Greasy Tills
Now Playing: Jim Roll--"Old Love"
Some of you might be wondering what it is that I do all day.

I generally rise with the alarm, although I've been known to lie half-awake for nearly an hour before it goes off, generally between 6:30 and 7:00. I blearily ascend from my mattress and take a shower, dressing and occasionally eating breakfast (a couple of eggs and some milk). If the weather's inclement or I'm feeling lazy, I'll take the #2, #4, or #14 buses that come near my house (the #14's closest, but it has a nasty history of sailing right on past my stop without so much as a "fuck you"). I usually walk, though, as it's only about a mile and a half to my job and I like to keep in relative shape.

I work in a restaurant in downtown Ann Arbor, Michigan, that mainly serves lunch to a fairly regular crowd of downtown retail and office workers from Monday through Friday. I mainly cook but occasionally have to bus tables and do dishes on Fridays when our regular busser/dishwasher is off. I start by preparing the soups for the day. Frequently rotating varieties: chicken and wild rice, portabella mushroom, tomato and dill, potato bacon, and my favorite, clam chowder. Our seasonal soup for fall and winter is french onion soup, and I'm told mine is very good (it's the same with the coleslaw, which is odd, since I believe coleslaw and french onion soup to be stupefyingly disgusting). I then prep the dressings and condiments--ranch, pesto, etc. After around eleven or so, I eat my own lunch (usually a turkey and swiss on sourdough with pesto and artichoke hearts), and then make the quiches that we deliver to a local coffeehouse chain (I don't particularly care for the latter, but that's by the way)--lorraine, florentine, tomato basil, and occasionally broccoli and cheddar. Quiche is probably my favorite thing to cook at the restaurant since it's so fascinating to watch it come together, and it looks delicious when it comes out of the oven. Recently, I've begun to make the cookies as well, and that's usually my final job before we begin the pre-close cleanup. All the while, we listen to 107.1 FM, the local ClearChannel pod station, which has a playlist of about 60 songs (they are worthwhile listening to on Sundays, though, for their excellent specialty shows). The other day, I believe we heard Nickel Creek, Dave Matthews, and Jason Mraz three times in a single shift. The line cook has also started bringing in the exact same salsa music that used to play at Don Carlos, so sometimes it feels like I never left (this is not a good thing).

The job gets irritating sometimes, but I love the work. I've been trying to educate myself at home, too--I fixed steak last night for what must be the first time ever (last weekend it was pork chops). Based on what happened afterwards, I think I'll stick to white meat, but it was delicious while it lasted. I've also been experimenting with different kinds of savory scones and cornbread, and they seem to have come out rather well.

Afterwards, I usually stop by the library, check my email, and walk home by a variety of routes to clean up, eat dinner, watch and/or read the news, watch "Coronation Street" on the CBC, and then depending on whatever's on (usually "Lost" or "Veronica Mars"--the latter's the only one I genuinely care about), read or watch TV, and then go to sleep.

The weather varies from time to time, as does the music.

Darken The City Night Is A Wire
Now Playing: Bob Dylan--"Final Theme" from the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973) soundtrack
Before anything else transpires, note--shades of Ian Bannen in Hope and Glory (1987):

"My nan regularly gets tipsy at christmas and proceeds to inform the entire family about all the american soldiers she 'had' during the war. As she puts it 'Well I could have died the next day.'"
--"Darren, UK"

I own the "enhanced" version of Duran Duran's 1982 classic Rio, which contains the original videos for "Rio," "Hungry Like the Wolf," and "Save a Prayer." It's a real kick seeing these, to be honest. I want to go to Sri Lanka for several reasons, but one of them's definitely so I can wear a silly hat and sunglasses, ripping them off, upending my bar table at random, chasing painted nymphs (?) through the jungle, and standing atop ancient temples while surveying the neverending greenness.

Last night, I went to see the Casionauts at the Michigan Union Ballroom. It was a free show along with Otto Vector, so I made sure to show up right as the Casionauts began playing, as I'm not all that fond of Otto Vector. Nothing personal, it's just the music. I ran into Brandon outside the front doors, and it's a good thing, too, as apparently non-students have to be accompanied by U-M... people ("students, faculty or staff" sounds really cumbersome, but I guess there's little point in belaboring the issue as I've just written it; I'll let the sentence stand unedited as a little peek into my present boredom). The Casionauts, of course, were awesome, and it was good to see Ryan, but the weirdness of the surroundings was a little off-putting. The last time I'd been there was to hear our State Senator, Liz Brater (who was cool enough to give us a guided tour of the State Capitol in Lansing on Planned Parenthood Lobbying Day), and our U.S. Senator, Debbie Stabenow, talk politics... Canadian trash, CAFE standards, something like that. Hearing my favorite synth-paladins rock out in the same space was pretty weird, but eventually pleasantly so, with disused salad bar trolleys and bucolic scenes painted on the walls like those of some disgraced caudillo's villa. We ran into Andrew Brown, Vince, Murph, and I met Brandon's friend Katie. Brandon, Murph, Katie and I went to Ashley's afterward for a couple of pints (I have got to remember which country I live in), which was fun but weird as I haven't been to Ashley's in nearly a year or sommat.

