I don't care how crappy I feel. I now have a mission. I just watched an episode of "Rich Girls" on MTV. I'm hopping on a train with a baseball bat. I think I know where their building is. Who's comin' with me?
Just a super speedy post so you kind folks don't think I've fallen off face of the Earth. I had some relatively minor surgery done on Monday. All went fairly well. I then developed a, um, colon problem that left we with severe pain and a fever of about 102. When it rains it pours, kids. So I've been absent from work for the entire week. They, of course, have been super cool about it.
At any rate, I'm muddling through. I'll be back to normal posting by the beginning of next week methinks.
I had some minor surgery today. It was no big deal, really. Just some choppin' on my foot. I was under general anesthesia for about 30 minutes and woke up feeling a bit groggy but otherwise just fine. Just fine, that is, until I started that evil thinking thing.
See, I went to the hospital alone. Again, no big deal. I did, however, have to have someone pick me up as the hospital wouldn't let me drive. Policy, you see. A quick scan of my Terminator-like database to figure out who could pick me up turned up pretty blank. Who do I know in the Nutmeg State? Um, there's the guy at the deli, my housekeeper, the woman at the bagel shop and my co-workers. Realizing that none of my retail pals knew my name, I decided that someone at the office would have to be dispatched to get me. Our bookkeeper/receptionist came a calling.
It's not that I don't appreciate her. Actually, she's super sweet. However, I found the whole thing to be rather depressing. Here I am in a locale that I really do love. But I've been here for two years now. That's the best I can do? The chain smoking, overly maternal receptionist? True, in Atlanta I would have called on a friend that I met through work. That's just where we meet people these days, I guess. However when you work with six other people the pickings are pretty slim. Sigh.
Now how do I use Friendster again?
but I think that God's got a sick sense of humour. Well, I would if I was a believer. Twice. That's just too damn funny.
Downtown Stamford is a pretty bucolic place for Fairfield County. Sure, during the business day it's one of the largest corporate centers in America. However, in the evenings and weekends it's nice and quiet.
There's also a good bit to do. We have more than a few great restaurants, more bars than you can count, theatre, films, a branch of a world class art museum, the largest mall in Connecticut and a well-regarded University. It doesn't hurt that we're an express train way from Manhattan, either.
People complain, though, that we don't have enough shopping. Sure, there are plenty of small boutique stores, but you still have to drive to Norwalk to get to the big box retailers.
Well, all of that is about to change in a ludicrous way. I was happy when they announced that Target was building it's first Connecticut store about four blocks from my building. I was somewhat concerned when Burlington Coat Factory decided to move into a huge building across from the giganticnew Marriott that is under construction.
This morning, though, when stopping to get coffee I saw news that was truly alarming. Four blocks from my building they're now proposing a 450,000 square foot development. It'll be ten stories and will include a 150,000 square foot Wal-Mart. There also will be more apartments and 1,800 parking spaces. I can't even imagine the snarl that downtown will become on a regular basis. A Wal-Mart in Stamford would draw from not only Fairfield, but many parts of Westchester. That ain't progress.
I've found another outlet for my Tigers and baseball related ramblings. No longer will you be subjected to my rants on Carlos Pena or fond memories of Tom Brookens.
I'm going to write some stuff from time-to-time for Detroit Tigers Central. Right now I'm helping by filling in some of the gaps in their capsule bios of Detroit's All-Stars throughout the years. The quick bite on Billy Hoeft is my first contribution. Should be fun!!
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. There was a time when Elvis Costello refused to deal with the mainstream press in any way whatsoever. Now, what does he do? Elvis Costello, my dear readers, is interviewed in Ladies' Home Journal. He's so punk.
there's a kid a floor below me saying brother can you spare
sunshine for a brother old man winter's in the air
walked me up a story asking how you are
told me not to worry you were just a shooting star
-elliott smith, "sweet adeline"
Those of you who have known me for a very long time know of my experiences with suicide. Two very good friends both took their lives within a six month period when I was in high school. Neither knew the other, each had a different rationale. One was probably the closest friend I had ever had up that point in my life, the other was someone who I wanted to emulate in life. Both effected me in ways that I really can't explain and both continue to effect the recesses of my psyche.
