Goodbye, Darkness

Recently I finished reading Goodbye, Darkness by William Manchester. It's his memoir of being a Marine sergeant in the Pacific Theater during World War II. Alternately gripping, gory, sad, and darkly funny - this book was one great read. Manchester sees things in the biggest and smallest pictures, by this I mean he knew the importance of defeating the Axis but ultimately fought for the men who served with him. The book also serves as a primer on the US efforts in the Pacific, to be honest a campaign I didn't know as well as the European campaign. Manchester writes early that this is the case for many Americans: Due to both the sheer hugeness of the Pacific and because Europe is more well-known to most Americans. Hopefully HBO's upcoming The Pacific will help rectify this.

If you are at all interested in American history read this book.

Party Down

If you are in the mood for a sometimes raunchy and almost-always hilarious sitcom, check out Party Down. I watched season one a few weeks back via the Netflix instant viewing option and laughed out loud more than once each episode. It originally aired on Starz and may be available via on demand if you have that channel.

It deals with a group of caterers in Los Angeles who all have dreams to do something in showbiz someday. Except maybe Constance, who seemingly knows she's past her prime but brings her "A" game of optimism anyway. (She's played oh-so-perfectly by the great Jane Lynch.) And Henry, who had the misfortune of peaking early career-wise in a beer commercial and now just wants to bartend and remain anonymous. (He's played by Adam Scott as the straight man, blankly but gamely facing the catering circus.) Otherwise the dreamers are the narcisstic prettyboy, the geeky writer (Bill Haverchuck fans take note on this character), the wanna-be-overachieving team leader who constantly underachieves, and the major hottie funny girl.

Throw in superb guest appearances (generally one solid guest star per episode) by Ed Begley Jr., Steven Weber, J.K. Simmons, Rob Corddry, and Kristen Bell (plus Joe Lo Truglio making his Superbad role look like a mere audtion for his turn here) and you have my favorite new sitcom. E! Online says it has been renewed for a second season, so you know it must be true. Party Down, check it out.

The Cult's Electric

In those months before I discovered Guns n' Roses, one hard rock band I pinned hopes on was The Cult. "Love Removal Machine" was a hard rock gem – part AC/DC (the riff), part Led Zeppelin (Ian Astbury emits a Plant-like "baby baby baby" at one point), part sixties garage rock (a reference to "psychotic reaction.") And even Astbury yelling "boogie!" at some point couldn’t diminish the tune's greatness. Follow-ups on the old KJ104 like "Lil' Devil" and "King Contrary Man" led me to buy the Electric album.

I hadn't listened to the album in years, though when I deejayed I toyed with bringing the LP to the club to play "Love Removal Machine." Having imported all of my CDs into my iTunes a few months back, I'm currently in a period of rediscovering forgotten aspects of my music collection. So last week I broke out Electric for a late-night headphones spin on my turntable. The opener "Wild Flower" – a deifying ode to a woman – still slays. "Lil' Devil" is still fun. But "King Contrary Man", a song I once loved now comes off as a kinda dumb sell-your-soul-at-the-crossroads tune with lyrics such as: "zany antics of a beat generation." Worse, track two on side one is "Peace Dog" which is truly stupid and just stupid (i.e. not stupid fun like "Louie Louie" or "Smells Like Teen Spirit.") Lyrics like "peace is a dirty word / she used to be a painted bird / and war she's a whore" grate. Allmusic.com's review of the album nailed it: "What happens when the Doors are used as a model in the wrong way." (Astbury toured with a version of the Doors a few years back, plus the Doors had a similarly-titled song "Peace Frog".) Also, Astbury sings of wanting a B-52 (and not Kate Pierson, sadly) to "drop your love on me." Except he pronounces it "Bee Five Two." Dumb Brit. I like to imagine American producer Rick Rubin chuckling in the control room, but just letting Astbury go on and on. Hey, you can't produce Run-DMC every year, right?

I didn't make it through side two. After "Love Removal Machine," which is still awesome, they attempted to cover "Born To Be Wild." After Steve Martin's take on Comedy Is Not Pretty!, said song should just be left alone. Electric is a mixed bag of an album, if you listen prepare to be handy with moving that stylus arm up and down.