Attempting to maintain the WRAP library, as I do most every Saturday afternoon, is a bit of a chore, frankly, but it's interesting looking at a few of the titles. Some of it's erotica, naturally, but there's a lot of fascinating stuff there. I even flipped through Jan Morris' Conundrum (1974) a little. Morris is probably one of my favorite authors, certainly one of this century's greatest travel writers (if not the greatest). She was born James Morris, and underwent gender reassignment surgery in the 60s and 70s. Her most famous work was probably the "British Imperial" trilogy, looking at the rise and fall of the British empire (from 1837, the year of Victoria's accession, to 1965, the year Winston Churchill died) in a series of impressionistic essays, all tightly focused on places and people and the connections between the two--Heaven's Command, Pax Britannica, and Farewell the Trumpets. I can't recommend them highly enough. Some of the other titles in the library are pretty predictable--stuff by Randy Shilts, Martin Duberman, Larry Kramer, etc.--but it's interesting to find these novels and non-fiction works grouped under "gay and lesbian literature" when they've got such a wide appeal. It made me think once again about trying to separate different genres and how irritating and infuriating it can be.

It is way too nice to be indoors right now. Fifteen more minutes and I'm out of here.

All the Dried Roses
Now Playing: Duran Duran--"Last Chance on the Stairway"
Quite a week for news: John Roberts sworn in as Chief Justice, a giant squid tussles with a camera crew (sort of, anyway), Ted Nugent offers his services to the National Wildlife Federation, Judith Miller prepares to testify, Don Adams dies (I'll miss him by that much)... it's all too much to contemplate, really.

Tuesday night I volunteered at the Planned Parenthood beertasting at the Arbor Brewing Company, one of the two good brewpubs in town (I'm sorry, but I don't like Grizzly Peak). We--or I--honestly didn't do much, just handed out menus and glasses to new arrivals until myself and several volunteers decided "to hell with it" and began filling our own glasses. I had a good time talking with Meredith, Angela, Jess, her friends Mary and Steve (whose New Year's Eve party I'd attended ten months ago), and Ricardo, who may or may not become my new housemate. It was all good fun, and in a good cause.

My friend Phill's moved back to town--San Francisco didn't work out. During the Don Carlos days, he was pretty much my best friend around here, and I missed him terribly. I ran into him and his boyfriend Lee a couple of weeks ago outside the Parthenon (a Greek restaurant on the corner of Main and Liberty--it would have been nice to "run into" anyone outside the real thing) and had a nice chat. I'll have to get together with him (as well as Elizabeth, come to think of it) and go over to the idiotically-named "Blue Wolverine" sports bar, which will occupy the same haunted location as Don Carlos, Cleveland's Gill and Grill, the Bistro on Main, Bill Sablack's (whose command to anyone to "GO AWAY!" is still on the back door), etc., etc. Some other day I'll have to wax nostalgic about the horrors of "The Don's," but I'm really not in the mood right now. It's a gorgeous day outside and the Casionauts are playing the Michigan Union ballroom tonight. That sucks in only one way--I promised myself I'd watch They Live (1988) before I saw them next, but life's too short. Right now, anyway. I also can't wait till I can rent the Scorsese Dylan documentary, No Direction Home (2005)--what I saw of it Monday night was amazing.

Arise and Walk
Now Playing: Willie Nelson--"Bonaparte's Retreat"
Summer officially ended last week--on the Gregorian calendar with the autumn equinox (I believe), and around here with the final show at the Madison house. It had been intended for the latter to be a "lantern-lit finale," which was accurate but unexpected in a way, as every previous Madison show had enjoyed singularly gorgeous weather. The night of the twenty-fifth, though, saw fits and starts of precipiation, forcing the show into the garage, with the audience gathered in and around, some with umbrellas, some without.

It arrived at the end of an odd weekend. I worked all day Friday, part of it catering the premiere of Dreammaker at the Michigan Theater. The movie was a local indie, starring, produced and directed by Christine Morales-Hemenway, a frequent customer of ours. It actually went pretty smoothly, and I briefly entertained the notion of checking out Tally Hall at the Blind Pig, but quailed when I saw the size of the line. The next stop was the Old Town, where I found Misty Lyn of Dabenport behind the bar, and I chatted a little from behind... I don't actually rememeber what I was drinking. I ran into Matt Jones on the way out, and could have sworn that Chris Bathgate was in the bar (discovering Sunday that I was right). Saturday, I tried to do what work was possible on the WRAP library--not much as everyone else was getting ready for OutFest, which took place that night. I helped set up a few tables and chairs with Danny, Jeremy, Richard, and the usual shower of people whose names I don't remember. I meant to make it back out there after dinner, but couldn't quite bring myself to move--a pity, as I'd quite enjoyed OutFest the year before.

The show Sunday night was wonderful, with a killer lineup: Actual Birds, Kelly Caldwell, Fred Thomas, and the Great Lakes Myth Society. There was some pretty distinguished accompaniment, too: Chris Bathgate, Aleise Barnett, Scott DeRoche, Greg McIntosh, Natania Monger... not to mention the occasional handclaps and singalongs from the audience. I took a couple of walks between sets and missed a couple of songs. The sets were great, though, all accentuated by the unusual setting. By the time we neared the end, the music and surroundings matched almost perfectly. Dustin, Kelly Caldwell, and Fred Thomas played in the center of the garage, its wooden interior illuminated with a number of lanterns scattered throughout, some as floodlights and some hung from the rafters, that came to resemble a Caravaggio--the singers bathed in a soft glow and the audience a mass of half-lit faces wreathed in shadow. The sight was sumptuous in a way that I'd never known at a show, at the Madison or elsewhere.

The music was first-class, and the climax, with the Great Lakes Myth Society, nothing short of sublime. I'd seen them twice, once at the Taste of Ann Arbor Festival, and once at the Blind Pig. As good as they were on those occasions, I can't easily imagine a better venue for their music and mystique than in the rainspattered twilight of the Madison House garage on a breezy, stormy Sunday night. It was child's play to picture the band as incredibly well-dressed strolling players in some shack in the Old Northwest, playing for dimes or whiskey (or the next flatboat fare), surrounded by curious onlookers. They held us spellbound with "Big Jim Hawkins," "Love Story," and "The Northern Lights Above Atlanta, Michigan," and then knocked us sideways and whichever with a cover of a little known E.L.O. song, "One Summer Dream."

