Tanagra: the source of imperishable life: October 2005

Monday, October 31, 2005

A night with Feist

“When the optic nerve is stimulated by a heavy blow, the brain interprets the signals it sees as light. Hence we 'see stars'.” –Monarch (Lay Down Your Jeweled Head)

Actually, that’s what happens when your optic nerve is hit by the presence of Feist. Feist not only makes you see stars, she makes you hear what's beyond them.

I went to the Feist/Broken Social Scene show last Thursday at The Majestic, primarily to see Broken Social Scene. But, once Feist brought her sprite self to the stage, I could’ve cared less if Jesus was coming up next.

(Just kidding about the Jesus thing… I have to make sure I don’t piss God off too many times this year. I’m reaching my quota.)

Feist transfixes you as she plays hopscotch with her ranges. You pay close attention just to find out the next place she can go. Bare-chested (figuratively) and exposed on Gatekeeper and Now At Last, her voice and guitar become all the music you need. It makes you wonder, am I really at a rock show?

Hell no! According to Feist, she puts on a “roll” show. That’s right, we rolled with her sexy bossa nova, jazz-pop, indie rockin' voice. Even Harry Houdini couldn't resist her. His ghost made a cameo appearance at the beginning of Broken Social Scene's set, causing lead singer Kevin Drew to run around in his green-striped undies. Thank you Leslie for being able to bring back the dead.

Look for more Leslie Feist on the new Kings of Convenience album, Republic of Two.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

High-priced tricks, treats

In my house, Halloween is the most important holiday of the year. It’s shocking to me, but my school-aged kids have more interest in free candy, scaring the crap out of each other, and dressing up in gore than they do in gifts on Christmas Day. Around here, the frenzy for a pillowcase full of wrapped-up sugar starts in September.

I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. My neighbors start decorating in September. They lay out bundles of hay, miniature graveyards, electric chairs, bloodied bodies; you name it they’ve got it. I’m the rebellious neighbor who waits till the week before to buy pumpkins!

Of course, the kids poured over Party City’s Halloween mailing of $20 costumes for people under four-feet tall. You probably guessed it—we received that mailing in September.

But, this year, we’ve topped even the most ghoulish of towns. We have Halloween USA. That’s right. The strip mall three blocks away used an open space to bring us the Mecca of Halloween stores. Now, a trip to Rite Aid has become a struggle through traffic. I’ve decided to ride my bike until they close down. (I just hope it doesn’t turn into a Christmas store!)

What the hell has happened? We’ve gone mad over Halloween. Maybe it’s just me, but I have no recollection as a child of this much commerce being built around Halloween. Right now, as a country, we’re spending billions! When I was a kid, we threw something together from fabric and old clothes. There was no buying of anything! Have we all become suddenly wealthy or is this a fast-food holiday?

What’s your Halloween budget? Did you start saving in July? Me, I’m unemployed, so this year we’re all going as hobos.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Three Peanuts cases in the basement, really!

By taking some goofy test, I learned today that the Peanuts character my personality best represents is Schroeder. (This is important stuff, so you should pay close attention.) What a surprise, huh? I bet all of you who know me are saying, "Yeah? Go figure."

Well, there's more to this story than some silly Internet personality test.

You see, I have three boxes of Peanuts paperback books in my basement. Why? I just happen to have really dug Peanuts when I was a kid. I didn't just like the comics, I liked the books, too. Charles Schultz was one of the first authors I knew by name. The second, of course, was Judy Blume. So, for many years I collected the books, and I still have them. They're a bit yellow from age, and the glue has cracked in the bindings, but the stories are still intact, ready to take you to baseball games, flying doghouse races, and childhood crushes on big-headed bald boys.

The ones I like the most though are the Schroeder/Lucy stories. The tug-of-war between them can be a bit...adult. The coyness, the petty games, the male aloofness, the female bitchiness. Hmmm, now that I think of it, maybe these characters gave me some insight on my up-an-coming male/female relationships. (Is this giving me away some??)

