Stuff Running 'Round My Head

Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, whose 2008 Christmas album was one of the best in recent years.

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

So…just who are The New Pornographers?

The Wikipedia page for the band refers to them as an “indie rock supergroup,” which strikes me as a contradiction in terms. I think in this case all it really means is that every member of the band is also a member of another band. And I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never heard of any of the other bands. The most well-known band member is almost certainly vocalist Neko Case, who herself is hardly a household word. The mastermind behind the group is A.C. Newman, who is also hardly a household word, at least in the U.S. Most of the band members are from Canada, and in all honesty that just about exhausts my knowledge of the group.

So…how did I discover this band?

Every now and then, I’ll try out something that looks interesting on one of the listening stations at my local record store. They tend to put the hot new releases on the stations, which is usually a surefire guarantee that I’ll have never heard of the band. But with a name like “The New Pornographers?” I mean really – you just have to hear what that band sounds like. So I did (and this was “Twin Cinema,” the release prior to “Challengers”), and I liked what I heard. So buying the follow-up was a natural, and not surprisingly I liked it as well. Well enough to rank it as my 7th favorite album of 2007.

So…what happened between then and now to lift this record from being my 7th favorite of 2007 to my 11th favorite of the entire decade?

As it happens, I am one of the few people left on the planet who has a cassette deck (and it’s a really nice one), enjoys making mix tapes, and drives a car without a CD player. Right now, there are tapes in my car that are almost 30 years old, and I still enjoy listening to them. In recent years, after I got a 5-disc CD changer for Christmas one year, I started making tapes by throwing random CDs on the player, hitting “shuffle,” and letting the results speak for themselves. Around the time “Challengers” came out, I did the mix-tape trick with it and two other albums, “Dylanesque” by Bryan Ferry and “Traffic and Weather” by Fountains of Wayne. I played that tape a lot then, and I still play it a lot now. And with each listen, the songs from those albums began to worm their way into my brain. But especially so with “Challengers” – as I came to really know songs like “My Rights Versus Yours,” “Challengers,” Myriad Harbour,” and “Unguided,” I came to appreciate them more and more, and with each listen, the album grew in my estimation.

So…what do they sound like?

Back when I first reviewed it, I expressed difficulty in classifying the sound of the band, and to this day I’d be hard pressed to do so. Not quite power pop, not quite art rock…perhaps a bit of both. But whatever it is, I like it. But don’t take my word for it; decide for yourself:

“My Rights Versus Yours,” live on Letterman



“Challengers”



“Myriad Harbour”



“Unguided”



Add it all up, and you get #11. Which can mean only one thing – the Top Ten is yet to come!

Labels: Top 25 Albums of the Decade

Brother Ray...the genius...at work.

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

Ice on the fountain in our front yard. It's almost 9 am, and the temp is still below freezing.

Normal for many areas, but not Elk Grove, California!

You can't have a musical advent calendar without at least one performance by Harry Connick, Jr.

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

One of the benefits of being so busy the past 10 days (with Thanksgiving, and then my Association’s Annual Conference) is that I’ve had little time to think about the Tiger Woods saga, or even follow it that much. But now that Maureen Dowd has seen fit to comment, I see no choice but to add my two cents worth.

Before I do that, let me get my bias out of the way. Put simply, it enrages me that one of the major newspapers in the history of this country has seen fit to hire Maureen Dowd as a columnist. My disdain for her work is so strong that, even when I agree with the position she is arguing, I find myself embarrassed to be in agreement with her – her thinking is that vacuous and shallow. She’s too clever and cute by half, and what passes for wit in her work would have fit well into the gossip column that we used to concoct in my junior high school newspaper.

But comment on Tiger Woods she has, and with predictable results. Let’s start with this nugget:

After the baseball steroid scandal and the disappointing news that Tiger’s a cheetah, as the New York Post headline put it, it’s time to accept that athletes are not role models. They’re just models — for everything from sports drinks to running shoes to razor blades to credit cards to peanut butter to Buicks to Wheaties.

Wow…athletes are not role models? What a novel concept. What original thinking. But in the end, what arrogance. It’s painfully evident in this passage that Maureen Dowd really knows nothing about sports. Which, according to the rules of the day, is perfectly OK. Imagine if someone who knew nothing about international politics was to write columns about the war in Afghanistan. Or imagine if someone who knew nothing about domestic politics were to write columns about the performance of the President. That would be mocked; that would be derided. But when someone who knows nothing about sports presumes to write about the most prominent athlete of our time, well – that seems to be no problem.