After the smoke cleared, so to speak, I dithered and then decided to join the afterparty at Leopold Brothers, which fractured into about four separate gatherings. It was my first official visit to Leopold's since Election Night of last year, where my stumbling away in a suicidal mood left me with bad memories, all purged by last night. I chatted with Sara, Greg, and Amy, envied the robe worn by Starling Electric's Christian, and had a rather thought-provoking conversation on music with Christian's bandmate John and eventually everyone else. DJ Chuck Sipperley provided a wonderful finishing touch to the evening by granting a drunken request I'd made at one of the Madison House parties by playing "Through My Eyes" by the Creation. I also seem to remember trying to recreate some of the vocal pyrotechnics from Asia's "Heat of the Moment," for which I apologize to everyone affected. Thank you.

I didn't really get a good night's sleep last night, but I didn't care.

P.S. I forgot about Audra Kubat, recently returned New York denizen and lovely singer-songwriter. Her introspective hush made a kind of sawdust snowglobe of the garage, and made the strain to hear her, over the train, well worth it (not that it stopped me from running like a dog to watch the train, which turned out to be a single engine with a caboose). I accidentally surprised her as she practiced in Brandon's shower, by the way, turning on the wrong light to use the facilities. She was fantastic and I can only plead that it had been a long day when I wrote the previous entry. Thanks and God bless, as Red Skelton might say.

Too Young To Know Better: Labor Day Weekend
Now Playing: Yes--"Sweetness"
It would seem that I have "ambition."

The New West Side Association was founded by Dale Winling earlier this year as a means for students and renters to gain a political voice in Ann Arbor municipal decision-making, much of which is arguably dominated by homeowners and landlords (click on most posts at Ann Arbor Is Overrated or Arbor Update and you'll find more information and some lively opinions).

Brandon, following the success of the Madison House shows, decided to put on a pair of monster gigs to publicize and benefit the fledgling NWSA--an all-day show at the Madison on Sunday dubbed "New West Fest," mostly showcasing local Washtenaw County talent, and the more Southeast Michigan-wide "Arbourfest," held the next night at Arbor Vitae Loft, an artists' collective nestled in a gigantic attic-like space above Wazoo Records on South State Street.

"Go Back To Russia!"

I arrived at the New West Fest early--the only people who preceded me were Mr. Josh Tillinghast and Annie, making her musical debut that afternoon. I brought Italian cheddar biscones and some cornbread I'd baked the night before (from what I hear, I'm getting rather good at it). The day was glorious and I felt pretty mellow. While New Orleans was never far from my mind, life had to go on. As did the show.

There were at least fifteen different artists playing that day--the show was scheduled to start at noon and last until around eleven at night. I'm afraid I was rather unadventurous musically, only lingering for the musicians with whom I was already familiar. And Annie, of course.

Annie is a local actress and stage director who plays guitar as well, and had been a little keyed up for the afternoon's performance. We all would have been supportive of her anyway, but she gave an excellent performance that removed any necessity for nervous gasps of "oh, your set was great!" accompanied by tight, unnatural grins. It was acoustic, accompanied by Matt Jones of Dabenport and "Matt Jones" fame, mostly country-folk (Will Oldham, etc.) with a few surprises thrown in, namely a Nick Cave cover, and representatives from the animal kingdom joining in (a stray crow and Misty's dog). Annie has an interesting voice--when sung, it can be high, light and prety at one moment but then descend (or ascend?) to a roguish, sexy feline snarl. It fit very well with the kind of music she played, and I found the applause pretty deafening for one-thirty in the afternoon (I contributed to it, so I probably shouldn't complain).

Just about everyone else I caught I'd seen before, with the exception of Matt Tamburo, who gave us a rousing yet bone-crushing barrage of electronica (I think), which I remember Kelly Caldwell likening to an atomic bomb. I could only stand it for a few minutes myself, to be honest.

Most of the lineup consisted of Madison House veterans (and are given out of order). The notable exception was Andrew Brown, who joined his sister on guitar, makeshift percussion, occasional singing, and the odd solo performance, as "i. Brown." They concluded with Andrew, resplendent in space camp uniform, delivering a sidesplitting series of professorial recommendations set to music ("Have some sex. Have some eggs.") I missed a few acts as I needed to go eat dinner and make some more cornbread. The Top Five impressed me this time, as I realized what a collective effort their music represented--no one stood out, yet each contributed to the total effect, with guitar, violin, and keyboard (I wondered if their residence at a U-M co-op had anything to do with their musical style). Matt Jones' pristine set was ruined/enhanced by someone (okay, me) yelling during the applause following "Hand Out The Drugs": "Go back to Russia!" Mr. Josh and Chris Bathgate were excellent as always. Eric Kelly and his friend Paul, neither of whom I'd never met or seen before, gave a rousing set towards the end of the night (and seemed to enjoy my Charles Nelson Reilly impression), followed by Jim Roll, who's never less than fantastic. I was especially pleased when he had Sari join him for a rendition of "Double-Time." I'd seen her cover it earlier at Espresso Royale, and to see them sing it together was pretty heart-tugging.

There was a lot of interaction between sets (we were there for nearly twelve hours, so it's hardly surprising). I chatted with Matt, Greg, Dug, Dustin, Misty, met Christian of Starling Electric, Dale, Kate, Molly-Jean, Rachel and probably some other people who I should remember. I also hung out an awful lot with "The Two Saras," which is always a pleasure. I thought it a huge success, even if I got a little tipsier than planned.