Admittedly, I had a thing for Schroeder. He's smart and focused, with a twinge of spunkiness in him. Even if he doesn't move much, the spunkiness is still there. Maybe it's in his hair. And, the way he pisses off Lucy gives you complete satisfaction. She's hard to like, and watching her get shut down is rewarding, even at a young age.

So, does anyone have some extra shelf space?

Which Peanuts character are you?

Izod just added some bling

It’s time to wear uniforms on the court—and off. That’s the recent message from NBA commissioner David Stern after announcing a new dress code.

Of course, Stern is receiving a lot of flack from players. It’s an infringement on personal preference, they say. It’s a player's right to "represent," to express their culture, attitude, and taste. Blah, blah, blah.

Oh, come on! I haven’t heard more whining since the last time I chaperoned a field trip with my daughter’s third-grade class. These are grown men with professional jobs. Is it so much to ask them to behave and dress professionally while on-the-job? Nobody is telling them what to wear when they’re in their hotel room, when they go out for the evening, or during the off season. They simply have to follow a business-casual dress code that most Americans have to follow while they are at work. Since pro basketball players are in a position to be representing the NBA on their way to work and on their way out just adds hours to the work day—or evening. It's called OVERTIME.

I could honestly care less what these guys wear off the court. All I want to see is the Pistons kick ass on the court. But, seriously, they should stop acting like spoiled brats. They’re millionaires! They can certainly afford a second wardrobe.

But you have to admit, it will be strange watching the NBA turn out a bunch of PGA look-a-likes to the post-game press.

Don't forget to press them pleats, boys!

Monday, October 17, 2005

A bigger message with fewer words

In the last seven years, I've often wondered who is the brilliance behind those George W speeches. You know what I'm talking about...the creative transposing of words, the unique inflections, the steady pauses. It's an amazing play on political-speak. It's an outright persuasion-invasion.

Please, take a moment to learn more about the mastermind behind the words that move our nation's leader.

A Bigger Message With Fewer Words: required viewing for all incoming poly-sci majors at online universities everywhere.

Watch your mouth

"Yeah, I had clearance, and you didn't, you plebian fuck. Now get outta my way." --
Judy Miller 10.17.05 - 1:52 pm blog entry on Eschaton.

Yikes, those are mighty words from a gifted New York Times reporter. Apparently, she's a bit dismayed over the latest controversy.

Did Judy Miller have appropriate security clearance to information that led her to write the NYT's article that vindictively outed CIA agent Valerie Plame's identity?

It's evident that this current debate is a complete diversion to keep the Administration clean of the leak. Unfortunately for Miller, this time, her proven pig-sniffing abilities are working against her.

It's most probable that Miller was given "special access." When a directive to give a reporter access comes from the Vice President of the United States, its legal legitimacy becomes defunct at the time of action. But several years down the road, when there is a White House investigation on such matters, the ambiguity of any special access becomes a safeguard for the Administration. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out. In the end, however, I'm sure Judy Miller's special status with the GOP will be as looming as the WMD.

Click here for a full account of this affair. May Rove burn.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Antibiotics and Jameson hot toddies

Suffering from a nagging chest cold that turned into a severe sinus infection, I have had the inability over the last few days to verbally speak a coherent sentence much less write one. Therefore, instead of dissecting some relevant issue that I find interesting at the moment, I’ve decided to entertain you with my amateur writing of fast fiction and poetry. Feel free to flog me or use this entry as a target on your dart board. (Camille Claudel, The Waltz)

What he wanted

was a cushion. That sat
firmly on the floor, collecting dust.

Steady old couch. Faded with sun.
Pleasant to touch
and always comfortable.

The day I spoke a squeak
He began to frizzle and backpeddle.

Couches don’t speak, he said.
They do when
you jump on them enough.

Just my cup of tea
The men gathered around the dining table, each distinguished in their look and voice. They argued of our allegiance to France. I served tea politely, leaning in toward the table between the elbows of these stately men.

As I bent forward to pour the last cup, the gentleman directly across the table stopped my gaze. His eyes pierced my thoughts and made my chest heave. I stepped back abruptly, nearly tripping over my own feet. The others took notice as I disguised myself in an act of clumsiness.

