Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

I leave later today for sunny San Diego and a few days of R&R. I'll have Internet access where I'm going, but I may be too lazy to blog anything. Anyway, back on Tuesday. Have a great Mardi Gras weekend, and here's a coupon.

While I'm at it, here also is a cool essay by Andrei Codrescu: Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans? (Duh, yes!)

And here's a list of New Orleans–related books, music, and movies (no, it's not a complete list, but I did my best on short notice.)

Later.

A Field Guide to Beer Tastings, Part VI

This one was submitted by Clarissa, who, it should be pointed out, has been to maybe one beer tasting ever. But I still thought it was funny.

The Pourer

Description: Don't be fooled by his so-called knowledge of brewing and the beer-making arts; this one's just in it for the free drinks. You know it and he knows it, but he pretends you don't know it. He would like nothing more than to offer up a foamy glass to the full, pouting lips of a parched, slightly haughty European babe with big knockers who would so appreciate an alcoholic exegesis from a six-pack sommelier with a sophisticated hops-and-malt palate, but -- alas, no -- mostly he's just handing pours to frat boys, vacant-eyed suits, bulging middle-aged loudmouths, Brawny man wannabes, and the occasional girlfriend or wife.

Typical comment: "One for you and two for me."

Previous entries: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V.

You've Got Your Paczki in My Mardi Gras!

I know posting's been sparse around here lately, but that's because I've been keeping busy with reading, writing, bowling, and getting ready for the big-ass Mardi Gras party this weekend. It doesn't feel quite right having it this early, but what the hey. We're in the Detroit area, where Fat Tuesday's known as Paczki Day anyway.

Now for the New Orleans update: The New York Times takes a look at the City That Care Forgot But Mother Nature Didn't as it prepares for its first post-Katrina Mardi Gras.

I just have to add: Where else but in New Orleans would you find a liquor store named "Hit 'n' Run Liquors"? It sounds like a Simpsons joke.

Nico Enigma

First, it was the documentary about the obscure artist. Then the one about the obscure author. And last night, to round out my trilogy of obscurity, I watched "Nico Icon," about the strange German chanteuse of "The Velvet Underground and Nico" fame. If fame is the right word.

It's hard to know what to make of a woman attractive enough to become a model who hated both modeling and her own attractiveness. Whose singing voice was atrocious and yet sometimes oddly hypnotizing. Whose Bohemianism went so far as to include hooking her own young son on heroin. Yet it's undeniable that it's just such details that make her story intriguing and compelling. It's also easy to see how she would have influenced all those black trenchcoat–wearing Goth kids. She was Goth before Goth was Goth.

Released in 1995, the documentary features interviews with the folks who knew her, including her son, Ari, and lots of footage of her modeling, acting, singing, and even being interviewed. The number of other famous people with whom she mingled reads like a who's-who of 1960s and 70s pop culture: Andy Warhol, Jim Morrison, Federico Fellini, Jackson Browne, Iggy Pop, and so on.

She died in 1988, years of heroin addiction having wasted her body, though the proximate cause of her death was a bicycle accident. In the end, her life was as bizarre and mysterious as the songs that she wrote. From "The Line" (also known as "Saeta"):

At a crossing of the line
Everything you need is mine
Everything is a big vision
A decision must be signed

A given voice
A given choice
A losing limit centerpoint
A given voice
A given choice
A losing limit centerpoint
I would give them all they need
Everything they know and read
But they must cross the line
The line

It's Music Meme Time!

Ian over at Fried Rice Thoughts was "tagged" for one of those blogger meme things ("List seven songs you are into right now") that people pass around like so much, uh, gas. (Incidentally, I had been pronouncing it with a short e, like the French word for "same," but apparently it's pronounced MEEM. Who knew? Ok, everyone but me.)

Anyway, I started to respond with my seven songs in the comments section of Ian's blog, then realized that my response completely overlapped with a post I was going to do here about a new CD I stumbled across at work, "Raw Vision: The Tom Russell Band, 1984-1994."

I've written about Tom Russell in this space before. His last CD, "Hotwalker," which I also purloined from work, is pretty bizarre but also strangely compelling. If I smoked pot, this would be a common soundtrack choice. So when I saw another CD from Russell last week, I eagerly snapped it up. And I've been listening to it constantly ever since. It is, as the name implies, a compilation album of some earlier songs. And it is all songs this time, no midgets narrating or archival recordings of Charles Bukowski reading poems.

