The Whining Stranger

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 10 August 2007

2007-08-10T10:09:00.000-07:00

"What are You Wearing?" by Kahimi Karie (from the album K.K.K.K.K., 1998)

Ever bored with the current state of American pop music, I find myself looking to international recordings stars more and more these days. (Or deep into the past, or deep into the past internationally: French yeye is a favorite style of mine over the past few months.) One splendid new discovery for me has been Kahimi Karie, one of the Japanese pop stars to hail from Tokyo's Shibuya district over the past decade. Check out this tune. It's dreamlike and revolting at the same time. Kahimi's voice is pixie-ish, but the intrusive computer voice that duets with her here will creep you out. On par with Serge Gainsbourg's "Lemon Incest" for unsettling sex songs.

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: It's Not Too Late for Summer Reading!

2007-08-10T09:56:00.000-07:00

It's August. As I said around this time last year, for those people, like myself, whose lives are governed by the academic calendar this is a period of looming angst and melancholy. Summer is nearly over. Soon I'll be busy in blazers and striped ties, with ink stains on my fingertips, and too many papers to grade.

But summer's not quite over yet! And in an act of Buddhist goodwill, I want to recommend five great books for end-of-summer reading. All of these are from my list of books read in 2007, and all of them left an impression that makes me want to pass them on.

1. Bel Canto by Anne Patchett

Patchett says she was inspired somewhat by Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain here. The plot is somewhat timely: terrorists take a number of VIPs hostage at a dinner party in a South American country. One of the hostages is an internationally famous opera diva, who stands at the center of the unlikely group of people assembled by the incident. I've heard some opera fans don't like the book, but I loved it. It's emotionally compelling, with great characters, and I found myself listening to the opera channel on satellite radio for weeks afterward.

2. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

This book is, literally, life-changing. There is no describing Murakami's style to those who've not yet read him. It's akin to trying to capture the essence of Zen Buddhism in discursive terms. Or like Louis Armstrong said of jazz, "If you gotta ask, you'll never know." Just pick the book up and read it. It begins with curious phone calls and a husband's search for a lost cat. You won't believe where it takes you from there.

3. A Neutral Corner: Boxing Essays by A.J. Liebling

You don't need to be a fight fan to appreciate this one. Liebling's prose is among the finest in American writing, with allusions that range from the erudite to the street-level. He'll take you into a scrubby gym to watch a palooka club fighter train, and take you off on a tangent about philosophy or geography along the way.

4. The Elementary Particles by Michel Houellebecq

I warn you now: this cat isn't for everybody. You'll ask yourself along the way, "Is he being ironic here?" as he descends into virulent fits of misogyny and racism. But then he'll unleash a lyrical passage, lamenting humanity's flaws, and you'll forgive him, if only momentarily.

5. Oh What a Paradise It Seems by John Cheever

I just read this one the other day, after picking it up in a Goodwill store on the highway. It's a short novel, but a fine example of Cheever's lush prose style. And it has the kind of happenstance connections that I like in the best of his short stories. An entertaining read that you'll not put down easily.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: Which George Has Less Credibility?

2007-05-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

This one?

...who is suddenly claiming that he was mysteriously drugged by some unknown party back in 1974, on the night Ali knocked him out in Zaire? A revelation so shocking he had to wait thirty-three years and until the publication of his memoirs to present it to the world?

Or this one?

...who's suddenly claiming (again) that there was a tangible connection between Al-Qaeda and Iraq, and thus the gigantic military clusterfuck going on over in the Middle East was necessary and justified?

You tell me.

Musings: The Whining Stranger on Men's Fashion and Seminal Sartorial Influences

2007-05-17T13:05:00.000-07:00

Hello all, if there is indeed any kind of all left out there after my endless absence. The last time I checked statcounter.com to see if the Whining Stranger had retained any kind of readership, I was not surprised to see that this has become a virtually readerless space on the web. Up on blocks, as it were. Nevertheless, I'm back, maybe mostly for myself, to return to semi-regular musings and minutiae, now that the summer is here and my work schedule has lightened again for a while.

Today's topic: a fluff piece, I'm afraid. No philosophy or politics or literary exegesis this time around, but rather a brief meditation on men's clothing. I've been thinking about my arrival as a self-assured wearer of clothes. I have specific tastes. I am not moved so much by passing trends. (Thank Allah for that, too, as I couldn't stomach another go-around with acid wash if it ever comes back into vogue.)

So today I present for your amusement, as a subset of my ongoing Pantheon of Heroes, a list of the seminal influences on my fashion sense.

1. Spike Lee

I love Spike for daring to make it acceptable for grown men to be seen in public wearing baseball-related apparel. My Alan Trammell jersey and my 1918 model Detroit Tigers cap thank you.

2. Marcello Mastroianni

Marcello, as faithful readers know, is my model for sunglasses-shopping. The dark, chunky shades he sports throughout Otto e mezzo have influenced my purchases for over fifteen years now.

3. Bill Evans

For the spectacles, and the clean-cut timeless look. I wear horn-rimmed glasses very similar to those pictured here on days when I go bespectacled.

4. Steve Dallas

While this Bloom County character was never anything worth celebrating in terms of his personality, I was always charmed by the aloof way he held his martini glass, and the length of his ties (always extending below the belt buckle), and the way his Oxford shirts are always worn with sleeves rolled up. The first thing I do when I get to the office every morning is roll my sleeves up, the same way.

5. George Plimpton

The preppingest preppy if ever there was, dear George informed my love for corduroy and repp ties and Oxford shirts. I recall seeing a photo of George in Sports Illustrated when I was in high school, in a story about his attending both a Yankees and a Mets game on the same day. The photo showed George on his bicycle, riding to the subway station. He was wearing corduroy pants, and a wool crewneck sweater, and a tweed jacket. It was autumn in New York. I was transfixed.

And a few sartorial rules, by which I abide:

1. Men will never look good in cowboy boots.

2. Ditto tank tops.

3. Button-down collars were meant to be buttoned down.

4. The color of your belt should match that of your shoes if both are leather. (Grosgrain proves to be an exception.)

5. Loops and oversized pockets only look good on jeans if you're a carpenter and need to carry tools on the job.

6. White athletic socks were made for wearing during athletic activities.

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 5 February 2007

2007-02-05T14:10:00.000-08:00

You! Hallway whistler!
Avian interruptions!
Would that you would stop!

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 24 January 2007

2007-01-24T10:28:00.000-08:00

infinitely blue:
the sky, the trail of music
I follow them both

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 18 January 2007

2007-01-18T10:01:00.000-08:00

I live in trivi-
alities, traffic in the
mundane. Yet sometimes--

Musings: 10 December 1994 - 23 December 2006

2006-12-23T15:22:00.000-08:00

To the greatest canine companion a neurotic intellectual would-be-writer boy could ever have asked for, who traveled everywhere I went from age 21 to age 32, who lived in two provinces and one state and two countries with me, and who kept me going through dissertation-writing and book revisions and losing Tiger seasons and so many trying times, on the day of his death from old age.

I'll miss you, buddy.

A poem by Pablo Neruda, in tribute:

A Dog Has Died

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

Proustian Years in Review: Part 6: 1999

2006-12-03T09:24:00.000-08:00

After re-seeing Kathryn Bigelow's film Strange Days (which takes place around New Year's Eve 1999) last night, I got to remembering what that resonant fin du siecle year had been like for me.

So, as always, let's revisit my madeleines.

For me, 1999 was:

tuna sandwiches on crusty rolls and strong coffee, bought from a deli every afternoon on a week-long trip to Germany I made in March.
the soundtrack to Bertrand Tavernier's film Round Midnight, a former favorite LP on vinyl, which I replaced in my music collection as a CD in summer.
Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children, read in paperback over the holidays.
Sam Shepard's play Seduced; I played the lead role in a graduate school production in December.
my old Gateway 2000 laptop, which proved to be Y2K compliant.
Tiger Stadium, which I visited for the last time in September, with my family.

And what, may I ask, was 1999 for you?

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: Oh, Christians!

2006-11-21T13:16:00.000-08:00

Just in time for the holidays, a bunch of conservative Christians aiming to put the spectacle back in spectacular bigotry.

Read about their efforts to bombard Wal-Mart here: http://www.savewalmart.com/

And then make sure to drop them an email reminding them that the so-called Radical Homosexual Agenda they're trying to suppress was inaugurated by those notorious maverick queers, the Founding Fathers.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 20 November 2006

2006-11-20T16:07:00.000-08:00

"Lucky to Be Me" by Bill Charlap (as composed by Leonard Bernstein, from the album, Somewhere: The Songs of Leonard Bernstein, 2004)

A lazy, swinging standard to commemorate a shortened Thanksgiving work week. The way Charlap comes in with bass and drums after the just-piano introduction is cause for thanks. And really, I need to say it out loud more often: "I'm so lucky to be me."

Musings: Ah, old scholar.

2006-11-20T07:21:00.000-08:00

I realized this morning that my not infrequent grumbling about students' work ethics and yard ethics and driving ethics etc. may rehearse one of the more tired cliches of university life: The "What's wrong with these kids?" & "Back in my day" & "Now is worse than then" cross-generational divide. If I gave you the impression that I am united among my colleagues on the faculty in a constant misanthropic judging of today's youth, then I apologize. Such is not the case.

In fact, as I rediscovered at a faculty party this weekend, the professoriate has perhaps a greater ability to stir my ire than the earnest if underachieving undergrads about whom I sometimes rant.

Case in point: the tenured colleague from another department who brazenly and proudly told my partner and I that--

He hates cats and would be happy to shoot them if they came into his yard. ["Um, you do live out of the radius of my cat's wanderings, right?"]
He has pulled himself up from his bootstraps over the course of his career, the evidence of which is the fact that when he first moved here to [unnamed college town] he lived in a neighborhood where [sotto voce] he "was the only white person around." ["Um, it is truly inspiring how you've left those insidious black and brown folks behind."]
The university needs to stop hiring so many ugly women, and when he's on a hiring committee makes sure to vote against any unattractive women candidates. ["Um, what is the number for the campus ombudsman again?"]
He doesn't feel you need to be able to talk with the person you're fucking. In fact, he had a thing with a 17 year old a few years back. The pussy, he insisted, was great. ["Um, did a tenured faculty member just say "Pussy" and proudly admit to statutory rape?"]
The Mexican-American fellow colleague of ours who's thinking of running for the House of Representatives in the future should borrow his white wife and children to impress voters, unless of course that would hurt the "obvious" advantage of being a minority candidate. ["Um, we are talking about the United States, right? What fucking advantage?"]