I think in many ways, though, it's made me a better person. It has made me a better friend, a better listener. Those experiences have made me cherish every moment I have with my friends. Made me live for the present, if you will. Yes, I know it all sounds trite. However, it's all very true.
Late last week I learned that another friend decided to leave us. Noel Cross, better known to all as simply Sofa, was someone that I had never met in a traditional sense. Sofa and I belonged to a small e-mail list of friends and was a very good friend to several mutual friends. Sofa and I exchanged many e-mails and he posted more than a few comments here in the early days of randomness. Sofa was also a musician of some note and I'm very grateful to have his recorded work on a couple discs. I remember Sofa as a lovely, bright and fun-loving man who I really had hoped to meet "for real" one day. We all knew that Sofa had a history of depression but I, for one, never knew him to be anything but full of joy. It sounds odd, but I really miss him.
Today we learn that one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Elliott Smith, also decided to move on. As Dean said this morning, somewhere there's a great new indie band being formed.
Suicide is a difficult animal. Those who are left behind feel a tidal wave of complex emotions. We feel helpless. We feel anger. We feel guilt. All we can do is live each day to its fullest and let people know how we feel about them in our lives. I wish I'd had the opportunity to tell Sofa just that.
No, REALLY. There was a chimpanzee loose in downtown Stamford. In today's follow-up article he's grown to 175-pounds!!
In the you can't be serious department, a 170-pound chimpanzee eluded Stamford Police for two hours last night. It all occured a few blocks from my building. No. Really. I'm serious!!!
I finally finished the Costello portion of my CD inventory. It's, well, a bit excessive. It contains 118 CDs (133 actual discs), 1891 songs, 118 hours of music. 27 different versions of "Alison." And that's just the CDs...
Here it is in its full glory for your public mockery. Careful, though, there's at least one regular reader who has a much larger collection. At least one...
Heard on the radio this morning. In typical overly dramatic radio commercial voice -
"Come to Scores and meet the Miller Light Gang Green Girls"
Gang Green Girls are, of course, some scantily clad representatives of the New York Jets. For some reason, though, girls with gangrene aren't my thing. Maybe that works for someone. More power to you. Gangrenous ladies certainly need love, too.
According to Time magazine, the two most shoplifted items in the United States are Duracell batteries and Mach III razor blades.
So, um, Cassie's the winner because she at least guessed batteries. Meredith is a close second...
Making small talk with a client on Thursday, I asked him who he was rooting for in the decisive ALCS game. Without missing a beat he proclaimed himself "a diehard Yankee fan." I didn't say anything, but that phrase really got under my skin. You hear a lot of people in these parts make that declaration. It never fails to irk me.
You see, a "diehard" fan is one who willingly, well, dies hard. A "diehard" sticks with his/her team through thick and thin, through the ups and downs. The 100th Fall Classic starts tonight with those Yankees playing at home. This is their 36th World Series. Think about that. Almost 40 percent of the championships have involved those fabled pinstripes. Should they beat the Marlins (and, trust me, they will) it will be their 27th championship trophy. Absurd. What exactly, Yankee fans, could possibly cause you pain?
No. I'm serious. Where's your pain? Where's your Bill Buckner? Where's your Fred Merkle? Where's your Donnie Moore? Where's your Fred Snodgrass? Where's your Ralph Branca? Where's your Mitch Williams? Alas, where's your Grady Little?
There's no answer. There's no pain. There's only ego, expectation and greed.
You know what? I'm rooting for the Marlins.
This may be the funniest thing I've read in months. Electronic Gaming Monthly had kids play some "classic" old games and logged their commentary. Check it out. The E.T. comments are simply hilarious. It's universally remembered as the worst video game ever. It's so dreadful that I literally forgot that I once owned it until seeing these screenshots.
Wow. Aaron Boone isn't the only speechless one. That was a game that will be dissected for decades.
