The streets darken at rush hour then gain some warmth as Christmas lights hum to life, but it isn't enough. I took a festive back route to work today. For all the lights draped in trees, windowsills and on wide porches, they didn't feel right.
Without snow to surround them, they look misplaced. The background photo on my parents' computer shows a winter from the mid 1990s, when my mother's plastic snowman, Santa, reindeer and elves stood sturdy against the Lake Effect winds due to the snow mounded around them.
Down here, on soggy green lawns, a stiff breeze dumps the Christmas parade into the mud.
The mansions on Griggs Reservoir glowed on Christmas Eve. Without ice or snow, their reflections just brooded across lethargic ripples in the water.
Diminished Christmas lights aren't the only symptom of winter's absence. I wouldn't mind racing down a sledding hill on a lunch tray or bundling up for a walk along the Olentangy. Those are pipe dreams this year.
With one substantial snowfall (no one from Northeast Ohio considers one powdery inch a real snowstorm, thought), we already missed a White Christmas, so now I wonder whether any part of this winter will go white. Forecasts show 50-degree days and scattered rain for the next week (the monster storms hitting Colorado cannot cope with Ohio's temperatures).
I know too little about global warming or El Nino to name them as suspects. But something has stolen our winters, and I'd like them back, even with a single storm.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Rocky Factor
Later this week, my Dad and I will take in Saggy-Eyed Sylvester getting into the ring one more time.
I didn't ask for a fifth sequel to the low-key, well-acted Oscar winning original. The reasons behind it are simple: Stallone's star has fallen as his plastic surgery tab skyrocketed, he needs cash, and the last film, Rocky V, stunk ... horribly. Really, my life will go on without a senior citizen stepping into the ring in Rocky Balboa.
But I have no choice.
Getting nostalgic for a broke-down franchise would be hard, if this one had not stayed part of our vernacular for so long. I cannot estimate how many times I've been called a "jealous, lazy bum" (Rocky to Paulie, III) ; been called "the ultimate meatball" Thunderlips to Rocky, (III again); or haven been told in a Dolph Lungren monotone "You will lose" (IV).
Then there's always Thunderlips (Hulk Hogan) tossing Rocky around the ring in their charity match to the line, "It's all fake. It's all fake, meatball." Brilliant - Hulk Hogan owes his career to that film.
We've had our own brushes with Rocky-dom. My Dad once imitated Rocky jumping rope - without a jump rope. In copying the way Rocky thrashes the rope around when he's done, Dad managed to throw out his back just before a business flight to New Ulm, Minnesota. He had to take his own cab to the hotel, because he had to lie across the back seat to remain remotely comfortable (you can neither make these details up nor forget them).
On my wall at home, I have a collage of photos my Dad took as I ran up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, including the celebratory, raised fists shot with the skyline behind us. My Dad got praised for his unexpectedly strong photo skills.
Finally, as soon as I was old enough, Dad and I saw Rocky films in the theater; 15 years later, we must dust off the tradition.
So one more round, Rock. You owe us a better finale than a street fight with Tommy Morrison and a Don King facsimile.
"Aren't you gonna ring the bell?" Well, there I go again (III).
I didn't ask for a fifth sequel to the low-key, well-acted Oscar winning original. The reasons behind it are simple: Stallone's star has fallen as his plastic surgery tab skyrocketed, he needs cash, and the last film, Rocky V, stunk ... horribly. Really, my life will go on without a senior citizen stepping into the ring in Rocky Balboa.
But I have no choice.
Getting nostalgic for a broke-down franchise would be hard, if this one had not stayed part of our vernacular for so long. I cannot estimate how many times I've been called a "jealous, lazy bum" (Rocky to Paulie, III) ; been called "the ultimate meatball" Thunderlips to Rocky, (III again); or haven been told in a Dolph Lungren monotone "You will lose" (IV).
Then there's always Thunderlips (Hulk Hogan) tossing Rocky around the ring in their charity match to the line, "It's all fake. It's all fake, meatball." Brilliant - Hulk Hogan owes his career to that film.
We've had our own brushes with Rocky-dom. My Dad once imitated Rocky jumping rope - without a jump rope. In copying the way Rocky thrashes the rope around when he's done, Dad managed to throw out his back just before a business flight to New Ulm, Minnesota. He had to take his own cab to the hotel, because he had to lie across the back seat to remain remotely comfortable (you can neither make these details up nor forget them).
On my wall at home, I have a collage of photos my Dad took as I ran up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, including the celebratory, raised fists shot with the skyline behind us. My Dad got praised for his unexpectedly strong photo skills.
Finally, as soon as I was old enough, Dad and I saw Rocky films in the theater; 15 years later, we must dust off the tradition.
So one more round, Rock. You owe us a better finale than a street fight with Tommy Morrison and a Don King facsimile.
"Aren't you gonna ring the bell?" Well, there I go again (III).
What little stamp we leave
Reporters don't always write with the intent of deeply impacting the public; some nights it's solely about getting the information out.
I have a little more leeway as a columnist, yet I don't need to leave my hands to count the responses I've received to 2006's opinion. Sure, when I confirm letters or people spit out their complaints about something else, they often compliment the column. But aside from the brimstone breather who loathed my "Jon Stewart's visit helps erase the image of Columbus as a cow town" column, I rarely rate any reader comments.
But last week, I wrote a follow-up store on a column from early 2006 about a neighborhood's efforts to secure the last heavily forested acreage in an overdeveloped strip mall corridor.
I centered the column on the need for little parks tucked into developments and for residents to feel like they have their own patch of green space in the neighborhood.
For some added perspective, I walked through the little forest with the late owners' son, the trustee for the land. He came into town and we arranged a tour/interview, finally ending the two-month saga of writing this column:
http://www.snponline.com/COMMENTARY/weekly/4-12_wjmcolparkscolumn.htm
Ankle deep in mud and icy water, I saw a dense oasis teeming with life, passed by 20,000 cars a day yet totally unnoticed. It was March, so I could only imagine the bare trees in bloom. But I knew this was a place that had to be saved; the development had reached a point where someone might plunk down top dollar to drop apartments or tightly-packed houses on it.
