LAKE 2

It is always a little jarring for me to come back to Wisconsin. I moved away in 1984, and I guess I always expect everything to be the same as it was when I was growing up. Of course, there have been significant changes, but my brain still stubbornly persists, and re-images the landscape even as I stare at it. That's not a Target, it's the decrepit little ski lodge I lived in for months while our house was being built. Truthfully, I prefer the Target -- the ski lodge's roof leaked all over, was chilly, and was decidedly un-homey. Target is much more satisfying, if far less unique.

But a few things haven't changed at all. Today I spent a pretty sunny afternoon out on one of the lakes I used to hang out at as a kid. Outside of some new houses here and there, it really is just the same. It is a very low-key place; the lake culture here is all about the neighbors hanging out, all chillin', everybody sort of watching out for one another, the pontooners and the tubers and the jetskiers and the steadfast fishermen. There are wealthy people and not-at-all-wealthy people, but this is no Lake Snooty -- it doesn't seem to matter here so much what kind of boat you have, more that you are friendly and courteous. And like beer.



The water was a little chilly for me, but it didn't bother the kids at all. We plopped out the anchor near a skinny little peninsula (for sale if you have a spare 1.9 million bucks) and they jumped in, screaming at the cold water, delighted at the same time. There were waterbugs to catch, swim strokes to practice, and a 21-year-old cousin to chase.



A very kind neighbor offered to take Mr11 out tubing. He tubed until they hit some very big air, throwing the neighbor's niece off in a fabulous wild spiral in the air. He hung on but bashed his nose and decided he had had enough. He's a city kid, after all. The neighbor told him he did a great job, and even offered to take him out again tomorrow. "Anytime, buddy, you just say when, we'll be here."





Another neighbor give the OK for MissSix and Mr11 to use his giant bouncy float, and we enjoyed watching them jump and wipeout, repeat until giggled out.



After a couple of hours it was time to motor back in to get ready to grill some steaks. The climb up the steep hill to get back to the house is much easier this year. Thank you, treadmill.





We have a nice meal, enjoy the pretty flower garden surrounding the patio, planted with such care every year. We chat about the family, Adam Lambert and Michael Jackson (my violent opinions are stand-alone on these issues here), and eat the Jello cake that MissSix and her Grandma made the day before. A broken sewer pipe in the basement cuts short the evening, but some neighbors come over to survey and advise, and I am sure it will be fixed soon, without a call to the weekend plumber.

Things stay the same here. It is probably why I left, but also why I love to return.

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SOULBAND

Watching my daughter bash away at Rock Band, I thought: where are the R&B/soul tracks?

HMM?

Helloooooo?

This seems like a no-brainer for sales. An all-Motown game or older tracks mixed in with newer pop and rap/hip hop? Yes? Right? Someone hanging on to the licensing there?

I mean, if the Beatles are coming in, this seems to be a great compliment/addition to the series. Rock Band should be more than "Hard Rock White Rock Band!" Look, these people WANT IT ALREADY!







I am all for full exploitation of the franchise, even though it's gonna cost me 50 damn bucks a pop for these things. D'oh.

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PSYCHO

MissSix: (drumming to the Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer" on Rock Band) Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa!

Me: Catchy, eh?

MissSix: Watch out, here comes the French part.

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ARTYPANTS: MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM

Today I had a very pleasant afternoon, spent at the beautiful Milwaukee Art Museum. Now I know that when one thinks of Milwaukee, one does not usually think of the finer cultural things in life, more beer, cheese, the Brewers, just another run-down Upper Midwestern Rust Belt town. But Milwaukee, like the rest of Wisconsin, has its surprises up its plaid flannel sleeve, with some amount of well-deserved pride and a bit of a sly wink.

I had not been to the MAM since I was a teenager, and was excited to go back to see its stunning new building, situated on a beautiful piece of land with an expansive view of Lake Michigan:



It was so calm and clean and architecturally lovely. What an amazing place to view the wonderful collections, ranging from Picasso to Pissarro to Wyeth to Miro to Monet to Warhol to unknown folk artists, a photographer with a beautiful exhibition of portraits of high school students around the country, Craftsman furniture from the early 20th Century, ancient Egyptian and Chinese pieces...just a well-put-together collection and certainly something for everyone to enjoy. It is a gem, and gets my highest recommendation to visit if you are ever there.

What I will share with you from my visit today, however, is a very small sampling of something that stood out to me as I went from room to room, staring at the paintings: The Gratuitous Small Bizarre Dog. In many paintings, there seems to be a subject that is either holding a weird canine, or the artist just decided to throw one in there in some corner for fun. For example, look at this one:



Look at those human eyes on that thing! It looks like he is all YEAH YEAH BUDDY I HEAR YA, NOW PISS OFF AND GET ME A BONE. He also has an odd brainiac forehead that could start pulsing at any second. Fido, you are creeping me out there.

