Leonard Rossiter, Scene-Thief
Now Playing: Actual Birds--"Crooked Smile"
I went to see 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) at the Michigan Theater last night. The people over there are running a whole series of classic films in order to compensate for our not having an actual revival house, which is all for which we can really ask. I'm only going to see the ones that have to be seen on the big screen, which is why I'm probably not going to The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) next week. I mean, it was nearly twenty years before CinemaScope!

The last time I saw 2001, it was while making homemade pesto at the Spring Street house before work one Saturday afternoon last year, on Turner Classic Movies. I'd seen it several times before that, and I can now say that seeing the movie in 70 mm on the big screen is the only way to properly see it. Sitting in the theater, listening to the organist run through Strausses (Johann and Richard) and then listening to the Gyorgy Ligeti orchestral-ambient drone signaling the movie's start, seeing the weird "futuristic" MGM credit at the beginning, and then the earth, the moon, and "Also Sprach Zarathrustra"--I consider myself a fairly jaded amateur cineaste, and one who finds Stanley Kubrick, for one, greatly overrated, but I couldn't resist the power of the movie.

The story and characters actually grow in importance when seen on the big screen--watching 2001 on TV, it can seem very remote, an academic "classic" the viewer is supposed to study and analyze. Watching it in the theater, the characters and situations were much more important to me--the growing paranoia on the parts of both HAL 9000 and David Bowman are palpable, and the climactic scenes just before the famous, mind-numbing visual sequence in the "stargate" are almost unbearably gripping. I rag on Kubrick a lot, but I think this is before he went off the deep end. The visuals and the story are superbly matched, and whatever megalomaniac foolishness he got up to later on, I think movies like Dr. Strangelove (1964) and this one should pretty much safeguard his reputation for decades to come.*

There were plenty of laughs, too. HAL's politeness and equanimity in the midst of madness--"You seem upset, Dave"; "I like working with people"--made me chuckle out loud, as did many of the audience. Anyone who's seen the "Mystery Science Theater 3000" renditions of "Riding With Death" and "Devil-Doll" will inwardly cheer when William Sylvester shows up as Heywood Floyd--"Leave Robert Denby alone!" His look of intense concentration as he studies the directions for the zero gravity toilet nearly killed me. I think I was the only one, though, who clapped when British comedy legend Leonard Rossiter showed up as Dr. Smislov, the Russian scientist who gets all nosy with Floyd over the alleged plague at the Clavius moonbase. Leonard Rossiter rules--he was in Kubrick's Barry Lyndon (1975), too, as the hapless Captain Quinn. Come to think of it, he was probably the best actor in the entire movie (apart from Douglas Rain, the voice of HAL). Does that mean he stole it? I wonder.

This week's been pretty uneventful--I finally got to listen to Actual Birds' The Sky Is Full Of Ghosts, half an hour of low-fi fun featuring the exquisite "Crooked Smile," which I can't quite get out of my mind. I also finally listened to the Dean Martin collection I got for $1 last Thanksgiving in DC--I was going to sell it, but now I can't. Damn you, Dino!

"Matt, have you ever seen a flying saucer?"
"Is that your way of offering me a drink?"

Arrivederci, Roma.

*While watching Full Metal Jacket (1987) with some Don Carlos chums a couple of years ago--and I can't believe it was that long either--we watched a scene where a helicopter landed at a firebase and I cracked, "You know, since this was Kubrick, they probably had to do two or three hundred takes of this scene." My friend replied, "Yeah! That's what makes him such a great director!" Whatever, dude.

Invisible Hands
Now Playing: Zoltan Kodaly--"Song" from "Hary Janos Suite"
Saturday morning, I went to say hello to my friend and former coworker Jenee, now morning chef at the Earle Uptown. Jenee's someone I really admire, and not just because I used to have a crush on her. She has a fantastic attitude towards work and life that I'd do very well to emulate (and to be fair to myself--never difficult--I often do). She does what she does and she tries to be a good person and doesn't feel bad about it. Having recently overcome some serious health issues, she's back in the saddle at work, making the wheels turn and getting her life back on track. Jenee, if you ever read this, you're awesome and I think the world of you.

While at WRAP, I managed to get some work done on the library (finally starting to sort out the nonfiction section) and heard some nasty tales of homophobia and harassment at the local homeless shelter downtown. I've thought about volunteering there for a while, and wonder now whether I'd be welcome there if the people in charge knew I also worked at WRAP. Definitely a matter I'll have to explore further. I also made up for missing the all-day Adams House music show in Ypsilanti by investigating the local music scene via myspace. The computers at WRAP have sound capability and I was finally able to check out a number of wondered-about bands.