Grady Little, though, should be panhandling on Yawkey Way in the morning. Leaving Pedro in to face Matsui was a horrendous decision. Keeping him in against Posada was beyond laughable.
Oh, and I truly believe in sticking by one's league. For the next couple of weeks this Tiger wears pinstripes.
Dearest Cub fans,
I'm so sorry that I openly mocked you over the last couple of weeks. You're really depressed now. I know you are. I can relate.
You see, in 1986 I had altered my baseball allegiances somewhat. My aunt and uncle lived in an exclusive part of Orange County that many of the California Angels called home. Thirdbaseman Doug DeCinces, in fact, was their good friend and neighbor. Through them I met many Angels players and grew to root for them nearly as hard as I pulled for my beloved Tigers. In 1986 thing looked pretty damn good for the Halos, too.
In Game Five of the ACLS they had the Boston Red Sox exactly where they wanted them. They were at home in the Big A, up three games to one and had a 5-2 lead going into the ninth. The franchise's first World Series was firmly in sight.
Things started to go wrong in the ninth, though. Starter Mike Witt (whose hair another of my uncles still cuts) began to tire and soon the Bosox had cut the lead to 5-4. There were two outs and a runner on first when manager Gene Mauch went to his closer, Donnie Moore. The Angels were still a confident bunch. Surely Donnie could get Dave Henderson out. Mauch and Mr. October himself stood poised on the top step of the dugout ready to rush onto the field.
With the count sitting at 1-2, the Angels were a mere strike away from the Series. Moore then went with his "out" pitch to Henderson, the split-finger fastball. It was supposed to drop. It didn't. He hung the pitch to Henderson who launched it over the wall for a 6-5 Boston lead. Sure, the Angels clawed back with a run in their half of the ninth, but they lost the game in the eleventh and were humiliated in games six and seven in Boston.
It took me a long time to recover from that blow. Some would say that it took the Angels 16 years to bounce back. Unfortunately, Donnie Moore never really bounced back. A lifetime of violence and substance abuse lead Donnie to take his own life 1989. Many seem to draw a direct line between that ill-fated pitch and Moore's suicide. It's not that simple, but that pitch and the constant reminders of his failure to retire Henderson in the years that followed certainly didn't help his psyche.
So hang in there Cub fans. You're sitting pretty for next year. Even the most optimistic of the "there's always next year" bunch wouldn't have predicted that you would have made it this far. With another year under their belt your young rotation is going to be even scarier. Sammy shows no sign of slowing down and your bullpen is certainly going to be bolstered in the off-season. It'll be okay. Promise.
I don't know what I should do tomorrow night. I was planning on going to see my beloved Jesse Sykes at the Knitting Factory. I mean, I told her I'd be there. But, damn it, how can you pass up a Game 7 with every indication that the Cubs are going to experience the most epic choke since, well, the Cubs of 1984?
I read an interesting bit of trivia today. What, do you think, are the two most shoplifted items in the United States?
No cheating. I know how to use Google, too. And please, as always, no wagering.
Answers will appear here at an arbitrary time once I'm amused by your attempts at guessing.
* I had my first fight with a cabbie today. I was going to a client in SoHo (which will remain unnamed because I'm pretty sure that I signed an NDA) and the idiot cab driver started to go down Fifth. After about three blocks it was clear that he planned on crawling down Fifth all the way to my destination on Charlton. I asked him very nicely if he didn't think it would be better to take Seventh. He muttered something at me in a tongue I didn't recognize. I asked again and he yelled that Seventh would be just as bad. I firmly insisted that we cut over to Seventh. Whadya know? The rest of the trip was a breeze. He clearly thought he was picking up at tourist at Grand Central and was hoping for a $30 fare. It was also the first time I gave a tip of less than 20%.
* Just exactly who are the really aggressive young guys selling M&Ms? You know who I mean. They're always around. They'll literally run beside you down the street. They even tried to get into the restaurant where I was having dinner. Beyond annoying.
* Washington Mutual Banks are the new Starbucks. They're popping up on every corner.
* Is exterminating tourists en masse unlawful? Just asking.
