the uncomfortable situation room

During my final tour in Nevada I was present for a number of Air Wing debriefs led by a senior Commander who, about halfway through my tour, headed back to sea to lead an Air Wing. What was most impressive about his ‘precise’ and hilarious debriefs was his ability to distill to the younger pilots exactly how it was the world of aviation and strike execution actually worked. His most important lesson, and something I’d long ago learned but never quite got into words, was the idea of situational awareness (SA). SA is a military term that applies to the world around your little bubble or weapon system. As he so simply stated, often, “There are three types of SA: good SA, bad SA, and no SA.” He’d then go on to quiz most of the new pilots, and the new(er) strike leads, throughout the debrief – Where are you? What are you thinking? What do you know? Where, exactly, is your SA needle at this point? The kid would look up at the dry-erase board, peer down at his kneeboard, look up, and mumble something like, “Well, I thought…”, and then proceed to ramble just long enough to fully realize that his cockpit was stuffed with bad SA. Here’s a quick rendition of the gas gauge the Commander would draw on the board (he refused to use the required debrief PowerPoint):

His training point was this: If you are going to base your decisions on what someone has told you, or data that someone has provided, you better know where you are on the SA meter. Measured against the ground-truth you are gold if your SA is good. Bad SA will kill you – you think you know what’s going on, you trust what’s been said, and you then make the appropriately bad decision. You are far better off to have No SA then to have bad SA – if there’s no SA then at least you are aware of having nothing, and everything you do is then driven by keeping focus on the develop the situation; at least you aren’t sitting around fat, dumb, and happy with a big pile of bad data.

I bring this up as the background to my only post about the election. The disservice done by the GOP/Conservative bloggers and political commentators would, if I were one of the followers, make me homicidal. The final three weeks of the campaign was full of endless diatribes from the right against pollsters in general, and Nate Silver in particular.  Even if you hate the NYTimes, don’t like Silver’s methodology (or his political leanings), attacking the messenger was such a reach that I think it fully dysfunctional. Silver has explained his methods and they make sense to anyone who listens. As an example, if there are 12 polls out of Ohio that show the President leading by between .5 and 1.5 points, while one outlier (see how I use words?) show Romney leading by 6 points, then he assesses the polls and comes out with something that balances out the differences. But, even his methods aren’t important and you don’t need a higher math degree to see that 12 v. 1 means the 1 is most likely out of whack. Numbers don’t lie, but if you willfully choose to ignore basic math to the extent that you are misleading your own ‘party’ then you shouldn’t be allowed to ‘commentate’.

Back to SA. As the talking heads spent weeks trying to get the voters out they decided to attack math, disregard some stable poll reporting, and simply chose to tell the posse that the (wildly vague and incorrect) Rasmussen poll was right - Mitt Romney was 5% up in Ohio! They told people that he was leading the national polls (which he never was), and that Romney would most likely take 300+ of the Electoral College votes. To the followers, that’s bad SA – believing you know what’s going on when, in fact, you have shitty data. You know what’s better? Nothing, no SA. At least the minions can then decide for themselves. You know what’s even better? Good SA. Here’s how I would use the 538.com math:

“All right folks. Here are the numbers: we are losing by about 2 point in Ohio and Colorado. We are down less than a point in Florida, a point in Virginia, and 3 points in New Hampshire. These are the facts. In order to win we need turnout – thousands of voters to get out and make up the difference. Believe the numbers.”

As opposed to Peggy Noonan saying something like, “No worries folks. I did the point-and-click mappy thing at TPM.com and Mitt should easily win this election. Rasmussen shows our guy winning. Also, I think Nate Silver is effeminate.” You know what this might lead to? People not showing up to vote because it’s in the bag. Well done, Peggy. I thank you and your ilk.

Hey, Fox News, where’s your needle pointing?

eek!

As we sat at the table last night enjoying dinner (risotto with a beet-and-pear salad) my beloved Lemon returned via the cat door from her early evening activities. She came quickly over to the table area, wound her away around G.’s chair, and allowed only him to hear a subtle squeak squeak from nearby. It was in that pre-apocalypse moment that he called out, “Lemon’s got a mouse!”

But, dear readers, before we continue let’s take a quick break from our story to review what we know about Lemon: she’s a killer, she will occasionally bring a kill home for our viewing, she will sometimes bring it home still alive – I think she and Pump like to take a little foray into the catch-and-release mentality before fulfilling the soon-to-be-gone-from-this-World appointment of said small animal. I have exactly zero problem with her killing ways; I’m not too cool with the dead and/or teasing in the house situation, but hey, she’s a cat. Back to the story.

Post-exclamation we all scoot quickly away from the table and glance under to see what was what. What was what was this: Lemon had dropped the mouse in order to begin her party-of-death game and mouse decided he wanted exactly zero to do with the Death Cat. And how did mouse avoid the fate of thousands – by scurrying directly up G.’s pants. Oh yes, you read that right – before we could prepare ourselves fully for the hilarity, the young man is up and doing the MousePants dance in the middle of dining room: “I got a mouse in my pants! The mouse is in my pants!” Now, I didn’t have film of said event, and I certainly didn’t have any clock recording data, but I will be honest and say that the elapsed time it took to pass from “mouse in pants” to concern to raucous laughter was surely less than one second. He was still in the midst of the shaky-leg-varmit-in-my-pants jig when the other four of us bypassed concern and fell into laughter. Is that wrong? As Lemon scurried about trying to find her damn mouse (G.’s lucky she didn’t see the mouse go up the sweatpants, because he would have been dancing with two furry things in his pants) I managed to yell the only thing a mature adult yells in this exact situation: get the fuck out the front door. Honestly, I don’t want the mouse paroled from his pants straight back on to the dining room floor. Yep, I’m a quick thinker. Nearly heroic. G. in his moment of distress did manage to hop, bounce, and dance outside with his brother in tow; where, it must be said, he continued the dance until mousy mouse fell to the grass and apparently made haste into the night.

Ah, life at the Round Table.

standing back up

Sure, it’s been a few months, but you knew a music thing would bring me back.

Last night I saw JD McPherson just down the road from the Round Table at the State Theatre. It was a bit criminal that the house wasn’t packed to overflowing – he’s shortly to play the big room at First Avenue so that’s indicative of where he’s at, popularity-wise, on the Todd music spectrum. He’s difficult to classify because you immediately take the easy route and say he’s a new wave Brian Setzer, but the fact is that he’s more rock n’ roll than rockabilly and I think his draw will be much broader. I have an inkling that he’s the next big Americana-alt-rock artist to hit the big time, most likely within the next year; it doesn’t take long. As an example, Mumford & Sons went from being the most accessible of the string band artists within a small chunk of the musical spectrum to being about the biggest band in the world. JD probably won’t get to that level, but huge exposure is on the immediate horizon. The show was stunning on all levels – crowd, music, atmosphere. Unfortunately, one of the issues with tickets was the State’s mediocre recognition amongst the D.C. area venues – I don’t think they often pull from beyond the greater Falls Church area. JD will be back in a bigger D.C. room at some point early next year. He, and his band, is better live but here’s a quick shot. (P.S. Jimmy Sutton is easily the best and coolest bass player to ever walk the land.)

L. did a number of college visits last week: Mary Washington, U. of Richmond, and UVa. We are also doing Goucher (Baltimore) and the New School (NYC) this weekend. She was also up and at ‘em early on Saturday morning to take her SAT at Yorktown High. I dropped her off at 7:30am and can safely report that I’ve never seen so many slack-eyed teens wandering about on a Saturday morning. Not a single one looked like some hard-charging Tracy Flick. I think half of them still were in their pajamas.