Here's another weirdo:



He looks to me like he is made out of toothpaste, is wearing lipstick, and that at the last minute the artist decided to give him an evil twin monkey on his face. I don't know about you, but if I see a dog covered in toothpaste with a monkey growing out his head, I am going to scream until my throat explodes and/or someone shoots it dead.

Oh look, it's Spike The Lizard-Tongued Mutt, the perfect playmate for your hoop-rolling, bagel-topped-socks-wearing child:



Look at his gnarly teeth and his hair all up on his back. Spike is clearly planning on taking someone DOWN, or perhaps catching a fly for dinner.

WHAT. THE HELL. IS THIS.



That is NOT A DOG. That is a bloody-mouthed, lop-eared RAT. Look at those legs and paws! RAT RAT RAT RAT RAT! I bet someone sewed on the ears and fur to a gutter rat to make a pet for this girl holding it. Rats were more plentiful than fancy dogs back then. It probably ended up biting her and then she died from the plague and the Dograt ran back to his clan as a King, all fancied up with ears and such.

My last art dog to show you is Pal, who seems to suffer from Graves' Disease:



Time came to head out and get on the road again, all the strange and wonderful dogs and frozen painted people locked in time and space and left behind until another time. The rush-hour traffic was slow and ponderous, but I knew Milwaukee had some further surprises somewhere, and when I switched on the car radio, I hear "Here Come The People In Grey" by the Kinks. Ah, wonderful WMSE. You are still there. I smile conspiratorially at the dashboard. I was born here, and though I long since moved away, I understand all the funny, weird, and beautiful pieces that make up this place, and helped to make up me too.

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THEBLOB

I woke up thinking this morning that the movie "The Blob" reflects not only 1950's-era Cold War paranoia but the perils of the new American consumer society as well.

How 'bout THAT shit, huh?

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MARYMURPHY

Good f-ing GOD already. This woman!



MissSix: (watching So You Think You Can Dance)I hope all the dancers do a poor job so she will stop yelling.

Right on, kid, right on.

Where does one get such a horrendous shriek like that? Did she grow up in a hen house? Did no one ever take the time to PUMMEL HER MERCILESSLY WITH PAINTBALLS TO MAKE HER SHUT UP?

Can you imagine her family gatherings, maybe a few drinks in her? OMG. OMG.

Oh, if only her Costco-sized Botox needle would have slipped and hit her vocal chords.

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CASHKET

The whole time during the Michael Jackson memorial service, amidst the platitudes and tears and yells from the crowd, the musical performances, the parade of family members, celebrities, religious and social leaders, the larger-than-life video projections and song quotes, this is what I thought:

No one really knew him at all. No one. Not a single person in his life.

I think people tried, or thought that they knew him, or knew him once, or thought they knew enough. I think some attached meaning and depth to him that he did not internally possess, although I suspect he desperately wanted to be that person, more perfect than anyone in intent and character, divine, royal, special.

But he knew he wasn't that, never could be, and the dissonance in his head became a clanging relentless nightmare. It was unlikely that he ever formed any kind of a real personality at all. There was no "Michael Jackson" for anyone to know.

Underneath the flowers, inside the bronze-and-gold casket, lies the battered and pathetic remains of a human being, who like icons before him, did not have the physical nor emotional strength to survive the burden of what others wanted and expected from him. I imagine his mother remembering the day she gave birth to him, a perfect lovely baby in her arms, and now sitting in a generic arena in California 50 years later, staring at his casket. No amount of money or fame or acclaim can replace that baby, and can never change the reality of the tragedy that his life was in the end. That is seen in the tight faces and dulled, hopeless, resigned eyes of the mourners, having given up on him long, long ago.

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ELVIS 'N I

One of the best concerts I have ever attended was by Elvis Costello and the Attractions on the "Armed Forces" tour in at the Uptown Theater in Milwaukee in March of 1979. I was a month shy of 17 years old, and yes, I wore red shoes. My main recollection of the show was that it COMPELLED me to get up from my seat and MOVE. Everyone was up and dancing and singing and shouting and bouncing. There was so much energy in the room -- hard, raw, good energy -- something you see at only the best of the best shows. The happy crowd even coaxed a few smiles out of the mysterious Costello, at that time known mostly for his intelligent acid-tinged lyrics and moody behavior. I left the show sweaty and thrilled, still laughing and dancing on the street outside the theater with my friend Margaret, and we kept talking about it in superlatives on the ride back on I-94 in her mom's car, headed back to Waukesha for the night.

So 30 years and 4 months later, I find myself again seeing Elvis Costello in concert in Milwaukee, and this pleases me tremendously. During those years, I saw him play all around the country, wherever I was at the time, with whomever he was playing with, in whatever musical style. I never missed a tour and he never let me down. I have seen him play so many times that I truly cannot recall how many exactly, but considering that he is quite prolific and seems to enjoy touring, over 30 years it must have been a whole lot.

