I promised a Joan Jett solo jumpsuit post, New Year's Eve is the perfect time because I have great memories of 1984 MTV Rockin' New Year's Eve. It was a slumber party but I can't remember if it was my friend Nancy or my friend Kris who was there. I'm pretty sure my friend Stacey was there. We were too young to go out for NYE, but we wished we were out doing something exciting. Joan Jett was on and at some point we noticed she missed a spot when she shaved her armpits. We all wished we were older, sipping champagne, out for the big party, and with a cute date. We didn't know yet that pizza and girlfriend sleep over was way better than any of those things. The near future would bring me boring NYE at St. Andrews Hall with Goober and the Peas and lots of dashed high hopes. Staying up late with Joan Jett is the one that sticks in my mind.
In terms of the jumpsuit, she's got fringe leather, she's got 80s puffy sleeves. Joan Jett, you rock the the jumpsuit with the big boys.
Last night I dreamed of headless kangaroos. What? This morning I woke up with Midnight OilBeds Are Burning stuck in my head.
That got me thinking of songs that were constantly played on the radio. I think the worst ever must have been summer of 1984 or 1985 when Rock Master Scott & the Dynamic Three were on every radio station in metro-Detroit all the time. I remember going down to see the 4th of July fireworks and that song was pouring out the windows of every car, drunk people were singing it, and when we parked it was echoing in the parking garage.
I've listened to a lot of both in the past 24 hours and I can easily say that. I dusted off my TNT album from the late-1990s and found some forgotten favorites though. I still like Swung from the Gutters and had forgotten all about it.
(Tortoise performing Swung From The Gutters live at the Firebird in St. Louis, MO on September 29, 2009 posted by snivelttam)
Disappointingly, both of the live versions I found on Youtube sound little like the recorded version. My favorite element of the song -- a kind of repetitive yet mounting beat "doo doo doo .... doo doo doo ....doo doo dooo" is absent. Did they forget to bring that machine on the road with them? If I were a recording gadget geek I'd be better able to hear, understand and explain the differences. I just know that I am hearing chaos but not the string of sounds that holds the song together on my CD.
Lala only has a 30 second clip but it is a "good part."
But honestly, there's no competition: Tina Turner still kicks Tortoise Ass 99 times out of 100. Swung from the Gutters is going back into my regular rotation and I'm going to see what they've been up to in the last dozen years. I've changed, I wonder how they have.
There are scenes, There are blues There are boots, There are shoes There are Turks, There are fools There are Rockers, They're in schools There was you, Then there was you
I jumped in. I am the official owner of an online dating profile. This mostly just makes me feel queasy. Not in the excited before a big event way but in the "I ate too many marshmallows and I wish I hadn't" way.
I'm finding two things very interesting in this so far brief experience.
1. Most of the men in my age range who state strong interest in music and list musical preferences mention a lot more modern, ambient, avant garde and electronic stuff that would never come right to my mind if I talked about bands I love. Some of it I know, some of it is okay in small doses, some of it I like, and lots of it makes me fear I would be living in Tron if we hit it off and shacked up.
I've known and loved recording and electronic toy dorks before (and thank god for that or who would swap out my stereo tubes when they blow!) but I feel a bit worried that there will be some sort of pop quiz about what keyboard is being used for the tinkle at minute 12:53 of Shoegaze Reptoid Zap! by DJ RJ (aka Ubu Boi).
Do these guys secretly still listen to Metallica and Hank Williams too but want to put forward their hip, young intellectual side? Will my fondness for acoustic guitar, outrageous lead singers,and words date me and doom me?
2. One of the questions this particular site asks is "What do you love that everyone else hates?" My answer is Styx. This seems to be the low hanging fruit of my profile that men use as an opening and it is fascinating. I know from experience talking with with people in pubs that Styx does not go over well and there is no convincing a hater. The only other artist that comes close to this in terms or universal knowing and loathing is Grace Slick.
I can't imagine sending a message that reads: StyNx sux! *wink*
Now that makes a girl feel special. At least I know they've read the words and didn't just look at the pictures ....off now to listen to Taking Tiger Mountain (by Strategy). I love Brian Eno and wonder if he earns me some weirdy music points even if he is an old timer.
I'm not sure how many times I've seen It's a Wonderful Life but 23 seems a good guess. I also don't remember the first few times I saw it but I think I might have been young enough not to fully get it or teenage enough to be jaded. So I'm going to generously give myself three viewings when I might not have bawled as soon as Mr. Gower boxes young George's ears. And then continued to cry on and off through the rest of the movie.
I usually make it dry eyed that far. That's right after cute little Mary and cute little Violet sigh over George and right before we finally see Jimmy Stewart when he gets a suitcase we know he'll never use. And usually, once I get to my favorite scene -- "She's just about to close up the library!" -- I am okay for the rest of the movie. Frustrated ambitions provoking more tears than heart-warming generosity and the love of an entire town.
But this year Jimmy Stewart kicked my butt from the first view of Bedford Falls right down to ZuZu and that tinkly bell. I give up.
Plan for the day: listen to as many of the "Best Albums of 2009" as suggested by the WFUV staff, finish addressing my New Year 2010 cards, finish making chicken noodle soup for sick friend H. who is arriving sometime after 6 tonight, bake banana spice bread, make chocolate fig challah treats, get BBQ ribs and mac 'n cheese ready to go for lunch tomorrow.
In the course of doing my Tomorrow is Long Time compare-a-thon I've come across something, someone, too amazing to bury in a long list of cover artists. I'd listened to a dozen covers at Lala already when I clicked the play button on a guy named Michel Montecrossa. I knew this was something different so I decided to hunt down a website. Wow, Wow!
I'm convinced my iPod can read my mind. (Yeah, I'm back on this, maybe I should finish that dumb story over this long holiday weekend.)
I don't know exactly how the shuffle algorithm works, my guess is that it gives weight to artists/songs that are frequently listened to. Maybe songs that I skip get a negative weight to them. Beyond all that though, I think it knows me.
I was just listening to Living for the City by Stevie Wonder and thinking about how my friend B.'s band used to cover that song. And how B. liked to sing that the legs beneath sister's short skirt were pretty rather than sturdy.
Next song up? A recording of I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine/Too Far Gone/Tomorrow is a Long, Long Time that my friend B. made in college. It was not his band, just him so the iPod didn't see two artists who did Living in the City and pulled a different song by the second artist.