We are set for election blackout tomorrow night: a special pizza and double feature night (Princess Bride and MP and the Holy Grail). We’ll awake Wednesday AM and get on with life.

It’s been a few months, but I’m back in the saddle.

door bells

Two things to add to your wisdom ledger - one a receivable and one a payable. Actally, I have no idea which is which but when I typed the word ledger I immediately transformed into accounting man, circa 1981.

X brought back a wonderful set of chimes from Vermont and they've been hanging in our front yard tree for a few weeks. They're quite subtle and well-tuned (that sounds of a restaurant review) and can't actually be heard from any great distance. In fact, L. told me she can't hear them from her side of the house. Last night they seemed loudish to me whilst vaguely keeping me up around 3a; I worried that they might be bothering our neighbor so I decided to hop up, head outside, remove them from the tree, and put them on the ground for the rest of the night. Right. If you ever come upon the urge to 'gently take down some chimes in the middle of the night', rest assured that there is no way it won't sound the equivalent of strangling a cat in the middle of the night. Feel free to glance at the chimes, ponder the chimes, attempt to come up with the calculus that allows you to gently free them from their own noise - just know that it won't be quiet or pretty. There's a lot of clanging that essentially could be mistaken as a chime thief running rampant through the neighborhood.

On to doors. Our gym has one set of double doors. Every time I visit I end up waiting for X to finish yoga and I'm sitting by the doors and watching 70% of the people pull the one door that is locked. Why is the door locked? It's always the same door. Is it broken? Is there an issue with people using that door? Why even have the door? I know that somewhere within the blog is another similar story about a half-broken door in Barcelona. Who writes twice about doors in a single lifetime?

collections of things

I try to get out as often as possible - there aren't many  venues in D.C. that I haven't seen/done/did. Last weekend the 61 headed to the Philips Collection for an amble and coffee. I've certainly been missing quite a bit: it's a fantastic collection that fits nicely into my top list of doable-sized museums. As X pointed out after about 75 minutes, the eyes and mind begin to glaze. We ejected to the courtyard cafe and drank coffee on a coolish (by August standards) D.C. morning. Truth be told, joining the Collection would be well worth it to simply have free access to what is a very nice cafe in the midst of DuPont Circle. I'll be checking the cost.

As a last DuPont aside, the single CD store in the greater D.C. area that I routinely 'clacked clacked' music in has finally shuttered. I've bitched about this before so I won't get too deep, but it's horribly depressing. I do have an exchange in my area that stocks mostly used with the occasional new release hidden amongst the gems. I always feel a little more complete when I wonder into the dusty bins.

After the Philips we wandered a few bookstores in search of who knows what - I bought a 1932 edition of a 'Games' book that covers more than one person needs to know. What we immediately learned that night is that what we play as Charades is officially called Burlesque. I'm fairly sure the adults will be much more interested in gaming if the rascals are screaming about a Burlesque in the living room.



As we plan for the next bit of time off I'm gathering information for NYC - we going to be in the city for four days/three nights in early November. We are staying at an Army base hotel in the southern portion of Brooklyn (Bensonhurst) and will train into Manhattan in the AMs. We've already booked a journey to north (?) Brooklyn to visit some legendary bar owned by one of X's boss' family; it looks stunning in the bar (and grill) tapestry of America. I think, speaking of tapestry, we are planning on a shot up to The Cloisters during the weekend; together with a visit to the New School for L., that's the current agenda. Input appreciated and desired on other hot spots. (I'm already deep into checking on music venues....)

Lastly, prior to our collection visit and bookstore journey we stopped at the beloved Litteri's for a sandwich and fixings for pizza night - pepperoni, great cheese, etc. The crew knows L. at the deli counter and as she headed from the deli to find some more balsamic, the king of the deli looks at me and says, "She knows her stuff. Never gets anything cheap," I created this, don't I know it...

just a bunch of pussies

I was shopping yesterday and noted a woman studying the ingredients on a loaf of WonderBread; there’s no need for that kind of behavior. You will read exactly zero on the WonderBread bag that will entice you buy the product.

Okay, let’s talk cats. There was a study a few weeks ago that outlined (via mounted cat-cams) how many small animals and birds cats generally kill. There’s some follow-on talk about it at Andrew Sullivan today.  (The video is pretty creepy so watch at your own risk, you don’t need it to understand the questions I have.) Is there some environmental issue with the number of birds and bunnies that cats kill every year? I’m not being cheeky, I honestly want to know – even as a somewhat environmental liberal you’d have to show me some serious facts. I’m sure Lemon kills two or three living creatures every single day – she’s like that. Do I care? No. I do wonder about a few comments in the post: first, what is an “outdoor cat apologist” exactly? My generally pet- having rule is that I don’t want any pet that is locked in a house or cage-like venue, ever. I’m much more likely to hassle people who keep their cats locked up as if they are living on the Serengeti and they fear the dingoes (I have no idea if there are dingoes on the Serengeti…). Second, what does “Still, the bird death toll could be even more seriously reduced if people stopped letting their cats roam about unsupervised,” mean? Does this person think there are cat parks out there? Or that anyone can actually supervise their roaming cat? “Hey, Henry, get your cat supervision kit on. I need you to follow Pumpkin around this afternoon for four hour and make sure he isn’t doing any, well, cat stuff.” Lastly, anyone whose advice – or solution to this massive dead bird ‘problem’ – is to keep cats locked up in a house is a moron.

“…We found that house cats will kill a wide variety of animals, including: lizards, voles, chipmunks, birds, frogs, and small snakes.” Yep. Yep. Yep. And Yep. What is a vole?

Okay, I read some of the study outline/presser and the implication is that “one in three American bird species are in decline,” because of cats. I’d like to see some more data on that fact. The University of Nebraska punditry added that feral cats were responsible for the “extinction of 33 bird species worldwide.”  Once again, there are no other factors involved in declining/extinct bird population aside from my cats? I’m not buying it.

mysterious

As an opening, The Eleven is engaged. Very happy. I don't know a better way to write that news - now you have it.

We are on our way back from a week in Vermont; in Danbury, CT, to be exact. I think nearly all of my readers were actually in Stowe with us so my update might wander a bit from the norm. The weather was clear and hot for most of the week. P., L., and I drove up to Craftsbury Common one lovely afternoon and if you'd like to find me five-to-seven years from now then you'll have to drive a ways into the Northeast Kingdom. We can get X working at the high school and I'll finagle my way into work as an in-house cook/chef at the college. I'm not kidding.

Sam Johnson. I don't know if that's his real name, but based on vague internet work he's the man we call the 'slack wire king', of Burlington, VT. I saw him on Church St. in the summer of 2006 - a consummate professional entertainer. Apparently, he's worked of late in Washington State and New Zealand. He has no internet presence, except for a few youtube clips, and we'd hoped to see him at this weekend's Festival of Fools in town. It wasn't to be - his mystery life and, in fact, actual presence on Earth is standing on shaky ground.

G. won the second Ducketta on the river last night. My entry, Nut 3 (heir to defending champion, Nut 1) drown at the first challenge. Needless to say, he was unable to keep the syndicate's winning ways intact. I managed to defend my Stowe Invitational Golf in Miniature title via an absolutely lucky 18th hole hole-in-one; a move that took me from two strokes down to the trophy. Wholly unfair, but what can you do? The three teens all spend a morning ziplining out at Smuggler's Notch, and gabbed for a few hours afterwards about the seven zips - one that ran for 1,000 feet. One of their tour partners was filming a bit for the resort and if you look quickly you can spot all three in the video.

