Sabbath Peregrination
Now Playing: Dukes of Stratosphear--"Bike Ride To The Moon"
This morning, I fulfilled a mildly longstanding ambition and walked the Huron River trails all the way from Dixboro Road to Argo Park, which took me about eight miles. I was, to put it bluntly, chafing by the time I got to Argo, and so decided to forgo finishing through Bandemer Park, on the other side of the river. I lucked out enormously on the weather--it ranged from the 50s to the 60s and the breezes were intense. The plan had been to begin around 6:30 or so, but I had a little too much wine last night, and had to weather a hangover. The sun's been coming later and later, of course, and had barely cleared the trees by the time I got to the trail's easternmost point (which alone took me about three miles). Along the way I saw a couple of dead raccoons, a woodpecker, and enough geese to rob a bank (think about it--it would probably take a fair number). I expect we'll probably have about two weeks to a month of autumn, and I intend to wring as much as I can out of it. The leaves have either just started turning or have been turning for a while without me noticing. The Huron varies considerably in size and shape as it passes through Ann Arbor, ranging from a near stream as it passes Mitchell Field and meets the railway, in the midst of my journey, and turning practically into lakes at the two ends, Argo Park in the west and Gallup Park in the east (where it smushes against a few tiny islands, all part of the park complex).

Last night, as I said, I had a "little" to drink (a Portuguese red wine--I've forgotten the name), and fixed pork chops in rosemary. I've fallen in love with rosemary. It smells great, even if it's a little much to actually eat along with your food (I simply scrape it off). I've also decided not to cook with oil anymore--marinades taste much better and there's hardly any smoke. Along with the pork chops, I had a rudimentary salad--spinach and chopped tomatoes, done up with some olive oil, oregano and pepper, since I'd forgotten to get salad dressing before. To top everything off, I had some Stilton cheese, which I've decided isn't as good as Gorgonzola (although Ashley's in Ann Arbor makes great "Stilton fries"). I ate while watching some of the first "Black Adder" series.

"Well, I suppose we'd better get 'Bernard the Bear-Baiter.' And Percy? Tell him to bring a bear this time. The improvising last year was pathetic."

This morning, I actually woke up earlier than I do on weekday mornings for work. I had no dreams to mention, not like the night before. Then, I was staying in a house that was threatened by rising coastal waters (it looked like my Aunt Sue's house in Metairie, so I wondered if it was a Katrina psychic aftershock--living in Michigan, I was obviously unaffected, but as I mentioned before, there are a lot of good memories, and a lot of my dad's family still lived down there). It turned out that I had to pee, which was hardly surprising. What I took from that night, though, was the shocking beauty of the scenery. In the dream, it was about three in the morning, but the moon shone so fiercely upon the rippling water that it seemed like daylight, bringing into view a pair of rocky, mountainous offshore islands on the horizon that put me in mind of Hong Kong or Rio de Janeiro. I've been in a similar city before in my dreams, and I wonder if I'm seeing pieces of a whole, some kind of patchwork Mediterranean or subtropical Latinate port that lives only in my mind. The beginning quote in Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces is from A.J. Liebling's Earl Long biography The Earl of Louisiana, positing the existence of an invisible sea that runs across the Atlantic from the Med to the Spanish Main, linking New Orleans with some kind of "Hellenistic" universe. That's where you'd find that place, I'm sure of it. I hope I end up there again. After I woke, I had a glass of ice water and found on early morning UPN that Stuart Pankin* is now a spokesperson for something called "WalkFit."

Dale has a good post on a problem that's vexed me a number of times in the past, and it's good to know that I'm not alone.

* Likable character actor, former newscaster for the 1980s HBO comedy series "Not Necessarily the News," and a particular favorite of my high school friend Jason Michel. I remember both of us watching one of those wretched early 1970s "Learning Corporation of America" flicks in our American literature class and yelling in unison "Stuart Pankin!" when someone looking very like him showed up in the "Salem Witch Trials" movie. I have no idea where Jason is now and I had no idea where Stuart was until this happened, although I could have sworn I'd seen him doing this stuff while Eric (the former bartender at Piatto in Akron) was flipping the TV channels around one day. It gives one hope.

Why Spend Your Sadness Now?
Now Playing: David Bowie--"All The Madmen"
Watching The Omega Man (1971) at long last actually made me feel dirty for some reason. The plot's fairly simple: Charlton Heston is the last human being left, fighting off mutants in a Los Angeles devastated by bacteriological warfare. I've long wanted to taste this flick, as it apparently features Chuck at his most hilariously overwrought. The first five minutes can be seen as a precis of the whole movie, but also serve as a wonderful allegory for libertarian ideology. Chuck drives around the deserted city in a series of cars, man surveying his domain--no goddamn government or taxes or other people to bother you--there's someone at a window! Chuck screeches his car to a halt and immediately opens fire with a submachine gun. It wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be, although Anthony Zerbe is one of the few people living or dead who's been able to out-overact Chuck.

It was a weekend for movies, two of which further acquainted me with the genius of Mr. Dirk Bogarde. Damn the Defiant! (1962), a fairly routine action flick set during the 1797 mass mutiny in the British navy, features Dirk as a nasty second-in-command to Alec Guinness' deceptively ineffectual captain. It was okay, I suppose--British viewers might be surprised to see a young Johnny Briggs (Mike Baldwin on "Coronation Street") as one of the callow sailors. The Servant (1963), one of those movies I'd always meant to watch but for which I never found time, was awesome. Tony (James Fox) hires Barrett (Dirk) to be his manservant. Tony's fiancee (Wendy Craig) doesn't like Barrett all that much, but Barrett manages to preserve his position. It's actually a little boring until Barrett's saucy "sister" (they're siblings, just like the White Stripes!) Vera (Sarah Miles) arrives, enlivening things exponentially. Vera, all chipmunk cheeks and somehow sexy tweed skirts, and Barrett proceed to enthrall the weak-willed, incompetent Tony in a morass of decadence. Fun, fun, fun, is all I can say--Dirk's sneer almost rivals "Johnny's" in Samuel Fuller's Shock Corridor, released that same year. How's that for a double bill?

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.