"God Bless The Casionauts!"

Brandon said that very late Monday night and I'm damned if I'll argue with him.

I'd been to Arbor Vitae Loft before, for a short film festival I'd found on a flyer, taped onto one of the many lampposts that feature such flyers. It's an interesting space, a large attic hung with decorations and bric-a-brac, and divided a little haphazardly into different rooms and indoor porches, etc. Tonight it was all music, except for a video projection against a large sheet which featured, among other things, Chris Bathgate's preying mantis doing in some innocent grasshopper.

I dared the fates a little. I had to work at seven that morning, but I was determined, come hell or high water, to hear the Casionauts, Ryan Balderas' band, whose CD is... great. Just great. I briefly entertained the notion of not going to bed, in the end decided against it. I stayed for the whole show (even if I was a trifle antisocial), heard what I wanted to hear, walked home, went to bed, slept for three hours, and woke up a pair of minutes before my alarm went off.

First up was Forest, who works at Wazoo Records, just downstairs. I've encountered Forest at the library (where he used to work the computer desk) and his main function in my life thus far has been to log me off a library terminal (when the "End of Session" icon wasn't working or was nonexistent), explain to me at Wazoo that he found The Wicker Man ridiculous (but loved the soundtrack) and then explain that they hadn't gotten in any blank tapes that week (sometimes I really feel like "The Omega Man" of mix tapes). Tonight, he performed as "Ghost Laws," which was fantastic, but I can't really classify it. Prog, hiphop, noise, some incredibly creative percussion... it was good, whatever it was. I need to track down his music (which shouldn't be hard as I know where to find him).

I sat out the Javelins and Pop Project, and wasn't too wild about Charlie Slick, although his showmanship was impeccable--bringing out the bubble-blowing robot was a masterstroke. El Boxeo was great; I'd never heard them before. In my view, the electric violin, along with the accordion, represents a base of automatic musical cool. It can rarely go wrong for me. The Satin Peaches worried me for a second. It was nearly one of those "oh, everyone likes the White Stripes except for me" moments. The lead singer's voice, though, resembled Julian Casablancas more than it did Wolfboy Jack, and the music was more to my liking; I was dancing at the end (and it's now been established by a few friends that I dance like a variety of beloved cartoon characters and/or puppets).

The Descent of the Holy Ghost Church had two unquestionable draws in Matt Jones and Chris Bathgate, and it was truly thrilling to hear "I Know How You're Gonna Die Tonight" on electric guitar. It was like the Madison House went electric (it's gone electric before, but not like that). I'm still smiling at the fact that there's a group out there called "Johnny Headband." Dressed in white jumpsuits that reminded me less of retro bands than, say, the autoworker cast of Gung Ho (1986), with Michael Keaton, these guys gave us a nearly fatal jolt of eighties-reverent dance-rock (as far as I could figure, anyway; it was eight jillion miles away from Otto Vector) including a dynamite singalong cover of Hall and Oates' "Maneater."

In my house, though, I'm afraid all was lagniappe with the Casionauts waiting in the wings. Brandon had caught them before (I overheard him talking them up to a few people during the evening), and I'd heard their CD, Bailamos Muriemos Juntos. Ryan's solo performances as "The Larry Brown Press Conference" had given me some idea of how they (also including Jon Cendrowski on guitar, Scott Mills on bass, and Scott Warrens on drums) might sound live. When I say "some idea," it was still a long way from accuracy. The night was growing old, and the crowd had thinned a little, and no one had any idea what to expect.

They're called the Casionauts for a reason. When anyone used to mention Casios, I'd think of those little nearly-Fisher-Price keyboards for kids I'd see on Saturday morning commercials (unless I'm lying). Ryan's Casio was and is a beast, and I've never seen him or anyone rip the shit out of one as he did that early Tuesday morning. The songs actually sound a little staid on the CD compared to their live show. Ryan, ready to kill in a Pistons jersey, thrashed and wailed at his keyboard, and Jon gave rockstar flourishes on his guitar and wandered out into the crowd with a cowbell (that's for you, Slater--"Cock of the walk, baby!"), hugging Dale and I at one point. And the Scotts. And everyone. I'd worked myself into a frenzy by the end of the show. It broke instantly into the top five; I've had few better musical experiences. The moment when I realized they were going to play "Or How I Learned To Love Mitosis" was almost spiritual.

I didn't hang out as much as I did Sunday--much of my time was spent sitting by the entrance and acting as self-appointed greeter (and my heart really wasn't in it). The usual suspects were all there, as was Andrea from the Alex Robins show, and I got to meet Murph, a frequent Ann Arbor urban politics commentator. I did hang out quite a bit with the tremendously cool and criminally adorable Sara Brickman (one of the aforementioned Saras--Sara "Golightly" Jackson, while tremendously cool and criminally adorable herself, had left earlier with her out-of-state friends Brandon and Jessie), who was preparing to leave for Florence, which, as I'm sure you'll agree, is just awful. First Alex Robins and now Sara--I want to leave for some place really cool so people can make similarly sarcastic comments about me.

It was so awesome that I actually got some sleep last night. I still can't quite believe it.

After the Deluge
Now Playing: Erik Satie--"Gymnopedie No. 3"
Even a week later, I'm still not entirely sure I can believe what's happened to New Orleans. I can't even begin to comprehend how people are actually staying down there and trying to survive. Amid all the competing ideas on how--and if--New Orleans should be rebuilt (with an interesting discussion over here), the best I can do is to hope that its people are able to reconstruct their lives or create new ones.

