Channeling the desert in a Croatian dance hall

By 10:30, I'd grown irritable and discouraged. The ballroom, it seems, was milking the audience for drinks by pushing back the bands' starting times.

Opener Oakley Hall didn't help. I wanted to like them; they just wouldn't let me. The band honestly had too many people on stage. For their straightforward brand of alt.country, they had no need for three guitarists; the one who played arpeggios over their basic strumming, as my friend noted, had to go.

he ballroom wasn't quite half filled, nowhere near the stacking of people that occurred at the sold-out Cat Power show, my friend Marje said. 10:30 hit, and I was ready to roll, fight or do anything but sit staring at an empty stage.

Then Calexico took the stage, and from the first piercing wail of mariachi horn, all was forgiven.

They tore into a few tracks from earlier albums that I knew well from a 2003 Toronto bootleg, then launched into "Cruel," the driving yet melancholy opener to their latest long-player. At no point did the intensity let up, even when the group diverged for some of the slower songs.

Equal parts indie rock and Ennio Morricone soundtrack, Calexico pulled off the sound easily live; in fact, it sounded better than on the albums. No, they hurt nothing by mixing the arrangements up a little. The various guitars played by frontman Joey Burns, horns, pedal steel and upright bass mingled well, and never stumbled into each other.

The drive back to Cleveland forced me to miss the encore (arriving home any later than I did would have killed any chance of the nine-hour work day I somehow managed).

But I still had ears ringing from the noisy conclusion of "All Systems Red" and the tremendous, thick Latin beat of "Crystal Frontier." Just come to Columbus next time, Calexico; my body is getting too old for solo trips to Cleveland for a little music, even if it was the Album of My Summer.

The choke's on you

Eliminated from playoff contention not long after the season's first pitch, the Indians played the role of spoiler to perfection, knocking the White Sox out of the playoff picture with a 14-1 drubbing.

Last year acerbic manager Ozzie Guillen made a choking gesture to the Tribe fans during the final weekend. Guillen, who's never had a thought he failed to speak, was on the receiving end, when four fans behind the White Sox dugout stood and offered the gesture back to him (Thank you, Cleveland Plain Dealer, for catching that on memory card).

This is what Cleveland sports have come to. There are a few heroes, but don't bother looking for champions.

Whatever meager satisfactions we take from the teams owning our unswerving loyalty, we take. After losing our final game last year, the capacity crowd gave the team a standing ovation, a touching way to end an unexpectedly vibrant season.

This year, the Choking Guys summed up the White Sox's season - and our own.

Racing my circadian rhythms home

The return from Cleveland to Columbus never qualified as a fun drive. But among the blinking orange barrels sullying a chaste, moonless night, when the cream counts more than the coffee, it's just dangerous. I limped into town last night, pushing the 20-hour mark wanting the trip to end.

Regular coffee never tasted so impotent, and the thick blanket of stars only served to pull my mind away from roads cut to one lane for late-night repaving and toying with drivers (on one stretch, five miles of orange cones led straight to 200 square feet of roadwork). For at least 60 miles, I passed nothing but 18-wheelers,. discounting two highway patrol cruisers keeping us all semi-honest.

I'd not felt that tired while driving since the home stretch of a 3-day blitz from C-bus to Los Angeles, when we crossed the mountains between Vegas and L.A. and neared 24 hours in the car. We pulled that one off without cigarettes - I needed one at Lodi and again at Mt. Gilead when the rush of the first imploded into drowsiness.

But the Spine of Ohio is familiar road; my knowledge of I-5 still goes no further than my friend's headlights, and the blinking red marking the peaks for airplanes.

Survivor Cat Welfare-style

Two weeks changes the entire landscape of the Cat Welfare office - yes, it's still overflowing with cats, but the most popular moved into new homes, the sick by and large beat their ailments. On a Sunday morning, few moments passed without the hiss that signaled one cat invaded another's space.

Two clear favorites emerged: a female labeled "shy" mottled in orange and white, and an affable jet black fellow with brilliant green eyes that accompanied me through the shelter.

The scratches I offered the sad little black one (from the earlier post) turned into him biting at my fingers, so he's fallen down the list. For now. At least he shook off that nasty cough.

By week's end, one moribund apartment in north Clintonville will have new dose of life. This isn't Fall 2005, hope is in short supply and there is no getting ahead in this world, so I might as well spend some of these penniless weekends tossing cloth mice around the living room.

