Thoughts on covering Dylan

Amnesty International, the human rights organization who has fought for everything from prosecuting George W. Bush for war-crimes to ending "disappearances" in dictatorial countries, is turning 50 this year. In celebration of this milestone, they've released an album called Chimes of Freedom: The Songs of Bob Dylan.

Bob Dylan is easily the best songwriter of the last century. Because of this, he's probably been covered more times than any artist still alive today. In a world where 'cover' is a dirty word, the sheer quantity of Dylan covers has made a fair number of decent ones.

Chimes of Freedom is pretty much pure gold.

With four discs, you'd think that there would be a large amount of filler. There are a few songs that are throwaway or just plain weird (Sorry Miley Cyrus and Sting) but most artists stand up admirably. The nice thing about this particular set is that majority here don't try to be Bob; they take their own style and see where it takes Bob's music. Flogging Molly turn 'The Times They are A-Changin' ' into a raucous floor stomper, Adele gets ballad all over 'Make you Feel my Love', Betty Lavette injects her soul into 'Most of the Time' and Rise Against delivers a version of 'Ballad of Hollis Brown' that gets Brown's rage and hopelessness across just as effectively as Bob did. Even Ke$ha (my what-the-fuck-were-they-thinking artist when I read the liner notes) turns in a passable a capella of 'Don't Think Twice, It's Alright'.

Overall, the album is a fitting one for AI to release. Dylan has always dealt with the underdog and the beauty in this world that sometimes seems to hate us. This album, with a wide variety of voices paying tribute to a great organization and an amazing man, finds that tone and doesn't let go of it.

Things that are shitty to do

I recycle. It is important and I think that, despite what noted climate scientist Rush Limbaugh may tell us, it is essential to our continued survival.

Sometimes though, recycling can be a pain in the ass.

This evening, as I went about my evening cleaning spree, I thought that taking out the recycling was necessary. So, I washed up the plastic bottles, peeled clingfilm off of boxes and generally got things ready. As I was unlocking the door, I realized that really, the dish soap was empty and I might as well take care of that bottle too.

Silly me.

You know how dish soap foams up nicely when it hits the water? Well, imagine that there was an eighth of an inch of soap left in a bottle you were washing and that the rest of the bottle was coated in a fine film of the same. I'm a bit anal-retentive so when the bottle first foamed up my thought process went thusly:
"Well, of course it would foam. I'll just rinse it until the foam goes away."

"...."

"What the fuck foam?"

A full five-minutes later, foam vanquished, I realized that it was freezing outside and, having no way to dry this bottle out, It would have to spend the night in the draining tray. I tossed the rest of the shit in the bin, slammed the door and tried to stomp down the hallway, promptly tripping over my cat.

What the fuck foam?

Some thoughts on sorbet

I'm lactose intolerant. It's not a casual, oh-milk-makes-me-a-little-gassy lactose intolerance, more a oh-god-what-did-I-do-I swear-it wasn't-me-who-lit-that-fire kind of thing. This pain does not make for a normal life, so years ago I quit all but the most important form (cheese) of milk and switched to alternatives. (I recently discovered Lactose-free milk, but that's another story. Mostly of me being an idiot for nearly ten years.)

Anyway, sorbet was a magical discovery made. It's delicious sweetness and plausibly-deniable healthiness made it an alternative to ice-cream that was almost the same, except for the whole having more than three flavors thing. I have though, learned to love the berries and the citruses like they were real dessert.

Until I discovered that certain people can even fuck up sorbet.

Sorbet doesn't seem that hard to me. Grind up a bunch of fruit. Add juice. Make it good when frozen. Put it in a tub so I can put it in my face. But there is a reason I have two tubs of sorbet in my fridge right now. And that reason is that you can screw it up.

I like raspberry. So I bought some. I took it home. I opened it up. And I was miserable.

Have you ever eaten so much candy that your tongue is a burnt out hellscape of sensitive useless bumps? We all have, you can admit it. In any case, from the first bite, this sorbet was....well, it was a mouthful of sadness. It was ice, pain, and childhood discomfort in a spoon. It was a crime against dessert-kind. It's continued existence was wrong on many levels.

But it brings me to an interesting place. I can't bring myself to throw out food. What do I do with it? Do I just let it languish in the fridge, getting worse? Do I bite the bullet and eat it?

Any suggestions?

Song of the Day: K. Flay - Nothing at All

If you're not familiar with K. Flay, don't worry, you will be. Flay is a rapper. An artist. A stanford graduate. And a white woman.

That last part shouldn't be something I have to mention, and I almost wish I hadn't. K. Flay is becoming a force to be reckoned with in the indie rap scene and I feel that in that particularly diverse genre of music, expectations should be left at the door. But she's kicking that door down, pressing it into vinyl and spinning something you haven't heard before.

Today's song, Nothing at All, is reflective of my current state of mind. I'm treading water, and I'm not really happy doing so. While Flay's track is a little more positive on the subject of coasting, it still reflects that depressed apathetic state that we've all been in. More than any generation before us, I think it's become easy to just get by. And we need to get the fuck out of that state of mind. The technology that has put us in that place is just as useful for getting out of there as it was to put us in it in the first place.