As just about everyone who reads this blog or knows me can suss out, I strongly disapprove of this presidential administration and its policies. That said, I think there's also enough blame to go around the New Orleans municipal and Louisiana state governments. Nobody's going to survive this catastrophe unscathed (and I find such musings counterproductive only if they actually impede the rescue and reconstruction effort). The colossal nature of the disaster, though, leads me to focus my ire on the federal government (which some will find unsurprising).

It's arguable that the levee system, Mississippi River, and the South in general have been neglected in the past under administrations of all political stripes. I think, though, that the problem's grown especially acute under Bush, and not just because of Iraq. The administration's officials, after all, have largely dedicated themselves to cutting "big government" down to its bare essentials. Whether these include disaster relief is questionable, and if anyone's read John Barry's Rising Tide (on the flood of 1927), it's remarkable to look at the similarities between the national governments' respective attitudes of the time. I wouldn't be surprised at such a situation, as the administration's ideological dedication to "states' rights" (and, it would seem, responsibilities) might lie at the root of communications difficulties and resentments between local, state, and federal government that flared earlier in the week.

I understand that there are probably a host of logistical difficulties involved in diverting troops, delivering relief, etc., but a lot of people will want to know why TV crews were reporting from the Convention Center on Tuesday, when genuine relief and evacuation arrived a few days later (and why water trucks were turned away, and a host of other questions). The good news: it looks as if most of the local population has been evacuated by now. The bad news: if what we're hearing is true, we might be in for some truly horrific images from the receding waters.

"Tomorrow": Last weekend.

Eye Of A Distant Storm
Now Playing: The Casionauts--"Or How I Learned To Love Mitosis"
Last Sunday, before the madness hit back home, I toddled over to the Madison House for that week's show. Stopping off at Jefferson Market, a twee yet scrummy neighborhood eatery and knickknack shop on the Old West Side, I tried the homemade fries with the garlic aioli, which weren't all that good, really. I was one of the first to arrive for the show; one of the musicians had apparently cancelled and several hadn't arrived yet. I chatted with "Mr." Josh Tillinghast for a while about culinary issues, drank some of my Labatt, and we were off.

Catch a Wave was a bit of a rarity--an almost completely vocal duo featuring Aleise Barnett and Patrick Elkins, both of whom had ably thrashed me aruond as part of Elkins' folk-punk ensemble some weeks back. It was almost unsettling in a way, listening to cute situational pop songs with nonfunctioning microphones and punctuated by little more than handclaps. The Salt Miners came next and instantly afforded me an object lesson in not judging people by appearances. From the crisp black suits they wore, I would have thought them one of those wretched Brian Setzer clone nouveau-swing bands. They proceeded to knock out a thoroughly wonderful set of rollicking bluegrass, the best song concerning a girl in a Grand Am. They managed to pry loose one of those "Dukes of Hazzard" rebel yells I'll occasionally let fly at an especially awesome show. They even got me dancing, if the word "dancing" can be used to describe a half-shake, half-shuffle done with great care not to damage someone's back porch. Dabenport, or "the band with Matt Jones and Misty Lyn in it," followed, and thrilled me with pristine alt-country livened up by an expert wall of sound laid across the back. Watching Vince fiddle around with his guitar was almost as fascinating as watching Ryan Balderas with the Casio. I should really learn to stick around for the end of these things, and realize that ten to fifteen extra minutes isn't going to make much difference in getting up for work the next morning. I missed Loretta Lucas, who probably had the most classically country-oriented set I've heard at the Madison--excellent stuff, but much of which I missed. Hobnobbing with Brandon, Annie, Jim Roll, Matt Jones, and others completed the picture.

Against my better judgement, but thankfully so, I went to the pre-Labor Day party at the same place last night, hoping to get my mind off things. I got a consoling hug from Sara, who's awesome, even if she left most of my left leg and side bruised and battered (never mind how). Met some people, including Chuck, Maggie, Bryce, the great Mariah Cherem, lovely lead singer for the Avatars, and last but not least, the mastermind behind Ann Arbor Is Overrated. In retrospect, it was pretty comical how shocked I was that someone had stolen my sixpack. Bob Fucking Saget!! It was good to get my mind off things for a bit, but it keeps returning to the flooded metropolis which afforded me so many wonderful youthful days.

I still have to fully articulate on what happened back home. It's just astonishing, both the natural cataclysm and the government's response.

Internally Haggard
Now Playing: Alex Robins--"Annabelle"
Watching the news is really hard going for me these days, but BBC World probably has the most indepth and interesting coverage of the disaster currently taking place in New Orleans. I'm off to give right now, and if any of you find yourself in a position, please give to a charity that'll send money where it's needed if you haven't already.

I haven't read "Altercation" in a while, mostly due to post-election depression, but the recent discussion on Katrina and the New Orleans debacle is tremendously worth reading, especially the reader comments. And this is pretty appalling, though hardly surprising.

Good news: I got an email from my friend Monica, who lives in New Orleans and with whom I haven't corresponded in some time, and she was safely evacuated.

Sex, Drugs, Rock'n'Roll, and Death: Memories of New Orleans
Now Playing: Artie Shaw and His Orchestra--"Carioca"
Well, it's already looking pretty bad in the Crescent City. I'm assuming my parents and immediate family are okay; Baton Rouge doesn't seem to have been hit too hard, although I saw some nasty video of Beauregard Town (of all places) on the BBC. A lot of relatives still live in Metairie and other outlying places, though--I can only hope that they managed to escape unharmed. I understandably haven't been able to get through on the phone. There don't seem to be a great many details online, so I'll definitely be watching the news tonight. This week's "Madison Post" will have to wait, as there's really no better time to share a few favorite memories of New Orleans.

