At first note, the bluegrass queen and the king of classic rock excess sound like an odd pair. When the two howl together, the surprise evaporates.
Experiments have fueled Plant’s post-Led Zeppelin career, while Krauss is a sought-after collaborator. The way Plant and Krauss mingle effortlessly through this 13-song Raising Sand, the partnership feels overdue. They took time to craft it well, by sprinkling in a T-Bone Burnett production and assembling a crack backup band with T-Bone, the legendary Norman Blake and avant garde guitarist Marc Ribot.
The result is an album which blessedly sounds almost unlike anything else. There are critics of Burnett’s laidback production style, but the musicians he assembled don’t shy away from scuffs and dents. Sure, the music is comfortable, yet it never claims to be flawless.
Through this set of overlooked cover tunes –including two each from the Everly Brothers and former Byrd Gene Clark – any egos stay on the sidelines. Plant is barely audible beneath Krauss’ lead on “Through the Morning, Through the Night,’ but he owns the jaunty yet pounding “Fortune Teller” as Krauss is a distant echo.
If Burnett apes anyone, it’s not an obvious pick for these two voices. “Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us” belongs on a Tom Waits record, and several others bear the same influence. Much of the subdued instrumentation sounds descended from his albums, a hard feel to escape with Rain Dogs guitarist Ribot on every song. “Trampled Rose” actually came from Waits’ song book; aside from trading his whiskey-burned gruff for Krauss’ ethereal tones, Burnett barely touches the original arrangement.
The album peaks on with Krauss fiddle swirling around doom-preaching guitar on Nothin’”. It’s every bit as apocalyptic Zep slow burners like “Tea for One.”
These songs are not what thoughts of this pairing would conjure. While the bluegrass inflection runs throughout the record, the world music of latter-day Plant never interrupts beyond a few primitive rhythms.
Beyond Plant’s own refusal, this record and upcoming tour were roadblocks to any Zep reunion tour. In interviews Plant hinted he and Krauss could return to the studio with ease. Given their initial stab at recording, there’s no reason for his famous resistance to reunions to rear its head.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Nashville's saving grace
If I couldn't go hang out in the shadow of this place several times a week, I doubt I could bear this city much longer.
I took this with my laptop while sitting across the lake - thanks to the sepia filter I applied, it looks like it did 110 years ago when constructed as a centerpiece for Nashville's Centennial Exposition.
This morning shrouded it in fog, and made me feel as if I stood atop the Acropolis, with low-lying clouds drifting across the original's marble facade.
It might be a concrete replica, but at least it's complete. Take that, Athens.
End of the Wagon Master
Once again, my Nashville sloth comes to haunt me - frail Porter Wagoner went onto his reward this week.
I dawdled in going to see
his few shows at the Opry this summer, before he took off as opener for The White Stripes (at age 80, no less). Although he kept performing until his final months, Wagoner wore the visage of a man not long for this life.
Outside Nashville, Wagoner gets notice for introducing the world to his duet partner, Dolly Parton. Local practically ran a loop of Parton serenading Wagoner with the schmaltzy "I Will Always Love You," a tune deserving a pair of cement boots and trip to the bottom of the Cumberland.
But the man wrote many a great tune, including personal favorite "Satisfied Mind" covered by Johnny Cash, Gram Parsons and Jeff Buckley among others. It's a sly ballad about the trappings of wealth, and the time wasted in longing for money when
it never really eases the mind. With the way Wagoner simply conveys the release money cannot provide, the song could have been plucked from the public domain.
Personally, I love the contradiction of a humble musician who decked himself out in ornate rhinestone suits.
Not quite on par with Cash, Wagoner went out still in the spotlight, with Wagon Master, a final record that earned him the strongest accolades of his career.
I never saw him in life, but there's a public funeral Thursday at the axis of Nashville, the Ryman Auditorium.
Work will interfere with attending, but I'll probably spin various takes on "Satisfied Mind" to honor the longtime Opry leader.
I dawdled in going to see
his few shows at the Opry this summer, before he took off as opener for The White Stripes (at age 80, no less). Although he kept performing until his final months, Wagoner wore the visage of a man not long for this life.
Outside Nashville, Wagoner gets notice for introducing the world to his duet partner, Dolly Parton. Local practically ran a loop of Parton serenading Wagoner with the schmaltzy "I Will Always Love You," a tune deserving a pair of cement boots and trip to the bottom of the Cumberland.
But the man wrote many a great tune, including personal favorite "Satisfied Mind" covered by Johnny Cash, Gram Parsons and Jeff Buckley among others. It's a sly ballad about the trappings of wealth, and the time wasted in longing for money when
it never really eases the mind. With the way Wagoner simply conveys the release money cannot provide, the song could have been plucked from the public domain.
Personally, I love the contradiction of a humble musician who decked himself out in ornate rhinestone suits.
Not quite on par with Cash, Wagoner went out still in the spotlight, with Wagon Master, a final record that earned him the strongest accolades of his career.
I never saw him in life, but there's a public funeral Thursday at the axis of Nashville, the Ryman Auditorium.
Work will interfere with attending, but I'll probably spin various takes on "Satisfied Mind" to honor the longtime Opry leader.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Percy Anniversary
I left The World is Not Enough on the television to block out the highway noise. In a break from writing, I found Percy in my lounge chair, his eyes darting at the screen as Pierce Brosnan and Sophie
Marceau skied away from gunmen (or something like that; he watched closer than I).
Recent James Bond proved the perfect sleep aid; he curled up by the time they reached the obligatory casino. Who knows how he'd have reacted to Denise Richards playing a (gulp) physicist.
It's been a year with the cat. I missed the anniversary due to work deadlines and a bum investment in the Cleveland Indians. Or maybe I collected too many clawmarks to feel festive.
He goes by many name. Evil Creamsicle. Percival Charles M___F__er (his full name). Ghostface Killah. Coon Tail. The Chatterbox. Squeaky Caramel. Orange Fury. Salacious Cat. Some I cannot repeat here.
A paw destroys a VCR's entrails with clawed simplicity. He forgot how to turn on the television with his paws, so at least I'm no longer coming home to a mewing cat and a braying Ellen DeGeneres. Apparently her routine wore him out.
Even with 12-foot ceilings, I can declare no height off-limits to his leaps. When washing dishes, I occasion dodge an exploratory swipe from atop the cabinetry accompanied by his warbles and chirps (hence Salacious Cat).
He answers only to the laser pointer, with occasional deference to a cloth chipmunk loaded with catnip, plastic milk jug rings and random string.
If his bowl lacks a scoop of soft food later than 3 a.m., I receive paws to the face. Dishing it out is so routine I stumble robotically to the fridge, then leave him a scoop before returning to the pillow.
There are his feral moments -- bearing fangs, eyes blazing, he treats me as prey without a spray bottle intervention. I see it as a reaction to my work-day absence -- he's more affable on the weekends.
During the week, the ghostface presses against the window screen as soon as I pull up, monitoring my every move.
In a strange indifferent city, it's good to be missed, even if a few hours later, a snapping jaw clamps onto my forearm.
Marceau skied away from gunmen (or something like that; he watched closer than I).
Recent James Bond proved the perfect sleep aid; he curled up by the time they reached the obligatory casino. Who knows how he'd have reacted to Denise Richards playing a (gulp) physicist.
It's been a year with the cat. I missed the anniversary due to work deadlines and a bum investment in the Cleveland Indians. Or maybe I collected too many clawmarks to feel festive.
He goes by many name. Evil Creamsicle. Percival Charles M___F__er (his full name). Ghostface Killah. Coon Tail. The Chatterbox. Squeaky Caramel. Orange Fury. Salacious Cat. Some I cannot repeat here.
A paw destroys a VCR's entrails with clawed simplicity. He forgot how to turn on the television with his paws, so at least I'm no longer coming home to a mewing cat and a braying Ellen DeGeneres. Apparently her routine wore him out.
Even with 12-foot ceilings, I can declare no height off-limits to his leaps. When washing dishes, I occasion dodge an exploratory swipe from atop the cabinetry accompanied by his warbles and chirps (hence Salacious Cat).
He answers only to the laser pointer, with occasional deference to a cloth chipmunk loaded with catnip, plastic milk jug rings and random string.
If his bowl lacks a scoop of soft food later than 3 a.m., I receive paws to the face. Dishing it out is so routine I stumble robotically to the fridge, then leave him a scoop before returning to the pillow.
There are his feral moments -- bearing fangs, eyes blazing, he treats me as prey without a spray bottle intervention. I see it as a reaction to my work-day absence -- he's more affable on the weekends.
During the week, the ghostface presses against the window screen as soon as I pull up, monitoring my every move.