Last night, as he strode upon the stage at Summerfest in a natty dark suit and a purple fedora, I smiled at my old pal. At least he feels like an old pal to me in that way that you relate to someone whom you have seen over a very long period of time, how you can mark changes in your own life with his music, his changes. I kick off my heels to stand on the skinny metal bleacher bench so I can see him -- I have not gotten taller in 30 years, I am sorry to say. I stand balancing for the 2-hour show, ready to guard my space from interlopers, drunks, fiends, assholes, and pushy bastards who want to take my prime 2nd row place. Not tonight, retards; Elvis and I have this 30-year-anniversary date going on and if you bother me I will elbow you so hard that your eyeballs will pop out and some giant-ass bitch from West Allis will put them on a stick, cover them in melted cheese and call it SNACK TIME.

The show was excellent, and I particularly enjoyed Elvis' nastay electric guitar playing, loud and jittery and endearingly quirky, like how I would like to play lead guitar if I were a competent guitar player. I would like to do a lot of things as well as Elvis Costello does, as he is aces in my book: smart, funny, clever, talented, thoughtful, fearless, musically rich. Out of all the musicians I admire, Elvis holds two "Most" spots: Most Intimidating To Meet and Musician I Would Most Like To Sing With. I have actually met El a couple of times over the years -- nothing more than brief introductions and exchanges -- and he was always completely gracious. Silly me. I don't know why I have this thing about wanting to sing with him, but I do. I don't at all go around wanting to sing with anyone, but this has always been something in my brain. Who knows, maybe someday I will get cancer or something and the Make-A-Wish-For-Old-Bitches will coerce him to sing with me as I croak out one of his lovely harmony lines, hairless and decrepit but smiling.

I like that as Elvis and I motor around the globe living our lives, doing our things, we happened to meet up on a lovely July night in Milwaukee once more, the consummate performer and the very grateful fan, and the giant-ass bitch from West Allis who, as in 1979, could have kicked my ass but good. Thanks El. See you in August back in Seattle-ish!

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ISSUES

When my daughter was 28 months old and still in a crib, she created her personal Family Story of Legend, the one that is oft told over the years. I heard her cry in the middle of the night and got up and went into her room. There she was, standing and holding onto the rail of her crib, with little sad tears running down her face.

Me: What’s wrong?

MissTwo: (sniffling) I have issues.

Me: (stifling the loudest burst of a laugh possible) Ohhh. (burfpfffff) Well, what are your issues?

MissTwo: (big lipping) I. Don’t. (sniff)Feeeeeeeel welllllll.

Me: Oh, I am sorry. I will get you something.

So, waiting until I was out of her sight to giggle at her word choice, I got her some infant cold medicine for her little fever and runny nose and her issues were solved, at least for a few hours. If all issues were so easily dealt with.

I have an opinion about issues. Actually, I have many opinions about issues and I think I will combine those opinions here into an Issues Theory/Plan Of Action. I am glad to make some use out of my undergraduate-level Psych degree, which in the real world only qualifies me to attend to the drooling: infants at day care or elders at end care, for minimum wage. College for the win!

Everyone has issues, of every conceivable kind and level of severity. Life is odd and complicated, no matter where you live or what you do, and at some point you are going to have to attend with the fallout of Complicated Life overtaking your everyday ability to DEAL. There’s no shame in that at all. Even cool laid-back wise cats like the Dalai Lama and Barack Obama have to deal with the outcome of their issues (Mr. President, I am looking at you with the SMOKING). So, if we accept the fact that we are going to have issues, then we must realize that issues have to be dealt with, yes? But, because people are people and issues can be painful and overwhelming to think about, Not Dealing With Issues is more common than Dealing. And the outcomes from Not Dealing are often not recognized either. But your brain, that awesome powerful thing, will one way or the other, make you accountable for whatever you are not consciously working out, whether it’s generalized anxiety, insomnia, headaches, sadness, weird anger bursts, a sore back, Republicanism, you name it. So be pissed at your brain, not me. Bah.

Actually trying to resolve/fix your issues that negatively affect your life is a process. I will outline this process now:

1. Accept: You have Issues, and are not as happy, healthy, or fulfilled as you would like to be. Accepting this is recognizing that YOU have to take responsibility for them, and not blame whatever it is on anyone or anything else, no matter the unfairness that has been dealt to you. You cannot escape getting crapped on, but you don’t have to just stand there and whine about it, or ignore it while it stinks worse and worse over time. You should clean your damn self off, for all our sakes’, Smelly.