I need to do a research project on the Shuffle. Luckily, a quick Google search of "ipod shuffle algorithm" reveals a whole slew of sites by math and computer science dorks who know a lot more about this stuff than me. They all seem more interested in randomness and whether all songs will be played before one song will be played twice. I have not seen anything yet about the development over time of human-iPod hive mind communication though. I'm going to send my iPod mental hints to load the Odetta, Nick Drake and Elvis covers of Tomorrow is a Long Time. I love the Rod Stewart and feel a "compare-athon" coming on. According to Wikipedia there are also covers by Harry Belafonte, Nickel Creek, Dion, Chris Hillman, Ian and Sylvia, Joan Baez,The Kingston Trio,Sandy Denny, Danielle Howle, The Silkie, Nationalteatern, Rosalie Sorrels, Judy Collins, Dream City Film Club, and The Black Family.
I'm doing one of my favorite things this morning, it's probably not high on the list for many people though. I've got the Jewel Autumn Harvest Aladdin tea pot full of green tea; a big stack of pots, pans and dishes from last night's holiday dinner with my friend C.; my apron; my purple rubber gloves; and the iPod set to shuffle. I'm going to dive into kitchen clean up after a great dinner and a big mess.
Shuffle has been good for me so far - Christmas Eve started off with The Golden eel (!) by Ween and then launched into Powderfinger.
I haven't put a lot of thought into it but in the back of my mind I guess I figured that when the time came, I'd want to be cremated. It seems neater, less gross. I don't especially care what happens to my body after I die but the idea of decomposing in a satin lined box is kind of yucky.
Cremation called to mind the funeral pyre. I like that. Not to mention, I have the cremated remains of the best cat in the world, Creamy Dave, in a bottle. I happened to have a roommate who worked at a vet's office when Creamy Dave met his untimely demise. I don't show them to just anyone and realize it is kind of weird, but they are not gross at all. Kind of interesting actually.
But on the way to work today, I read and article about the enormous amount of gas and energy required to run a crematorium and the amount of pollutants belched out in the process. Some new process, called "resomation" is big with the green crowd. As far as I can tell, "resomation" is a made up word to avoid how revolting this process is. It involves a chamber and boiling chemicals and, while I like to do my part for the planet, it gives me the heebie jeebies. I don't think I could ask my loved ones to do that for me. Bleh.
To try to exorcise those heebie jeebies and in keeping with my Progressive Rock train of thought the past week, I think I need some Kansas.
I love that video. The hair, the furrowed brow, those awful blonde bangs, the high school prom ruffled shirts. Seeing that makes me mad all over that, when my mom fell in love with that song and bought the tickets to see Kansas at Pine Knob in 1978, she took my sister instead of me. I also would have loved to see the looks on both of their faces as they sat surrounded by 1978 pot smoking Kansas fans. Unfortunately, I don't have that memory. I went to Barry Manilow that summer instead.
Two things reminded me of my 8th grade teacher today: Prisoner Cell Block H and Satisfaction.
Miss M. used to be Sister Mary M. and was bat-shit crazy. She was built like a prison warden and looked a bit like Lou Costello. She also seemed to have a thousand tiny teeth but that is neither here nor there. Rumor had it that she was a tortured and closeted Catholic lesbian who had an unconsummated wish that the friend and roommate she frequently talked about was her lover. I have no clue what was really going on inside but there was definitely something twisted up and festering. She was obsessed with Rock 'n Roll, hell, Satan and sex and spent a lot of time talking about it to 13 and 14 year old kids
On one of the first days in Religion class she had written on the board: FRENCH KISSING. She made us define it for her and told us how we should never, ever do this outside of marriage because it simulated the sex act.
Four years earlier, when my sister was in her class, Miss M. told her that both of our parents were going to hell. Actually, just my Dad was going for sure. Mom could still avoid it if she didn't get married again. I'm pretty sure Mom was going to have to spend extra time in Purgatory though since she must have done something wrong to make her drug hooked husband cheat and leave his family.
Miss M. was a music lover. She was the choir teacher and, when I was in 8th grade, coordinated the effort to have our entire class sing "On Eagles Wings" at the funeral of a girl who had graduated the year before. The girl had been brutally bludgeoned to death in her home, was disfigured and in an open casket. The choir sat up front and I can still see the curly blond wig in my mind's eye and that horrible song gives me the willies.
Miss M. was also in charge of re-writing the lyrics to songs that we sang on special occasions. Our class song was Journey's Open Arms. The opening line was:
Walking beside you Into this school Feeling your hand pressed in mind.
I wish I could remember the rest but all that comes to mind is the line: I'm nearly grown now ready for life
Another song, written to welcome a new priest to our school after the prior one went to rehab (again a rumor) was sung to the tune of Hey Look Me Over and had a refrain:
Father Gucci* You're. The. One!
Miss M. was also a music hater. We listened to a 2-second clip of Stairway to Heaven over and over again. She heard the name Satan in the background, I only heard Peanuts parents talking. I've always been bad at making out lyrics though. This was 1982-1983 and the Ozzy/bat/satanic ritual hysteria was at its peak. We sure heard about it and heaven help the poor kid who doodled a Black Sabbath or Ozzy logo on a folder.
Miss M. really had it in for the Rolling Stones. She demanded to know if we knew who they were talking about when they said "Please allow me to introduce myself?" It never seemed very mysterious to me but she seemed to think our young minds were being tricked into hearing about Satan. She told us that the lyrics to Satisfaction were changed by censors and the song originally used the phrase "I can't get no sex reaction." I remember thinking the censors did us a big favor and "sex reaction" was a pretty unsexy phrase.
At the time, I wasn't particularly interested in any of those bands and thought she was behind the times. I was far more interested in Billy Squier and Van Halen. A year or so later, when my musical tastes changed (or maybe just my friends), I still did not gravitate toward these bands. Instead, the world of U2 and Frankie Goes to Hollywood and New Order started to call.
By the time I came back around to the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, I wasn't very impressionable or likely to be sucked into a Black Mass. I had thousands of better reasons to love the music than rebelling against Miss M. and all that I'd heard, but I'm not going to feel too bad if part of it is the spirit of rock 'n roll rebellion.
*Name rhymed to protect the real (if not the innocent) and maintain the poetry and flow of the lyric.
Yesterday, after a late night out drinking red wine and talking with my friend B. about Progressive Rock and David Mamet, I had a red wine hangover. I didn't have a headache or stomach ache or any of the usual symptoms, but I was unable to drag myself out of bed or away from my Netflix on demand feature. I watched 14 hours of Monarch of the Glen. Today, I took a long walk to try to shake off the bedsores and break the connection to bad BBC.
