Good Endings

As far as good endings for short stories go, you can hardly beat James Joyce's ending to Araby from Dubliners: "Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger."

It came from the mid 70s...

Starry Eyed and Laughing, the band that loves to tell you they were either fifteen years early or ten years late.

ED 209 Appreciation

greetings,

i feel the need to lobby for my boy, enforcement droid 209, as it appears that robocop has been getting all the headlines around here! a great man once said, "give a man a fish..." errrr...ummm...hmmm...

eureka!...found it!

"you've insulted me. and you've insulted this company with that bastard creation of yours! i had a guarantee military sale with ED 209. renovation program. spare parts for 25 years. who cares if it worked or not?"

i hope we can be a little more bi-drodian around here in the future, fellow bloggers!

respectfully yours,

- dick jones

- jensen

In Defense of Robocop Statues

Co-blogger Josh Davis lays out both some positive and negative feelings about a proposed Robocop statue in Detroit. I consider myself an authority on half-ass Robocop fandom, and am going to pick up the gauntlet that Davis has thrown down.

First, some credentials. I saw the original Robocop at a birthday party at a friend's house (my parents would never had stood for all the swearing). I can't remember where I saw the second, but I distinctly remember renting the third from a local video store as soon as it came out. I also watched the short-lived Robocop TV series that ran late at night on either Friday or Saturday nights. Finally, as a full-grown adult, I have seen all of the straight-to-video low budget Robocop sequels. There's a million of them.

I also have a "great idea" (even though I use scare quotes, I do actually think this a great idea) for a new Robocop movie. I haven't got it all worked out yet, but it goes something like this: the OCP bigwigs decide that they need to get Robocop out of Detroit and into other markets so they can start to sell more of their products nationwide. So Robocop is sent to an Indian Reservation in the Great Plains to solve a corporate crime involving the building of a casino. Somehow, a bunch of the capital that is supposed to go into construction has disappeared, and the books are all crooked. I think maybe OCP owns a stake in the casino or something. Solving white collar crime is not the kind of thing that Robocop is good at though, and he is having trouble making much headway; the Board of Directors is stonewalling him, etc.

Eventually he gets the Indian chief to agree to sit down with him. This happens in a teepee where everyone sits on the group and at the beginning of the meeting they pass around a peace pipe. I know this is a demeaning and inaccurate portrayal of modern reservation life, but I like the absurdist imagery. Anyway, the peace pipe has some kind of poison in it, and Robocop passes out after smoking it. When he is passed out, his body is completely taken apart and the pieces of him are buried in the foundation of the casino, which is now being constructed somehow.

But pretty soon ghostly apparitions start appearing around the construction site. Robocop is back, but he is Part Man, Part Machine, Part Ghost. I'm trying to invert the formula from Poltergeist. After this, I don't know exactly what happens except that Robocop solves the crime with the help of a young and dedicated Indian lawyer/accountant. His body is dug up out of the foundation and re-constituted and his soul, in a moving sequence, re-enters his body. At the end, the lawyer/accountant becomes the new chief and gives Robocop an honorary eagle feather. I guess the joke is that Robocop is an absurdly blunt instrument and that a lot of problems won't be solved by man/machines with guns.

Whew, that was a tangent!

But about the statue. No doubt that Detroit has been a national punch-line for many years. Detroit has lost population, has been forced to close half of its schools, and had to endure an ridiculous Super Bowl advertisement. The area has been inexorably torn apart by economic forces beyond any individual's control, even Roger Smith. No one thing--even one thing as amazing as a Robocop statue--is going to change all of that.

The statue is worth building though, if only because it injects a postmodern sensibility into our everyday lives. The building of the statue appeals to me in the same way that my plot for Robocop 4 does. It mixes up contexts and confounds our expectations. Public art is either supposed to be ridiculously solemn realism or incomprehensible abstraction. A Robocop statue is simultaneously solemn and incomprehensible. It treats with seriousness something which is inherently silly.

The original Robocop film is actually very cunning in its politics. It is a sly satire about privatization (the OCP Corporation with their police machines is brought in while Detroit's public police force is phased out). Officer Murphy's literal transition from human to machine in the film is representative our metaphorical transition from humans to machines that serve the always greater need for increased productivity in late-stage capitalist society. Yet the message is mixed, because of course Robocop is the hero of the film as he strives to destroy both humans and machines that conflict with his directives. Murphy's submerged humanity can make him a less efficient hero at times, yet it is what we cheer for.

So Murphy/Robocop is a product of his economic times just as the citizens of Detroit today cannot escape their own economic condition. Robocop is a pretend hero, but the relentless pressure to become machine-like that he represents is felt by any participant in our economy. Detroit knows this as well as anyone. And it doesn't hurt that the statue would be built, at least in concept, from donations rather by funds raised by the city. Finally, with no actual hero who challenged the changing economic conditions that has landed Detroit where it is today, we're forced to take heroes where we can find them. We worship a pretend hero because there is no real hero to worship.

Na Na Na Na Na na-na-na-na na-na-na

Baseball-Baseball-Baseball! Get the fever!

(thanks for the heads up Brad)

On a side note, check out these sweet Carey's shirts. Red or Tie-Die?

Tuesdays with Beer: Trojan Tap

Tuesday, February 22, 2011, 7:30 PM Brett Hoffman and Matt Groce visit the Trojan Tap in Madison, South Dakota.