In a strange indifferent city, it's good to be missed, even if a few hours later, a snapping jaw clamps onto my forearm.
Bees on wobbly knees
October 28, 2007
Aside from the TV reporter frenzy over cicada-killing wasps in Middle Tennessee, bees have been a rare sight this summer. Those media-ready bees barely stung humans, despite their massive size and swarming tendencies. You have to coax them into a stinging mood.
They quickly departed the public eye, but their smaller, honey-bearing relatives were not frequent sites this summer. Apparently, their vanishing is a national problem. Hives are down across the board and have been for decades, simply disappearing from areas where they formerly thrived.
Those hives that gather naturally, outside man-built honeycombs, receive the worst treatment. I remember my dad and his buddy pouring gasoline down a hole where the bees collected, then dropping in a match. When constructed on our eaves or gutters, we soak them in pesticides and they melt quicker than cardboard in a rain shower.
I'm not criticizing the reasons for that - my mother once suffered multiple stings for swatting one against a box, only to anger a hive built inside. I'm stating fact about the suburban beehive. In fact, one Parisian beekeeper in the PBS documentary said urban bees fare better than the suburban or rural, because the pollen sources receive better safeguards in metropolitan locales.
We think of bees as something to swat, chasing hair products, cologne and perfumes that stimulate its senses. Outside those who study and raise them, we fear them, then dismiss them as sheer nuisance.
When that little jar of honey costs $20, we might miss the buzzing around our heads a little more.
Aside from the TV reporter frenzy over cicada-killing wasps in Middle Tennessee, bees have been a rare sight this summer. Those media-ready bees barely stung humans, despite their massive size and swarming tendencies. You have to coax them into a stinging mood.
They quickly departed the public eye, but their smaller, honey-bearing relatives were not frequent sites this summer. Apparently, their vanishing is a national problem. Hives are down across the board and have been for decades, simply disappearing from areas where they formerly thrived.
Those hives that gather naturally, outside man-built honeycombs, receive the worst treatment. I remember my dad and his buddy pouring gasoline down a hole where the bees collected, then dropping in a match. When constructed on our eaves or gutters, we soak them in pesticides and they melt quicker than cardboard in a rain shower.
I'm not criticizing the reasons for that - my mother once suffered multiple stings for swatting one against a box, only to anger a hive built inside. I'm stating fact about the suburban beehive. In fact, one Parisian beekeeper in the PBS documentary said urban bees fare better than the suburban or rural, because the pollen sources receive better safeguards in metropolitan locales.
We think of bees as something to swat, chasing hair products, cologne and perfumes that stimulate its senses. Outside those who study and raise them, we fear them, then dismiss them as sheer nuisance.
When that little jar of honey costs $20, we might miss the buzzing around our heads a little more.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Typical Nashville conversation
Stranger: So how long have you lived in Nashville?
Me: Five months?
Stranger: How do you like it?
Me: I'm reserving judgment.
Stranger: So why don't you like it?
Me: I didn't say I dislike it. I have a one-year contract to finish before I decide, so I'll .
How "reserving judgment" becomes "I hate Music City" I really don't know. My working days revolve around opinions, so with a big opinion like this, I prefer to hold off.
I don't want to jump to an early conclusion. A new home is a like a freshly uncorked red wine. Chugging off the bottle won't let you discovery its intricacies, or whether it suits your tastes. Let the bottle breathe for a minute, then sip it. Whether its intoxicating, sour grapes or just the tonic to numb away the pains of the world, at the verdict wasn't rushed.
How am I leaning? If I made up my mind today, the U-Haul would depart at dawn tomorrow and never look back. Where would I land? Columbus, Chicago, Denver, Copenhagen, Canberra, Cairo, Dhaka, Damascus, Dar es Salaam. OK, maybe not those last three. That's what I get for trying to stick with C's and D's.
As for N's, I'm reserving judgment until May.
Me: Five months?
Stranger: How do you like it?
Me: I'm reserving judgment.
Stranger: So why don't you like it?
Me: I didn't say I dislike it. I have a one-year contract to finish before I decide, so I'll .
How "reserving judgment" becomes "I hate Music City" I really don't know. My working days revolve around opinions, so with a big opinion like this, I prefer to hold off.
I don't want to jump to an early conclusion. A new home is a like a freshly uncorked red wine. Chugging off the bottle won't let you discovery its intricacies, or whether it suits your tastes. Let the bottle breathe for a minute, then sip it. Whether its intoxicating, sour grapes or just the tonic to numb away the pains of the world, at the verdict wasn't rushed.
How am I leaning? If I made up my mind today, the U-Haul would depart at dawn tomorrow and never look back. Where would I land? Columbus, Chicago, Denver, Copenhagen, Canberra, Cairo, Dhaka, Damascus, Dar es Salaam. OK, maybe not those last three. That's what I get for trying to stick with C's and D's.
As for N's, I'm reserving judgment until May.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Surf Never Lets Up, Wolf Shows Hunger
Admit it, you only know Nada Surf as mid-1990s one-hit-wonders who rode a catchy music video to momentary stardom.
If it don't, you've probably known the band since their 21st century revival as a tight indie trio that straddles the maudlin and the hopeful in almost every song.
There's no way to measure how those two groups split in the Exit/In crowd Tuesday night, but Nada Surf looked forward and ignored the mocking calls for "Popular," their infamous song from a decade ago.
For as uncomfortable as their songs sometimes feel - Matthew Caws' voice occasionally echoes like a forerunner to every emo frontman ever - they cut through it with tightness as a band. The three members leave no space unfilled, and aside from some limited bland banter, let up as little as the October rain pounding outside.
With a setlist divided among its past two records and sprinkled with tracks from its upcoming one, the barely paused as the tempos bounced between punky anthems and slower tunes that went from mellow to anguished. In a day where some bands have the balls to trot out the same setlist every night, Nada Surf didn't play like a band on autopilot - at one point, Caws told the crowd their setlist named a slow song, but they were going with another loud one instead.
The Caws-only "Blizzard of 77," which opens comeback album Let Go, has become almost a signature song, along with a handful of others - "Inside of Love," Blond on Blonde" and "Fruit Fly." The new songs never fingered a new stylistic direction, but fit with the palette laid out on Surf's newer records.
Although a band not known for revisiting the past, Nada Surf tackled two songs on the rarely spun sophomore effort Proximity Effect; the compact heaviness of "Hyperspace" was somewhat unexpected, but meshed with the progression evident in the trio.
Going for a four-song encore ended on the right tone. Further and further from "Popular," Nada Surf's incisive songwriting and live interplay
As for opener Sea Wolf, think Jeff Tweedy's little front a less-prog/rock version of The Decemberists. They easily beat the "Get off the stage" vibe nurtured by most opening acts, even when their keyboardist intruded on some of earthier tunes with some overbearing synth racket that washed away the cello and acoustic guitar. She atoned with some nice piano fills on the sparser songs. But the group showed promise, with its catchy, myspace-ready single "You're a Wolf" topping off a moody yet energetic set.
If it don't, you've probably known the band since their 21st century revival as a tight indie trio that straddles the maudlin and the hopeful in almost every song.
There's no way to measure how those two groups split in the Exit/In crowd Tuesday night, but Nada Surf looked forward and ignored the mocking calls for "Popular," their infamous song from a decade ago.
For as uncomfortable as their songs sometimes feel - Matthew Caws' voice occasionally echoes like a forerunner to every emo frontman ever - they cut through it with tightness as a band. The three members leave no space unfilled, and aside from some limited bland banter, let up as little as the October rain pounding outside.
With a setlist divided among its past two records and sprinkled with tracks from its upcoming one, the barely paused as the tempos bounced between punky anthems and slower tunes that went from mellow to anguished. In a day where some bands have the balls to trot out the same setlist every night, Nada Surf didn't play like a band on autopilot - at one point, Caws told the crowd their setlist named a slow song, but they were going with another loud one instead.
The Caws-only "Blizzard of 77," which opens comeback album Let Go, has become almost a signature song, along with a handful of others - "Inside of Love," Blond on Blonde" and "Fruit Fly." The new songs never fingered a new stylistic direction, but fit with the palette laid out on Surf's newer records.
Although a band not known for revisiting the past, Nada Surf tackled two songs on the rarely spun sophomore effort Proximity Effect; the compact heaviness of "Hyperspace" was somewhat unexpected, but meshed with the progression evident in the trio.
