Got Mashed Potatoes

I was only working five hours a day at the time, so I was off at 1:30. The bus took me back to Shorewood by 2:PM. Sometime during the afternoon of July 24th, I got a call from my girlfriend, asking to go to the Humane Society. I had the whole afternoon, I had been talking about getting a dog, so why not?

I was hesitant because I was still in some debt and I hadn't talked to my sister, who was also my landlord. But I went. Who doesn't want to go see a bunch of dogs? We walked through the aisles, and as Jessica moved down the row ahead of me, I found my dog: golden color, happy eyes, he had his front paws up on the door, as if to open it for me. "This is my dog," I said aloud.

"But that's the dog that's been doing all the barking," Jessica protested.

"That's my dog."

He was four years old and trained in the basics. The first owner had him for four years, but gave him up for lack of time. Then some dumb-ass took him for three days, didn't let him out, realized that dogs have to go too, and then returned him to the Humane Society. My good luck. He'd been in a house fire, and he had some scarring on his legs that didn't clear up for at least the first year I owned him. The info sheet on him mentioned he might not be great with other dogs.

After getting the OK from my sister, we headed back to the Society and got Ranger for the bargain price of $75.00. We decided to go to Jessica's mother's house to show her the dog (she was also loaning us a crate). This was my first meeting with my future mother-in-law and Ranger commemorated it by trying to eat her dogs. "Might not be great with other dogs." Indeed.

When we got him home, he explored the house. Found the mirror on the back of my sister's door and ran around and around to learn it was just himself. He didn't test me too much. In the early days, he jumped up by the dining room table and scarfed half of my Tuna Helper. Last time that happened to me. I took him to my alumni meet that fall. He ran the course with me, even though his back legs got out of joint. I remember he took a dump right in the middle of that overrated course.

He got to know the neighborhood. We'd run the river trail, walk by my old kindergarten school, and he would sit under my feet as I finished my first book. They were good days.

The focus, as owners, quickly became his fear and aggression of other dogs. We tried a dog training class that taught us to keep him away from other dogs. He was a people-dog, there was no changing that. "Something happened to him," the dog trainer said. "Somebody damn-near ruined this dog." We ran into our first dog fight one Friday night when a big black dog came out of nowhere and they went at it. They finally broke off, just as I was going to kick the black dog. It amazed me how non-oblivious Ranger was about the other dog's size. It was simple to him: another dog in my space, kill.

I didn't let the second fight go too far. An unleashed mutt walked up to us on a walk and wouldn't leave. He started to go for it, and I held Ranger back. No good, the dog was still coming. So I let Ranger move him off a bit. When the dog came back for thirds, I smacked him in the jaw with my spade. I still love the sound that spade made.

He loved my sister, and she loved him. Taught him to roll over. She never just said, "Ranger", but said, "Ranger, Ranger, Ranger!" like the mother said "Hercules" in that Eddie Murphy movie.

His ears always gave him problems. They got red and dirty as many as four or five times a year. Otherwise he was healthy. We didn't throw down, but once, when I messed with him while he chomped on a big rawhide bone. He growled and I messed with him some more, getting my face in his, grabbing his ears, being an idiot. He had enough and chomped down hard on my nose, puncturing on one side and slitting the nostril on the other. Better than a tattoo, the worst part is explaining to people it was my fault.

He was there with me when I lost my job and worried about what I would do with myself. He was there when I moved in with Jessica. He was there when we got engaged a week later. He heard all our stupid fights, as well as the fights of the elderly married couple next door.

We got to explore Bay View together and make Delaware Avenue home, loud as it was. There was a big backyard behind the house, raised with a tree, roses, rhubarb, raspberries and garlic. Ranger sat up in the small bedroom with me, occasionally looking out at the tall apartment building several blocks away, with its blinking red light at the top, as I began my second book.