The Trojan Tap is one of about 8 or so drinking establishments in Madison depending on how you count them. The two us had not been in here since 2004, back when it was called Fat Daddy's, a bad bar name if you've ever heard one. The idea behind Fat Daddy's was that it would be a sort of Irish Pub, but that never caught on. Before Fat Daddy's, this establishment was called the Happy Hour, famous for its fried chicken.

Now it's the Trojan Tap, in an effort to attract college kids, the Dakota State University Trojans. Tonight there weren't many college kids around. In fact, when we walked in, there was just us and the bartender, an obese twenty-something in a DSU t-shirt. At first, we weren't sure he was the bartender, since he was sitting at a barstool with his laptop. But he obliged us after we came out of the cold and got on the right side of the bar. Granted, it was Tuesday night and early, so what were we expecting?

PBR was on tap, so the drink of the night was obvious. We ordered two beers, at $2.50 apiece. The only sound in the place was a television tuned to the Disney Channel, playing Ice Age. We got our beers and sort of stood around, eventually finding our way to one of the two tables in the joint, not wanting to sit at the barstools with no one else around.

There were two pool tables available, though the bartender was taking up one of them for about as long as we were present. There's also an old dart board, but it didn't look like it was working. Half of the lights were nonfunctional, apparently because of "a party the night before" according to the bartender. We didn't really understand what he was saying, but that was becoming a trend of sorts. There was, however, a black light on the ceiling that forced us both to hide the various stains on our clothes. Not the sort thing to do while picking up chicks.

As for the inside of the place, it's not bad in the dive-y sort of way that the bars of Madison tend to have. Wood paneling and some exposed brick, all of it painted over in light brown (my favorite color). Posters on the wall for NASCAR and the El Riad Shriners bar. Five video lottery machines along one wall is probably the high for downtown Madison bars. It's essentially par for the course, and could even be inviting if there were anyone around to share it with, but when you're on your own, it feels like you're drinking in someone's basement.

On tap: Bud, Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller Lite, Mich Golden, and PBR. In bottles, you could have (for you fancy-types) Mike's Hard Lemonade and Cranberry, Smirnoff Ice, Corona, Heineken, and Newcastle. The PBR we drank tasted fine.

Since we were the only customers, the bartender brought us our second round at the table. For the third, he was playing pool, so we had to go up the bar. Also, by this point that Angelina Jolie movie where she bends the bullets around was on TV. This was a step up, I think.

There was a room in back where it appeared there could be live music on occasion, but more likely a DJ. There was room to dance if ever there were a crowd. I don't know if they ever use this.

One positive that I'd like to report is that the bartender happily accepted my $5 that was torn in half and re-attached with a piece of tape. I hate when I have that sort of thing and I was greatly relieved that he took it off my hands. This may in fact have been my favorite part of the night. The bathroom is what you'd expect. The floor was unusually sticky considering it was a Tuesday night, but you can't be too picky about your bathroom floors. Toward the end of the two hours we spent in Trojan Tap, another soul did come in, much to my joy. It turned out though that this was another employee on his off-day or something, not a real customer.

In a way, it's hard to believe that there aren't any kind of regulars that frequent this place. It's no worse than several other bars in the area. But it's also no better, I suppose, and it's the newest name in a town with a lot of dingy bars.

So what is the lesson of this experiment? In one sense, it's maybe that you should simply tamp down your expectations when you're going out in Madison on a Tuesday night. But at least other bars appeared occupied. Trojan Tap is solely for those whose existential sadness is driving them toward complete isolation. If you need to experience a black hole, complete with PBR, then by all means, drag your sorry ass to the Trojan Tap. There are days when that's just what I needed. But thankfully, those day are few and far between lately.

On the other hand, if you're looking for hassle-free employment, this may just be the gig for you!

I have to admit, I'm digging those shades

Jason McDonald...we will never forget!

That was the last time we saw him. Eight months later, Big Justin got back onto the field with the guys today. So far so good.

Check out this nice article from ESPN.

Then head to the Star Tribune to see Justin in those sweet shades.

And rounding third, hit up the Twins site to see a short interview with the man himself.

Lastly, look at this goofy picture of Ozzie being Ozzie.

the family tree - miss butters

greetings,

i have a confession to make; i love "psychedelic obscurities." it's an addiction of mine. when i have free time, i love sleuthing through dredges of 1.00 vinyl bins at independent record stores for hours-on-end with the lone goal of unearthing an ignored relic from the past. 1968 (and possibly 1967) are, in my opinion the golden years for the under-appreciated genres of freak-folk, baroque pop, sunshine pop, bubblegum pop, and acid rock. needless to say, some of the records that i find border on silliness, but occasionally i'll find one that rocks my socks off! today, ladies and germs i present one of the great "psychedelic obscurities" for your listening pleasure (with more to come in the future - stay tuned!)

the family tree was a san francisco band created by mastermind bob segarini. segarini had originally been the frontman in a local bay-area singles group known as, the brogues. this band, like many of the era did their best to copiously study the beatles' "hit-making machine" formula and attempt to replicate it in the states. now, raise your hand if you have ever heard of the brogues and/or can name one of their songs? anyone? hello?...

frustrated by the lack of success with the brogues, segarini decided to jump ship and form a new band (along with hammond b3 extraordinaire, lee michaels!) that would capitalize off the success of the newly emerged "concept album" format. some of the earliest mainstream examples of this style are: "s.f. sorrow" by the pretty things, "sgt. pepper's lonely hearts club band" by the beatles, and "the village green preservation society" by the kinks. essentially, a concept album cohesively ties each song together by a common theme or story. quite often, the theme or story in these albums can be very ambiguous to the listener, leaving much to the imagination of whomever is interpreting the album as a whole. segarini's newly formed band, the family tree set out to make a concept album of their own, however with a more coherent plot-line. this album would be known as "miss butters."

released in 1968, a year that would release such classic lps as: the beatles "white album", van morisson's "astral weeks", the rolling stones' "beggars banquet", and the zombies "odessey and oracle" it is not hard to surmise why this album is not often included in the pantheon of essential recordings. it is, however deserving to be included in the 2nd tier of great albums of 1968.