X has a new job - it was a busy week - that should commence in about a month. Updates as the time nears.

Fantastic dinners at both A Single Pebble and Cafe Shelbourne.

Lastly, I hate the New Yorker's new e-reader format. Consider yourselves lucky to only have to hear about it for one sentence.

onward!

Our A/C has died. It's only about 95 today. How did Laura Ingalls survive? Fortunately, we are heading to cooler climes this weekend and then there are plans to have the HVAC / AC / Furnace redone (it's an all-in-one thing). We were warned on the age of the unit so this isn't a surprise, but we'd hoped to get through at least a full year. Updates as things cool off.

I stopped at the sandwich shop on the way home because after running the oven/stove the last two evenings I've decided that we can do three days of food created with no heat by me. As I was waiting for my sandwiches another family came in, 2-plus-3, to order ice cream. As as aside, this place makes their own ice cream and the entire joint is a complete flashback to Goodrich Dairy in Omaha. Anyway, they walk up to the counter to order and Mr. Man says, "Do you have a list of ice cream flavors?" Teen boy manning the cash very instructively points to all the signs that have been hand-drawn and reflect each type of ice cream - about 20 flavors. "Oh, I see," the gentleman says. Now I'm wondering how this will end. As his three kids (ages 4-8) are standing there he then drops this bomb on order guy, "What flavors do the kids like?" What? What flavors do the the kids like? How would dude at shop know what your kids like? It's not even a fair question. Listen buddy, you've got vanilla, chocolate, fruit flavored, cookie stuff, mixes, coffee flavored, mint flavored, etc. This isn't like asking a waiter "What's good?" on a menu - we are adults and know our own tastes. "Hey, what flavor do you think my 7 year-old would like?" Gee, I don't know. And if you ask me that question again you're barred from this store. As Pops finally orders the three cones he pointed to each kid as he order, "Chocolate for this one {point}. Strawberry for this one {point}, and cookies n' cream for {point} her." Thanks JP Sousa. Why don't you hold the pointing and I'll just hand you some finished cones.

About midnight last night we heard the telltale sounds of cat prepping to puke. If you have pets you know the sound. Pumpkin on on full heave at the foot of the bed and X tries to literally kick him through the wall in time to avoid damage. Not accomplished. What we did get was some on the bed and some on the floor. X then picked up Pumpkin, who was done, and threw him outside. The look on his face was priceless - why am I being thrown outside now, I'm done. What this did get me thinking about was how hilarious it would be if people were the same as pets, who simply puke where they stand/lie (not counting drunks.) You're at work, mid-conversation, and you start heaving a bit, "Hold on conference call, just a second..." Blahhhhh, all over the place. Step one foot to the side and continue. Animals have it made, you never see them running for the toilet, "I'm fine, I'll just chuck right here. Really, no problem..."

I think I've revealed too much.

at least he had a dessert

Last night we all headed into D.C. to see the re-staging of Beertown (from last year's Fringe Festival), an award-nominated, interactive play about a fictional town and its 20th Quinquinnial, in which they open the town's time caspsule and debate additions and subtractions. It's a noble attempt at bringing political discussions to the fore in a comedic form, and the audience is fully participatory in the entire show, but the second act when we freely - and improvisationally - debate the merits of various items before voting tended to drag out far too long. It was primarily due to the repetitive nature of the debate and voting. Overall, not bad, but nothing that had me thinking too much in end. Unlike The Normal Heart from a few weeks back...great show.

More importantly, we grabbed dinner, pre-show, at Cafe Assorti in Rosslyn/Courthouse. X had suggested it earlier in the week and we enjoyed it enough to head back last night. It's a fully Russian menu joint filled with wrapped beef, cabbage, and potatoes. Between the six entrees we've had over two visits they haven't misfired yet; whoever is cooking knows from cooking. As if that tweren't enough, the desserts are unbelievable. I'd been thinking hard about giving a Napoleon a shot in my kitchen for a few months but never managed the gumption. After last night there's no need to try: I had the dessert at Assorti and it was the best dessert I've ever had, nipping out some stellar carrot cake from my past. Absolutely absolutely. The boys both had individual strawberry/yoghurt cake-lets that also managed to disappear with great haste. Napoleon and coffee. Tops.

Last week before vacation.

gas on the fire

I'm a big fan of Gaslight Anthem. I hadn't seen them live and figured the chances of seeing them live - outside of a festival, or a 20,000-seat amphitheatre - seemed unlikely. Their success is such that even a venue like the 9:30 Club here in D.C. is probably too small to hold the real 'tour' crowd. The impending release of their fourth album Handwritten  has apparently driven them out on the road for a short tour of smaller venues; shaking off the rust? Getting back to roots? Brian Fallon admitted about mid-set that they'd be back in town later this year so we can assume it'll be a venue holding 40-50 times as many fans.

Last night they played the relatively new U St. Music Hall in NW, a place that holds a cool 500 - think biggish, underground bar. It was my first foray to the music hall and it was well worth it - its size is reminiscent of the Fine Line in The Cities, where they also played, and Slim's in SF. This (early) show - there was a DJ set/partly later in the evening - blasted out of the blocks at 7:30 with Dave Hause ripping through a 35-minute solo journey, a set that was simply fantastic. I didn't know Hause before the show, I can't know them all, but his CD was in hand at the end of the show. He immediately reminded me of seeing Bob Mould solo: power guitar, strong vocals, great songs. I couldn't be happier to have come upon Hause and his music.

Gaslight Anthem followed quickly on the heels of a somewhat hilarious 15 minutes soundcheck on stage. I have no idea why I found it so funny, and I know they were in Baltimore earlier in the day for an in-store, so I can only guess there wasn't a load of time to get everything in order in the afternoon. The lights dropped, the band stepped on stage, and the next 90 minutes was packed with great songs blasting into the faces of a hypnotized crowd. It's a rare occurrence, even in a smaller venue, that you get 500 people acting as one - it can seem strange at first, but eventually the sweat, pogo-ing, and arms in the air will overtake everyone. You don't get that with a festival crowd, or even at a 1,000+ venue: those don't give you the distilled mayhem of a 500-person crowd - all there for the exact same thing.

The band managed to hit every high mark in their discography over the 90 minutes. As an aside, Fallon pointed out early in the show that with the planned 10pm DJ show they weren't going to waste our time - one set, no breaks, no encores; when it was over, we were all done. Not only is that the way I love my shows, it really opened up the crowd because there wasn't any worry about holding out some energy in reserve for the 'encore'. Open up the throttle and let it go - no off switch. If you know all the Gaslight's songs then you have only a few real favorites and the rest are near-favorites. What you don't do during the show - or what I didn't do - was wonder about when they'd play x or y song because they'll get to them all before you stumble out happy and complete. The current five-piece was perfectly balanced on the very small stage and the sound was overpowering - I'd guess that Gaslight fans don't go to the shows wanting a quiet evening, and they weren't disappointed.

At about mid-show I knew that was experiencing a show that I'd choose to make anyone else's only concert of the year, or years. There's no substitute for a bar band...in a bar. You'll never get the same feeling in a huge venue, and it's hard to bring someone to a Slobberbone show (my all-time favorite band...bar band) if they don't know the songs. That's not the case with Gaslight Anthem because the songs - a tight, pure mix of punk, pop, and rock - are strong enough to carry any person willing to open up and enjoy. They truly put on a show that could be the benchmark for most to say it was the best show they ever saw. For the fans that didn't manage to squeeze into the small joint, I almost want to apologize. And, for the jackasses on Craigslist asking $175 for tickets? Fuck you.