While I was out, something rare and pretty great happened.
A beat up Ford pickup rolled to a stop next to me with Bringin'on The Heartbreak blaring out the poorly sealed windows. The driver took advantage of the red light to take his hands off of 10 and 2, play drums on the steering wheel, headbang, and sing out proud.
I realized I don't hear much Def Leppard coming out of cars these days and I don't see many beat up trucks either. My liberal, green, tree hugger self likes that so many old gas guzzlers are off the road. They've been replaced with cleaner and more efficient models. But my eyeballs really miss old cars, not "classic" cars but just plain old cars. Cars that don't all look the same and don't are not painted taupe or moss. I wish someone would invent a super cheap way to drop spiffy new engines and working parts into cool older cars.
The skin tight, high waisted, red satin pants in this video are also rare and pretty great.
Last night I was reminded of the song that got away and entered the ranks of "haunting" music for me. About a dozen years ago, my friend C. and I were running errands on a hot Denver day. It was too far past lunch time when we pulled into the parking lot of a thrift store on the other side of town from home. I was crabby and I'm pretty sure he was too, although he was always more reserved with his crabby than I am. If the DJ told us who the pianist was we had not been paying attention but out of the car speakers came the most amazing performance ever of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The first movement was slow and still and seemed to soothe the heat for a few minutes. We didn't say anything when we pulled into the parking spot but C. didn't turn off the radio and neither of us made a move to open our doors.
We just sat there and listened.
I eventually purchased a Horowitz recording and enjoy it often. Last night though, I listened to several more on Youtube and think that maybe the Daniel Barenboim is closer to how I remember it. I'm going to spend some time looking through this Classical Music Blog entry too. Most of it is over my head, but I am interested in the reviews and Top 10. At this point, I don't expect to ever find that version and don't really want to. That version has been layered with memory and enhanced in my mind. It is fun to think about and long for though.
I just finished writing a letter to K., who was my best friend circa 1983-1985ish. I had not talked to her for 25 years until the magic of Facebook came along and now we are catching up.
A side effect of this reunion is having Welcome to the Pleasuredome flashbacks.
(Francis Guinan, Patrick Andrews and Tracy Letts in American Buffalo photo by Michael Brosilow)
I've been letting American Buffalo rattle around in my head for the past few days before writing. I loved the play and didn't realize when reading it how funny some of the lines can be. The set design in this production is amazing; I had a seat in the center, second row and it was hard not to wander up and rummage around inside the drawers and bins and cabinets. I also never noticed how much of an offstage but always present figure Ruthie is. As prominent in the group as Fletch.
What was hard for me to deal with was the undercurrent of stupidity in the characters that was sometimes played for laughs. They were dim-witted rather than downtrodden. I've always read them as small-time guys with "big" plans that are not even very big. "Big" plans they'll never be able to carry out. They're cast offs like the stuff in the shop.
Losers. Yes. Pathetic. Yes. But not oafs or morons.
Bobby was the most blatant but Teach was the hardest for me. I have a very specific image in my head of what Teach looks like and it's neither Al Pacino nor Dustin Hoffman. I can picture everything from his side burns (70s but not silly) to his boots (cowboy but not too flashy.) His jacket is a rust or burgundy leather car coat. He is lean and lanky with dark hair. He's manipulative and not as smart as he thinks, but not stupid either. He's cunning and makes things up on the spot with a vague plan to deal with things when they come up.
The way that Tracy Letts played him really messed with those expectations. That's good because I listened carefully and re-read the play when I got home. I also Netflixed the Dustin Hoffman movie to watch again, but it arrived in two-pieces so I'll have to wait a bit longer. I'm trying to be open minded but when it comes down to it, I don't like Teach played as a baffoon or looking like a schlubby Dr. Johnny Fever who is always hiking up his polyester pants. That undermines some of the brilliant Mamet dialogue. Maybe it is an interesting foil for it but I'm not feeling that right now.
This is, however, no criticism of Dr. Johnny Fever. I loved WKRP in Cincinnati (although at the time I remember thinking Bailey was not only prettier than Jennifer but the same person as Mrs. Kotter) and wish it was available on DVD with the original music.
Another favorite piece of jewelery has bitten the dust. The red ring I bought on my trip to Japan must have fallen out of a pocket or something. I wore the ring last Friday for the big photo shoot and I know I had it on when I went out for beer and pizza after. I have not been able to find it since. I have a bad habit of getting really fidgetty in jewelery and taking it off. I think that while I was out, I slipped it off and into my coat pocket or into my book bag where it later fell out. In the photos I took later Friday night, I no longer have the ring on.
R.I.P. red ring. Say hello to black onyx ring and Pentax K-1000 if you happen to see them. I know this is pretty small scale but I am really, really tired of this feeling of loss and disappointment. I'm ready to find something or win something for a change of pace.
Since I've been called out for not providing an actual picture of the eel cookies, here they are. I don't know how to post an image in a comment so I'm making a special post for it.
Also, I've decided that the word "eel" looks funny when capitalized.
Eel.
From now on, no matter where it is in a sentence or title, I'm going all lower case.
I should also come clean and admit that I did NOT eat the eel pie last night after Mamet. I was feeling all snuggly and warm and ready for bed and I made hot chocolate. I knew my friend P. would be distressed at the thought of me mixing seafood and dairy, so I put the snack on hold.
I got my first Christmas gift of the season today. My friend A., who lives in Hamamatsu, sent me Unagi Pie, a local delicacy that I have been mocking for years. There are two things you need to know about Unagi Pie.
1. Pie = cookie/cracker type thing. I can live with that. 2. Unagi = Eel. That's harder to swallow.
According to the box, these are "Snacks for nights." The box shows what at first appears to be one man bending over while another prepares to spank him. On closer examination it is two men fishing for eel.
I spent a few weeks traveling in Japan and ate a fair amount of eel, crunchy, little pink eel with purple eyes. Before that, I associated eel with Gunter Grass' Tin Drum. More specifically, with Volker Schlondorff's film scene of the eels writhing in the horse head. I've also spent plenty of time in dive Polish bars where there are pickled eggs and eel behind the bar. Big, fatty, oily eel. In Japan, I stayed at a monastery for a few days where they proudly served something called "mountain vegetable" for breakfast. Closer examination revealed tiny little eyeballs on my vegetable, or maybe I was just paranoid by that time. I ate everything except those horrible bright pink, sour balls served as a side at every meal.