But the city paid $90K an acre for it, and it is now public land. I don't know if I ever felt so pleased to write a story.
I doubt my column sped up any negotiations, but knowing the Recreation & Parks Department closed the deal was another reminder that if given enough time, government can work for its populace. It's just cumbersome and slow, that's all.
I have a little more leeway as a columnist, yet I don't need to leave my hands to count the responses I've received to 2006's opinion. Sure, when I confirm letters or people spit out their complaints about something else, they often compliment the column. But aside from the brimstone breather who loathed my "Jon Stewart's visit helps erase the image of Columbus as a cow town" column, I rarely rate any reader comments.
But last week, I wrote a follow-up store on a column from early 2006 about a neighborhood's efforts to secure the last heavily forested acreage in an overdeveloped strip mall corridor.
I centered the column on the need for little parks tucked into developments and for residents to feel like they have their own patch of green space in the neighborhood.
For some added perspective, I walked through the little forest with the late owners' son, the trustee for the land. He came into town and we arranged a tour/interview, finally ending the two-month saga of writing this column:
http://www.snponline.com/COMMENTARY/weekly/4-12_wjmcolparkscolumn.htm
Ankle deep in mud and icy water, I saw a dense oasis teeming with life, passed by 20,000 cars a day yet totally unnoticed. It was March, so I could only imagine the bare trees in bloom. But I knew this was a place that had to be saved; the development had reached a point where someone might plunk down top dollar to drop apartments or tightly-packed houses on it.
But the city paid $90K an acre for it, and it is now public land. I don't know if I ever felt so pleased to write a story.
I doubt my column sped up any negotiations, but knowing the Recreation & Parks Department closed the deal was another reminder that if given enough time, government can work for its populace. It's just cumbersome and slow, that's all.
adieu to a reluctant president
So what if he ran and lost in 1976 - I'll always believes Gerald Ford never really wanted to become president. He said as much in Bob Woodward's tome on recent presidential scandals, Shadow (or as it's known in some circles, "Shallow"). Others say once he settled into the job, he relished it. The Michigan congressman was too honest and not polished enough for the job - he was not the creation of P.R. gurus.
While our presidents tend to die old and peacefully these days, Ford's passing is more than a footnote, though history might relegate him to the Island of Caretaker Presidents.
His pardoning of Richard Nixon probably squelched his chances for a full term. But what our cynical 21st century eyes see as a president letting his fellow Republican off easy undercuts the atmosphere of the day (yeah, I wasn't born yet, but I know this story well). He was lambasted at the time. History has come around since the 1970s, and even those who criticized the pardon now understand its necessity.
America needed to move out of Watergate's umbrage, and a lengthy trial for Nixon would have allowed the issue to continue to drag the nation down. Jimmy Carter dragged it around in brand-new ways, but America needed to heal after its first presidential resignation.
Ford was the only chief executive I ever saw in person, at a 1999 speech at OSU's Mershon Auditorium. He hit on some universal themes of working across the aisle for the betterment of humankind ... and sounded tremendous for a guy in his mid 1980s. He was blunt and straightforward - just by listening to the man, he was open and honest in ways that Nixon never could be.
Our Washington crowd now legislates only with fierce partisanship, but the Gang of 535 and the White House could take a lesson from the former House Republican leader who soothed an injured nation. While that injury healed, there are plenty of bruises and fractures still throbbing.
While our presidents tend to die old and peacefully these days, Ford's passing is more than a footnote, though history might relegate him to the Island of Caretaker Presidents.
His pardoning of Richard Nixon probably squelched his chances for a full term. But what our cynical 21st century eyes see as a president letting his fellow Republican off easy undercuts the atmosphere of the day (yeah, I wasn't born yet, but I know this story well). He was lambasted at the time. History has come around since the 1970s, and even those who criticized the pardon now understand its necessity.
America needed to move out of Watergate's umbrage, and a lengthy trial for Nixon would have allowed the issue to continue to drag the nation down. Jimmy Carter dragged it around in brand-new ways, but America needed to heal after its first presidential resignation.
Ford was the only chief executive I ever saw in person, at a 1999 speech at OSU's Mershon Auditorium. He hit on some universal themes of working across the aisle for the betterment of humankind ... and sounded tremendous for a guy in his mid 1980s. He was blunt and straightforward - just by listening to the man, he was open and honest in ways that Nixon never could be.
Our Washington crowd now legislates only with fierce partisanship, but the Gang of 535 and the White House could take a lesson from the former House Republican leader who soothed an injured nation. While that injury healed, there are plenty of bruises and fractures still throbbing.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Circles crossed, strange doors ajar
Sometimes it isn't enough to widen a social circle, but to let another person's cross your own to see the results.
After seven years of complaining about low pay, lousy insurance and incompetent co-workers, I'm tired of running down that list in any environment, much less a party or after-hours. I cross paths with people in my own department sparingly; some circles aren't meant to cross, and I see the people I want to see anyway.
Luckily, a good number of those friends work in other departments, walk in different circles, and are no longer considered just "work friends."
After leaving the wake on Friday night, I talked with a pilot, a snowboard instructor and any number of new, friendly strangers I would never encounter normally.
Other times I sat back and absorbed the dialogue running all around me, from good Christmas sales at the skateboard shop to near-DUis to flying planes.
As a professed lover of meeting new people, it's like Christmas ... two days early in this case. Strangers are also a stroke of luck when life's fortunes turn negative. I wanted to immerse myself in an environment unlike the somber, shell-shocked one I visited earlier that evening.
Go to a party stocked with strangers, then aim for the simple goal of making friends, if only for the evening and as a conversation-starter at the next gathering.
After seven years of complaining about low pay, lousy insurance and incompetent co-workers, I'm tired of running down that list in any environment, much less a party or after-hours. I cross paths with people in my own department sparingly; some circles aren't meant to cross, and I see the people I want to see anyway.