Our newest obsession at work is old video game emulators. I now have about 3000 old arcade games in my MAME library and something like 8000 Nintendo games. Yeah, I know I could use my time to play those new-fangled games like Vice City. There is, however, something incredibly appealing about playing the simpler games of my, um, youth.
I can't tell you how many quarters Brad and I pumped into Cyberball over our high school years. I remember he and I would struggle at times to come up with the three dollars that it took to play an entire game. Now I can play four different versions of the game for free. And yes, Brad, you'd probably still beat me more than half of the time.
The craziest, though, are the Nintendo games. I had a Nintendo just like every other kid growing up in the '80s. I had a few games but didn't really play it that much. This evening, though, I fired us Super Mario Brothers. I was drinking a beer at the time. I think that's a first. At any rate, I was completely baffled by my memory for this stupid game. It has a copyright of 1985 so it has been nearly 20 years since I played it last. I could remember every move, every secret location, every pattern that the little mushroom guys made. Frankly, I found it to be very disturbing. I can't remember to take clothes to the dry cleaners but I can remember f'ing Super Mario Brothers. I wonder how many other valuable brain cells are taken up with such useless data.
Well, I spent the entire day working on the CD inventory. By "entire" I mean entire. I'm done up to the "Costello" section but am still not happy with some of my handiwork. You'll notice some inconsistancies in labelling (parenthesis in some spots, brackets in others and the like) and I haven't even really begun to link the MP3s to their correct locations. That's a really cool feature. I've got about 50% of my collection ripped to MP3 with every intention of finishing it someday. What I can do, then, is call up the details screen of each disk and click on the song title and it will play. There are a lot of cool bells and whistles with this program (for instance, I can also put in URLs to each artist's homepage) but I just don't know if I have the patience (or spare time) to get it finished. I'm probably about 10% done right now. It's pretty daunting.
So check it out. Think it's worth it?
Are my fellow bloggers suddenly getting a lot of Spam comments? I used to get the occassional entry. In the last two days, however, I've gotten eight comments with porn links. Nice.
Maybe this is just an indicator that I really do need to turn off commenting on old posts.
Tonight I began undertaking the ultimate music geek endeavor, cataloging my CDs. I found a great program called, cleverly enough, Music Collector that makes it quite easy. You simply put your CDs in your CD-R drive and it quickly scans them. When you're done with a batch of them it will query the appropriate resources such as CDDB, Amazon and All Music to get the details including cover art. If you're super geeky (like yours truly) you can also use a barcode scanner. The results are pretty nifty. You can make all kinds of reports and queries with relative ease.
So tonight I started the task while watching the NLCS (still watching at 12:20 a.m., I might add). It's a bit crazy. I gathered up what CDs I had in various places around the house and the first two little cubbies of my CD shelves. Um. I have 122 albums and *only* 70 more cubbies to go. This may take a while...
So take a look at the results so far. I have to tweak the HTML not to show useless categories like genre, but it's pretty neat. You can click on the titles to get details. No yelling about what's in the list thusfar. Those are pretty random.
Who thinks that I'll be ambitious enough to get through the CDs and do the vinyl and cassettes? I'll be happy to get through CDs, I think...
As seen on the way to work this morning...
"I'm not sure, but I think Jesus would use His turn signals"
Note to the guy smoking a great big joint in the park when I passed by this morning at 8:20 a.m. to buy bagels - Duuuuuuuuuuuuude.
I ran errands today at lunch. Exciting, I know. However, the content has been rather bleak for the last couple of days. Here to whet your appetite are some random notes:
Note to the guy wearing the "Yankees Suck" t-shirt in Stew Leonard's - Dude, you're not a big guy. By wearing that today it's no longer a matter of "if" you get your ass kicked but rather a matter of "when." You look like you bruise easily. I'm concerned for your safety.
Note to the woman buying a carton of roll-on deodorant at Walgreen's - The weather's starting to cool down considerably. What, pray tell, could a seemingly normal woman need with about twenty sticks of deodorant? Um. Nevermind. The answer can't be anything but disturbing.