And as quickly as we discovered our neighborhood and finished making our house a home, we were moving again, a mile and a half away. And Ranger and I had another new neighborhood to explore. This time it was always by walks, as running bothered his hips too much. We took him up to Eau Claire again, to a wedding. He was good for us, and I always remembered to give him credit, knowing he would honor my trust. Sometime last year, as Jess battled her pregnancy, he was here under my feet as I typed the opening to my third book.

He found his nooks in this house. Aside from the kennel, he could squeeze under the end table and the couch. He could hide under that damn dining room table, pretending we weren't there as long as he liked -- even if we were looking right at him. And he spread out on the mattress pad I had on the floor up here in the attic. He grew into an old dog in this house, now more than nine years old.

But he was still happy. He'd still run through the house after coming in from a walk. He'd still go crazy when we said "walk" or "car ride". He still peed the house whenever my sister came over. And he'd still involuntarily lay down on his back so the new person coming into our house would pat his belly.

But for a dog who was always afraid of other dogs, to the point of aggression, it was not good news to hear from our dog trainer that Ranger was treating our seven-month-old son like a puppy. But we could work on some things. We could try. Ultimately, it was up to his behavior. When I got the e-mail at work Monday night, I knew that night would be my last night with Ranger. After Ranger bit my son in the head, Jessica ushered him up to the attic. When I got home, I didn't have it in me to punish him, given it was hours later and he only had hours left. I got a pillow, a movie, his treats, and a hot dog, and I went up to the attic to sleep on the twin bed for the night. I had never let him on the bed before and I never gave him hot dogs before, so I wonder if he knew something was up. But he was his fine, likeable self even the next day as I handed the leash to the attendant at the Humane Society and she took him to the back room and I walked away, out into the bright sunlight, pulling my hat down hard, trying to find my car and remember that I had a busy day ahead of me, with a job interview, and that I had to embrace it like nothing had just happened, like nothing had just changed.

In my limited experience, I have found there are three types of employees in corporate America:

1.) The Cow: The cow does her job every day. Just comes in, eats her grass -- munch, munch, munch -- does not question much of anything. Grinds the job right out. The Cow's work quality may be up or down, but the The Cow either enjoys it or (rarely) goes bonkers.

2.) The Warren Beatty: The Warren Beatty is the rebel who questions many aspects of the job. The Beatty may do as well a job as The Cow, but The Beatty asks why. The Beatty may or may not be justified in his questioning, may or may not be off-base in his questioning, but is often frustrated with the job.

3.) The No-Man: Many like to call The No-Man "the Man". I prefer "The No-Man", simply because it's more accurate. The No-Man doesn't have to be a man. It's just anyone (mid-management or higher) who is in position to tell a Warren Beatty "No."

This is corporate America. Grass, mediocre movies, and rejection.

So I wanted to come here and write all about this long theorem I've created about my wife, the house, our car keys, and expanding matter. But I've finally gotten full-tilt into my book again, so there's no time.

But I cannot resist saying that tonight's episode of Cheaters had THE best pissed-off guy tackle of the SOB who's banging his girl. This was not just NFL-caliber. Many NFL linebackers, cornerbacks, and safetys should watch this video for how to execute a tackle. Picture perfect. The SOB was knocked from the middle of the sidewalk to the middle of the lawn.

Picture of a hypocrite: I love Cheaters, but think Elimidate is trash that should be taken off TV.

If aliens who watched us from afar -- not unlike Kang -- suddenly came down to earth and asked my opinion on what's wrong with America, I would not mention poverty, terrible as it is. Crime, which is booming here in Milwaukee, would also not come up, although it probably deserves mention. Terrorism, hot on everyone's mind for the last four years, would also not come up. Our preoccupation with always being correct -- our self-righteousness -- that I wouldn't mention either.

Why not, Will? These are important things. Why won't you tell the aliens about them?