Now I need to hope (that damn word again) one of those cats get overlooked by the potential owners this week.

Before I left, both the black and the orange found quiet niches among the other cats and went to sleep. Call it a touch of fortune for me; people won't become entranced by sleeping cats.

Just as long as they sleep until the end of the week.

About those pictures

Thanks to the miracle of finally hooking up a printer
nearly three months after I bought it, I now have a
face to match the blog .... circa 1915.

For the record, no, this isn't one of those airbrushed jobs from Disney World or some souvenir from a Old West tourist trap.

I couldn't make it that easy on those perusing this site ... so
the headshot now gracing my profile, while not actually me, is proof positive that I am not adopted.

I cropped my grandfather out of a picture of him, his twin brother and younger brother taken when they were children. No exact data exists for the photo, which
turned up in the basement of the family house as my father scrambled through the cupboards looking for gold from his youth.

Still, the twins can't be more than 13 or 14 in the picture.

In case that isn't enough, check out the comparison between
him and me....

Chinese Apprentice

No, that isn't the name of Guns 'n' Roses decade-plus-in-the-making album, but China's plans for its own version of The Apprentice.

This could turn ugly really quick, people.

Why do I have visions that instead of bringing the candidates around a table when its time to fire one, that the Chinese will choose to parade them into a soccer stadium blindfolded and shoot the candidate with the short straw?

Actually, it shows how much the Chinese have changed. As a people, they're big on saving face - when my father worked there, his employees were usually given the chance to quit or retire rather than be fired. It was a deeply embedded part of their culture to put out a public appearance sparing the dignity of the person on the chopping block.

Now they have The Apprentice. My, how times change. Capitalist economic power drives a Communist government. Who would have predicted that?

Legs like lead weights

Running the indifferent streets of Columbus, I've my wall, way too early, but early enough to tell me running even a 5K for charity involves a steep incline.

No more than a mile into the jog, my legs are overcome with a heaviness that approximates the feeling of running in water.

Cue the walking music.

Then a little more running. Then back to the walking. I succeed with a quarter-mile running finale, with the weight resuming as I achingly mount the staircase to my apartment.

Vigorous exercise, whether on the bike or Tae Bo, sends jabs through the knee when the foot lands on uneven sidewalks.

But my legs will go on, weight or none, until I finish one of those charity races.

Ah well, at least I've avoided near-collisions with cars. I can't say that about the bike.

If early autumn should pass you by...

Weather, you're a fickle maiden. I love the unpredictable, but c'mon already.

All I ask is a few temperate nights, to sleep with the windows open and just a single sheet to ward off the bite developing in the night air.

Yet a few days before autumn kicks off and my witch friends begin their most wonderful time of the year, the Mexican blankets are out in full force at night, and even then the chill finds a foothold.

Part of it is being a glutton for sleeping with the windows open. Until it approaches freezing nightly - and this mean 35 degrees or less - only the screen separates me from the elements. My anti-air conditioning stance means summer sleep rarely comes comfortably, even as a box fan pummels me with the cold air it can whirl.

Autumn feels premature this year. A few weeks of comfortable mid-70 degree days before the mercury starts its slow decline toward winter - I know I haven't felt that. We went from 80s to 60s, and that change is stark.

But give me a few more weeks with windows wide open and perfect nights for sleeping, then consider me sated.

Making mountains out of pitcher's mounds

Now that the national news picked up the story of the New York Yankees ending their agreement with the Columbus Clippers, it's getting a little out of hand. Too much Chicken Little talk has started about Columbus baseball.

People automatically assume that means the team uproots and we're stuck without a ballclub. The players will go, yes, but the rest of that is unbelievably incorrect.

Franklin County - the taxpayers of, that is - owner the Columbus Clippers. The team and its colors won't go anywhere. Ever. So long as they remain publicly owned. They like the Green Bay Packers in that regard. Sell the team to a private owner and all bets are off.

The Clippers just won't be affiliated with the Yankees anymore. The team's been on auto pilot with renewing its agreement every two years since Yankees nabbed it in the late 1970s. Minor league teams switch affiliations with some regularity and it won't affect what we see on the field. Minor league baseball isn't a portion of the sport that relies on marketing stars. It can't -- once they play well enough at AAA, the majors are a matter of time.