Mrs. McPheeny has Flue in Her Chest and has Needed a Rest for so Long) - The Family Tree

"miss butter" is segarini's homage to an elderly

spinster of the same name, with each song representing a chapter in her life. recorded during the "aerial ballet" sessions by one, harry nilsson (this recording will be reviewed at a later time) the sound of "mrs. butters" is not coincidently very similar in sound and presentation. as a matter of fact, nilsson is credited as co-writer for one of the album's cuts ("butters lament"). just like "aerial ballet" each track contains a vignette of whimsical ditties and idioms. if listening to "birthday/dirgeday" (the opening track) doesn't put a smile on your face, i would ascertain that you're legally dead! this album is dominated by piano, most characteristically sounding like the monkees "daydream believer" for much of the album. the harmonies are lush, most often resulting in 4-part polyphony (as one would come to expect from this genre). it's only fault is it can come across as a bit "musical theaterish" (as danny had pointed out in a discussion with me regarding this album). if that schtick isn't' your thing, this album might not be your bag, but for those of you who love "daydream"and "wouldn't it be nice" by the lovin' spoonful and the beach boys respectively, this album will exceed your expectations.

Butter's Lament - The Family Tree (co-written by Harry Nilsson)

my recommended tracks for "miss butters" are: "birthday/dirgeday", "mrs. mcpheeny has flue in her chest and has needed a rest for so long)" and "butter's lament." if you're looking for something different and extremely obscure, check this one out. more psychedelic obscurities to come, but until then "may you have the hindsight to know where you've been, the foresight to know where you're going, and the insight to know when you're going too far!"

-jensen

Everyone needs a little...

If you have not heard the Detroit is in discussions of building a Robocop statue that is worth close to $50,000. This is not coming from public funds but from anonymous donors. At first glance you think there are a lot of better ways to spend this money, i.e. schools, homeless, public transit, public workers, etc. I, at first, was excited to see this happening then saw the price tag on the statue and thought what a waste of money and resources. One possible way to reduce the cost they could make the statue from recycled cars that came out of the Motor City.

When you think of the movie Robocop, Detroit plays the villian--it is a dirty, crime ridden, death trap hell hole. So why such the push to put up a statue of Robocop? I understand that most of the donors and the pressure is coming from outside of Detroit. When you break it down, Robocop stands for a better brighter future--something Motown could use right now. A man, just like the city, that has been torn to shreds. Now it is in the process of redefining itself in the 21st century by making more eco-friendly cars. Just like Robocop, they look to new technology to turn themselves around.

Any way you lean on this matter is up to you, the reader. It could be something for generations to come to enjoy or it could be a sad reminder of how poorly we spend our money. Robocop is an icon that is not always bright and has had a dark past--just like Detroit--yet, at the same time it gives you hope for a better future.

Thanks for reading,
Joshua

There's something happening here...

Are professional sports next?

I've been unlucky enough to meet my fair share of Wisconians in my life. They use stupid words, can't watch bad drivers without sounding like idiots, have terrible taste in music, like stupid professional sports teams, have terrible hair cuts, and they're worse than Texans. I could go on and on.

One thing they do have, besides Mark Borchardt, it turns out, is balls. Brains...maybe not. These are the same people who got rid of Russ Feingold and a billion other Democrats in the last election for the sake of "shaking things up," according to one protesting moderate. And now, because the majority thinks saying 'Don't Tread On Me' is cool, they have a battle on their hands. Luckily for the rest of the nation, they are willing to take the fight.

If you want to know more about the situation, check out the NY Times. Long story short, Scott Walker and his homeboys want to screw over state employees and know they can't do it in an orderly fashion until they get rid of their collective bargaining rights. They say it's all in the name of balancing the budget, although they refuse to raise corporate tax rates--which are half of what they were in the 1980s.

The major problem for everyone else is that if this goes through in Madison, all the other Republican state houses will follow suit. And it won't just affect state employees--labor talks are looming in the MLB, NFL and NBA. Right? Are they really siding with the ownership?

So, please write your Republican representatives and tell them not to take your professional sports away, unless, of course, it's the Packers. Then, if you are so inclined, visit Help Defend Wisconsin.

From Living to Lots

Let me start by saying thanks to Danny McGrane for opening up his blog for us to post insight from our minds a' meanders. My name is Franko Hudson (Jahbone) and I will be your blogger today.

Spring is slowly edging her way through layers of snowy shores, and turned down blinds insulated by plastic curtains, and that can mean one thing, Baseball season has nearly arrived. Now I’m not sure how everyone out there anticipates warm weather, but Spring Training has become for me a time honored tradition to start scouting prospects, scraping the grill clean to get those first brats roasting, and saving up packs of empty cigarette boxes. Why in the world would anybody save up empty cigarette boxes in the spring no less. The answer is simple, Cigarette Baseball.