Disclaimer: The following set of reminisces might contain evidence of certain misbehaviors which, however innocuous they may seem to the writer, might--oh, fuck it. Thhhhpppttth.

The Aldrich Family Funerals (1994 and 2003)

My great-grandfather and great-grandmother were a wonderful couple, and I had a great time piecing together the story of their tempestuous courtship from discussions and reminisces and general family folklore. Grandpa (Wendell Anthony "Red" Aldrich) was kind of a wild kid, playing minor league baseball all over the South in the late 1920s, allegedly striking out Babe Ruth at a spring training exhibition in Alabama (you may judge the latter's level of inebriation for yourselves), playing in the Panama Canal Zone for the Colon Silver Sprays, and then returning to New Orleans to marry Emelda Theresa Mullen, the precious and very, very cute daughter of a large, middle class Irish family. They were married for sixty-six years, and they were always my favorite relatives to visit. After Grandpa Aldrich's death, I visited "Nana" a lot, especially when I lived in downtown Baton Rouge, since she was then in a retirement home on North St. The funerals and wakes taught me a great deal on what it meant to be alive. I felt especially alive during the gathering before Grandpa's funeral, when I accidentally got my cousin Amanda in trouble for smoking. "I need a cigarette and a smoking partner," she said, and I followed, asking no questions. Five minutes later, her dad materialized outside and ordered, in a nasally threatening voice, "Amanda, put out the cigarette, and come with me." She complied, as I said to myself, "Oh, that's funny." Whatever anyone else says, there's part of Grandpa that totally would have appreciated that.

Kachina Trouble (Summer 1994)

My best friend in high school, Rob (mentioned later), and his girlfriend Jennifer went with me to the city on one of those jaunts one took when life in my hometown of Baton Rouge (memorably if inaccurately referred to by Ignatius Reilly in Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces at "that whirlpool of despair") grew too monotonous. During the course of our visit, we ended up at one of the occult shops designed to separate faithful Anne Rice readers from their money, this one on Dumaine Street. It was fun looking through the various crap on display, and the place had a collection of kachina dolls, the Hopi devotional figures that people must think look so absolutely darling in their homes. The owner, "Donn" (who, in retrospect, reminds me of Larry Cohen horror movie stalwart Fred J. Scollay), noticed me looking at them and engaged me in conversation, which veered terrifyingly into Druidism. "Why do I do that???" I asked myself after we left, somehow taking the whole thing seriously. Of the conversation itself, I remember nothing, except "Donn"'s whipcrack retort to some half-assed observation I must have made, "but who was the TEACHER????" On every subsequent visit to the Quarter, I've made damn sure to keep away from Dumaine. The Wicker Man was set in Scotland, but you can't be too careful.

Lollapalooza (17 Aug. 1994)

Lollapalooza '94 was the first genuine rock show I attended (having led a fairly low-key social life during high school). The Breeders, L7, the Beastie Boys, A Tribe Called Quest, and the Smashing Pumpkins were all there. I'd met a motley collection of people from work that summer, and we drove down in a not-very effective caravan, my brother Slater riding with me. The show was at UNO, which lay on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, and we endured nightmare traffic up Elysian Fields. We all eventually dispersed and followed our own paths; I ran into some other friends of mine from Baton Rouge and was none too unhappy to listen to a few sets with the lovely Laurel riding atop my shoulders.

What made the day, though, was the ride back. Jordan and Brandon, two fellow caravaneers, somehow found me as I searched for Slater and begged me on their knees to take them back with me. They'd apparently had enough of Tony and Susannah's semi-erotic antics on the way down. "Dude, they were making out like squirrels!" I promised to do so, as soon as I'd found Slater. The latter soon showed up by my car with his friend Dave and Dave's friend Brad, who had "lost" their ride. Brad was allegedly wired on ecstasy (easily believable, but I had no concrete proof). My car was a 1984 Chevrolet Cavalier, and we found the fit correspondingly tight. Crammed into the "burro," we got lost near UNO, scraping the bottom on a number of roadbumps. Brad claimed to have "taken care of" the bill at a local gas station, and I'm still pretty certain that I drove away with ten bucks' worth of free unleaded. Nearing the interstate, we pulled up alongside an evil Domino's driver whose fraudulent directions put us on the wrong exit. As that vile bastard pulled away, cackling his accursed head off, too late for us to try and avenge ourselves on his car, Brad launched himself halfway out my front passenger window and started screaming at the guy. "If I ever see you again, I'm gonna fucking kill you, motherfucker!!" There was worse (or better, depending on one's standards), but we finally made it out of the city and back to Baton Rouge (a city itself, but you know what I mean). Brad bemoaned his lot--a wrestling scholarship to Kansas State, apparently a fate worse than death--and brayed loudly on how he'd have to take a shower and "be clean" before he could do more hard drugs. I accidentally flicked live cigarette embers on Jordan's knee and let Brad off at somebody's house on Chantilly. "Chantilllllyyyyy!!!" The end.