Wanderjahr: This widely talked-about Lansing band has a likably boozy early 70s feel, reminiscent of Grand Funk Railroad or the Allman Brothers (Friday at Aubree's, "Jessica" came on the music system, and I forgot how much I missed listening to them), although I can see how live performances might pose a danger of interminable Edgar Winter-style jamming. I like to think of Wanderjahr as the Nixon-era, burntout, post-Blow incarnation of
Starling Electric: These impeccably dressed Ann Arbor lads (one or more of whom always seem to be in the library computer lab when I arrive there--except, um, today) play the kind of sunshiny 60s-style psych-pop that someone once suggested should appear more on this blog (they've been mistaken for the Zombies, for instance). I'd actually heard them live, and they were rather good, even if the smoke from their stage show got in my eyes. Based on their sound samples, especially the delightful "Camp Fire," they sound well worth their CD, Clouded Staircase, not like those High Llamas (dear God, was I ever happy to sell Gideon Gaye).
Showdown at the Equator: Known in my house as "the band with Kelly Caldwell," but then I love her Banner of a Hundred Hearts to shreds, and I haven't seen them live either. Truth be told, I was expecting something a little "harder," but I loved the light, airy texture to the songs on display, which reminded me of a punkier, lower-fi Sing-Sing.
The Casionauts: Known in my house as "the band with Ryan Balderas," ditto, "The Larry Brown Press Conference," ditto. I was expecting something a little softer from these Lansing guys with outstanding cultural taste and delightfully unpredictable songwriting concerns; one of their song samples covers the 1941 suicide of German scientist Rudolph Schoenheimer--okay, maybe "delightfully" was a little off. I loved it nevertheless. Not only were the songs thoughtful and accomplished, but they were surprisingly danceable, which is apparently important to me now.

I kicked myself (well, not really) after leaving because I forgot to check out Porchsleeper or Dabenport (and probably lots of other people, too).

Passing by Encore Records that day, I finally picked up the Great Lakes Myth Society CD. It's definitely one of those that will take me a while to truly appreciate (nothing wrong with that, either--the same thing happened with Sufjan Stevens and Greetings From Michigan). I'm a "foreigner" in Michigan, of course, and the group's cultural concerns aren't as immediately familiar to me as they would be to native Michiganders. That's part of the appeal--it's like this music is a piece of a not-quite-vanished world. Some of the songs aren't instantly catchy, and a lot of the hooks are "hidden" (at least for me), but it's grown on me just in the space of a day's listening. The sound's a bracing dose of alt-country and folk mixed in with a little Appalachian music and a touch of hard rock. Highlights: "The Salt Tracks," "Love Story," "Big Jim Hawkins" (probably my favorite, as it's the hardest-rocking), "The Northern Lights Over Atlanta, Michigan," "Railway Ties," "Lake Effect" (which seems to double as the GLMS artistic manifesto), and, of course, "Marquette County, 1959." I actually didn't really like the song as such, but it's dealing with Otto Preminger's Anatomy of a Murder (1959), filmed in the Upper Peninsula--any song that's even tangentially related to Ben Gazzara gets points in my book.

Yesterday saw Cinema Guild's last showing for the summer season--for personal and administrative reasons, Lou probably won't start the series up again until at least September. The "final programme" (my Moorcock reference for the day) was based around Picasso, with relatively short films by Jean Cocteau, Alain Resnais, and Henri-Georges Clouzot, the last of which, The Mystery of Picasso (1956), was both fascinating and grueling. Picasso starred as himself, painting barechested throughout and looking strangely like Christopher Lloyd. The movie was almost entirely rear-projected shots of Picasso paintings coming together as he painted them, so that it looks as if his hand is invisible. For thirty minutes, this is utterly engrossing, but after an hour, it nearly put me to sleep. There's a hilarious moment when Picasso worries that one of his paintings isn't good enough, and Clouzot reassures him by saying the painting's "very impressive." Picasso, in that instant, looks as if he wants to smash Clouzot's head into a canvas and scream "very impressive? Who the fuck are you? I'm Picasso, bitch!" like a more macho Jon Lovitz. Even that didn't keep me awake.

Evil's Way Too Cool To Lurk Here
Now Playing: The Roots--"Web"
Yesterday, I went into Grizzly Peak to say hi to Elizabeth and instantly became so depressed that I left without doing so. That place is awful and the beer's terrible. Stuffed animal heads everywhere...

