John’s comment on the lifetime gigology thread made me start thinking about times I’ve met people I really admired.
A lot of people who know me at all know that Stephen Malkmus is probably one of my all-time favorite musicians and personalities. The Malkman is tall and thin; he’s smooth in an accidental way, and easily one of the most sardonic talents out there. In the geeky world of indie rock, Malky is an unabashed sports fan who loves to substitute the names of local athletes into his songs when performing live. “Baby C’mon” became “Gilbert C’mon” at the Black Cat in 2005; “(Do not feed the) Oyster” was “Do not feed Joakim Noah / Under the post…” in Chicago, and so on.
And of course, the Malkster is a five-tool songwriter, a focused Dadaist storyteller, who can wring heartbreak out of the story of Jenny and Shawn (the Ess-dog), who try their hardest to make it but who can’t survive her move to Boulder for college. “Give it a day,” back in the Pavement days, uses Cotton and Increase Mather of “The Crucible” fame to liken the spread of Puritanism to a virus, one that ultimately infects the speaker of the song. Written in the mid-1990s, “Give it a day” anticipates humanitarian and political strife with lines like, “Years and years have passed / since the Puritans invaded our soul / just like those Arab terrorists you’ll never know…” and “The word spread just like small pox in the Sudan / the gentry cried, ‘Give it a day, give it a day…’” while a more recent tune like “It Kills” handles the issue of aging with a surprising level of maturity: “Nine times out of ten / I’m not the guidance type / I’ve been sitting on a fencepost for the brunt of my life / And now I need some time to find out what I feel / It kills...the time” and includes the chilling (to me) line, “There’s more to you than what you think and read.”
So, I have what Ms. AC teasingly calls a man-crush on the Malkster. Hell yes I do. So much so, in fact, that when he toured behind “Face the Truth” in 2005, I decided I would see him perform four times in four nights – in DC, Philly, Boston, and New York. To make a long story slightly less long, I had a chance to meet him in Boston – awkwardly, it turns out, in a men’s room, where I barely summoned up the courage to say anything of consequence to him. In New York, however, I found out early in the evening that I would be visiting backstage after the show, which gave me a whole night’s worth of time to agonize over what to say, how to behave.
The truth is, I completely blew it. Malk was even wearing his “Malk-a-tastic” shirt (a famous white tee that says “malk-a-tastic” on the back) and he was in a good mood. I’d imagined he might be difficult – after all, this was the man who famously dissed the Stone Temple Pilots and the Smashing Pumpkins in the space of a few seconds in the same song (more recently, he and Kim Deal of the Breeders seem to have some beef.)
We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I did my best to avoid a Chris Farley/Paul McCartney moment. He grabbed his laptop and was showing some of us pictures of his daughter. I told him I had just seen a picture of him at a gallery opening in New York, carrying his daughter in a papoose. I told him how much I enjoyed seeing the picture of him being a real, normal dad, and that the picture just seemed so wholesome to me. He seemed genuinely moved and thanked me, and that’s about as much as I remember. I actually had a few other acquaintances backstage, so we hovered and occasionally glanced over to see what the band was doing.
But what did I want, what did I expect? Did I want to talk about my fantasy baseball team? Be buddies? I have no idea. In hindsight, I think I probably was trying to be too hip, too knowing. And of course, on the opposite end of the spectrum is the exchange I had with Seymour Hersh in a Petco store, of all places. First of all, there’s the fact that, much to my surprise, I recognized Sy Hersh. I actually asked myself, “Is this happening? Am I really the kind of person who sees Seymour Hersh in a store, recognizes him, and then gets starstruck?” As he checked out, I said something like, “Mr. Hersh, I’m a big fan of your writing.” He looked startled for a second (startled to be recognized and fawned over?), and then graciously thanked me.
All of which comes back around to meeting Gillian Welch and David Rawlings - probably one of the nicest encounters I’ve ever had with any famous person (I would put the few minutes of conversation I had with Dar Williams as a close second.) For some reason, at that particular point in the night, Welch and Rawlings were sitting alone. My brother and I came by and I told them how much I enjoyed “Hell Among the Yearlings” – a dark album of guitar and banjo duets that deal with murder, rape, addiction, death, and other cheery topics. They just seemed so happy to hear that someone enjoyed their work. We actually had as close to a normal conversation as I’ve ever had with anyone whose work I admired that much.
There are a number of other people whom I admire, whom I would love to meet – Gilbert Arenas probably tops the list at this point, with a number of close seconds. But I still can't answer the question of why I want to meet them. What do I want to get out of it? It’s not a natural situation, and the psychological power imbalance is so severe that I’ll end up feeling like an idiot no matter what I do or say. So why do I want to put myself through that again – because trust me, I’ve kicked myself a number of times for not being more “myself” when I was backstage with S-Malk in NY…? I don’t know. Maybe I hope to witness another exchange like the one I did between Brendan and D-Mac, which got me a cameo on Wizznutzz. And, as I often do, I'm hapring on the negative: after all, there is that giddiness, that excitement, when you get to stand in front of someone whom you greatly admire - it's immature and juvenile and totally authentic. Now if I can just try not to shank it so badly next time, maybe I'll have one less thing to regret in life.
30 July 2008
29 July 2008
I've got the next million-dollar restaurant concept right here
Enough upscale burger joints. Give me an upscale bagel shop. The independent neighborhood bagel shop is almost a relic – I shudder to think of what will happen if Whatsa Bagels goes under. A combination of low-carb diet fads and encroaching chains that sell fake bagels (I’m looking at you, Einstein and Panera) are probably responsible, but maybe it has to do with the awful hours and terrible boiling smell of bagel-making that the employees have to endure. In any case, consider this my plea: we’re over the low-carb thing. It’s a recession – people want to go out for affordable, comfort food (or at least that’s what the upscale burger places would have you believe.)
Accordingly, I give you a few items that would be featured prominently on the menu of the upscale bagel shop of my dreams:
-Pork tenderloin sandwich on a cornbread bagel; cilantro/red pepper cream cheese
-Miso-glazed salmon on a wasabi bagel; lemongrass-basil cream cheese
-Lamb rogan josh on a curry bagel; raita cream cheese
And so on. I don’t know anything about the specifics of bagel-making or cream-cheese-flavoring, but if it’s possible to make a blue blueberry bagel, how hard can it be to make a wasabi bagel? Or a cornbread bagel?
Someone, get on this pronto. And then give me credit for the idea.
Accordingly, I give you a few items that would be featured prominently on the menu of the upscale bagel shop of my dreams:
-Pork tenderloin sandwich on a cornbread bagel; cilantro/red pepper cream cheese
-Miso-glazed salmon on a wasabi bagel; lemongrass-basil cream cheese
-Lamb rogan josh on a curry bagel; raita cream cheese
And so on. I don’t know anything about the specifics of bagel-making or cream-cheese-flavoring, but if it’s possible to make a blue blueberry bagel, how hard can it be to make a wasabi bagel? Or a cornbread bagel?
Someone, get on this pronto. And then give me credit for the idea.
28 July 2008
Ortho surgeon jokes
Evidently, orthopedic surgeons are not particularly well-regarded by their peers. I've heard other medical personnel make jokes about how ortho surgeons operate on the "BBMF" principle - "bone broke / me fix" - but that's not as good as hearing about how ortho surgeons have to travel in sets of two.
"One to read, one to write."
"One to read, one to write."
25 July 2008
Incongruous sights and sounds: late July edition
-being called the n-word by an african american gentleman after a parking altercation
-arriving at work to find oil pouring out of the bottom of my car like water from a hose
-listening to Wale's (pronounced Wah-lay) Seinfeld-themed "Mixtape About Nothing" over and over again. "The Freestyle" on this just makes me happy (“on the first day of school, teacher couldn’t say my name / now I got the whole nation screaming ‘Wa-le!’”) and Wale is one of the few rappers whose intelligence and wit have me perpetually smiling. Julia Louis-Dreyfus puts in an appearance, and he gets serious on a couple of songs. Plus, he drops the following rhymes, some of which I’m mangling because it’s so intricate:
-getting into a shouting match with the downstairs neighbor over water damage that allegedly occurred 14 months ago
-watching a man walking a dog yelling at this mentally disturbed lady who occasionally roams the neighborhood. "Shut up! People live here! No one wants to hear you yelling your crazy things!" To which she replied, "I live here. This my home. Wherever I go, that's my home."
-talking to a co-worker about a break-up. Co-w says it’s still a bit raw and he hasn’t been advertising this. I say, half-jokingly, “Yeah, it’s not like you have to run out and change your ‘status’ on your Facebook page right now or anything.” He replies, dead serious, “Oh no. I did that several days ago.”
-remembering how much I love the song "Freedom '90" by George Michael. I think if I ever do karaoke, it'll be a toss-up between this song and "Unbelievable" by EMF. I think most songs that try to portray stardom as a stifling condition end up alienating the listener, but I love that "Freedom '90" does the opposite by inviting the audience to break the chains as well. There's nary a sneer in sight, and if you remember the video - Linda Evangelista in a bathtub, lip-syncing the vocals, as a closet full of "I want your sex"-era leather jackets is blown to smithereens – I think it gets harder and harder to hold a grudge against the song. Of course, as someone who thought he had outgrown pop when the single was released, I hated the song for a long time. I can remember the exact moment when I realized I loved the song: I was in the backseat of an idling car in Ipanema. We were picking someone up or something, waiting, listening to the radio. I hadn't heard the song in a couple of months at that point - and as the first piano chords fell into place around the drumbeat, something clicked, and I've secretly loved the song ever since. I listened to it twice this morning for the first time in five years or so, and my love for the song is so complete that I’ve now decided to go public with it. [Editor's note: Public? By writing about it here? Please. I've seen your google analytics traffic numbers...]