So I'm game. I think it's crazy to make eel pie instead of Key Lime pie or eel cookies instead of chocolate-ginger cookies but I'll try this Unagi Pie; I'll snack on it at night. My friend A. can't scare me. I've decided that Friday night, when I get home from seeing American Buffalo, is the perfect night for eel pie with a shot of vodka to wash it down. There Stands the Glass seems like the right soundtrack for this event.
I'm finally over listening to the Tragic Mulatto albums all the way through everyday; I get by with just a daily dose of Man with a Tan. I've noticed that I am having more and more cravings for another band and another song though and it is directly related to the Tragic Mulatto crazy tuba sound.
The song I keep thinking about is Tom Waits' Singapore and the band is Chicago "circus punk marching band" Mucca Pazza.
(video by EriniChristinewho has a lot of beautiful concert footage!)
I saw Mucca Pazza for the first time at Lollapalooza 2006. Other than Raconteurs cover of Crazy, the Mucca Pazza show was by far the highlight of the whole festival. Yay, local band! It is so much fun to go see them in a bar too, no matter how much of a hole-in-the-wall place it is, they find a way to march through the crowd. I don't think I want to meet the person who can go to one of their shows and not have a good time.
Their shows remind me of the best part of the Thanksgiving parade in Detroit, the high school marching bands. Some are boring with traditional songs and straight ahead marching but a couple are incredible. I can't remember if it was Cass Tech or Osbourne HS during the 80s but one of them was amazing and funky and had some great dance moves too. Dance moves with tubas! The only difference is that instead of going to the parade at an ungodly hour of the morning and standing around in the bitter cold the Mucca Pazza shows always start much later than I'd like in really hot and crowded bars.
I have a million things to do tonight; dishes to wash, a roast to roast, a letter to my friend K. to write, a thank you not to my friend E. to send, and a Secret Santa gift to assemble. I'm even suppose to be thinking about what it is I am looking for in a man so that I can talk about it tomorrow afternoon with the nice therapist lady who is helping me unpack what is (if this blog is any indication) my overstuffed baggage.
So I put the stereo on shuffle and was moving through my chores with Sunny Day Real Estate, Ben Harper, Said Mrad, Humble Pie, The Beach Boys, The Time, The The, and Lucinda Williams without pause when, all of a sudden, I was sucked over to the stereo, listened for a minute, and found myself getting teary.
I *love* this song.
I can't give my heart to Bob Dylan the way I do to Neil Young, I have reservations. Too much of my connection with Bob happens in my head instead of in my heart, ears and gut .... Most of the Time. And then something like this comes on.
I've heard many of versions of this but this one is the only one I like. Although I have not heard the Donovan version so I can't be too hasty. The Martin Carthy version is too impersonal sounding for me and most versions sound too new-age bookstore, Celtic, buy-it-for-your-SCA friends crappy. I can't even stand listening through the Joan Baez version--though that is my reaction to most Joan Baez.
I have the day off work and I am going to get professional photographs taken. This is part of my Christmas gift for my mom (it will be the first time since 1987) and will allow me to take back mantle space from all those crooked-teeth,runny nosed grandkids who have taken over! For a long time, I kept pace with the siblings: school photos, senior picture, graduation. But the adult photo opportunities seem to have passed me by. The siblings provided wedding, baby's first Christmas, and family portrait updates but I've become trapped for all time in a soft lighting, blue feather boa photo from senior year.
The choice was to either provide a grandchild or go get a studio photo. In some ways the grandchild option would be less traumatic; I'm okay looking in real life but I'm not photogenic. Of course I could not get a haircut scheduled until yesterday, so my bangs are a bit too short and crazy looking today. I really did try to make this picture nice, I went on no less than three shopping trips to find some outfits but came back empty handed. (I did, however, see a few JUMPSUITS at Macy's.) I even went to a make-up lesson on Wednesday night in the hopes of putting on a better face today. But today, instead of putting on a smokey eye or even running up to Walgreens to get volumizing mascara instead of the lengthening mascara I currently own and don't really need, I am sitting her freshly scrubbed and thinking about Duran Duran.
I have not done that much since 1984/85 but I've listened to it quite a bit this week and even walked down memory lane with my old friend K. about a defunct, Detroit area, Duran Duran wanna-be band called Second Self. I had forgotten how weird the videos for Girls on Film and Hungry Like the Wolf are. A big wide, Simon Le Bon headband could solve my crazy bangs problem or I wonder how my mom would feel about a portrait of me, mostly naked, caked with mud and decorated with zig zag yellow face paint? I bet that kind of photo could generate a bit of online date interest ....
I am more excited about some music tonight than I have been in a long time. For several years I have been hoping to get my hands of listenable versions of some out of print albums put out by Alternative Tentacles.
In the mid-90s, I had a sometimes housemate named T. in both Detroit and Denver. T. was an interesting guy in many ways. I never had any idea what was going on in his head and his only answer (ever) to the question "What do you want to do?" was "A hitter." And yet we had a lot of fun times and, from that phase of my life, he is almost the only friend of whom I have pure good memories.
One of the long lasting results of knowing T. is my love of the band Tragic Mulatto. He had homemade cassette tapes of both Chartreuse Toulouse and Hot Man Pussy and, when he was laid up for weeks and weeks on end at his dad's house recovering from blood clots in his legs, I ordered him "official" copies of the entire Tragic Mulatto catalog. A decade ago, Alternative Tentacles still had the albums and cassettes in stock. But they've never made a CD and I haven't found digital files either. So I have been living without "Scabs on Lori's Arms," "Debbie," "Stinking Corpse Lily," "Man with a Tan," "Hardcore Bigot Scum Get Stabbed" and "She's a Ho." Not to mention a great cover of Slade's "I Don't Mind." The cover of "Whole Lotta Love" is great for about 2.5 out of the 6 minutes. I don't love woman screeches though or meandering punk rock instrumental so the rest of it bugs me.
I was thinking about my friend T. today (he had long, flowing, blonde hair like David Lee Roth and used to use that Mane and Tale conditioner on it)and decided to check again for some online Tragic Mulatto. Success! Someone named Egnu Cledge has a blog called Victorian Squid and uses it to talk about and share music instead of blab on about jumpsuits.
In 6th grade I was in love with Eddie Van Halen and convinced that as soon as I was old enough, I would meet him and marry him. My room was decorated with Van Halen albums, I had a Van Halen jersey, and I even had a leather wrist band that was really stylish with my purple feather earrings. Moccasin boots would have completed the look but my mom never let me sink (rise?) to such burnout lows (highs?)