Russell, in addition to being a sterling songwriter, has an arresting and earthy voice, at turns smooth and soothing or cracked and raucous. As for what the music itself is, as Russell says in the liner notes, it was "country rock" 20 years ago and it's "Americana" now, with maybe a dozen other names along the way. "Alt country" is another label that might apply. It can be a little hard to classify some of this stuff, but steel guitars and Southwestern flair often figure into it.

I even played the CD for my friend Matt, not exactly a country music buff, and he agreed it was good. And naturally, I was thrilled to discover Russell would be playing in Ann Arbor at the end of March. A friend is trying to hook us up with free tickets, but I'll go even if I have to, like, actually pay.

At any rate, all of the seven songs I'm "into" right now come from "Raw Vision":

1. Home Before Dark: This is probably the rockiest country rock song on the album. It's definitely air-guitar worthy.

2. Purgatory Road: I'm a sucker for any song that artfully combines sex, Catholic girls, and "wild asparagus." (Keep your dumb-ass priest jokes to yourself, thank you.)

3. Heart of Hearts: A more conventional love song, but Russell's voice makes it more moving than it probably has a right to be.

4. Gallo del Cielo: This is a ballad in the tradition of Marty Robbins (who I also like) about a man trying to win enough money from cockfighting to buy back the land some dirty bastard stole from his father. (Gallo del Cielo = Rooster of Heaven, the name of the, er, title cock.)

5. Spanish Burgundy: "And I drank until I slept / And I slept until I dreamed / And in my dreams her lips did taste of Spanish burgundy."

6. Hurricane Season: This odd tune is the awesomest song in the whole collection, with a lyric that just absolutely, totally, perfectly encapsulates the theme of my crappy novel-in-progress, whose current working title also happens to be Hurricane Season. What a weird coincidence. Oh, the lyric? "God protects the drunks and the adulterers / And He drowns everyone who says their prayers."

7. Oil Field Girls: This is an unreleased demo that shows what Russell can do with just an acoustic guitar and a little percussion. His lyrics and voice really make this one. Plus, it's the only song I know that mentions Old Peculier. "They walk the strip / Like painted shadows / Cursing the night / When man was born."

There are a few songs about veterans and steelworkers and whatever that I'm not quite as enthusiastic about, but otherwise this collection is more proof Tom Russell deserves to be more widely known. On the other hand, I'm kind of glad he's not, since then he probably wouldn't be playing at the Ark for $20.

Resolved: That I'm Going to Write More

Another key resolution was that I was going to focus more on writing this year -- specifically, that I was going to finish my novel as well as churn out a new story every month. So, you theoretically ask, how is that coming?

Glad you theoretically asked. Well, "The Lost Art of Window Shopping" did, in fact, lose another contest. But it also made it to the top 20 finalists, and that's been enough to encourage me.

I'm behind schedule now, of course, having no new story for January. But I'm halfway through another one and, depending on how quickly I write, I could play catch up in February and have two drafts of new stories. Also, I'm starting an online writers group to keep me honest.

Making lists, assigning arbitrary deadlines, and finding other people to give you shit: This is surely the way to handle those damn resolutions.

Resolved: That I'm Going to Read More

Per my "I'm going to do more reading this year" resolution, I've put together a preliminary list of books I want to tackle (not necessarily in this order) based on a perusal of stuff I've accumulated on my shelves. Actually, I don't own the last title by Walker Percy, but I'm hoping I can get it at the library. Also, if I should stumble across a copy of New Orleans, Mon Amour by Andrei Codrescu, that will probably get bumped toward the top. So, here they are:

Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri

The Lone Surfer of Montana, Kansas by Davy Rothbart

No Place, Louisiana by Martin Pousson

The Man Who Watched Trains Go By by Georges Simenon

The Trial of True Love by William Nicholson

Running the Bulls by Cathie Pelletier

City of Mazes and Other Tales of Obsession by Cynthia Hendershot

Gatsby's Girl by Caroline Preston

Miss Misery by Andy Greenwald

Serpent Girl by Matthew Carnahan

Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West

Lost in the Cosmos: The Last Self-Help Book by Walker Percy

I'm not much of a reviewer but I'll try to post my impressions of what I read.