-making it one whole week without facial hair, this being only the second or third time in the past ten years that I have shaved all of it off. It feels good.
-remembering the Radiohead debacle at Nissan via an interesting piece on popmatters.
-arriving at work to find oil pouring out of the bottom of my car like water from a hose
-listening to Wale's (pronounced Wah-lay) Seinfeld-themed "Mixtape About Nothing" over and over again. "The Freestyle" on this just makes me happy (“on the first day of school, teacher couldn’t say my name / now I got the whole nation screaming ‘Wa-le!’”) and Wale is one of the few rappers whose intelligence and wit have me perpetually smiling. Julia Louis-Dreyfus puts in an appearance, and he gets serious on a couple of songs. Plus, he drops the following rhymes, some of which I’m mangling because it’s so intricate:
I’m the best even when I’m cynical
Angle these beats like a pinnacle
Whenever my pen is on
ain’t nothing here minimal
counting my bread like a brunch at a synagogue
that’s a whole lot of bagels
see me off at the bay to San Quentin in a beige coup
a very bad man, you can ask babu
I get signed/feld with these rhymes/skills
I’m larry david
give me my paper
this will cost more like jerry sein’s neighbor
my costanzas stand like phantoms or maybecks (??)
you won’t get Elaine if you can’t rap
I hate rap like Kramer hates blacks
still it’s no label wale ain’t past
and now I’m on a lead one, everybody gasp
now, mark, get me a check and some debt
-getting into a shouting match with the downstairs neighbor over water damage that allegedly occurred 14 months ago
-watching a man walking a dog yelling at this mentally disturbed lady who occasionally roams the neighborhood. "Shut up! People live here! No one wants to hear you yelling your crazy things!" To which she replied, "I live here. This my home. Wherever I go, that's my home."
-talking to a co-worker about a break-up. Co-w says it’s still a bit raw and he hasn’t been advertising this. I say, half-jokingly, “Yeah, it’s not like you have to run out and change your ‘status’ on your Facebook page right now or anything.” He replies, dead serious, “Oh no. I did that several days ago.”
-remembering how much I love the song "Freedom '90" by George Michael. I think if I ever do karaoke, it'll be a toss-up between this song and "Unbelievable" by EMF. I think most songs that try to portray stardom as a stifling condition end up alienating the listener, but I love that "Freedom '90" does the opposite by inviting the audience to break the chains as well. There's nary a sneer in sight, and if you remember the video - Linda Evangelista in a bathtub, lip-syncing the vocals, as a closet full of "I want your sex"-era leather jackets is blown to smithereens – I think it gets harder and harder to hold a grudge against the song. Of course, as someone who thought he had outgrown pop when the single was released, I hated the song for a long time. I can remember the exact moment when I realized I loved the song: I was in the backseat of an idling car in Ipanema. We were picking someone up or something, waiting, listening to the radio. I hadn't heard the song in a couple of months at that point - and as the first piano chords fell into place around the drumbeat, something clicked, and I've secretly loved the song ever since. I listened to it twice this morning for the first time in five years or so, and my love for the song is so complete that I’ve now decided to go public with it. [Editor's note: Public? By writing about it here? Please. I've seen your google analytics traffic numbers...]
-making it one whole week without facial hair, this being only the second or third time in the past ten years that I have shaved all of it off. It feels good.
-remembering the Radiohead debacle at Nissan via an interesting piece on popmatters.
Non(citizens) on parole
[and if you got the “Police Academy” reference above – shame on you. And me too, I guess.]
The following text appears on the documents that allow me to re-enter the United States after international travel - known as an "advanced parole" document:
I’m pretty sure this speaks for itself, though I’m completely befuddled as to what it actually says.
The following text appears on the documents that allow me to re-enter the United States after international travel - known as an "advanced parole" document:
Parole is not admission into the United States. Presentation of this authorization will allow a CBP [Customs and Border Patrol] Inspector at a port-of-entry to parole you into the United States, which will allow you to resume your application for adjustment of status. Parole is not “admission” so even after your parole you will remain an “applicant for admission.” …
Parole into the United States is not guaranteed. In all cases, you are still subject to immigration inspection at a port-of-entry to determine whether you are eligible to come into the United States via the terms of this document. Even if you have previously been granted parole, the Department of Homeland Security retains discretion to deny you parole if the Department determines approving your parole application would not serve the public interest of the United States.
I’m pretty sure this speaks for itself, though I’m completely befuddled as to what it actually says.
24 July 2008
cell phones and cancer
A well-regarded oncology center encourages its employees to act preventively and limit cell phone use, especially for children.
...and making the case in favor of spelling in music.
Let no one say that Abstract Citizen isn't fair and balanced...
Making the case against spelling in music
"Respect," before it got ruined by Aretha and was immortalized by Rodney Dangerfield in "Ladybugs." The recently released Rhino remasters do the bassline some justice, but you can get a sense from it here...
More on mornings, breaking
Recycled some images from "Second floor, at the bar" for this one. Riffed? Self-plagiarized? Irrelevant, I guess.
A.M.
the morning broke hopeful
on coarse tonsils
you were thinking
about empty houses and wings
and beating, beating,
how the gaze swivels.
the morning broke pearly
grazing you
uncouth pedestrians
and their incurious intrusions.
the morning broke people
it snapped them
it was relentless
on your spine
core muscles made from paperbacks
and were we running then, even?
the morning broke itself
its yolk bowing
but nothing was left
and no one knew what
morning breaking
really meant.
But we expected
a thing or two
from packed houses
with parked wings
and it was early again
when we first noticed
how the morning breaks.
A.M.
the morning broke hopeful
on coarse tonsils
you were thinking
about empty houses and wings
and beating, beating,
how the gaze swivels.
the morning broke pearly
grazing you
uncouth pedestrians
and their incurious intrusions.
the morning broke people
it snapped them
it was relentless
on your spine
core muscles made from paperbacks
and were we running then, even?
the morning broke itself
its yolk bowing
but nothing was left
and no one knew what
morning breaking
really meant.
But we expected
a thing or two
from packed houses
with parked wings
and it was early again
when we first noticed
how the morning breaks.
22 July 2008
Lifetime gigology
As close to a complete list of every concert I've ever been to as I can come up with. Also, notice the frenetic pace when I was younger - how did I do that?... and how I've moved to something like a trimester system in the past few years...
Young and in Rio:
Caetano Veloso / Chico Buarque (Sambodromo, RJ)
Faith No More / Maggie’s Dream (Maracanazinho, RJ, 1992)
Hollywood Rock 1992: EMF, Jesus Jones, Seal, Living Colour, Titas, Paralamas do Sucesso (Sambodromo, RJ)
Titas – 1992, ???, RJ
Roxette / Supla – Sambodromo, 1992
[Moved to the US]
Faith No More/Helmet (Bender Arena? Late 1992 or early 1993)
Belly/Radiohead (October 1, 1993)
Shudder to Think / Soul Coughing (Jan 1994? [This was Soul Coughing’s first show outside of New York])
Jawbox (March 1994)
HFStival (May, 1994): Pavement, Rollins Band, Counting Crows, Cracker, Violent Femmes, James [RFK Stadium, DC]
Hum/Verve (Old 930, 1995)
Course of Empire / Machines of Loving Grace (Old 930, 1995?)
Nine Inch Nails/Marilyn Manson – (Baltimore, fall 1994)
Soul de Quem Quiser (RJ/RJ, spring 1996)
Chick Corea/Roy Haynes/Kenny Garrett/Christian McBride/Josh Redman/Wallace Roney – Remembering Bud Powell (June 1996)
Soul Coughing/Trans Am (summer 1996)
Dar Williams (summer 1996, old Birchmere)
Tori Amos (Wolftrap, VA, August 1996)
Bluegrass Sessions Band [at least twice ] (1999 and 2000, Birchmere, VA)
Sam Bush band (1998? Birchmere, VA)
Lyle Lovett (small acoustic band; opener: Alison Krauss and Union Station, pre-Douglas) - March 1997 (US Naval Academy)
Lyle Lovett (Summer 1997, Wolftrap)
Phish – 7/21/97 (Virginia Beach), 12/5/97 (Clevaland), 12/28/97 (Landover, MD)
Shawn Colvin / G. Love and Special Sauce – Wolftrap, VA, August 4 1997
Ben Harper (March 9, 1998)
Soul Coughing (May 1, 1998, Oberlin College)
Seldom Scene [at least twice] (Birchmere, VA - once was March 13, 1998)
David Grisman Quintet (July 13, 1998, Birchmere, VA)
Salif Keita, Baaba Maal (Kennedy Center, summer 1998)
Louis White, Jr, Willie Dixon, Arlo Guthrie (National Mall, summer 1998)
Phish – August 8, 1998 (Merriweather, MD), August 9, 1998 (Virginia Beach), November 13, 1998 (Cleveland), 12/28/98 (NY/NY, 12/29/98 (NY/NY)
Indigo Girls (August 10, 1998)
Phish - July 9, 1999 (Merriweather, MD), July 10, 1999 (East Camden, NJ), December 15, 19999 (Verizon Center, Washington DC)
Tony Trischka’s World Turning (February 6, 1999, Montgomery College, Rockville)
Maceo Parker (April 30, 1999)
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings (June 22, 1999, Birchmere, VA)
Soul Coughing (August 2 and 4, 1999, Recher’s and 930 club)
Alison Krauss and Union Station (with Jerry Douglas); opener: Tony Rice/Peter Rowan – (Birchmere, VA, August 21, 1998)
Caetano Veloso (Warner Theatre, July 15, 1999)
Paul Simon and Bob Dylan (Nissan Pavillion, July 16, 1999)
Tom Waits (Beacon Theatre, NY, September 24, 1999)
David Grisman Quintet (October 6, 1999)
Greg Brown (October 8, 1999)
Josh Redman quartet (spring 2000, Blues Alley)
Maceo Parker (January 21, 2000)
Yo La Tengo (930, February 25, 2000)
Luna, Black Beetle, Long Goodbye (March 25, 2000)
Aimee Mann, Michael Penn, Patton Oswalt (June 21, 2000)
Luna, Elf Power (July 7, 2000)
Charlie Haden Quartet West / Ravi Coltrane Quartet (summer 2000)
Steve Turre Quintet (summer 2000)
Bob Dylan, Phil Lesh, and Friends (July 29, 2000)
Christian McBride Quartet (September 2000)
Phish - July 3 and 4, 2000 (East Camden, NJ), September 15, 2000 (Hershey, PA), September 17, 2000 (Merriweather, MD)
Aimee Mann, Michael Penn, David Cross (2001?)