Yeah, yeah there was that whole Valerie Bertinelli thing but, instead of deterring me, she just made me glad I was a brunette and convinced I had a shot. Today, Valerie is looking fine in a swimsuit; Eddie only has half a tongue (or so the urban legend says); and I'm sprouting grey in my brunette hair and sizing up the jumpsuits of Van Halen.
Eddie, you will always be my favorite but your jumpsuits (like Pete's) are too much like coveralls. Thanks for the guitar playing and for being my first rock star obsession, but you are not the Jumpsuit King.
I'm also going to be blunt and just say up front that neither Michael Anthony nor Alex Van Halen have enough charisma to win this contest. It doesn't matter how good their jumpsuits might be. I won't even bother Google Image searching their names. That leaves us with David Lee Roth: known as much for his high fashion as for his golden mane. This is a jumpsuit! And the move to go with it. As great as this jumpsuit is though, I have to hesitate. I feel like DLR is better known for his assless chaps and big mat of chest hair.
When calling up a mental image of the winner, he or she should be wearing a jumpsuit. In my minds-eye, David Lee Roth is always half naked with a bunch of ribbons and bandannas tied around his calves. This is a dangerous rule to make: plenty of other contenders are going to have other prominent looks too. And David Lee Roth represents the athletic, bodysuit kind of jumpsuit rarely achieved by other rock stars. He always looks ready to out tumble a team of Chinese gymnasts and do it with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. That settles it: David Lee Roth, you are moving on to the next round!
Could a woman win best jumpsuit in Rock 'n Roll? If it's possible, my money is on one of The Runaways.
The trouble with a women in a jumpsuit is that it's not as unexpected as a man in a jumpsuit. Women don't have to go quite as far out, fashion-wise, to wear one. And what is a jumpsuit vs. a pantsuit vs. a bodysuit vs. a body stocking? The lines are blurrier and it would be far less shocking to see a Regular Jane walking around in a jumpsuit than a Regular Joe.
The girls in The Runaways have enough attitude though to make it clear that they're not just wearing your Momma's ugly fashion blunder from times gone by. They go all out and give us: Stretchy, silver, sleeveless spacesuits; Badass, black, biker chic; Adorable cap sleeves with opera gloves; and Joan Jett's iconic, red-leather number with racer stripes.
Add in the platform shoes and feathered hair and I'm convinced a lady could take the crown.
And since Joan Jett is my favorite (despite of that whole Love Hurts disaster), I am selecting her as the group representative. Unfortunately, in a move that smacks of sexist b.s., I am going to subject her to a 2nd round interview during which her solo career jumpsuit achievements will be evaluated. Congratulations Joan Jett, you are still in the running to become My Next Top Jumpsuit.
(Nitzer Ebb - Join In The Chant (Live At Technoclub Belive Tour 1989) video put up by jrollet)
Last night Nitzer Ebb played at the Double Door, a short walk up the road for me. When I saw the ad for it I had a flashback to dancing under the strobe lights with a gimlet in my hand at Todd's Sway Lounge. Todd's was located on Seven Mile in Detroit, right by my Grandma's old house and in a "bad" neighborhood. In 1986 and 1987, I had a fake ID (Thank you Amy Elizabeth Burrows!) and convinced my mom that I had a friend named Todd who lived in the suburbs. Trying to come up with lies to go out on Thursday nights was a challenge and having to be home by 11pm or so was a major barrier in trying to run with the cool kids. Every now and again there would be the glorious Thursday where someone had parents out of town or the stars had aligned and we could stay out really late.
Todd's Sway Lounge was incredibly grungy: the bathroom floors were always flooded and often puked on. You were also never quite sure who or how many people you were going to find in a stall. The basement bar seemed to have disgusting European porn on a constant loop. But you could rely on Todd's to serve you strong drinks even if you were only 16 and didn't look much like the girl in the photo, to be playing music that wasn't played on the radio, and to be a safe haven for guys who wanted to wear eyeliner. In the grand spirit of coincidence, I've come across a flyer for a Reunion Party that was also last night. Especially useful, since my youthful brain was pickled with gimlets and my memories are hazy, is the convenient historical overview.
"Travel back in time to the decade of decadence- the‘80s-this holiday season to revisit a Detroit dance club that was the epitome of ‘80s glory. Todd’s, formally known as Todd’s Sway Lounge, was a gay nightclub on Detroit’s far eastside that was on the cutting edge of the new wave of eighties music and lifestyle.
Detroit club impresario- Stirling, first approached the owners of the venue in 1983 and convinced them to try out a dance music night on Monday evenings to cater to a growing subculture of club kids. The owners welcomed this idea, and a new dance party was launched. Stirling hired the eclectic DJ Charles English to spin the latest in dance music, Euro-pop, new wave and even some punk classics and funk gems thrown into the explosive mix of music that had the patrons up and dancing the night away. When Monday nights became thee popular weekly destination, they expanded to Thursday nights as well. The nightclub was one-of-a-kind as it featured more than just a dance floor. A basement theater was dubbed “the video coffin” that showed cult films and videos courtesy of host Kory Clarke (later of the band Warrior Soul), upstairs featured Benson’s couture clothing boutique called “Transvestia Dementia” (and later turned into a record store run by Michael Fiscus) and the vintage clothing/record store/ art gallery called “Chaos,” run by promoter Sue Static. The Todd’s dance parties became a main component of ‘80s subculture here in the city. The party lasted for almost a decade, up until the club changed ownership in the early ‘90s."
Alas, I did not relive the 80s with the crowd from Todd's Sway Bar or with Nitzer Ebb. I had family visiting from out of town and right about the time Nitzer Ebb roadies were probably unloading their arsenal of synthesizers, my 5 (and 3/4s) year old niece and I were watching The Wiggles Go Bananas with special guest Kylie Minogue. Having seen a bit of both, I can honestly say that The Wiggles are way weirder than anything cooked up by the subculture of Detroit club kids.
Jumpsuit contender No. 1 - Pete Townshend. I feel like I need to include him if only to establish some ground rules for jumpsuits. I consider this outfit more "coveralls" than jumpsuit. This is a painter's getup. Working man practicality. The best rock 'n roll jumpsuit is not practical it flamboyant and form fitting. Sorry Pete!
But while we're with you, I think I should mention Live at Leeds. I get chills every single time during Eyesight to the Blind and when I hear that one warble during It's a boy, Mrs. Walker, it's a boy. I love this album and listened to it this morning to get into the right frame of mind. Unfortunately, in the great iPod migration of 2009, I seem to have lost all of disc one of the Deluxe edition. I'll have to reload.