Are You Kidding Me?

And, from the "What Were They Thinking?" department, comes this little tidbit reported, not by the Onion, as you might think, but by IMDb.com:

Jackson To Release Pope Prayers?

Pop superstar Michael Jackson has been asked by the Roman Catholic Church to set the prayers of the late Pope John Paul II to music. The 47-year-old singer was chosen to write music for the 24 prayers and chants, after Vatican officials decided his global celebrity would best promote their holy message. Father Giuseppe Moscati says, "We have the rights for the 24 prayers written by Pope John Paul. We had hoped the fact that we have been in contact with Michael Jackson would remain a secret. But sadly it has leaked out ahead of time. We are in discussions and trying to sort it out." The priest, who is head of the Millennium Music Society, insisted Jackson's hard-won battle against child molestation charges did not discount him as a candidate. He adds, "He was cleared and found not guilty by a jury. Michael Jackson is very interested in this project -- we shall see what happens."

Earth to Vatican, come in... you're embarrassing one billion Catholics and we must ask you to stop now.

Man, I really, really hope this is a hoax. And not just because of the whole pedophile thing, but also because Michael Jackson's music sucks.

The Morning After

Well, all that Super Bowl XL nonsense is over (yes, I watched the game and yes, I wanted the Steelers to win), and I guess I feel like I should say something about it all. And I don't know quite how to say it, so I'll just say it.

Detroit is the most insecure city on the planet.

If you've lived around here your whole life -- as I have, more or less -- you know the drill. Whenever something big like the Super Bowl happens in the city, the local media run story after story about the national media's coverage. The word "image" is used incessantly, as in "What will this do for Detroit's image?" The "this" may refer to the event itself, or else to the latest murder or arson or other high-profile crime that inevitably accompanies the event.

For example, I remember a few years back watching the coverage of the 4th of July shootings in Hart Plaza. The first question out of the mouths of local journalists was not "Who did it and did they catch him?" or "Are the victims all right?" It was, yes, "What will this do to Detroit's image?"

For the Super Bowl, there is undisguised relief that the weekend's shooting was not widely reported.

This has always struck me as being rather perverse.

I haven't lived anywhere else, so take what I'm going to say with a grain of salt: I can't imagine any other major American city reacting this way. Maybe I'm just naive, but the obsession with "image" seems to have itself become a quintessentially Detroit thing.

Obviously, the city does have a bad reputation, and it's not totally undeserved. And I can understand the strong desire of folks to want that reputation changed.

Myself, I've always been of two minds about Detroit. On the one hand, I know from my father and other family members who grew up in the city what it was like many decades ago when it had twice the population and half of the crime. Or maybe one-quarter of the crime, who knows. Dad is unrelentingly critical when he sees all the abandoned buildings he remembers from when they weren't. He's right. Detroit fucked up. Big time. And it's still a very dysfunctional town.

But I can get a little defensive too. It might be fun to kick someone when he's down, but it's sure not sportsmanlike. For all the city's problems, people forget some important facts. Like, how Detroit put the world on wheels. How it created the Motown sound. How it contributed to the development of jazz and, though not to my tastes, how it's pioneered popular new forms of music like electronica and hip-hop. For better or worse, Detroit's also sported its fair share of larger-than-life personalities, from entertainment gurus and business titans to sports heroes and great writers. The cultural impact of this city is much larger than it's usually given credit for.

And in the end, it's home. It's where I'm from. It will always be where I'm from, wherever I may go or whatever I may do in the second half of my life.

It's like being with your family. Sure, they drive you crazy and have many habits that annoy or aggravate you. But they're your parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children. You admit their flaws readily. Sometimes you defend them when outsiders keep pointing out those same flaws over and over. In the end, you come to the realization you don't always have to apologize for your family being who they are.

Detroit, stop apologizing. You did well this week. You will undoubtedly go back to being your sad, scary, messed-up self long after the spotlights have moved on. But you are what you are, warts and all, and you don't need to constantly justify your existence to the rest of the world.

It's not like you're Gary, Indiana.