Going for a four-song encore ended on the right tone. Further and further from "Popular," Nada Surf's incisive songwriting and live interplay
As for opener Sea Wolf, think Jeff Tweedy's little front a less-prog/rock version of The Decemberists. They easily beat the "Get off the stage" vibe nurtured by most opening acts, even when their keyboardist intruded on some of earthier tunes with some overbearing synth racket that washed away the cello and acoustic guitar. She atoned with some nice piano fills on the sparser songs. But the group showed promise, with its catchy, myspace-ready single "You're a Wolf" topping off a moody yet energetic set.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Strangers stumble into friends
Since the move, my lone wolf tendencies have soared in some places. I've been to one movie with a friend, plus another four by myself. I went solo at a wedding Labor Day, nothing new, but that worked (blushes slightly) well. And aside from the local bands, concerts have been Loner's Night Out - with a twist.
Twice now I've landed in conversation with nice people. The first were a Columbus couple at the Tim Finn show, just eight days after I moved to Nashville.
Tuesday brought an odder group. Hoping the doors of the Exit/In would open before the skies did, I started talking about Nada Surf with the guy behind me in line, also by himself. Turns out Nashville native Tim owned a software company and could talk music (not that I could relate to the need for a Journey tribute band).
While waiting for opener Sea Wolf to take the stage, we got talking to a friendly fellow speaking English filtered with an accent. Turns out Jeroen was a Dutch hearing specialist, who capped off his vacation to the States with a Nada Surf show (review coming tomorrow). He toured the Smoky Mountain region on a motorcycle and came back for a final night in Music City.
We talked till the music struck up, offered our takes on newcomer Sea Wolf and barely traded a word during Nada Surf's set. Then we traded contact info that might never get used, and it was back into the drizzling autumn rain at midnight.
But if I land in Benelux as intended next spring, I'll be looking up Jeroen - I might call Tim even sooner. Americans have to earn friendly vibes from foreign nationals these days, so it's a waste to pass them up.
Twice now I've landed in conversation with nice people. The first were a Columbus couple at the Tim Finn show, just eight days after I moved to Nashville.
Tuesday brought an odder group. Hoping the doors of the Exit/In would open before the skies did, I started talking about Nada Surf with the guy behind me in line, also by himself. Turns out Nashville native Tim owned a software company and could talk music (not that I could relate to the need for a Journey tribute band).
While waiting for opener Sea Wolf to take the stage, we got talking to a friendly fellow speaking English filtered with an accent. Turns out Jeroen was a Dutch hearing specialist, who capped off his vacation to the States with a Nada Surf show (review coming tomorrow). He toured the Smoky Mountain region on a motorcycle and came back for a final night in Music City.
We talked till the music struck up, offered our takes on newcomer Sea Wolf and barely traded a word during Nada Surf's set. Then we traded contact info that might never get used, and it was back into the drizzling autumn rain at midnight.
But if I land in Benelux as intended next spring, I'll be looking up Jeroen - I might call Tim even sooner. Americans have to earn friendly vibes from foreign nationals these days, so it's a waste to pass them up.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
On the Coal Train
Long months passed since I absorbed local music anywhere - Comfest was the last taste, actually. So last night I broke out of the cage for The Coal Men's DVD release party at The Basement, a dark, comfortable venue below Nashville's best record shop.
Halfway during the show, this guy walked in with some attractive younger women, and the small crowd buzzed at the scent of celebrity. My first thought - did John Denver or The Crocodile Hunter fake their own deaths, because this guy could pass for either one. Eventually we identified him as the singer from Herman's Hermits, which sparked an unhealthy amount of water-cooler talk this morning.
But back to The Coal Men.
For a short show (the packed it in by 10), they effectively ran through their whole spectrum of the sound.
Their louder songs mined alt-country territory with precision. The harmonies clicked, and their eight years as a unit. The most country of their songs avoided mainstream country's pop cliches and stayed rooted in more traditional ground.
The band often lost a step when slowing down, falling into Jack Johnson territory. Any band can work through pedestrian lyrics, but sparser arrangements tend to glaringly highlight their weaknesses. When the men pushed the tempo up, the words mingled cleanly with the guitar interplay. That they list The Jayhawks among their influences should surprise no one; fortunately, the influence merely inflected their music and let the songs breathe.
Old favorites Nada Surf play the Exit/In with myspace wonder Sea Wolf opening. I've not seen a larger show since Gillian Welch survived two sweaty sets in August.
I can give or take the nation acts anymore, now that the locals regained my attention.
Halfway during the show, this guy walked in with some attractive younger women, and the small crowd buzzed at the scent of celebrity. My first thought - did John Denver or The Crocodile Hunter fake their own deaths, because this guy could pass for either one. Eventually we identified him as the singer from Herman's Hermits, which sparked an unhealthy amount of water-cooler talk this morning.
But back to The Coal Men.
For a short show (the packed it in by 10), they effectively ran through their whole spectrum of the sound.
Their louder songs mined alt-country territory with precision. The harmonies clicked, and their eight years as a unit. The most country of their songs avoided mainstream country's pop cliches and stayed rooted in more traditional ground.
The band often lost a step when slowing down, falling into Jack Johnson territory. Any band can work through pedestrian lyrics, but sparser arrangements tend to glaringly highlight their weaknesses. When the men pushed the tempo up, the words mingled cleanly with the guitar interplay. That they list The Jayhawks among their influences should surprise no one; fortunately, the influence merely inflected their music and let the songs breathe.
Old favorites Nada Surf play the Exit/In with myspace wonder Sea Wolf opening. I've not seen a larger show since Gillian Welch survived two sweaty sets in August.
I can give or take the nation acts anymore, now that the locals regained my attention.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Choke, choke, choke (or Steamed by Cleveland)
There you have it. The whole team choked, but I single out Strikeout Machine Travis Hafner and 19-game-winning Cy Young contenders C.C. Sabathia and Fausto Carmona, who proved big-game pitching doesn't come with a high-win count in the regular season.
Fausto's deal with the devil apparently expired at the end of the regular season, leaving him as a soulless husk unable to throw quality strikes. Wedge left Sabathia in one inning too long in Game 5 and Boston pummeled him.
Aside from a double in Game 7, Boston pitching easily manipulated Hafner into striking out and killing rallies (Josh Beckett's double play ball in the first inning of Game 5). It's hard to win when your biggest bat becomes an automatic out.
At this point, Eric Wedge's Indians will have to win it all to shake the choker's reputation they have built. They caught the Twins and fizzled in 2004, broke down with the playoffs in sight in 2005 and died in April in 2006. They looked tough this season, beat a favored Yankees team, and then sputtered against heavily-favored Boston.
While they stood on the porch of the World Series, Boston turned them into a doormat. I said all along the Indians had to finish the deal in Cleveland, or the Red Sox would swipe the momentum.
Now I have all winter to hate being right.
Fausto's deal with the devil apparently expired at the end of the regular season, leaving him as a soulless husk unable to throw quality strikes. Wedge left Sabathia in one inning too long in Game 5 and Boston pummeled him.
Aside from a double in Game 7, Boston pitching easily manipulated Hafner into striking out and killing rallies (Josh Beckett's double play ball in the first inning of Game 5). It's hard to win when your biggest bat becomes an automatic out.
At this point, Eric Wedge's Indians will have to win it all to shake the choker's reputation they have built. They caught the Twins and fizzled in 2004, broke down with the playoffs in sight in 2005 and died in April in 2006. They looked tough this season, beat a favored Yankees team, and then sputtered against heavily-favored Boston.
While they stood on the porch of the World Series, Boston turned them into a doormat. I said all along the Indians had to finish the deal in Cleveland, or the Red Sox would swipe the momentum.
Now I have all winter to hate being right.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Flip your world upside down
Barack Obama and Dick Cheney are eighth cousins, Strom Thurmond's ancestors owned Al Sharpton's ancestors .... all these bizarre political connections have left me at a loss for blogging. And now that Sam Brownback might
Actually, I've been on deadline at work, which tends to muck up the works. The Indians playing into October compounds my problems - in the past two weeks, I've spent six evening s pacing the living room and swearing at the screen.
The good Sisters Stacey came to Nashville last weekend - and we toured Music City in proper style for proper style - the honkey tonks of Lower Broadway, lunch on the Bicentennial Mall, soft serve at Bobbie's Dairy Dip and a few night owl brews at the Greenhouse Bar. Their 36-hour visit felt like it stretched for days.
It was probably the toughest visit thus far, since it brought back memories from the roughest of mornings, May 19. The two of them stayed until the U-Haul grumbled to life and the caravan to Nashville rolled away. Sheri helped me with last-minute errands, and when we returned, Erin held onto a drugged yet indomitable Percy.
When they left, I slept mightily, retreating from the homesickness that tugs so savagely sometimes.