One last award: the 9:30 Club (who booked the show) sent over the big security guy to work the front of the stage, and he was busy. This guy is so big that as the body surfers periodically tumbled towards the stage, he simply stepped to his left, caught some random 220-lb guy in his arms like a baby, and set him to the side. Over and over with nothing but a straight face.

A show that gives me the security of knowing I'll never need to see them again. It won't get any better. Sort of what music is suppose to do to people.

ps The band did a live one-hour online show at the Ed Sullivan Theater last month - they sounded great, but the venue isn't good and the crowd was a bunch of stiffs, probably for security reasons, who knows. Trust me, not even close to the same vibe. Not close.

queue it up

At the shoppette (convenience store) on base last week I had a hilarious interaction with the manager; we get along well and see each other every day. In the afternoons he’ll pop into a closed line and open up as customers at the (usually) two open lines begin to back up five deep – he’s so fast compared to the other cashiers that he can clear three or four sales in the time the others do one. What I had done that day was begin my single-line operation between the two open registers (they face each other) and managed to magically get the next ten or so buyers to go single line behind me. When he opened his register at the rush we had a lengthy, and friendly, discussion about which is faster: single line or pick a line. I know from my experience overseas that the single line is the best option even without an engineer explaining it; the manager disagreed with me. I’d send him this video, but harassing the shoppette manager seems petty.

The funnier version of this same story is the Case of the Urinals at Verizon Center. On the 400-level (upper tier / cheaper seats) all the men's rooms use the single line process. Sure, the lines go out the door and look longer, but they move much quicker. The 100-level (lower tier / expensive seats) have the same bathroom configuration, but everyone insists on lining up ten deep behind each of the 15 urinals - makes zero sense. Occassionally you get some 100-level civilian up in the 400s who immediately gets all riled up and screams "Get in a line behind the urinals. Why is everyone not in a line behind the urinals!" He is quickly dealt with by other semi-drunk hockey fans. He's usually from Pittsburgh or New York.

quick like a bunny

I was thinking about a whirlwind update, but there’s too much to cover – at least in paragraphs. Here’s the summary:

Boys left and returned.

L.  left, back at the end of the month.

Hot.

Storm.

Lizard eaten by cats.

No Power.

Power.

Hot.

Done…hit 105 over the weekend.

Are we caught up?

crowd control

A whirlwind of activities yesterday - some planned for an extended period, some not. I had a ticket to the Dawes show last night at the 9:30 Club but doors were at 8p, the opener (Sara Watkins) at 9p, Dawes at 10p. Throughout the day I was trying desperately to figure out a way to avoid my normal show arrival (one hour prior to doors to get a sweet seat upstairs) because I didn't much feel like leaving work, hitting the city for a bite, and then spending almost five hours at the club. At about 4pm I was hit by a brilliant idea: I bought L. and I tickets to see Wes Anderson's newest, Moonrise Kingdom. We met in town about 5:30 grabbed dinner at Cedar (her early prom dinner), and caught the 7p show in Penn Quarter. Post-show timed out just right for me to skidaddle over to the club and arrive in a more timely manner.

L. and I both love Anderson so the movie was a pleasure, as expected. This was it's national opening and based on what I've read and seen (sold out last night) my suspicion is that this one will breakthrough and garner him, and his crew of actors, much more attention than what he's seen from the cultists over the last 15 years. I'm not going to ramble on with a review because if you like Anderson you'll love the film, if not, you won't. I think it's his best yet.

The Dawes show was excellent; the crowd was middling to poor. Not in a "they didn't enjoy the band" sense, in a shitty crowd sense. One thing that I've noticed at nearly every 9:30 Club show, and always in the summer, is that the floor crowd is horrid. I don't know if the transplants to D.C. are the worst of America, or if summer brings out the worst. I've covered the basic rules of floor spectation at concerts, but it appears the normal 9:30 crowd refuses to read my blog. Even if they don't, experience shows at concerts and if you attend more than one every five years you might get the swing of the deal. I've been to hundreds of club shows all over America and the 9:30 Club is head-and-shoulders above (worse?) than any place I've ever been; it always weighs on my mind before I decide to head to that venue.* The better part was the band - these guys are great live. Excellent mixing at the board, lyrics understandable, band simply up to the task of blasting it out on a Friday night. I'm happy to see them exploding and packing such a big club.

L. has her prom tonight so I'll try to update with pictures (steam punk theme) later tonight.

* I realize that a good bit of this is me - don't rant back. I've decided to move regions on the floor the next time I'm there. If you look around you can see pockets of fans who are often better than where I might end up standing, but sometimes the hatred of the group of jackasses is too gravitational strong to escape...

click, click, be very quiet, I'm hunting wabbit

The following is an update from the PGA Tour yesterday. I'll add no commentary, but I will ask that you take about 8 minutes to watch the attached video. Which, by way, upon today's review reminded just how cool the whole sequence of events was back in 1988.

"There was still a lot of buzz about Phil Mickelson's withdrawal after shooting a 79 in Thursday's first round. His playing partners, Watson and Rickie Fowler, both contended that part of the reason Mickelson pulled out was because of the continual distraction of fans clicking their cellphone cameras during Mickelson's swings.

The PGA Tour permits fans to bring cellphones onto the course, but they must be silent or on vibrate and can only be used to make or take calls in specified areas.

"We created an atmosphere for fans to use their phones and when we get these marquee groups together, that many people want to take photos," Tom Strong, in charge of tournament standards for the tour, said Friday. "We did have a setback with how it worked. We got together (Memorial Tournament executive director) Dan Sullivan, the marshal team and we beefed it up today."
Police said about 50 phones were confiscated from the Watson-Fowler group.

Marshals frequently cautioned the galleries following Tiger Woods to silence their phones and not take pictures. Security guards who walk the ropes with Woods also warned spectators who were poised to snap photos as Woods passed.

"We'll be more aggressive with taking phones away," Strong said.

After Thursday's opening round, Watson was clearly angry about the cellphone use.

"Ever since they made that rule that cellphones are allowed, it's just not fun playing," he said. "They made that rule, more and more people have been using their cellphones to take pictures. ... It's sad. It's sad that cellphones can make or break a championship."

Fowler said things were vastly improved Friday."
 

not a dream, just losing sleep

I was younger and probably slightly more impressionable back in 1992 when the Dream Team ran rampant at the Barcelona games. We are happening upon this entry because through my Spurs enjoyment I’m also subjected to commercials touting a lame, 20-year anniversary/celebration documentary of the Dream Team. I need to get a few things out the way before I rant: the serendipity of having Jordan, Bird, and Magic playing in the same NBA era was fortuitous. Without those three, who are undoubtedly three of the most strong willed and talent players ever to grace the NBA, the whole experiment wouldn’t have been quite so ‘amazing’. Since 1992, we’ve seen U.S. team after U.S team struggle as the world has gotten better and the vast NBA talent pool of the mid-1980s to mid-1990s has disappeared. There certainly were some greats around those three, but honestly, we could have thrown in Shaq (a rookie), Larry Johnson, Dennis Rodman, and/or Reggie Miller and been just fine. Aside from the big three the only NBA title(s) on the roster came from Pippen (playing with Jordon, whether you like it or not); one from Drexler later in his career, post Olympics – courtesy of Hakeem; and David Robinson with two, also post-Olympics. I count that as three: MJ, Magic, and Bird finished with 14. That’s my introduction.