(And earlier this week, I checked out the video for "Love Removal Machine", which I hadn't seen since back in '87 when I first heard The Cult. I remember one of my roommates at the time loved the Doors and was disgusted by Astbury's Jim Morrison-like look of leather and long dark hair, but don't remember much else. This 2009 time around I loved the rock moves that were certainly not approved by the music intelligentsia of the mid-eighties: Guitarists having fun, Marshall stacks, aforementioned AC/DC and Zep influences, Brits actually acting like meathead rockers and not fashioned-obsessed swishes, and a huge beer can pyramid. Plus certainly-planned continuity problems with wardrobe/guitars and the drummer actually has an action spot!)

Beats Working

Rochester, Minnesota came up in a conversation today. I've only been there twice, both on business when I worked for Big Construction. As I recalled these trips, I realize I was sent to Rochester for pretty bizarre reasons.

Trip #1: The company had finished a project in Rochester and needed a certain document related to the final payment to be picked up in person, the mail or FedEx wouldn't do. So I drove to Rochester on this errand, even though it wasn't a project my division had handled. I think I was asked to do this as my workload was a little light at the time and none of the accountants at the other office wanted to do it. (There may have been some office posturing at play here. The guy who asked me was a supervisor at another office and likely none of his accountants wanted to admit they had time to take a day to go to Rochester. Me? Toss me the keys!) Ah, the age before cell phones were prevalent: I had to call back to the company to confirm I had made the pickup. The pay phone wouldn't take my long distance credit card, so I called collect.

Trip #2: The company was bidding on a project in Rochester and the estimator needed somebody to go to the pre-bid meeting and ask one specific question to the guy running the meeting. I remember I had to write the question down as I had no idea what I was exactly asking. (Rebar this, concrete that, blah blah blah.) Again, I don't remember why I was exactly asked to run this errand. I do know that the estimators held me in high esteem due to the praises of my estimator buddy Turk and I may have been specifically requested. (In fact, this same estimator asked me to turn a bid for him on my last day on the job - he said he knew I'd do one last good thing for him. I did as he asked.)

In both cases, it didn't take much arm twisting to get me to volunteer. Sit in the office pushing paper or take a road trip on a nice spring day (I think both trips were in the May/June timeframe), charge all that mileage and a lunch to the company, report back to the other office with my findings
and then head for home rather than fighting traffic to downtown? Easy choice for this kid.

Almost A Joker

Monday I was on a conference call with a client and one of their clients. The 1-800 number I was given to access the call instead gave a recorded message directing me to another 1-800 number where I could "meet new people." My client emailed with the correct number, which I dialed and got into the conference call. I said hi, but was so tempted to add: "I liked that other number better, I almost got a date." But I kept my lips zipped.

Today I watched Pardon the Interruption while on the treadmill at the YMCA. The opening went like this:

"Pardon the interruption, but I'm Mike Wilbon. Two days before the Fourth of July, Bobby. You got your party plans ready?"

"I'm Bob Ryan. Cheap whiskey and illegal fireworks. Happy birthday, America!"

To which in the background, Tony Reali was heard to howl and start up with the USA! chant.

After PTI, I headed for the water fountain. I ran into a gal who used to work at Y, we always greet each other and sometimes make small talk when we run into each other. She asked me how I planned to celebrate the Fourth. I almost said "with cheap whiskey and illegal fireworks," but bit my tongue and instead mumbled something about watching the Twins that afternoon.

Dammit! When I am finally gonna unleash some of my "A" material (or Bob Ryan's)??

More on Six Feet Under vs. Homicide: Life on the Street

Let's compare the opening credits sequences:

Six Feet Under's cute little ditty: I am so clever as I sip on my wine spritzer.

Homicide's percussion-driven white-knuckle ride: I'll have a bourbon neat with a beer back. And keep 'em comin'.