Yeah, all right. I agree. They're important. But I'd rather look at the Constitution, not the code of laws. What kind of spirit lies within us to combat stated poverty, terrorism, crime, blah, blah, blah? I think the constitution of the American public is aptly gauged by our clothing. And not all of it -- I'll choose just one garment.

I'd talk about our jeans.

I'd tell the aliens that the if they entered any major department store, and if they walked over to where we sell the jeans, they would find that not just a large plurality, but a healthy majority of jeans sold in the United States are "pre-worn". I don't mean they're used. They are manufactured to look as if they have been worn down, scuffed up, dirtied.

Now, say what you will about the punk with a boring life who buys his pair of jeans, takes them home, and rips them to his satisfaction with a switch blade. Seems a bit weak to me, too. I agree. But at least he did it himself.

What does it say about us when a healthy majority (honestly, just wander into any major department store) of the populace wears jeans that have been manufactured to look used? In short, fabricated effort and experience are the accepted, acknowledged standard.

How are we to move forward, when this is the attitude of the people? We so want to look hard and cool. And we can't live it. And we can no longer fake it ourselves. So we'll purchase fake hard and cool. Now let me be clear: I'm not trying to come off as one of these "things were better in MY day" kind of old farts. Everyone's to blame (but especially MTV). I'm really saying: we've all -- all of us -- let this go just a bit too far. "This" meaning our obsession with some sort of 1980s "image over substance" mentality. It's no longer the emasculation of the American male; we're well beyond that. This is the emasculation of an entire ethos. "Paper tiger" never before held so much meaning.

Well, folks, it's been 14 years since Stephen Stills put out a solo album of original music. Even that last disc, Stills Alone, found Stills in less than creative form, not terribly passionate, and rough in the voice. Plus, with four of the ten songs covers, it seemed thrown together. Much less of the great acoustic Stills album people expected and anticipated in the 70s.

Man Alive! fits the title. He's back, he's put real effort into this, and it works.

Will I like this?

If you're a Stills fan, read on. If you always thought Stills was the weakest of CSNY, you say you can't stand his voice, or you're saying right now, "Who's Stephen Stills?", then you may want to click the "Next Blog>>" button to the upper-right. This is not the day for you at wrfarah.blogspot.com. Come again!

So here it is, what I never really thought I'd be writing -- my track-by-track review of the new Stephen Stills CD:

Ain't it Always -- good opener. Mike Finnigan, who plays keyboards throughout the album, is on backing vocals pretty prominently here. Strong vocal and lyric from Stills. He usually knows how to open an album, and this follows the tradition.

Feed the People -- as my wife put it, it sounds too manufactured. This is Stills's real "We are the World" song, and he lays it on too thick. This breaks my theory that the second song on every album usually rules. Way too much synth. Lyric is too simplistic. It's OK for a listen once or twice, but this is going to be the song I skip whenever I play the album.

Hearts Gate -- Very well-written song. Kind of a tired singing voice from Stills, but it works. Nice acoustic song that you kind of forget about because it's so short.

'Round the Bend -- One of the best tracks on the album. It's a "story" song, which Stills doesn't write very often. It's about growing up and meeting Neil Young to form the Buffalo Springfield. And for that reason, it's perfectly appropriate that Neil guests on guitar, showing up prominently at the end.

I Don't Get It -- At first listen, this song suffers from Finnigan's horribly dated 80s keyboards, and the backup singers are a bit too perfect, although they grow on you. But Stills's vocals and terrific guitarwork overshadow all that. There's a slight reggae upbeat to this that stands out nicely against the other songs and then gets in your head for the rest of the day. I honestly didn't think Stills had a song like this left in him.

Around Us -- Again, I'm not sure why the production sensibilities are stuck in the 80s, or why Stills prefers to work with Finnigan (and drummer Joe Vitale, who also seems to love the manufactured music), but the song works. The main problem with this song is the backup singers. I know he went for a real, slick production, but what Stills really needs is the Black Crowes's backup singers. They don't sound note-perfect on harmony, but they can belt it out. More soul, less Casio. Still, it's catchy.