I am familiar with the initial reaction to the name of the game. There is no association with watching baseball and smoking. There are no lit cigarettes used as bats or balls. The game evolved from an empty water bottle (I found the liter Smart Water bottles work great) and an empty pack of cigarettes to simulate the head to head, pitcher/batter competition.

Before you can start playing cigarette Baseball give yourself about 16’ between the mound and the batter’s box. Then outline dimensions within your space to incorporate real time baseball game play. We tend to use a coffee table in the middle of the room that the ball (cigarette pack) must go beyond to signify a single. Balls hit that do not pass this area are a ground out, or pop out. A ball hit off of a wall that lands in fair play is either a single or a double (usually a judgment call). A ball hit up the middle skirting by the pitcher to the back wall reaching your area’s “warning track” is a triple, and a ball hit in the air reaching the wall behind your pitcher is a homerun. This rule is generally 5’ above is a homerun, and 5’ and under is a triple. The pitcher can make plays on hit balls by catching them before they hit the ground. This would be an out and no runners advance. And yes, the best part of all is you get to use ghost runners, just like you did back in the good old days when you knocked out your share of windows.

One rule I need to mention is with the cigarette boxes themselves. Take the plastic from the pack and put it back on reverse, covering the open top box. This will make your ball (pack) travel with more control, better to hit, and last longer from Crushers like Jon Lee knocking the skin loose.

Koufax mastered the curve in his Aunt's living room. She
was notorious in the 'hood for having extra packs of smokes
and bottles of Coca-Cola everywhere.

“Baseball's thought of as this game of Geometry. It’s perfect.... It has the strictest rules, and it has the strictest history. Everything interpreted. And kids play it all over the place. You can improvise baseball in a living room. You can improvise on a New York street...you can play it in a pasture. You can play it on the side of a hill. You can play baseball anywhere.”

Anchor the ribs of the bottle cap as you step to the plate. Wipe your palms across your forehead, and tap the meat of the bat to get that semblance of resin, flick your wrist and trademark your batter stance as that pitcher tries to weasel a strike across YOUR plate. Stare him down as the hesitation behind his stance reveals to you he’s not going to throw any breaking pitches. He wants to come at you with the pitch he’s most comfortable throwing. High-heat. But you’re ready to knock the shadow off the ball. Windup, release, shoulders come around, and connect. No reaction time can anticipate the trajectory of the ball once it launches from the plastic compressed bottle. The ball lands in fair territory, and your ghost runner elegantly glides in for a stand up double. You’re ready to serve up another shot, and get into this stinker’s bullpen.

“DUCKS ON THE POND! DRIVE EM’ IN!”

(to stay honest, this is where I picked up again after birthday Jameson).

So this is what it feels like when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Only thing is, this immovable object is flawed. A swing violent and compact, disturbing to a brush-off attempt, yet on a rock-slide as the elusive cutter bows and skips, drawing the batters shoulder down revealing a massive hole in the swing. This is where one draws from an arsenal of pitches to exploit the vulnerability of the batter at hand. A quick, Frisbee-esque flip sails the ball over rising waves of turbulence. A swing, all a flutter. Man on second, two out. Flip another fastball. ….. Too high. 1-1. Adjust position of pack in hand, and follow same pitching motion dropping a drooping changer on the saddle. Strike two. Got ‘em where you want ‘em. “This one’s a doozey. I’ll tell you it’s coming and you’ll never hit it.” It’s the side-winder table drop. It’s shooting from the hip, from outside of your body to across your waist. We can call it the “Pat Neshek” for recognitions sake. This pitch swings right, then cuts sharply left, and drops off the table. I think in Mr. Baseball they called it “Shoo-tow.” Ow, strike three. Next time I’ll offer you a shot to go with that chaser.

There you have it, the basic rules of the game. Now it’s up to you to develop your game by becoming an artisan on the mound, and a masher at the plate.

See ya on the main stage

-Jahbone

montage - montage (album review)

greetings -

danny was gracious enough to invite me to review some albums of my choosing with the caveat that it wasn't something that (we) might not have raved about 5+ years ago. as danny's looming presence hadn't been overly prevalent in my life during that span (save the past 3 years) i risk the possibility of breaking this request. if that is the case, my sincere apologies.

for those reading this blog who are asking themselves, "who the hell is this guy?" i am danny's first cousin, 1/2 of the "kindergarden crushers", and allegedly iowa's biggest slipknot fan (thanks for always bringing that up, mark!) in addition to these flattering accolades, i also am a musician (ok...i'm a teacher). i was appreciative of danny allowing me to recommend some albums; hopefully whomever reads my reviews will be inspired enough to purchase and experience the music on their own terms.