Lake Trout (April 27, 2001)
Trey Anastasio Band (July 28 and 29, 2001)
Spiritualized (October 23, 2001)
SM + Jix (April 5, 2001)
Sam Bush Band and Jazz Mandolin Project (January 25, 2002)
Mingus Big Band with lecture and q and a with Sue Ellen Mingus (April 19, 2002, Department of Commerce building)
Tony Rice unit with Dan Tyminski (Birchmere, VA summer 2002)
Wilco (930 Club, October 15, 2002)
Caetano Veloso (November 20, 2002)
M.Doughty (Black Cat, February 27, 2003)
Flaming Lips with Sparklehorse (surprise opener) (April 20, 2003)
SM + Jicks (May 11, 2003)
Built to Spill (August 2003?)
Wilco (DAR, June 30, 2003) (opener: Sonic Youth)
Radiohead with SM/Jix (August 20, 2003)
Dismemberment Plan (September 1, 2003)
Belle and Sebastian (October 28, 2003)
Super Furry Animals (February 11, 2004)
Broken Social Scene (March 25, 2004)
Tortoise (April 24, 2004)
Pixies (December 8 and 9, 2004)
Phish (August 14 and 15, 2004, Coventry, VT)
SM + Jix (June 4, 5, 6, 7, 2005)
Sufjan Stevens (September 27, 2005)
Dar Williams (October 1, 2005)
David Grisman Quintet (October 21, 2005)
Broken Social Scene (October 26, 2005)
Super Furry Animals (November 8, 2005)
Benevento/Russo duo with Mike Gordon (December 27, 2005)
Belle and Sebastian (March 5, 2006)
Indigo Girls (Baltimore, fall 2006)
Joanna Newsom (November 17, 2006)
November 4, 2007 - Caetano Veloso
November 18, 2007 - Broken Social Scene presents Kevin Drew
april 2008 - okkervil river / new pornographers
may 10 2008 - swell season
may 18 2008 - radiohead
No ticket stubs but luckily others remember them - mostly from 2004 to 2006:
Ted Leo & the Pharmicists (opener: Mary Timony)- Black Cat, Washington, D.C.
Q and not U- Fort Reno, Washington, D.C.
Animal Collective- Black Cat, Washington, D.C.
The Go! Team- Black Cat, Washington, D.C
Bands that I saw in high school a bunch of times:
Fugazi, Jawbox – St Stephen’s
Neptune’s Daughter
Rise
Twisted Fish/Undertow
Pain of Life
The Human Condition
Tuscadero
Frodus
The Skavacados
Etc.
Young and in Rio:
Caetano Veloso / Chico Buarque (Sambodromo, RJ)
Faith No More / Maggie’s Dream (Maracanazinho, RJ, 1992)
Hollywood Rock 1992: EMF, Jesus Jones, Seal, Living Colour, Titas, Paralamas do Sucesso (Sambodromo, RJ)
Titas – 1992, ???, RJ
Roxette / Supla – Sambodromo, 1992
[Moved to the US]
Faith No More/Helmet (Bender Arena? Late 1992 or early 1993)
Belly/Radiohead (October 1, 1993)
Shudder to Think / Soul Coughing (Jan 1994? [This was Soul Coughing’s first show outside of New York])
Jawbox (March 1994)
HFStival (May, 1994): Pavement, Rollins Band, Counting Crows, Cracker, Violent Femmes, James [RFK Stadium, DC]
Hum/Verve (Old 930, 1995)
Course of Empire / Machines of Loving Grace (Old 930, 1995?)
Nine Inch Nails/Marilyn Manson – (Baltimore, fall 1994)
Soul de Quem Quiser (RJ/RJ, spring 1996)
Chick Corea/Roy Haynes/Kenny Garrett/Christian McBride/Josh Redman/Wallace Roney – Remembering Bud Powell (June 1996)
Soul Coughing/Trans Am (summer 1996)
Dar Williams (summer 1996, old Birchmere)
Tori Amos (Wolftrap, VA, August 1996)
Bluegrass Sessions Band [at least twice ] (1999 and 2000, Birchmere, VA)
Sam Bush band (1998? Birchmere, VA)
Lyle Lovett (small acoustic band; opener: Alison Krauss and Union Station, pre-Douglas) - March 1997 (US Naval Academy)
Lyle Lovett (Summer 1997, Wolftrap)
Phish – 7/21/97 (Virginia Beach), 12/5/97 (Clevaland), 12/28/97 (Landover, MD)
Shawn Colvin / G. Love and Special Sauce – Wolftrap, VA, August 4 1997
Ben Harper (March 9, 1998)
Soul Coughing (May 1, 1998, Oberlin College)
Seldom Scene [at least twice] (Birchmere, VA - once was March 13, 1998)
David Grisman Quintet (July 13, 1998, Birchmere, VA)
Salif Keita, Baaba Maal (Kennedy Center, summer 1998)
Louis White, Jr, Willie Dixon, Arlo Guthrie (National Mall, summer 1998)
Phish – August 8, 1998 (Merriweather, MD), August 9, 1998 (Virginia Beach), November 13, 1998 (Cleveland), 12/28/98 (NY/NY, 12/29/98 (NY/NY)
Indigo Girls (August 10, 1998)
Phish - July 9, 1999 (Merriweather, MD), July 10, 1999 (East Camden, NJ), December 15, 19999 (Verizon Center, Washington DC)
Tony Trischka’s World Turning (February 6, 1999, Montgomery College, Rockville)
Maceo Parker (April 30, 1999)
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings (June 22, 1999, Birchmere, VA)
Soul Coughing (August 2 and 4, 1999, Recher’s and 930 club)
Alison Krauss and Union Station (with Jerry Douglas); opener: Tony Rice/Peter Rowan – (Birchmere, VA, August 21, 1998)
Caetano Veloso (Warner Theatre, July 15, 1999)
Paul Simon and Bob Dylan (Nissan Pavillion, July 16, 1999)
Tom Waits (Beacon Theatre, NY, September 24, 1999)
David Grisman Quintet (October 6, 1999)
Greg Brown (October 8, 1999)
Josh Redman quartet (spring 2000, Blues Alley)
Maceo Parker (January 21, 2000)
Yo La Tengo (930, February 25, 2000)
Luna, Black Beetle, Long Goodbye (March 25, 2000)
Aimee Mann, Michael Penn, Patton Oswalt (June 21, 2000)
Luna, Elf Power (July 7, 2000)
Charlie Haden Quartet West / Ravi Coltrane Quartet (summer 2000)
Steve Turre Quintet (summer 2000)
Bob Dylan, Phil Lesh, and Friends (July 29, 2000)
Christian McBride Quartet (September 2000)
Phish - July 3 and 4, 2000 (East Camden, NJ), September 15, 2000 (Hershey, PA), September 17, 2000 (Merriweather, MD)
Aimee Mann, Michael Penn, David Cross (2001?)
Lake Trout (April 27, 2001)
Trey Anastasio Band (July 28 and 29, 2001)
Spiritualized (October 23, 2001)
SM + Jix (April 5, 2001)
Sam Bush Band and Jazz Mandolin Project (January 25, 2002)
Mingus Big Band with lecture and q and a with Sue Ellen Mingus (April 19, 2002, Department of Commerce building)
Tony Rice unit with Dan Tyminski (Birchmere, VA summer 2002)
Wilco (930 Club, October 15, 2002)
Caetano Veloso (November 20, 2002)
M.Doughty (Black Cat, February 27, 2003)
Flaming Lips with Sparklehorse (surprise opener) (April 20, 2003)
SM + Jicks (May 11, 2003)
Built to Spill (August 2003?)