Here’s the hammer : the Dream Team wasn’t that impressive. If we took the best NFL players right now, a 2012 all-pro team, and trotted them out there for a new Olympic football competition they’d destroy everyone else. We could throw the Lions out there and destroy anyone else. In fact, in 1992 the Chicago Bulls would have annihilated the Olympic field. When the most dominant professional league is hosted in the U.S. – and in 1992 it was a hundred times more talented than the next – putting an all-star team on the court vs. Venezuela isn’t really impressive. Wow! They won by 47! None of it was really impressive back then, and it’s less impressive now. We used to hate the Soviet team that won the hockey gold every Olympics because they were simply a professional team rolled out every four years to destroy everyone else. What happened in the 1980 Olympics, within an athletic competition framework, was far, far more impressive than the Dream Team. If you aren’t old enough to remember the entirety of the situation, bear in the mind the gnashing of teeth between those players, their “professional” sponsors, and the uniform. All of the Nike-owned players covered the Reebok logo on their uniforms during the medal presentation ceremony – left shoulder with a flag. They couldn’t even be bothered to simply let that go. Maybe it’s an unfair critique, but it simply added fuel to my fire because the 60- and 79-point wins over Panama and Cuba weren’t distasteful enough. I certainly don’t need to sit around and watch a documentary full of these players talking about how “there’ll never be anything like this again.” Yes, Larry there will be – when the US fields a rugby team against the All Blacks Dream Team in some Olympic games.  Also remember that all of this came about after the U.S. only won the bronze medal in 1988 – a team that was 5-0 in pool play (with a winning margin that averaged  35 per game) but lost by six point in the semi-finals. We might call this dream thing a bit of an overreaction.

The last thing I want to sit through are a bunch of Dream Teamers and journalists harkening back to the day when the USA was number 1 – in a field of amateurs.

That’s all. At least I can watch the Spurs again tonight.

history is unwritten

I was watching an NBA playoff game last night – sort of a Holiday wind down (although I’m far more interested in the San Antonio v. OKC series) – and this trailer came on the tube. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry; I have only once seen the combination of two stranger ideas. If you dare, watch the second trailer.

tramps and stamps

This falls right into the Oxford comma and Billy Joel sucks department of “I didn’t see that diatribe coming.” Someone suddenly opens up on what might have been an innocent topic and before you know it the wraths of hell are upon them. I wonder if anyone has established an on opinion parking lots? I have! I have!

I’ll be succinct since I have something else to rail on about. If I’m driving through a lot looking for resting place for Galactica I don’t stop unless I see reverse lights on. Period. There are two sets of folks (see how I didn’t yet call them names?) in the lot scenario*: the vultures and the slow motherfuckers. The only one of the two who affect others is the vulture. If 'Bobby Sue" (nom de guerre: fukeris slowis) wants to take three days to load up her groceries, her baby, her other baby, and then spend an hour figuring out how to work her seatbelt and key, so be it. For all I care, she can sit in her car and listen to Lady Antebellum sing her favorite song.  If you decide to sit and wait for her to get settled in, figure out the equipment in her rig, and belt the last chorus (“But it was perfect; I never will forget; When we owned the night; Yeah, we owned the night !”) of the Lady then you are on my list. What you’ve decided to do is block traffic in that row (some of us are actually trying to depart the Circle of Parking), and will more than likely further exacerbate the problem by debating with the wedge you’re intercepting from the other direction, who also thinks he has the right to that spot, exactly what is going on in this now completely fucked up situation. Mix in a bit of bad space extraction ability from Bobby Sue and we’ve got a serious jam up. Keep moving, you won’t drive off the end of the earth. It’s like the internet, the lot goes on for a very long time. By no means am I condoning Bobby Sue, but in the grand scheme of life - my life - what you are doing as a vulture is actually expanding a bad situation (Bobby Sue) into a disaster – you are willfully taking everything a second step beyond the problem. Bobby Sue is simply one of the 325 million Americans who have no awareness of what is going on around them.

I promised another one: the Post Office. The endless chants of how the USPS is horrible and loses money all the time is complete bullshit. I don’t have the patience to link to all the studies and reports, but I’ll tell you that the USPS in the first quarter of 2012 (Oct-Dec) had revenues of $1.7B and operating expenses of $1.5B. Up through about 2007 the USPS did not operate at a loss. The USPS does not receive taxpayer money. The USPS does a pretty good job of getting my stuff from A to B. They also can be a bit of a pain in the ass if you have to go inside an actual USPS building. Around 2007 Congress passed some crappily named bill that requires the USPS to fund pensions forty years in the future. In order to meet this requirement the USPS has to pay about $5.5B per year in advance payments in one lump sum; the kicker is that the money is then used elsewhere to help alleviate the annual government deficit. When you read the “USPS loses $5B last year” headlines you have to understand that the $5B shortfall is the advance payment. No other government agency is required to pay 40 years in advance; they aren’t required to pay at all. If the DoD were required by law to pay, in a lump sum every year, pension and retirement benefits (including VA) for all the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines, they'd have to cough up some unbelievable amount of money that would indicate that the DoD was operating at a $65B loss per year.  It’s easy to hit the low fruit when complaining about government, but the USPS thing (no doubt taken from the ‘going postal’ thing about 30 years ago) is such a hackneyed diatribe that it’s embarrassing. Don’t embarrass yourself.

Peace.

 * handicapped, ladies with kids (questionably), and old people are generally excluded from my ire.

let it live

I’ll be short and sweet.

I was at the Birchmere on Friday for Justin Townes Earle and Tristen – after walking the Delray neighborhood for dinner and wine. It was solo date; it happens. Yes, I said wine. I did manage a pitcher of Shiner for the show.

My view on opening acts is well known, perhaps unfair, perhaps not. I have discovered two of my favorite bands via the opening act protocol: The Tarbox Ramblers (opening for Dave Alvin and the Guilty Men), and Erin McKeown (opening for the Be Good Tanyas).  In the grand scheme it’s a small percentage of success, but credit where credit is due.

Tristen ranks right up there on my list. I was a bit tentative at first, like some of her songs, but she brought me around quickly. Apropos of the last paragraph, she reminds me of a combination of Erin McKeown and Martha Berner. It’s not a perfect analogy, but close. The thing about her live songs is that she never leaves you hanging when you don’t want to be hanging. I’m a well-documented pop whore, and there are endless performances and songs that never get to the top of the hill; they sort of dick around the plateau and get stuck at altitude. Tristen can start out a slow motor, like my favorite song, Inaction, and suddenly deliver the goods while she ramps up to the peak in a very cool combination of orchestra, pop, and (sometime) growling.  That song process and performance style is a recurring theme for her and the band and it was enticing. I grabbed her CD, Charlatans at the Garden Gate, between sets and it’s been well worth the price through a weekend of cooking and music.

Justin Townes Earle more than met my expectations. I first saw him with his dad and aunt in London in 2001 at the Beyond Nashville Festival. I’m pretty sure that when he came out at 19 he did about four songs before surrendering the stage to Stacey, and eventually, Steve. They all came back and did a few songs together at the end – and I’m almost sure he did this song which is still one of my all-time favorites, and ended up on the Just An American Boy CD a few years later. I know, a long story. Eleven years, an EP, and four full-length CDs have passed and his talent is in full bloom. His newest CD, Nothing's Gonna Change the Way You Feel About Me Now, is as good as it gets. At 10 songs and just over 30 minutes it’s short, tight, and sweet; his roll through almost every song from it, combined with the rest of his catalog, during his 100 minute set was a thing of beauty. The highlight? His acoustic blast through Lightin’ Hopkins’ I Been Burning Bad Gasoline.  I won’t ever claim to know what from what, but I’ve seen hundreds of shows in my life and I have little doubt the JTE is one of the best guitar players ever. Jesus.  His four-piece band was perfect, his storytelling was engaging, his singing is solid gold, and he had the crowd full of musical joy. Hearing him roll through all the songs I love so much was a treat. If you ain’t on the JTE bandwagon, you're missing one of the great artists rolling around America. Get to it.