The experience drove me all the way to Aubree's in Ypsilanti. I love Aubree's. If that's uncool, then it's your problem. I rode in on the #6 (Ellsworth), taking in a rather attractive part of the town I'd never seen before, along Michigan Avenue. The streets were lined with pretty old houses and tiny brick cornershops, with what looked like a couple of communal gardens interspersed between them. The evening was already stunning and the windows were partly open, so we got a cool rush of air as we passed "Recreation Park" (a bizarre generic name that sounded like something out of a Communist dictatorship, like "Happiness Generation Quadrant" or something). At Aubree's, I actually got the first-ever shoutout on my Don Carlos NTN tournament T-shirt (a relic of my April 2003 triumph when I won $100 at the Washtenaw Ave. location, now the apparently thriving "Coin Laundry"). Aubree's has NTN, of course, and I managed to win my first game there, while scarfing down a delicious (and cheap) calzone and a colossal (and cheap) mug of Molson. The view down the Huron as I walked the Cross St. Bridge was the prettiest I'd yet seen there.

Because I'm an idiot, however, I decided to go to the Friday show at the Blind Pig, which "featured" Otto Vector. I've described these people earlier (however incoherently), and I know at least one of you might wonder what possessed me to go this time. There were three other bands playing--The Nice Device, Novada, and The Fury--and the cover was pretty cheap, so I figured if they sucked, then I wouldn't be conned into going to another one of their shows. The place filled up surprisingly quickly with a mildly fratty crowd that brought the place down for me. It didn't help that the beer of the month was Miller High Life (I'd thought it would be Molson--cruelly disappointing).

One mildly not-unpleasant surprise: Brandon Wiard opened for everyone, and he was... all right. I'd heard a lot about him from various sources, and it would be interesting to find out for myself. Half the time I couldn't understand the lyrics, although I think that might have been due to the din from everyone else (obviously not a problem with bands like the Dirtbombs). Some of the songs were very pretty, melodically speaking, especially "Miss Michigan" (I think that was the title). In the end, though, I wouldn't call him one of my favorites. He left, and I decided I was out, too. Tired, a little moody from youthful yuppiedom all around, and in need of some fresh air, that was me.

The walk home restored my spirits. The weather was gorgeous. On the way to the Pig earlier, I'd seen the usual fundamentalist Baptist/Taliban/Cromm (?) demonstration on the corner of N. University and State St. besieged by a brand-new variety of religious fervor, on behalf of robots. A gaggle of people, most of them teenagers, I think (some of whom I recognized from the library computer labs), shouted down cars and waved signs urging people to "worship the robots" (I'm not sure if they actually said that, but the gist was there). A couple of passersby asked me to explain the thing to them and I did my best. My walk back met with weirdness as well. A couple of old ladies and younger male hippies were spraying words on the Diag near S. and E. University and I paused to see that they were commemorating today's sixtieth anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing.

This morning, I saw the same words and images sprayed all over State St., Main St., and Kerrytown. They must have been working through the night. My position on the whole thing, really quickly: "I believe, by and large, that the 1945 bombs were necessary to prevent the greater loss of life that would have resulted in a US invasion of the Japanese Home Islands. However, the present-day US government's hectoring of other countries to give up their bombs--even loathsome dictatorships like North Korea--while maintaining our own nuclear weapons, only serves to further alienate an already alienated world. There may be no way out of the present impasse, but this double standard's something to keep in mind." Okay, that wasn't "really quickly," but it could have been worse. The images were rather clever, too--cutouts of human figures had been laid on the ground and sprayed over with white paint, to remember the "shadows" left on the walls that were all too frequently the only remains of many of Hiroshima's residents. Well, they succeeded in one thing--they made me think, although I almost certainly would have done that without their help, thank you very much.

I laughed, though, to see that it must have gotten a little much for them towards the end. In front of Gratzi, an (I hear) overpriced Italian restaurant, one of three or four on that stretch of Main Street alone, among the somber shadows and lurid "HIROSHIMA--1945; ANN ARBOR--?????" stencils, someone had finally chalked "OLIVE GARDEN RULZ." Classic.

Eli Wallach Is My Muse
Now Playing: Sweet--"Love Is Like Oxygen"
Continuing with the spiritual experiences, I saw The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966) on the big screen yesterday. I'm coming to the tentative conclusion that it's my ever-elusive "favorite movie." Everyone always asks me what that is, and I never have an answer, simply telling them that I've a hundred of 'em. Sergio Leone's spaghetti western masterpiece, though (closely followed, of course, by 1972's Duck, You Sucker! with Rod Steiger and James Coburn), keeps showing up on hypothetical top ten lists (war flicks, westerns, opening shots, soundtracks, etc.), and I have to think that something's going on here.

I saw Casablanca (1942) on the big screen at the Michigan Theater, but it isn't a movie one really needs to see on the big screen. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, though, with its intense closeups and epic battle scenes, screams for the theater experience, especially the delicious opening shot. For those who've never seen it, it's basically the story of three gunslingers trying to find a missing hoard of gold in the Southwest during the Civil War. Clint Eastwood's slightly "better" than the other two (Lee Van Cleef* and Eli Wallach), but not by much, and Wallach steals the film and gets most of the best lines as the hilariously vulgar Mexican bandito "Tuco." So far as I can tell, it was his most iconic role, and one of the most lovable performances in movie history. I was on the edge of my seat throughout, laughing through most of it in affectionate recognition, but surprisingly morose during the battle that comes later in the movie. Ennio Morricone's beyond-classic score makes this a raucuous but strangely haunting experience, and easily puts this in the top ten (I'm still holding out on the number one position, but it's getting closer).