Ole Man Trouble -- This is a Booker T. song Stills has covered for years. It's all right. Decent blues. He really shouts it out. Everyone seems to like this version, but I'm not so sure it was necessary. I think Finnigan should be shot for going and tossing synth on top of the Hammond organ. I'd prefer this more sparse than so full.

Different Man -- a duet with Neil. Very nice guitar playing and melody. Neil sounds rough on the backing vocals. I wonder if they only had time for one take or if they were just lazy, but he sounds off.

Piece of Me -- Another acoustic song. A bit darker, more subdued. Great harmonica, which we rarely get with Stills. Sounds like a train song. This song shows how limited Stills's vocal range has become since the 70s. Nevertheless, he works with what he's got. He can't hit the high notes or hold the long ones, but he makes use of what he's got. He's like Toni Kucok.

Wounded World -- Graham Nash is all over this song. It's so-so. A bit too much maudlin Nash.

Drivin' Thunder -- This was done on CSNY's American Dream album. It's like a NASCAR ad. Neat drum beat. You can tell Stills likes the car racing. I don't know that this is a song that needed to be re-done, but it fits.

Acadienne -- He's been playing this one live for a while now. It's the red herring of the group. Odd sort of country/bayou song with some French lyrics. Very upbeat.

Spanish Suite -- This is the most unexpected song, and one of the best he's written. More than eleven minutes long, it begins in Spanish, moves to English, then back to Spanish, before finishing with some great soloing by Stills and Herbie Hancock. The Spanish guitar playing is incredible, and the singing is note perfect.

So there we are -- 8 winners, 4 all right to so-so, and 1 in the tank = B+.

We've had better days around here, now that it's becoming clearer and clearer that we won't be able to keep Ranger. He's nine years old, happy, sweet, loyal, good-natured, a better friend to me than so, so many people, and he doesn't like my son. Snapped at him on Sunday.

The kid's more mobile and more vocal, but far from coordinated or subdued, which spooks the hell out of the dog. The dog still thinks he can go anywhere, still wants to be anywhere, he just likes to pretend Nolan's not there . . . until Nolan shrieks laughter at him or crawls toward him.

The problem with a lot of people is they often don't do what they need to do -- what is responsible -- because of how they feel. So I know that, and I know I have to do the right thing. If only responsibility didn't have to feel like betrayal and weakness.

"And the necklace. That was where you made your mistake, Judy. You shouldn't keep souvenirs of a killing. You shouldn't have been . . . . you shouldn't have been that sentimental."

Well, ladies and gentlemen of Milwaukee, after 18 years, Lazer 103, the dominant hard rock station in the area, is changing formats.

As I'm sure you expect, I take full responsibility and credit for this sudden change.

Apparently the new station is calling itself "The Hog". Not exactly a sign of good sounds to come, eh? The station is announcing its new format at 10:AM today. In the meantime, they've dropped the rock format and the DJs. Worse, they have been playing everything from old-time country to Vanilla Ice. Folks, this can't be an improvement.

Will's Predictions for What Lazer will Become:

1.) Their sister station is the classic rock station in town, so I don't think they'll go entirely classic rock. But the hot new station of the moment is an 80s rock station. This is closer to what I think "The Hog" will be.

***Let me just pause a moment and state that (A.) "The Hog" is perhaps the worst name anyone could have dreamed up and (B.) because of this, I've moved 102.9 down to my 2nd tier of FM radio stations in my car. Let there be no doubt about my feelings: Lazer was flawed. But this doesn't sit right. We are moving in the wrong direction.***

Back to prediction. Basically, I think they're going to go for a "More Redneck, More White Trash" approach. Lazer always sort of leaned that way to begin with. And with the success of The Brew, it just makes sense. Remember, my theorem with radio is programmers never, ever go for creativity. They copy. They spin-off. They beat a dead horse. So what does that mean? Older hard rock and older metal. Time frame of 1975-1990. But no more new rock. No rock-rap. No industrial. No metal . . . except for 80s metal. They'll be The Brew without as much 70s thrown in. No Elton John. No prog-rock. No acid rock. No pop rock. No keyboards (except for a stray Van Halen keyboard song).