This Cleveland Indians fan won't mind an end to rooting for the future Yankees that I will boo when they get called to the majors. In fact, what's to miss? The baseball stays, even if a different group of players roam the Coop next year.

Adios Ann Richards

I had to say a few words about the death of a politician I always liked (and there aren't many anymore), Ann Richards.

Before she became a historical footnote as the first Democrat to lose to GW Bush, Texas Gov. Ann Richards was a pretty well-known lady across the country. There was her speech at the 1988 Democratic convention - which probably led to GW running for governor in the first place, since she GHW Bush was "born with a silver foot in his mouth."

Plus, she appeared on King of the Hill. Politicians are always at their best when they don't mind taking the piss out of themselves (also see "Live, Saturday Night"). This Harley-riding governor, who didn't enter politics until her 40s, was a character only the likes of Texas could produce.

September porch obsessions

There has to be a porch in September, when the leaves remain uneasily green and 8 p.m. twilight portends autumn.

Last night, there was. Not my own, of course; the single 40-year-old step at my building's front door doesn't count. I need of a wide, turn-of-the century porch that runs at least half its house's length.

No tape measure required; we just need enough space for a little group to sit comfortably with a few last beers and smokes before autumn crashes down. We had that, and more.

Add a little music piped through a screened window to prevent silence, which never lasted long with the laughs echoing out toward the late-night walkers.

I know what's coming but that won't stop me from squeezing the last drops from this summer. The turn must come and I can drag these feet until it arrives.

I'll laugh, sing along with a little Johnny Cash and look at into the great darkness beyond the porch, where it's black enough to smother away the world until my feet hit the concrete leading home.

All the lonely felines, where do they all come from

A long unfulfilled promise came to fruition yesterday, as a friend and I went to the cat welfare place down the street to scout for someone suited for climbing my bookshelves and scratching my furniture.
And wow, there were no shortage of choices; I estimated around 100 cats, and we never approached the kitten room (yeah, the bug eyes are cute, but I'd rather have something a little older).
Much like the house of anyone with a cat, the pecking order of the welfare place quickly became evident. They were everywhere, in every color and breed. Cuddly, ill or ill-tempered, it was a buyer's market.
The strode across the tops of cages, sat the windows, fought over who got the right to crawl into a paper grocery bag on the floor.
The one that made the biggest impression first caught my glance as it nimbly navigated the top of the wire cages and stopped long enough for me to scratch her tortoise shell head. I noticed her right eye, mottled from an old injury and almost in the same pattern as her fur. I also saw a limp
When she dismounted, the reason behind the limp became obvious: Her right leg was gone, amputated when she arrived at cat welfare and the staff could not save the damaged limb.
As she walked slowly, her injury was glaring. Get her running, and she was as swift as any other cat.
But I don't know if the injured tortoise shell is for me. As it ages, that cat will have health problems with its feet; redistributing its weight across 3 limbs probably puts excess pressure on them.

In my hour, she wasn't the only attention-getter.

There were far too many hoarse meows from cats that wanted attention, but were too far down the road of their illnesses. This one little black one, scrawny from malnutrition or disease, kept crying at me long after I left his cage - I had a hard time turning away from his dry croak.

The biggest talker of the bunch was the biggest cat they had. Period. It might have been the largest cat I ever saw. You couldn't stand anywhere in that room and avoid his hearty meow. There were many more in cages like him that immediately rubbed the bars with their torsos anytime a visitor came close. A little scratch, even through the grating, was a small reward.

Don't mark it as my last trip to cat welfare. This one was merely exploratory. I'll be back once I narrow my list from the cool dozen I could have adopted then and there, or other adopters narrow it for me.

My favorite drivers, all in one place

Tackling cell phone use in the car is too easy. But there are many other wonderful targets on the roads out there.
So here they come. No sudden movements, or you might spook them. And it will be your fault....

Not Without My Lap Dog: Nowhere does it state that owning a small dog means having it sit on your lap while deep in traffic. No matter how well behaved or trained you insist your pet is, animals often react on instinct, which no owner can control. Seems like the driver's seat of an SUV probably isn't the best spot to test out that training.

The Straddler: Choosing a lane. Not one of life's toughest decisions, right? This guy strives to have to both ways, and will choose one lane when absolutely ready.
Perhaps if the driver used the car's hazard lights, the two lanes of traffic being blocked would be more understanding. But I'm guessing not.