Later, I went to see the Victrolas play at the Old Town, the first time I've ever gone to hear music there. I finished more of "Attack of the Clowns," a story I promised someone I'd write, and then promised someone else (so I'm killing two birds with one stone). As with the Sari Brown show, I'd planned on not going, and then found my strategy vindicated again when I decided to go. I am one cunning bastard. I ran into Sara and her friend Dug there, and then Brandon, and then Sara and Dug's friend Jon and Nicole, and had a few beers, and chattered incessantly... you get the idea. It was a great time, though. The Victrolas were great, even though I had to leave early, and Chris Bathgate treated us to a virtuoso opening performance (I think Sara and I have decided by this point that he sounds like a much more hard-edged Nick Drake, although I still think he sounds like someone I can't quite place). That, for sure, will not be the last time I go hear a show there.

And then I worked today. Phhh. The boss came by and suggested I take a break for a couple of days at some point this month. "If you can't afford it, that's okay." Well, thanks anyhow. Phhh.

*If given the chance, check out the late Lee "Master Ninja" Van Cleef in the truly wretched Captain Apache (1971), where he's supposed to be an Apache cavalry captain (!) in the Army fighting... I don't know, corrupt railroad barons or something. Towards the end, after his courageous service for law and freedom, he's told that his people are being sent to a reservation in "Snake Valley." His reply:

"You can't do that!!!" Priceless pause. "It's full of SNAKES!!!"

Carroll Baker and Stuart Whitman are in it, too, and there's a hilarious fight scene, but there's really no other reason to watch it. Okay, I'm just showing off now.

Next day's note: One more reason to check out Captain Apache? The song over the closing credits is sung by none other than Van Cleef himself--badly. "Well, they don't call John Carradine 'The Voice' for nothin'."

You Can Stop Me, But You'll Never Stop Rock 'n' Roll (?)
Now Playing: Aimee Mann--"Going Through The Motions"
After wavering a little, I decided to go to the Sari Brown show at Espresso Royale on Main last night. I had come close to not going, but then changed my mind again. This habitual indecision seems to be working out very well as a strategy for having a great time, as that was what eventually transpired. Privileged to witness one of the four or five best shows I've seen since I moved here, I also got to thinking about how important music and art are to me.

It was the partial culmination of a highly musical weekend. Friday night, I toddled along to the Dreamland Theater for Jess Rowland's latest play, So Long, Differently Thinking Persons. On arrival, I learned from Misha that it was actually live-action and not puppets, which certainly made for a change. "Surprise!" The play itself featured Naia Venturi as an experimental composer trying to evade the clutches of the increasingly dominant corporate world. Lots of weird tunes, ending with an unparalleled tableau of Deadre (Kate Ritter) using a staple gun to hold at bay a host of corporate stooges (including Tom Barton in drag as "Janet," the former Lithuanian basketball phenomenon). Like most of the Dreamland repertoire, it was a mix of imaginative whimsy and left-wing sentiment, the latter of which, I have to admit, veers dangerously near cliche. It's important for me to remember, though, that it probably seems cliched only because I live in Ann Arbor. Also, the "powers that be" don't seem to be paying attention to satire these days, and there's really nothing else to be done than to keep repeating these messages of sanity in the hope that they'll be heard.

ERC that Saturday night was packed--I'd never seen it that full, although in fairness, I'm usually there at about seven in the morning. Familes and friends, parents and children, clergy and laypeople, all had come for the show. Sari's pastor Tracy led the opening act, usually called "Mannafest," but tonight, due to a missing band member, dubbed "Bob, Tracy and Kyle's Band of Awesomeness," and quite excellent they were too, mixing covers from Sheryl Crow (good Sheryl Crow) and Norah Jones with original material. Sari, with her friend Andrea on cello, took the stage afterward and just rocked the place down, belting out song after song, talking with the kids in the kind of nursery-school mosh pit that came into being before the stage, talking about her music... the girl knows how to put on a show, no doubt about it. The ambience was startlingly different to my usual show attendances (generally the Blind Pig or the Madison), reminiscent in many ways of Cafe Momus back in Akron. Sari played a lot of tunes from her CD, For What Is The Journey (excellent, I've found), which she unhesitatingly identified as "spirituals" (one of which, "Jesus' Waltz", made me think of when John Donne wrote occasionally creepy love poems to the Almighty). As many of you know, my feelings on Christianity and organized religion in general are a little complicated (partially explained here), but I think it's very admirable that she isn't afraid to put her beliefs out there in such a manner. Something about association with Methodism, I think, is very appealing and congenial to the arts, maybe having to do with its grass-roots origins. When I think of Sari and her music, and my Methodist pastor half-aunt who's turned into a major progressive badass, doing spiritual work among Latino service workers in Chicago, barely a hundred miles away, I've got to think John Wesley's smiling down from heaven. Awesome work, all of you.