Luckily, a good number of those friends work in other departments, walk in different circles, and are no longer considered just "work friends."
After leaving the wake on Friday night, I talked with a pilot, a snowboard instructor and any number of new, friendly strangers I would never encounter normally.
Other times I sat back and absorbed the dialogue running all around me, from good Christmas sales at the skateboard shop to near-DUis to flying planes.
As a professed lover of meeting new people, it's like Christmas ... two days early in this case. Strangers are also a stroke of luck when life's fortunes turn negative. I wanted to immerse myself in an environment unlike the somber, shell-shocked one I visited earlier that evening.
Go to a party stocked with strangers, then aim for the simple goal of making friends, if only for the evening and as a conversation-starter at the next gathering.
Volunteering for the Christmas shift
My efforts to burn everything on my computer for everyone on my Christmas list hit a snag this weekend when I left my blank discs at work.
On Christmas morning, en route to my parents' house, I swung by the office and surprisingly found a car in the parking lot. I knew exactly whose light was on the building, what they were working on.
What I didn't know is what work had to be finished Christmas morning. That leads to lonely places on a day that only amplifies their stature.
On Christmas morning, en route to my parents' house, I swung by the office and surprisingly found a car in the parking lot. I knew exactly whose light was on the building, what they were working on.
What I didn't know is what work had to be finished Christmas morning. That leads to lonely places on a day that only amplifies their stature.
Bearing grief unto a still kingdom
For the second consecutive funeral, I ended up as a pallbearer. As a reasonably able-bodied man and someone who considers helping to a carry a casket a great honor, there was never a thought of refusal.
Pallbearers are more symbolic than anything now (my mud-caked loafers tell a different story); between a hearse and a rolling cart during the church service, little heavy lifting is required. But the weight of that lifting is immense, in a way. At a time when family and friends, stricken with grief, have enough trouble carrying themselves through the day,
Pallbearing moves along the grieving process, at least for those who get selected.
For as many times as I thought about the dead man and fought back tears (change the names, and it could have read as my brother's obit will one day), I know what mourners expect in a pallbearer. Tear ducts went dry as I turned grim and expressionless out of necessity. That's the way it has to be when ferrying someone to their final resting place.
Pallbearers are more symbolic than anything now (my mud-caked loafers tell a different story); between a hearse and a rolling cart during the church service, little heavy lifting is required. But the weight of that lifting is immense, in a way. At a time when family and friends, stricken with grief, have enough trouble carrying themselves through the day,
Pallbearing moves along the grieving process, at least for those who get selected.
For as many times as I thought about the dead man and fought back tears (change the names, and it could have read as my brother's obit will one day), I know what mourners expect in a pallbearer. Tear ducts went dry as I turned grim and expressionless out of necessity. That's the way it has to be when ferrying someone to their final resting place.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
2006 must end. Now.
General consensus among my friends is that 2006 is a year that needs to conclude. I know few people who'd say they lived a good year; we're ready for 2007. Deaths, break-ups, divorces, illnesses and all-around ugliness defined these 12 months.
And they just hit the lowest note yet, at a pitch that could very well empty what holiday cheer the people involved have left.
Last night the local news broke in with word of a fatal fire on Columbus' West Side, which claimed two lives: a handicapped man and a 62-year-old woman, his caregiver. It was a group home and apparently the man’s roommate started the fire.
Combine a lighter with a coat and then two people die. What an awful recipe.
Say what you will of our society, but as a rule, we do a solid job of protecting our most defenseless members, the handicapped, the children and adults who will never have the chance to grow up. It can be as simple as supporting an MRDD levy, but it's critical for these poor folks. It compounds the tragedy in this case, because we know the poor guy could not help himself.
I shook my head at it - a tragedy, and right before Christmas. Then I thought little of it until I noticed a repeat phone call from my friend in South Carolina.
The dead man was our friend's brother. I never met him and only knew him through pictures. All I knew was it could only be the most devastating night possible for his family.
This isn't solely because my friend’s brother died. My brother Joe is also handicapped and narrowly avoided death on numerous occasions, from a near-drowning in the MRDD school’s pool and several ferocious seizure states (basically, the seizures knock him unconscious, and he remains so until the next one. It usually takes a controlled overdose to knock him out of it). The same seizures led to a half-dozen zipper-patterned scars on his forehead and scalp.
Joe's had it rough, but he's still here, and still greets me with smile when I visit my parents, then leads me into the bedroom to flip over one of his Sesame Street cassettes.
Now I wonder how did Joe grasp that little bit of extra luck, enough to hold onto this life, when my friend's brother didn't.
Some days it's hard not to get mad at God.
My friend and I only discussed our brothers once, on our long return trip from the Louisville Tom Waits concert. We dealt with how their conditions shaped us as people, with regard to tolerance and what we missed (my brother and I never played catch with a football in the backyard; the cards fell that way, and there's no regret). I worry how this awful business will shape him, and hope he will persevere the worst and emerge stronger.
It’s been green – downright tropical– this Christmas season, but right now it couldn’t possible feel colder.
And they just hit the lowest note yet, at a pitch that could very well empty what holiday cheer the people involved have left.
Last night the local news broke in with word of a fatal fire on Columbus' West Side, which claimed two lives: a handicapped man and a 62-year-old woman, his caregiver. It was a group home and apparently the man’s roommate started the fire.
Combine a lighter with a coat and then two people die. What an awful recipe.
Say what you will of our society, but as a rule, we do a solid job of protecting our most defenseless members, the handicapped, the children and adults who will never have the chance to grow up. It can be as simple as supporting an MRDD levy, but it's critical for these poor folks. It compounds the tragedy in this case, because we know the poor guy could not help himself.
I shook my head at it - a tragedy, and right before Christmas. Then I thought little of it until I noticed a repeat phone call from my friend in South Carolina.
The dead man was our friend's brother. I never met him and only knew him through pictures. All I knew was it could only be the most devastating night possible for his family.