Wilco (DAR, June 30, 2003) (opener: Sonic Youth)
Radiohead with SM/Jix (August 20, 2003)
Dismemberment Plan (September 1, 2003)
Belle and Sebastian (October 28, 2003)
Super Furry Animals (February 11, 2004)
Broken Social Scene (March 25, 2004)
Tortoise (April 24, 2004)
Pixies (December 8 and 9, 2004)
Phish (August 14 and 15, 2004, Coventry, VT)
SM + Jix (June 4, 5, 6, 7, 2005)
Sufjan Stevens (September 27, 2005)
Dar Williams (October 1, 2005)
David Grisman Quintet (October 21, 2005)
Broken Social Scene (October 26, 2005)
Super Furry Animals (November 8, 2005)
Benevento/Russo duo with Mike Gordon (December 27, 2005)
Belle and Sebastian (March 5, 2006)
Indigo Girls (Baltimore, fall 2006)
Joanna Newsom (November 17, 2006)
November 4, 2007 - Caetano Veloso
November 18, 2007 - Broken Social Scene presents Kevin Drew
april 2008 - okkervil river / new pornographers
may 10 2008 - swell season
may 18 2008 - radiohead
No ticket stubs but luckily others remember them - mostly from 2004 to 2006:
Ted Leo & the Pharmicists (opener: Mary Timony)- Black Cat, Washington, D.C.
Q and not U- Fort Reno, Washington, D.C.
Animal Collective- Black Cat, Washington, D.C.
The Go! Team- Black Cat, Washington, D.C
Bands that I saw in high school a bunch of times:
Fugazi, Jawbox – St Stephen’s
Neptune’s Daughter
Rise
Twisted Fish/Undertow
Pain of Life
The Human Condition
Tuscadero
Frodus
The Skavacados
Etc.
21 July 2008
Second Floor, at the Bar
In a place that won’t do, you notice
too much. The sun makes you take
big gulps and too soon the voice you hear
cecomes rounded at the edges, effluvial.
There is not enough, and there is too much
and always there is also neither.
You want there always to be neither
and both, and you want things you say
to be true for a day, and on that day
yhey will also have been true forever,
but you have only enough conviction
with which to stand in the shade,
wishing for life to give you smaller portions.
The night cracked open, and the yoke bowed.
I had brined it, but the jar was brittle
and impatient. It was hard to understand
at that moment how the moon would inspire
anyone to do anything, and I saw
in your eyes that only I was impervious.
It was such a deliberate message conveyed
wordlessly – not “you feel impervious
And I don’t,” but “you are the only one
who feels the way you do.” Looking around
for confirmation, I realized the message
must be printed on the inside of my irises
and that the salty yolk of the moon
was projecting it in sepia, a portrait
of thoughts too stupid to be thought,
the only ones I seem to able to hold anymore.
We always say morning “breaks,”
but only people who don’t see sunrises
talk that way. When have you stayed up till dawn
and thought that you had witnessed something breaking?
I guess when you have pieces scattered all around
because nothing fits anymore, you get a pass,
you get to say morning has “broken”
but we will silently critique your lack of specificity.
Why are we even capable of saying things
that we wouldn’t believe ourselves capable of saying
a few short hours later? Why are we able to
think anything that won’t be true for longer
than a day? We must either enjoy
passing time that way, or we must not know better.
It is enough to make me see how nothing
is anything, and how some things are everything,
and even then how every dream or trim sentence
is also about the loneliness and impossibility of it all.
too much. The sun makes you take
big gulps and too soon the voice you hear
cecomes rounded at the edges, effluvial.
There is not enough, and there is too much
and always there is also neither.
You want there always to be neither
and both, and you want things you say
to be true for a day, and on that day
yhey will also have been true forever,
but you have only enough conviction
with which to stand in the shade,
wishing for life to give you smaller portions.
The night cracked open, and the yoke bowed.
I had brined it, but the jar was brittle
and impatient. It was hard to understand
at that moment how the moon would inspire
anyone to do anything, and I saw
in your eyes that only I was impervious.
It was such a deliberate message conveyed
wordlessly – not “you feel impervious
And I don’t,” but “you are the only one
who feels the way you do.” Looking around
for confirmation, I realized the message
must be printed on the inside of my irises
and that the salty yolk of the moon
was projecting it in sepia, a portrait
of thoughts too stupid to be thought,
the only ones I seem to able to hold anymore.
We always say morning “breaks,”
but only people who don’t see sunrises
talk that way. When have you stayed up till dawn
and thought that you had witnessed something breaking?
I guess when you have pieces scattered all around
because nothing fits anymore, you get a pass,
you get to say morning has “broken”
but we will silently critique your lack of specificity.
Why are we even capable of saying things
that we wouldn’t believe ourselves capable of saying
a few short hours later? Why are we able to
think anything that won’t be true for longer
than a day? We must either enjoy
passing time that way, or we must not know better.
It is enough to make me see how nothing
is anything, and how some things are everything,
and even then how every dream or trim sentence
is also about the loneliness and impossibility of it all.
18 July 2008
Clooney on suicide bombers
From an old New Yorker piece that I am only getting around to now:
Clooney, in 2005, speaking about suicide bombers: "But, really, who wants seventy virgins? I want eight pros."
Miles: The Complete Cellar Door Sessions
The band pictured above, plus John McLaughlin and Airto Moreira, is possibly one of the great unsung jazz-funk-rock combos of all time. "Unsung" is a funny thing to say about any Miles Davis group, but (a) Miles was very good at juggling underdog-ness with bravado, and (b) this core group is only really associated with one Davis release - Live-Evil. That changed last year when "The Complete Live at the Cellar Door Sessions" came out. I'm a bug sucker for most of these Miles re-releases. I have a lot of the albums up to the mid-70s, and though I've pored over them exhaustively, I still find new material listening to these sets. This one, much like "The Complete In A Silent Way Sessions" set, really seems to capture something unique about process.
"In A Silent Way" is known for being, possibly, the quietest jazz release ever. It's like a still lake. You can practically hear every musician hesitating before disturbing the silence during the session. Miles is known to many, unfairly, as a trumpet player, and he was a great soloist. For how much his music changed over the years, it's worth noting that every phrase Miles played in his cheesy 80s groups is a phrase that he could have played in 1957. His playing style hardly changed over time, and I think that is largely to his credit. What made him astute and relevant in the late 1960s and early 1970s - the time during which jazz was struggling for relevance - is also probably what makes most of us cringe when we listen to his 1980s catalog. He was a man of his time, wholly given to whatever might have been the vicissitudes or merits of the decade in which he was recording.
What he rarely lost a knack for doing was assembling great talent and working those motherfuckers, as he might say, until the music happened. To draw a very tenuous analogy, just as Madonna is able to come out with a new album that bites whatever is popular using the best producers that season, Miles was able to draw from rock and funk groups when he sensed that jazz no longer had the ears of the street. If you were good enough, and you came up, it was just a matter of time until Miles sunk his fangs into you and got some of your energy into his group. He might or might not need you afterwards, but you were still grateful. As is the case with Dylan, I think you have to respect the singular, autocratic nature of his vision. Michael Henderson, the bassist pictured above, had been playing with Stevie Wonder. Miles simply came along and plucked him from the group. Courtesy of EDS aka the Black Rider, I heard a great story about Miles and Bill Evans, but I'll save that for later or will yield the mic to EDS at a later date.
Back to "In A Silent Way." Having read his autiobiography and listened to his music for a long time, I knew that it was often the result of a long and arduous process. I was both frustrated, and I guess a little relieved, sometimes, that we didn't get to see the process, just the final product. I mean, hearing an alternate take of "Flamenco Sketches" on the Miles and Coltrane Columbia set was a profoundly unsettling experience for me, because the version on "Kind of Blue" features so many moments that rank in my all-time favorite musical moments: Adderley's and Coltrane's solos; Bill Evans gentle "solo" (it's not fair to call something that breathtaking a solo); etc. Hearing this other version almost felt like being told that, I don't know, my real parents weren't my parents. It's being confronted with an alternate version of a thing that seemed, to me, to be so firmly entrenched in the real world that it had no alternative but to exist in that form.
The cool thing about the "In A Silent Way" set is that you can literally hear the band getting quieter and quieter with each successive take. At least that's how I hear it. I imagine Miles after every jam shaking his head, and trying to convey the sense to the rest of the enormous group convened for that session that there was still too much, too much going on. When, at the end of three long discs, you finally get to hear the versions you know so well, it is indeed a revealing moment, because you can tell you have arrived, and you imagine (naively) that all the other musicians there knew it too, especially Miles.
The "Cellar Door Sessions" is a night-by-night chronicle of four nights at the now-defunct Cellar Door (which used to be in Georgetown, I'm told, on M Street, close to the Key Bridge) in December 1970. Cool fact for me: it includes my birthday, though I was still not among the born at that point. Anyway, the first four discs chronicle Wednesday through Friday and they are impressive: we get a kind of skeletal funk, and we can hear the band growing in stature. But according to Miles, something was still missing. So he called his friend, guitarist John McLaughlin, that Saturday morning and asked him if he could join the band that night. McLaughlin hopped a train and made it down to DC in time to play a good portion of the night with the group. Mind you, it's not like McLaughlin had been practicing with these guys or anything. But the result is something truly incredible: he shows up for the second set and the band, which was already playing at a high level, suddenly explodes. Everything just crackles at once, and the group becomes sharper, meaner, fiery. I have to assume that Miles knew he finally had the sound he wanted.
What's puzzling is that this was released as a bit of studio wizardry - Live-Evil is a composite of the 6 discs, and it's not linear. It sounds, in hindsight, like a bit of a funky mess, to be honest. It's a good product, but this and the "In A Silent Way" set have both convinced me that, sometimes, you do want to see the process and not just the finished product. While the "Cellar Door" set diminishes "Live-Evil" as a product, it seems fair to point out that "Live-Evil" was always an artificial product and that what we've been given instead is a more genuine end result, even if it does take up six cds instead of two.
There's lots more to be said about Miles, but I'll save it for when I get around to owning the complete "On the Corner" sessions.
16 July 2008
Made me laugh out loud while running the other morning
She said, “It's good to see you back in a bar band, baby!”