I've had a lot of opportunity, too, to think about how I relate to music. The shows I've recently attended in this town have been primarily (a) garage or 60s-influenced music, (b) folk or alt-country, or (c) both. This weekend reminded me that it's good to break the mold once in a while, and that musical or artistic taste have little to do with genuine personal worth. It also has to do with what's playing at various local venues, too, but the issue of personal choice comes into it as well. Never, for instance, did I believe that I'd be listening to anything this weekend that could be considered "Christian" (although those parameters can stretch pretty thin, if you look at U2 or Marvin Gaye). Case in point: At Karen's wedding reception, the wretched DJ somehow managed to avoid playing something on which both Karen and I strongly disagreed (which, now that I look back on it, was quite a feat--he should be congratulated for that, if nothing else). Now, Karen's one of the people I love and admire more than anything else in the world, but she likes Nickelback!!* In sum, I think that the value I place on artistic taste can sometimes get a little exaggerated, and I need to watch that.

Sorry about the post title, though, but it was allegedly uttered by Tim McIntire in American Hot Wax (1978), the Alan Freed cult biopic I've never seen. That made me think of human speech and dialogue, and the possibility that there have been sentences uttered that will never come forth again. Overheard in the Old Town Bar at approximately 6:45--"I don't like alligators with swords." Classic.

*Bleccch.

Who Is This "Dracula" You Speak Of?
Now Playing: The Ides of March--"Vehicle"
I feel listless and drained, uninterested in doing much of anything, especially writing. I think part of it is the toll leveled by the intense activities of the past weekend, part due to the heat and humidity that have fallen on this town like a stinking, moldy shroud. Even after nearly three years of living here, I still don't think that I've gotten used to Michigan as anything but a snowy waste. I should be more used to this kind of weather than anyone else, but somehow it doesn't feel that way.

People from my past keep popping up around town. Levent, with whom I used to work at Don Carlos, said hi the other day before my train journey while taking his dog to the vet. Yesterday, I found my scrummy former co-worker Jenee outside of Red Hawk with her fiancee Fred. A terrific pair of characters--when I had my crush on her, I used to get pissed off that I couldn't hate Fred because he was so cool. Jenee, incidentally, does the best impression of Jennifer Coolidge I've ever heard. We talked for a while and I'll probably be hopping along to her bailiwick at the Earle Uptown kitchen one of these days. I also got an email from my friend Elaina in Akron, who seems to be doing very well in her "new" job (she's had it now for a couple of years, I think, but it still seems new to me) and is tremendously happy with her motorcycle.

Due to a rather appalling family tragedy, my boss has been out of the restaurant an awful lot, leaving me in nominal charge. I don't see it that way myself, more of a "first among equals" situation. Things have run pretty smoothly considering, and I'm enjoying the feeling of being in control in the kitchen. I've always resisted the notion of wanting to be a "boss" (being a professor really doesn't count, as I'm sure practically all of them will attest), especially with my feelings towards capitalism as it exists in this country, but I have to say it didn't feel too bad. At the very least, life at the cafe this week has been a little less constrictive. Sara popped by for a bowl of gazpacho, which I think I slightly overfilled. They say learning how to fill bowls of gazpacho is like learning how to ride a bike. Well, I'd like to see "them" go through what I've done--then "they" can "see" how "they" like "it." Hrmph.

I just wish my refrigerator still worked. Bastard.

On a lighter note, I can't really count the number of ways in which this is hilarious.

This morning made me feel giddy and weird--it was raining outside and the temperature dropped below 60 F at one point. My window was open at 4:30 and I just watched the rain fall while listening to Debussy. Completely surreal, and I still felt that way as I walked into downtown.

I just hope the rest of the day goes as well.

Toes of Valor
Now Playing: The Psychedelic Furs--"Into You Like A Train"
I returned to Ann Arbor yesterday to find an unexpected sirocco blowing through the streets of the town. I don't think it was actually a sirocco, but then I've never been to Algeria. I walked to the Madison for that evening's show feeling like I was in a spaghetti western.

Jim Roll was playing that evening, and I'd been hearing great things about him for a while, with an especially enthusiastic recommendation at DylanFest. I was tired, though. After everything I'd been through that weekend, I was done in, and the weather wasn't helping any.

