd's major records.

Barrett lasted through one album (the psychedelic Piper at the Gates of Dawn, the most upbeat long-player Floyd ever recorded) before he cracked up and split from the group. Floyd changed considerably after he left, chucking a lot of their fun side for a more serious approach that lasted the rest of their career. Aside from a pair of well-received solo albums, Barrett turned reclusive for the last 3 decades of his life.

Barrett would be a footnote if not for Pink Floyd mining issues of musicians cracking under pressure on their 3 biggest albums --- Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Wall. I've always been torn --- those albums are solid, but to my mind, they did exploit their former bandmate's illness all they could. To most, Barrett barely rates a mention, but his influence after his departure was arguably greater than his days in the band.

If I Needed Someone (and I don't right now)

Since I can remember liking The Beatles, Abbey Road ranked as my favorite album. But throughout this summer, with no fault due to their final record, another album supplanted it quietly. Perhaps Paul's famous lines from "The End" just don't fit me now. With its mostly acoustic tones, Rubber Soul has shoved its way to the top.

Rubber Soul moved up with good reason: it marks the end of the "She Loves You" silliness that I never really understood, and the first step into the rampant experimentation that defined their later career.

And if you listen closely enough, past the vocal harmonies, you hear an album of songs about love not working anymore: "Norwegian Wood" (The bird does fly by the song's end), "Wait" (the minor keys keep this song about the reunion of two lovers from achieving true happiness), "Run For Your Life" (up there with Dylan's "Positively Fourth Street"as one of the most mean-spirited rock tracks ever) and even "Michelle," with language creating an obstacle.
Even the songs by George (If I Needed Someone) and Ringo (What Goes On) fit into that motif.

Then there's "Nowhere Man," a distant cousin of that Fool on the Hill the Beatles addresses in a later song. I've spent many days in that man's shoes (doesn't have a point of view, knows not where he's going to"). That means I'll always keep a little empathy for the suffering fellow at the core of Rubber Soul.

A protest on pedals

Big Oil offers a shrug of shoulders to reasons behind high gasoline prices and record profits. Well, for the second summer in a row, I'm commuting under my own power as the weather allows, and enjoying every second --- save doubling back to my apartment to grab the bike lock I forgot. The two-mile trip perfectly suits days that don't require a jacket and tie.

The weather has cooperated with a few springlike days, the station marquees haven't budged and aside from chugging water to cool down when I arrive, the trade-off between 15-minute bike ride and 6-minute car ride.

Maybe it's an old-fashioned notion --- no one accuses me of being anywhere near the cutting edge; I'd only slice my hands on it --- but that minor sense of accomplishment and soreness in my legs starts work shift on the right path. Releasing a few endorphins before the day's first green tea never hurt anyone, right?

As long as my legs help me beat that statistic overwhelming majority of car trips cover one mile or less, I'm content.

Digital piggyback ride

"Come gather 'round friends
and I'll tell you a tale
of the joys of unsecured wireless,
You can surf in the shadows
then fill up your iPod
until you wished you were tireless."
- Traditional

So a folk song about someone leaving their wireless network unprotected by a password falls unbelievably flat. Computers and Dust Bowl Ballads don't mix.

Though writing "This Machine Kills Fascists" on the MacBook I just bought might give it the attitude its bland white body lacks.

But for a guy who can't seem to convince the DSL providers that his apartment actually exists ( the girl from one of the largest told me they don't have coverage in my area, though my new machine picks up three wireless networks as soon as I jump on it and friends a few blocks away get their service without a hitch), it will do for the moment.

I've been bouncing around coffeehouses and the so-called Fast Casual restaurants, using their signals in exchange for a meal and some drip; it just suits my life these days.

And any minute now, I'm sure that through the open connection, I'll find out I'm being sued for improper use of Mr. Traditional's name for claiming he wrote that abysmal verse.

Cashing in with the Tupac Treatment

For the uninitiated, to "Tupac" any musical artist means to take every scrap of song they ever recorded --- regardless of value --- put it on an album with the sole purpose of raking in more cash.

Non-rap fans might be better off to call it The Jeff Buckley Treatment, in honor of the endless releases from the rock artist who released just one album --- albeit an amazing one --- in his short lifespan.

A day after buying the wonderful yet depressing American V: 100 Highways, which I'll get to momentarily, I worried the same effect might hit Johnny Cash now that his producer, Rick Rubin, is at work mixing American VI, which I'm hoping isn't subtitled More Gold to Mine. Five albums and four more discs of new music on a from-the-vault boxed set is a ton of music to churn out in 10 years.

After reading Rubin's almost tearful liner notes to 100 Highways, I now have better hopes for Volume 6; if this music weren't up to snuff, Rubin wouldn't bother. But he and Cash bonded in their 10 years together, so I don't feel he would do anything to tarnish with the Man in Black with one more album.

There's no exploitation afoot when Rubin writes, "My life was made immeasurably better for having known him."