I said, “It's great to see you're still in the bars!”
-The Hold Steady
I said, “It's great to see you're still in the bars!”
-The Hold Steady
15 July 2008
Haberdash notes
Goodbye, navy blue. You are a terrible color. Even though you clash with black, people look at me like I’M the rube when I match you with brown. I just don’t have the energy to keep fighting this battle, I’m afraid. Plus, you’re so close to black that I grabbed a pair of socks in you last week thinking they were black. It looked GREAT alongside my black suit. I had to spend the entire day in fear of crossing my legs and exposing the fact that I was wearing socks that clashed with my suit.
Moving on: my waist size has changed a bit recently – mostly because I’ve been able to stick with running and, well, also because I’m a male and my metabolism finds any excuse it can to turbocharge itself. I cinched my pants tight for a few months, but finally got sick of it and decided that I would keep my new waist and that I needed some pants to go with it. No problem – so I go and buy pants in the same length, but two sizes smaller around the waist. Except…that…I’m taller now? All my new pants are too short. What the hell gives? If it’s true, as Ms. Citizen claims, that my ass is slowly disappearing, shouldn't the pants be a bit too long? Is there any explanation for this phenomenon, other than the obvious and highly unlikely tricenarian growth spurt?
And finally: undershirts. Or the underwear-shirt, as my father calls it. For years, I resisted. I thought undershirts to be the provenance of yankees and colonialists. Humans sweat! Why hide it? …except that suddenly, summers became very complicated. I would arrive at work dripping in sweat. And when I one day tried an undershirt on, I discovered that somehow it actually kept me cooler. I felt tidier. And from that moment on, I was sold on wearing an undershirt whenever the temperature is above 80 F or so. It still puzzles me to see men in the office or on the metro who wear undershirts every day, even in the winter, but I guess for some it's just easier to have year-round undershirt policy rather than a seasonal one.
But I recently made a not insignificant switch in the world of undershirts. I bought some of these. And it’s safe to say that for a split second, when I take my dress shirt off and stand there in the tank top, I feel like an off-duty cop or a sleazy low-grade mobster. I rub my temples, imagine I have a holster under one arm. I want to say things like, "Ferchrissake, Ginny, you have no idea what it's like out there! I'm putting my life on the line. Every. single. day." And so on. It's so cool.
Why did we let the average crankhead on "Cops" co-opt this great fashion statement? While I’m not ready to wear one of these outside the house, let me tell you - it’s the only item of clothing that I own that can make me feel, for a split second, tougher than I really am. And in that department, a guy like me needs all the help he can get...
Moving on: my waist size has changed a bit recently – mostly because I’ve been able to stick with running and, well, also because I’m a male and my metabolism finds any excuse it can to turbocharge itself. I cinched my pants tight for a few months, but finally got sick of it and decided that I would keep my new waist and that I needed some pants to go with it. No problem – so I go and buy pants in the same length, but two sizes smaller around the waist. Except…that…I’m taller now? All my new pants are too short. What the hell gives? If it’s true, as Ms. Citizen claims, that my ass is slowly disappearing, shouldn't the pants be a bit too long? Is there any explanation for this phenomenon, other than the obvious and highly unlikely tricenarian growth spurt?
And finally: undershirts. Or the underwear-shirt, as my father calls it. For years, I resisted. I thought undershirts to be the provenance of yankees and colonialists. Humans sweat! Why hide it? …except that suddenly, summers became very complicated. I would arrive at work dripping in sweat. And when I one day tried an undershirt on, I discovered that somehow it actually kept me cooler. I felt tidier. And from that moment on, I was sold on wearing an undershirt whenever the temperature is above 80 F or so. It still puzzles me to see men in the office or on the metro who wear undershirts every day, even in the winter, but I guess for some it's just easier to have year-round undershirt policy rather than a seasonal one.
But I recently made a not insignificant switch in the world of undershirts. I bought some of these. And it’s safe to say that for a split second, when I take my dress shirt off and stand there in the tank top, I feel like an off-duty cop or a sleazy low-grade mobster. I rub my temples, imagine I have a holster under one arm. I want to say things like, "Ferchrissake, Ginny, you have no idea what it's like out there! I'm putting my life on the line. Every. single. day." And so on. It's so cool.
Why did we let the average crankhead on "Cops" co-opt this great fashion statement? While I’m not ready to wear one of these outside the house, let me tell you - it’s the only item of clothing that I own that can make me feel, for a split second, tougher than I really am. And in that department, a guy like me needs all the help he can get...
14 July 2008
I'm definitely not in favor of mob justice...
...but it's hard not to take some satisfaction from this story.
Ms. Citizen and I were out running an errand when we noticed all the police tape. We walked down to 18th and chatted with one of the officers, who was predictably tight-lipped. The rumor mill was in full swing, and by the time we were leaving Metro K (one lime, one bottle of tonic water, two sticks of butter, a six of UFO hefeweizen, a six of Amstel, one can of tuna in water), you'd have thought that an all-out gang war had broken out. The whole time we were exasperated and we kept repeating that it was time for people in the neighborhood to stand up against all the violence and recent gunplay.
Little did we know that just such a thing had happened, although, again, arguably not in the best sense of the word. Still. I'll take it.
Ms. Citizen and I were out running an errand when we noticed all the police tape. We walked down to 18th and chatted with one of the officers, who was predictably tight-lipped. The rumor mill was in full swing, and by the time we were leaving Metro K (one lime, one bottle of tonic water, two sticks of butter, a six of UFO hefeweizen, a six of Amstel, one can of tuna in water), you'd have thought that an all-out gang war had broken out. The whole time we were exasperated and we kept repeating that it was time for people in the neighborhood to stand up against all the violence and recent gunplay.
Little did we know that just such a thing had happened, although, again, arguably not in the best sense of the word. Still. I'll take it.
13 July 2008
I contain multitudes. Maybe not in that good way, though.
After the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler, a number of friends were talking about so-and-so's finish time. The so-and-so in question was happy about finishing in two hours. "That's really good!" someone said. "Not really," I snorted back. Someone else replied, "Oh, so on top of everything else, you're going to be a running snob now?"
Emphasis added by me, because I'm pretty sure the meaning was not that I would become a running snob on top of everything else that I am, but rather that I would be a running snob on top of all the other things about which I am already snobby. Not a flattering comment, but it gets me to thinking about some of the typical issues that involve being an active participant in something, as opposed to being an ironic chortler who never does anything and makes snide comments about active participants in anything.
We all know it is better (healthier? more rewarding?) to be the former, and that it is easier (less risk-taking, more hip-seeming) to be the latter. And we all know more people in the latter category than we do in the former, I'm waging. I would also venture that theirs are often the little nagging voices we hear whenever we choose to cross the line that separates passive criticism from active involvement. To be clear, I think there's a good argument to be made that good cynical commentary can be a creative act, and lord knows, I've made it an art form.
In fact, the few times I've tried my hand at songwriting, I've failed miserably to get beyond my own critical mindset - a really frustrating experience. I haven't had this problem as much when writing poems, but I think that so few people read and write good poetry anyway that it seems less daunting for some reason. If you have no peers in something, it's easier to be fearless about it, I suppose. So then, I started to notice fairly recently that I was having a harder time being as intellectually sharp about why I might like or dislike something. More and more, I seem to be able to appreciate books, movies, albums, meals, etc, on their own terms, rather than according to some arbitrary criteria established by and known only to me. I think this is good for me as a human, and I think it's not coincidental that this personality change is a staple of a certain kind of fiction: the excessively self-conscious or cerebral kid who one day manages to say "yes" and just rock out on the guitar (Nick Hornby alone is responsible for two examples of this - About A Boy and High Fidelity).
There is no doubt that I can be snobby, cutting, sardonic, and cowardly. I am fussy and finnicky, and sometimes if I look around me and only see things I judge to be mediocre, I disappear inside myself pretty quickly for fear that I'll somehow be engulfed by it (this happens at packed bars, usually.) But lately, I have been able to reserve most of my vitriol for commercials that I think lack internal cohesion. Oh boy have I become good at that. I've even thought about making critiques of commercials a regular feature here, and I may yet do that.
[Example: The A1 steak sauce commercial set in a fancy restaurant. One snooty diner looks over and sees an everyman about to bite into a burger lathered in A1 sauce. Snooty diner says something like, "A1? What a marvelous idea! Mind if I try?" Everyman reaches to hand the bottle over, but snooty diner takes the whole burger instead. Tagline is something like, "Class up the burger." What I take issue with is that what's clearly incongruous about the commercial is not that Everyman is using A1 - it's that he's eating a burger in a super-classy old-money restaurant. The classing up of the burger is a result of the setting, not the A1. Way to undermine your own product, people.]
But what I am getting at is something that needs emphasizing, and I would have to give a significant amount of credit to Amanda at Creative DC (because she and her husband are among the most creative people I know) for this spirit - just as I imagine certain nagging voices when I want to beat up on myself for my lack of originality, I think Amanda's is the voice I hear when I need an internal optimist reminding me that creativity is always about the process, first and foremost. The quality of the end product (or your perception of that quality) should never deter you from the process of creating. So something I wrote may be overwrought. Or it may be untrue. Or it may suffer from that cloying quality that afflicts most Internet writing.
Or I may look at something the minute I'm finished with it, and find that the "me" in the piece is completely unrecognizable. That's ok, because as I was just reminded a few weeks ago, reading an excellent interview with the brilliant basketball writer Britt Robson, writing is always about forgetting and surprising yourself - like a gifted athlete who inexplicably finds him/herself looking two or three moves ahead of everyone else:
And the only way you can get there is by moving through the issue, by traveling from one sentence to the next. You can't take shortcuts, at least not that I've found.