Sigh.

Musings: "The reports of my death..."

2006-11-15T19:06:00.000-08:00

...as Mark Twain wrote in 1897, "are greatly exaggerated."

My apologies to any readers of The Whining Stranger who've missed my daily billets absurd, my cranky meditations, my pop culture obsessions. Maybe that reader is me most of all, who's been sad to let this blog slide for sometime now. But it's been a busy semester. And after the Tigers' collapse in the Fall Classic ("Practice throwing to third base come Feburary, ye Motown pitchers!") I fell, quite frankly, into a bit of autumnal melancholy.

So, what I have missed reporting on?

Well, I published a short story last month, which was exciting. And my classes continue to go well, though we're into the grading monsoon period of the semester. I've worn innumerable pencils down circling comma splices and writing "vague topic sentence" in the margins of undergraduate term papers. Today I felt the first surge of impending Yuletide spirit when I booked my trip home for the holidays. 32 and still waking up in the old childhood bedroom on Christmas morning... Which means, yes, Mom still hasn't sold the house. But she will, I assume, at some point.

Politically, the Democrats restored some equilibrium to that mess up in Washington. And joy of joys, that bonehead rummy, by which I mean, Mr. Donald, stepped down. Shame it took 2800 American military casualities--to whose families my heart goes out, and my prayers are directed--before he was willing to admit things weren't going so shit hot. Speaking of matters political, was anyone else as digusted as I was being forced to endure that lousy Chevrolet commercial throughout the baseball playoffs, in which John Mellencamp celebrates "Our country" to a series of contradictory images: Viet Nam, Ali in the ring, Rosa Parks, Nixon saluting from the plane, MLK, Jr, Katrina, the Twin Towers... And all to sell more fucking big trucks. I wait for moresuch inspired commercial spots. Maybe "the Trail of Tears" to sell Pop Tarts; Japanese internment camps shilling for Chef Boyardee; a Swiffer sold by veterans of the Tuskegee experiments... Ah, our country indeed. And history makes for good marketing.

See, cold autumn winds, post-Series depression aside, I remain critical, and whining, and stranger.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: A T-Shirt Everybody Should Buy

2006-10-18T10:38:00.000-07:00

Click here to see it.

The Whining Stranger on Sport: World Series Bound!

2006-10-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

World Series Bound!

The ball goes sailing from Magglio Ordonez's bat into the left field seats at Comerica Park and I am somewhere between ten years old and thirty-two. More than two decades I have waited, ever faithful about baseball, but cynical about so many other things. I've grown weary with age about politics, about religion, but baseball. Sweet baseball. Those heartbreaking Detroit Tigers, in whom I put so much faith and hope every April.

Finally.
The World Fucking Series.
Finally.

Amen.

Musings: Real Men Use Umbrellas

2006-10-10T15:04:00.000-07:00

Last night, at a bar with a couple of friends to commemorate Monday Night Football with ultra-manly activities (read: drinking beer, eating pizza), one compadre began to tease me for having an umbrella with me. (It was rainy; I walked!) Apparently, he'd been listening just yesterday to two morning radio louts go on and on about the potential unmanliness of using an umbrella. (Their reasoning had something to do with not being able to work a barbecue, hold a beer and carry an umbrella all at the same time. To which I say, unironically, I've got big hands. And you know what they say about men with-- Er.)

Anyway, is this--dear Mary Poppins--the face of umbrelladom? Is this the popular image of the umbrella post-Neville Chamberlain?

Need I remind people that one of the scariest, most mysterious figures in twentieth-century American history is the so-called Umbrella Man in Dealey Plaza the day John Kennedy was killed? This is a spooky figure who carried an umbrella--and had it open as Kennedy's motorcade passed--even though it was sunny and warm that day. He's an insidious villain who may or may not have fired a poison dart from said umbrella and thereby paralyzed Kennedy so he couldn't react to the incoming hail of gunfire.

That example, noted, though, I will of course point out that not every man with an umbrella qualifies for real man status. Look at the unreal man pictured below. He's--dare I say it?--all wet, umbrella or not.

The Whining Stranger on Sport: Hasta la vista, New York Yankees!

2006-10-08T07:52:00.000-07:00

Sweet jubilation! Unbound joy!

I thought this series was basically over after Game 1 in the Bronx? How many times did we have to hear about this New York team possibly sporting the greatest line-up ever assembled? And wasn't Kenny Rogers supposed to be a playoff dud?

No, all around. Of course.

Just as the Detroit faithful knew it would be.

The Whining Stranger on Sport: My Hero!

2006-10-05T21:52:00.000-07:00

God bless you, Zoom-Zoom. And how do you like them apples, Jeet?

Musings: On Headphones and Dark Sunglasses and Monday Mornings

2006-10-02T09:56:00.000-07:00

A brief procrastinatory meditation as I try to kill ten minutes of would-be work time before I justify more non-work time with a noontime lunch break...

I like busy weekends with much socializing, for the most part, but they make me exhausted come Monday morning. Not a good way to start the week. I need to sleep more, perhaps. Saturday morning, for instance, I ran a 5k race on just under three hours sleep after too much beer and good fun the night before. My time was good given the obvious fatigue and dehydration, but I have to admit I'm not a kid anymore. ("I admit I'm not a kid anymore.") Sunday followed a long birthday party for a friend on Saturday night. I was slow moving till dinner time. Then it was about time to go to bed and call it a weekend. This morning's 9am meeting was unwelcome in turn.

In other news, I'm loving the mobile private bubble of my mp3 player and dark sunglasses combination on walks to campus each morning. The new shades that I got (black, Marcello-ish) for a dollar-fifty at a thrift store last week are clearly the darkest sunglasses I've ever owned. I won't even wear them for driving because they impede visibility so much. But that's good when I have to pass Casa Barbarian next door, and for general, "Don't get in my consciousness" ambulation time before meetings and classes.

Still reeling from the Tigers' collapse against KC this weekend. I am soliciting a general abundance of pro-Detroit, anti-Yankees vibes from anybody who reads this. Boo Yankees!

OK, there. I look at the clock. It's just about midday. By the time I post this it'll be time to get my lunch out and ignore the stacks of books on the desk for a little bit more.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 2 October 2006

2006-10-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

"God Must Be a Boogie Man" by Joni Mitchell (from the album Mingus, 1979)

A charming bit of swinging theology from one of the great songwriting masters. This tune opens Joni's tribute album to the great Charles Mingus and was inspired by the first few pages of his autobiography, Beneath the Underdog. (Never read it? You should. He turns the expectations of genius-artist this-is-my-life writing on its head so thoroughly that you'll either laugh or cry or throw the book across the room or all three, but you won't be unstimulated for one second.) While I don't like to think too much about the nature of God for the unavoidable vertigo that follows (I'd rather just assume there is a big master-blaster up there and that s/he loves me and that there are no floods or turns-into-salt coming my way), I can't help but think that Joni's refrain about the cosmos adhering to "a cock-eyed plan" is spot-on.

Musings: The Barbarian Invasions Continue

2006-09-27T15:17:00.000-07:00

Leaving the house today to walk to campus, my partner and I noticed that the rich barbarian undergrads next door--they of the BMW and the Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, of the garbage on the lawn, and the ratty couch on the front porch--were hosting a stack of crumpled Bud Light cans all over the front lawn, just steps away from one of their gas-guzzling expensive vehicles.

Now, I'm not one for neighborhood policing, or gated communities, or homogeneous middle-class living, I swear it. But could you spoiled little assholes at least make the slightest bit of effort to step up the evolutionary scale and join civilization? Christ, for proprietary's sake, even if you're refuse to adhere to the common sense (and humane) convention of not driving-while-shitfaced, could you hide the evidence of your drunken attempts at vehicular manslaughter?

Idiots.

Musings: Ah, Gouranga, you big galoot.

2006-09-27T15:10:00.000-07:00

Bizarre email in the junk-mail folder at work today, sent from someone called Neateye, and reading as such:

Call out Gouranga be happy
Gouranga Gouranga Gouranga!
That which brings the highest happiness

Needless to say, I was intrigued, and did some googling--ah, my procrastination knows no bounds!--and discovered that I have been enfolded into an Internet-wide phenomenon: http://www.joewein.de/sw/spam-neateye-gouranga.htm#example.

Speaking of Internet-wide phenomena, I am searching high and low without success for an mp3 of John R. Butler's "The Hand of the Almighty," which may be the funniest country song I've ever heard. Where oh where oh where?

The Whining Stranger on Sport: Back in the Hunt--Finally!

2006-09-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

The thirteen year old boy has become a thirty-two year old man, but he's no less giddy than the adolescent he was in October 1987.

Back to the playoffs again at last.

Proustian Years in Review: Part 5: 1987

2006-09-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

For me, 1987 was:

a white sweatshirt bearing an image of Bill the Cat, which I wore to a football game on Saturday, 3 October, the day before the Tigers clinched the AL East pennant against the hated Toronto Blue Jays.
copies of The Beatles' Abbey Road and The Beatles [aka "the White Album"] that I bought in summer with earnings from my paper route.
a yellow hardcover journal that I bought at the drug store in the neighborhood, and which began the long string of diaries I continue to keep to this day.
a pair of oxblood penny loafers that I wore with my school uniform each day, and with jeans on weekends.
paperback copies of Animal Farm, The Iowa Baseball Confederacy, The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz and The Catcher in the Rye, read on the couch in the basement or curled up under the blankets in my bedroom.
chocolate cream sandwich cookies and turkey sandwiches made on croissants and consumed with big cold glasses of milk.
my beloved beat-up Tiger cap.

And what, may I ask, was 1987 for you?

The Whining Stranger on Sport: It's Been a Long Nineteen Years; or, One is the Magic Number

2006-09-24T11:43:00.000-07:00

As I write, the Detroit Tigers currently lead the Royals 1-0 in this afternoon's game. If the Tigers win, they have clinched a spot in this year's post-season, making it to the playoffs for the first time since 1987. Nineteen years. Nineteen long years I have waited since the last time they were even in long sniffing distance of the World Series.

