This evening I inadvertently crossed another project off the To Do list. I was looking for an air purifier — we have two — and thought it might be in the coat closet.
Our coat closet is that sort with the horribly dated bifolding doors. (I wonder if I can put a bookcase door in there one day when I win the lottery …) It holds a lot of coats. Critically, it holds a lot of board games, too. And also a shoe caddy, an empty box and a picnic setup. Also space heater, a box fan, and three little containers of things like gloves and scarves. But there was no air purifier.
Oh sure, the new one was in the box in the laundry room, where I’d stored it. The other was … upstairs. So present and accounted for. And that closet got cleaned. And by cleaned I mean straightened up, and removed the empty box and box fan.
So the day was, in fact, productive. One closet to go. Maybe next week.
Also, I added 10 more pairs of cufflinks to the collection this evening.
I’m not sure how long it takes to make these in small batches. But it’s long enough to wonder how many more I should make. As I’ve mentioned here, I’m in a hot dog and bun situation as it pertains to the supplies — parts and material vs storage. Right now, I have a lot more storage than bits. So the solution, clearly, is to get more bits.
And, of course, french cuffs. It always comes down to that.
Mel Brooks wrote a book, and that’s not the name of it. It could have been the name of it. But they went another way for this light and breezy read.
The best title would have been Mel Brooks Needs An Editor. The beloved comedian and filmmaker, who is turning 99 later this month, tells us a few tales of his young life, how he got started with Sid Caesar and then diligently works through his better known move projects, organized by chapter. It wanders around, but you indulge it because there’s a lot of joy there, and it’s a beloved older man and there’s probably something good coming.
A lot of the magic of his work, I’ve decided here, is in the performance. The writing is a little more flat than he would delivery it. But that’s probably how I read.
I was telling a friend about this, who sent me this link, which is a joyful little watch. And I was glad for it. Because it’s basically chronological, this performance winds up near the end. But, just for now, look at the joy on the man’s face. It’s beautiful.
It’s a decent little beach read. (Just try to not think too hard about whether or not Brooks is largely the person to blame for our remix culture.) It moves fast, and you’ll work your way through it wondering if he’s going to mention that specific gag, bit or punchline that always sticks with you. If that’s what you’re after, this book is ready for you.
I had so much fun ironing pocket squares last night that I didn’t want it to end. So I stopped, and I can do more of them tonight, or another night. It’s a party in the ironing room.
The ironing room? You know, the one with the squeaky board and overheated iron and spray bottle (because our German-engineered iron has a leak and doesn’t hold water anymore). There’s also the bloating towel, and a lot of luggage, and an extra bed.
Alright, you found me out. The ironing room is the guest bedroom. Though I think I iron in it more than we have guests there. So we’re renaming it.
Anyway, a lot of squares were ironed, still a bunch to go.
And, this afternoon, I made some more cufflinks.
I’ll soon have a set for any type of playfully colorful situation. I have so many cufflinks. I need more french cuffs.
If you think that’s all I’ve got today, you, dear reader, are wrong! W-R-O-N-G.
There’s a rabbit living in our backyard. It’s a regular old zoo out there. And this critter is not bothered by people at all. I got within about five feet before it took two tentative hops away, to see if I would give chase.
I did not.
And, yes, look at how green that grass is. The last few days of rain have been what we needed to finally get us out of a drought. It started last September. And we might have emerged from it a little more quickly than meteorologists had expected last fall.
Which is great. This was my first drought on well water. I don’t have a good sense of the size of our watersource below us, and some people around here are a bit thirsty.
I do know the aquifer is glauconitic sand overlying micaceous sand. Obviously. It is porous and permeable, of course. I know this because I just found a state aquifer map. The challenge is that we’re on the geological border of everything, here where the heavy land and the green sands meet. There are seven different types of aquifers running on the diagonal, and the map is just vague enough that we could be in one of three or so. So I do what anyone does when they want to know about the glauconitic sand, I overlaid the aquifer map with a working map … and found that, even when you adjust for size, the scale of one of them is off.
Who to believe? The state’s map? Or Google Maps?
And while you wrestle with that …
Let us return to the Re-Listening project, where I am presently nine discs behind. The Re-Listening project, you’ll recall, is where I’m listening to all of my old CDs in their order of acquisition. Roughly so, anyway. I’m right now working through a book out of order. So the book is from 2007, but these CDs are older. None of that matters. The point of the Re-Listening project is listening to the music, and here I’m just filling space with videos of good music and the occasional recollection. So that matters a little bit.
Which brings us to Melissa Etheridge. I had her four earliest records on cassette, maybe five, and maybe didn’t upgrade all of those to CDs. But this, her seventh album, is the last one I bought. Etheridge turned 40. She’d had her first two kids. She was entering a new phase of life. (All of this is great, of course, but … ) The older material, where she was younger, more intense, raw, dramatic, as she now says, all of that was the best part of her catalog.