Actually, I've been on deadline at work, which tends to muck up the works. The Indians playing into October compounds my problems - in the past two weeks, I've spent six evening s pacing the living room and swearing at the screen.
The good Sisters Stacey came to Nashville last weekend - and we toured Music City in proper style for proper style - the honkey tonks of Lower Broadway, lunch on the Bicentennial Mall, soft serve at Bobbie's Dairy Dip and a few night owl brews at the Greenhouse Bar. Their 36-hour visit felt like it stretched for days.
It was probably the toughest visit thus far, since it brought back memories from the roughest of mornings, May 19. The two of them stayed until the U-Haul grumbled to life and the caravan to Nashville rolled away. Sheri helped me with last-minute errands, and when we returned, Erin held onto a drugged yet indomitable Percy.
When they left, I slept mightily, retreating from the homesickness that tugs so savagely sometimes.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Antique pitching
Paul Byrd throws with a windup (sometimes a double one) seldom seen since Warren Spahn retired. Tim Wakefield pushes a frustrating knuckleball. Outside of Boston's Manny Delcarmen, the relief was spot-on for both squads. The 7-4 final score doesn't speak to the pitching battle that happened in Cleveland Wednesday night. Each team's scoring came from a single half-inning.
Turning point: If Wakefield kept his glove off of Asdrubal Cabrera's infield hit in the fifth, it goes right to second baseman Dustin Pedroia, potentially ending the inning. Instead, the Tribe get six more.
Scene and herd:
After Kevin Youkilis sounded bored to tears when reading the Sox starting lineup, Joe Buck piped in, "He even sounds intimidating reading the lineup."
After five innings, the spell wears off and Paul Byrd turns back into a pumpkin. But through five, he threw even better than against the Yankees. Watching Papi and J.D. Drew whiff on that inside fastball that didn't approach ninety was magic.
Amen, Joe Girard: The former Marlins manager ripped Manny for watching his sixth-inning homerun sail into the stands. The solo shot brought the Sox within four, and after the game, Girardi slowly gritted through his teeth, "That homer didn't mean anything."
Final thought: Deion Sanders, we need you and your bucket of water in the broadcast booth. Maybe cold blast will get McCarver's neurons firing again .... but that's just wishful thinking.
Turning point: If Wakefield kept his glove off of Asdrubal Cabrera's infield hit in the fifth, it goes right to second baseman Dustin Pedroia, potentially ending the inning. Instead, the Tribe get six more.
Scene and herd:
After Kevin Youkilis sounded bored to tears when reading the Sox starting lineup, Joe Buck piped in, "He even sounds intimidating reading the lineup."
After five innings, the spell wears off and Paul Byrd turns back into a pumpkin. But through five, he threw even better than against the Yankees. Watching Papi and J.D. Drew whiff on that inside fastball that didn't approach ninety was magic.
Amen, Joe Girard: The former Marlins manager ripped Manny for watching his sixth-inning homerun sail into the stands. The solo shot brought the Sox within four, and after the game, Girardi slowly gritted through his teeth, "That homer didn't mean anything."
Final thought: Deion Sanders, we need you and your bucket of water in the broadcast booth. Maybe cold blast will get McCarver's neurons firing again .... but that's just wishful thinking.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Wonderful Westbrook
When a sinkerball pitcher falls into groove, that's when a game really takes off.
I didn't have the Treynors' view on the field, but from where I sat, Westbrook pounded the bottom of the strike zone and Bosox hitters pounded grounders to Cleveland's infield all night.
He threw all of six pitches in a two-minute third inning, as noted by the always inane Fox broadcast team, who showed more interest in shuffling the Red Sox rotation than calling the game.
Now Game 4 goes to Byrd-Wakefield. A man who grunted his way to 15 wins versus a 17-win knuckleballer with a rough shoulder. Whatever voodoo magic guided Byrd through five innings against the Yankees will hold up one more time.
I didn't have the Treynors' view on the field, but from where I sat, Westbrook pounded the bottom of the strike zone and Bosox hitters pounded grounders to Cleveland's infield all night.
He threw all of six pitches in a two-minute third inning, as noted by the always inane Fox broadcast team, who showed more interest in shuffling the Red Sox rotation than calling the game.
Now Game 4 goes to Byrd-Wakefield. A man who grunted his way to 15 wins versus a 17-win knuckleballer with a rough shoulder. Whatever voodoo magic guided Byrd through five innings against the Yankees will hold up one more time.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Cleveland sports notes
C.C. the F.C.? *
Whether tired from all his innings logged in 2007 or melting under the playoff lights, Tribe ace C.C. Sabathia has not been his usual self on the mound. He's looked more like Burt Young than Cy Young. He tightened up and shut down the Yankees when necessary, but his jump in walks allowed revealed a pitcher with post-season butterflies.
Against Boston, he could barely throw a strike at times, and relied on some mediocre off-speed pitches, while his heater virtually disappeared. If he doesn't return to form in Game Five, the Indians stay home for the World Series.
No blues for Game Two
The Sox chased Carmon early, but the score froze at 6-6 for so long that when the bottom of the 11th rolled around, I squinted hard at the television. "Could it really say 13-6?" The Indians squeezed out seven in a half-inning. This offense is either stalled or throttling.
But the Indians could not return to Cleveland down 2-0. They confirmed they can hang with Boston, a fired-up hometown crowd will greet the Sox tonight.
Brady who? A Browns team able to win if it posts ridiculous numbers on offense is a welcome change for Cleveland fans. Derek Anderson can really wing the pigskin and as long as his targets (Braylon Edwards, Kellen Winslow) deposit their egos on the sideline, this team can threaten. A .500 team six games in? I expected the Golden Boy to be taking shots from opposing defenses by now, not Anderson putting on an aerial display.
Whether tired from all his innings logged in 2007 or melting under the playoff lights, Tribe ace C.C. Sabathia has not been his usual self on the mound. He's looked more like Burt Young than Cy Young. He tightened up and shut down the Yankees when necessary, but his jump in walks allowed revealed a pitcher with post-season butterflies.
Against Boston, he could barely throw a strike at times, and relied on some mediocre off-speed pitches, while his heater virtually disappeared. If he doesn't return to form in Game Five, the Indians stay home for the World Series.
No blues for Game Two
The Sox chased Carmon early, but the score froze at 6-6 for so long that when the bottom of the 11th rolled around, I squinted hard at the television. "Could it really say 13-6?" The Indians squeezed out seven in a half-inning. This offense is either stalled or throttling.
But the Indians could not return to Cleveland down 2-0. They confirmed they can hang with Boston, a fired-up hometown crowd will greet the Sox tonight.
Brady who? A Browns team able to win if it posts ridiculous numbers on offense is a welcome change for Cleveland fans. Derek Anderson can really wing the pigskin and as long as his targets (Braylon Edwards, Kellen Winslow) deposit their egos on the sideline, this team can threaten. A .500 team six games in? I expected the Golden Boy to be taking shots from opposing defenses by now, not Anderson putting on an aerial display.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Horses find stride, Radiohead rides on (Download it for yourself already)
Anyone hear about a new Radiohead album coming out?
Seriously, that automatically makes In Rainbows the 800-pound gorilla of new releases, even if the world received it via e-mail. I paid five pounds (the weak dollar and strong British Pound put that at $10 and change); that's the going rate for most new releases in the CD's declining days.
As with any week, a second solid contender emerged, wiping away the disappointment of Rilo Kiley and the Foo Fighters.
Almost running wild
Band of Horses upped the ante for their sophomore release, Cease to Begin, expanding sonically but not lyrically. In losing founding member Mat Brooke and migrating from the Pacific Northwest to the Carolina their songs largely abandon claustrophobic, forced feel of their debut and open up.
The Neil Young/Flaming Lips-ish vocals fit the dreamy music more evenly this time around. A quartet of the 10 tracks - "Is There a Ghost," "Detlef Schrempf," "Islands on the Coast" and "Cigarettes, Wedding Bands" - demonstrate how far they've come a vanilla opener for Iron & Wine in early 2005 (their show at Cleveland's Grog Shop left the vaguest of impressions).
But 34 minutes? Don't waste the old "But Sgt. Pepper only ran 37 minutes" excuse. The Magic 8-Ball predicts Band of Horses' third record will finally bring this group comfort in its own skin --- it hasn't reached that level yet, but their progression makes it interesting.
On the cusp again
Just for its guerrilla marketing, Radiohead earned praise for kicking dirt in the dying recording industry's face.
Announcing In Rainbows 10 days before release, then offering it only through the band site for whatever fans want to pay was revolutionary, even if the music isn't.