When the Tigers last clinched a playoff spot--with a 1-0 victory over the Toronto Blue Jays on 4 October, 1987, in the last game of the regular season--the number one box office-earning film in the country was Fatal Attraction; Ronald Reagan was the President of the United States; the number one song on the radio was Whitney Houston's "Didn't We Almost Have It All?"; and the above Calvin and Hobbes comic strip was part of the Sunday funnies.

Long time.

And in the time I've written this entry, the Tigers have scored four more runs. 5-0.

Musings: 100 Days of Curmudgeonly Sentiments Continuing--

2006-09-20T17:49:00.000-07:00

Things to keep a prematurely grumpy old man grumpy as September wears on:

1. Academic departments that decide suddenly to ration out how much paper each faculty member receives each semester. "Um. Pardon me for printing out drafts of the academic articles, book chapters, short stories, reviews and lecture notes that lie at the heart of my job description and tenure expectations."

2. Nose-diving first-place baseball teams that seem determined to relinquish their lead just before playoff time.

3. Any vehicle with "F-150, F-250, or F-450" in its name.

4. Bigoted politicians who don't attend AIDS conventions ostensibly because it will link them publicly to a "queer" cause.

5. Fantasy football draftees who underperform. Yeah, I might be talking 'bout you, Cedric Wilson.

6. Thirty-dollar mp3 player covers supposedly designed for certain models of mp3 players but which don't fit properly.

7. The jerk campus police officer who ticketed my car when I was parked illegally to play basketball. The lot was half empty, dude!

So we beat on, boats against the current, and all that--

Musings: Serendipitous Weekends

2006-09-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

So, the Whining Stranger walked into a serendipitous proposition this weekend, my friends. My two serious homebrewer friends invited me to be a judge for a regional beer-brewing competition. That's right: a weekend of sipping porters and California commons and altbiers and filling out comment sheets, in which I scored each beverage on its appearance, its flavor, its aroma, and its "intangibles." Granted it's been a long time since the WS started drinking in the a.m. hours (ah, for my lost salad days), so pacing was a bit of an issue, but overall it was a swimmingly pleasant weekend of foam and hops and good food (prime rib dinner on Saturday night!). A charmed life.

Today though I need to start filling this 30GB of mp3 player space. Any recommendations for must-have songs? Upbeat suggestions are especially welcome since this technological investment was especially made in the interest of charging me up on morning walks to campus, before I go teach. The mp3 player-filling is, of course, another procrastinatory measure when I should be doing scads of backed-up academic work. But all I really want to do is pile into my easy chair with headphones on and a Haruki Murakami novel in my lap. Sigh.

Oh, and go Tigers. Two weeks left to the season and then cling to the AL Central division lead.

The Whining Stranger on Music: An Epochal Announcement

2006-09-14T14:31:00.000-07:00

Last night, the Whining Stranger joined the 21st century.
His music appreciation habits will never be the same.

Musings: On Mortality, Mine

2006-09-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

Debated for a while today whether or not I'd write about this, but then talked myself into it, if only to fashion a procrastinatory measure that keeps me from addressing the five-item to-do list on my desk here at work.

This morning I went to the doctor for a follow-up visit, in part to talk about test results from an MRI I had a couple weeks ago. My doctor recommended the MRI because of my father's death--as a relatively young man, from a brain aneurysm he didn't know he had. The MRI itself was a new (and unwelcome) experience for me, a here's-what-it-feels-like-to-be-shoved-in-a-coffin-for-forty-five-minutes revelation, but with more clanky sound effects than the dead usually have to endure. But whatever. I had the test and pushed it to the back of my mind, to be left aside until today's follow-up.

On the drive though, I--of course, being an imaginative sort--let my mind wander a bit into what-if territory. "So, Whining Stranger, odds are if there was anything really irregular she'd have called you right away, but on the other hand, she may have needed a couple weeks to think of how to let you know that you're in grave danger, that there's an aneurysm in your head, waiting to send you careening toward an early exit." Now, you might think that an anxiety sufferer like me would be sent into pre-emptive convulsions over traveling down such a hypothetical path. (Remember that scene in Hannah and Her Sisters, when Woody Allen sits waiting for test results, convinced that he's about to learn he has an inoperable brain tumor...?) Oddly enough, though, I didn't feel that expected tightness in the chest or nausea in the belly. Instead, mostly calm. A settled searching through the "These are the things I'd do" if I were staring eye to eye with the Fella in the Brite Nitegown.

I'd probably want to quit teaching. (Sorry, kids, but I hope you understand.)
I'd commit myself to writing more. Maybe dash off two or three more inconsequential stories in my remaining days.
I'd make sure that the people I love know how much I love them.
I'd eat sushi every day damn day, and let the dog eat steak.

As it turns out though, everything's OK in my head. (Well, on the aneurysm front, anyway-- I'm still an anxious cat, but that's not terminal.)

And rather than spend the morning thinking about final wishes, I cruised home with the windows down, singing "Louie, Louie" loudly with the stereo. And my partner was waiting with a hug when I arrived.

Shoo, Grim Reaper. I got things to do.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 13 September 2006

2006-09-13T12:08:00.000-07:00

"Young Americans" by David Bowie (from the album Young Americans, 1975)

"Do you remember your President Nixon? / Do you remember the bills you have to pay? / Or even yesterday?"

For undergraduates in Mercedes and brand-new SUVs. For twenty-year olds who have their cellphones pulled from their bags to make that frantic call the minute I announce class is over. ("Who are you calling?" I want to ask. "What's so important?") For stupid Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirts. For senses of entitlement combined with suspect work ethics.

This one's for you.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: On 9/11

2006-09-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

Given my profession, it's no surprise that I believe art and literature have a messianic propensity for salvation--or at least for offering the understanding of experience, the shaping of chaos into form, that seems to offer salvation as we stumble through our lives. Today I try to remember my early reactions to that tragic morning, five years ago. The disbelief that clouded my early day as I watched mass murder on television. The uncertainty that seemed to hover in the air in the weeks that followed.

This, of course, was all before insidious politicians tried to shape circumstance for me. It preceded the appropriation of grief to encourage a blind faith in unjustified violence. Before garish magnetic ribbons on the backs of gas-guzzling vehicles criss-crossing the empire's highways.

Five years later, one of the best responses to 9/11 is still one of the earliest: Toni Morrison's poem, "The Dead of September 11," which I first read in Vanity Fair around November of that weighty autumn. Read it and think about Morrison's compassionate response, and how it makes so much more sense--it shapes the chaos so much more efficiently--than so much of the nonsense that's followed in the half-decade since.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 11 September 2006

2006-09-11T08:53:00.000-07:00

"Pink Moon" by Nick Drake (from the album Pink Moon, 1972)

Before this tune was co-opted by Volkswagen for an ad campaign at the turn of the millenium, it was a moody, semi-lost artifact by a moody, semi-lost folk singer who died too soon. It's appropriate for a rainy Monday (and a day of needful memorializing) as the autumnal equinox creeps in.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: In the "...Which Everybody, Including the Deceitful Clown Pictured Below, Knew, Of Course" Depart

2006-09-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

Today's top headline: "Senate: No Prewar Saddam-al-Quaida Ties."

No shit, really?

Who here besides me imagines this cat in his undergrad days, tossing water balloons up like a hyena, and piling into his Range Rover with open liquor?

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 8 September 2006

2006-09-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

"Alice Childress" by Ben Folds Five (from the album Ben Folds Five, 1995)

An enigmatic melodic number by the piano-based trio that played, by their own description, "punk rock for sissies." I was perplexed by the meaning of this song for ages, given that it namechecks (or seems to namecheck) a famous African American playwright in the title and chorus. Turns out though, that the lyrics were contributed by Folds's ex-wife, Anna Goldman, who wrote the words for a hospital patient she knew. (This info, unverified, comes from The Ben Folds Knowledge Base.) Nevertheless, it's painfully sweet in its melody, and the piano chart is handsome.

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: We Have a Winner!

2006-09-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

Back in July, recall, I issued a summer writing challenge to the writerly readers of this blog. Write a 500-word short story on this theme: For fear that my mother would sell the house before I returned home again, I made sure to write a sentence in permament marker in the closet of my childhood bedroom. I set the deadline as Labor Day. I said there would be a prize.

I've chosen a winner.

First off, though, let's remember who entered the contest:

1. EDW, "It's No Story I Can Tell."

2. Jami, "Permanence Marker."

3. Paperback Writer, "['Writer's Block']."

Secondly, let me say that I really enjoyed reading all three writer's efforts. It's fun to see how different creative people approach the same topic. I like the different styles, and the different approaches. I like how EDW, for instance, takes a perspective you don't expect.

But there can be only one winner, I'm afraid.

And that winner is--

Jami, for "Permamence Marker."

I'm a fan of quick cuts, brevity, non-sequitir prose, and Jami's entry had all of that. And so, Jami, contact me, and I'll send you your prize: a used (I prefer the term "previously loved") of my all-time favorite book on writing, Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones, which I'll send your way from AbeBooks.

Musings: Conversations, Welcome Correspondence and Frothy Ales

2006-09-05T14:01:00.000-07:00

Cool autumnal rains made Labor Day weekend a time of acceptable transition. Summer is over, school has begun, I am lost to books and classrooms and sharpened pencils and striped ties again for the better part of the next four months. On Friday we celebrated with dinner out at a favorite restaurant. On Saturday we attended films on campus, and then went for a dinner and drinks get-together at a colleague's that took us into the early morning hours and carried us home with ample wine and beer in our bellies. Sunday saw me at a beer-tasting. (Yes, you read that right.) I drank different style beers all afternoon before we headed out for Thai food and more beer and wine with other friends, till 3 a.m.

Sunday afternoon we walked the dog in the rain. I napped on the couch. We had tilapia and green beans and couscous and salad. Sunday evening saw me smoking and reading Ralph Ellison in a comfy chair and drinking scotch and listening to the patter of rain and the swell of jazz from the radio.

And this weekend I found out that another story of mine has been accepted for publication.

Life.
Is.
Good.

Will decide on the winner of the Summer Writing contest soon and decide on a prize for said victor. I'm still open to late-entries if you get 'em in quickly.