That was a disjointed little commentary on what takes place in my own head. Enjoy the song.

Song of the Day: Laura Veirs - Wide-eyed, legless

Laura Veirs is relatively unknown. That is to say, unknown except by self-righteous Portland Hipsters who likely see her guest appearances with the Decemberists as heresy because any band is better when they're laboring in obscurity.

All sarcasm aside, Veirs' 2010 record, July Flame, is an enjoyable slice of folk. She has a strong voice, and combining this with excellent playing and writing, she hits you with a wide variety of songs over the albums length. Some are slow and country tinged ballads while others choose quick picking and minimal backing instrumentation in favor of a more choral, revival feeling.

My track of the day today is 'Wide-eyed, legless', a song that is best described as ghostly. It feels like something a child playing skipping rope in the cemetery might sing to a departed friend. Or a parent. Or a lover. It hints at all of these possibilities and the sing-song chorus of "No More Looking Back" adds to the ambiguity. A beautiful song.

The Future

Something I've been very focused on lately is where I'm going with my life. I've been working at the bookstore for four years now and while I love it there, it's not my goal in life. I'm not insulting those who have decided to turn it into a career; it's just not right for me.

But what is?

My days off can be difficult. I find myself treading water. I'll get up, eat something and then disappear into the internet for a few hours. It's a disturbing place, set up to leech attention away from the viable and important. So after I do that, it's hard to get started. And then a day is wasted.

I've got to stop this.

To-do lists are something I do every day. Usually, it consists of pretty plain things: run, grocery shop, guitar, exercise. They are things that need to be done, yes, and they do give a sense of accomplishment. But I think it's a false sense. I'm getting stuff done but it isn't what I need to be doing. It isn't getting me any closer to moving along with my life.

That is what I really need right now.

I need an internship. I need an adventure. I need the outdoors. I need writing. I need something different.

Art Post: Self Portrait

I got bored and drew a two minute self portrait in the mirror. That is all you get tonight. I need sleep.

Like Ulthar

  When I was a kid, Grandpa sat on the porch every day. We didn't have a very big porch, so if anyone wanted to open the door, he had to get up and sort of squeeze out of the way, but he'd still sit out there. A glass of sun tea (he somehow never got sick), his pipe. And his pistol.

  He'd been in the War. Even though my parents didn't like me to, I'd ask him about his time in Europe. Usually, he'd tell me a happy story: coming home, the looks on people's faces at the sight of GIs passing through their town, how he'd rescued a little girl who'd been trapped during shelling. But some days, when he'd added some rum to his glass, or was too tired, or lost in the wind in the trees, he'd tell me other stories. Stories of the war as it really was. Stories of the camps. And my favorite story.

  The cat story.

  The Parisians, Grandpa said, they really loved their cats. Doubt there was a people since Egypt who loved their cats that much. They didn't worship them or anything silly, but before the war, even far before it, the cats all had a special spot. They walked free on the streets, never run over or kicked. They brought rats to the stoop and were always thanked. They made their way into the Moulin Rouge. Always welcome on stage. Heard the girls had a dance with them.

  Mom usually interrupted before he could say anything about that.

  Anyway, he'd continue, glaring at my mother, when the Germans rolled in, they'd messed up that city pretty badly. It wasn't the beautiful place it once was. But the cats, they hadn't left, they were still walking around the city, well fed and cared for. Cats aren't bad animals and they aren't the pussies, he laughed, that people think they are. They take care of themselves. The Germans, they saw them as a nuisance and used to shoot at them. Shot them more when they saw how it made the Parisians feel.

  Well, those cats didn't like that.

  When we rolled into town, liberation and all that, the Parisians were glad to see us. Germans, not so much. And cats, ambivalent. Seemed so anyway. But in the fighting? For every German, two cats would trip it. For every German ambush, a cat's yowling fight in the alley in front of it. And for every dead German, a pack of well-fed cats...

  Mom would yell at him before he could finish the sentence. I don't want you telling him these stories, Dad! There's nothing to them and really, the way you go on is disgusting! He'd shake his head at this, and wink at me. He wouldn't finish telling the story though.

 After Grandpa died, Mom asked me to get his stuff out of the attic, as it hurt her back to try and get up there. Rooting through old chests, I found a photo album. The dates on the spine put it during the War and I flipped it open. Shot after shot of his friends, his squadmates, himself, sometimes smiling, often relaxing and once or twice crying and shouting. This didn't strike me as odd.

  It was that in every photo, there was at least one cat, just sitting nearby.

  One suspiciously well-fed cat.

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I guess this is just a draft for now. It needs polishing. I just wanted to write something tonight.

Paintset

Painting 2011

Painted it, and
we all thought it was so
good, immodest maybe,
but I hung it up for at
the door, guests can’t avoid
seeing it now.
Pastime and now, the
brushwork flaws stand
out, a rose-garden of
crossing strokes,
not beautiful, messy
and unclean,
flowerbed brambles.
I leave it hanging though,
bad art to be punished.