And since this was released in 2001 she’s had about two lifetimes worth of experiences. Maybe I should dip back in.
Anyway, the first track is a good one.
And much of the rest is this comfortable kind of at-peace-with-itself pop, when I’m just looking for her to put to words some core feeling and belt it out over a 12-string.
But that didn’t happen a lot here — some artists you just don’t want to change, I guess, even though you know change and growth are good things — and so I never listened to this all that much. I don’t even know all of the lyrics.
She’s still touring. Playing solo dates and with The Indigo Girls. We saw them together last fall. Melissa Etheridge will absolutely tear a building in two from the stage. She’s still got that sort of power and intensity. Its impressive.
And I was blown away by her cover of Joan Armatrading.
The next CD is from Michael Penn, 1997’s Resigned. I’m not sure why that shows up in this book. I’ve had this disc since soon after it came out. (It’s terrific.) I probably bought this off the strength of radio or MTV airplay. Here’s the first track.
Probably it was right about here that I entered into my “I wanna be a songwriter” phase. But, as I told a friend, I’d have to work with someone who sounded like this. My friend laughed at that, and every so often she would ask me if I’d found that person yet. I had not. Also, I never wrote any songs. It was a short phase.
My appreciation for Penn has lasted throughout the years, though. And you’ll just have to believe me that I listened to this record three times this time around.
This whole record was long spring days with apartment windows pushed up and doors opened and the stereo, tied into those big, waist-high speakers, turned up loud. I think there was even multimedia on this disc. But who puts discs in computers anymore? Opportunities lost, there.
Michael Penn has been composing for TV and movies for quite sometime. Probably better than life on a bus. Though, sadly, I never got to see him play live, but I would go to a show.
It’d be “an evening with” event. Black jeans, crisply ironed pocket square.
All the grades got in on Friday, and the semester is at an end, but there are still meetings. Today was a full day of it, so it wasn’t a meeting. The normal faculty thing runs 90 minutes or so, and that’s a meeting. But somewhere after two hours they aren’t meetings anymore. Apparently that’s a rule. Today’s events, which ran for six hours and included a taco lunch, was called a retreat.
After this we had a retirement party. One of our colleagues is winding down her career this summer and looking forward to more time with grandchildren. There was a little party with a big turnout, testament to a career well spent.
I’ve seen a few faculty retirements like this. Some of them have nice little events, some just go quietly into their next chapter. It’s a shame that there isn’t an easy way to get former students involved. Then it could be a happy window into how a career is spent, a testament to the labors.
We had a moment in our retreat today where we discussed what we were proud of this year. I’ve been on the same kick for two or three years now, I guess. Previously, I was always happy to see my students and former students successes in the class, in their student media and their professional work. But, in the last several years, I’ve watched people grow into their real lives and realized that, of all of the things I enjoy — watching people find their passions, seeing light bulb moments in class, that’s the best. One of my first students is a chief marketing officer and founder of a company, but she’s also created an incredible family. Two of my students are professors, one of those guys is now a father of three. Earlier this year two of my students got married. Just this weekend a former student had his son dedicated at his church. Another just had her baby right before Mother’s Day. And another just posted a video where he and his wife learned they were having a boy.
We get young people in a critical moment of their lives. When we’re lucky, we have interactions with them through several years of their college lives. You watch them start to become the adults they want to be. And then, in those years after that without parents or schools dictating their lives, they begin to find themselves, for themselves. At some level, standing in the front of a classroom is a statement of hope and faith in the future of people. Those are the widgets we help make. You’re lucky if you see any of it; you’d like to see more.
Which is probably a little too woo-woo for a Monday evening.
Anyway, we went to a high school softball game this evening. My god-niece-in-law (just go with it) was playing first base in the playoffs. It was the Jaguars, who everyone loves, visiting the Raiders, a team nobody likes very much. The Jags got down early, but then a solo home run turned into a late rally. It was a pitchers duel that turned into a runaway, but got awfully dramatic in the sixth and seventh innings. The Raiders, who nobody likes very much, held on to win 8-6. You could look up to their press box and see all of their big regional and state wins hanging on the side of the building. I don’t know anything about the local softball history, but they looked like a good team tonight. And thus endeth the Jaguars season. Enjoy it now, Raiders. Our god-niece-in-law will surely see them again in her senior season.
I saw something on Saturday I’ve never seen before, a fire truck, of some sort, with a roll cage.
I wondered what the local three-street volunteer fire department figures they’ll need that for. Then I did the thing that I do, and I looked it up. Apparently it’s an effective tool for watering fields from multiple vectors. So perhaps preventing or fighting brush fires. It’s also great in parades. And let us hope that this is the only cause they have to use the thing.