Flushed, I quickly glanced back at Mr. Hamilton. I realized that I’d be seeing him again, and that America was not going to be ready for the real me.

Snow

Crystal so clear
Prickly sideswiper
Brushes against your lips and ears
It could be a finger pointing
To wake you up
Or a jolt to loosen your fear
Frozen flower bloomed on a rock
Doesn’t want the sun to appear
To last one more hour
In its white hydranth
A creature of time
The right here, right now

Jubilation

A secret jubilation
Knocks me down on my knees
And for the first time
I see the flowers in the grass
The tiny pebbles lay insignificantly
Smiling half moons
New moons
This is no dark
As I put my hands up
Palms cup the sky
It was this day you saved me
No letters of consent came in the mail
No contest winner
A simple knock on the door
To end my winter’s achy night

Fast Potatoes
It was the day before the family’s big Thanksgiving reunion, and Grandma was certain the delivery of potatoes would arrive at any moment. She waited.

Night fell. Grandma didn’t sleep a wink stricken with fear of no potatoes. The sun was bright when the clock hit noon on feast day. Grandma was in a near-fatal panic.

Finally! A truck arrived with 80 bags of Yukons. How would Grandma make 800 pounds of mashed potatoes in just one hour? At that moment, young Joe came with exciting news. “Grandma, our neighbor Slappy just won the world’s record for being the fastest potato peeler ever!”

Grandma called Slappy and pointed him to the mounds of potatoes. His hands moved so fast with the peeler, potato skins twirled in the air all over the kitchen. It looked like a swarm of locust, but really it was potatoes. Just before the water turned to a boil, Slappy finished the last potato. Grandma dropped it in the water and smiled.

The mashed potatoes were a hit. Everyone asked for seconds. The Thanksgiving dinner was a success thanks to Slappy and his fast potatoes.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Who's the real baby?

Has David Cross finally crossed the line? In a recent federal complaint filed in Seattle, Thomas Weber, former Nashville club manager, is asserting that David Cross used his likeness and voice without consent on the Grammy nominated Shut Up, You Fucking Baby!

Although Weber makes a very good point in his law suit about the music industry and its whininess over copyright infringement and free downloads, do we, the David Cross-loving public, have to be denied the rights to buy up copies of Shut Up, You Fucking Baby!? Isn’t there another way to slap the big bad music behemoths on their greedy little hands? I say pay the fucker off, David. Give him his money. You egged him on, and then exploited him to all of our great joy.

If you haven’t listened to Shut Up, You Fucking Baby! you should. I’m searching at this very moment to find some free downloads so that we can all toast to Weber and the big bad music behemoths.

If you’d like to get in touch with Thomas Weber, here’s his phone number (615) 354-5205 and email address WeAreNotLaughing@yahoo.com.

P.S. I think I might be breaking some kind of copyright law by posting this picture.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

MTV mayor lets earring go

As a suburbanite who lives mere miles from the Detroit line, I know that my opinion on mayoral issues may not count for much. However, I have to say that we’re all witnessing a diversion from past politics in the city of Detroit. What’s the big difference with the current mayor, Kwame Kilpatrick? Pure guts. Or, true grit, if he was an old white guy.

Simply put, Kilpatrick is a mystery to most status quo politicians. He’s in essence the MTV mayor. Plagued by problems that are better known to party-hound musicians, Kilpatrick blazes a trail that leaves most of his counterparts feeling very uneasy and unsure of what the hell is going on. Kilpatrick’s been shunned by Washington, investigated for wild parties and the murder of a prostitute, hung by the media for his “wife’s” Navigator, and given the good ‘ole boy heave-ho for wearing an earring.

Listening to Kilpatrick speak to WJR’s Paul W. Smith at the Goodfellow’s Tribute Breakfast, it seems as if he’s learned a few things. Having lived through all the personal controversy and frustration of the last four years, maybe he’s grown up. But, more important to the city, Kilpatrick reminds us that things are different in Detroit.