Barterers and Their Wives - The Left Banke

the album at question is the self-titled album by the little known band, montage. montage released one album (1969) and is, in my opinion up to par with some of the great baroque pop albums of the era, i.e. "odessey and oracle", "walk away renee/pretty ballerina", "pet sounds", etc. as a matter of fact, montage is the brainchild of former left banke keyboardist and vocalist, michael browne. for those not familiar with the left banke, that is probably a great place to start, as the album "walk away renee/pretty ballerina" is one of the finest examples of the genre. the only thing lacking with the album is the lame-ass name; many bands used to title their albums, particularly if they weren't prolific with their perceived catchiest song titles. many people will recognize "walk away renee" and to a lesser extent "pretty ballerina", but the real gems on the album are "she will call you up tonight", "barterers and their wives" and "i've got something on my mind." these tracks contain zombie-esque harmonies, lush orchestrations (george martin, eat your heart out!) and harpsichords galore! the availability on this album (at this writing) is almost impossible to obtain on cd, but is pretty accessible digitally or on vinyl. rumor has it that sundazed is releasing "walk away renee/pretty ballerina" as well as their lesser second lp, "the left banke too" sometime this summer on several mediums!

after the success of "walk away renee/pretty ballerina" michael browne left to join the members of montage (who had just started their musical voyage), where he composed all of the songs and supplied the intricate keyboard parts. this album has more of a progressive feel than the two left banke albums, containing mellotron instead of strings, changing mixed-meter time signatures, atonality, and complicated rhythms. think the moody blues and the left banke's love child. the songs are also more sophisticated lyrically, occasionally coming across as a bit pretentious

Grand Pianist - Montage

some of the highlights for me are: "i shall call her mary" which sounds like a song off of an association album, "grand pianist" (my personal favorite) which could have easily been performed by the turtles, and "men building sand" with its marriage between dissonance and melodic bliss. the entire album is near perfection, and i would easily place this on my "desert island album list." this album (as are the left banke albums) is getting difficult to find on cd (it was discontinued from the sundazed catalogue, but can still be found on ebay, amazon market place, etc.). i purchased this album with high expectations, as i was aware of michael browne's association with the band, and it exceeded them tenfold! if you don't own either "walk away renee/pretty ballerina" and "montage" treat yourself to a wonderful listening experience.

-jensen

Reader Challenge: A Wiki Fun Time

Look at these guys- they're chillin' to the max!

I have to be brief, I'm in the middle of a slug-fest by the name of "Corporations Memo." But in honor of the radio debut of Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo, I wanted to enlist some faithful readers to drop a wiki-bomb on the Minnesota Public Radio website.

Every band on the MPR database has a related page in their Minnewiki section. Currently the 3x Buffalo page is as blank as my homework assignment. I think it would be funny if everyone takes a second out from their day and add some obscure history to the site (or a cool nickname for a band member, a fictitious album to the discography, etc.). Let's get creative!

The first thing you'll have to do is create an account on the page. No biggie, it's public radio, they aren't going to cyberstalk you. Then just click on edit and type away. I haven't played any wiki tricks before, so this will be a neat experience. 

Here's the link to the Minnewiki page. Here's a link to the Local Show. Big thanks to Josh and Erik for bringing in the track and sneaking it in between some highlights from their new album Outside! The February 20th show, which includes an interview with the aforementioned Josh and Erik, is up and streaming. While you're listening, you might as well request some Fables. And, finally, a couple of songs:

Pierce the Veil by Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo

Light and Fire by Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo

It came from the mid 70s...

This here is Minneapolis music legend Willie Murphy and some funky beards. The song is Shoot Straight.

Hipness Unto Death

Hello. My name is Brett Hoffman. Danny and I have been friends for many years, and I'm honored that he would allow me to post occasional bits along with his superior insight. Danny will no doubt live to regret the day he opened this blog up to his idiot friends, but until he takes the keys back, I am free to use this space to do my level best to force my opinions on others. Mostly this will take the form of book reviews for books that virtually no one cares about, but it may sometimes be something else as well. Nothing drives page views like talking books.

Anyway, with Danny's review of the Blue Trees, I feel pretty liberated to talk about my own minor obsessions. I'm going to be starting on an esoteric note, with a review of Mark Crispin Miller's Boxed In: The Culture of TV.

Boxed In is a collection of essays about television advertising, films, and music. The newest essays are from 1988, and Miller went on to become quasi-famous as critic of President Bush with his books The Bush Dyslexicon and Cruel and Unusual. In this book, it's clear that Miller is part of the left from his essay on the Reagan Presidency, but most of the essays are essentially apolitical.

Easily the strongest section of the book is when Miller is focused on advertising. Miller is trained as a graduate student in English literature, meaning that he has spent a lot of time doing the "close readings" that are required by the New Criticism school of thought. He takes this technique that is normally applied to poetry and instead focuses it on television commercials with some very interesting results.

He makes explicit the racial themes that are implicit in a commercial encouraging Americans to vacation in Jamaica in the first chapter. In the second, he delves into the psycho-sexual tension involved in a soap commercial. That may sound like a joke, but it's really not.

Skip to the 1:40 mark to see the commercial.

A couple excerpts from this chapter, so you get the feel of the writing:

"He comes toward her, setting himself up for a profound humiliation by putting on a playful air of suave command. Adjusting his tie like a real man of the world, he saunters over to his wife and her flower bowl, where he plucks a dainty purple flower and lifts it to his lapel: "And," he boasts throughout all this, trying to make his voice sound even deeper, "with old J.J.'s business and my brains--""--you'll...clean up again?" Gail asks with suggestive irony, subverting his authoritative pose by leaning against him, draping one hand over his shoulder to dangle a big yellow daisy down his chest."

"Typically, it woos its female viewers--i.e., those who choose the soap in most households--with a fantasy of dominance."