A longtime fan, it was pointless to wait for the brick-and-mortar version - after six listens, the boys fail to disappoint, although In Rainbows never throws out surprises like OK Computer or Kid A.
Enough track-by-track reviews flutter through the Internets, so I'll focus on a few favorite moments. "All I Need" is the clear winner for me, with its menacing, everpresent bass riff and shy piano. The raw, pepped-up guitar of "Bodysnatchers" catches on quickly. "Faust ARP" nests gently between "Blackbird" and "Mother Nature's Son." "Nude" floats by ethereally. The epic beauty of "Jigsaw Falling Into Place" is hard to top. "Videotape" falls flat as an album closer, but this gloomy number does pack a lyrical wallop (In a word, it's about someone leaving a videotape as their last will and testament).
Radiohead turned out a monster record, pushing boundaries where Hail To the Thief returned to rock form. Drop a few pounds, mind the 2:1 to exchange rate, and let the album submerge. Radiohead are an iceberg at times - a surface glance reveals too little when so much resides deep in the water.
Finally
The late Elliott Smith, of "Good Will Hunting" fame, wrote strong songs before he took the solo route. Mic City Sons, their last disc, offers a band at its creative zenith, with Smith's songwriting prowess pointing to where his tragically short solo career led.
If "Low-Flying Jets" won't move you, nothing will.
Seriously, that automatically makes In Rainbows the 800-pound gorilla of new releases, even if the world received it via e-mail. I paid five pounds (the weak dollar and strong British Pound put that at $10 and change); that's the going rate for most new releases in the CD's declining days.
As with any week, a second solid contender emerged, wiping away the disappointment of Rilo Kiley and the Foo Fighters.
Almost running wild
Band of Horses upped the ante for their sophomore release, Cease to Begin, expanding sonically but not lyrically. In losing founding member Mat Brooke and migrating from the Pacific Northwest to the Carolina their songs largely abandon claustrophobic, forced feel of their debut and open up.
The Neil Young/Flaming Lips-ish vocals fit the dreamy music more evenly this time around. A quartet of the 10 tracks - "Is There a Ghost," "Detlef Schrempf," "Islands on the Coast" and "Cigarettes, Wedding Bands" - demonstrate how far they've come a vanilla opener for Iron & Wine in early 2005 (their show at Cleveland's Grog Shop left the vaguest of impressions).
But 34 minutes? Don't waste the old "But Sgt. Pepper only ran 37 minutes" excuse. The Magic 8-Ball predicts Band of Horses' third record will finally bring this group comfort in its own skin --- it hasn't reached that level yet, but their progression makes it interesting.
On the cusp again
Just for its guerrilla marketing, Radiohead earned praise for kicking dirt in the dying recording industry's face.
Announcing In Rainbows 10 days before release, then offering it only through the band site for whatever fans want to pay was revolutionary, even if the music isn't.
A longtime fan, it was pointless to wait for the brick-and-mortar version - after six listens, the boys fail to disappoint, although In Rainbows never throws out surprises like OK Computer or Kid A.
Enough track-by-track reviews flutter through the Internets, so I'll focus on a few favorite moments. "All I Need" is the clear winner for me, with its menacing, everpresent bass riff and shy piano. The raw, pepped-up guitar of "Bodysnatchers" catches on quickly. "Faust ARP" nests gently between "Blackbird" and "Mother Nature's Son." "Nude" floats by ethereally. The epic beauty of "Jigsaw Falling Into Place" is hard to top. "Videotape" falls flat as an album closer, but this gloomy number does pack a lyrical wallop (In a word, it's about someone leaving a videotape as their last will and testament).
Radiohead turned out a monster record, pushing boundaries where Hail To the Thief returned to rock form. Drop a few pounds, mind the 2:1 to exchange rate, and let the album submerge. Radiohead are an iceberg at times - a surface glance reveals too little when so much resides deep in the water.
Finally
The late Elliott Smith, of "Good Will Hunting" fame, wrote strong songs before he took the solo route. Mic City Sons, their last disc, offers a band at its creative zenith, with Smith's songwriting prowess pointing to where his tragically short solo career led.
If "Low-Flying Jets" won't move you, nothing will.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Welcome back, Cap
From the administrator: My inner comic book geek demands indulgence, and this news forces him to the surface. So beware the geek-itude, or move onto the next post.
In four issues, Captain America returns to his namesake comic. The character created 65-plus years ago, who famously punched Hitler in the face on one early cover, died in March, struck down by assassin's bullets.
However, it won't be the same man beneath the cowl --- for now, Marvel
has stuck with "Dead means dead for Steve Rogers." They tell fans it won't be Rogers in costume, but fans know death, even with a corpse and a funeral, has term limits in funny books. If you're uninitiated, take note: comic characters struggle to stay dead. Superman's death 15 years ago exposed that habit to the American public.
Cap was different --- any ordinary man given super-abilities, he was not just an order-following soldier. He served his country, not always his government. In Marvel's Civil War storyline, Cap lead resistance to a superhero registration act. The war ended with his surrender, his trial the scene for murder.
Cap's assassination comes as a gut-punch delicately framed by his closest allies recounting what he's meant to them. The frantic trip to the hospital, grief of friends and his potential assassin's capture collide in a manner that never overdoes the melodrama.
His book now follows those friends through the aftermath with spectacular results; few comics run long after their title characters die or exit the narrative. But writer Ed Brubaker put Cap's supporting cast in the spotlight while keeping the Cap's presence firmly entrenched in every page.
It might not be the same man (yet), but as a symbol, Cap means more than any single man.
Patriots without debt to politics are rare, even in fiction.
I'm worried about Tony Gwynn
Baseball Hall-of-Famer Tony Gwynn still wears many hats - manager and announcer being the most prominent.
Unfortunately, one of the game's greatest hitters looks like he should be bound for "The Biggest Loser."
Seeing him in the broadcast booth during the Indians-Yankees series was a shock. He looked huge - through his career, he could hit the ball anywhere, but now he might keel over on the 90-foot run between home plate and first base.
Granted, the man has always struggled with weight. Later in the 1990s, his knees wore out, and Gwynn could barely run. As other players grew bulky from steroids, Gwynn's physique ensured no juicing accusations would ever fly in his direction.
Perhaps managing the team at his alma mater, San Diego State, has taken a physical toll on Gwynn. More than any other sport, baseball managers suffer the health hits of sitting in a dugout for 3-4 hours per night. Anyone subject to Tommy Lasorda's Slim Fast commercials in the 1990s knows most managers could afford to drop weight.
In addition to his skill with a bat, Gwynn has always possessed a keen mind. I just hate to see one of baseball's gentlemen go to flab.
Unfortunately, one of the game's greatest hitters looks like he should be bound for "The Biggest Loser."
Seeing him in the broadcast booth during the Indians-Yankees series was a shock. He looked huge - through his career, he could hit the ball anywhere, but now he might keel over on the 90-foot run between home plate and first base.
Granted, the man has always struggled with weight. Later in the 1990s, his knees wore out, and Gwynn could barely run. As other players grew bulky from steroids, Gwynn's physique ensured no juicing accusations would ever fly in his direction.
Perhaps managing the team at his alma mater, San Diego State, has taken a physical toll on Gwynn. More than any other sport, baseball managers suffer the health hits of sitting in a dugout for 3-4 hours per night. Anyone subject to Tommy Lasorda's Slim Fast commercials in the 1990s knows most managers could afford to drop weight.
In addition to his skill with a bat, Gwynn has always possessed a keen mind. I just hate to see one of baseball's gentlemen go to flab.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Enough about The Other Boss
So who was the team the Yankees somehow lost to? Check any media outlet outside of Ohio, and you'll find them splattered with headlines like "Bronx Bummer." No "Tribe's Time," no "Byrd Soars," not snappy take on David slaying Goliath in his home ballpark.
Even Sports Illustrated spent more column-inches on whether Boss Steinbrenner will fire Joe Torre, whether A-Rod will exercise his contract's opt-out clause or which free agents might return to the Yankees next year.
This guy is the only one to give them a minute of screen time.
Make no mistake, I'm thrilled. I expected that all-star lineup to tee off on Paul Byrd's 84 mph fastball - Eric Wedge (pride being swallowed as I write) had faith in Byrd, and he stymied the Yankees in their own pad.
For all of you upset that the Red Sox-Yankees championship series won't happen ... tough luck, and we'll catch you next spring. The TV networks dislike the small-market teams, but few wanted to see another New York-Boston series outside of their towns. Those matchups during the regular season receive such blithering hype that fans of other teams tune them out. In the playoffs, the bias coats every word.
At least I don't have to tune the Yankees out anymore - the Indians knocked them off the airwaves.