Note to the woman holding the door to Dress Barn for me for about three minutes - Lady, I'm not going into Dress Barn. Do I look like a cross dresser? On second thought, don't answer that. I'm actually going into the liquor store next door. Doesn't everyone go to the liquor store at lunch? That's what I thought!
(ed. note - photos coming. No. I'm serious)
On day three of the ACL Festival Dennis and I finally broke away from our steady diet of twang. We didn't mingle with the jam band freaks. We did, though, get to experience the wonders of rawk.
We opened the day with the ultra-hyped Kings of Leon. A weird cross between Skynyrd and Interpol, these Florida boys were dirty, hairy and tiny. They were good, but I imagine that their tour bus is the stinkiest vehicle on the planet.
We then stuck around for part of Jack Ingram's set. It was raining and we wanted to get to Lucinda Williams but what we saw was good. In the rain we then began the long trek to one of the main stages to see Lucinda.
I've seen Lucinda a couple of times and she and her band always put on a great show. I was worried, though, as I know that it normally takes her a handful of songs to really get into the swing of things and she wouldn't have much time in this setting. Well, she and the band were in rare form and sounded great. They sounded great, that is, until they were about halfway through "Real Life Broken Fingers and Broken Guitar Strings." Lucinda, you see, appears to have a hard time remembering her own lyrics. She keeps them on a stand onstage and has a guy whose sole function appears to be to come up between songs and flip to the correct pages. Well, he screwed up. Lucinda stopped halfway and was frantically flipping through pages. After cursing a blue streak and literally throwing her songbook she stopped the song. After blaming her memory on doing too much acid, she basically gave up on her set. One more song and she was done. It was memorable, to say the very least.
We then decided that we would go all the way across the park to the other stage in order to get a good vantage point for the festival's headliner, R.E.M. This meant that we'd have to sit through two other bands, Yo La Tengo and Ween. My ears may never recover from this decision.
Yo La Tengo have a huge following in the NYC area and are pretty clever songsmiths. They just don't know when a song is supposed to end. They literally drag out most every song for twenty minutes. Just when you think you can't take a particular track any longer they take another turn and go on for another ten minutes. It wasn't awful. It was, however, incredibly loud.
It was nothing compared to Ween. Before this show I was familiar with exactly one Ween album, "12 Golden Country Greats" and one single, "Push th' Little Daisies." Now I've experienced classics like "Waving My Dick in the Wind," "You Fucked Up" and "Poop Ship Destroyer." Talented boys, those Weens. I also have experienced severe pain in my ears. Seriously, the bass level during their set was completely absurd. It was like being hit with a jackhammer for an hour. While I certainly didn't get it whatsoever, their fans were hanging on every note. It was bizarre. I know I have at least one reader who is a big Ween fan. So, uh, Jesse...
We then wrapped the day and the festival with R.E.M. I've seen the lads many, many times but Dennis hadn't. It was a pretty good show, better for Dennis than I. I wanted to hear old stuff that I hadn't heard them play a zillion times. I was sated somewhat with the chesnuts "Begin The Begin" and "World Leader Pretend" but would have liked some others. I could have done without "Everybody Hurts" and their tendancy to do every track from "Automatic For The People," but I'm just being picky. Michael was in rare form and it was a fun time.
A great way to end a great trip. Until next year...
As a child growing up in Southern Michigan, I (along with practically everyone else) rooted for two baseball teams. The Tigers were, of course, my American League favorite and the Cubs were my team in the National League. This was certainly due to both geography and the clock.
I remember coming home from school every day in the spring and fall and turning on WGN to see if the Cubs were playing at home. Remember, this was before Wrigley Field had been outfitted with lights. All of the Cubs home games started an an oh-so-convenient 2:20. There were no after school cartoons for this boy. No, sir. Instead I hustled home to try to catch Jack Brickhouse or Harry Carey on the "Lead-Off Man" show. I'd then watch Ivan DeJesus and the boys lose.