Saturday night was a perfect spring night. I sat outside for a long while and admired the stars.
While I was doing that we got last-minute tickets to see Whose Live for Sunday night. Apparently the show was supposed to be elsewhere, but they had to change venues for whatever reason. That meant that a friend couldn’t go, and so there we were, right next to the stage.
A few years ago we saw a version of the show, and last month we saw a two-man version with Colin Mochrie and Brand Sherwood. So I guess we’re regulars now?
Anyhow, they played games you might recall from Whose Line Is It Anyway, and there’s another thing or two mixed in, as well. It’s all audience driven, either in the starting material, or with audience-as-players. The hit of the night was a couple who’d been married for 37 years. They pumped them for information about their early lives together, and then “recreated” their first date. The gag was that the man and the woman had to indicate when they got the facts right or wrong. They looked very much like the comfortably settled teachers and pillars of their church community that they were, and the whole bit was about trying to get the two of them to disagree with some aspect of what was playing out before them, to comedic effect.
It sounds dry, but imagine getting the high points of anyone’s lives in a two or three-minute interview and then playing that for laughs. It worked. Also, the proud Episcopalians like their beverages. A lot, it seems. So that figures in.
Anyway, at the end of the show they did a bonus hoedown. And the second guy, Joel Murray, stole the obvious “Fly Eagles Fly” pandering go-home line. Jeff B. Davis threw his hands into the air and had just seconds to work up something useful, and he remembered the man and woman.
They’re touring for most of the rest of the year, and each show is a bit different. Catch them if you can. Come October, we might see them once again!
It’s Friday, you should always do something fun on Friday. Some of us might not have conventional work weeks, and that’s great. Your Friday could be any day of the week. That just means you have two Fridays. Mark them both accordingly. And, today, we’re going to do that with a bit of music.
So we’ll return to the Re-Listening project, in which I am very behind. The Re-Listening project, if you haven’t been paying the closest attention, is where I am listening to all of my old CDs in the order of their acquisition — well, mostly, I’ve got some of the CD books confused. It’s a great trip down memory lane. And, I figured, I could write about it here. It seemed like a good idea at the time! Pad out the site … add some music … have a memory or two. And mostly it is a good idea. Unless you don’t like my music. Some of it is a little obscure. Some of it regional. Some of it is very obvious. None of it is astounding. So let’s just assume you like some of it, that it was a good idea when I started this a bunch of years ago now.
You know what has always been a good idea? This next album, which not a lot of people heard, and that’s a shame. The band Mr. Henry released two records, their debut in 1998 and “40 Watt Fade” in 2000, each on minor labels. Their blend of Americana was at the right place at the right time for alt radio. And while it was released in 2000, I picked it up in 2007, and it has never, ever disappointed.
I think I listened to it three times in the car this go-around.
This is the first track, sneaking that organ in there was pretty genius. The chorus here is probably the most reductive thing on the record.
By the third track, the choruses get much better, but the lyrics throughout are pretty generously full of imagery.
At which point it would be easy for me to embed the entire album. Here’s the brilliance of the fourth track, for instance. If you ever needed a ballad for hurtling down the highway in the middle of the night, they’ve got you covered. Once you get around the distortion in the twangy guitars they’ve really got something here. Though it feels like it needs another lyric.
It’s weird how I append that to non-specific memories of so much music: there I was, speeding up the interstate from here to there …
Just to prove I’m not playing the whole tracklist, we’ll skip ahead to the seventh offering, which is fundamentally a perfect song for the period, plus it has an unironic accordion.
In a similar vein, but somehow even better, if that’s possible, is this one, which trades in cliches, lends the record it’s title, offers an acoustic guitar driven chorus and more of those nice little harmonies the band was figuring out. Also, it sounds like a bunch of motivational posters.
Don’t worry, I’ve found the pattern on some of my musical preferences. I haven’t named this one, but maybe I should call it the Tim O’Reagan genre. He’s not in this band, but this sound, a sort of wearily optimistic traveler’s lament, is his sound. Also, there’s a lyric in here that’s so obvious, but still blows me away, decades later, and typies the album for me.
U-Haul chases big county lines
No FM reception
just a box of B-sides
There’s a real lament in there somewhere, and an obvious word play. Maybe the only one you can make there. But it surely does work for me.
So Mr. Henry split up sometime after 2000. There’s not a lot out there. The lead singer, Dave Slomin is now working on a new project, which is called Waiting for Henry, in a not-at-all confusing way. Waiting for acknowledges Mr. Henry. The bassist is playing with The Gravy Boys, which have released four Americana records. The drummer, Neil Nunziato, just published an Instagram post saying the band will play a one-night-only show in New York next month.
Maybe it’ll go well and they’ll figure out something for the future.