2.) If they don't go "More Redneck, More White Trash", I predict they'll go for a straight-up country format. But non-pop country. We've only got two country stations in town, and one is small and unknown. The other is pop-country.

The only positive thing about this that I can tell, right now anyway, is they're keeping their great "Bob and Brian" morning show. It's a money maker, even to the point that it's syndicated throughout the state. So at least we haven't lost everything.

Nevertheless: thank God for the iPod.

James has a great post about his wife finding out about his web log. What really interests me is how he kept it a secret for so long. I'm not sure when people started coming here. There were probably two or three blissful months of me, myself and I. For some reason there's something attractive about just typing away into the nothingness, with no one to read one's words . . . yet that threat always there.

But as a college history professor once yelled to the classroom, "Is this all just . . . just . . . just mental masturbation?!" So a link was made and someone read the bottom of my e-mail signature, clicked the link, and wa-lah! One of Ours was public. Someone tells a friend, who tells someone else. Then Blogger put that great "Next Blog" link on the top, so anyone could randomly happen by.

That's probably the best part about having a website: getting the random e-mails from people I don't know. It doesn't happen often. Once a month, tops. But when it does, it's great. I always wonder how they got here. Usually their text tells me why they e-mailed -- they agreed with something I wrote, or in the case of my Dark Tower post, many disagreed -- but I always go back to how they got here.

The real sea change, for me anyway, is when my mother got on the site. Oh, boy. Some examples of why I write "Oh, boy":

•• "Your language is really something. I don't know why you need to swear so much."
•• "Willy, I just wanted to call you and tell you how I've been reading through your Archives, and it's just brought back so many memories."
•• "Willy, I just wanted to call you and explain why I thought you might like a class ring."

After the sea change, whenever I run into people who I know have read the site, at least at one time, I always consider:

A.) What have they read, and what haven't they? Can I talk about subject X, or did they read the site?
B.) OK, so if I'm not sure of A, I have to at least tell the story differently than I wrote it. More casually. Disinterested. Faster.
C.) I can't say Y because now my mother reads the site.
D.) I have to say Y because even if she does read the site, damnit, I can't sellout and not say Y. What's the site for, if I can't say what I want?
E.) Nope. I really can't say Y. That topic's off limits. There's no way my mother should know about that.
F.) One or two work people know about this place, so I can't write about Z without being entirely vague and generic. I do need to keep my job, despite what the post will say.

The thing about telling people about one's site, though, is to acknowledge one wants people to read it. But then once they arrive, it's unavoidable that one will write in a voice to acknowledge some sort of audience; that content will appear or be edited for specific readers.

At first, I felt a little pressure to post on a regular basis -- still do actually. But leaving the site dormant drops readers, and that's not always a bad thing. Most importantly, though, I've come to hate the very cliched apology for lack of content. To apologize for not posting often enough is to say to one's readers, "Ohhhhhh, you've missed me, haven't you? Aren't I important? How could you make it those three days without me?" Ridiculous. In fact, it's so repugnant, I hereby declare a rule -- the first rule of wrfarah.blogspot.com:

1.) I shall not apologize for a lack of content. If I do, I expect each of my dozen to two dozen readers to immediately inundate oneofours@gmail.com with e-mails stating how I'm an arrogant hypocrite and I should shut down the site before my head grows so large that I won't be able to fit it through the attic doorway; then I'll be stuck here forever, or at least as long as Alice got stuck in the Rabbit's house.