On-and-on it went. For the better part of a decade I was one of the diehards. After high school I finally got a chance to attend a few games at Wrigley Field. Wrigley truly is a beautiful old ballpark in a typical Chicago neighborhood. The only problem, though, is that it's filled with Cub fans. I'll let it go at that...
These Cub fans continued to come in droves for decades. The club's ownership, meanwhile, knew that they had a built-in fan base. They never had to spend any money on players to bring in new supporters. Kind of like Star Trek, now that I think about it. As a result, the product on the field was lackluster and the boneheads in the stands were the worst. Enough to drive this guy to the American League for life.
So, thanks to those who called and e-mailed thinking I was still one of the diehards. In 1982 I would have thought it was pretty cool. Last night I just sort of shrugged.
It certainly has been a bad month to be a tiger. First, my beloved baseball variety lose a American League record 119 games. Then, one heroic cat mauls Roy (I can hear you wincing. I really believe that, though. Poor thing, forced to "perform"). Then one is carted out of a Harlem apartment with a gaggle of media onlookers.
I don't know if it made national news, but a guy in Harlem was keeping an adult tiger and an alligator in his one bedroom apartment. In case you're wondering, that's not legal. Manhattan User Guide wants to remind us that you also can't keep polar bears, bandicoots or dolphins (just to name a few).
random thoughts after watching the season premiere of SNL this morning.
* The Grand Central Terminal set is both absurd and cool.
* Tina Fey is still about the greatest thing. Like ever. I will wed her.
* John Mayer is still just awful.
* It may be unhip. It may be pedestrian. But I still think Jack Black can be damn funny.
I rarely bother to watch even one minute of CMT. It's all glossy Nashville stuff that makes my ears bleed. Occasionally, though, I'll stop for a minute or two to see what videos they're playing. Today I caught the recap of their Top 20 Videos.
It contained the usual culprits. Too many pretty boys who just happen to own a cowboy hat (Tim McGraw, Keith Urban, Gary Allan, Billy Currington), some two-stepping pseudo-country duos (Brooks & Dunn, Montgomery Gentry), a couple of glossy country divas (Patty Loveless, Martina McBride) and even a few old hands trying to hold on (Willie, Dwight and Marty).
I was stopped in my tracks, though, by what I soon saw. I blinked. I blinked again. I closed my eyes hoping I was having a nightmare. I wasn't. I was staring straight at a two-headed monster that I thought could only exist in legend. The frightful sight? The dynamic duo of Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett. Alone their powers for evil are exceptional. Together, my friends, they cannot be stopped.
The collaboration, "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere," is one of the most disturbing pieces imaginable. It's a dreadful ode to daytime drunks. In a tune that could be exchanged with any in Buffett's frightening oeuvre, the boys sing about boats and hurricanes. It's been a tough morning, man, and the boss is getting on their nerves. They need a drink and decide to go get blitzed at lunch (and name-check Buffett's Margaritaville about twenty times). I mean, after all, it's five o'clock somewhere. And we wonder why our economy's in the crapper...
It's so abysmal that it literally makes me long for the jingoistic, borderline racist, anti-animal Toby Keith and Willie duet "Beer For My Horses." You don't want to get me started on that one. Trust me.
I found this little wonder from our beloved Deano.
Rush. OxyContin. Hillbilly Heroin. I can't wait to hear his self-rightous response to this. A man so full of hate with so many skeletons. Beautiful.
A recent whorish trend in CD marketing is the ol' remastered disc. You know the routine, they clean up the "original master tapes" and release them with purty new packaging. Lately they've also taken to releasing them in new audiophile formats like Sony's SACD configuration. Oftentimes they're a joke, not unlike the old "gold" CDs (hey, suckers, the actual material the disc is made of has no bearing whatsoever on sonic clarity). Some others, though are amazingly improved.
I've basically decided, for instance, that Rhino Records can do no wrong. Their slow re-re-release program of Elvis Costello's entire catalog has been jaw-dropping. Each album is now treated to a two CD package with new liner notes from EC. The sonic improvement is also absolutely amazing. If you're even a remote fan of Costello's foray into blue-eyed soul on "Get Happy!!" then must I insist that you pick up this disc. The old mix was fairly muddy and the bass was, for all practical purposes, buried. This album now sounds like it was recorded yesterday. I'm serious. It's like discovering a long-lost treasure.