Here’s a great recording from a live show in 2010:

And because I can; unless I’m mistaken that’s Bryn Davies playing bass. Man, I love her – saw her playing with Patty Griffin a few years ago:

george bush

On Saturday night two of the kids were downstairs at the table playing cards. I imagine that most of us have watched the professional poker tour on TV. Most of us have played Spades or Hearts (or Heartless), possibly there are some who love Cribbage (or CribGolf); each one of those games can drive someone to talk a little bit of smack. It's probably not beyond the pale that when bridge players get together you might hear:

Warren Buffett: "Gates, what the heck was that bid?"
Bill Gates: "Back off man, I was bidding !"
Omar Sharif: "Are you ladies about done bickering? Do your husbands also play?"

I used to play Pinochle when we were deployed. We'd bust out cards after Buzz had cut everyone's hair and then played the saw; Blade had stopped telling us stories, and the handheld Yahtzee game was in use somewhere else (trust me, the first months at Al Udeid were rough). I couldn't quite come up with any Pinochle table talk aside from, "There's an easy way to remember the Jack of diamonds, Queen of spades marriage." How? (Speaking slowly) "Just remember Jack of diamonds, Queen of Spades."

Where was I going? Right, kids and cards. There is one game that simply has no belittling commentary available: War. You might not know that based on the table banging and verbal jousting that continued for any number of hours during the battle.

"Watch this, baby! Boo-yah, Jack!"

"This one is for real . Bang!"

"Did you cut the little balls off the back of your socks before coming here?"

"You call that game?"

"See that? Right there! Ace, baby!"

I'm not sure that trash talking through a game of chance is legal. I guess dudes rolling bones in Vegas at the Craps table do it, right? As if someone can get 'hot'...

Bang! War! Five of clubs beatdown!

refined

Over the weekend H. drew up a list of items he’d like to have in the house for his weekday breakfasts and lunches. Most everything on the list was a normal purchase, but having items listed and count required is certainly helpful for me when shopping; a mature idea on his part. What struck me most though, was the quality of penmanship. Judge for yourself:

I pointed out to him how much I admired the readability, to which he replied, “Well, this is very important and I want to make sure everything is understood.” Here is an example of his homework:

Make what you will of these events. I think I'm onboard with importance. We were a little behind on shopping at the end of the week and L. pointed out that all we had to eat was “condiments”; tough crowd.

About a month ago we bought an electric mower at Sears. "Big Jake", who'd survived three summers for a total cost of $15, was put out to pasture. Well, sort of. I'm thinking of pulling off the engine and making a go-kart. Seriously. Maybe I can go online and do some research and figure out a way to make some screaming rig that the boys can ride up and down Arthur Dr. Or, better yet, I can get Buzz to bring his lazy butt up to D.C. and build it for me. I think he understands two-stroke motors.

The electric mower is awesome. I know that the drawback in your mind is the cord situation, but rest easy, gentle reader. Once you have a pattern it's a piece of cake. That thing weighs about 10 lbs. and rolls over everything just fine. If your looking, and your yard doesn't need more than 75ft. of cord required, I highly recommend an electric.

I want to take a minute to throw out a call to my old pal, Bryce. He's in Omaha working as a chef, or charcuterist or sausage boy, and is up and (almost) running in Dundee with The French Bulldog. The man is living the dream - here's a quick Omaha pub with a little Q&A. I'm ecstatic to see him working in the industry and busting (bustin'?) heads. Doesn't seem a nearly a decade ago that we wandered off into our own worlds. The best to Bryce.

We did L's. 16th about a week ago: dinner cooked at home and an orange chocolate cake. I'm taking her to see Brian Regan on Saturday night in D.C. I've also got Justin Earle coming up on Friday night down in Alexandria. I know, I know....but seriously. Check out his solo live performance from his new album. See what I mean?



And, as a final musical prop, RIP to Donald "Duck" Dunn. The driving thump of Stax Records. Get that bass up!

greatest ever

A bit of snooker talk that devolves into overall sport. Stephen Hendry retired yesterday after his loss at the World Championships. He’s won more of everything (7 World titles, ranking tournaments, etc.) than any in history – most of them coming in the 1990s when he dominated the sport. This has led to the discussion of whether he was the best ever, and it’s opened the floodgates of opinion comparing him not only to his ‘contemporaries’ (O’Sullivan, Higgins, Williams, etc.), but to the greats of the past (primarily a trio of Davises). Only one commentary clarified the debate, particularly among his peers, and it was a declaration that there wasn’t a ‘fag paper’ (British commentary) between all of them in terms of talent. I couldn’t agree more. What that tells me, or anyone, is that with equal talent to the rest he won more often than any of them. Higgins has four titles, O’Sullivan three, Hendry – seven. Greatness comes from the ability to separate yourself from the amazing talent around you and excel more often. It’s the same with all individual sports and to some extent with leaders in team sports. We often debate the era in which players compete, the talent around them (team sports), but the fact is that when you are at the pinnacle of your sport, every single person in that league or association is separated from each other, talent wise, by microns.  The great separate and win. It’s pretty simple.

do you have a flag?

An excerpt from Into the Silence (Wade Davis), about Mallory and the post-war attempts to climb Everest:

"...they climbed 1,000 feet up a steep rise that led across the moraine and down to the banks of a narrow stream, where, in sight of wild gazelles, they camped in a meadow behind a stone shelter, a mile below a bridge that crossed the river Nazurga. Bullock, cursed all day by a "rotten pony", took solace in the mail, which had arrived that morning: letters from his wife, along with a box of fudge. Mallory found comfort in the fact that he "had foiled the natives, whose aim was to retard our progress."

This is, of course, a prime example of those out on the tip of the spear in expeditions. The brave British Empire heaving loads of baggage by hand across vast unexplored lands. With little hope of survival being they are so very, very far from the safety of...what? Bullock managed to return to camp from a days danger and finds that, thank the Lord, the fudge has arrived? I wouldn't send fudge in this day-and-age, but he's off in throes of Everest and fudge arrives? I hope he sent word back...

The book is what I called slow entertainment: I love exploration and history but I'd like it at a bit quicker pace. Or, failing that, a more interesting writing style - this feels of a slog. I understand we aren't talking wartime here, at least not in the post-WWI portion which took up about the first 150 pages, but someone like Anthony Beevor is a much better writer for my taste. I'll manage, but it may take me as long to get through as it takes them to scale Everest someday, in actual time.

When we were on vacation down yonder we stumbled upon a show called Holmes on Homes which is about some crazy Canuck who goes into homes gone wrong and starts immediately ripping things apart and then fixing them with his crack crew (and peers) of A++++ contractors. His most basic sayings are along the lines of "you can't do it like that", and "don't worry, I'll fix it." We watch an episode on Sundays during pizza night. As new owners - and somewhat renovators - having Holmes get hold of our shitty contractor would be pure gold.

Kids appear alive. Cats appear alive. We work.