"This 'man,' in fact, is actually Gail's wife: he is utterly feminized, striking a posture and displaying attributes which men have long deplored in women."

"The crucial object in the opening shot is that the flower box with its bright geraniums, which is placed directly in front of the husband's groin. This clever stroke of composition has the immediate effect of equating our hero's manhood with a bunch of flowers."

And so on. Miller's language is somewhat overwrought (all throughout the book, unfortunately) but the subtext is striking once it is pointed out. When I've brought this sort of analysis up to people, they often respond by saying something like, "Don't you think he's reading too much into this? These are just commercials, after all." This is exactly the wrong way to think about this phenomenon though. Commercials are ubiquitous and unavoidable--we are consciously and unconsciously bombarded with them, and it cannot be helped that they will penetrate our psyche. Rather than suggest that something we are surrounded by is unworthy of study, we should be all the more willing to discover what it is actually saying to us. And don't forget, the people that make national advertising are sophisticated and highly-trained. They are completely aware of everything they place in their ads.

So I think there is a great deal of value in this sort of analysis, though since this book was written in 1988, I wish there were more recent examples. Also noteworthy are Miller's chapters on Bill Cosby, Family Feud (Victory demands the absolute suppression of any wayward thought or preference, any eccentricity that might define the family apart from TV's bland reconstruction of ourselves."), and his viewer's guide to the 1984 Presidential election.

He also invents an archetype of the television ironist (David Letterman is his go-to example) that on one hand seems to say to the audience that they too smart to be watching this nonsense--say, stupid people tricks--but encouraging them to stay tuned anyway because they are in a sense, in the on the joke. That same audience is then turned over to advertisers that work on a similar principle: ads that are full of irony (you are too smart to fall for this dumb ad!) and trying to morph that irony into a desire to purchase a product.

The chapters on film and music are less compelling to me, so I won't go into detail about them. I would pair this book up with The Conquest of Cool by Thomas Frank, another interesting volume on the history of advertising.

The Blue Trees

Ten years in and this small, sophisticated album continues to blossom as it ages gracefully


Sad as it may be, the release of new Radiohead albums have had a Pearl Harbor-type effect on my life. I can remember where and when. On vacation with the family, I made my parents stop at every goddamn Wal-Mart in Alabama the day OK Computer came out. For Kid A, Chris, Mark, Jon Poulson and I joined the eager masses at the Dinkytown Cheapo, counting down the seconds until midnight and what seemed like a musical revolution. Insomniac was a gaggle of scraggly hair in Wildcat's Bonneville driving to Sioux Falls and coming back in an excited haze. I swear it was only seconds after its release that Kyle was serving up Hail To The Thief along with the dollar taps at Carey's. And while the nature of the In Rainbows release is less conducive to that first-time excitement, it remains, in my opinion, the crowning achievement in online selling. I'll never forget the elation that came along with naming my own price (I think I gave them 5 euro and ended up buying the CD later that winter).

So today's unveiling of The King Of Limbs has got me excited. I found out about the early release with one foot out the door on my way to class this morning, so I have had some time to reflect. I got to thinking about the Radiohead catalog and, with the possible exception of Pablo Honey, its aversion to aging. Over a decade after their releases, OK Computer and Kid A are every bit the trend setters they were at the time. And while they may have sent less shockwaves, Hail To The Thief and In Rainbows simply could not have been made by any other band. If anything, The Bends sounds like their most "modern" recording; the rest of it is still so far ahead of its time.

It's obvious why Radiohead has created such a resounding legacy: unique songwriting about extra-universal themes, an ability to make familiar sounds in ways no one has heard them before, and, maybe most importantly, their unfettering dedication to rhythm. And let's face it, their music is fucking huge.

With all this in mind, along with the smell of 60 degrees in the air, I drove to school wanting to hear one album and one album only. The Blue Trees by Gorky's Zygotic Mynci.

How is it that something so small, delicate and ethereal could resonate so much louder in my psyche than any of those aforementioned Radiohead monoliths?

Released in February of 2001, The Blue Trees was the culmination of this Welsh proto-punk wonkfest of a band's gentle decline into maturity. Steeped in Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music and the gentle fogs of the Snowdonia, these eight tracks have managed to associate themselves with every coming spring and every imaginable opportunity.

After a briefly meditating title track, the cooperative finger picking and fiddle doodling of "This Summer's Been Good From The Start" gently release into the inevitable dissonance at the intersection of hopes and reality, all while simmering peacefully beneath the optimisticly sang "Where are we going/I don't know/How do we get there/So and so." It's a timeless ode to the optimism of every baseball season, every summer fling and every coming adventure. It used to make me want to build a raft from driftwood to sail from Vermillion to New Orleans. It makes it possible.

The unparalleled layering of "Lady Fair" and the mushroom masterpiece "Foot and Mouth '68" continue the languid drive into the breezy, three-part "Wrong Turnings." One can't help but ponder the range of emotions that poured out onto the pages and pages of letters from western expeditions or the awe inspired when taking a step from virgin timber onto the plains; the comradery fading from a smoldering campfire.

"Fresher Than The Sweetness In Water," a Honeybus cover, brings us back into modern day and reminds us of that girl we were thinking about at the beginning of the summer. Once the buoyant pop subsides, a heavy dose of sorrow accompanies the north wind as it makes its presence known in the achingly beautiful "Face Like Summer" before the album's lone Welsh number, "Sbia Ar y Seren," seemingly acknowledges its coming fate: fields and fields of naked corn stalks poking through the snow, like whiskers on the face of a ghost.