They Say Your Memory Is The First Thing To Go, I Forgot What The Second One Is

I'm reading David Carr's The Night of the Gun, a remarkable book. Much of it deals with memories, and how Carr remembers events from the eighties differently than do his friends and former co-workers. One line I read last night grabbed my attention: "The power of a memory can be built through repitition, but it is the memory we are recalling when we speak, not the event. And stories are annealed in the telling, edited by turns each time they are recalled until they become little more than chimeras."

Memorial Day weekend, my two best friends Scott and Joel and I stood on Joel's Dad's front lawn and had a beer as we stared out at the lake. We three grew up together at the lake. Scott pointed to the opposite shore to where his aunt and uncle used to have a cabin. Almost immediately, the "get the hell out of there" story came up.

It was in the early or mid eighties. We were in a boat in front of Scott's relative's cabin fishing for sunnies. At some point, we heard a car door slam behind a neighboring cabin. Then two little boys wearing life jackets came running down the stairs to the dock and the boatlift. They hopped in the parked boat and started playing like they were driving it, yelling and having a gleeful time. Soon after, a man walked down, stood on shore, pointed at the boys, and said: "Get the hell out of there." The boys had shut up once they saw him, and upon his command quietly and dutifully left the boat with their heads hanging and went back up to the cabin.

It was quite a sight and we three laughed over it. We imagined the two tykes riding the hour's drive from Fargo, wearing those life jackets the whole way, just dying to go for a boat ride once they got there. "Get the hell out of there" became a favorite catchphrase, and the story has been repeated endlessly over the years.

But on this afternoon in 2009, we started to notice discrepancies in our individual recollections of the incident. For instance, we differ over the exact gesture used by the man. Did he point with just his index finger or was it the index finger and the middle finger together? I see the man as an older guy in his fifties, probably the boys' grandfather but Scott and Joel see a younger man, a father. We realized the exact details were foggy after twenty-five years or so, but the gist of the story remains true: The boys ran down to the dock and into the boat with life jackets on and the man did say "get the hell out of there."

And my favorite part of this bull session was when Joel said: "You know, I'm not even sure if I was with you guys that day. I might just be convinced I was because I've heard this story so many times."

Ibuprofen Is The Fifth Food Group

Pick a moment during any week, and the odds are good that I will be sore in my right wrist/arm, neck, lower back, or feet. Thankfully, the pain generally is more of a nagging nature than a chronic one. Here's the history of why:

Right wrist and arm - Pain from tendinitis caused by computer mouse. Went through hand/wrist therapy in 1995.

Neck - Pain caused by improper workplace ergonomics. Went through physical therapy (after chiropractor and acupuncture were busts) in 1998 and 2002. Due to mixup between health provider and insurance company, scored a $700 home traction unit for free - meaning I inadverdently contributed to the need for health care reform.

Lower back - Pain into my right hip, leg, and knee via a bulging disc caused by sitting at a desk for twenty years. Went through physical therapy in 2006/2007 (didn't work in the long term) and 2007/2008 (different place that was effective.)

Feet - Pain caused by flat arches. Orthotics prescribed by podiatrist in 2009 (to make them they took a plaster of Paris of my feet, and then a hot nurse washed my feet - very steamy in a New Testament way) alleviated the pain, though the cost was straight out of pocket as insurance didn't cover them. But doctor advised me to never take up running, giving me all the more reason not to.

So like I said above, one of these areas of my body tends to be sore at any given time but not in the severe way when the condition first surfaced. It's more of a nagging pain that can be treated with iboprofen, ice, and stretching. And thanks to Justin Morneau for finally giving me a term for what afflicts me. He sat out Sunday's game. The reason? "General soreness." I hear ya.

What Do You Want On Your Tombstone?

One of my top-five favorite clients is a caterer, and I am constantly amazed at their ability to come up with various menus and to prepare and present the meals. Sometimes they give me leftovers and I am in eating heaven. But I am not a foodie. I enjoy eating, but don't like to cook. At all. Being a single guy, you can likely imagine the heights of my kitchen wizardry: 1) Spaghetti - I amaze myself as I boil up some noodles while at the same time heat up some Prego sauce. 2) Tacos - This one is tough as it involves both browning the ground beef and remembering to buy the shredded taco cheese. So invariably I fall back into: 1) Cheeseburgers on the George Foreman Grill, and 2) Stauffer's.