Sara and I talked for a while about the various abuses our bodies had taken over the years from minor accidents, and I learned that I should probably catch a Wanderjahr show at some point to find what all the fuss is about.

Actual Birds played again (and I ran into him at the library next day, so was finally in a position to introduce myself), with another fun little set of satirical songs about Ann Arbor and elsewhere, this time focusing on the colossal street-gridded turd that is Art Fair. "Ian," who I'd sort of met at the first couple of shows, provided hilarious vocal percussion and commentary. The Great Fiction, who I'd never heard before, played next, and it was a little odd, as they sounded so incredibly polished. I usually expect acts at the Madison to have an appealingly rough-hewn sound (see my post on "The Larry Brown Press Conference" for the reasons why), and these guys sounded like they were actually recording in a studio, double-guitar songs of heartbreak, loss, personal experiences, etc. They were good, don't get me wrong, but for reasons all my own, a little off-putting. The Victrolas, a side-project of Great Lakes Myth Society guitarist Greg McIntosh and the great Mr. Josh Tillinghast, who'd played before, came next and were excellent, delivering miniature ballads and love-stories with a wiry, muscular voice and a badass accordion, closing with a cover of one of my favorite songs, "Just My Imagination," by the Temptations. Jim Roll was magnificent, and I feel doubly guilty for leaving before he finished (as I had to work at six the next morning). Jim's considerably older (something tells me he'd be the first to admit this) than most of the other past performers, and it showed somehow in the experiences he brought to his songs, one of the best being "Gun At Her Side," referencing Faye Dunaway as Bonnie Parker (and explaining those intriguing Madison concert posters). One of the best stories he had involved his courting a German girl through a series of windows (a long one but a good one).

I tried to get some sleep that night, but the heat and humidity made it difficult.

Tales of Plucky Lazaro
Now Playing: Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin--"Soixante-Neuf (Annee Erotique)"
Saturday, the day Karen Frank and Erik Smith celebrated their March wedding in Hawaii amid the duller pastures of Shelby Township, Michigan, saw me reach said wedding reception by foot, by bus, by rail, by bus again, and then once more by foot, all the while dolled up to the sevens.

After getting some lunch at Casey's, I waited at the Ann Arbor Amtrak station for the train to Royal Oak, which was coming by way of Battle Creek and Kalamazoo and had been reported late at both locations. It was, all in all, twenty minutes tardy, but I didn't mind all that much. My earlier prediction that the nice, relatively cool weather wouldn't last proved beautifully wrong, and I sat by the tracks, read my Observer, and waited until the arrival of the 1:45 (I love typing that).

It was cool and comfortable inside the coach, with ample space for legs and feet betwen the rows, a welcome change from the cattle-car conditions of most American inter-city buses. It was something of a thrill, too, watching familiar places slide past. I'd walked the entire route from the station to Gallup Park, and it was fun to watch the countryside go by, the Huron River and the congruent paved walkway its only constants. Better yet was passing through Depot Town in Ypsi, which seemed to be having a perfectly delicious Saturday afternoon. Every time a train passes by Aubree's without hitting, everyone at the bar gets a free drink. I've been a beneficiary of this rail-based largesse more than once, and it made me smile to think some other lucky character got a test tube full of fruit-flavored booze just because I passed by.

"From Detroit we continued our course westward across the State of Michigan through a country that was absolutely wild till the railway pierced it. Very much of it is still absolutely wild. For miles and miles the road passes the untouched forest, showing that even in Michigan the great work of civilization has hardly more than been commenced."
--Anthony Trollope, North America (1862)

I was going the other way, of course, but it's still interesting to think about. I've never read any Trollope before, and he comes across in North America as a rather engaging character. After early success as a novelist (The Barsetshire Chronicles and all that) he'd decided to write a book about the United States and Canada, a pretty typical bit of reportage for an educated English writer of his era, only to have the Civil War complicate and enrich his plans. So it's sort of like I Am Trying To Break Your Heart, but... sort of not. It's actually a brisk little read--Trollope liked the United States and, unlike many of his contemporaries, was a firm supporter of the Federal cause. He makes his positions clear with an honesty I think recommends him even to twenty-first century readers. It's funny, though, to find him going on about freedom and liberty and then start bitching about the inferior quality of American servants.

Going through Detroit on the train was pretty interesting. When approaching by bus, you do so primarily via the freeway, your only genuine glimpse of "urban blight" being Lincoln Park. Detroit proper lies behind the freeway's concrete walls until you arrive at the bus station downtown, dead close to the water and catty-corner from one of the greatest bookstores on the planet (although you can also see "Hotel Yorba," presumably the subject of one of the only White Stripes songs I still like). Approaching by train, though, takes you through an urban wasteland of gravel, junk, disused rail track and fences--the kind so easily romanticized by soi-disant academic intellectuals. We went slower when inside the city, I imagine due to safety issues or city statutes. Arriving at the Detroit station was genuinely touching, as one got to see a remarkable number of emotional reunions.