Anyone who has been a serious student of sports (and yes, I modestly appoint myself to that status) has known for years, if not decades, that athletes are not role models – at least not in the parts of their lives that have nothing to do with their athletic accomplishments. That’s not to say that there haven’t been athletes who reach that status – of those playing right now, Drew Brees and Derek Jeter (among others) appear to lead lives that are admirable from all standpoints. Having said that, to this day, it amuses me that people are so offended when athletes fail to achieve the high standards that normal, regular people fail to reach on so many occasions.

But let’s talk about Tiger. Let’s stipulate that he’s been an idiot, that he’s been a jerk – just like so many men before him have been. To me, the story of his adultery and how it will impact his marriage isn’t really that interesting. Let’s be real – when Tiger met Elin, she was a model turned au pair for one of Tiger's fellow professional golfers. Call me insensitive and cynical, but there’s nothing in the mix of professional athlete and au pair that would lead me to believe that this would be one of the inspiring relationships of our time. Which isn’t to say that it couldn’t have been, and isn’t to excuse him of his “transgressions.”

As a fan of “the athletic drama of human competition,” as Jim McKay used to say, the more interesting question to me is how all of this is going to effect the trajectory of Tiger’s career, and his public image. Frankly, I doubt it will have much long-term effect on either, and in the unusual way that sports often work, could end up making him more popular.

I say that because, for all of his success, at the moment of his public disgrace Tiger was not a beloved figure in the sporting world. Yes, he was widely respected, if not held in awe – after all, he is the greatest golfer the world has ever seen, and being the best in the world at anything is worthy of respect. But as I’ve commented on a number of occasions (just link to the Tiger Woods posts on this here blog), Tiger has never been a “sportsman” in the Sports Illustrated sense of the word, despite the fact that SI has named him Sportsman of the Year twice –something that has never happened for any other athlete. But just like the rest of us, SI was blinded by Tiger’s magnificence on the course, and failed to consider much beyond that.

After the 2007 Masters, I wrote this:

“And one thing is for certain - Tiger's play was as joyless an exercise as I've ever seen, in any professional sport. Frankly, it was excruciating to watch - he was clearly pissed off nearly the entire time, and should probably give that some thought once he cools down a bit.”

And that, in a nutshell, is Tiger Woods. As previously noted, he is the greatest golfer of our time and one of the great athletes of our time – but that does not make him a perfect person. He has always approached golf and life as if it were a business; something to succeed at, something to strive for perfection at. Fans love him when he does well, because when that happens, there is nothing more stirring. What he’s never learned is how he should act when he fails – and to this point, when that happens he has generally acted like an asshole. And right now, when he is living through one of the epic public failures of our time, he’s struggling with how to turn that around. Right now, I’m not sure how it will turn out.

But if the subject is hand is how history will treat him, I’m not entirely sure all of this will matter. Because the public loves nothing more than a story of redemption, a story of a flawed man (or woman) who overcomes their shortcomings to achieve even greater heights. And that kind of story works especially well in the sporting world – just look at last week’s media coverage of LaGarrette Blount if you have any doubt about that.

So we shall see. The one thing I am certain of is that Tiger Woods will be remembered long after Maureen Dowd has been forgotten. And for me, that is how it should be.

Labels: Tiger Woods

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

As we all know, not everyone is happy at Christmastime...and that list apparently includes Randy Travis.

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

The great Louis Armstrong.

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

And now, as they say, for something completely different, courtesy of The Flaming Lips.

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

Aaron Neville keeps the holiday joint a-jumpin', with his rendition of "Louisiana Christmas Day."

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

The 3rd annual Musical Advent Calendar kicks off with a classic from Rosemary Clooney.

It won't be snowing where I am this week, but the rest of you can still hope!

Labels: Musical Advent Calendar

Much better than the last time I was in San Diego. The Coronado Bridge in the background, the Marina Yacht Club in the foreground.

Alas, it is a work trip.

Labels: Thanksgiving

Labels: Thanksgiving

Labels: Thanksgiving

Labels: Thanksgiving

What better way to celebrate the day before Thanksgiving than a rousing game of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare?