Yeah, I'm pathetic I know. And also lazy. I just want to have something quick and simple to eat with supper while I read the sports page. All single guys out there absolutely KNOW what the staple of such a diet is: The frozen pizza. While you thought that the Tombstone pizza couldn't get better, I am glad to tell you that it can be better. My friend Melissa turned me on to the Presto Pizzazz Pizza Oven. I scored one from Amazon for forty-five bucks a few weeks ago. Why a pizza oven rather than your regular oven? It cooks the pizza evenly, meaning the crust tastes better and the cheese and sauce won't conspire to scorch the roof of your mouth. You won't have to leave your pizza to cool for five minutes or so before you can take a bite, not to mention that this pizza oven involves no preheating so your pizza will be ready many minutes quicker than conventionally. And you get to impress your non-foodie buddies with your best food boast since that time you scored Taco John's down in the TCF Building/AT&T Building skyway: "Hey, I bought a pizza oven!"

Another Reason To Stay Home

I got a postcard from Qwest in the mail today. It offers free services to those with their high-speed Internet service. I don't have that service, I get my Internet service from Visi but do get DSL via Qwest. (The postcard was specifically addressed to me, not "occupant.") They promote their free Wi-Fi at "thousands of coffee shops, bookstores, and restaurants nationwide." Having recently bought a laptop, I was curious as to what was available in my neck of the woods. I entered my zip code (55408) into Qwest's Wi-Fi search engine. The results? A Barnes and Noble store which doesn't serve coffee or other beverages, two Starbucks (I find their coffee mediocre), and three McDonald's locations. McDonald's? Hey, I frequent the Golden Arches but honestly can't remember the last time I sat down in one and ate a meal - I'm a drive-through guy: Get the gutbomb home and eat it while reading the sports page.

I entered a downtown Minneapolis zip code (55401) and got similar results. While tempted to sit down and have a meal at McDonald's to see if folks are working on their laptops while scarfing down their extra-value meals, I think it'll be easier to just throw this postcard into recycling. Real nice effort, Qwest.

Latest Exiled Radio Podcast Now Available

Show #19

Exiled on Main Street #45 Outtake

Note: I compile each issue of Exiled to run a certain number of pages in print. Due to space constraints, I ended up cutting the following essay. I think it's weaker than what the made the grade anyway - I'm trying a little too hard in this one. At times I think I pretty much wrote it so that I could throw the last sentence in there. Yes, 750-plus words, all in the service of one final sentence.

Five Bozos Who Ruined A Perfectly Good Tuesday Afternoon


Due to unforeseen circumstances I was recently forced to listen to the classic rock monolith KQRS for three hours straight. Hence:

John Mellencamp. I have come full circle with this guy. In high school, I thought he was one of the biggest dorks on radio. I still find "Hurts So Good" and "Jack and Diane" grating. But a few years later I genuinely enjoyed the Scarecrow album. By 1989, I totally loved the Big Daddy album. So I gave Big John a pass when he was dismissed as a sub-Springsteen heartland rocker. But then a couple of years ago he sold "Our Country" – a boring and bad song – to Chevy and in tandem they tainted months of sports-on-TV viewing by blasting the ad featuring the song constantly, so much that I pined for the days of Bob Seger's "Like A Rock" domination. I damn near got tendonitis from hitting the mute button during every commercial break on Sunday afternoons. And I advise listening to the Impressions "This Is My Country" as an antidote to Mellencamp's song.

Phil Collins. He's five feet tall, bald, and of no exceptional talent in singing or drumming. Somehow he was a superstar a couple of decades ago because: 1) "In The Air Tonight" used echo and was used on the pilot episode of Miami Vice, and 2) He was edgier than Rick Springfield. Man, the eighties were fucked up and we're still paying the price.