...to the gut

My summer concert series kicked off Friday night with The Punch Brothers at the 9:30 Club. Lord, I was tired but the show’s vibe made up for the long day. The deal with these five musicians, as one, is that instead of feeling as if they are pushing something out at the crowd instead they are pulling us along – something that’s never happened at shows I’ve attended. For the first haIf dozen songs you felt like the band was climbing a mountain and we were along for the ride, and the back side roll was going to be something. The Brothers were loaded from the get-go with Chris Thile letting the crowd know how long he’d waited to bring “this band to this club.” The music, including an early 9-10 minutes instrumental, was stunning – how five guys can create such a din is beyond me. This band is tight – and at least 10x better live than on CD; and the CD is exceptional. Their ability to move easily between classic bluegrass and some version of a pop/jam band is a thing of beauty; pure and simple talent. Having a chance to see this pinnacle of the decade long re-mapping of young string bands made for quite an evening. Well done to the band. I’m ecstatic to have seen them in a club before the onslaught of bigger shows over the coming years. Based on what I’ve seen with this new generation of bands the growth of fans and venues will be exponential; nothing but festivals on the docket for the coming summer and autumn.

In a rare confluence of events (if you know my background feelings about 9:30 shows), the crowd was the best I’ve experienced there, and the sound was impeccable. Between the band and the house system they perfectly balanced all the instruments and vocals which seems to happen only once every ten shows. Also, the club has taken to allowing the first 30 or so patrons into the basement bar and then letting us in at door time before the rest of the folks lined up outside. I got there about an hour before doors, had a beer, and cleared with the guy at the ‘front/stairs’ that I was heading up to the upper bar and a stool whist he was going for the center of the stage – always declare intentions. We were both happy with the outcome.

The only downside? I got hit was a 2 x 18 on the way home: a full 18-minute wait for the Green Line at Cardozo, followed by another full 18 at L’enfant Plaza. Sometimes you get a kick in the teeth, sometimes it doesn’t even hurt.

freeze

I’ve changed my opinion on guns over the last few years. There was a time when I wanted all handguns banned; if you have a handgun and you aren’t law enforcement then you are arrested. What to do about shotguns and rifles used for sport? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now; that’s another issue. The change I’ve made is this: if you feel you need a gun in your house for protection then I’m okay with that idea. If you want 50 guns in your house, have at it. I’d rather not feel that way but I’ve been convinced. What I don’t want are handguns outside your house. Period. You may feel that you are skilled enough to judge when to pull out a gun and shoot someone – but you are wrong; more than likely you are wrong 99.99% of the time. More guns, even inside your own home, are the worst possible answer to the problem, but it doesn’t seem like common sense will prevail. If you want guns in your house then I can avoid an encounter with you and your arsenal by not going into your house. As a favor to me and society, don’t bring you guns to the village green. I’ll take my chances with the criminals. That’s all I have to say on that.

i'll need you to rip that shit out

The week kicked off with my use of ‘traffic cones’ in the morning meeting, “It seems the only traffic cones that might present a problem are…” We’ll give it a bit of time to percolate and see what kind of run it gets by end of the week.

I also reconfigured my cube to a standup desk fashion runway. Down to one massive monitor and a purpose-built riser that moves everything up to my level – it’s like I’m a circus clown around here. I’ve already ordered an ergo mat for the floor so that will only add to the curiosity of others. I’ve decided there are too many people I’d like to be around for awhile, and dying of a heart attack because I sat on my arse for years would, quite frankly, be embarrassing.

Over the weekend we moved forward with stripping a 6 x 40 (?) foot area from the front of the yard; it’s now garden in a near complete state. The issue was getting rid of the grass before turning the rock hard Virginia clay with leaf mold. The old timey method involves me, a spade, and twelve hours of my time. The less old timey way involves the use of this:


Now, that guy is overdressed for the job; and that hair is something. I actually think the ‘sod cutter’ label is in the wrong place – that should be pointed at dude’s head. You know that happens without guy to kick that damn thing around the yard? Nothing. It’s wood and metal. It’s parts. Unfortunately, the gas powered beast wouldn’t fit in the Merc wagon so me and the rental tool staff were laughing about how much work I had ahead of me on a lovely Saturday. Funny. While my dear was completing the paperwork for the enhanced sod removal device, a landscaper (with a truck) walks in and volunteers to bring the real thing to the house, gratis. And pick it up. And give us about $50 of high-quality mulch. I don’t know how she does it. I asked him if this tool/lawn/nice guy thing was his chosen superhero trait. Makes you hope for society, doesn’t it. Anyway, I ended up with something like this instead, which took about 40 minutes of my time to clear the desired area:


I don’t want you to get any ideas in your head about this being simple. Running this beast, with my little experience, sort of feels like this:


I got my eight seconds and called it a day.

(Speaking of me and machinary or mechanics, if you haven't heard my story on changing the oil on my Geo Metro, circa 1998, you might not understand.)

The front yard, with my lovely gardeness working endless hours, is looking very nice. I’ll get a picture tonight.

i heard them all

This will be my last music entry for awhile; for some reason I’ve been in my music backyard for a few weeks and that’s what you end up hearing about. (Sorry, "Dan".)

A short story: as we all know, Old Crow Medicine Show has been a part of my life for about eight years. I stumbled upon them, literally, on the Sunday of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass back in 2004. I was camped out at the Arrow Stage holding for Gillian Welch later in the day. OCMS came out third that day and I was hooked – in fact, when they started playing the then unknown-ish Wagon Wheel, the hundred around the stage went a bit mental. I saw them again about six weeks later at the Borderline in London with X – the best live show I’ve ever seen; man, I loved those guys. I’ve seen them since (twice in D.C. and once more in S.F. at the Great American Music Hall) and it’s never quite held up to those first two experiences. Probably never could have. I’ve got all the albums, I love the songs, but eventually you move on. The band has changed significantly in the last year or so and they aren’t the same live – at least not what I’ve seen.

Last month at the memorial concert for Warren Hellman, who founded and graciously paid for Hardly Strictly Bluegrass every year, they played a number of songs and it was all quite hallow. Maybe it was the crowd, maybe the event, maybe…I don’t know. I’m not sure of the rock n’ roll break-up story behind the recent changes, nor does it matter, but they aren’t the same. What immediately came to my mind was a blurb in the liner notes to a fantastic album of my younger days, Billy’s Live Bait by the Gear Daddies (also a massive favorite of mine). Critic Jim Walsh, who I think wrote for the St. Paul paper back then, wrote this about the end of the Gear Daddies, “For as long as I live, I will never, ever love a band the way I love the Gear Daddies.” I kind of feel that way about the Crows even though it’s my time to move along.

pivot

I am so tired of mindless meeting speak. Most of my co-workers know this fact because of how much I laugh and rail at their attempts at fitting in with pathetic vocabulary. Every single person here works this amateur vocabulary into everything they say. In this job a lot of the vernacular comes from the military but there are enough non-military folks that oftentimes business lingo hops over the moat. Yesterday morning, in a two sentence opening by one person, I wrote down the following phrases: pillars, stovepipes, lanes of the road, fidelity, cart/horse, and show the math. Stunning. I’ve been particularly harsh on the users (and it’s everyone) of “lanes of the road,” it may be the most overused phrase since “it is what it is.” Which, by the way, makes you sound like a moron.