This isn't solely because my friend’s brother died. My brother Joe is also handicapped and narrowly avoided death on numerous occasions, from a near-drowning in the MRDD school’s pool and several ferocious seizure states (basically, the seizures knock him unconscious, and he remains so until the next one. It usually takes a controlled overdose to knock him out of it). The same seizures led to a half-dozen zipper-patterned scars on his forehead and scalp.
Joe's had it rough, but he's still here, and still greets me with smile when I visit my parents, then leads me into the bedroom to flip over one of his Sesame Street cassettes.
Now I wonder how did Joe grasp that little bit of extra luck, enough to hold onto this life, when my friend's brother didn't.
Some days it's hard not to get mad at God.
My friend and I only discussed our brothers once, on our long return trip from the Louisville Tom Waits concert. We dealt with how their conditions shaped us as people, with regard to tolerance and what we missed (my brother and I never played catch with a football in the backyard; the cards fell that way, and there's no regret). I worry how this awful business will shape him, and hope he will persevere the worst and emerge stronger.
It’s been green – downright tropical– this Christmas season, but right now it couldn’t possible feel colder.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Channeling Dave Thomas
Don't ask me his name now, but the president of Taco Bell took the unusual step of appearing in a recent commercial.
There were no chihuahua sightings, but he tried to assuage fears after the restaurant's recent troubles with patrons sickened by vegetables in its Mexican entrees. Nothing kills restaurant business quite like food poisoning.
Fast food giants regularly hide their real images behind slick advertising spawn such as Ronald McDonald and the Burger King (who's not tired of that masked goon already?) targeted at children, who then rope their parents into visiting the drive-through.
Corporate guys aren't pitchman for something you scarf down at 11 p.m. to soak up the night's libations. But here he took a page from the Dave Thomas playbook and appealed directly to the consumer.
It's a shame companies cannot do that more often. Thomas initially did the commercials himself because he didn't have to hire professional pitchmen. But his folksy demeanor took the company to the pinnacle of the fast-food pyramid (I won't get into what disturbing batch of food groups that involves). The Taco Bell prez's move reeked of damage control, but it worked; it said, "I'm willing leave the executive boardroom, be accountable, and to ease your concerns about our food."
Wendy's, of course, has yet to regain its moxie since Thomas died and took his cult of fast-foot personality with him.
And no other pitchmen has taken those reins for any fast food company. That's the number one reason I don't eat - except for its sheer unhealthiness. Reading Fast Food Nation will make quickly install a "Wrong Way" sign at the entrance to the Drive-through lane.
There were no chihuahua sightings, but he tried to assuage fears after the restaurant's recent troubles with patrons sickened by vegetables in its Mexican entrees. Nothing kills restaurant business quite like food poisoning.
Fast food giants regularly hide their real images behind slick advertising spawn such as Ronald McDonald and the Burger King (who's not tired of that masked goon already?) targeted at children, who then rope their parents into visiting the drive-through.
Corporate guys aren't pitchman for something you scarf down at 11 p.m. to soak up the night's libations. But here he took a page from the Dave Thomas playbook and appealed directly to the consumer.
It's a shame companies cannot do that more often. Thomas initially did the commercials himself because he didn't have to hire professional pitchmen. But his folksy demeanor took the company to the pinnacle of the fast-food pyramid (I won't get into what disturbing batch of food groups that involves). The Taco Bell prez's move reeked of damage control, but it worked; it said, "I'm willing leave the executive boardroom, be accountable, and to ease your concerns about our food."
Wendy's, of course, has yet to regain its moxie since Thomas died and took his cult of fast-foot personality with him.
And no other pitchmen has taken those reins for any fast food company. That's the number one reason I don't eat - except for its sheer unhealthiness. Reading Fast Food Nation will make quickly install a "Wrong Way" sign at the entrance to the Drive-through lane.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Six Keepers from 2006
In a digital age, it's hard to wear down the massive amounts of music ingest in a year to a few albums.
Luckily, this was no ordinary year.
A surprising number of women found their way into my favorites. My guess: Their chords struck better with my state of mind.
The Top Six:
Jenny Lewis & the Watson Twins ~ Rabbit Fur Coat: One borrow from my friend Melissa, and this was an instant favorite. Lewis' sweet voice and country-tinged rock reached points where few contemporary musicians tread. Plus, she covered the Traveling Wilburys' "Handle With Care" with an all-star indie rock cast. Seeing her live in October brought out new dimensions to these tunes as they made me ache for a follow-up.
Neko Case ~ Fox Confessor Brings the Flood: Bought during the worst week of my 2006, Case's voice vividly sketched her jagged and gentle songs. If you only know her through the New Pornographers, you don't really know her. And make no mistake, you need to know her. Few ballads punched as hard as "Star Witness" and "The Needle Has Landed."
Calexico ~ Garden Ruin: Finally, the Indie Rock Band with Horns emerges with songwriting to match its musical chops. From "Cruel" to "All Systems Red" this one is relentless. With the Ennio Morricone influence scaled back, the music has more room to breath and fosters a richer experience for the listener. Live they mixed up the songs a little more and their strength shone through the smoky air of the Beachland Ballroom. But this is a solid runner-up.
Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan ~ Ballad of the Broken Seas: A delicate-voiced former Belle & Sebastian member paired with a grunge father figure weaned on a tailpipe - who knew their duets would mesh so well? Campbell humanizes the former Screaming Trees frontman, and Lanegan toughens her wispy notes. This was the biggest surprise of the year by 10 lengths.
TV on the Radio ~ Return to Cookie Mountain: Despite all the praise heaped upon them, this is a challenging record that still engages after dozens of listens. Not a day passes when I don't break out "Province," "Playhouses," Wolf Like Me" or "Tonight." In an age when so much music recycles 70s and 80s cliches in 21st century packaging, it's wonderful to see musicians who remember there are still boundaries to be pushed, and genres to be crossed at new bridges.