Even Sports Illustrated spent more column-inches on whether Boss Steinbrenner will fire Joe Torre, whether A-Rod will exercise his contract's opt-out clause or which free agents might return to the Yankees next year.
This guy is the only one to give them a minute of screen time.
Make no mistake, I'm thrilled. I expected that all-star lineup to tee off on Paul Byrd's 84 mph fastball - Eric Wedge (pride being swallowed as I write) had faith in Byrd, and he stymied the Yankees in their own pad.
For all of you upset that the Red Sox-Yankees championship series won't happen ... tough luck, and we'll catch you next spring. The TV networks dislike the small-market teams, but few wanted to see another New York-Boston series outside of their towns. Those matchups during the regular season receive such blithering hype that fans of other teams tune them out. In the playoffs, the bias coats every word.
At least I don't have to tune the Yankees out anymore - the Indians knocked them off the airwaves.
Monday, October 08, 2007
The Boss' October (I'd Burn Them If I Still Could)
As usual, the new album parade never refuses new marchers.
Just in October, the slate includes Band of Horses, the soundtrack to I'm Not There, Chrome Dreams II from Neil Young and Radiohead's surprise seventh album In Rainbows (I'm one of the saps who will actually buy it) .
Back on E Street
The new Bruce Springsteen needs a proper introduction to a set of speakers.
Bruce --- start your car, insert Magic into CD player, find somewhere to drive for the next hour.
Some nights I can't pass the raucous opener "Radio Nowhere," where the music that can't penetrate the static stands in for the static that drives a further wedge between today's people.
The E Street Band together (well cobbled together by producer Brendan O'Brien -- each recorded their parts in separate sessions) should be a joyous occasion. And unlike its much-lauded The Rising, there's a sense of fun among the anger at the world (except for little Stevie, whose picture on the album looks as if he's waiting for the next season of The Sopranos to start filming.
The marvel I find in the music - aside from Clarence Clemons and the only saxophone to perfectly mesh with rock and roll - is Springsteen's always muscular voice. He aged better than Dylan, and while the gruffness no longer comes from an man older than his years, it still rises from untilled soil filled with a healthy outrage.
Jose Gonzalez: More golden plucking
Realistically, indie-folkie Gonzalez could have called Veneer II, but Gonzalez strikes out into more percussive tones on In Our Nature. The lyrics still have that charming and challenging "English Sung as a Second Language" character.
While tapping the same vein, Gonzalez still churns out memorable tunes -"Killing for Love" and the driving guitar drone on "Teardrop" that won't leave my mind, for instance.
I go easy on him because the man and an acoustic guitar routine doesn't breed variation. While his sound doesn't grow, the strength of the songwriting overcomes the familiarity.
Music easily described as "Brighter Nick Drake" but operating in a different sphere. for the uninitiated, Gonzalez grew up in Sweden to Argentine parents who fled their nation's fascist regime. In the right space (like the Wexner Center's Room at the Center of the Earth) his voice echoes magnificently.
"So how's it gonna be. When it all comes down you're cycling trivialities" is fine as a verse closing the album, but not as a musical motto. Gonzalez has declared his territory -- let's hope he doesn't decide to built a fence around it. He won't get any freebies on Album Three.
Speaking of Nick Drake
Nashville's hot streak won't end. Germany's Oktoberfest has passed and it's entirely too hot to quaff for its thick, malty lager. Likewise with fall music -- I really want to break out Drake's wonderful debut Five Leaves Left, but it never sounds proper until the temperature calls for long sleeves. "Time Has Told Me" and "When the Day is Done" are sturdy in the fall, but would wither in the 90-degree days that won't evaporate.
While the calendar says otherwise, I know better than to ruin an album by spinning it before its season inhabits the air.
Just in October, the slate includes Band of Horses, the soundtrack to I'm Not There, Chrome Dreams II from Neil Young and Radiohead's surprise seventh album In Rainbows (I'm one of the saps who will actually buy it) .
Back on E Street
The new Bruce Springsteen needs a proper introduction to a set of speakers.
Bruce --- start your car, insert Magic into CD player, find somewhere to drive for the next hour.
Some nights I can't pass the raucous opener "Radio Nowhere," where the music that can't penetrate the static stands in for the static that drives a further wedge between today's people.
The E Street Band together (well cobbled together by producer Brendan O'Brien -- each recorded their parts in separate sessions) should be a joyous occasion. And unlike its much-lauded The Rising, there's a sense of fun among the anger at the world (except for little Stevie, whose picture on the album looks as if he's waiting for the next season of The Sopranos to start filming.
The marvel I find in the music - aside from Clarence Clemons and the only saxophone to perfectly mesh with rock and roll - is Springsteen's always muscular voice. He aged better than Dylan, and while the gruffness no longer comes from an man older than his years, it still rises from untilled soil filled with a healthy outrage.
Jose Gonzalez: More golden plucking
Realistically, indie-folkie Gonzalez could have called Veneer II, but Gonzalez strikes out into more percussive tones on In Our Nature. The lyrics still have that charming and challenging "English Sung as a Second Language" character.
While tapping the same vein, Gonzalez still churns out memorable tunes -"Killing for Love" and the driving guitar drone on "Teardrop" that won't leave my mind, for instance.
I go easy on him because the man and an acoustic guitar routine doesn't breed variation. While his sound doesn't grow, the strength of the songwriting overcomes the familiarity.
Music easily described as "Brighter Nick Drake" but operating in a different sphere. for the uninitiated, Gonzalez grew up in Sweden to Argentine parents who fled their nation's fascist regime. In the right space (like the Wexner Center's Room at the Center of the Earth) his voice echoes magnificently.
"So how's it gonna be. When it all comes down you're cycling trivialities" is fine as a verse closing the album, but not as a musical motto. Gonzalez has declared his territory -- let's hope he doesn't decide to built a fence around it. He won't get any freebies on Album Three.
Speaking of Nick Drake
Nashville's hot streak won't end. Germany's Oktoberfest has passed and it's entirely too hot to quaff for its thick, malty lager. Likewise with fall music -- I really want to break out Drake's wonderful debut Five Leaves Left, but it never sounds proper until the temperature calls for long sleeves. "Time Has Told Me" and "When the Day is Done" are sturdy in the fall, but would wither in the 90-degree days that won't evaporate.
While the calendar says otherwise, I know better than to ruin an album by spinning it before its season inhabits the air.
(Shelby) Bottomed Out: Half-Marathon Musings
If not for Kathy (sp?) from Southwest of Chicago, I might not have gathered the little energy still hiding in my burned calves and hamstrings.
After mile 10, running for any stretch flared up every pain, tweak, twist and pull every inflicted on my legs.
I sputtered and stalled, another victim for an 80-degree October morning. Running loses any trace of fun at that distance, shoved aside by every grueling sensation and blistered foot. But honestly, I wasn't ready for this grind --- instead of ramping up to 13.1 miles, I tried to rush my way there.
Running the same course through the Shelby Bottoms Greenway as the 15K, the scenery chewed me up --- after the turnaround loop, the terrain that sloped uphill all the way there suddenly felt uphill again -- the break I hoped for would not arrive. For once, I thought I would endure when I ran out side stitch that hit me in Mile 3 (there was no fucking way I'd throw in the towel then).
As for Kathy, she came up behind me past Mile 11 and as I waited for her to pass me, she said, "Alright, we're going to run 100 paces, then we'll rest until we can run 100 more. It got me through the last two miles." Fighting abdominal dissension, I kept with her. She was an experience marathon runner whose ragweed allergies killed her pace at Shelby Bottoms. We continued along until Mile 13, when I said thanks and goodbye so I could finish out the last tenth of a mile in a jog. She alone saved me from finishing beyond the (line redacted) mark.
As a volunteer collected my timing chip, I said, "Feel free to toss than damned thing in the river." He reminded me they cost $30, a price I was willing to pay for the unenviable time the chip made immortal.
Luckily, a time of (author mumbles inaudibly) still earned a Finisher's Medal. I worried the awards presentation might include a "Bringing Up the Rear" award for the slowest running, with a little turtle statue or something equally humiliating. However, that's totally out of character for these runnin' types.
For all the distance covered, a rest in a warm tub healed all but the blisters. I still looked 70 when rising from a chair, yet walked without any knee or joint pain.
Someone who will go unnamed bailed out on me due to work, and that hurt -- I think over that distance, having someone to run with definitely speeds up the pace. Aside from the last two miles, I was on my own -- and it felt rough.
If I don't reap some joy from this, I might as well throw in my timing chip - as good as that might feel right now.
After mile 10, running for any stretch flared up every pain, tweak, twist and pull every inflicted on my legs.