Running

Every travel writer gets started in a different way right? I suppose I should start by going somewhat further afield than down the block, but when your funds are as limited as mine, I'm sure the Rick Steves of the world will forgive my narrow focus.

I ran today, which was a poor decision. For the last two days, my lungs have been burning and what feels like a ball of snot the size of a dogs testicle has been forming in the back of my throat. Today, though, the lizard part of my brain said "You know what will feel good? Putting on skin-tight clothes and straining the muscles you haven't used in a week outside in the cold." Easily led as I am, I listened and jogged down the back stairs to the street.

My neighborhood is pretty nice, as city hoods go. We have a church and an elementary school right across the street and then more churches every block from there out. I'm not kidding; churches stand like gargoyles a two minute walk in any direction. They forgo the bells as a call to prayer, I'm assuming because anyone wishing to worship will just walk until they run into the wall of a house of god. For my run, I usually head south to the main road and then run in the bike lane, moving against traffic and the very occasional biker (Portland, this is not).

I started my run around 4:30 so the traffic was reasonably heavy and the kids were all out of school. One interesting thing about living in a city is the way in which play is changed. I grew up in the country, where every family had a driveway with a garage and basketball hoop, perfectly paved. You'd practice your kick-flips and trick-shots, mom and dad having pulled the car into the garage first. Here, kids play in the street, moving when traffic comes their way, making the rules up as they go. Today, no one was playing, but a hoop was hanging over the curb, indicating that, despite the cold weather, someone had been outside recently. A nice sign in a world where it seems like every kid in suburbia spends more time plugged into a headset than out in the sun or snow.

On Kalamazoo street, I head uphill. It's mostly homes, with an occasional business, and further down, a few liquor stores, barber shops and a manpower incorporated. Here, though, I ran past an apartment complex and under a wire bridge, the chunks of a broken Halloween pumpkin still lingering in the bike-lane. As I pass the park across the street, a biker cuts into the lane, heading the same direction I am, no one knowing the rules of the bike-run-car trinity around here. He's pedaling languidly and glances over his shoulder at the crest of the hill. He gives me a nod when I pass, an indication that despite any differences we have, we all live in the same neighborhood and that's good enough for him. I pass him again later on the way home and get the same nod.

I turn around after a paint spill and at the corner where the drainwork, installed to catch big stuff before it gets into the sewer, has been torn out.

The big chemical company, the one my science-major friends all told each other to avoid applying to, is closing up for the night and I cut off a worker's truck as I run by. Every time I cross an intersection I get a little twinge, thinking that this could be the time that somebody doesn't look in the right direction. However, I just get a wave and then it's the final hill home. I always push this one, and this time of year there isn't anything to slip on, the nuts of the summer gone and we haven't had any snow to speak of in a week.

As I finish up, pushing past another church and the dog who's barking is getting increasingly frantic, rising to a droning whine at the end, I breathe better than I have in days. Of course now, typing this, I'm a burning, phlegm-lunged mess again, but there, running to that last driveway I use as a mile marker, I'll be fucked if you could tell something was wrong.

I hope.

The New Year....That's a song right?

New Years Day. I suppose I'm due to say something meaningful, but let's start off this year with a little bit of negativity.
I hate New Years Eve.

Granted, I do enjoy a good reason to go out and drink. I'm not as much of a partier as I used to be but I will admit that I can still go pretty hard when it comes down to it. I can't afford it, but you do what you can right? And I fully approve of ending the old year with a bang, celebrating what has gone before and opening up the wonderful possibilities that are coming up. All of that is great.

What I don't like is the tradition of the kiss at midnight. Sure, it's great if you've got someone or you're not afraid to randomly make out with a stranger, but it's kind of a bullshit tradition all the same. People wind up hurt.

Of course there's always the chance that I'm just a gigantic pussy and you shouldn't be reading my blog right now.

Here's a new poem. A prose poem even. I guess you could perform it too, if that takes your fancy. Well, I'd perform it. You keep your hands off of my shit.

It's based on an incident from my neighborhood a few years ago.


Once Again

The street is in celebration, another sadness but violence still not the answer, just the coda before it all starts over again. Celebrating a life that was short, blood on a broken teddy bear while outside a gang war between sewage-fucked rats and pigeons erupts the battlers into drains and phone lines at a single gunshot, while missed targets drop their stash and burst through the door, calling to the family they left behind just long enough to hit the fix that isn’t coming anymore, a vein closed, aorta not pumping blood to a deadened heart. Wake up wake up wake that lasts til the dawn comes and then the street is clear, no rain, no melodrama HBO scene, but a sunny day as the tiny coffin is dwarfed by the hearse, last time to go for a car ride and in a chariot coming. Not there, we stand by, neighbors not knowing, never introducing, just getting pissed if a tricycle wound up in our yard and awkwardly leaving a bouquet on the street corner, cross fading in the next three years, and broken toys that the garbage men eventually take.