The Decemberists ~ The Crane Wife: My favorite lit nerds take a major step forward on this ambitious major label debut. Complex, thoughtful rock should always be this good. Several 10-plus minute song cycles might spurn the casual listener, but you'll rarely find cycles so engaging for their full length.
A few stellar long-players that deserve a separate category:
Best Posthumous Album : Johnny Cash ~ American V: A Hundred Highways:
As if I could choose anything else. I received news of a friend's death as I spun it for the first time; the phone rang on "God's Gonna Cut You Down." I had to take a break from this powerful meditation on death after that. It might have made the Top Six if Rick Rubin had not let it sit for nearly three years after Cash's death. Personal File, a set of acoustic recordings Cash put down in the 1970s, is interesting though not essential. American V is.
Best Boxed Set: Tom Waits ~Orphans: I'll spare you more praise on this ultimate collection of unreleased gems (there I go again).
Best Leaked Album due for Release in 2007: The Shins ~ Wincing the Night Away:
With "Phantom Limb" already in heavy rotation on our local indie station, this one stands to become the first big record of 2007. More in line with their debut, Oh, Invested World - the album made huge by Garden State and Zack Braff - than the fine Chutes Too Narrow, you'll be hearing much more about this slab of alt-pop in the new year.
Luckily, this was no ordinary year.
A surprising number of women found their way into my favorites. My guess: Their chords struck better with my state of mind.
The Top Six:
Jenny Lewis & the Watson Twins ~ Rabbit Fur Coat: One borrow from my friend Melissa, and this was an instant favorite. Lewis' sweet voice and country-tinged rock reached points where few contemporary musicians tread. Plus, she covered the Traveling Wilburys' "Handle With Care" with an all-star indie rock cast. Seeing her live in October brought out new dimensions to these tunes as they made me ache for a follow-up.
Neko Case ~ Fox Confessor Brings the Flood: Bought during the worst week of my 2006, Case's voice vividly sketched her jagged and gentle songs. If you only know her through the New Pornographers, you don't really know her. And make no mistake, you need to know her. Few ballads punched as hard as "Star Witness" and "The Needle Has Landed."
Calexico ~ Garden Ruin: Finally, the Indie Rock Band with Horns emerges with songwriting to match its musical chops. From "Cruel" to "All Systems Red" this one is relentless. With the Ennio Morricone influence scaled back, the music has more room to breath and fosters a richer experience for the listener. Live they mixed up the songs a little more and their strength shone through the smoky air of the Beachland Ballroom. But this is a solid runner-up.
Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan ~ Ballad of the Broken Seas: A delicate-voiced former Belle & Sebastian member paired with a grunge father figure weaned on a tailpipe - who knew their duets would mesh so well? Campbell humanizes the former Screaming Trees frontman, and Lanegan toughens her wispy notes. This was the biggest surprise of the year by 10 lengths.
TV on the Radio ~ Return to Cookie Mountain: Despite all the praise heaped upon them, this is a challenging record that still engages after dozens of listens. Not a day passes when I don't break out "Province," "Playhouses," Wolf Like Me" or "Tonight." In an age when so much music recycles 70s and 80s cliches in 21st century packaging, it's wonderful to see musicians who remember there are still boundaries to be pushed, and genres to be crossed at new bridges.
The Decemberists ~ The Crane Wife: My favorite lit nerds take a major step forward on this ambitious major label debut. Complex, thoughtful rock should always be this good. Several 10-plus minute song cycles might spurn the casual listener, but you'll rarely find cycles so engaging for their full length.
A few stellar long-players that deserve a separate category:
Best Posthumous Album : Johnny Cash ~ American V: A Hundred Highways:
As if I could choose anything else. I received news of a friend's death as I spun it for the first time; the phone rang on "God's Gonna Cut You Down." I had to take a break from this powerful meditation on death after that. It might have made the Top Six if Rick Rubin had not let it sit for nearly three years after Cash's death. Personal File, a set of acoustic recordings Cash put down in the 1970s, is interesting though not essential. American V is.
Best Boxed Set: Tom Waits ~Orphans: I'll spare you more praise on this ultimate collection of unreleased gems (there I go again).
Best Leaked Album due for Release in 2007: The Shins ~ Wincing the Night Away:
With "Phantom Limb" already in heavy rotation on our local indie station, this one stands to become the first big record of 2007. More in line with their debut, Oh, Invested World - the album made huge by Garden State and Zack Braff - than the fine Chutes Too Narrow, you'll be hearing much more about this slab of alt-pop in the new year.
But what about the beer?
The partitioning of Belgium between its French and Flemish-speaking regions came swiftly.
At least a TV station wanted its audience to believe that on Wednesday, when it broadcast a fake news report of a revolution splitting the country into Flanders and Wallonia. Its royal family, long hailed as the glue holding the nation together, fled by plane. Footage of rioters outside the Belgium parliament convinced ever more people that the schism was genuine.
Of course, in the spirit of Orson Welles, the station waited until the program's first 30 minutes passed before letting viewers in on the hoax.
Few Belgian powerbrokers saw humor in the program. Nor was the royal family amused. I know I wasn't, even though I didn't see the program. My concern, of course, was not so much for the country's welfare, but what it meant for its beer supply.
For most Americans - if they actually find it on a map -Belgium is just a little blob between France and Germany that got marched across during a few World Wars.
For beer lovers, it's the center of the universe, a bountiful land with more endemic beer styles than any other place on Earth.
Disruption of supply could probe healthy to our livers, but some of us cannot do without a bottle of Chimay aging in the pantry.
Once I got past the self-created beer scare, I saw the hoax's humor.
So, any still think a War of the Worlds-esque program can no longer induce panic or shake up people's lives in an instant?
Once again we learn that basing a hoax so close to reality makes it all the more believable.
If anyone outside of Europe - plus expatriates and beer snobs, of course - cares about end of the Belgium.