I sputtered and stalled, another victim for an 80-degree October morning. Running loses any trace of fun at that distance, shoved aside by every grueling sensation and blistered foot. But honestly, I wasn't ready for this grind --- instead of ramping up to 13.1 miles, I tried to rush my way there.
Running the same course through the Shelby Bottoms Greenway as the 15K, the scenery chewed me up --- after the turnaround loop, the terrain that sloped uphill all the way there suddenly felt uphill again -- the break I hoped for would not arrive. For once, I thought I would endure when I ran out side stitch that hit me in Mile 3 (there was no fucking way I'd throw in the towel then).
As for Kathy, she came up behind me past Mile 11 and as I waited for her to pass me, she said, "Alright, we're going to run 100 paces, then we'll rest until we can run 100 more. It got me through the last two miles." Fighting abdominal dissension, I kept with her. She was an experience marathon runner whose ragweed allergies killed her pace at Shelby Bottoms. We continued along until Mile 13, when I said thanks and goodbye so I could finish out the last tenth of a mile in a jog. She alone saved me from finishing beyond the (line redacted) mark.
As a volunteer collected my timing chip, I said, "Feel free to toss than damned thing in the river." He reminded me they cost $30, a price I was willing to pay for the unenviable time the chip made immortal.
Luckily, a time of (author mumbles inaudibly) still earned a Finisher's Medal. I worried the awards presentation might include a "Bringing Up the Rear" award for the slowest running, with a little turtle statue or something equally humiliating. However, that's totally out of character for these runnin' types.
For all the distance covered, a rest in a warm tub healed all but the blisters. I still looked 70 when rising from a chair, yet walked without any knee or joint pain.
Someone who will go unnamed bailed out on me due to work, and that hurt -- I think over that distance, having someone to run with definitely speeds up the pace. Aside from the last two miles, I was on my own -- and it felt rough.
If I don't reap some joy from this, I might as well throw in my timing chip - as good as that might feel right now.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Remember the Jeter Shuffle, not LeBrutus James
If you're not connected to Cleveland, this means nothing to you.
If you are, you're pleased at the Indians' win last night, yet befuddled by the city's biggest sports personality rubbing his Yankees cap in the fans' faces. But you're still glad he ate crow and removed it after a five-run fifth inning.
For some reason, I have this nightmare image of LeBron running onto the Jacobs Field to join in a Yankee celebration.
Game 1 blurred that vision beyond recognition.
Years from now, LeBron's headwear will be long forgotten, and this image will still be crisp in mind: Derek Jeter almost falling after swinging so hard at a C.C. Sabathia fastball.
See? It warms an Indians fan's heart.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
A requiem for Larry Craig
"Hey judge, I want to change my plea three months after I pleaded guilty."
Now, in all of Western Civilization, has that line every worked? Judges aren't going to cut slack in a verdict when the defendant monkeys around with their plea. No one outside of Boise expected the judge to reverse course.
Sen. Craig ... hell, I'm calling you Larry, since I've gotten to know you so well since your little toe-tapping escapade ( I won't call it "alleged" since you were content with a guilty pleas before it went public).
Larry, listen up - the more you speak, the deeper a hole you dig yourself. At this point, you're catching up to fellow bullshit artist Floyd Landis. You should have stuck with the "I plead guilty to get it behind me" line; it worked for Martha Stewart, it could have worked for you.
Larry, you're "I'm not gay" crusade leads me to believe you will challenge this plea through every court that will swifly reject it. Maybe it's time to pack it in, and go back to your day job. Your colleague David Vitter allegedly cavorted with hookers, yet he went quietly after an initial apology-backed denial.
If you don't, the people of Idaho might decide to give you all the time you need to withdraw that plea in the next Republican primary.
Politicians make mistakes like anyone. But that desperation to retain public office transforms them into more savage animals. As they scramble to save their careers when faced with certain defeat, they exemplify the pathetic.
At this point, he might as well stay --- after all, a chamber packed with degenerates is hardly wounded by one more staying onboard.
Now, in all of Western Civilization, has that line every worked? Judges aren't going to cut slack in a verdict when the defendant monkeys around with their plea. No one outside of Boise expected the judge to reverse course.
Sen. Craig ... hell, I'm calling you Larry, since I've gotten to know you so well since your little toe-tapping escapade ( I won't call it "alleged" since you were content with a guilty pleas before it went public).
Larry, listen up - the more you speak, the deeper a hole you dig yourself. At this point, you're catching up to fellow bullshit artist Floyd Landis. You should have stuck with the "I plead guilty to get it behind me" line; it worked for Martha Stewart, it could have worked for you.
Larry, you're "I'm not gay" crusade leads me to believe you will challenge this plea through every court that will swifly reject it. Maybe it's time to pack it in, and go back to your day job. Your colleague David Vitter allegedly cavorted with hookers, yet he went quietly after an initial apology-backed denial.
If you don't, the people of Idaho might decide to give you all the time you need to withdraw that plea in the next Republican primary.
Politicians make mistakes like anyone. But that desperation to retain public office transforms them into more savage animals. As they scramble to save their careers when faced with certain defeat, they exemplify the pathetic.
At this point, he might as well stay --- after all, a chamber packed with degenerates is hardly wounded by one more staying onboard.
Misplaced Muni Stadium Nostalgia
The Indians playoff appearance has dredged up some longing for a place best left under Lake Erie -- Cleveland Municipal Stadium.
If it was memorable, it one was for one reason - the men's room had the world's longest pee troughs. They also might have qualified as the world's grimiest.
The rest was so old it could have been carved by the same glaciers that gouged out Lake Erie. When 3,000 people came out for a weeknight game, my Dad and I often rotated through different decks and seating sections, moving on when we felt like it - or some overeager usher asked for tickets. Maybe Muni Stadium started my lifelong love of cavernous empty places --
When Indians wins were uncommon, and the team consisted field rejects from around the league and stars desperate for a trade, highlights usually came from the visiting team - a doubleheader with the Oakland A's during Canseco's 40-40 season, Cecil Field thumping 3 homers on his way to a season of 51.
The only time I ever encountered a crowd was Muni's last Opening Day in 1993, when the deaths of two Indians pitchers during a spring training fishing trip muted any excitement.
Notice how nostalgia clings to the Indians and the days when no one went to those games. For a Browns home game, an butt filled every rickety seat, even though arctic blasts off the lake turned any given Sunday into the Cold Show on Earth. Cleveland Browns Stadium sits on the same footprint as Municipal Stadium, and the misery at East 9th goes on with every kickoff. So any whimsical looks back must be confined to baseball.
Jacobs Field vastly improved upon the drafty public works project too big for any team, especially one that bumbled through decades without hope.
If it was memorable, it one was for one reason - the men's room had the world's longest pee troughs. They also might have qualified as the world's grimiest.
The rest was so old it could have been carved by the same glaciers that gouged out Lake Erie. When 3,000 people came out for a weeknight game, my Dad and I often rotated through different decks and seating sections, moving on when we felt like it - or some overeager usher asked for tickets. Maybe Muni Stadium started my lifelong love of cavernous empty places --
When Indians wins were uncommon, and the team consisted field rejects from around the league and stars desperate for a trade, highlights usually came from the visiting team - a doubleheader with the Oakland A's during Canseco's 40-40 season, Cecil Field thumping 3 homers on his way to a season of 51.
The only time I ever encountered a crowd was Muni's last Opening Day in 1993, when the deaths of two Indians pitchers during a spring training fishing trip muted any excitement.
Notice how nostalgia clings to the Indians and the days when no one went to those games. For a Browns home game, an butt filled every rickety seat, even though arctic blasts off the lake turned any given Sunday into the Cold Show on Earth. Cleveland Browns Stadium sits on the same footprint as Municipal Stadium, and the misery at East 9th goes on with every kickoff. So any whimsical looks back must be confined to baseball.
Jacobs Field vastly improved upon the drafty public works project too big for any team, especially one that bumbled through decades without hope.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Thinking about long-gone Angelo
With all the bombardment of anniversaries force-fed by the media and other sources, the personal ones often become obscured in the fanfare.
The flux and my attempts to rein in Nashville life led me to forget July marked a decade since the death of Angelo, one of the pillars of my childhood summers in Connecticut.
A rough-hewn Italian tough-guy, he was a stone mason before retirement, and would not have looked out of place among Morty Seinfeld's friends. During the last long vacations in Connecticut, he served as a substitute grandfather.