Musings: On Poll Results and First Weeks of Teaching

2006-09-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

So the poll results are in for August. Apparently nobody (but me) gives a rat's ass whether the Tigers win the World Series or whether Barry Sonnefield makes the right casting choice for Jack Gladney in White Noise or if Philip Roth gets his Nobel laureate due. But you do care about fixing that mess down in D.C. that's contributed to our world getting progressively more miserable since early in 2001. (Not to mention that some of you think I'm underpaid. I am. Criminally.)

Meanwhile, your old pal, The Whining Stranger, survived his first week of teaching without too many public speaking panic attacks or confrontations with water-balloon-toting or vodka-swilling hyenas. I was a bit put off by one student in one of my classes who confidently announced to me in his introduction that he doesn't like using intelligent words to discuss literature nor does he find much joy in sitting around talking about books. I told him I expect plenty of both, so hopefully there won't be too much trouble there. Otherwise, the student population in my classes seems eager so far, though my jokes are only earning resounding laughter about 62% of the time thus far. The generation gap is widening, I fear. I need to incorporate more physical comedy into my schtick. Nothing goes better with a good literary discussion than a well-timed pratfall.

And Mom called this morning to say that she scored free tickets to see Steely Dan and Michael McDonald. I'm happy for her. She was envious when she heard my glowing review back in July.

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: One Last Call To Scribes, Would-Be Wordsmiths, and the Literarily Inclined

2006-09-01T09:45:00.000-07:00

Calling all writers again. You might recall that back in the dog days of summer, I issued this 500-word Summer Writing Challenge. The deadline is Labor Day--Monday, the end of this last weekend of summer.

To submit your final entry, please link your story to this post. I'll judge the winner sometime last week and send out a prize.

And tell your writerly friends!

Musings: Cast your vote; break the tie.

2006-08-31T19:12:00.000-07:00

Look at the August poll--now just about over--in the sidebar to the right. 6 voters. 3 who think America should be saved by the Democratic dream team, and 3 who think I deserve better pay. Cast your vote. Break the tie. The gods are listening.

Musings: Ah, a simpler time, then.

2006-08-30T15:10:00.000-07:00

And you think the pharmaceutical industry is nutty now. Recall this popular children's cough remedy, available between 1898 and 1910. Robitussen just can't compare.

Musings: What a week, what a week--

2006-08-30T09:25:00.000-07:00

So Jonbenet's "confessed" killer goes free, The Office (thankfully) wins "Best Comedy" at the Emmys, the Tigers try to rally themselves before the brutal stretch run of September, and I survive my first day of teaching yesterday.

Another earnest group of students, another fifteen-week run through reading and grading and nervous lectures and ironing my shirts in a rush before I take off to campus, and feeling like I'll never get caught up, and asking over and over and over, "How soon till Thanksgiving break?" before finally it's Christmas and I'm on a plane back home and I've made it through another term.

Whew.

More coffee, please.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 30 August 2006

2006-08-30T09:17:00.000-07:00

"Kashmere" by the Kashmere Stage Band (included on the compilation Funky 16 Corners, 2001)

This group--who performed and recorded in the late 1960s and early 70s--ranks up there with Kinky Friedman and Stubbs barbecue sauce among the coolest exports ever to emerge from the Lone Star state. You will be astounded by the preternatural tightness of the rhythm section on this funky number; you will be more amazed when you think that this was a high school band! Whereas my crappy high school stage band tried to keep together on arrangements of "Birdland" or tunes from Cats, these guys could lay down grooves that invite the b-boys to lay the cardboard down and break till the brink of dawn.

For more info, check out this NPR story on the band from earlier this month.

The Whining Stranger on Film: A Sympathetic Academic on Film

2006-08-28T10:48:00.000-07:00

Add Steve Carrell's character in Little Miss Sunshine to the ongoing history of celluloid literature professors. Saw this flick last night and loved it, not just for Carrell's sympathetic melancholy academic, but for the whole panoply of dysfunctional--but kindhearted--family types the film offers. Abigail Breslin as the seven year-old competing for the beauty pageant honor named in the film's title is the most moving child actor (with none of drunk-driver Haley Joel Osment's maudlin puckering) since Paper Moon-era Tatum O'Neal.

And the film's finale is choice--an appropriate, but laugh-worthy, commentary on the grotesqueness of child beauty contests.

Musings: Ah, scholars--

2006-08-27T09:07:00.000-07:00

"Autum, to me the most congenial of seasons: the University, to me the most congenial of lives." --Robertson Davies, The Rebel Angels (1981)

Now, understand this from the get-go: most days I love my job and enjoy the neighborhood in which I live. I love being a professor. I like being close to campus. I like the morning walk that takes me from my home to the university at which I teach. I like greeting the day by passing stately brick buildings and eventually entering the stately brick building that houses my office and the classrooms in which I teach.

But I also fear that I'm becoming a curmudgeon at age thirty-two. I find myself frustrated often by the undergraduates that surround me. I forgot about it over the summer, I think, but with their return to town en masse over the past week that frustration has re-emerged. Part of the problem might be that I entered this career expecting that undergraduates would tend to be the way I was as an undergraduate: that is, not insanely ambitious, but at least intellectually curious. The type of kids who read The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald on the weekends not because it's been assigned to them, but because it's fun to read. Students who check out Ingmar Bergman films when they show near campus because it's exciting to discover great art...

Alas--

Last night, walking the dog in the early evening, I saw a pile of undergraduates piling into an SUV with an open bottle of vodka and uncapped beers all around. (And this in a college town that--as I posted earlier--seems to lead the universe in drunk-driving catastrophes.) Then turning back onto my own street, I saw my neighbors from two doors down amusing themselves with a giant water balloon slingshot, taking turns dousing each other with the explosive splash of landing-balloons-plus-gravity, laughing like hyenas all the while.

Sigh.

Trust me, I wasn't a prudish undergrad. (Rather, I was enamored with the idea of a "studious by day, dissolute by night" Byronic balance.) Nor was I a humorless student. But I did aspire to be smart, cool, thoughtful.

Maybe it's narcissism, certainly it's idealistic, but I continue to search the neighborhood and the campus for visions of a younger me.

Musings: Three Reasons to Smile

2006-08-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

1. The cover of the latest issue of Sports Illustrated.

2. A new graduate student in my department told me the other day that, bearded, I am a dead ringer for Johnny Damon. I imagine this kid was just sucking up as he'd heard me say earlier that I'm a lifelong baseball fan who would have loved to play centerfield in the majors, but still--

3. The film version of the Amy Sedaris-Stephen Colbert-Paul Dinello vehicle, Strangers with Candy, which I saw last night, and which made me laugh so much that my stomach hurt.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: "Welcome to America."

2006-08-25T10:20:00.000-07:00

If you haven't seen this yet, make sure to watch George Allen's demeaning remarks directed at an American college student, voiced gleefully on his recent listening tour--and then pay attention to Allen's equally grotesque attempt to save his ass afterward. God bless America.

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: Two Appropriate Texts for This Time of Year

2006-08-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

Here are two works by American masters that seem completely appropriate at this busy time, the start of the academic year.

First, a poem, "Dolor," by Theodore Roethke:

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight,
All the misery of manila folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplication of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,
Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,
Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,
Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,
Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.

And then this, the brilliant opening to Don DeLillo's 1985 novel, White Noise:

The station wagons arrived at noon, a long shining line that coursed through the west campus. In single file they eased around the orange I-beam sculpture and moved toward the dormitories. The roofs of the station wagons were loaded down with carefully secured suitcases full of light and heavy clothing; with boxes of blankets, boots and shoes, stationary and books, sheets, pillows, quilts; with rolled-up rugs and sleeping bags; with bicycles, skis, rucksacks, English and Western saddles, inflated rafts. As cars slowed to a crawl and stopped, students sprang out and raced to the rear doors to begin removing the objects inside; the stereo sets, radios, personal computers; small refrigerators and table ranges; the cartons of phonograph records and cassettes; the hairdryers and styling irons; the tennis rackets, soccer balls, hockey and lacrosse sticks, bows and arrows; the controlled substances, the birth control pills and devices; the junk food still in shopping bags--onion-and-garlic chips, nacho thins, peanut creme patties; Waffelos and Kabooms, fruit chews and toffee popcorn; the Dum-Dum pops, the Mystic mints.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 19 August 2006

2006-08-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

"The Chicken" by Jaco Pastorius (from The Birthday Concert, 1981)

Jaco was the greatest electric bass player ever. Here he and his Word of Mouth Big Band give an ol' JB-band tune the major punk-jazz treatment. It's funky, it's fast. And Jaco's interplanetry ostinatos will put a tear in your eye. He died way too young.

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 19 August 2006

2006-08-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

placid Saturday
pianistic excursion
I sing for myself

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: Not as Green As I Thought

2006-08-18T11:20:00.000-07:00

I just took the Ecological Footprint Quiz at earthday.net. I went in thinking I'd score well. I walk to work; I drive a fuel-efficient car; I eat vegetarian dinners maybe 4-5 nights a week.

As it turns out, my Ecological Footprint is 18 acres, and more horrifying, if everybody lived like me we would need 3.9 planets.

Go ahead, test yourself.

Musings: This is the best 80 cent lunch ever

2006-08-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

Trust me. It's unreal how good this for such a ridiculously low price. Thank you, Big Lots!

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 18 August 2006

2006-08-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

"Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo" [i.e. "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly"] by Ennio Morricone (1966)

I stare down the work on my desk like the Man with No Name. Were it not for the building's anti-smoking policy, I would stick stubby cigarillo in my mouth and emit meaningful plumes of nasty burnt tobacco smoke. I rub my hand over my unshaven cheek. I glare with squinty eyes. I remove sidearm from beneath poncho. And I emerge from this showdown untouched, leaving a fallen villain in the blood-soaked dust.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: One Child Beauty Queen = Tens of Thousands Distant Dead Children

2006-08-18T09:40:00.000-07:00

Here I am, all in a tizzy about the damn media again. Why am I so easily moved to anger given the predictability of American news agencies. Here's my beef: sure, I want to see JonBenet Ramsey's killer brought to justice. I find her death--and her life, actually--to be an undeniable tragedy. But I would like a little balance in my news coverage. There are tens of thousands civilians dead in Iraq and Darfur, many of whom--duh!--are children. Sure, they didn't wear blue eyeshadow and perform cute dances in cowboy boots. Yes, they didn't sing in adorably warbly little voices with curled blond hair.