But now that I've indulged two very lengthy me-centric posts, I'm ready to give myself a rest and get back to using the space for highlighting the huh-ness of life as we know it. To end this on a very affirming note about the role that stories and poetry (and by extension, creativity) can play in our lives, here's an insightful bit from a lecture by Alberto Manguel called "The City of Words" - a series of talks designed to look at what great thinkers and writers have told us about multiculturalism and intolerance, and how literature can fill the gaps created by bad policy:
Emphasis added by me, because I'm pretty sure the meaning was not that I would become a running snob on top of everything else that I am, but rather that I would be a running snob on top of all the other things about which I am already snobby. Not a flattering comment, but it gets me to thinking about some of the typical issues that involve being an active participant in something, as opposed to being an ironic chortler who never does anything and makes snide comments about active participants in anything.
We all know it is better (healthier? more rewarding?) to be the former, and that it is easier (less risk-taking, more hip-seeming) to be the latter. And we all know more people in the latter category than we do in the former, I'm waging. I would also venture that theirs are often the little nagging voices we hear whenever we choose to cross the line that separates passive criticism from active involvement. To be clear, I think there's a good argument to be made that good cynical commentary can be a creative act, and lord knows, I've made it an art form.
In fact, the few times I've tried my hand at songwriting, I've failed miserably to get beyond my own critical mindset - a really frustrating experience. I haven't had this problem as much when writing poems, but I think that so few people read and write good poetry anyway that it seems less daunting for some reason. If you have no peers in something, it's easier to be fearless about it, I suppose. So then, I started to notice fairly recently that I was having a harder time being as intellectually sharp about why I might like or dislike something. More and more, I seem to be able to appreciate books, movies, albums, meals, etc, on their own terms, rather than according to some arbitrary criteria established by and known only to me. I think this is good for me as a human, and I think it's not coincidental that this personality change is a staple of a certain kind of fiction: the excessively self-conscious or cerebral kid who one day manages to say "yes" and just rock out on the guitar (Nick Hornby alone is responsible for two examples of this - About A Boy and High Fidelity).
There is no doubt that I can be snobby, cutting, sardonic, and cowardly. I am fussy and finnicky, and sometimes if I look around me and only see things I judge to be mediocre, I disappear inside myself pretty quickly for fear that I'll somehow be engulfed by it (this happens at packed bars, usually.) But lately, I have been able to reserve most of my vitriol for commercials that I think lack internal cohesion. Oh boy have I become good at that. I've even thought about making critiques of commercials a regular feature here, and I may yet do that.
[Example: The A1 steak sauce commercial set in a fancy restaurant. One snooty diner looks over and sees an everyman about to bite into a burger lathered in A1 sauce. Snooty diner says something like, "A1? What a marvelous idea! Mind if I try?" Everyman reaches to hand the bottle over, but snooty diner takes the whole burger instead. Tagline is something like, "Class up the burger." What I take issue with is that what's clearly incongruous about the commercial is not that Everyman is using A1 - it's that he's eating a burger in a super-classy old-money restaurant. The classing up of the burger is a result of the setting, not the A1. Way to undermine your own product, people.]
But what I am getting at is something that needs emphasizing, and I would have to give a significant amount of credit to Amanda at Creative DC (because she and her husband are among the most creative people I know) for this spirit - just as I imagine certain nagging voices when I want to beat up on myself for my lack of originality, I think Amanda's is the voice I hear when I need an internal optimist reminding me that creativity is always about the process, first and foremost. The quality of the end product (or your perception of that quality) should never deter you from the process of creating. So something I wrote may be overwrought. Or it may be untrue. Or it may suffer from that cloying quality that afflicts most Internet writing.
Or I may look at something the minute I'm finished with it, and find that the "me" in the piece is completely unrecognizable. That's ok, because as I was just reminded a few weeks ago, reading an excellent interview with the brilliant basketball writer Britt Robson, writing is always about forgetting and surprising yourself - like a gifted athlete who inexplicably finds him/herself looking two or three moves ahead of everyone else:
Internally, I want to be able to be writing something at two in the morning, having looked at three or four different sources and be able to pull things out of the air that I didn’t even know I knew. Then begin to make connections, draw analogies, and throw words around that come from me-but as the classic cliche goes, you don’t know where it comes from-and all of a sudden your game is elevated.
And the only way you can get there is by moving through the issue, by traveling from one sentence to the next. You can't take shortcuts, at least not that I've found.
But now that I've indulged two very lengthy me-centric posts, I'm ready to give myself a rest and get back to using the space for highlighting the huh-ness of life as we know it. To end this on a very affirming note about the role that stories and poetry (and by extension, creativity) can play in our lives, here's an insightful bit from a lecture by Alberto Manguel called "The City of Words" - a series of talks designed to look at what great thinkers and writers have told us about multiculturalism and intolerance, and how literature can fill the gaps created by bad policy:
This is the paradox. The language of politics, on the one hand, which purports to address real categories, freezes identities into static definitions, segregates but fails to individualize. The language of poetry and stories, on the other hand, which acknowledges the impossibility of naming accurately and definitively, groups us under a common and fluid humanity while granting us, at the same time, self-revelatory identities. In the first case, the label bestowed on us by a passport and the conventional image of who we are supposed to be under a certain flag and within certain borders, as well as the blanketing eye that we in turn cast upon the people who appear to share a certain tongue, a certain religion, a certain piece of land, pin us all to a coloured map crossed by imaginary longitudes and latitudes that we take to be the real world. In the second, there are no labels, no borders, no finitudes.
...
To the limiting imagination of bureacracies, to the restricted use of language in politics, stories can oppose an open, unlimited mirror-universe of words to help us perceive an image of ourselves together. In the realm of storytelling, as Plato realized, nothing is held to what the ideal city requires: the maker does not build to order and, though readings can be co-opted and poetry can become propaganda, stories continue to offer [their] readers other imaginary cities whose ideals are likely to contradict or subvert those of the official Republic. Plato's concern seemed to be, not that Cassandra was cursed, but that the curse might not be effective and that, in spite of Apollo's deviousness, readers would still believe her words. Perhaps...this cautious faith lies at the heart of every maker's craft.
11 July 2008
god that was obnoxious
As a kind of palate cleanser, let me urge anyone who reads this to consider the fighting ring as the next birthday or holiday gift for one of their loved ones. Self-defense and elegance: together at last.
My Admiral Stockdale Moment
Who am I?? Why am I here??
I've been having a hard time with this in regard to Abstract Citizen.
Via Slate, a great piece on Internet writing.
It's hard not to quote the whole thing because the first half is insightful, so I'll settle for the same excerpt that Jack Shafer liked so much:
There are some good exceptions to this, and I'm not sure whether this overall writing tendency is something to be avoided or embraced. I think my general preference is to avoid whatever proclivity seems to be the most heavily trafficked at that point in our particular cultural history, but a preference isn't an axiom and I am human, after all.
I've also fancied myself a pretty good imitator of style and tone and that I can be...chameleonic? Protean? Slippery? Probably all of the above. Even now I'm probably just doing my best impression of how I think a carefully reasoned thought process should read. Which is sort of maddening, not knowing what is yours and what you are just borrowing. Do my poems sound like Robert Hass because we tune in to the same things in life, or simply because I am [shudder] Coldplay to his Radiohead?
So when I wanted to start a blog, I had a few reference points - unfogged has a great community with intelligent discussions although they can veer towards the pseudo-aphoristic and precious (but very funny nonetheless); a topic-blog like globalguerillas is really impressive, exposing a kind of universality of content through a very narrow topic but I'm not a specialist yet, so that option was out too; there are a few great local blogs, like whyihatedc and of course there's Amanda and Jordan and through them I even reconnected a bit with John, all of which adds up to an abundance of entertaining writing.
There are blogs written by people whom I don't know that are more personal but engaging - for example the raw Didionism of the defunct belleinthebigapple (well, not quite defunct but it's a much more focused blog now - the archive is still a goldmine of quality writing though) and outtamindouttasite (I actually commented on there for the first time today!), which is local and tips me off to stuff on washingtonian.com that I would otherwise have missed, but that's not my can of worms either.
The friend who dubs himself not so myteriously as 'The Black Rider' and I even tried to start a secret blog together, that we told no one about, and as he recently reminded me, over champagne on his deck, through the din of other conversations, "We really nailed Jaki Byard's birthday." He's right - no one saw it, but the corollary is, no one can take it away from us either. Unseen workers in a tiny darkened corridor of the Internet gave the late Jaki Byard a calm and deliberate salute on his birthday. We really nailed it and we know it.
The problem is that I don't want to do too much wondering out loud here, for the risk of sounding like I'm wearing a tutu, sitting in bed, in my underwear, smoking a cigarette, typing on my apple, wondering just what relationships are all about. But I will allow myself one moment here - as I was complaining just this past weekend in Boston that I have no idea what this space is about. Am I trying to be erudite, academic-lite? Do I just want people to know that I really like the beer list at the Black Squirrel and that I can't wait to see "The Dark Knight"? Do I want to post poems, short prose pieces, etc, and have this be a creative corner? Am I trying to get people involved, do I want active conversations? Is this a piece of my life, or is it divorced from it? Do I want people to read it, or do I just want people to read it without my wanting them to? I have no idea and just asking myself these questions makes me feel like an angsty teen again.