At a running time of less than 25 minutes, it's gone before you know it. C'est la vie.

I spend an inordinate amount of time scouring the web for lost folk masterpieces. As good as some of them have been, I can't say I've found anything much better than this. Unfortunately, I'm having a real bitch of a time finding any of the songs to post but, if you don't own the album, here's some links:

This Summer's Been Good From The Start
Face Like Summer

Settling In Like Never Before

To those cracked vinyl bar stools


April 2, 2007. Jumpin' Jonny Lee and I needed a beer. Who am I kidding? We needed to go out and get shit-faced. You see, we had spent the last 36 hours unpacking boxes, wishing for couches, dealing with some really drunk house guests, and sleeping it off. Who am I kidding--we didn't need a reason to go out and get shit-faced.

It was Opening Day. The Twins were hosting the Orioles with Johan Santana on the mound and Justin Morneau coming of an MVP season--we had to watch this game. Without tickets or cable, our only viable option was to find the nearest bar. So, naturally, we headed towards the glut of blinking lights and homeless charmers, "bright new Minneapolis," if you will. One quick turn and we found a bar, kind of shrugged at each other, and went in.

I had been to the Uptown before. When I lived in the garden view apartment with Chris a couple of years earlier, I vaguely remember an Olympic Hopefuls concert on a night that ended with me holding a bloody roll of toilet paper on my face. Needless to say, I probably wouldn't have been able to pick the interior out of a lineup. So when Jon and I walked in, it was first impressions all over again. The impression: empty and kind of dingy. The bartender was really weird looking and the TVs were a little on the shitty side. But, we were in the door and they had beer without a wait, so we bellied up.

Morneau and Hunter erupted in the bottom of the second with back-to-back jacks off that bum Erik Bedard. Reason to celebrate!--we need more beers. The bartender, however, was nowhere to be seen. It was no more than 30 seconds later that the greased back, lemon-locked handlebar came sauntering over. With a wickedly engaging grin, he plopped down a basket of mini-corndogs and said to us, "You gotta enjoy some dogs with the game." We couldn't have agreed more.

The Twins won the first of their 79 games that year, 7-4. And the Uptown Bar won a couple of regulars. For the next two years, it was a rare week if I didn't make it to the bar at least four times. And I was never alone. Along with Yukon Golden Boy, there was Michelle, Megan, Sarah, and the Final Frontier. Larry, who Jon famously told to 'take his mo-hawk and shove it up his ass,' Skye, Dennis, and the countless faces whose names now elude me. (Who could forget Ron?). We drank with Doug, Tom, and Jeff, took an unfathomable amount of after-bar crews back to our place, and I even got to boo my old band. I only wish I could have witnessed more games by their legendarily winless softball team...

I've been lucky in my life to find places that have been willing to let me in and let me be me. The Uptown Bar is near the top of that list. So, when Columbia and Apple came knocking and the ownership took the money and ran, it was a major bummer. Yet there was chatter about a future location, bigger and better; they'd have the same staff and the same vibe.

It was reported this week that the future site has fallen through. It may be gone but it will never be forgotten. Long Live The Uptown Bar.

What to Expect When You're Expecting

Why we're here, where we're going

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has clicked over and fed my ego in the past couple of days. I hope you have left somewhat satisfied or at least intrigued enough to want to stop by again.

My goal in creating this site was to make my friends laugh. I've since encountered a surprising side-effect...it's been fun for me. In order for this to remain being fun, for me and you, I think it's imperative that the site is continuously updated and the range of topics runs the gamut. Being in school, there are going to be days, maybe even weeks, when I simply can't put anything off any longer. Making the two balance will be easy and make it better for anyone who gets sick of my constant Facebook advertising.

In the next couple of days, some of my closest friends will be getting in on the action. Josh, Matt, Chris, Brett, Andy, and Kyle will have unfettered access to the domain name and, God willing, they will take complete advantage of it. That way, if you can't stand me but have a HUGE crush on one of them, you'll have to keep coming back to see if they write something about you. I highly doubt the list of contributors is complete and if you feel like you'd like to throw your hat in, let me know.

So, again, thanks for stopping by. Check back in a month and I bet you'll find an astounding compilation of album and book reviews, conspiracy theories, whole wheat bread recipes, pictures of pregnant women staring at the sea, et cetera, et cetera. It might be a little hairy for a while but I really think this could turn into something great.

With love,
Danny

What I would have said: January Jones

Why is South Dakota so windy?

Yesterday was quite the day to be a South Dakotan. It started off with the gut-busting, laugh-riot of a bill proposed in Pierre. This piggy backs an enabling bill, proposed just weeks ago, going to show that the lawmakers can put two and two together. Anyone in their right mind would surely agree that this is a common sense solution to a common folk problem. It's just so positive! Without these bills, I worry about what will happen in streets from Volga to Belvidere. I can't wait until the "pro abortionist" mobilization is finally thwarted by the compassionate, clear-headed casserole crew behind the two new bills. It's gonna get Egyptian, baby!

Then it was announced that the big game is back on.

Later on in the evening:

I like having a celebrity from South Dakota. She may be kind of B-list, but she's done an amazing job on Mad Men and always lights up the red carpet (and Huffington Post). But after watching this, I think it's safe to say Ms. Jones may have been a little too Hollywood for a little too long to be much of an ambassador for the Mount Rushmore State.