But they do deserve a little more attention, no?

This post seems to articulate what is painfully obvious, I know, and I'll feel a tiny bit better if I hit "publish" and get it online.

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 18 August 2006

2006-08-18T09:36:00.000-07:00

humble fajita
Mexican restaurant reward
patience, hard worker

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 17 August 2006

2006-08-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

"I Predict a Riot" by Kaiser Chiefs (from the album, Employment, 2005)

What happened to these kids? I remember in 2005 finding them everywhere--on Letterman, in music magazines, in correspondence from music-loving hipster former students. I jumped on the bandwagon. I downloaded this tune. I played it out my car window.

And then?

They've vanished.

The pop music career trajectory moves at the speed of light now.

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 17 August 2006

2006-08-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

desk piled with work
seemingly endless travails
my blessings save me

Musings: Five Great Beards for the Ages

2006-08-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

As I take another break, mid-afternoon, here on campus, and run my fingers through two-weeks of new beard growth, I find myself contemplating the great hirsute icons who've inspired me to put the razor away again.

So, Casey Kasem-style, in reverse order, here they are:

5. Croatian tennis great Goran Ivanisevic

Goran tried to revive the Bjorn Borg look in the 1990s, long after the Ice Man had retired from the game.

4. Soul music legend Marvin Gaye

If I had to choose which vision of Marvin to put on a stamp, I'd pick this one. "Let's Get It On"-era Marvin. Never has somebody who embodied virility so thoroughly been able to hit notes so high.

3. All-Star outfielder Johnny Damon (pre-Bronx makeover)

When Johnny Damon first arrived in Spring Training for the Boston Red Sox with full beard and long hair flying out of his cap, I thought baseball had finally again discovered a quirky superstar in the best Mark Fidrych vein. Then Johnny got famous and got interviewed and I realized he's, sadly, a lout. Then he joined the Yankees and went clean-cut. Still, look at that beard. It was a good run for a while.

2. Tintin's seafaring buddy Captain Haddock

Slubberdegullions! That's some kickass facial hair.

1. Inventer of modern fiction Ernest Hemingway

You know this was coming. Pretend to be surprised.

Musings: A Redeeming Googlism

2006-08-16T11:56:00.000-07:00

Somebody found me today by googling four of my favorite words: "donald fagen philip roth."

I could not be more pleased.
Jimmy Buffett be damned.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 16 August 2006

2006-08-16T11:37:00.000-07:00

"Every Little Bit Hurts" by Brenda Holloway (1964)

This ranks for me as one of the top ten, maybe top five, greatest songs in the Motown catalogue. It's got a great gospel pulse, bluesy piano, and a scorching pained vocal from the sadly under-appreciated Ms. Holloway. She's a textbook case in considering how arbitrary fame is. She sings better than Diana Ross, she looks better than Diana Ross, and yet-- Well, as far as I know Brenda Holloway didn't date Berry Gordy, so maybe that's the kicker.

In any case, seek this song out if you don't know it. Seek it out too if you're only familiar with Alicia Keys's recent live version. The Keys version is hot but--to quote another Motown classic--"Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby."

The Whining Stranger's Daily Haiku: 16 August 2006

2006-08-16T11:25:00.000-07:00

[Note: And here I introduce another regular, or semi-regular, feature to the blog, a brief poetic interlude each day to keep my whimsy afloat and my pretentious pseudo-Zen practice a-rollin'. Today's inaugural entry is composed in honor of snacks in my desk drawer here on campus.]

rice crackers assuage
my mid-afternoon hunger
tonight, a cold beer

Musings: My Life is Good, But--

2006-08-14T10:01:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning feeling that my life is good. Tremendously good. Last night we drank red wine and had potato-rosemary bread and ate jambalaya. We walked the dog. I smoked. I played the piano. I finished Don Quixote and read a bit of Dostoevsky ("White Nights") in bed. Good life, right?

And then, surfing the web for Plimpton content I read this, from Daedalus Howell, on his blog: Drawn and Quarterly.

My life is grand, it is, but there's still room for jealousy.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 14 August 2006

2006-08-14T07:03:00.000-07:00

"Rapture" by Blondie (from the album, Autoamerican, 1980)

This one is best appreciated in video form, in all its early-MTV glory. Deborah Harry--as Marc Jacobs knows so profitably--remains iconic, not just a sultry chanteuse but an image for the ages. And look for Jean-Michel Basquiat's cameo around 1:57 into this. Look, too, for the grafitti, and listen to DH's rap, which for many pop music fans was an introduction to an emerging culture that was about to storm big on a national level in the next few years.

Proustian Years in Review: Part 4: 1981

2006-08-14T06:43:00.000-07:00

For me, 1981:

my first ever taste of chapati, experienced while visiting the Indian family who lived across the street.
a handheld General Electric tape recorder that I got for Christmas and which I used to record top hits off the living room stereo, by holding the microphone up to the speaker. (Songs I recorded included Kim Carnes's "Bette Davis Eyes" and Olivia Newton-John's "Physical.")
the confetti I helped clean up off my grandmother's rec room carpet, the night that my aunt got married.
the communion wafer I swallowed to tick another Catholic sacrament off my checklist.
Raiders of the Lost Ark, viewed with my father at a theater downtown.
being introduced to Mad magazine by my best friend.
die-cast metal "dinky" cars kept in a blue plastic case.

And what, may I ask, was 1981 for you?

Musings

2006-08-14T06:40:00.000-07:00

Unfortunate Googlisms, continued--

So somebody found me by googling, "Writing a Eulogy Jimmy Buffett Style."

Hm.

Frankly, I'd rather just be writing Jimmy Buffett's eulogy.
OK, I know that hurt my karmic ledger, but dammit, you know how I feel about Jimmy Buffett.

The Whining Stranger on Music: Ten Recordings To Get a Jazz Collection Started

2006-08-12T11:34:00.000-07:00

As promised, this is my response to Caleb McDaniel's Jazz Primer. First, a few disclaimers about my bias as a jazz fan. One, I'm not especially big on vocal recordings. Granted, I love Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny Hartman, Blossom Dearie, et al. But given a choice between a long saxophone solo and a vocal interpretation of a standard, I'll always go for the sax. Secondly, in terms of periods, I'm especially weak for jazz between 1955 and 1964, a preference that's obvious if you look over this list. That said, here are ten recordings I'd recommend. I think you could pick all of these up for around two hundred bucks if you wanted to be a sudden jazz expert for (maybe just over) two bills.

1. Louis Armstrong, The Complete Hot Five and Hot Seven Recordings (1925-1929)

Armstrong, as historian Ted Gioia reminds us in his History of Jazz, essentially ushered in the Age of the Soloist in jazz history. This collection (on 4 cds) features many of the early highpoints in his career. As a bebop-favoring late-teenager, I used to think Armstrong's music was corny, but somewhere in my mid-20s I saw the light. I can't listen to "West End Blues" or "Big Butter and Egg Man" now and not be awestruck by the sublime logic of his playing.

2. Miles Davis, Kind of Blue (1959)

I don't think I've ever seen a best-of-jazz list that didn't include this album. It constitutes one of those legendary moments in the history of recorded jazz for its stellar line-up alone: Davis on trumpet, John Coltrane on tenor sax, Cannonball Adderley on alto sax, Bill Evans on piano (with Wynton Kelly, in my mind the greatest accompaniest of the post-bebop era, on one track), Paul Chambers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums. Kind of Blue popularized modal jazz, of course, but it also features one of those rare moments of every musician bringing his best game to the studio. Imagine a pro basketball game in which a team makes no turnovers, perhaps. Everything went right like that here.

3. John Coltrane, Giant Steps (1959)

Most canonical lists, having to choose only one Coltrane recording, would likely cite his magnum opus, A Love Supreme, from 1964. I've always been partial to Coltrane's Atlantic recordings from 1959-1960, though. This is the first flowering of the confident improviser who emerged over the next few years as (in my opinion) the greatest soloist in the jazz pantheon. Coltrane's tone is still bluesy here; his musical vocabulary is becoming increasingly comprehensive; but he'd not yet exploded into the full realization of what Ira Gitler called "sheets of sound." Great writing too: "Giant Steps," "Naima," "Mr. P.C.," "Cousin Mary," all became standards.

4. Duke Ellington, The Blanton-Webster Band (1939-1942)

Much classic Ellingtonia over three discs here. The tunes, dating from the 78 rpm era, are short at under three minutes each, but you'll find many high points from Duke's early mature period represented here: Billy Strayhorn's "Take the A Train," "Concerto for Cootie," "Never No Lament"... This probably isn't my favorite Ellington album (the more anomalous trio session Money Jungle, with Charles Mingus on bass and Max Roach on drums likely holds that honor), but this is certainly the one I would more readily cite for canonical representation, as a definitive marker of Ellington's genius as a composer and bandleader.

5. The Quintet, Jazz at Massey Hall (1953)

Five names: Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, Charles Mingus, Max Roach. 'Nuff said. But if you need me to say more, I will say that this isn't the cleanest recording available of Bird and Diz's complementary genius, but it is an important one. If you'd rather just hear Parker, I'd recommend his sessions for Dial. Or for Diz alone, go to his RCA Victor sides.

6. Charles Mingus, Mingus Ah Um (1959)

An accessible introduction to the great rowdy compositions of this post-war genius of the upright bass. Famous numbers from the Mingus book, like "Goodbye Porkpie Hat" (his elegy for Lester Young) and the churchy "Better Get It In Your Soul" are represented here, as is his political anthem, "Fables of Faubus." As you get used to Mingus, though, you'll want to move to more challenging records, like the less restrained records on Candid, or the brilliant, Black Saint and the Sinner Lady on Impulse.

7. Bill Evans, Sunday at the Village Vanguard (1961)

This, for me, is the high water mark for jazz piano in the trio format. Evans's rapport with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian is legendary. There's never been a more poetic voice on the keyboard, either. He'll break your heart.

8. Thelonious Monk, Monk Alone: The Complete Columbia Studio Recordings (1962-1968)

I'm actually more of a fan of Monk's quartet recordings--especially those with John Coltrane or Charlie Rouse on tenor sax--but hearing this angular, dissonant virtuoso of the piano by himself is a nice way to immerse yourself in his idiosyncratic style. Marvel at the cubist way he approaches familiar tunes; lose yourself in his spaces and tension-building moments of hesitation.