My favorite memory of The Who involves my sister and a childhood watching way too many 4 o'clock movies. My dad was off work with a broken back for a few years and when I got home from school we watched Bill Kennedy at the Movies and Rita Bell's 4 O'Clock Movie. Godzilla week, Trilogy of Terror, Planet of the Apes week, Soylent Green and all sorts of D-list films. My dad drank Busch beer and I drank chocolate milk and wished I Dream of Jeannie was on instead. At some point, I must have seen the movie adaptation of Johnny Got his Gun by Dalton Trumbo. I don't know where else this image would have been planted in my head.
Years later (I'm guessing I was maybe 12? 13?) I asked my sister: "Hey Deb ... how could Tommy play pinball with no arms and no legs?" Even as I said it, it was clear to me those unconnected links in my head were really, really wrong.
Weird childhood notions lead to several minutes of great fun and devising our own Rock Opera though. The only part I remember now is jumping around on one leg while flapping our arms like chickens and singing "Talking 'bout my Amputation."
People try to push us d-down! Just because we hop around.
No Politically Correct Crown for me and no Jumpsuit Crown for Pete Townshend. I will hand the Pinball Crown to The Who for a great Live album though.
Eighteen years ago today Freddie Mercury died. I don't know why that is one of the dates I always remember. November 24? Freddie Mercury died. One of my oddest memories of a November 24 was emailing with a guy in 2003, setting up a home-made lasagne dinner date for the following week. I remember thinking as we chatted back and forth "hey, Freddie Mercury died today" but deciding not to mention it. I didn't know the guy very well and the night we met we talked about Bell Bottom Blues and the album Zuma.
Busting out the Freddie Mercury before a first date seemed risky .... I don't think these days I'd hold back. Love me, love lasagne, love Queen.
My friend J. says I should not even bother with a Battle of the Jumpsuits because Freddie automatically wins. I'm not saying he won't win but I think his competitors deserve a shot. In honor of Freddie's passing then, I will pull together my Jumpsuit Warriors this evening.
My boss just sent me the following email attachment. I don't think it is a hint but more in response to my taking a day off this summer to go see Phish and coming in 2 hours late this morning because I was "liberating" my iPod:
Grateful Dead Archivist
University of California Santa Cruz, Santa Cruz, California
The University Library of the University of California, Santa Cruz, seeks an enterprising, creative, and service-oriented archivist to join the staff of Special Collections & Archives (SC&A) as Archivist for the Grateful Dead Archive. This is an academic librarian professional position. The Archivist will be part of a dynamic, collegial, and highly motivated department dedicated to building, preserving, promoting, and providing maximum access both physically and virtually to one of the Library’s most exciting and unique collections, The Grateful Dead Archive (GDA). The UCSC University Library utilizes innovative approaches to allow the discovery, use, management, and sharing of information in support of research, teaching, and learning.
Appointment Range: Associate Librarian III – Librarian I, with an approximate salary range of $52,860 – $68,892, commensurate with qualifications and experience. For the full posting: http://library.ucsc.edu/about/job-opportunities.
The University of California, Santa Cruz is an Affirmative Action/Equal Employment Opportunity Employer.
I think it was in a documentary about Old and In the Way (?) or maybe a New Yorker article, but I remember hearing/reading about how stressful it was for Jerry Garcia that there was this whole big group of people who depended on him for livelihoods. The pressure of the business surrounding the band and all the jobs it generated. Or maybe I'm making that up? Whatever ... here's one more Grateful Dead employment opportunity for the non-musician.
About six months ago I started up a Short Story Group -- like a Book Club but with short stories. And cocktails. I've had a love-hate relationship with the group. I love the stories, have gotten to know some interesting women and I love the staff and back room at the bar we gather at. I hate the flakiness of Internet people who keep signing up for events and never attend and can't seem to ever get their hands on a real, live paper book and want you to scan everything and post it online for them.
One of the best parts of the group though is reading authors suggested by other women in the group that I likely would not have picked on my own. I was sure I would not be interested in Murakami but really loved some of his stories. This month, when we decided on Paul Bowles, I was disappointed. It didn't sound like my kind of thing. I have not read The Sheltering Sky and I'm kind of a "western" snob stick in the mud. I didn't want to read about Morocco. I like little stories with simple but powerful interactions between characters. I don't like reading long descriptions of banana leaves and balmy nights. For the first time, I ordered the book through ILL instead of getting a used copy on Amazon. I was sure I wouldn't want to have it in my collection.
I've been so excited to like these stories! I just finished The Echo, written in 1946, about a young woman who goes to visit her mother and her mother's female companion in Colombia. The way he built a growing dislike for one of the characters before she even says a word is great. And I like his ability to write interesting female characters (I also love that about William Trevor). So many of the male writers we've read (Murakami, Richard Russo, Cheever) have a lot of flat and interchangeable women characters. To be fair, some of the women authors we've read are very female-centric and have undeveloped men. I've been hyper-sensitive to this as I read because my own writing is in a big rut with female main characters who come from the same time, place and world that I do. I find that boring and predictable but difficult to change.
I decided to do some poking around about Bowles, first in the introduction to the book and then online. He not only knew one of my all-time favorite artists (Kurt Schwitters) but he also was a composer and wrote music criticism. There is a collection of his articles available called Paul Bowles on Music ( University of California Press, 2003). I'd be interested to read some of the articles about Folk music but would be a lost in the Jazz and Classical criticism. I think I will look at a collection of his letters and watch one of the documentaries about his life and work though.
Top song of my morning commute: Ramsey Lewis' instrumental version of The "In" Crowd.
I have the song from a compilations called Essential Jazz: Cool and Blue and wish I had more Ramsey Lewis. I will remedy this gap once I'm up and running again. It looks like I just missed out on the chance to hear his morning radio show, his station switched to Spanish language format and his last show was May 22, 2009.
Lewis was born in Chicago in 1935 and the song was a hit for Ramsey Lewis Trio in 1965 (#5 on the pop charts and a #2 album.) Written by Billy Page and arranged by his brother Gene, the song had already been a hit (#13 on the charts) that year for Dobie Gray. This Sesame Street adaptation is fun too.
While doing very sophisticated research worthy of a Pulitzer for a Battle of the Jumpsuit post, I have uncovered something shocking.
Unless I can confirm that the denim outfit worn on the cover of Hot August Night is indeed a jumpsuit and not a combination of stylish separates, Getty Images may own every single freaking photograph out there of Neil Diamond in a jumpsuit.