Various reports say despite failing health and almost total blindness, Cash worked vigorously to record in the four months between wife June Carter Cash's death and his own. If he worked that hard, maybe it's okay to turn the light on one more collection of Cash tunes. As for the new album, I feared Cash's failing health might diminish that otherworldly deep voice. But it fits the songs, as does the backing music, mostly recorded after Cash passed.

Most of it is quiet and acoustic, giving it that "Johnny's singing just for you in a quiet room" feeling. Except on the foot-stomping "God's Gonna Cut You Down," a haunting traditional tune I'd remember forever even if it didn't have extra baggage hoisted onto it.

Almost every song, no matter how depressing, has amazing power behind it; those that don't hide themselves well enough in the track listings. "Further on Up the Road" by Bruce Springsteen gets a tremendous rendition here (The Boss' songs always went well-interpreted by the Man in Black), as does Four Strong Winds" and the final Cash original, "Like the 309," one more train song from a man who started his career with one ("Hey Porter").

The fifth volume fits well with what came before, serving as a bookend with the equally acoustic American Recordings from 1994. I'll cross my fingers that the sixth fits just as well.

In a breath we go away

Sometime in August 2005:

A hazy day, when sweat rolls down in sheets, demands a bike ride. And as I returned from my tour of the Northland area, I rode past the Continent and up toward the Anheuser-Busch Brewery. Then I heard the biker's greatest fear --- a driver rapidly pounding on his horn. I leaned to see a white truck right up on me.
Then I heard the biker's greatest relief --- it was Jeff, someone I knew well, grinning like hell and waving me on as I made the turn away from the brewhouse. He slowed down on the turn so we could talk in the few seconds before the drivers behind him found their horns. Then we waved and sped off.

July 4, 2006:
That nugget of memory stuck with me, following the phone call informing me that Jeff had been found dead at home by his roommate. In his early 40s, he always looked healthy.
Luckily, I was already sitting down. Not so fortunate: Johnny Cash's final album came out yesterday, and I was in the middle of an uplifting track called "God's Gonna Cut You Down."

The music went off in the loaded silence, I tried to wind my arms around the news.


Later, I floated through a few barbecues in the sunny afternoon and rain-dimmed evening, but I left the real partying to the professionals and hit my door before the twin explosions in Worthington and Clintonville started. Any interest in fireworks fizzled earlier. Cursed with a sharp memory, I just wasn't up for it.

A flash from last year's display in Worthington killed it: We all walked to a nearby field with a decent vantage point and were ready to sit down when Jeff roared up in his truck and offered the bed to anyone who wanted a little extra elevation ...

"When your want from the day leads you to curse in your sleep at night"

That line from the Iron &Wine/Calexico tune "He Lays in the Reins" strikes me every time I heard it, as if the sum of my existence boils down to the third verse in someone else's song about frustration. I blame it on the haunting vocals that whisper as if racing to beat the daylight to dusk. That, and my own comfort with that feeling at day's end.

Working as the night editor's stand-in on a holiday week provides no aid for the frustration. I almost forgot the deathly quiet that overtakes this office at 5:30. Summer makes it worse; at least in the winter, darkness is in swing and only the stubborn and insane enjoy the outdoors. A vicious storm at closing time changed the equation, if only for 30 minutes --- like so many things, the worse cells migrated quickly, and the bright evening ignores its interruption.

It's quite the pisser for those of us locked in until the final check .... though I function well enough without fireworks for Independence Day.
I prefer just to hear the booming in the distance, the popping reminders that the shells still explode to brighten the crowds.
And if I leave work early enough, the thudding might give me something else to contemplate before tonight's tired march.

Through foot scratches we spoke

By no estimate an expert, I manage to hit a few turns and creases correctly when rubbing feet.
Years of my father complaining about his poor feet and turning my sister and I into amateur masseuses ensured that. Those memories killed any prospect of a career with other.

Scratching feet, aside from my own, is a different endeavor, but a willing test subject on Sunday gave me the chance to experiment. Luckily, the subject is my brother, who inherited the love of foot rubs from my father (and the love for putting his family members to work, apparently). Joe's multiple mental handicaps rightly earn him a slew of exemptions from us and when I sat at the end of his favorite couch with a throw pillow wedged beside me, the stocking feet didn't linger far behind.

He'd just come off a week where he slept for almost two days, and now refused to nap per his typical Sunday afternoon. When I started scratching instead of rubbing, he didn't hide his pleasure through a group of victorious laughs.

In a few minutes, he decided to hide it. He shoved his head toward the seam between the armrest and the top of the couch, shielding his face with a bear, his pleased expression almost tucked away. My brother's personality is forceful, aggressively set in his ways; if he didn't enjoy it, the feet would have been withdrawn. He took the scratching for as long as I offered it, and continued his hidden smiling well after I tapped the top of his feet (family code for the end of the foot pampering).

This amounts to our communication. He can't speak and only offers the occasion grunt laden with meaning, though he will shake hands when prompted.
So for future visits, we'll stick to our handshakes, and 10 or 15 minutes of foot scratching.