I received a message from Karen on my voicemail (still accessible from pay phones even though my cell is dead). She hadn't received my emailed itinerary and so there was nobody to pick me up at the station. I'd heard that Royal Oak was a fitfully tidy little place, the kind that many want to make Ann Arbor, but the place seemed rather wan and deserted. The station office was closed and so there was no way of getting a return ticket in any event. I knew that the reception was on Van Dyke in Shelby Township (I should have brought the address with me, but no matter), so I'd just take the 740 eastbound on Twelve Mile to Van Dyke, and thence the 510 northbound along Van Dyke either to the reception or as far as it would go. The day looked to be shaping into quite an adventure, and I got an "I like what I see" look from a clerk in a nearby McDonald's. It was a guy, but still.

My plan worked, for the most part. I was worried for a bit (during which I walked a mile up Van Dyke) that the 510 didn't run on Saturdays, but I learned different, happily enough. The 510, though, only ran to Eighteen Mile, and I slogged it out on foot, in my nice black pants, blue shirt and tie, up Van Dyke through Sterling Heights, through Utica, and into Shelby Township (I think that's right). This is nothing new to me, and the weather was actually rather nice, but it's one thing to do it in pretty little neighborhoods with lots to see, and another to do it in a straight line past a moribund world of used car dealerships and real-estate offices. My aesthetic stamina needs work, that's for sure.

I finally arrived at my destination after one false turn at "The Gathering Place," where I had a beer and a glass of water to fortify me for the next sally. The reception was at the Club Montecarlo, where I was reunited with Karen and the members of her family I'd met (and ones I hadn't, like her lovely, vivacious, and very cool cousin Holly). The rest of the night saw me dance my tail off (for the second week in a row), subject to the whims of the worst DJ ever, an unpleasant, arrogant jerk who managed to piss off about everyone over the course of the evening. He especially enraged Karen--as our musical tastes diverge so often, it's surprising he failed to play something I liked and she didn't. I also drank way too much Bud Light (not one of my favorites, as many know). Afterwards, some of us ended up at Karen's mom's house, where we pissed on oenophiles everywhere by "accidentally" drinking a wedding present, a ten-year-old bottle of Italian red, in between rapidly warming cans of Bud Light. Now that I think on it, they probably could have bought another kind of beer. It dwindled down to Karen, Holly and I talking in the wee hours of the morning, and then... and then to bed. Just beautiful.

Karen drove me back to Ann Arbor the next day, after a delightful brunch with some of her family, who are wonderful and at the same time interesting to observe. My large-scale family gatherings are from the New Orleans Irish cultural orbit, and it was fascinating and heartwarming to see the Detroit Polish equivalent. As we were underway afterwards, I only then realized how much I missed her. She was one of my best friends in Akron, and we had a lot of great conversations and great times. It was a little heart-tugging to say goodbye, but I did. I wish those two all the luck in the world, because they deserve it.

Best Saturday in memory.

I'll post about the Madison House show later--I need more sleep first.

The Man Ain't Got No Culture! (Art Fair, Volume Two)
Now Playing: Piero Umiliani--Five Dolls For An August Moon (1970) soundtrack
"When I was at sleepaway camp, my favorite thing was always arts and crafts. Or as we liked to call them, arts and farts! I'm so old, that when I was at camp, it was the Stone Age! We didn't have Easter eggs, we had pterodactyl eggs!!"

--The godawful comic from the Catskills (Michael Showalter) during the climactic scene of Wet Hot American Summer (2001), a snatch of dialogue that's been coursing through my brain all through Art Fair and probably won't stop.

It threatened to rain Thursday night, so my shift at the Planned Parenthood booth was cancelled. I'll have to wait until next year for more Art Fair stories to tell my imaginary grandchildren (who'll probably have claws and fangs by that point, so I expect I'll be too busy fending them off).

I went to the Blind Pig to hear DylanFest, a celebration of the man, his spirit, and his music. I've always run a little hot and cold regarding Dylan, to be honest. I'll think on occasion, "oh, Bob Dylan--whatever," and then I'll hear "Positively Fourth Street," "Lay Lady Lay," "Knockin' On Heaven's Door," "Tangled Up In Blue," or anything from John Wesley Harding (1968) and I'll remember how awesome the guy was, despite his occasionally abusive off-stage behavior and his indirect responsibility for the Wallflowers. He did, however, manage to piss off Alan Lomax beyond human endurance at Newport '65, for which he'll remain eternally lovable.