How can this happen? Isn't Neil Diamond in a satin, sequin jumpsuit part of our cultural commons? I can find Neil in plenty of flamboyant shirts and rump hugging polyester slacks, but Getty's got the lock down on that red jumpsuit.
My good friend H. (who has ditched the Midwest and is now living in San Diego) will be able to visit me on Christmas Day. This is amazing considering what I did to her last Christmas at the 2008 annual cookie bake. In my attempt to find the best ever version of O Holy Night, I downloaded numerous recordings. I knew that Johnny Mathis would be the measuring stick against which all other O Holy Night's would be measured. Johnny Mathis' O Holy Night is the O Holy Night of my childhood.
I started off with one requirement: It had to be in English. I want to sing along. really loud. As I started to look around, I saw some versions that were so weird I had to hear them even though I knew they would be horrible. My current O Holy Night collection consists of:
Aaron Neville Al Green Andy Williams Bing Crosby Carpenters Christina Aguilera David Phelps (who is this guy?) Ella Fitzgerald Gospel Choir of Louisiana Harold Melvin Irish Tenors Johnny Mathis Kenny Rogers Lou Rawls Luther Barnes Mahalia Jackson Mario Lanza Nat King Cole Neil Diamond *NSYNC* Perry Como The Temptations
After listening to all that, I came up with some additional rules for O Holy Night:
1. "Fall on your knees" has to be sung as a stern command. If you warble during "fall on your knees" you are not a contender. 2. No children's choirs. 3. No backup singers during what should be solo parts. 4. A woman will probably never win this contest. 5. Slow down! O Holy Night should not be rushed.
H. and I tried to rank the top versions last year but we were too drunk from all the Christmas Ale to have sensible notes or conclusions. I know that she had an irrational attachment to Kenny Rogers and I was never willing to budge too far on Johnny Mathis. I think we had a Nat King Cole consensus.
I just had an email exchange with H. about her holiday travel plans. Now that her plane ticket has been purchased, I let her know I planned on adding to the O Holy Night collection.
So this morning I crossed some official line into spinster crazy. I did not adopt a dozen cats although a kitten does sound nice right now. Instead, I woke up thinking, "where is that spare key?"
I have a set of spare keys for emergency and if someone comes to town. Most of them go unused but the key to the back door gets a bit more circulation. When my friend from San Diego visited last, I gave it to her so she could get around. I sometimes keep it on a book shelve near the back door so that I could grab it easily and get out in case of fire.(I hate doors that require a key to open it, I can't believe that isn't some fire code violation. The last thing I want to be doing when smoke fills my apartment is fumbling for a key so I can get out ...) Anyway, this key has moved around a bit more than the others from the spare set and I realized I did not know its location at that exact moment.
Of course I spent my morning turning the house upside down looking for it but didn't. While it is far more likely it slipped behind a book or to the back of a drawer, I'm now convinced the burglar took it and plans to use it in the future to come back and let himself in. It wasn't used to get out last week (he came in through a window and went out through the other door) but that could be part of the plan, right? So what can a person who has to go to work do until a locksmith comes? Barricade the door of course. Yes, I pushed my couch across the room to make it less convenient to open that door. I'm about a week away from designing traps like the Collyer brothers and buying a shot gun.
Set list for the walk to work:
Crazy (Gnarls Barkley) Crazy (Patsy Cline) Crazy (Willie Nelson) Crazy (Sarah Jarosz) Crazy Dreams (Patsy Cline) Crazy Face (Van Morrison) Crazy Fingers (Grateful Dead) Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Queen) Crazy Mama (Richard Manuel) Crazy Train (Ozzy) Baby Drives me Crazy (Thin Lizzy) I'll go Crazy (James Brown) Mama We're All Crazy Now (Quiet Riot) Shine on You Crazy Diamond (Pink Floyd) Still Crazy After All these Years (S&G) You're Crazy (Guns and Roses)
and a little interview blurb by Townes Van Zandt called Wild Crazy Things from Be Here to Love Me.
UPDATE: My friend H. still has the spare key. My barricading efforts were in vain. I still think I'm at least three steps closer to complete loopiness.
I've been too gripey this week to acknowledge a wonderful gift that came in the mail on Monday; I had the package in my hot little hands as I was walking to the door and noticed the gaping hole where my window belonged. Now that I'm recovering from my unchecked hostility, I am looking on the bright side. A burglar takes away my Pentax and Powershot, the fates send me a wonderful little book about Holga cameras.
A friend and former colleague sent me a belated birthday gift on Monday. Considering his birthday is in November, as I recall, everything is flipped around here and I should have been sending him something instead. In addition to a book about birds, he sent a copy of Plastic Cameras: Toying With Creativity by Michelle Bates (New York: Focal Press, 2006. ISBN 9780240808406) My friend is a photographer and some of his work is featured in the book.
I feel like all this stuff with cameras is a kick in the pants to get back to projects I put on hold years ago. I'm proud of how much writing I've done lately, after many years of writers' block. I'd like to feel that way next year about my photography projects. Unfortunately, I lost a bunch of the digital images I had from a couple summers ago that were part of my "Econoline .........van" series. They were not really all Econoline vans but there were wonderful full sized vans from the 70s and 80s. Many of them with flat-paint jobs. I'm not crazy for an air-brush scene, but I do like racer stripes.
Today is Neil Young's birthday. I wonder if he's a buttercream guy or a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting one. Two years ago I was able to celebrate by going to see him at the Chicago Theater. Ambulance Blues and Winterlong were standouts from that show for me. No show with NY this year though, so I started off the day listening to Zuma while eating breakfast. On the walk and bus trip to work I followed up with every version of Cortez the Killer I have. Including the Matthew Sweet cover.
I'm even thinking that, since I'm so far in debt already with buying all new crap for my apartment, what's another few hundred dollars on the old credit card? Maybe I should get that box set archive ....
I'm slowly getting over my burglar hostility and might be able to sleep tonight without an OTC sleeping pill and podcasts playing in my ears to drown out all the bumps in the night.
I'm not getting over the loss of my Pentax K-1000 though. Although my laptop is the biggest inconvenience (I lost all my digital photos and several pieces of writing in addition to personal information), my Pentax is the most painful. It doesn't matter that I haven't used it often in the past few years. That was the camera I used in my first photography class, that was the camera that went with me to Scotland, Ireland, Australia and Japan even when I knew it was impractical to take the extra weight when I was bringing my little Powershot already.