One of my favorite things to talk about is process (part of the reason why I was such a sucker for Obama's early rhetoric.) I'm hoping all of my quesions get resolved in the process, because maybe sometimes we can tend towards simplicity and resolution rather than chaos. Like a good romantic comedy often does.
Happy Friday!
I've been having a hard time with this in regard to Abstract Citizen.
Via Slate, a great piece on Internet writing.
It's hard not to quote the whole thing because the first half is insightful, so I'll settle for the same excerpt that Jack Shafer liked so much:
A text on the internet rarely takes for granted your decision to read it or to continue reading it. There is often, instead, a jazzy, hectoring tone. At home my boyfriend and I use a certain physical gesture as shorthand to describe it. To make it, extend your index fingers and your thumbs so that your hands resemble toy pistols. Then waggle them before you, like a dude in a cheesy Western, while you wink, dip your knees, and lopsidedly drawl, "Heyyy." The internet is always saying, "Heyyy." It is always welcoming you to the party; it is always patting you on the back to congratulate you for showing up. It says, You know me, in a collusive tone of voice, and Wanna hear something funny? and Didja see who else is here?
There are some good exceptions to this, and I'm not sure whether this overall writing tendency is something to be avoided or embraced. I think my general preference is to avoid whatever proclivity seems to be the most heavily trafficked at that point in our particular cultural history, but a preference isn't an axiom and I am human, after all.
I've also fancied myself a pretty good imitator of style and tone and that I can be...chameleonic? Protean? Slippery? Probably all of the above. Even now I'm probably just doing my best impression of how I think a carefully reasoned thought process should read. Which is sort of maddening, not knowing what is yours and what you are just borrowing. Do my poems sound like Robert Hass because we tune in to the same things in life, or simply because I am [shudder] Coldplay to his Radiohead?
So when I wanted to start a blog, I had a few reference points - unfogged has a great community with intelligent discussions although they can veer towards the pseudo-aphoristic and precious (but very funny nonetheless); a topic-blog like globalguerillas is really impressive, exposing a kind of universality of content through a very narrow topic but I'm not a specialist yet, so that option was out too; there are a few great local blogs, like whyihatedc and of course there's Amanda and Jordan and through them I even reconnected a bit with John, all of which adds up to an abundance of entertaining writing.
There are blogs written by people whom I don't know that are more personal but engaging - for example the raw Didionism of the defunct belleinthebigapple (well, not quite defunct but it's a much more focused blog now - the archive is still a goldmine of quality writing though) and outtamindouttasite (I actually commented on there for the first time today!), which is local and tips me off to stuff on washingtonian.com that I would otherwise have missed, but that's not my can of worms either.
The friend who dubs himself not so myteriously as 'The Black Rider' and I even tried to start a secret blog together, that we told no one about, and as he recently reminded me, over champagne on his deck, through the din of other conversations, "We really nailed Jaki Byard's birthday." He's right - no one saw it, but the corollary is, no one can take it away from us either. Unseen workers in a tiny darkened corridor of the Internet gave the late Jaki Byard a calm and deliberate salute on his birthday. We really nailed it and we know it.
The problem is that I don't want to do too much wondering out loud here, for the risk of sounding like I'm wearing a tutu, sitting in bed, in my underwear, smoking a cigarette, typing on my apple, wondering just what relationships are all about. But I will allow myself one moment here - as I was complaining just this past weekend in Boston that I have no idea what this space is about. Am I trying to be erudite, academic-lite? Do I just want people to know that I really like the beer list at the Black Squirrel and that I can't wait to see "The Dark Knight"? Do I want to post poems, short prose pieces, etc, and have this be a creative corner? Am I trying to get people involved, do I want active conversations? Is this a piece of my life, or is it divorced from it? Do I want people to read it, or do I just want people to read it without my wanting them to? I have no idea and just asking myself these questions makes me feel like an angsty teen again.
One of my favorite things to talk about is process (part of the reason why I was such a sucker for Obama's early rhetoric.) I'm hoping all of my quesions get resolved in the process, because maybe sometimes we can tend towards simplicity and resolution rather than chaos. Like a good romantic comedy often does.
Happy Friday!
10 July 2008
File this under "that mickey mouse stunt would earn you a tail-whooping in my neighborhood"
I.
We are flying to Denver via Houston. Our flight to Houston left National at 6 am – meaning that we have been at the airport since 4:30 am and that we woke up at 3:45. We are both napping, in and out of sleep, stuck in the endless cycle of drowsing off, snapping to attention, and drowsing off again. Through my lovely Shure headphones, I dimly hear the flight attendant’s request that “at this time, passengers are requested to discontinue the use of electronic devices.” No worries – my earphones are just in because they blot out noise. They aren’t even connected to my ipod.
And a couple minutes later, the busybody next to me taps my should. “Sir? Excuse me…sir?” I manage to lift one eyelid halfway up, remove my left earbud, and wait. She points one row ahead of us, across the aisler. “That young man over there wants you to know that you need to turn off your music.”
I turn my attention to this kid, who is maybe 16. I feel bad, but I give him a look that says, “Do you have nothing better to with your time? How is any of this your business?” I hold the end of the headphone cord up to show him it isn’t connected to anything. In my best customer service tone, I smile broadly and say, “THANKS for your concern. It’s REALLY appreciated.” I think about adding, “I keep these in to drown out idiotic comments like yours,” but there’s never really a chance that I will say it. Though it does feel good to think it.
II.
We are shopping at a Target in Thornton, Colorado. Looking for bulk quantities of granola bars and other things that will help us make it through the 1000 miles or so of driving that we have ahead of us. Forgetful of our typical shopping routines, we just walk right in and start cruising the aisles, forgetting to grab a shopping cart. I offer to sprint back for one.
I pull a shopping cart of the long line of jammed carts, and turn around to head back towards the inside of the store. A few feet away from me, an older woman is approaching me, hands held out, as if she is ready to receive a gift. I look confused. She walks up to me, pulls the cart away from my hands, and intones a sing-songy “thank you so much!” and walks away with my cart. I stop and stare at her, looking not at all happy. “Are you fucking kidding me, lady?” I think. I look back to Ms. Abstract Citizen and her friend Magee, an incredulous look on my face. I get a new cart and stroll out to meet them. “Did you just see that? Did you. Just. See. That?”
I am not wearing red. Nothing about me suggests that I am a designated cart-getter. In fact, my shirt is bright green and reads “BRASIL” in golden letters.
Both events happen only a few hours apart. I am slack-jawed and irritated by the presumption of goodwill everywhere, the idea that intrusiveness is thought by some to be polite by default, or that kindnesses are things to be snatched away from my unsuspecting hands even as I watch in stunned silence.
We are flying to Denver via Houston. Our flight to Houston left National at 6 am – meaning that we have been at the airport since 4:30 am and that we woke up at 3:45. We are both napping, in and out of sleep, stuck in the endless cycle of drowsing off, snapping to attention, and drowsing off again. Through my lovely Shure headphones, I dimly hear the flight attendant’s request that “at this time, passengers are requested to discontinue the use of electronic devices.” No worries – my earphones are just in because they blot out noise. They aren’t even connected to my ipod.
And a couple minutes later, the busybody next to me taps my should. “Sir? Excuse me…sir?” I manage to lift one eyelid halfway up, remove my left earbud, and wait. She points one row ahead of us, across the aisler. “That young man over there wants you to know that you need to turn off your music.”
I turn my attention to this kid, who is maybe 16. I feel bad, but I give him a look that says, “Do you have nothing better to with your time? How is any of this your business?” I hold the end of the headphone cord up to show him it isn’t connected to anything. In my best customer service tone, I smile broadly and say, “THANKS for your concern. It’s REALLY appreciated.” I think about adding, “I keep these in to drown out idiotic comments like yours,” but there’s never really a chance that I will say it. Though it does feel good to think it.
II.
We are shopping at a Target in Thornton, Colorado. Looking for bulk quantities of granola bars and other things that will help us make it through the 1000 miles or so of driving that we have ahead of us. Forgetful of our typical shopping routines, we just walk right in and start cruising the aisles, forgetting to grab a shopping cart. I offer to sprint back for one.
I pull a shopping cart of the long line of jammed carts, and turn around to head back towards the inside of the store. A few feet away from me, an older woman is approaching me, hands held out, as if she is ready to receive a gift. I look confused. She walks up to me, pulls the cart away from my hands, and intones a sing-songy “thank you so much!” and walks away with my cart. I stop and stare at her, looking not at all happy. “Are you fucking kidding me, lady?” I think. I look back to Ms. Abstract Citizen and her friend Magee, an incredulous look on my face. I get a new cart and stroll out to meet them. “Did you just see that? Did you. Just. See. That?”
I am not wearing red. Nothing about me suggests that I am a designated cart-getter. In fact, my shirt is bright green and reads “BRASIL” in golden letters.
Both events happen only a few hours apart. I am slack-jawed and irritated by the presumption of goodwill everywhere, the idea that intrusiveness is thought by some to be polite by default, or that kindnesses are things to be snatched away from my unsuspecting hands even as I watch in stunned silence.
09 July 2008
Sigh. Cars, pedestrians, cyclists and our little corner of sectarian strife.
I had a long-winded piece yesterday that I came very close to posting but held back on for some reason. And I’m relieved that I did - it was basically critical of cyclists as being uniquely insensitive to pedestrians. When I wrote it, I didn’t yet know about this news, which makes my post seem incredibly tacky.
My thoughts are basically that this is a terrifying reminder of what’s at stake every time pedestrians and cyclists take to the streets. There is no shortage of indignant cyclist-bloggers out there, but I can promise that there is also no shortage of indignant pedestrians who feel that picked on by both cyclists and automobilists.