Joe Cocker. One thing classic rock fans are real stuffy about is the post-Beatles claim that artists have to write their own songs. Sure Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, and the Everlys all wrote their own songs long before the Beatles, but nobody seems to acknowledge this. It's pretty much become accepted history that the Beatles were the first rockers to write their own songs, probably because part of being a classic rock snob (I think this might be the same as being a "rockist," but I'm not sure) is ignoring fifties rockers and kissing up to old British acts. But what Cocker songs do you hear on classic rock stations? Diminished covers of great tunes like Traffic's "Feelin' Alright" and the Box Tops' "The Letter." Plus The Wonder Years intro song, which wasn't so hot in its original Beatles form and the only good thing Cocker did with it was have Jimmy Page play on it. Yet classic rock fans never seem to complain that Joe Cocker became famous by singing other people's songs. If he were black and American, he wouldn't get the same free pass.

The Doors. Jim Morrison is summed up best by the Lester Bangs character in Almost Famous: "A drunken buffoon posing as a poet." Truly, there is not much more to add with this clown and his band, they are so boring they're almost beyond my vile. Does anybody over the age of fifteen actually buy into their mystical/mysterious/Jimbo-as-shaman shtick? I guess the Doors could be described as "lounge act buffoons posing as a rock 'n' roll band." My first draft of this contained the line: Who still listens to this crap? But a version "The Doors" surfaced a few years ago with Ian Astbury of the Cult doing the vocals and they did a tour. Who exactly paid money to see this, I'm not sure … Hey! Finally, the Doors are actually mysterious!

Eric Clapton. He sounds like he has a cold when he sings. He makes the blues mind-numbingly boring. And he has come up with just one great musical idea: The opening riff to "Layla." Oh wait, that was Duane Allman. The only good – actually it was great – thing this joker ever did was to quit the Yardbirds because they were "too commercial." (This is the same man of integrity who: 1) would go on to join Blind Faith in a transparent attempt at creating a supergroup to sell mega amounts of records and, 2) would title an album Money and Cigarettes and then promote said album via a tour sponsored by Camel.) The result of his leaving the Yardbirds was that Jeff Beck replaced him and instead of simply being whiteboys playing the blues, they became one of the most daring, exciting, and innovative bands of their time. Claptonheads claim E.C. has passion and Beck is all technique, but when Beck's technique is so powerfully awesome – "Mister You're A Better Man Than I", "Heart Full of Soul", "Shapes of Things", etc. – I gotta quote Joan Didion: "Style is character." If you're still a big-time fan of Eric Clapton you are the whitest person on your cul-de-sac.

And What Evenutally Happened To That Empire?

The Strib's headline about the Windows 7 operating system?

"The Empire Strikes Back."

I think I laughed out loud when I first saw it last night. I love the part about "making Apple look stupid":

Windows 7 also could be Microsoft's long-awaited chance to strike back at Apple, whose PC guy vs. Mac guy advertisements lampooned Vista as hopelessly complicated and flawed.

"Windows 7 also is designed to make Apple look stupid, because it's much better than Vista and much leaner, too."

But here's the part that's truly stupid:

The installation process isn't a simple matter of popping a disk into the PC. Data files and programs may be eliminated during the upgrade, so consumers must first copy their data onto external disk drives or finger-sized flash drives.

Windows 7. I'm sure it'll be so much better.

What A Twit

I think I know how Twitter works now ... maybe. Anyway, my lack of knowledge didn't stop me from setting up a Twitter account. You can find links to my Twitter updates on the sidebar to the right. Oh boy.

Cult Of Aloneness, Continued

Back to the joy of having no regular coworkers. When I had a corporate job, I had a photocopied excerpt from Douglas Coupland's Generation X taped to the in/out box on my desk:

Air Family: Describes the false sense of community experienced among coworkers in an office environment.

I used to try not to laugh out loud when people I worked with said "the people in this office are like another family" and a couple of these people were miffed that I had this Air Family definition out in the open. (Actually one of these people was almost visibly upset, sheesh.)

Being one that usually comes up with witty rejoinders ten minutes to twenty-four hours too late, this time I was only fifteen years late:

Coworker: "The people in this office are like another family."

Tuomala: "Yeah. The Manson Family."