I've only had one real complaint about truth on the site. About a year and a half after this post, my brother got wind of the site and decided to check it out. I quickly received an e-mail that stated:


I replied:

A few weeks back my pal Breezy and I attended a happy little extravaganza in Chi-Town called the Intonation Music Festival 2005. In short, it was a whole bunch of "independent" music -- bands with small labels but no radio play.

As the Modest Mouse says, Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well, here we go:

Working on "Breezy Time", we arrived slightly late, missing the first act, but that was OK because there were many acts to go. It was a hot day -- sunny and low- to mid-90s. When we got into the park where this thing was held, I saw a large field in the center; it was empty. But to the edges -- where there were some trees, tents, and thus, shade -- sat crowds of water-swilling people. Right away, we knew it was going to be a warm one.

The set-up was key, with two stages. As soon as one band finished, the other stage started with the next band. This kept the music going nearly constantly and prevented overcrowding around the stage.

Dungen

We caught their set half-way through, and they were great. Could have played an hour more. Guitarist was accomplished and gave the sound a nice lead against the bass, which was high, but not over-dominating in the mix. The lead singer played the flute, which was neat because he didn't do it in the regular, prog-rock manner of flute-playing. It worked. Fit right in there. I can tell this is a bit of a jam band, and at some point in time I'll pick up a record. Their last song ended kind of strangely because the guitar wouldn't stay in tune so the guitarist got pissed and unplugged. He tried a new one, but it was too late. Odd because I liked the fucked-up sound, even knowing it wasn't what he wanted. Sounded good.

Xiu Xiu

Didn't really see this band. We were hungry, so grabbed some Polish sausage and brew and sat down to listed. Sounded like they had technical difficulties and never really got going. I've since heard great things about this band, but honestly, the Polish was much more memorable.

Out Hud

After the mess of the Xiu Xiu set, we decided to hit up the CD tents. I scored an awesome $1.00 CD by a disbanded band called Olo. Otherwise, I paged through old vinyl and found the stupidest product of all time: on a hot summer day, some idiot was selling forearm-warmers. I looked at her, but I could not find the words.

When we wandered over to Out Hud, we were immediately blown away by the amount of bad white-guy dancing going on. Holy crap. In fact, there seemed to be an awful lot more dancing than actual music being played. I think there was a guy at a keyboard and a bassist in the back; those two seemed to be doing all the work. But the nutjob up front and his two women just kind of grooved around the stage. The nutjob (Nic Offer) really stole the show -- you really had to witness the dancing; words really do it no justice -- and at the end of the set, he told the crowd: "So, like, have a great day, man. Like, fuckin-A." I turned to Breezy and said, "The first prophetic quotation of the afternoon."

Because we enjoyed Dungen's set so much, we decided to check out their guitarist in the DJ booth that was set up. It was a small tent, fairly cool, so I thought we scored pretty well by getting front-row spots. After a wait, and a short introduction, the guitarist and singer walked onstage. I thought for sure we'd hear some of their new album . . . but they just started playing instrumental music. After a while, one of them would put his beer down and adjust the pitch or tone. And the music just kind of droned on. Meanwhile, these two started occasionally rocking out to each other . . . while everyone stood there and watched. Then the rocking out would stop and they'd make an adjustment. Then they sat on the floor and sipped their beers, listening. Here's the weird thing: at no point did they look at, speak to, or acknowledge the crowd. It was like we weren't there. When Breezy said, "So, you know who else is onstage?" he didn't have to ask twice.

The Hold Steady

So we caught the last half of The Hold Steady's set. I really like the band, and I really like the lyrics -- very funny and direct. But the lead singer (Craig Finn) . . . doesn't sing. He just speaks. I've heard more about this band than any other at the festival, so I think if any band hits the mainstream, it'll be this one. But the guy doesn't sing. He just speaks. It's interesting for a while. And like I stated -- the lyrics are terrific. But I kept wanting him to get to the chorus with some singing. Didn't happen. At some point, I'll break down and buy an album.