Editor's Note: This is being written in Pennsylvania.


Now, I'm not suggesting that she gets Daschled--there aren't really any starlets waiting in the wings. But we do need her to raise South Dakota awareness and we need to make sure she has the talking points.

It doesn't matter?: When asked which Dakota you are from, it does matter. Don't say there are still people who call it the Dakota Territories because there aren't. I get that she's showcasing the "South Dakota humble" but in this instance it reeks of weakness.

"Jon, I'm from Sioux Falls, South Dakota"

Mason/Dixon: It may just be the part of the state that I'm from (a mere 45 miles from Sioux Falls), but I don't remember meeting anyone from North Dakota until I moved to Minneapolis--and they were weird. They weren't weird because of some accent or their driving style, though. No, they were weird because they had a vacant, almost homicidal gaze that could only come from a) living anywhere but Fargo or Grand Forks or b) living in Fargo or Grand Forks. It's so flat! Fargo--that movie, those people were dumb--Priceless! (Just go with it). And Grand Forks- it snows eight feet at a time, three times a week from October until May. And then once spring rears its ugly head, set your watch by it, the Red River will destroy the entire town. God doesn't tell these people to build arks--he makes them fill sand bags.

"Well, it's like they say, the only reason it's so windy in South Dakota is because Nebraska sucks and North Dakota blows."

Celebrities: There is no reason why Ms. Jones should know that Roger Maris was from North Dakota. I don't think there's a reason she should know who he is at all. But it shouldn't take so long to come up with Tom Brokaw, for chrissakes. And where was the Bob Barker bomb? Here's a list, take your pick.

"Jon, let's get a hooker--let's go crazy, get some coke...but you have to be into Betsy--Come on Stewart! Pat O'Brien, Access Hollywood, ever heard of him?"

If you haven't heard the O'Brien messages lately, I highly recommend it. Beware, this thing plays on its own and it's REALLY funny!

Rivalry: When given the opportunity to talk smack about West River, you take it! 

"Those bow-legged belt buckles learn how to chew tabaccie before they learn how to read. That is, assuming they learn how to read."

Miscellaneous: There are no Jews in South Dakota, she's right about that. 

It came from the mid 70s...

You would be accurate to call John Martyn's output hit and miss. But when he hit, he hit as hard as anyone. This is from Sunday's Child, performed in 1977.

It came from the mid 70s...

This is Journey's End, the second track from Space Opera's second album, Safe At Home. I like it.

Losing Notebooks

It's hard to say goodbye to a good notebook. It's even harder when you didn't even know it had gone. Tonight, after throwing my weight back into the blogosphere, I had decided I was going to make my first post an old favorite. Six pages, tucked away in a notebook I had had for over a decade. We had been through a lot together. We started college, transfered college, quit college, started college and graduated college. I drank with it, abused it, caught it with a friend and stole it back. Pen and pencil faded pages new. We still had years to go.

It was a magical night. The sky was black as tar, sticky to my fingers and dripping into my body. I was across the river in Nebraska, slicing through valleys once gorged by glacial retreat, following trails that had been traversed for 10,000 years. That is where this notebook and I reached an apex. A jolt and I dropped the ball and it was rolling. Page after page went by in gusts of wit and snarl. With a cough I would look back in amazement at what this notebook had allowed me to do. I was Whitman in my lyrical esotericism and, fittingly, Cather in my connection to the world around me. What seemed to babble out was reformed into precise arithmetic on the page. I had become the new Maya Angelou.

Years later we found a similar magic near dusk, half-awake, on a porch in the city. Me with my feet up and the notebook nuzzled into my faded yellow plaid. I had been through a rough time, what with uprooting my prairie grass and no clear pastures for my seed to spread. And the notebook was just there. It started simply enough. I thumbed through, admiring our progression, and we had some good laughs. I gently fingered the pages, one by one, soaking it all in. All the blues and reds were in place, but some of the whites had faded, some had stained. I brought it closer and let it's dull, distinct smell fill my lungs. Turn after turn until, amazingly, I found a clean, crisp clump of pages. They had been lost in the middle as I had methodically filled from the front when formal and from the back when something just needed to be jotted. This was a pristine, ancient forest. What wisdom did it hold, animals did it house? Before I knew it, we were back to our old ways, friends and maybe more. We could be alone together yet were comfortable in groups. I knew its frays and I now knew its smell and I knew it had a hidden treasure. In turn, it knew so many of my secret ambitions, my abstractions and my dedications. A glimpse, a spark, the streetlights turned on and buzzed low in the wake of passing cars. There we came together again.

The months flipped the years as days and days were branded with the unflattering X. I moved again, this time further from the dying root structure of my home, further from my farmland genus, and closer to the unknown. The notebook came with me. As other books lobbied for my attention, I saw it at the corner of my desk waiting patiently. Then came the stacks. It started with syllabi, unopened mail and keys, but that led to boxes of staples, stocking caps and the occasional rogue cigarette box. It was disappearing. And now it's gone.

Where, when and why can't explain this away as well as is can. Doubtless a turning leaf will fall from the tree and get lost in the scatter of other leaves from other trees in other lawns. There are piles to be made before more changes come and turn it all to dirt. The inevitable shuffle is stifling and an ability to catalog what has come and gone is a double-sided virtue. Sometimes it hurts. I lost a good notebook.