Sony (Columbia) has also re-released Dylan's entire catalog in their hybrid SACD/standard CD format. I've yet to purchase a SACD player so I'm a bit reluctant to plunk down $150 for the entire set. Tonight, though, I bought yet another copy of "Blood On The Tracks." At various times I've called BOTT my favorite album. Released when I was just four years old, I've had this album in so many formats that it makes my head spin. Vinyl, eight-track, cassette, standard CD, import CD. I've had them all. I can't even begin to tell you how shocked I was to hear this new mix. It's almost as though Zimmy's in my living room. The harmonica is piercing, the guitar like a quiet tempest. I can't even begin to imagine what this would sound like in SACD.
So, I refused to drop $150 on Dylan but I spent $108 on various CDs tonight. Issues, man, issues.
(ed. note - sorry for the delay in reporting. Pics to follow shortly.)
After Dennis and I spent the morning learning that filling a wheelchair tire with Fix-A-Flat is really difficult and smelly, we headed off to start our second day of ACL festivities.
You may recall that the crip seating on day one was about two feet from the stage. We arrived and prepared to start our second day with the same vantage point for the Old '97s. As we got closer to one of the large stages we noticed that the wheelchair seats had been moved. No longer were we so close. Instead they had moved the wheelchair seats to an area around the soundboard, about 100 feet from the stage and on a flat surface. Clearly this wasn't going to work and clearly I was going to be a pain in the ass about it. Seriously, there was no way I could see from there as the photos will illustrate. Plans were quickly amended and we were able to watch a portion of their set from the new crip cage, a fenced off area at stage right. It wasn't so bad.
We then schlepped all the way across the park to the other large stage (at least half a mile away) to see a Johnny Cash tribute. Johnny's daughter Rosanne was supposed to play in this slot but had understandably cancelled. Instead we were "treated" to a bizarre collection of people doing Johnny's songs. The set started with Tift Merritt absolutely butchering "I Still Miss Someone." I'm sorry, I like Tift's album but it simply has to be ProTools magic. She literally has no voice. A better job was done by the '97s and Drive-By Truckers. I have no words for the disaster that was The North Mississippi All-Stars.
We then saw two fairly unobjectionable sets. Jay Farrar put on a decent performance even though he played no Uncle Tupelo tracks and only three of his Son Volt tunes. He recovered nicely, though, with a suprisingly competent cover of "Like A Hurricane." The Derailers play a bit of '50s surf guitar with some bluegrass thrown in for good measure. I didn't hate it. It was too loud and a bit boring but not awful.
I wish I could say the same for the next act. We decided to stay at the same stage because there really wasn't much else going on. I couldn't talk Dennis into Bright Eyes, so we stayed for Abra Moore. Oh... my... gawd... All this woman does is squeal. It was simply awful. I found it so dreadful that I couldn't stop laughing. Picture a retarded chipmunk singing Fiona Apple songs. I think that about sums it up. Seriously. Follow that link up there and take a listen. Uh, Dennis, you'd better not. I have a feeling I'm already paying for this one for the rest of my natural life.
The finale of the night was a bizarre experience with Richard Buckner. Dennis is a big Buckner fan and I'm pretty familiar with his work. It's moody stuff but quite good and generally, well, quiet. Not on this night. Bucker had a four piece band with him that seemed to specialize in nothing more than feedback. Most of his "songs" became absurdly long opuses featuring plenty of distortion. It wasn't awful, it was just unexpected and weird. The weirdest by far was his closer. After stopping a wall of feedback for a split second, he launched into a familiar tune that seemed on the tip of my tongue. It was distorted but somehow familiar. Dennis and I looked at each other with a mix of amusement and bewilderment when we realized what it was, "Love Will Tear Us Apart." Yes, Richard Buckner closed by covering Joy Divison. Completely insane.