Andrew Bird

Directly after The Hold Steady, we got a good spot for Andrew Bird, who I've heard of, but never heard. The day was roiling hot at this point, but the music made up for it. Bird is a "looper", and a damn good one, moving from violin to guitar to whistling (which is a good novelty he maybe overuses at times). He had the best drummer of the day with him, which helped matters. Kevin O'Donnell worked from a small, jazz set that perfectly fit the music. Bird's a good writer, even if he falls into the "idealistic leftist" pile. Not much fucking around here, either. He started early and gave much more music than could be expected for the weather.

Deerhoof

During Bird's set, I could feel the heat sapping me. I made it through 24 oz of water and still felt dry. [Side note: during the whole day, full of several beers and many, many oz's of water, I didn't go once. Not until 10:15 PM did I hit the port-o-let, and that was just because I thought "What the hell?" And I drank a ton of water, I just sweat it all out. Now someone's saying to someone else: "I just read some guy's blog where he talks about how he only peed once all day." Which is what I've always wanted to do with this website.] Back to our story. During and after the Bird set, I heard people talking about the upcoming Deerhoof set: "Oh, I can't wait to see Deerhoof." "Oh, I can't believe Deerhoof is here. They're amazing." And, folks, that's all the motivation I needed. Fuck the heat exhaustion, I thought. Let's just screw it and go see this great band called Deerhoof.

When they got onstage, they started jamming. Sounded OK. I liked the bassist and guitarist. Drummer was terrible. All arms, schizoid, as if he hits the skins randomly. But the music seemed very . . . stop and start. I'm not somebody who needs a set, traditional melody, but this was just annoying because I knew the guitarist and bassist could play. But all potential came to a halt because then the lead singer started "singing": "Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba . . . China!" Band plays again, thrashing, hard music, then: "Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba . . . bamboo!" More thrashing, banging, then: "Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba . . . chicken!"

I turn to a cracking-up Breezy and say, "2nd prophetic statement of the day!" That was enough for us. We grabbed some dinner and some shade. Unfortunately, dinner and shade prevented us from seeing the Wrens. I did catch a song or two -- and they sounded terrific -- so I'll probably have to pick up a disc sometime. It's got to be better than "Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba . . . China!" For Christ's sake.

Les Savy Fav

There was an odd, expectant air by the stage before Les Savy Fav came on. I'd never heard of them. Suddenly, some big, bearded guy (Tim Harrington) came out onstage with a tight, red T-shirt that did nothing to hide his gut. The shirt said, "carpe diem". He did. During the first song, his shirt was off. He was washing himself with sponges and throwing them into the crowd. He covered his head in tin foil. He sang through the tin foil roll. He brought out and used a slip 'n' slide. He got the entire crowd to crouch down on the ground (except for two losers who somebody hit with a bottle of water). I don't remember when, but at some point, his shorts came off to reveal a black thong. Oh, boy. Just the memory of it . . . wow. Then the police got involved, saying that they would shut the festival down because it was getting too rowdy. Eventually, Breezy turned to me and said, "I think he just crossed the line from Michael Jackson crotch-grab to full-on masturbation." That was about the time we departed for the other stage.

How was the music? The lyrics, when intelligible, sounded clever. But the bass completely muted the guitar. It's as if the sound guy stepped out for a cold one and never came back. It's a shame, because we were essentially just listening to bass and drums and watching a fat guy scream and get naked. But it's something I won't forget.

The Decemberists

It was before the Decemberists took the stage that we heard the third prophetic statement made. It was by the "introduction guy" -- some yahoo associated with the festival who did all the band introductions. After thanking all the other bands, he went on some big rant about how, "In 2004, we all suffered a major loss in November." Right away -- even at a predominantly liberal extravaganza in a liberal city -- the crowd was pissed. People started booing and yapping. But he went on, talking about the festival's values: "We are . . . the INtonation. We must go out and repair the REST of the nation." I've heard crap like this time and time again, but I didn't expect to hear it from some 50-something guy in a Panama hat. When will these people understand that music doesn't save the world or change politics? "We are the INtonation. We exist OUTSIDE the nation. But together, we can change the nation. And that's what we're here to do today, folks. Intonation!" Actually, we were there for the music. But hey -- that's just me!