The gist of my post was that there are a few 4-way stops where I have come close to being clipped by bikes a number of times (almost daily, it seems.) Cyclists seem, to me, to want all the benefits accorded to cars but none of the responsibility, while taking just as dim a view of pedestrians as your average Mercury Mountaineer-driving, cell-phone-talking, Virginia-plates-having idiot automobilist.
Now it all seems fairly trivial, especially since this incident took place only a few blocks from Abstract Citizen HQ. I would simply urge everyone of you who read this (all two of you, that is) to exercise as much caution as possible and to try enhance your use of common sense when walking, biking, or driving. The Atlantic had a great article about how traffic safety laws in the U.S. focus on playing to the lowest common imbecilic denominator rather than encouraging common sense, and for anyone interest in transit issues, it’s a pretty fascinating read.
I was out for a run yesterday and saw a number of garbage trucks. Ms. Abstract Citizen walks near this intersection on her way to work and noticed it was closed off, with a garbage truck parked in the middle of the street. Like I said, terrifying - to think that I might have trotted past the person driving past a garbage truck that would be responsible for someone’s death a few short hours later.
Since I dabble in all three modes of transportation (though I’m primarily a pedestrian) and since I have friends who belong strictly to one or another group, it might be time for me to strike a conciliatory Obama-ish note here –
Cyclists: you are doing your part to alleviate congestion, but that doesn’t buy you any indulgences. You should really yield to pedestrians wherever cars are also expected to yield. Pedestrians: you are the life blood of any vibrant community as long as you use common sense. Also, it’s your responsibility to look both ways before crossing. Automobilists: imagine that every pedestrian or cyclist is someone you know. Chances are you know someone who is primarily a pedestrian or cyclist – remember them the next time you are behind the wheel in a congested area.
My thoughts are basically that this is a terrifying reminder of what’s at stake every time pedestrians and cyclists take to the streets. There is no shortage of indignant cyclist-bloggers out there, but I can promise that there is also no shortage of indignant pedestrians who feel that picked on by both cyclists and automobilists.
The gist of my post was that there are a few 4-way stops where I have come close to being clipped by bikes a number of times (almost daily, it seems.) Cyclists seem, to me, to want all the benefits accorded to cars but none of the responsibility, while taking just as dim a view of pedestrians as your average Mercury Mountaineer-driving, cell-phone-talking, Virginia-plates-having idiot automobilist.
Now it all seems fairly trivial, especially since this incident took place only a few blocks from Abstract Citizen HQ. I would simply urge everyone of you who read this (all two of you, that is) to exercise as much caution as possible and to try enhance your use of common sense when walking, biking, or driving. The Atlantic had a great article about how traffic safety laws in the U.S. focus on playing to the lowest common imbecilic denominator rather than encouraging common sense, and for anyone interest in transit issues, it’s a pretty fascinating read.
I was out for a run yesterday and saw a number of garbage trucks. Ms. Abstract Citizen walks near this intersection on her way to work and noticed it was closed off, with a garbage truck parked in the middle of the street. Like I said, terrifying - to think that I might have trotted past the person driving past a garbage truck that would be responsible for someone’s death a few short hours later.
Since I dabble in all three modes of transportation (though I’m primarily a pedestrian) and since I have friends who belong strictly to one or another group, it might be time for me to strike a conciliatory Obama-ish note here –
Cyclists: you are doing your part to alleviate congestion, but that doesn’t buy you any indulgences. You should really yield to pedestrians wherever cars are also expected to yield. Pedestrians: you are the life blood of any vibrant community as long as you use common sense. Also, it’s your responsibility to look both ways before crossing. Automobilists: imagine that every pedestrian or cyclist is someone you know. Chances are you know someone who is primarily a pedestrian or cyclist – remember them the next time you are behind the wheel in a congested area.
08 July 2008
Drunkard and Tipsy...
...as in, the names of George Washington's two foxhounds: "Drunkard" and "Tipsy."
04 July 2008
if these fireworks seem lame, you should blame the recession.
Credit for the post title goes to Ms. Abstract Citizen. She quipped it when I demanded an encore.
03 July 2008
Fluminense made me cry.
My friend (and future senator or attorney general) A-Train J.R. came back from a European jaunt this summer. A-T is very good at delineating and analogizing. He is an adept establisher of criteria and superlative at devising indicators. If there are two kinds of people in this world, A-T is part of the group that is very good at developing the ways in which we determine whether you belong to one group or another, which is why interacting with him is always a great way to question your assumptions about any number of things.
One of the first things he asked me after he got back was, “Have you ever cried because of sports?” And I knew decisively when I had last done so: June 1990.
Brasil outplayed Argentina for ninety minutes; but Argentina had Maradona, and he need just a few seconds to break loose, shimmy his way past the midfielders, and feed an unmarked Cannigia in the penalty area. In fact, the link above will take you to a 9 minute clip of the actual broadcast I watched that day.
I was in my dad’s old apartment in Humaita. I remember sitting on the couch while tears poured down my face, as the otherwise odious Galvao Bueno traced a deft line from 1966 to the present, reminding the viewers that not since then had Brasil gone home this early in the tournament. Unfortunately the clip above does not include his sign-off, which my friends and I used to imitate. He mistakenly ended it with his network’s tagline for that Cup (Papa essa, Brasil – take [or eat] this one, Brasil.) As I recall, he signed off thusly:
“We never dreamt as brightly as we did in 1982. In 1986, the dream was less lofty, but still real. And in 1990, Brasil bids the tournament farewell in the Round of 16. You are watching the Globo Network. 1990 World Cup. Papa essa, Bra-…” The end.
So Andres said that he heard a surprising number of stories during his trip that involved watching your club lose and crying in a bar after the loss. He said he didn’t think he knew many Americans who could say the same - but in any case we agreed that after a certain age, those stories become less and less likely: I was 12 in 1990. Since then, I have not cried for sports-related reasons – not when we lost in the finals to France in 1998 and again in the 2006 quarterfinals…until last night, when Fluminense turned in one of the most heroic performances I’ve ever seen on the pitch only to fall short in penalties. I was fine for a few minutes, but suddenly found myself sobbing as we shuffled back to The Georgian. I was definitely beyond the point of being consoled, and Ms. Abstract Citizen had never really seen me in that state.
I am now about twelve hours removed from the debacle and I’m not quite at the point of acceptance. I highly doubt a loss by the national team would ever hit me like the one in 1990 did – it’s less personal because for better or worse, there’s a whole nation involved in the fate of the national side. But there are few of us tricolores. Fluminense is deeply personal, painfully specific, and there is simply no platitude that can pierce the uniqueness of the misery. It is my misery, after all, almost tailor-made. There is no next season – this year marks, to my surprise, the sixtieth anniversary of the Libertadores. We have only been eligible for it twice. In sixty years. This is the only time we have made it out of group play. In sixty years. We are not likely to repeat this in my lifetime.
The dull headache never really went away, and it’s now a contagiously beautiful afternoon. Papa essa, Flu-...
One of the first things he asked me after he got back was, “Have you ever cried because of sports?” And I knew decisively when I had last done so: June 1990.
Brasil outplayed Argentina for ninety minutes; but Argentina had Maradona, and he need just a few seconds to break loose, shimmy his way past the midfielders, and feed an unmarked Cannigia in the penalty area. In fact, the link above will take you to a 9 minute clip of the actual broadcast I watched that day.
I was in my dad’s old apartment in Humaita. I remember sitting on the couch while tears poured down my face, as the otherwise odious Galvao Bueno traced a deft line from 1966 to the present, reminding the viewers that not since then had Brasil gone home this early in the tournament. Unfortunately the clip above does not include his sign-off, which my friends and I used to imitate. He mistakenly ended it with his network’s tagline for that Cup (Papa essa, Brasil – take [or eat] this one, Brasil.) As I recall, he signed off thusly:
“We never dreamt as brightly as we did in 1982. In 1986, the dream was less lofty, but still real. And in 1990, Brasil bids the tournament farewell in the Round of 16. You are watching the Globo Network. 1990 World Cup. Papa essa, Bra-…” The end.
So Andres said that he heard a surprising number of stories during his trip that involved watching your club lose and crying in a bar after the loss. He said he didn’t think he knew many Americans who could say the same - but in any case we agreed that after a certain age, those stories become less and less likely: I was 12 in 1990. Since then, I have not cried for sports-related reasons – not when we lost in the finals to France in 1998 and again in the 2006 quarterfinals…until last night, when Fluminense turned in one of the most heroic performances I’ve ever seen on the pitch only to fall short in penalties. I was fine for a few minutes, but suddenly found myself sobbing as we shuffled back to The Georgian. I was definitely beyond the point of being consoled, and Ms. Abstract Citizen had never really seen me in that state.
I am now about twelve hours removed from the debacle and I’m not quite at the point of acceptance. I highly doubt a loss by the national team would ever hit me like the one in 1990 did – it’s less personal because for better or worse, there’s a whole nation involved in the fate of the national side. But there are few of us tricolores. Fluminense is deeply personal, painfully specific, and there is simply no platitude that can pierce the uniqueness of the misery. It is my misery, after all, almost tailor-made. There is no next season – this year marks, to my surprise, the sixtieth anniversary of the Libertadores. We have only been eligible for it twice. In sixty years. This is the only time we have made it out of group play. In sixty years. We are not likely to repeat this in my lifetime.
The dull headache never really went away, and it’s now a contagiously beautiful afternoon. Papa essa, Flu-...
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