At least a TV station wanted its audience to believe that on Wednesday, when it broadcast a fake news report of a revolution splitting the country into Flanders and Wallonia. Its royal family, long hailed as the glue holding the nation together, fled by plane. Footage of rioters outside the Belgium parliament convinced ever more people that the schism was genuine.
Of course, in the spirit of Orson Welles, the station waited until the program's first 30 minutes passed before letting viewers in on the hoax.
Few Belgian powerbrokers saw humor in the program. Nor was the royal family amused. I know I wasn't, even though I didn't see the program. My concern, of course, was not so much for the country's welfare, but what it meant for its beer supply.
For most Americans - if they actually find it on a map -Belgium is just a little blob between France and Germany that got marched across during a few World Wars.
For beer lovers, it's the center of the universe, a bountiful land with more endemic beer styles than any other place on Earth.
Disruption of supply could probe healthy to our livers, but some of us cannot do without a bottle of Chimay aging in the pantry.
Once I got past the self-created beer scare, I saw the hoax's humor.
So, any still think a War of the Worlds-esque program can no longer induce panic or shake up people's lives in an instant?
Once again we learn that basing a hoax so close to reality makes it all the more believable.
If anyone outside of Europe - plus expatriates and beer snobs, of course - cares about end of the Belgium.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Vultures move quickly
A Senator suffers a brain hemorrhage (Tim Johnson, D-South Dakota). National media immediately swarms not to cover his condition, but to talk about its implications for the balance of power in Washington should he no longer be able to serve.
I don't find any surprise in the media flock sitting on the wires, discussing "what ifs" for Bush's final two years.
I just find it reprehensible when the real balance is where Johnson's life hangs. This desperation to get to the story first gets really old, especially when human life is at its crux.
And this is coming from a member of the print media. Vultures armed with cameras and microphones cross the lines of basic respect without thought to what they do. That is a tired, old story, but one they never tire of crossing lines to tell.
I don't find any surprise in the media flock sitting on the wires, discussing "what ifs" for Bush's final two years.
I just find it reprehensible when the real balance is where Johnson's life hangs. This desperation to get to the story first gets really old, especially when human life is at its crux.
And this is coming from a member of the print media. Vultures armed with cameras and microphones cross the lines of basic respect without thought to what they do. That is a tired, old story, but one they never tire of crossing lines to tell.
Tortured soles
In love and life, I inevitably end up paying for what I take for granted. After finishing a 4-miler on Sunday, my leg muscles twitched, my knees ached for the ride home, but not creek from my feet.
Until the late afternoon, when my broken-in sneakers turned overly snug. The right foot's outside edge began responding poorly to the slightest pressure. On a downhill slop in the race's second mile, I remember a few strange footfalls, and since nothing else qualifies, that must have tweaked my foot. Why it took hours for the pain to kick in ... well, any guesses? I have none.
Five days later, despite a concerted effort to rest the feet, it still hurts progressively worse as each day goes on. "Concerted" in my case means dropping down to one walking trip a night, and moving slowly by the end of that walk. I can't stop moving these days .... well, I won't let myself stop. That's when my mind runs wild, and leads me in havoc-wreaking directions.
Feet ... we don't like to acknowledge them, but damn they're important. If one of the neighborhood panhandlers got fussy with me, I couldn't run away. The game of Human Frogger I play every time I cross High Street has leapt to a challenging level.
I already sent in a check for one more run this year, two days from now.
I'm debating whether I run through the pain Saturday, walk the course with a subtle limp - or grab my run T-shirt, finish my Christmas shopping and save a pair of soles for 2007.
In the parlance of the NFL, it will be a game time decision.
Until the late afternoon, when my broken-in sneakers turned overly snug. The right foot's outside edge began responding poorly to the slightest pressure. On a downhill slop in the race's second mile, I remember a few strange footfalls, and since nothing else qualifies, that must have tweaked my foot. Why it took hours for the pain to kick in ... well, any guesses? I have none.
Five days later, despite a concerted effort to rest the feet, it still hurts progressively worse as each day goes on. "Concerted" in my case means dropping down to one walking trip a night, and moving slowly by the end of that walk. I can't stop moving these days .... well, I won't let myself stop. That's when my mind runs wild, and leads me in havoc-wreaking directions.
Feet ... we don't like to acknowledge them, but damn they're important. If one of the neighborhood panhandlers got fussy with me, I couldn't run away. The game of Human Frogger I play every time I cross High Street has leapt to a challenging level.
I already sent in a check for one more run this year, two days from now.
I'm debating whether I run through the pain Saturday, walk the course with a subtle limp - or grab my run T-shirt, finish my Christmas shopping and save a pair of soles for 2007.
In the parlance of the NFL, it will be a game time decision.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The Christmas tie: My colorful holiday noose
Only in America do we complete our wardrobes with flourishes in style for a scant few weeks every year.
My lunch break, minus a few minutes with the beast, became a hunt for a new Christmas tie. The three on my shelf had enjoyed steady holiday rotation for the past five years, and the boys club needed to be broken up.
Christmas ties lean toward the gaudy and more frequently, the annoying. I've yet to wear the one depicting a snowman waving the American flag (it was a Christmas 2001 gift, when those were all the rage, in case you missed it).
However, the selection at the department store was slim, though plump with annoying leftovers. The bulk were musical.
For as bad an idea as musical ties are, they sound even worse if you're planning to spend the day surrounded by the merry drunken co-workers. If I'm the drunkard, odds increase exponentially that the music chip in the tie turns up smashed before night's end. Granted, Christmas ties are often worn as headbands once the after-party is in full swing.
Lunch hour ticked away as I toyed with grabbing something with holiday colors that might join the tie rotation in the new year.
That thought died in an instant when I saw it: Santa, wearing a hipper version of his typical hat and hiding his eyes behind streamlined sunglasses, flashed finger jewelry that spells out "Merry Xmas."
He thrust out those knuckles just for me, and for my co-workers to roll their eyes at tomorrow.
Bad-ass Santa beats stiff toy soldiers, candy canes and shimmering ornaments any day (between Thanksgiving and Christmas, that is - otherwise, he's off-the-charts lame).