Perhaps a photo memory montage set to Terry Jacks would help me heal? If I had a laptop and some digital images I just might inflict the world's fruitiest camera memorial on all three of my readers.
So long Pentax K-1000, I hope you end up in a nice clean pawn shop and that you are matched up with a lovely macro lens that I always wanted to buy you but could never quite afford.
It's hard to believe today. Today when I'm feel crappy and overwhelmed. Today when I'm sorting through Dell and Lenovo and HP and Mac websites. Today when I'm trying to make heads or tails of S series and Y series and thinkpads and notepads. Today when I'm stressing about money and credit card debt and emergency saving accounts if I lose my job.
But yesterday, was completely different. Yesterday, I was walking down Chicago Avenue on my way home from work. Yesterday, I decided to walk the whole way home because the weather was nice. Yesterday, I was feeling jaunty and optimistic and as I crossed over the Chicago River, I started to think of the That Girl theme song.
I'm really tired of coming home to a wide open door or window to find that someone has broken or jimmied a window while I was out, climbed into my apartment, and stolen all my stuff.
When it happened in February, it was really annoying (I had just bought a stupid new TV because of the digital signal thing)but I was able to shake it off relatively quickly. This time, I feel much more violated. The burglars moved some backyard furniture under a window, easily pushed up an insecure latch, gently moved my fern off the window sill, and climbed in. They clearly spent some time shopping through my house as opposed to the grab and run with my TV and DVD player last time.
This time they stole 2 pillow cases (to load up my stuff), TV, DVD player, laptop, digital camera, my iPod shuffle, and my Pentax K-1000. They didn't seem to like my jewelry but did take a black onyx ring my mom bought me for high school graduation and a sterling silver, celtic knot pin I bought in Scotland. I did not realize the ring, the pin and the K-1000 were gone until well after the police left. They must have contemplated stealing the blue kimono hanging on my door, pulled out the stuff under my bed, went through my underwear drawer, and searched my closets.
I'm not overly attached to my things but I also can't afford to replace all the stuff that could be replaced right now either. I have to say that the pillow on the bed that was touched so they could take the pillow case, that's going into the dumpster because it feels all dirty and touched by evil. I've also lost all the photos on my memory card, many backed up on my laptop, and it really bothers me that someone could look through my photographs.
I just spent all stupid morning changing passwords and I had to call the bank yesterday in case any of the accounts I may set to auto login would give information to someone to get into other accounts. Unlikely but better safe than sorry.
The only bright spots here are that I had my big iPod with me and once again the burglars did not like my Dyna stereo. That on top of the fact that I wasn't in my apartment at the time and bludgeoned to death do make me feel better but not quite enough to keep me from waking up a dozen times in the middle of last night with a stomach ache from stress and anxiety.
%$%* you, burglar! You are a dirty, pathetic piece of crap that will never accomplish anything with your life at the rate you are going. I hope you enjoy your time skulking in alleys trying to figure out if there are mean dogs inside a house or not. I hope you like it back there with the rabid rats and trash. That last guy, I could even generate a glimmer of perspective that in this bad economy, desperate people do despicable things like snatch a TV to pawn. But new burglar, when you went shopping though my costume jewelry drawer and decided there was nothing very valuable there but hey, maybe your girlfriend would like my ring, you crossed even that line. And bring your own bags and keep your hands off my pillows.
It is only fair after a post like that, for anyone who might consider listening to every recorded version of Wish You Were Here out there, to mention that the antidote to Pink Floyd bawling is ...... Freddie Mercury.
Bohemian Rhapsody works best for me.
Honestly. It's like an adrenalin shot right in the heart during cardiac arrest.
"So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye."
Once every year or so, I find myself absolutely bawling to Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. I'm not gonna lie, these episodes usually happen after red wine or whiskey. But they are pure bawling, longing for everything that has not worked out and every person who is gone. Tonight is one of those nights. My eyelashes hurt from the weight of tears.
I've had two memorable Wish You Were Here episodes in the past few years. One was in a Kalamazoo coffee shop. It was about 11 am (no wine or whiskey involved!) and the song hit me unexpectedly when I was thinking about getting a bagel. I had taken the train to see a friend's band, gotten up early the next day to see a Dale Chihuly exhibit and then stopped off with a magazine to wait for the train home. It was a wave of knock the feet out from beneath me loneliness.
The other time was a drunken whiskey night and when I posted on my regular message board, my DJ friend came on, read my post and told me "Step Away from the Floyd." Good advice on nights like this. Shine on you Crazy Diamonds, but step away from the wine and the Floyd.
Today I got news that a grant I spent all stupid August writing has been funded! The project will give some otherwise unemployable academic types jobs and make a whole bunch of 18th Century French documents accessible to researchers.
For me personally, it means a butt load of work in the upcoming years and that tonight I am going to drink some snobby French wine and listen to Edith Piaf and Mireille Mathieu until I just can't take it anymore.
Apparently my love of drunken musicians is long standing (I seem to have lost interest in sailors though.) While at my mom's house the other week, I found some old school projects, mother's day cards, and several "coupon" books that reveal I considered cleaning my bedroom a gift rather than an obligation. This particular poem and drawing was from the 9-year-old me and is found in a book called "My Creative Book." My favorite part is the musical notation that displays a creative flair but complete lack of understanding.
I still love to look at music even though I can't read it or play anything. In my current job, I sometimes come across a book in which the binder has used manuscript waste and scraps for the covers and pastedown leaves. As printed copies of books were made, some libraries replaced their manuscript copies. Materials were expensive though and manuscript leaves are beautiful, so the parchment was repurposed. While it's sad that the older manuscripts have not survived intact, I'm glad that some of these pieces are still around. The best covers are those that use leaves of music.
Every good Michigander knows that at the end of the "Toledo War" Michigan ceded its claim to the Toledo strip in exchange for the Upper Peninsula. At the time, Ohio thought it got the good part of the bargain but even in terms of chili (Lafayette Coney Dogs vs. Tony Packo's Hungarian Chili) we made out like bandits.
Listening to the Low Anthem's To Ohio the other day though, I have to admit that in the battle of great songs that name drop the state, Ohio kicks Michigan butt. If Neil Young was the only one ever to write a song about Ohio, they'd win the war.
As far as poetic flow, it's hard to beat "Ohio." It's short; it begins and ends with "O." But Ohio has good geography going for it too: Midwestern with a touch of the South. Which brings me to my other favorite Ohio song, Gillian Welch 's Look at Miss Ohio. A friend bought me Soul Journey not long after it came out because he loved it and thought I would too. He was right, especially that song.