9. Sonny Rollins, Saxophone Colossus (1956)

Call me a trite, but never has an album been more aptly titled. Sonny is a giant. Still.

10. Dexter Gordon, One Flight Up (1964)

Because every jazz collection needs some representation from the amazing Blue Note records catalogue of the 1950s and 60s. And because, as I just said to my partner in the car this morning, no Dexter Gordon record has ever disappointed me. This one is gold just for the epic opener, "Tanya."

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: This Just In...

2006-08-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

According to a headline from my favorite junky news-source (not for news junkies, of course, but just plain junk), Yahoo News: Poll: Bush May Be Hurting Republicans.

And in other developments, scientists have discerned that cancer may be harmful to one's health.

Also, Peter Schweizer, of USA Today, author of the provocative (by which I mean nauseating) tome, Do As I Say (Not As I Do): Profiles in Liberal Hypocrisy, points out--as his headline reads--that Gore Isn't Quite As Green As He's Led The World To Believe. Read the piece, and then perhaps, like me, you'll find yourself asking, "Why do conservatives challenge dissent by trying to expose hypocrisy? So Al Gore is a spoiled rich guy who leads an overly indulgent life. Big deal. That's what rich guys do. But does that negate the problems regarding global warming to which the (Real Elected) President has tried to call attention?"

I'm tired of so-called critical thinkers in the public sphere playing I've-called-you-on-your-hypocrisy as though it's a trump card in public debate. Is this what passes for political engagement? If so, I'll open another Colt 45 and continue to wait for the oceans to boil over.

The Whining Stranger on Music

2006-08-10T14:43:00.000-07:00

Debating the Jazz Canon

Caleb McDaniel has an excellent post on his blog, Mode for Caleb, in which he offers his introductory picks for stocking a new jazz recording collection. Read it here.

I vow now: as soon as I get through some of the work on my desk I will write my own primer in response.

Some Art I Have Seen and Liked: Part 4: Aztec Josephine Baker by Alexander Calder (ca. 1929)

2006-08-10T11:43:00.000-07:00

This wire mobile is maybe the best way for a modern artist to try to capture the ethos of La Baker, she who is so visible, but so little understood. At the heart of Baker's elusiveness was movement--the uncopyable dance step; or the savvy use of her much-photographed body in an ongoing subversive commentary on the nonsense of modernity--and this work captures that.

The Whining Stranger's Big List of Ultimate Fetish Objects and Talismans: Part 4

2006-08-10T11:34:00.000-07:00

My bike.

The thrift store steal of a lifetime, I found this enviro-friendly vehicle at Goodwill for twenty bucks about a year and a half ago, and had to have it, not just for mobility's sake, but to complete the professorial cliche. It has one speed (pedal hard) and uses those old-school throw-your-pedal-in-reverse kind of brakes. (After riding a mountain bike for years, I admit I've nearly propelled myself into traffic for not having a feel for the pedal-brake). On days when I ride to campus I look forward to the end of the day, when I cruise through our residential neighborhood with the wind in my hair.

And I always pretend I'm George Plimpton, riding home from The Paris Review.

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: One Book, etc.

2006-08-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

[Note: To date I've resisted memes in filling my blog content, if only because I'm fixated enough on my own various small obsessions never to lack content. This one, which I came across on Light Reading (by way of Kate's Book Blog) was too good to pass up though.]

1. One Book That Changed Your Life

Without a doubt, Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. It's a novel that contains the whole history of American culture (and even crosses the pond in meaningful ways) yet offers such a completely personal version of experience. It's comprehensive without sacrificing accessibility. It's erudite but steeped in the vernacular. Novels should contain multitudes, it convinced me, but they need also embody the writer's best sense of hope. This one does all that.

2. One Book That You've Read More Than Once

While I've read Ellison's novel many times (maybe five, six), I'll say J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey here. I'm smitten with the Glass family. I admit I'm enamored with the thought of New York apartments and genius families. ("Oh, to have more academic relatives to talk with!" says the guy who has to explain what he does exactly every time he returns home for a family visit.) As an adolescent reader I was taken with Salinger's prose style. Now older, I find myself drawn to the book's major problem: where does the cynical, ironic deep thinker turn to settle his/her monkey mind and find true spiritual calm?

3. One Book That You'd Want a Desert Island

This may appear to compromise my reading tastes, but I'm an unbashed lover of baseball, and so I'll say Bill James's Historical Baseball Abstract for its heft, and for its digestability. Anecdotes, sidebars galore!

4. One Book That Made You Laugh

I'll say the first half of Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections or the first half of Robert Sedlack's The African Safari Papers. Apparently family dysfunction really hits my funny bone. Go figger.

5. One Book That Made You Cry

The second half of Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections. Apparently family dysfunction really hits my--

6. One Book That You Wish Had Been Written

...or at least finished according to its author's plan? Definitely Ralph Ellison's second novel, posthumously published in much-edited form as Juneteenth. I actually cried when I first read this one too--for its flashes of greatness, and for its tragically unfinished quality.

7. One Book That You Wish Had Never Been Written

Now that's just mean. If I answer this, instant karma's gonna get me.

8. One Book You're Currently Reading

Still trudging through Don Quixote. Oh, to be a faster reader!

9. One Book You've Been Meaning to Read

Where to start? David Bodanis's E=mc2: A Biography of the World's Most Famous Equation. Or Zadie Smith's On Beauty. Or George Plimpton's Shadow Box: An Amateur in the Ring.

There. Now wasn't that fun?

Musings: The Cruel Part of the Summer

2006-08-08T09:01:00.000-07:00

One of the few downsides of living a life governed by the academic year is that August inevitably carries a bit of melancholic weight. These are the last few weeks of unstructured time before the rigor of classes, and meetings, and stringent commitments sets in. Autumn's cool, crisp winds come nipping in at the corners of your sun-bleached, laissez faire existence. Soon you'll be living by alarm clocks and datebooks again.

This is the month of Jay Gatsby's downfall. This is the busy time of looking ahead to the busier time of school starting.

I sigh.
And I wonder how another summer has so quickly passed.

The Whining Stranger's Pantheon of Great Heroes and Key Influences: Part 5: Marcello Mastroianni (1924-1996)

2006-08-07T21:27:00.000-07:00

He makes the pantheon for his performance as Guido Anselmi in Fellini's 8 1/2 alone. When Mastroianni turns to the camera, wearing chunky dark shades at the spa, in the film's opening section, I coo, I melt. My man crush speeds like a runaway train. He's suave, with his baritone voice. He's dashing with his slicked back hair. But Mastroianni also offers a moving vision of vulnerable narcissism. (Spare me the invincibility of your Steve McQueens, this cat hurts.) His character is self-obsessed but recognizes that self-obsession as a potentially loathesome quality. He loves those close to him but inevitably disappoints them for not being able to slip the bonds of his own gigantic ego.

And those sunglasses! I always buy chunky shades--always!--in tribute to him.

The Whining Stranger on Music: The Whining Stranger Digs Classic Album Covers, Part 1

2006-08-07T09:50:00.000-07:00

I know I'll seem like an old grump in writing this, but I do long for a time when records (a word I use in talking to undergraduates at times, to raised eyebrows and general confusion) were bigger, and their sleeves gave them a real objet d'art feel. I like the shine of the compact disc, true; I dig the portability of the mp3 (after venturing around NYC with my girlfriend's mp3 player in my pocket, I'm sold on the new technology--finally), but aesthetically I just can't get past the grandeur of the long-ago album sleeve. Here are five noteworthy covers:

1. The Beatles by The Beatles [aka "the White Album"].

This cover is so zen in its simplicity. Maybe I'm especially inclined toward this one because its my favorite of their recordings--so diverse, so chaotically lovely--but I admit I've always been mesmerized by the slightly crooked setting of their name.

2. Porgy and Bess by Miles Davis

An elegant record with a saucy cover. What's with the flash of knee? What's with the not-so-demure feminine hand hooked around the trumpet? Meow.

3. The Hissing of Summer Lawns by Joni Mitchell

Joni's covers--usually painted by herself--are always amazing. This one has a certain baroque charm in the intricate pattern on the snake's belly. All that greenspace is hypnotic too, befitting one of the greatest album titles in pop music history.

4. Bookends by Simon and Garfunkel

I dig san serif fonts on album covers. I dig candid photos. Paul and Artie look so wide-eyed here. I know the inticmacy is staged, but even if its a performative candor it's so suitable for the music you hear within.

5. Gettin' Around by Dexter Gordon

The recently released Van Gelder Edition of this album is in frequent rotation on my stereo right now. But the cover! I could compile a list of fifty favorite album covers just by sorting through Reid Miles's designs for Blue Note Records back in the 50s and 60s alone. I love the use of space. I love the bicycles. And look--another san serif font! Brilliant.

Musings: Scrapple from the Apple: The Whining Stranger's Back from NYC

2006-08-06T11:53:00.000-07:00

So, Friday night I landed, tired, back into my quiet college town, after ten days in the greatest city in the universe. It's over: I took Manhattan, the Bronx, and the Staten Island ferry too. A good trip overall. I was sufficiently productive with the library research I was supposed to do, and I maximized my time in the city, enjoying ten days as a flaneur in midtown, Greenwich Village, Chinatown, SoHo, the financial district... Baseball brought me to Queens and the Bronx. The unlimited-ride MetroCard I bought on Day 2 was my greatest resource. Some highlights and things I did, and discovered:

1. Midtown Manhattan hotel rooms at twilight invite shadowy self-portraits:

2. Ms. Liberty's a looker, even on an overcast afternoon, as viewed from the tip of Battery Park. (I also saw her from the Staten Island ferry, but didn't have my camera to record that first meeting of wayfaring intellectual and gigantic female icon.)

3. My favorite on-the-go lunch is, without a doubt, gyros bought on the cheap from the vendors around the corner from Radio City Music Hall, where I stomped on the avenue in bad sneakers, but sans transistor or large sum of money. A good lunch: greasy, sloppy goodness in a pita with an ice cold can of Coke, and all for five bucks.