My lunch break, minus a few minutes with the beast, became a hunt for a new Christmas tie. The three on my shelf had enjoyed steady holiday rotation for the past five years, and the boys club needed to be broken up.
Christmas ties lean toward the gaudy and more frequently, the annoying. I've yet to wear the one depicting a snowman waving the American flag (it was a Christmas 2001 gift, when those were all the rage, in case you missed it).
However, the selection at the department store was slim, though plump with annoying leftovers. The bulk were musical.
For as bad an idea as musical ties are, they sound even worse if you're planning to spend the day surrounded by the merry drunken co-workers. If I'm the drunkard, odds increase exponentially that the music chip in the tie turns up smashed before night's end. Granted, Christmas ties are often worn as headbands once the after-party is in full swing.
Lunch hour ticked away as I toyed with grabbing something with holiday colors that might join the tie rotation in the new year.
That thought died in an instant when I saw it: Santa, wearing a hipper version of his typical hat and hiding his eyes behind streamlined sunglasses, flashed finger jewelry that spells out "Merry Xmas."
He thrust out those knuckles just for me, and for my co-workers to roll their eyes at tomorrow.
Bad-ass Santa beats stiff toy soldiers, candy canes and shimmering ornaments any day (between Thanksgiving and Christmas, that is - otherwise, he's off-the-charts lame).
Heisman trophies on a plane
It could almost be the title of a direct-to-video thriller, if the New York post authority hadn't already told Troy Smith little bronze men in 1930's football get screened right out of the airport.
Which is too bad, because who wouldn't be interested in little trophies coming alive in the plane's cargo hold and emerging to terrorize passengers? "Night of the Heismans" anyone?
Apparently, Smith planned on a bumpy flight for his prize - the X-ray scanner maimed the statue of the last OSU winner, Eddie George, tearing off one finger and twisting another on its conveyor belt.
But his little bronze man was allowed to travel back to Columbus in the seat next to George.
Troy's got shipped.
Maybe that is better. The only major prize I know - the leg lamp from "A Christmas Story" - got shipped as well.
Which is too bad, because who wouldn't be interested in little trophies coming alive in the plane's cargo hold and emerging to terrorize passengers? "Night of the Heismans" anyone?
Apparently, Smith planned on a bumpy flight for his prize - the X-ray scanner maimed the statue of the last OSU winner, Eddie George, tearing off one finger and twisting another on its conveyor belt.
But his little bronze man was allowed to travel back to Columbus in the seat next to George.
Troy's got shipped.
Maybe that is better. The only major prize I know - the leg lamp from "A Christmas Story" - got shipped as well.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Because the writer needs his catchphrase and "shouting epitaphs" was already taken
I think my father was the forerunner of DVD commentary: He often annotated the newspaper with thought balloons, telling us what was really on the minds of politicians and celebrities (it was a slow time for actors spouting racial epithets).
But the icing was always taking the ugly stick to beautiful people. Teeth went black, models grew copious of facial hair and every blemish under the sun (moles, skin tags, stitches and crooked scars) crowded their faces.
His ballpoint knew nothing of mercy. It was truly an age of gold.
And when that weekend magazine tumbles from the Sunday paper, I eagerly grab my pen, and remember how much time those beautiful people spend putting themselves together, and how little I spent bringing them back down.
I know it as art in my elementary school days; it still is every time I take my small revenge on our celebrity-worshipping culture.
But the icing was always taking the ugly stick to beautiful people. Teeth went black, models grew copious of facial hair and every blemish under the sun (moles, skin tags, stitches and crooked scars) crowded their faces.
His ballpoint knew nothing of mercy. It was truly an age of gold.
And when that weekend magazine tumbles from the Sunday paper, I eagerly grab my pen, and remember how much time those beautiful people spend putting themselves together, and how little I spent bringing them back down.
I know it as art in my elementary school days; it still is every time I take my small revenge on our celebrity-worshipping culture.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Unless the world leaves you behind first
That's the situation I stumble into, weekend or weeknight. No one flies by the seat of their pants anymore; they make reservations early and save the scratch instead. Play it by year? Hah - at this point, only if it's 2007.
Exiting the grocery store at 10 p.m. Wednesday, warmed by the gesture of a man with the full cart giving me his spot in the checkout line, I knew I had no one to call. The late-night hangout crews were all settled in, if not already in bed.
I couldn't even bury my thoughts on a late-night walk through the urban grid; the Arctic wind pounds as long as it takes to sweep clean the streets.
I could call California, but as with so many others at that hour, dialing west doesn't always have a cure for talking to voicemail.
When had everyone grown so responsible? Am I the last one hanging to this slippery cliff? The days of bar=hopping from Happy Hour to Closing Time screeched to an close one midnight drive; I always knew they would. And this isn't about getting sloshed; it's more about the company, these days it keeps hours I have trouble competing with.
Monday I picked a bar and fired up conversation with strangers because I knew the odds against familiarity.
But sometimes the best conversation arises from the foreign.
Exiting the grocery store at 10 p.m. Wednesday, warmed by the gesture of a man with the full cart giving me his spot in the checkout line, I knew I had no one to call. The late-night hangout crews were all settled in, if not already in bed.
I couldn't even bury my thoughts on a late-night walk through the urban grid; the Arctic wind pounds as long as it takes to sweep clean the streets.
I could call California, but as with so many others at that hour, dialing west doesn't always have a cure for talking to voicemail.
When had everyone grown so responsible? Am I the last one hanging to this slippery cliff? The days of bar=hopping from Happy Hour to Closing Time screeched to an close one midnight drive; I always knew they would. And this isn't about getting sloshed; it's more about the company, these days it keeps hours I have trouble competing with.
Monday I picked a bar and fired up conversation with strangers because I knew the odds against familiarity.
But sometimes the best conversation arises from the foreign.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
What debris we leave behind when sprinting forward
Not long ago my sister asked me if I still sketched in my spare time. With those simple words, she threw a heavyweight's killer left. I haven't drawn regularly, save the doodles that fill my notebook during weekly meetings, since I tossed art class following the ninth grade.