"Grownup" Mardi Gras (February or March 1997)

I went to Mardi Gras every year until I was sixteen, and then had to miss four years while going to school in Virginia. As a kid, I obviously couldn't appreciate the holiday to its full potential because I (a) thought girls were "stupid" (not really, but that's what boys were supposed to say, right?) and (b) couldn't drink. We also generally watched the parades on St. Charles, either uptown or downtown, southwest of Canal. Well, during those glory days known as the early 90s, I'd not only fallen in love or lust entirely too much, but I'd also discovered the more reliably tactile charms of alcohol and nicotine. It was Sunday (I think), so that meant the Krewe of Bacchus. I went down with some of my Barnes and Noble coworkers--James, Jill, Neal, Katie, Malinda, Bruce, Greg and his soon-to-be-ex-wife, and Monica and her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend (so far as I know, neither impending breakup began the evening in question, and I certainly had nothing to do with either, although I wouldn't have minded having something to do with one of them). At this point, it's all a bit of a blur. Stopping at Jill's mom's house, parking in Algiers, taking the ferry across the river to Canal, drinking, wandering around, drinking some more, seeing open-faced Mardi Gras tits on Bourbon Street for the first time, hearing Bruce say he wanted to leave Bourbon Street because he didn't want to miss the parade, and staring him back with appalled and fascinated disbelief (and I refuse to accept the explanation--given by others later--that it was because he was Canadian; I find such an imprecation unworthy to level at the country that gave us Sarah McLachlan, Ziya Tong, and Shania Twain), drinking, smoking, drinking bourbon from a paper bag while watching the parade, zoning out to Pulp with Malinda on the way back... heavenly.

St. Patrick's Day Off (17 Mar. 1998)

Erin, at the time, was dating Rob, and was actually the first girlfriend of his to whom I was attracted. Rob had to work and couldn't go, so Erin invited me to accompany her, Jim, and Greg to the city for the day. They all spent most of the time trying to get the goods on Rob (my three companions had arrived at the conclusion that, whenever Rob finished a story with "I shit you not!", "You know he's lying"), and I came up with some entertaining high school stories. We hit the House of Blues for lunch and then some relatively generic Irish pub down towards Canal for Bushmill's and pool. Jim almost literally killed me on the way back by verbally imagining a Thundercats porno. "Cheetara! Drop your pants, you stupid bitch! Sword of Omens, give me sight beyond sight!"

Trips with James (Winter and Spring 1999)

I had a lot of friends at Barnes and Noble (and still keep in touch with two of them fairly regularly), but never got into so many entertaining scrapes with any of them as I did with James. On our first little jaunt to New Orleans, we somehow wangled an invitation to dinner with Jill and some of her family, the latter in the West Bank (across the Mississippi from New Orleans). James proposed a dastardly plan--he'd flirt with Jill while I kept Ms. Elaine (Jill's mom) busy. I thought he was joking (and he might have been), but that's exactly what ended up happening. Frankly, it wasn't hard to flirt with Ms. Elaine. We drank wine while I told her about Howard Zinn, and if that sounds like the worst kind of humanities-major cliche, she taught American history at a Catholic school, so it was somewhat relevant. Everyone had a great time (and nothing untoward happened, in case you were wondering).

At some point, a few months before or after, we went to visit James' parents, who lived in Marrero (also on the West Bank). I drove James down as his car didn't work and his large Filipino-American family was having some sort of mini-reunion. We cruised through the city, Eric Burdon and the Animals rasping out "When I Was Young" and "Sky Pilot" on my car stereo. James' family was great and tremendously welcoming. His mom, Ms. Cecile, actually tried to give me money as we took off for a jaunt to the Quarter with James' sister and her husband, an out-of-state sheriff's deputy who kept showing people his badge and getting into conversations with cops on street-corners. My most vivid memory is of us sitting in Pat O'Brien's drinking (strangely enough) hurricanes, James and I helplessly drooling over the gorgeous Liverpudlian tourists at the next table chatting with their boyfriends.

For some reason, James' presence unconsciously (I assume) attracted sexy British travelers. This, of course, is the same guy who asked the gift shop girl at some other generic Irish pub in the Quarter if they sold "IRA T-shirts." We were at Molly's on the Market in Decatur Street one night with some of the Barnes and Noble gang, and James and I found each other waiting in line for the bathrooms. The latter are worth describing in detail--they sat behind the restaurant in a lovely inner courtyard, dating from at least the early 1800s, with the Spanish colonial windows and balconies that made the French Quarter such a delight. The "ladies'" line was longer than the "gentlemen's", and we found out why when a miniskirted lovely with cartoonishly long legs and raven tresses stumbled out of the distaff can and explained in a boozy Home Counties screech: "Oh, I just had a little trouble in there! I'm British, don't you know! The British Empire! Say no more!" This was not an Anglophobic character study worthy of a Mel Gibson movie or a rogue Python sketch. She actually said it while stumbling away and, in doing so, was obscenely hot. That might be why I'm so into Sally Webster on "Coronation Street." Yeah, she's from a Manchester suburb, but still...

There were other beers, other friends, other events--I met my Roanoke friends Jen and Chris down there a couple of times, and we frequently ended up at the house in Metairie where Nana's sister, Aunt Sue, lived with her husband, Uncle Ray. Their house had my favorite housesmell ever--vaguely like cigars, but not quite. There was also the time I met my friend Jason at his aunt's house on Pontalba Street, smoked cigarettes of various kinds and woke up on the floor covered in his aunt's kittens (of which there were maybe twenty or so) and laughing hysterically. I've rarely had a bad time in New Orleans (thanks for nothing, all-night rave at the State Theatre), and I hope she recovers and that the damage to families and homes isn't too terrible.

I just got back from checking some news. "Unknown number of deaths"... that really doesn't look good.

Crack Me A Smile, Pour Me A Drink
Now Playing: XTC--"Helicopter"
My brother came to visit me in town this weekend, braving the weather and harsh tolls on several of Pennsylvania and Ohio's interstates to hang out, walk around, and listen to music. It was great to see him again and reminisce, and a pleasure to show him around and introduce him to the local music, some of which I've been enjoying for a couple of years now.