4. This unassuming basement venue is--as I knew it would be--the greatest jazz club in the world. The staff could be a little more personable, but man, I sat three feet from Greg Osby (who was fantastic) and couldn't settle the litany in my mind of famous musicians who'd played (and recorded seminal albums) on the stage before me ("Trane!" "Sonny Rollins!" "Bill Evans!" etc.).

...but I also heard amazing jazz from the Mingus Dynasty group here, at Iridium, on Broadway on Tuesday night. A great pick-up performance, and a personal highlight for me, when Ku'umba Frank Lacy acknowledged my applause from the front table with a nod and a finger pointed in my direction.

...and the best serendipitous jazz moment of my visit was getting to catch the Dave Holland Quintet for free at Castle Clinton in Battery Park on my last night in town. Chris Potter and Robin Eubanks were particularly otherworldly.

5. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is overwhelming in its grandeur. I had to limit myself to my bread-and-butter, the modern and contemporary collections. While I can't pretend I wasn't disappointed that they didn't have Romare Bearden's The Block on view, I was moved at seeing Picasso's portrait of Gertrude Stein in person for the first time.

6. At Yankee Stadium, you get this for forty-five dollars:

...but at Shea Stadium, you get this for only sixteen:

So what if Shea's a dumpier ballpark. I like the Mets better anyway. (Though I did have a blast joining the boo-birds in the Bronx when A-Rod struck out three times. I could strike out for less than 25 million bucks a year, dude.)

And those are some highlights from my time in the big city. Sadly, now I'm staring at a mess of work to do in the next three weeks. When-oh-when will those syllabi be finished?

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 24 July 2006

2006-07-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

"Theme from New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra (1979)

OK, I know this is Liza's tune originally, but the Chairman's take on it really makes it for me. Here's to little town blues melting away, and waking up in the city that never sleeps, etc.

I depart tomorrow. By dinner time I should be in the Big Apple.

The Whining Stranger on Film: "Say it ain't so, Tina."

2006-07-22T21:30:00.000-07:00

Tina Fey is leaving Saturday Night Live. Now I don't have her Weekend Update wit to justify my unfailing fidelity to television's longest-running, but straining-for-relevance once-countercultural institution.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 22 July 2006

2006-07-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

"Trans Europe Express" by Kraftwerk (1977)

Was reading about the early days of hip-hop culture before dinner tonight, and was struck by Nelson George's reminiscing about Bronx block parties at which African American DJs would spin this Kraftwerk track, and the spacy synth sounds could be heard throughout neighborhoods. Not the music I'd choose to be blasting through my neighborhood every day, but a quirky enough delight for this summer evening--even if it's just me spinning it, from an mp3 file on the laptop, in the localized neighborhood of my home study.

Musings: "The horror..."

2006-07-21T10:30:00.000-07:00

Among the various idiosyncrasies (by which I mean manifestations of my ongoing mental illness) that make me who I am, I have to include a genuine phobia of the telephone. I wasn't always this way. I used to have conversations on the phone with people as a child, and into my adolescence and teenaged years. And living far away from my family, as I have since 1996, necessitates the occasional phone catch-up, especially since my mother has email access only a few times a week at work and isn't so great a typist to begin with.

But somewhere along the way, in the past ten years, the phone became a fearsome object for me. Was it during the impoverished grad school days when I would fall behind on bills and spend weeks dodging creditors? Is it because some of the most traumatic memories I have begin with unexpected phone calls? In any case, I have to admit that I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid to answer when it rings; I'm loathe to phone people myself. Friends have grown to accept it. They know the drill. There are countless messages that turn up on our answering machine in the, "Hello? You there? Well, I know you're there, but anyway, this is what I want to talk about..." vein. For a while, I thought this was just a quirky affectation--say, me doing my best Buddy Glass impersonation. But it's not. There's some component of my brain that sees the phone as something to be avoided, an evolutionary impulse on which my well-being defends.

But.
I did phone my mom this morning and talked for an hour.
And I returned a phone message just now that was work related. (Bad luck though--the person was gone for the day, which means I have to call back again on Monday. Rats.)

Still, maybe there's hope for me yet.

The Whining Stranger on Sport: 5.5 is the magic number.

2006-07-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

5.5 is a meaningful number. That is how old I was (in years, of course) when I started to really take an interest in world events. My parents left copies of Time magazine around the house, and I would peruse them. I remember being particularly interested in the Iran hostage situation, as covered, for instance, in the issue depicted above from November 1979.

Well, seemingly more trivial, 5.5 is also the number of games by which the blessed Detroit Tigers lead Ozzie Guillen's surly Chicago White Sox after this afternoon's splendid victory back in the Motor City.

Go get 'em, Tigers!

The Whining Stranger's Big List of Ultimate Fetish Objects and Talismans: Part 3

2006-07-19T13:09:00.000-07:00

The Lacoste polo shirt.

The original iconic polo shirt, made famous by Rene Lacoste oh-so-long-ago. The shirt with the whimsical gator on chest. More cheeky that Ralph Lauren's ponies; almost as absurd as Munsingwear's penguin (which is a close second for my favorite kind of polo shirt). I love these. I love how they embody vintage preppydom--that is, I'll keep wearing mine even when their current vogue subsides--and country club pizazz. I grew up, of course, in a poor neighborhood, and merely passing for a Todd or a Biff. But from a distance, who can tell?

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: Wanted: Slim, Elegant Volumes

2006-07-19T11:49:00.000-07:00

Every year since 2000, I have assiduously recorded every book that I've read in its entirety. I type the list into a file of my computer, and sometimes go back and look at past years to see where my reading has taken me. It's another way of documenting my existence. There are rules, of course. I can only record a book on the list when I've read the entire text. (Sometimes, with Penguins or Oxford Classics, I skip the Introduction and let myself off the hook.) If I start a book in one year but finish it in another, I record it in the year in which I completed it. Each year I strive to read fifty full books. Each year I fall short: sometimes by just a few, sometimes by a dozen.

This year, I'm on an embarrassingly slow pace. I got busy with university administrative stuff in the winter. I traveled a lot in April and spent more time listening to my Discman than reading on planes. Don Quixote is, of course, killing me. And the next read on my agenda, Ralph Ellison's Complete Essays, at 800+ pages, threatens to slow me down all the more.

So, I'm in need of slim, elegant volumes. What are the greatest novels, for instance, under 200 pages. Or better, under 150. My partner and I just did The Great Gatsby again. That's surely on the list. As would be, hm, Nella Larsen's Passing? Don DeLillo's The Body Artist? The new Philip Roth, which is short and well-reviewed, should go on my to-read list. I have a copy that a friend passed on.

But others?

Musings: "It's what we drink around here."

2006-07-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

Anybody who doesn't think this is the tastiest soda in the world is wrong.
Or allergic to ginger.

The Whining Stranger on Politics and Current Events: Taking It to the Streets: A Primer on the Whining Stranger's Politics

2006-07-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

As I try to resolve the various subtleties and possible contradictions that befit being an non-dogmatic, politically engaged critical thinker in these troubled times, I think I can say safely that I am all of the following.

pro-choice; anti-middle-aged-white-guys-jockeying-for-control-of-women's-bodies
anti-war; pro-trying-to-use-the-boundlessness-of-our-human-intelligence-to-resist-resolving-differences-in-unevolved-ways
pro-social programs; anti-rich-people-trying-to-amass-more-money-than-the-next-three-generations-in-their-family-can-spend
pro-Affirmative Action; anti-stupid-sons-of-oilmen-getting-Ivy-League-degrees
pro-gay marriage; anti-ignorant-assholes-being-afraid-to-sanction-loving-commitment-among-sensitive-adults
pro-waffle cone; anti-ice cream sandwich
pro-Tigers; anti-White Sox
anti-dogs-being-made-to-ride-unsecured-in-pick-up-trucks; pro-dogs-driving-themselves-while-their-yahoo-owners-bounce-around-in-the-back-on-sharp-turns
pro-Batman; anti-Daredevil
pro-Katie Couric; anti-Star Jones
anti-Jimmy Buffet; pro-Steely Dan

So, there, that's what I'm all about politically.

(And you thought I wouldn't find a way to get yet more Steely Dan content in, didn't you?)

The Whining Stranger on Books and Reading: So Long, Mike Hammer.

2006-07-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

RIP to Mickey Spillane, the great profane king of hardboiled crime fiction. Here's to one of the few writers who could get away with starting a novel, "The guy was dead as hell."

Read his obituary here: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,60-2275844,00.html

The Whining Stranger on Music: "No, we can't dance together." (But it's fun to watch you go to it, MJ.)

2006-07-17T23:11:00.000-07:00

I found this on YouTube last night, while trying to assuage my post-SD concert longing with some Steely Dan video action. After laughing so hard my stomach ached, I had to post it here.

The Whining Stranger on Music: "They Got Their Steely Dan T-Shirts," Part 2

2006-07-17T11:07:00.000-07:00

So this is the new one, wrinkled from wear yesterday.

The Whining Stranger on Music: "They Got Their Steely Dan T-Shirts," or, A Midsummer Evening Well Spent with the Dan of Steel

2006-07-17T09:32:00.000-07:00

Ah, bliss. The Year of Fagen continued, perhaps rose to its crescendo for me, with a lovely summer night, and two hours of Steely Dandom. We arrived at the venue early, found a perfect seat, front and center, on the lawn. We drank seven dollar Budweisers (ah, the liminal space of the concert--or the ballpark, or the airport--that allows you to suspend all notion of acceptable prices for everyday goods!), and ate cheesy pizza. I bought another Steely Dan t-shirt. (Photo to follow at some point when I'm not feeling lazy). We sat in excited anticipation.

Michael McDonald opened the show. He played for an hour and was formidable. (Indeed, MM's voice has held up way better than Donald Fagen's over the decades...) I'm not a huge McDonald or Doobie Bros. fan, though I will admit that I will usually sing along loudly with "Takin' in to the Streets" or "Minute by Minute" when they show up on my car radio. My mom loves McDonald though, and I love my mom, so I was happy to bob my head and think good thoughts about my mom during tunes about which I otherwise wasn't stoked. The biggest crowd response that MM earned was likely for "What a Fool Believes." I got chills--as I always do--at that big noisy rush of crowd appreciation.