The Deadbeat: “Would the Owner of a 1982 Honda Civic hatchback please remove it from the center lane of travel?” Take the dead auto out of park and push it to the curb, where it least encumbers traffic. Simple, right? No, no, no, it is not that simple. This driver must leave the car exactly where it sputtered and died.

The Multi-Tasker: A true chameleon of the road, this character applies makeup, fires up the electric razor, soaks in the headlines, polishes off a MadLib ... basically, driving isn't challenging enough on its own. If everyone is inconvenienced, then truly we are all equal.

The ambulance racer: Pull over for an emergency vehicle at your own risk – the drivers behind you know nothing of amnesty for someone who pulled over first.

The Vanisher: From nowhere, this driver's vehicle pulls so close to your bumper that his/her headlights aren't visible. Once enough space emerges to pass, this car is a goner, swerving away without regard for laws or speed limits.

The heckler's hand

In the media, we receive anonymous criticism all the time. One curmudgeon repeatedly sends me copies of my own column correcting grammar mistakes - always in an envelope with no return address.

But yesterday's heckler took the prize. What started off as a letter to the editor (complete with an illustration of how teasing a future recluse in school led to him severely injuring a cheerleader) followed a very different turn.
He dropped this prose on me:
"P.S. Keep Bill Melville to a minimum. He's digusting (Those glasses and sideburns! Shudder)"

I haven't laughed so hard at criticism in a long time. Partly because he obviously didn't comphrehend the guy who writes the columns is the same guy who decides which letters go into the paper. Partly because I haven't been called disgusting ....ever. I earned the laughter of my entire junior high school when I accidently walked into the girls' bathroom (thank God it was the next-to-last day of the school year), but not disgusting.

The glasses I need. And the ladies like the sideburns .... or at least that's what they tell me.

So how do I respond? I thought about calling and telling him I'd do my best to get two columns into his local paper every week since he appreciated them so much.

Riding my bike home from the barber shop this morning something much better dawned on me: I should take my headshot, have the photo department blow it up to 8X10, then send it to him signed, "Thanks for your praise and thanks for reading, Your hero, ...."

But really, it's all too much effort for one mad reader. I'm content to be digusting, and have no time to be disgusted.

A 5K blogger?

Two weeks of regular runs have already come to this: plans to run in a 5K race, which sounds a lot further than the 3.1 miles it actually encompasses (metric system, you will be the death of me). A fellow blogger you know who you are) and I are in negotiations to run (or in my case, plod through the finish line barely able to breathe)

There are a handful of local races through September and October. There's also the Columbus Marathon in October, which will wait a few years while the rest of the toxic junk - and yes, the love handles - to take a permanent vacation.

Luckily, I'm not the foreigner to running I like to think I am. Despite riding the bike heavily since 2003, I have run for regular stretches throughout the Double Aughts, primarily on treadmills at the gym or in the 'rents' basement. Running on the street is new, but not the actual exercise.

So now the course is set. No more smoking, lots of water and Gatorade following the daily jog. The nice thing about running where I live is the daily route grows easily. The streets fall into a rough grid, so each day I add a few blocks. As long as I don't wind up collapsing on the added street.

After all of yesterday's huffing and puffing for a 20-minute jog through the neighborhood, I'll need every day and every breath to prepare...

Bloody hell, mate

I took the laptop on vacation, and even as the pounding hurricane remnants sequestered us for the bulk of the weekend, I never felt the urge to plug in.

But now I do, with the passing of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, from a stingray's barb piercing his heart (in case you just left seclusion somewhere).

He always seemed invincible, with reflexes able to dodge surging crocodiles and Australia's stable of extremely venomous snakes. For years, he was a guilty pleasure; scanning the channels, I quickly got sucked into whatever murky stream Irwin traversed in an attempt to rouse up the crocs.

The man knew his animals, yet one still caught up with him. Everyone wants to second-guess what happened to him, but I wasn't there. Maybe once the facts come out, I'll feel differently (appropriately, his death is on film).

He was typically Australian in so many ways - friendly yet rough and gregarious. Someone you'd want to join for an Oil Can if you could keep him from wrestling the reptiles. Even Prime Minister John Howard appeared noticeably shaken when speaking about Irwin's death.

I always imagined Irwin would end up dying in his sleep, like one of those 19th century highwire artists. People like that have a knack for avoiding trouble. Now I just wish I wasn't wrong.