There is an obvious vibrancy running through the hub of Downtown Detroit. GM’s Ren Cen just got a facelift. Nike is running a new ship on Woodward. Compuware is thriving and glimmering at the center of Campus Martius. Thirty-two new restaurants have opened. One thousand units of new housing have been built. What on earth is going on? If this so-called outlaw mayor is bad news, why are we seeing all this progress?

Sure, there’s city budget controversy. There’s speculative office corruption. There’s city council feuding and certain below-average education offered to Detroit’s children. But, is any of that new to this city? Let me take the risk of sounding naïve, but don’t we need to bring Detroit back one step at a time? Without cultivating commerce, we don’t get the rest of the pie. Without steps one, two and three, we don’t get four, five and six.

I personally don’t care if Kilpatrick wears a tribute to his wife in his ear. In fact, I think it’s kind of sweet. But, he has to make the moves that are governed by today’s political playbook. If leaving the earring out keeps him off the tabloid radar, so be it. Let’s focus on the tracks that direct Detroit in a forward motion. Kilpatrick has been a formative steam engine. And, as we know, steam engines get really hot. But, damn, it’s better than sitting in the caboose watching all the other boxcars moving on ahead of you.

Detroit, past and present

This summer, I had the unique pleasure of spending many long lunch hours in Detroit's Campus Martius park. Camped in a circle off Woodward, just north of Congress and south of Gratiot, the park is filled with people. They stroll casually, chat and eat lunch at patio tables, and listen to local musicians. It’s something you’d envision elsewhere. Not Detroit.

What made these visits even more surreal to me was that at the time I was reading Jeffery Eugenides’ book Middlesex. Besides being a brilliant writer and storyteller, Eugenides packs this book with the most finite details of Detroit during the early 1900s. His descriptions are so masterful that as I sat in my patio chair off Woodward I could see this early Detroit come alive.

Eugenides’ characters visit Grand Trunk, play cards at the first clubs in Greektown (where they strictly spoke Greek), bootleg hooch across a frozen Detroit River, and work in a place called Black Bottom. This is more than a novel, it’s a history lesson. I came to know more about my native city from reading Middlesex than I did from living and going to school in the city itself.

Unlike many books that are rich in detail, this book is a page-turner that keeps you yearning for more. And, at the end, you'll feel like you're saying goodbye to old friends. If you haven’t read Middlesex, you should.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Me and SPIN, twenty years in the making

This month’s SPIN is dedicated to themselves. It’s a 20th anniversary celebration. Two decades have passed since they’ve opened up shop to give us all a mainstream taste of the alternative. To their credit, SPIN, over the years, has given many up-an-coming bands the chance to bask in the spotlight. Without that chance, widespread America may have overlooked some damn good music. It’s hard to recall, in this era of Internet and small-world syndrome, that there was actually a time when the bulk of us were at the mercy of the truly oblivious—American FM radio and RCA/Capitol Records type mongrels.

But, as I read this Special 20th Anniversary Double Issue I realize that the interviews, the contents, the nostalgia go back to the 80s, a time when I first took music seriously, in a way that reflected who I was as a unique human being. All of Spin's noted bands, all the artists, all the affable influence go back to this odd, fashion-disoriented decade. Yes, I was listening to the Smiths, Echo And The Bunnymen, The Sugar Cubes, The Cure, Siouxsie, Sonic Youth, Violent Femmes, Joy Division. But, a question lingers in my head: where did I learn of this music, if not from the radio? I wasn’t reading SPIN magazine.

To dig through my memory banks is difficult, but after some thought I have to give a slice of credit to a forgotten Canadian radio station CFXX 93.9. As I remember it, the station’s alternative programming was brief, having been bought out by CHUM Limited in 1985. But, for me it was enough time on the air waves to make a difference. After that, I was spending all my babysitting money at the record store, buying up anything “different.” In circa 1984-1985, my clock radio would wake me up for school with the clacking of SCTV’s Doug and Bob Mackenzie singing that “Wake Up” song. Then, I’d roll out of bed to the sounds of the Psychedelic Furs. This was my orientation to great things to come: Jane’s Addiction, Dinosaur Jr., REM, Nirvana, Portishead, Cake.