Son #2, Friend of Son #1, and Son #1 (home from college for the holiday).

A Thanksgiving tradition...the annual posting of one of my favorite essays, "With All The Trimmings" by Garrison Keillor. It first appeared in TIME Magazine in 1995.

With All The Trimmings by Garrison Keillor

It is a wicked world in which the power of any individual to cause suffering is so great and the power to do good is so slight; but here we are, the week of our beloved national feast, our annual homecoming, and signs of loving Providence are everywhere around us.

I am thankful to be alive. In Minnesota the lakes are freezing over in late November, and some men who envision a leadership role for themselves take their snowmobiles out onto the thin ice and fall through and drown in the cold water--their last thought in this life: "Boy, was this dumb or what?"--and so far I have not been one of them. Caution was bred into me: I never played with guns or made a hobby of pharmaceuticals or flung myself off a cliff while clinging to a kite. I read books instead. I read books in which men hearken to wild imperatives, and that is enough for me.

I am thankful for living in a place where winter gets good and cold and you need to build a fire in a stove and wrap a blanket around you. Cold draws people closer together. Crime drops. Acts of kindness proliferate between strangers. I have been in Los Angeles on a balmy day in January and seen the glum faces of people poking at their salads in outdoor restaurants, brooding over their unproduced screenplays. People in Minnesota are much cheerier, lurching across the ice, leaning into the wind as sheets of snow swirl up in their faces. Because they feel needed and because cold weather takes the place of personal guilt. Maybe you haven't been the shining star you should have been, but now is not the time to worry about it.

I am thankful for E-mail, which allows us to keep in touch with our children, and for the ubiquity of fresh coffee, the persistence of good newspapers, the bravery of artists, the small talk of sales clerks, the general competence and good humor I encounter every day. None of us is self-sufficient, despite what some politicians claim. Every good thing, every morsel of food comes directly from God, who expects us to pay attention and be joyful, a large task for people from the Midwest, where our idea of a compliment is, "It could have been worse."

I am thankful, of course, for Thanksgiving, a joyful and simple day that never suffered commercial exploitation and so is the same day as when I was a boy and we played touch football on the frozen turf and came to the table sweaty and in high spirits and kept our eyes open for flying food. My sister had good moves; you'd look away for an instant, and she'd flip her knife and park a pat of butter on your forehead. Nobody throws food at our table now, but in the giddiness of the festive moment, I have held a spoonful of cranberry for a moment and measured the distance to Uncle Earl, his gleaming head, like El Capitan, bent over the plate.

As I grew up, Thanksgiving evolved perfectly. It used to be that men had the hard work, which is to sit in the living room and make conversation about gas mileage and lower back pain, and women got the good job, which is cooking. Women owned the franchise, and men milled around the trough mooing, and if any man dared enter the kitchen, he was watched closely lest he touch something and damage it permanently.

But I bided my time, and the aunts who ran the show grew old, and young, liberated lady relatives came along who were proud of their inability to cook, and one year I revolted and took over the kitchen--and now I am It. The Big Turkey. Mr. Masher. The Pie Man. Except for gravy and pie crust, which take patience and practice, Thanksgiving dinner is as easy to make as it is to eat. You're a right-handed batter in a park that's 150 feet down the left-field line—it doesn't take a genius to poke it out.

Years of selective breeding have produced turkeys that are nothing but cooking pouches with legs. You rub the bird's inside with lemon, stuff it with bread dressing seasoned with sage and tarragon and jazzed up withchunks of sausage and nuts and wild rice, shove it in a hot oven; meanwhile, you whomp up yams and spuds and bake your pies.

The dirty little secret of the dinner is melted animal fats: in all the recipes, somewhere it says, "Melt a quarter-pound of butter." Think of the fancy dishes you slaved over that became disasters, big dishes that were lost in the late innings. Here's roast turkey, which tastes great, and all you do is baste. You melt butter, you nip at the wine, and when the turkey is done, you seat everyone, carve the bird, sing the doxology and pass the food.

The candles are lit in the winter dusk, and we look at one another, the old faces and some new ones, and silently toast the Good Life, which is here before us. Enjoy the animal fats and to hell with apologies. No need to defend our opinions or pretend to be young and brilliant. We still have our faculties, and the food still tastes good to us.

Walt Whitman said, "I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name." Thanksgiving is one of those signed letters. Anyone can open it and see what it says.