My game for the next month is to try to get everyone using crazy terms that I’m going to simply pull from (almost) thin air: One phrase per week that I’ll use at least once a day in our various meetings and strolling discussions. I’ll have to be careful because anything too random will signal to the lemmings that it’s not a serious phrase. At the same time, it has to have some pull to those unable to actually speak normally; my first thought was to try out ‘widdershins’* but I don’t think it’ll do anything but make people wonder, “Right, I see your point, but let’s go widdershins around the table. Bob?” I think I’ll have to grab an idea from the world of traffic and somehow make it work, I'm contemplating some version of either 'on ramp' or 'off ramp'.

Any suggestions are welcome.

*** I'd never heard of, or used, widdershins until X brought it up last week. Fantastic word.

my mates

I’ve been listening to Mountaintop for many months. I must have first hit upon Mates of State about 7 or 8 years while wandering around in San Francisco and buying CDs at Amoeba. With the weather turning warm and windows dying to be opened, the Mates are as good a reason as any to turn up the volume and enjoy the weather. They also remind me, often, of just why I love good pop music so much – my kind of pop music, not Mr. Bieber. I didn’t know which video to give you, so you get both. Who knew they were on Letterman last year? And, if they come over for an intimate dinner party they can play like they do at the Tiny Desk Concert. Oooohhh ooohhh ooooohhh ooohhhh, ooohhh ooohhh ooohhh…

hitler

I don't know what to say. I glanced at my cutting board and there sat morels, garlic, and shallots. What to do? In the voice of an Englishman, "that's a nice risotto." Damn if it ain't. Add some butter around, a dash of argen oil (handcarried back from Morocco by my killer barber!), salt, black pepper, a dash of Saint Angel cheese, and we will be lovers. Actually, I haven't tasted it yet; holding while X whips up a sorrel soup. She's so lovely. We obviously hit the farmers market this morning and the damn greens are exploding, as we like this time of year: sorrel, rainbow chard, spinach, ramps (ramps! they will go on pizza tomorrow night), chives, garlic greens...stunning. The best bit of the stroll was my stop at the mushroom guy; I walked into the midst of a discussion of morels, "a bit early for morels in this area, isn't it?" asked the sly man at the table. "Not really, I might question that," the seller replied. To which the buyer queried, "Well, where did you find them?" (Everyone steps back.) You don't ask a man that...ever. It was quite a parry because one of two things was in play: an innocent question which intended no theft, or a valiant attempt to discover the cache of morels in northern Virginia - a pirate move. No quarter. My mushroom man laughed at the Captain Black attempt and merely continued regaling us with his find of "maybe a pound, a bit more. Nothing like the 30 or 40 pounds a good find in the Midwest might provide." I snatched my basket like that weird little fuck in Lord of the Rings grabs the ring, and headed off for the fresh eggs and yoghurt.

There's a kid's homework assignment sitting at this computer desk as I type: "Collage of Adolf Hitler, Chancellor of Germany." I have a few questions before we continue. First, a collage? I don't think anyone puts Hitler and collage together, ever. "Dear Adolf, I'm sorry I couldn't make it there for the Holidays. But, I've created this lovely collage for you..." Is that off-base? Also, most people don't use the phrase "Chancellor of Germany" when discussing Adolf Hitler. Let's do a mental game; I say Adolf Hitler and you say what? I'll bet it's not, "Oh wait, the Chancellor of Germany?"

The weather is fine. A massive home-buying-spring-cleaning is ongoing. Two kids return tomorrow morning: I don't know which two.

Justin Earle has bypassed his father's talent. I think I might have pointed this out before, but if not, I do so now. The new album, clocking in at ten songs and thirty minutes, is fantastic.

Happy Easter to all. I hid some eggs in your backyard...go find them.

you May

I have no idea why Spring is the hot-Toddy tour time in this area. Maybe spring is simply when artists hit the road in unheated, dilapidated vans so it’s the same everywhere else. I’m not sure I can make it all work but it appears as if I’ve hit the jackpot for shows in May. I’ve got all my bases covered with the following: Frank Solivan and Dirty Kitchen; Justin Townes Earle; The Polyphonic Spree; and Chuck Prophet and the Mission Express. In late April there is the Punch Brothers, and in early June I’ve got Dawes. The whole mess is a spectrum from bluegrass through Americana, bombastic pop, rock n’ roll, and California dreaming. This may all be make up for two years of classes and little time at night. I won’t regale you with full-on links from here, but you can wander off at your own discretion.

Frank Solivan and Dirty Kitchen (p.s. Frank is also a chef and will come to your house, cook a massive one-pot for 50, and then play a set. Dreams.) doing an after-dinner gig in the living room.

JTE doing Mama’s Eyes live, which I’ve posted before.

Chuck Prophet and Mission Express doing his latest, also live at KEXP.

The Polyphonic Spree doing Hold Me Now. They are gigging at the historic Sixth & I Synagogue – it’ll be fantastic.

The Punch Brothers messing with Radiohead’s Kid A and then rolling into Wayside.

Dawes doing When My Time Comes.

ExtraExtra!!!!

The drive down to Warm Springs on Saturday afternoon was scenic. It was also long and convoluted. The GPS (“Eddie”) was programmed to the Warm Springs city center but instead dumped us out in the wilds of Bath county about 20 miles north of the town. I had my suspicions when Eddie routed us straight west after passing Harrisionburg – therefore bypassing Staunton, VA, which had been a landmark – and sending the new Donner party up and over Highland county. At said dumping point, the Eleven quickly decided to access the World and determine our best route to our vacation getaway. What’s that you say? No 3G coverage out here? Fine, pull up the Google/live traffic enabled GPS and we’ll be gold. No reception out here? Fine, get the map. What? No. Map.

(AP) Harrisonburg, VA – Virginia State Police report they have located two lost Northern Virginia liberal voters in the area surrounding the lower Allegheny Mountains in northwest Virginia. After reports that they hadn’t e-mailed or texted anyone for over two hours, the State Police dispatched a search team that included one vehicle, one trooper, a map, a sandwich, and large WaWa coffee. Sgt. Deke Slaton described the search as simple, “We were told they were heading down toward Warm Springs for two nights at some posh inn that apparently delivers breakfast to your room in a picnic basket. I don’t know how that works, but warm scones and coffee in bed doesn’t sound half bad.” Sgt. Slaton decided that the best search pattern was to head due south along State Highway 220 from his office in Monterey, VA, “The way I figured it, “ said Slaton, “the cell service is dead between Monterey and Hot Springs so the natural place to hunt for these yahoos was along 622 where outdoor types tend to fish and hunt.” After about six miles Slaton located the 2001 Gold Mercedes E320 parked on the side of the road. The vacationers were shaken, but safe, having just finished the last of their carrot and yoghurt meze, simits, and a split sparkling lemon soda. “They were in the process of figuring out what they were going to do next when I came upon them,” Slaton reported. “Frankly, it was a little embarrassing. They seemed to be walking around holding their iPhones in the air. The woman was picking flowers and complaining how there was no way that the 1.9Ghz towers weren’t able to hit the phone. There was some other blather about backhaul. The guy was rambling on about how high-speed rail should be built in the area and something about timetables and poor planning by the localities. Anyhow, I gave them half of my sandwich and told them to drive five more miles and they’d be at the Inn. They had ¾ of tank of gas so I’m not really certain why they were concerned.” The couple was reported to have checked into their hotel about 15 minutes later. They were napping five minutes later.

The weekend went swimmingly. We spent two nights out yonder so the driving was well space out over the three days. We did accidentally stumble into an artist/co-op/studio on Sunday morning that hit X over the head and took her wallet. I, as the strong boyfriend, defended her by carrying all the loot to the car.

We are back home; all the kids are gone. The peace of two adults and one mewling cat…