The Melville kids were subjected to the yearly ritual of 10 days to one month in Connecticut, where we did very little - not a grand surprise considering who we visited. My grandparents did very little of anything; my grandmother cooked and paid attention only to those under five, while my grandfather traveled the Fairfield County garage sale circuit every morning. I was his sidekick. Once my grandfather died, those were lonely summer days. This was hardly a pilot light for a young kid's mind; it was a damp rag ready to extinguish any sign of a spark.
Although they had grandchildren of their own, Angelo and his wide Millie went out of the way to bring my sister and I into the fold. Some days we saw more them than our own families. Even in their seventies, they understood how life in my grandparents house would have felt for kids our age.
I ran errands with Angelo, zipping around Westport and Norwalk. A few times we went fishing with him down at the tidal gates. Several times a summer my sister and I piled into his red VW Beetle convertible for an afternoon at Compo Beach.
It was a trip to the beach when I was seven that will never go forgotten. That was one of the first trips when Angelo and Millie took us out for the afternoon. With weeks to go until school resumed, people of all ages invaded the sand. After a few hours in the shallow water, I had to go to the bathroom.
With no patience for long lines at the restroom huts, Angelo waved me back from where I came. "Just go in the ocean," he said.
After wading out to hip depth, I pulled my suit down to give a stream back to Long Island Sound - and a free peak to anyone out in the water. No said anything, no laughter - except Angelo. When I walked back hardly the wise, he just glared at me. "I meant just go in your bathing suit!" he yelled while trying to repress his laughter.
The last time I saw him, my dad and I walked up Reichert Circle to visit with him. The spring had left his step; leg problems kept him in the chair for our entire stay. After a few slow minutes, his mind emerged from the sheath, sharp as always.
Inevitably, he returned to that day at the beach. As he retold it, laughter almost knocked him out of the chair.
The flux and my attempts to rein in Nashville life led me to forget July marked a decade since the death of Angelo, one of the pillars of my childhood summers in Connecticut.
A rough-hewn Italian tough-guy, he was a stone mason before retirement, and would not have looked out of place among Morty Seinfeld's friends. During the last long vacations in Connecticut, he served as a substitute grandfather.
The Melville kids were subjected to the yearly ritual of 10 days to one month in Connecticut, where we did very little - not a grand surprise considering who we visited. My grandparents did very little of anything; my grandmother cooked and paid attention only to those under five, while my grandfather traveled the Fairfield County garage sale circuit every morning. I was his sidekick. Once my grandfather died, those were lonely summer days. This was hardly a pilot light for a young kid's mind; it was a damp rag ready to extinguish any sign of a spark.
Although they had grandchildren of their own, Angelo and his wide Millie went out of the way to bring my sister and I into the fold. Some days we saw more them than our own families. Even in their seventies, they understood how life in my grandparents house would have felt for kids our age.
I ran errands with Angelo, zipping around Westport and Norwalk. A few times we went fishing with him down at the tidal gates. Several times a summer my sister and I piled into his red VW Beetle convertible for an afternoon at Compo Beach.
It was a trip to the beach when I was seven that will never go forgotten. That was one of the first trips when Angelo and Millie took us out for the afternoon. With weeks to go until school resumed, people of all ages invaded the sand. After a few hours in the shallow water, I had to go to the bathroom.
With no patience for long lines at the restroom huts, Angelo waved me back from where I came. "Just go in the ocean," he said.
After wading out to hip depth, I pulled my suit down to give a stream back to Long Island Sound - and a free peak to anyone out in the water. No said anything, no laughter - except Angelo. When I walked back hardly the wise, he just glared at me. "I meant just go in your bathing suit!" he yelled while trying to repress his laughter.
The last time I saw him, my dad and I walked up Reichert Circle to visit with him. The spring had left his step; leg problems kept him in the chair for our entire stay. After a few slow minutes, his mind emerged from the sheath, sharp as always.
Inevitably, he returned to that day at the beach. As he retold it, laughter almost knocked him out of the chair.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Sunday night's sinking ship
Sunday night TV has run its course. The Simpsons in the 21st Century can be mainly described as vanilla episodes with a few funny moments - Phil King once said it jumped the shark when Maude Flanders plunged to her death, and I don't argue. One or two good episodes is all they can muster out of 22.
American Dad is refried Family Guy with an alien and Patrick Stewart (Can someone give this guy a real role, please? He can actually act.) After two seasons, the formula aged poorly. Lock this rogue agent in a sub-basement of CIA headquarters.
King of the Hill ran off the heat of five quality seasons, stretching it's true-to-life feel close to the decade mark.
But it has grown stale - adding a character voiced by Tom Petty changes nothing. Lucky is just Cousin Oliver with a twangy accent and a balky back. The show felt finished several seasons ago; while on hiatus, Fox renewed it. Now I hear a record skipping with a Texas drawl: "propane and propane accessories .... narrow urethra ... Rusty Shackleford ... What's that Boomhower?"
Seth MacFarlane and his crew can barely string together a coherent plot for 22 minutes. The show's goal appears to be to assault viewers with enough TV and pop cultural references that they see the silhouette of story. If they manage a full-length story, someone else wrote it first - more often than not the writers pilfer a famous movie script and drop in Quahog's residents accordingly.
The hour-long Star Wars episode, while pretty funny, was the culmination of these homages. It won't be Family Guy's last.
American Dad is refried Family Guy with an alien and Patrick Stewart (Can someone give this guy a real role, please? He can actually act.) After two seasons, the formula aged poorly. Lock this rogue agent in a sub-basement of CIA headquarters.
King of the Hill ran off the heat of five quality seasons, stretching it's true-to-life feel close to the decade mark.
But it has grown stale - adding a character voiced by Tom Petty changes nothing. Lucky is just Cousin Oliver with a twangy accent and a balky back. The show felt finished several seasons ago; while on hiatus, Fox renewed it. Now I hear a record skipping with a Texas drawl: "propane and propane accessories .... narrow urethra ... Rusty Shackleford ... What's that Boomhower?"
Seth MacFarlane and his crew can barely string together a coherent plot for 22 minutes. The show's goal appears to be to assault viewers with enough TV and pop cultural references that they see the silhouette of story. If they manage a full-length story, someone else wrote it first - more often than not the writers pilfer a famous movie script and drop in Quahog's residents accordingly.
The hour-long Star Wars episode, while pretty funny, was the culmination of these homages. It won't be Family Guy's last.
9.3 for the anniversary
One hundred minutes later, it was done.
If I had a choice, I'd rather have run the Cat Capers 5K back in Clintonville. I'll run for other cats because I run from my own.
The run through Shelby Bottoms Park was as flat as the terrain gets in Nashville - gentle rolling land guided the path through acres of wildflowers and forest. For the first time, I plowed ahead on only adrenaline and momentum.
The 8-mile mark never looked sweeter. OK, the 9-mile was unbelievably sweet -My singed feet had covered more ground than ever before had 0.3 miles until rest. And the pain waited until I returned home to begin, when I had to shake off a millennium of rust just to exit my car.
I've been running (ir)regularly since August 2007, and a year ago I took my first plunge into the 5K pool, finishing in a little more than 28 minutes.
One year, 25 races, a pile of T-shirts, a martini glass, one finisher's medal, one pumpkin pie, a first-place medal for Conquer the Creek (only one in age group to participate) and a second-place for Howl at the Moon in La Vergne (ditto).
So long as my blistered right toe heals, the celebration will wrap up with the Music City Half-Marathon, which tacks 3.8 miles onto the same course.
With a little luck, vaseline and new in-soles for my shoes, next week's posts will start with "One hundred fifty minutes later, I stopped for good."
If I had a choice, I'd rather have run the Cat Capers 5K back in Clintonville. I'll run for other cats because I run from my own.
The run through Shelby Bottoms Park was as flat as the terrain gets in Nashville - gentle rolling land guided the path through acres of wildflowers and forest. For the first time, I plowed ahead on only adrenaline and momentum.
The 8-mile mark never looked sweeter. OK, the 9-mile was unbelievably sweet -My singed feet had covered more ground than ever before had 0.3 miles until rest. And the pain waited until I returned home to begin, when I had to shake off a millennium of rust just to exit my car.
I've been running (ir)regularly since August 2007, and a year ago I took my first plunge into the 5K pool, finishing in a little more than 28 minutes.
One year, 25 races, a pile of T-shirts, a martini glass, one finisher's medal, one pumpkin pie, a first-place medal for Conquer the Creek (only one in age group to participate) and a second-place for Howl at the Moon in La Vergne (ditto).
So long as my blistered right toe heals, the celebration will wrap up with the Music City Half-Marathon, which tacks 3.8 miles onto the same course.
With a little luck, vaseline and new in-soles for my shoes, next week's posts will start with "One hundred fifty minutes later, I stopped for good."
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