At about 9pm, the Steely Dan Orchestra took the stage and played an old Stan Kenton instrumental jazz number ("Turtle Talk"). A nice warm-up, charmingly hip. Its post-WWII jazzy appeal helped defuse some of the annoying local marketing blitz (you know, barking classic rock radio DJs just inside the venue gates, jockeying on the microphone for some Becker-Fagen affiliation). Towards the end of the number Becker and Fagen took the stage. Donald--even admitting that I have no critical distance--was uber-cool for the night: dressed in black, with a tight buzzcut, and dark shades over his eyes. Becker is looking more and more like a calculus teacher on summer break, but Steely Dan are nerd champions, so I won't fault him for that.

What followed was a splendid mix of Steely Dan favorites. No solo material from either WB or DF this time around, and unfortunately, from my perspective, no music from the Steely Dan renaissance efforts, Two Against Nature and Everything Must Go. There are a few chestnuts that have found their way on to the setlist this time around (like, say, "Time Out of Mind," and "I Got the News"), but mostly it's a cornucopia of popular favorites. The highlights for me were "Hey 19" (the second verse of which, in which aging hipster has to explain to 19 year old who Aretha Franklin is, seems more eerily appropriate to me with every passing semester); "Show Biz Kids" (reconfigured as a James Brown-ish funk number); and the two encore tunes, "My Old School" and "FM." Seriously, is there a more fun song to sing along with than "My Old School?" The answer is no, (though "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" perhaps comes closest) and Guadalajara still won't do, child.

In all, a totally satisfying evening out. The Fagen show we caught in Vegas in March was definitely tighter and more polished, but this concert was a good one given the loose, get-your-ya-yas-out feel of outdoor summer concert venues.

If I were rich, I would totally hit the road and follow them around for another handful of concerts before Labor Day rains on all our summer fun.

The Whining Stranger's Song of the Day: 15 July 2006

2006-07-15T07:02:00.000-07:00

"FM" by Steely Dan (from the original soundtrack album, FM, 1978)

The Song of the Day returns today after a brief hiatus. I know that this is the second time in a month that Steely Dan has earned a nod, but come on, it's summer, they're on tour, Morph the Cat is still in solid rotation on my CD player, and I will be in their presence tonight.

This tune is less ambitious than other works from the Dan ouevre, but it's infectious in its rhythm-and-blues-tune-like celebratory lyric ("Kick off your high-heeled sneakers / It's party time") and swampy bass groove. Pete Christlieb's tenor sax solo is one for the ages (he is after all the genius who provided the instrumental break on "Deacon Blues" too), and I love singing along unbashedly with the layered vocal part on the chorus.

"No static at all."

Damn straight.

The Whining Stranger's Pantheon of Great Heroes and Key Influences

2006-07-14T19:15:00.000-07:00

Part 4: Donald Fagen (1948- )

The pride of Passaic, New Jersey; a champion for whiney white pseudointellectuals who want to sound like Ray Charles. A guy with a degree in English literature who plays piano like the great hard bop soloists of the 1950s. His admitted influences include Vladimir Nabokov and Thelonious Monk. He's the greatest thing to happen to American popular music since Cole Porter or Brother Ray himself. An electic, who fashioned original music out of an unlikely bricolage.

Tomorrow I will be wearing his image on my t-shirt as I scream wildly when he takes the stage.

The Whining Stranger on Music

2006-07-14T19:01:00.000-07:00

"Give us some funked up Muzak, we'll treat you right..."

Butterflies well up in my stomach. At this time tomorrow night, we will be watching Steely Dan take the stage. A second Fagen encounter in one year.

Pinch me.

Musings

2006-07-13T20:29:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Day 30

It's over, baby. Finito. A month of wayfaring existence, living out of suitcases, sleeping in motels and other people's homes, has come to an end. It's good to be back. The garden survived without us, thanks to a timer on the hose. The house was stinking hot without the A/C on since early June. The dog rediscovered one of his favorite spots on the rug in the front room. And I am blessed with good friendship--my homebrewer friend left a sixer in the fridge when he checked on the house in our absence.

Glad to be back. Like Ulysses, I was tired of being away.

Musings

2006-07-12T21:44:00.000-07:00

Another Unfortunate Googlism

I was discovered yesterday by some bloke looking for the lyrics to "What Would You Do With a Drunken Sailor?"

Damn.

Why not something Steely Dan-related?
Or how 'bout "hipster in Lacoste."

Damn.

Musings

2006-07-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Day 29

We settled this evening in a motel we stayed at on this leg of the journey home last year: maybe the best kept lodging secret in this friendly state--a region memorialized on a certain album by a certain famous New Jersey singer-songwriter back when I was a kid. The motel is golden retriever friendly, is reasonably priced, has complimentary high-speed internet. What's not to like? Plus we lucked out and go to hear Donald Fagen and Walter Becker interviewed on XM Radio on the last stretch of the drive today. Becker was his usual articulate but smarmy self; Fagen was charmingly taciturn. I am excited--just days now till I'm in their presence. Dinner tonight was cheap (read screwcap) red wine, supermarket roast chicken, cherry tomatoes, baby carrots, and roasted garlic artisan bread. We are nearing the heartbreaking last pages of Gatsby, our summer solstice ritual deferred to the drive home. It's been a great trip, but after a month I am surely ready to return to "real life," especially after an anxiety dream last night about being unprepared in my job. Yikes. I need to get those syllabi written. And that academic article for October. October, in my experience, comes quickly.

My favorite road snack this year is Rold Gold's multigrain honeywheat pretzels. Best road drink is Sobe Green Tea.

Bad road lunch today: a BK Angus steakburger. Made a mess of my shirt as I tried to scarf it down at the wheel. Yuck. I am thinking of starting a website that rates road foods to aid drivers in roadtrip lunch choices. Anything with any kind of goopy special sauce will get a low rating.

Steely Dan on tour.
NYC to be visited at month's end.
A new Woody Allen movie coming out in weeks.
The Tigers in first place.

I remind myself of these things so I don't feel like the summer is suddenly over now that this trip is coming to an end tomorrow night.

Musings

2006-07-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Day 28

Is it just me, or are residents of North Dakota the rudest bastards per capita in these United States? This is the third time of been through this state, and every time at least one person has left me royally pissed off because of their poor manners.

Today's winner was the terse proprietor of a crappy motel who tried to charge us twenty five bucks extra for the dog. And did so as in completely "I don't give a fuck whether you stay here or not" terms.

Idiot.

48 hours from now we'll be back in our own home. Whew.

Musings

2006-07-10T23:08:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Day 28

An action packed final day here. Laser Tag was closed so we took nephew for bowling, and then to Chuck E. Cheese's. I was delighted to find Space Invaders in the house. I still suck though, but now it's chic retro suckage. Then back to partner's parents' house for one last family barbecue. Quality visiting time, much dog and young child hijinx. Just the sort of pyrotechnical send-off we need before we hit the highway tomorrow. Hope to be deep into the drive back home by this time tonight, settled in a motel watching Kenny Rogers do the Tigers proud as an All-Star starting pitcher.

Don Quixote has been gathering cobwebs the past couple days, but I made it through another New Yorker from the back issue stack I've been dragging around throughout this trip.

Home soon. In three days if all goes well.

Musings

2006-07-09T23:51:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Day 27

I slept late after tossing and turning with worry over 1. how the Pistons will survive the loss of Ben Wallace; and 2. the fact I've not yet planned my reading lists for fall courses yet. Today was spent mostly out at the lake, first visiting with old friends at their cabin, then on to another aborted fishing venture when another boat died on us. (Is my karma that bad?) We cast off shore for a while after that but not a bite to be had. Then a barbecue at the lake and home for more visiting. Tomorrow I'm to take seven year old nephew for Laser Tag. Zap!

We leave here Tuesday morning, back on the road. It'll be three days on highways before we're home home again. A long satisfying trip with so many friends and family. Fortunately there's the Steely Dan concert to look forward to to survive the inevitable vacation hangover.

The Whining Stranger on Sport

2006-07-08T23:49:00.000-07:00

Say It Ain't Fro!

What the Sam Hill? Catching up on news and sports since my return from the woods yesterday, I discover that while I was happily removed from civilization for most of the week, the Pistons have lost Ben Wallace to the Chicago Bulls?

Oy.
Drat.
Weltschmerz.

Life suddenly ain't so good anymore.

Musings

2006-07-08T23:26:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Days 21-26

We disappeared with family into cabins by a lake. I listened to Regina Carter on the drive up and thought of my dad when she played, "I'll Be Seeing You." We ate greasy breakfasts and spent afternoons reading and playing volleyball on the beach. We ate dinner after 10pm every night and tumbled into bed with full bellies when the night turned cold after sundown. We rented a boat for fishing but had to row it back when the motor died. We played Wiffleball lazily at twilight. We returned back from the wildnerness pleasantly exhausted.

Two more full days here with partner's family and then back on the road, homeward bound, Tuesday morning.

500+ pages into Don Quixote. Miffed that Verlander's not on the All-Star team, but happy that Ordonez is an injury replacement and Kenny Rogers will likely be the starting pitcher for the American League. Tigers, improbably, amazingly, will be in first place at an All-Star Break for the first time since my adolescence.

Life is good.

The Whining Stranger on Sport

2006-07-02T18:33:00.000-07:00

Vote for Verlander; earn karma!

Dear Reader,
Now if you're anything like me (and my condolences if you are) you are likely incensed this evening that the wretched White Sox of Chicago have six representatives on the American League All-Star team, while those overachieving Tigers of Detroit have only two.

You can right this wrong. Together, we can right this wrong.

Vote for Tigers rookie phenom Justin Verlander for the final spot on the American League All-Star team, at this location: MLB's Final Vote.

To do so is to combat injustice, to earn karma, to win the Whining Stranger's eternal love and esteem.

Musings

2006-07-02T17:20:00.000-07:00

Road Trip: Day 20

A quiet day before the cabin getaway. I slept late, and woke up to discover that everybody else had already done much (calisthenics, laundry, cleaning) before I dragged my ass out of bed. (Last night, my partner's nephew, aged 7, tried to corral me into staying up till dawn. Fortunately, he changed his mind and saved me the embarrassment of being outdone by a little kid.) Had toast, read Don Quixote (how can I still have seven hundred pages left?), showered, dressed, and wiled away the afternoon. The Tigers won a sloppy game. I blogged and ate too many oatmeal cookies, and prepare for tomorrow's escape to the woods and the horrible anniversary.

Some times quiet is good.