When I was prolific, I always kept a sheet of paper beneath my school work so I could draw in an instant if an idea arose.
Here's a skill that was once so much a part of my life that I never imagined myself without it. Across the years, it became a language so foreign that even sketching seems absurd. What I would produce would display poor quality (as it has every time I've tried in recent years) that it all becomes futile.
I see guitar playing and poetry writing as future victims of the same blight; whether it's too late to resurrect them remains undetermined.
Chalk it up as a lesson in how hobbies and beloved pastimes regress into "things that I used to do."
When I was prolific, I always kept a sheet of paper beneath my school work so I could draw in an instant if an idea arose.
Here's a skill that was once so much a part of my life that I never imagined myself without it. Across the years, it became a language so foreign that even sketching seems absurd. What I would produce would display poor quality (as it has every time I've tried in recent years) that it all becomes futile.
I see guitar playing and poetry writing as future victims of the same blight; whether it's too late to resurrect them remains undetermined.
Chalk it up as a lesson in how hobbies and beloved pastimes regress into "things that I used to do."
You are officially comfortable as a cat owner if ....
You can scoop away the litter box rubble while crouched with said cat perched on your back. As the last of the gravel came free, he jumped to inspect the empty box.
Innately I knew any movement meant pain, much more pain than the gentle burn spreading from my leg muscles; at least eight pounds of God's armed perfection picked the best spot for both of us, so his claws remained sheathed and unnecessary to brace himself.
OK, maybe I'm ready to admit dogs have some advantages.
Innately I knew any movement meant pain, much more pain than the gentle burn spreading from my leg muscles; at least eight pounds of God's armed perfection picked the best spot for both of us, so his claws remained sheathed and unnecessary to brace himself.
OK, maybe I'm ready to admit dogs have some advantages.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Any subsequent scratching will result in removal of paws
It's taken two months, but at long last Percy shows early signs of calming down.
1. He's not attacked my head in several weeks.
2. He only chews two plants at the moment (the apartment's Plexiglas windows might contribute to that).
3. I occasionally catch him in a nap without spending the prior four hours vigorously playing with him.
4. Random clawings are done, perhaps due to my promise the take away his front claws if he continues the swipes and prodding in the pre-dawn hours.
He still loves the countertops, though he discovered not to take cold stove heating coils for granted.
In his escape attempts, he progressed no further than the second-floor landing. Every time I return, he stands atop the couch, desperate for a glimpse or scent from beyond the chilly stairwell.
Any day now, I expect his "neutered housecat" belly to drop. Regular food still marvels the skinny bugger; he eats with the voracity of something canine.
But the little manipulator still has his moments. When the beasts' eyes gently bulge from its cocked head, I almost want to stay.
However, my yet-to-heal hands convince me of better luck outside
1. He's not attacked my head in several weeks.
2. He only chews two plants at the moment (the apartment's Plexiglas windows might contribute to that).
3. I occasionally catch him in a nap without spending the prior four hours vigorously playing with him.
4. Random clawings are done, perhaps due to my promise the take away his front claws if he continues the swipes and prodding in the pre-dawn hours.
He still loves the countertops, though he discovered not to take cold stove heating coils for granted.
In his escape attempts, he progressed no further than the second-floor landing. Every time I return, he stands atop the couch, desperate for a glimpse or scent from beyond the chilly stairwell.
Any day now, I expect his "neutered housecat" belly to drop. Regular food still marvels the skinny bugger; he eats with the voracity of something canine.
But the little manipulator still has his moments. When the beasts' eyes gently bulge from its cocked head, I almost want to stay.
However, my yet-to-heal hands convince me of better luck outside
This week it's Montana
Winter sets in quickly here, and it tows a crippling wanderlust for me. Trapped indoors even at the day's warmest point, I diminish without my bicycle or the ability run and still feel my toes at the jog's end.
It's a brutal season, and it just began. Four days before the first deep freeze, I jogged in 60-degree weather. Those coatless days bundled up quickly.
So it makes sense I'd dream myself to Montana, right? This imagined mountain state was still ensconced in summer.
As we wandered among ranchers' fields rolling into mountains and miscellaneous rock jutting up from the hills, I actually asked my guide, some patchwork Virgil conjured up from my brain's sorry depths, how harsh its winters turn.
So why Montana, aside from its unexpected proliferation of independent-minded Democrats, including a Senator-elect (Jon Tester) who lost three fingers to a meat grinder at age 10 (you better believe that he popped into the dream, but I didn't get at his hand)?
I miss the openness of the American West; in Ohio, no matter how country the road, you're always rolling from one village/city into another. Even where sprawl has not taken over. Maybe my life just needs a journey through large tracts of desolate beauty barely interrupted by small cities.
For now, I'm staying, possibly for a longer spell than originally imagined.
But look out Montana, you're awfully close to my crosshairs.
It's a brutal season, and it just began. Four days before the first deep freeze, I jogged in 60-degree weather. Those coatless days bundled up quickly.
So it makes sense I'd dream myself to Montana, right? This imagined mountain state was still ensconced in summer.
As we wandered among ranchers' fields rolling into mountains and miscellaneous rock jutting up from the hills, I actually asked my guide, some patchwork Virgil conjured up from my brain's sorry depths, how harsh its winters turn.
So why Montana, aside from its unexpected proliferation of independent-minded Democrats, including a Senator-elect (Jon Tester) who lost three fingers to a meat grinder at age 10 (you better believe that he popped into the dream, but I didn't get at his hand)?
I miss the openness of the American West; in Ohio, no matter how country the road, you're always rolling from one village/city into another. Even where sprawl has not taken over. Maybe my life just needs a journey through large tracts of desolate beauty barely interrupted by small cities.
For now, I'm staying, possibly for a longer spell than originally imagined.
But look out Montana, you're awfully close to my crosshairs.
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