Friday night we had dinner and beers at Dominick's, and then walked to Crazy Wisdom to hear Jim Roll. I've described hearing Jim earlier, but this was something entirely different. Accompanied by Sam Vail, "the Jimmer" just blew us away. On the surface, it's more of the folk/alt-country stuff I've been listening to a great deal in the past few months, but there's a bittersweet core in the music that haunts me for a while afterward. Despite the exhortations from some of our more fellow eccentric audience members to play "Muskrat Love" or even Jim Stafford, not to mention the occasional sound of breaking glass*, Jim kept things on an even keel throughout--the mournful "Peg and Awl," "Old Love," "Bonnie and Clyde" (some of which lies locked away in someone's memory, we just couldn't figure out whose), and of course, "Double-Time," which I'd already heard covered by Sari Brown at Espresso Royale. It sounds just as good on his first CD, "Ready To Hang," which I listened to the next morning.

Saturday, after getting doused with a rainstorm on our way to the Fleetwood, Slater and I went to see March of the Penguins (2005) at the State Theater. The last nature documentary I saw was on the octopus, the only animal that probably fascinates me more than the penguin. Penguins have it hard, man. Going for a hundred miles at a time to find food, watching the occasional cherished egg crack open and freeze, dodging seals and auks, huddling for warmth against unimaginably ferocious winds... they're cute as hell, but they're nobody's fools.

That night was Alex Robins' last show at the Madison House, as he would next day suffer the appalling fate of moving to San Francisco, which I'm sure you'll all agree is just awful. Alex had played before with Chris Bathgate and Emily Hilliard, in the night that resembled a country dream. Tonight he had some of the more diverse openers I'd seen at the Madison, including Ross Huff's full jazz set, Everyone A Pope. Alec Jensen opened, with Emily Powers (who was herself moving to Chicago). We got there half an hour late as the movie time had been wrongly posted at the State Theatre (not that I minded--the movie was great, and I got to discuss it a little with the lovely Andrea, who I met that night). Alec Jensen is amazing--everything he did with his guitar, accompanying or being accompanied by Emily Powers on guitar or violin (no mean artist herself), seemed to turn to gold, and I'd never even heard of the guy before. Everyone A Pope was just superb. Slater and I hadn't heard a good jazz band in a long time, and Ross Huff, who had played along with Chris Bathgate at the aforementioned country dream show, is a magnificent trumpeter. Chuck, who I've seen all over town (he used to work at Ashley's and occasionally filled in on drums for Into the Freylakh's Mike Gabelman), did a fantastic drum set, and the guys on bass and keyboard were great, too--I wish I remembered their names. I'm waiting for someone who sucks to show up at the Madison House so I can really let them have it. With both barrels, mind. Emily Powers came next, switching the order from the first set, the kind of wistful, confessional folk songs she'd played at the first Madison House show. All this set the stage for Alex Robins.

I'd met Alex at the show with Wanda and the Amoeba Kids, and he was instantly and tremendously friendly. Tonight, he seemed to have already prepared for his set by drinking heavily from a number of sources, and just loved the crowd to death throughout, frequently offering to take us all to San Francisco with him. He distributed lapel pins displaying himself looking all badass, and played an alternately somber and cheery set of fantastic country-folk numbers with a decided edge. "Crack A Smile" and "Michigan Year" were particular standouts. The spirit was helped along by Dustin on tambourine, some guy who was banging on a chair, and Ian of Seven Chakraz, who did his occasional set-crashing spoken-word number. This didn't harm the set for me so much as it provided an entertaining counterpoint, and Alex didn't seem to mind too much. I took my leave of him with a boozy hug and a free CD, which I listened to this morning--formidable. Slater left after the set as he had to leave for D.C. around seven the next morning.

I left shortly afterward due to a sharp and sudden depression. All the talk and songs about leaving, Alex's departure for San Francisco and the poignancy it slathered all over the Madison backyard, Slater coming and then leaving, our talking about the past through the weekend and what had happened to everybody, the natural disaster that was and is threatening my home state (and much of my family) and probably the effect of drinking at about four-hour intervals since two in the afternoon contributed to "The Mood" (where I want to leave the party because I don't want anyone to see me like that).

I walked home without a great deal of enthusiasm. I popped in at Espresso Royale, where one of the local bands that play there Saturday nights (Love Without Dreaming, maybe?) regaled people. I sent a few emails and checked on the Katrina situation (we've all known it was coming eventually, but it's still a bit of a shock), and then left. My mood improved considerably along Liberty Street. First, I received a completely unsolicited (and I feel a little bad about that now) smile from a cute girl, and then I ran into Andrew Brown and his friend Martyna outside of Borders. They were having such a good time and in such obvious good spirits that they helped to lift mine. Andrew remarked on how cool it was that I lived next to the Arboretum, and then I realized that I hadn't taken enough advantage of that in recent months. This morning I subsequently took off and wound up in Bandemer Park, traipsing up and down both sides of the Huron, as there's a pedestrian/biker walkway much like the one at Gallup that crosses the river. Kathy and Maggie at the Fleetwood commented on how nice I could be (of course, they'd just had to deal with one of the worst-mannered customers I'd ever seen there), and completed the picture. I'm in such a great mood now I could spit.

Hope for New Orleans, that's all I can say. More on that later, as that's where we went back in the Baton Rouge days when we wanted to have real fun.

*Nothing new to the Jimmer, of course. He'd had an impromptu accompaniment the night he played at the Madison from a Ryder truck that was pulling up in the carpet store parking lot next door. There is one man who knows how to work that shit.