DylanFest opened much earlier than other shows at the Pig, a whopping 8 pm, which probably threw me off a little. The signs were good and interesting. The crowd was substantially older than usual, a great many I suspected from out of town, and everyone seemed relieved to get away from Art Fair. I also noticed on the TV screen that (a) either Turner Classic Movies was running a noir night, or (b) someone had found a noir station on satellite TV, as both Kiss Me Deadly (1955) and Detour (1946) were playing throughout. "Never mind the evil--what's in it?"

Opening the show was none other than Sari Brown, excellent as always, who chatted with me a little before I left, and delivered a phenomenal cover of "Don't Think Twice (It's All Right)." I don't know where the hell she gets that voice, but I'm not complaining. Several acoustic artists followed, including Derek Daniel, Jen Sygit, and several members of Delta 88, a roots rock band I believe played later in the evening after I'd left. The time definitely played tricks on me, as I skedaddled around ten-thirty, which is often the time I get there at other shows. I went out on a high note, though, hearing the wonderful Paul's Big Radio play "Mountain Girl," a wonderful song I'd actually never heard before (but I don't pretend to be a Dylan aficionado).

I returned home and passed out only to wake at two to hear a party of the kind I thought the neighboring houses didn't have, fully-armed bass lines shaking the walls and vibrating into my bedroom. I accepted defeat and listened to Saturday Looks Good To Me and Roxy Music at pretty high volume until some mysterious tragedy--a fight, perhaps, as I heard shouting and crying--broke the whole thing up, sending scattered voices up one side of Geddes Ave. and down the other, knocking the ghosts in the graveyard out of their well-earned lethargy. I, on the other hand, woke up well-rested in a way I haven't been in a while. The weather was gorgeously cool outside as I went walking, although I'm sure that won't last long.

Today I take the train for Royal Oak to go to my grad school friend Karen's wedding reception. I confess to a degree of trepidation about this. Not the train, to which I'm looking forward like the Michigan's big-screen showing of The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly (1966) next weekend.* Karen'll be there (obviously), and possibly a couple of others who took the professional path I effectively declined. It's generally best not to think of the road not taken, but I just hope I don't have my face rubbed in it. They wouldn't even think of that, of course, but I've been known to make my own trouble. It'll be nice to see everyone, anyway.

*At the University of Akron around the turn of the milennium, it was common practice among certain doctoral students specializing in American transportation history, when asked why they decided to enter their chosen field, to adopt glazed eyes and say in a hypnotized moan, "choo-choo trains."

What's Wrong With Sandwiches? (Art Fair, Volume One)
Now Playing: The Impressions--"Keep On Pushing"
"Like, there's nothing to eat in our house at all. We actually have to eat sandwiches!!!" I overheard this from a pair of young ladies while buying a Coke at Subway on Main last night before showing up for my shift at the Planned Parenthood booth. Try as I might, I'll never, ever be able to replicate the frisson of horror with which she said "sandwiches."

I guess it wouldn't be much of an Ann Arbor blog if I didn't mention my experiences at Art Fair (we all have them, even if we're only trying to avoid the thing). I've described it a little before, but nothing can quite do justice to the truth. Most medium-sized cities seem to have an art fair of their own--Baton Rouge has the "Fest-for-All," for example, but the "Ann Arbor Street Art Fair"--do they put "street" in the title to make it seem cooler, as with "cool" in "Cool Cities"?--has a national reputation I don't quite understand (although when I think that, back home, Paul Rodrigue made a million fucking dollars or whatever painting blue dogs, it makes a lot more sense).

I don't really have to understand it, since all I have to do is sit in a booth and tell people about "contraceptive equity."

One of the good things about Ann Arbor is that you never, ever have to worry about looking weird--or stupid, for that matter, for instance, if you're carrying an umbrella on a partly cloudy day.* I consulted the weather reports, though, and was "rewarded" when the heavens opened later that evening. I'd rather not think about the probable smugness of my expression. It turned out that I was the only one there for an hour, but people showed enough interest--the mammoth jar of condoms is always an attention-getter.

People are usually pretty friendly--giggling teenagers grabbing for fistfuls of condoms, pairs of mothers and daughters, just random passersby... I always wonder what would happen if someone tried to mess with us--"what's a man doin' in a Planned Parenthood booth?" That'd be a good one, since I could answer "if you were one, you'd be in here, too." My interlocutor would have to be male for it to work, but I think it's still cute. Or "do you love your wife/girlfriend/partner?" I like that one.

Nobody messed with me, it turns out. I went home and remembered I had the Buffy musical episode, "Once More With Feeling," on tape, and watched Amber Benson singing "You Make Me Complete" to Alyson Hannigan, and... I'd better stop now.

And now I find that London's been bombed again. Phhh. Off to see if everyone's okay...

*At least, I hope that's true.