The next album is a Hootie & The Blowfish disc, a band which I enjoy mostly un-apologetically. Their South Carolina sound appeals to my South Carolina sensibilities. Anyway, “Musical Chairs” debuted in 1998. For some reason I didn’t buy it until 2007, apparently. It peaked at number 4 on the Billboard charts and was certified platinum, but music people were disappointed. Music people are only interested in unit sales, and have no appreciation for the come down that the hottest acts experience. And Hootie and the Blowfish came down somewhat. Their 1994 debut was certified platinum 22 times. The 1996 followup went platinum three times. So I guess the writing was on the wall with the music execs. But, come on, how can you expect anyone to even approach that again?
Anyway, they hadn’t tinkered with the formula, and if you liked it in ’94, you would have enjoyed this in ’98. Or ’07, or today.
This might be my favorite song on the record. Every time it plays, I will play it again. And maybe more. That’s the memory: the re-plays. There’s just a lot going on there to appreciate in two minutes and 21 seconds.
Any song that name-checks an Aunt Inez will get my appreciation. Especially if you just casually drop in where she’s from. I think that’s just a rule in our part of the world.
This could also by my favorite song.
I feel like a dare was involved here. “What if we put Darius in a leisure suit and gave him a lounge act vibe?” It amuses me.
The hidden track could also be my favorite track on the disc. So there are easily three favorites, and some other strong stuff on here, too.
I think I saw Hootie and the Blowfish when they were touring supporting this album. Probably an ampitheatre show, maybe in Atlanta. (Why is 1998 suddenly so fuzzy?)
And so are we. Touring that is. Lower New England, specifically. It’s a quick Mother’s Day trip for us. And a happy Mother’s Day to all those who celebrate, as well!
Since I’m well behind — but when am I not? — let’s return to the Re-Listening project.
The Re-Listening project, for anyone still here after such a dynamite introduction, is where I’m listening to all of my old CDs in the car, mostly in their order of acquisition, and writing about them here. I say mostly because these discs are all kept in CD books, if you remember those, and I got a bit out of order. Anyway, we’re in 2001 at this point. And so what we’re doing here is talking about music from more than two decades ago. But not so much about the music, but whatever might come with it. These are more memories than reviews — because who needs reviews? — but, really, an excuse to put a little music here, while padding out the space.
So we go back to the by-now over-commercialized realm of alt and roots rock. What I mean is that we’re beginning today by talking about the second studio album by Train. One of the better songs on the record was the lead track, and third single, which settled at 21 on the US Billboard Adult Top 40 and peaked at 40 on the US Billboard Mainstream Rock Tracks chart. And if ever there was a song you shouldn’t listen to after YouTube’s compression algorithms work their magic, this is it.
Anyway, I was working at a place that was playing a lot of Train. And I think I saw them twice on this tour. They played a two-night stretch at a now defunct venue in Birmingham, and I saw them on the second night, an amphitheater instead of a small concert hall. Also, we ran into these guys at breakfast the next morning. Let’s say they had had a long night. Later that year, I saw them at a bigger venue.
One of the deep cuts is a personal favorite.
It got mixed reviews at the time, this record, and you can still hear that unevenness today. Nothing on here is bad, but not much really stands out, which is I guess what everyone wanted at that point. Everything pretty well holds up with the passage of time. But, for the most part, it is, and was, pretty much what we’d come to expect from the band.
Still went double platinum, though.
Train are still touring, and they’ll return to the U.S. this summer, though it’s not the same band, if that matters. Over the years 18 people have been a part of the group. Pat Monahan, the vocalist, is the only founding member of the band left.
Up next, Athenaeum’s “Radiance.” This was an alt pop band from North Carolina, a group of guys that got together in the 8th grade and then played together for 15 years or so. This was their debut record, and it made it to 46 on the Billboard Heatseekers chart, a minor success in 1998. I bought it much later. The record was powered by this single.
You go through the first four tracks and think, “Here’s a band with a good rhythm section, one distortion pedal and a few clever lyrics. Probably the kids not challenged or interested in school.” And then they change it up a bit on track 5 and fool you.
I haven’t listened to this in a long time, and that’s the reaction I had this time through, and I bet I had a similar thought when I first played it.
I’m in a chat with a younger member of my extended family where we share music back and forth. We’re getting pretty close to understanding each other’s tastes at this point. Every now and then I send him something and he slips a knife in between my ribs. “Yeah, that sounds like the 90s.”
How do you argue that?
Also, this sounds exactly like the 90s.
I have a feeling they played a lot of school dances. I bet this was a big hit when it came time for a slow number.
The band folded in 2004. Some of the members are still making music, performing, or as songwriters and studio musicians. One of them is an associate professor at Clemson.
And now we’re two albums closer to being caught up. Probably still a dozen behind …