Just like SPIN, I don’t have enough space to write about all the amazing bands that have made a difference to me in the past 20 years—all the years of my collective adult life. I’m just glad that some how, some way, that music reached me. I suppose that’s where SPIN has been successful over the years, sending us news of the new and nameless. However, I see fewer and fewer unheard-of bands filling SPIN’s pages these days. Most of what's in SPIN can be heard on CIMX 88.7 (better known as 89X, Detroit's Only Source of Alt Rock), which I can't manage to stomach for more than two songs at a time. I find that MAGNET and Alternative Press do a much better job of giving us something new to chew on. And lucky us, all we have to do then is check out myspace to hear a few tracks. It’s great to be living and loving music in 2005.

Sounds to hear:
The Futureheads
Teeth

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Welfare doesn’t cause hurricanes, floods or death

This is a reprinting of a piece written September 20, 2005.

There’s much news being published lately on post-Katrina finger pointing and blame gaming. Unfortunately, some of it has a hint of severe right-wing idiocy, like the commentary by TIA Daily’s Robert Tracinski. Tracinski suggests that the New Orleans populace has nobody to blame but themselves for the tragic Katrina aftermath because the city continues to be a dumb, poor, welfare state. This is just another example of white affluence spouting off about things they know nothing about. When was the last time Tracinski visited someone in the projects?

Let's get real here. Welfare is not just a state of existence, it’s a state of mind--typically from the time one is born. Welfare isn't a garden where bad seeds are planted and then grown into persistent weeds. No, the problem is that this garden called welfare lets the weeds take over. The flowers never get a chance to bloom. And our government is the first to point out that it costs a lot of money to nurture flowers. Weeds are cheap. (Of course, that's not actually true if you look at the costs of the penal system.)

Welfare is a perpetual state of existence for those who live in poverty. And it breeds from one generation to another. Can you honestly blame a third generation welfare recipient for not holding values and mores that he or she has never known or seen? Does welfare raise people out of poverty? Provide them with an education? Teach them that hard work pays? Offer them an opportunity to have a real home, one they can take care of and call their own? No. It simply corrals the undesirables so that the rest of society can go about its business. Does a welfare recipient live in luxury, eat organic produce, stroll down the street in a suit to a well-paying job? Do you think they know anybody who does? No!

Fact: New Orleans public schools are 96% black
Fact: Only 76% of New Orleans public school students graduate from high school
Fact: Only 25% of New Orleans residents have bachelor's degrees or higher
Fact: Median household income in New Orleans is $27,133
Fact: Persons beneath the poverty level in New Orleans is 27.9%

I am in no way condoning lack of ambition or self-reliance, which is an obvious requirement in this country to keep food on the table and get ahead. However, it's out-right arrogance (and, maybe, ignorance) to suggest that one can get by in this country on self-reliance alone. Let's ask ourselves: Where did you get your values? Where did you get your education? Where did you grow up? Who put food on your table? Who took you to baseball practice? Who groomed you to get that first job? Who helped you with geometry? Who helped you get into college? Who helped you with the down payment on your first home? Who took a look at your life’s history and gave you approval for your first loan? Now, let's ask these questions of someone who's a product of welfare: Who helped you with your homework? Who helped you make dinner and put your brothers to bed while your mother was working her 12-hour shift at minimum wage? Who bought you new shoes, clothes and supplies for school? Who noticed you needed a tutor for English because you were having a hard time reading? Who showed you how to make some good cash pushing vials on a street corner? Who told you school wasn't important? Who told you that being tough on the street was essential? Who told you that having babies was no big deal? Who told you not to care too much because it was always going to be this way?

It’s evident that familial and community support is crucial to making better human beings. It would take a tremendous social effort to reverse the upbringing of the poverty-stricken, i.e., to change the "error" of their ways. Or, we can just give them a little bit of money for food, provide them with some squalid shelter away from the rest of us, and be done with it. Which one sounds easier to you? As you can see, our American community has already made its decision.

Tanagra: the source of imperishable life