The music did eventually start. And the Decemberists were terrific. Very . . . ocean-based, sea-faring, lyrics. Traditional. Lot of acoustic guitar, organ and violin. Great backing vocals. Electric guitarist (Chris Funk) was spot on. Singer (Colin Meloy) had the audience from note one. Long set, large crowd. A thoughtful record exec should find a way to market this band.

So that was that. Hit and miss, but the hits made it all worthwhile and the misses added only comedy. As the Hold Steady put it, "If she says we partied, then I'm pretty sure we partied. I really don't remember. I remember we departed from our bodies."

My summer vacation included:
•• hiking
•• swimming
•• biking
•• fishing
•• running
•• badminton (undefeated)
•• horseshoes (I could play horseshoes for a week without solid food or sleep).
•• on Monday, all the above activities in the heat and loving it.
•• on Tuesday morning, waking up nautious and wasted from all the loving it and the heat.
•• writing longhand for the first time in a long time.
•• going to Boulder Junction to look at a junk sale and pick up great books by Sherwood Anderson and Plato.
•• "sleeping" on a hide-a-bed
•• seeing a black bear right in the middle of the road look at us like he didn't have the time for us.
•• going to Eagle River with the two goals of: finding my hidden nook bookstore and purchasing a blank, red, canvas baseball hat. The bookstore moved to a more accessible location and I found a great collection of short stories, including work by John Steinbeck, Ray Bradbury, and EB White. And while I couldn't find a blank, red hat, I came close enough.
•• catching no fish but getting my new fishing line caught and tangled every other cast, damnit.
•• eating so much food that I now weigh 674 pounds including my Adidas.
•• getting some horrific rash that caused my sunburn to itch like crazy, so I was running around, screaming, "Make it stop," and rubbing ointment. Finally, when no one would help me -- the wife and mother just laughing at me in my utter agony -- the worst agony ever suffered by a biped -- I downed four Benadryls and four beers and passed out.
•• seeing otters creep off of the island and slip into the water in front of us.
•• watching my father become a pyromaniac and learn how to make a s'more at the ripe age of 53.
•• putting up with my older sister being a s'more snob know-it-all. "You have to put it by the cooooaaaaals." "That stick is waaaaaay too thick." "That is NOT even close to done."

"Hi, Will. You got a second?"

"Sure."

"While you were gone, I sent you a couple e-mails, and I received your 'out-of-the-office' reply."

"Yeah."

"Ah. Do you? Um. What, uh . . . do you remember what you wrote?"

"Yeah, it said, 'Thanks for your e-mail. I'm basking in the warm freedom of summer. How's work? I'm sure that when I get back, I'll give your message all the copious attention it deserves. More likely, it will be buried under hundreds of other e-mails. Anyway, I wish you the best of luck with your message, as well as all your other current endeavors. Have a fine, productive day.'"

"Yeah. Um. What was your goal with that?"

"To brag to others that I was on vacation while they were at work. Ummmmmm. And to notify people I wasn't going to be around to help them right away. That's pretty much it."

"Because, the first time I read it, I laughed. Then, after a couple more times, I thought about it. Then I read it a few more times."

"My 'out-of-the-office' reply?"

"Yes. And I think some people, especially those who do not know your sense of humor, may not . . . well, they may get the idea that you do not care much about replying to them."

"Well, that was not my intent."

"Yes, well. In the future. Let's not do that again. Not very professional."

"You know, I'm on lunch right now."

"Oh, OK. OK. Well, anyway. Good to have you back. We missed you."