2. Commit: You can absolutely accept that you have issues, and then absolutely never DO anything about it, too. This is where people languish, for years or a lifetime. You know something is wrong, but it seems too daunting to make things better for yourself. You may not even know where to start, just that things are wrong. Fortunately, people have two other qualities that also are as universal as having Issues – Hope and Resiliency. Even the crustiest character will have some spark of these, the things that keep you going, even if you don’t know that either. Mine those qualities in you, and you have the strength you need to commit to working on your issues to solve them, no matter how long or difficult the process. There is no one else that can do this for you, no “if only” situation that will change YOU.

3. Process: The meat of the deal. There are a lot of different ways to get at a problem, and I mean truly get at it, not gloss over it or medicate it or substance it temporarily away. It depends on who you are and what the problems are. You have to identify, deconstruct, and keep digging away until you get to the bottom line of why something has caused such a problem for you and why you have allowed it to control part or all or your life in a negative way. It is my completely unqualified opinion that you must ATTACK issues. Do not wimp out – go straight for the THROAT and hang on until it DIES. DIE DIE DIE, ISSUE, DIE! If you do less than that, this all takes so much longer. I don’t know if you can meander your way through problems. For me, going into traditional psychoanalysis is just committing to 10-20 YEARS of meandering and depleting your bank account, which could cause more issues for sure. Life is short. Find your answers faster and enjoy the time you have left, MO BETTA. Take the harder hit to the self-image, and move on. Talk to a shrink, a patient and wise friend, or to yourself. Read some books, stories about how others have dealt with issues like yours, and their good or poor outcomes. You can find your answers. You must keep at it. Don’t give up.

4. Change: Steps 1-3 should have set you up to at least know what is going on with you, where it came from, and how you let it get to you. But unless you commit to changing things, inside your head or outside in the world, your issues will keep bubbling back like a pesky lava-spewing volcano, burning your hair at times or consuming you when you least expect it. You are indeed doomed to repeat your history unless you consciously change the way you are thinking and dealing. But it is never too late to do SOMETHING. I promise.

This might seem overly simple and pat, because it is. This is a blog, not a book, damn you people. And it’s time to go to the drive-in for dinner. But think about it, will you? 'Cause it’s all true and stuff.

MissSix’s issue now is finding a pair of sandals to wear that match her dress. I can't assure she won't have an anxiety disorder later in life, but I can help her find her shoes. College, for the win.

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ALLENGOODTIME

Allen Klein is dead.

http://cnnwire.blogs.cnn.com/2009/07/04/music-mogul-allen-klein-dies-at-77/








Ding dong.

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REDEYE JOOLEYE

I have never taken a redeye flight before.

I hope to never take one again.

I don’t know what kind of combination of drugs or deafness makes one able to sleep on a plane, but it was not happening for me last night as we took off from Seattle for Milwaukee at midnight. The flight was full of cheap-asses like me, nonstop-flight-liking-asses like me, many many many infants, two Russian dudes in jackets from 1983, and quite a few military personnel, going home for the July 4th holiday.

I bought one of those cheap Samsonite blowup neck pillows at the newsstand at the airport, felt a little silly blowing it up on the plane, put it behind my neck and frowned. It was too stiff and had a sharp plastic edge digging into my skin and made me feel like a dumbass. The plane was like an icebox as well, and I didn’t even have a cootie-covered airplane blanket to take off some of the chill. The babies all started wailing and complaining. The dude a few seats in front of me kept clicking his reading light on and off, the light bouncing off his white-hoodie-covered head and burning through my eyelids like, well, like an ANNOYING LIGHT. The flight attendant seemingly opened a can of Coke IN MY EAR – pshhhhhhhh! – and the sugary smell went up my nose and stayed there. I spent a few minutes looking at a magazine with photos of cellulite-ridden celebrities in bikinis, and spent at least a cumulative hour looking at my watch.

Cough cough cough. Cry cry cry. Pshhhhhhh pshhhhhh pshhhhhh. Snore snore snore. Fart fart fart. THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING; WE ARE NOW WAKING YOU UP TO TELL YOU WE ARE 50 MILES AWAY FROM MILWAUKEE. I wish you were waking me up, sir, but thank you for getting us there all not dead and stuff.

I looked over at one of the soldiers sitting near me, his fatigues immaculate, boots polished, fresh military haircut. Have a good holiday, man, you deserve it.

The wind pushes us across the country in record time, and at 5:05AM CDT, we land in Milwaukee with the sun coming up. A 24-hour day for me, but it’s just sleep and I will make it up sometime. Actually, that time is now, before everyone arrives to eat hot dogs and chat and point at the big herons on the lake and tell me that DAMN YOU LOOK TIRED.

Redeye jooooooleye sleeptime bye bye.

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CNN.COM 3

"Boy eaten by lake bacteria wants ice cream"

I laughed for about 10 minutes solid over this headline, sorry.

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CNN.COM 2

The top headlines from CNN.com, 1PM PDT, 7/2/09:

Latest News

* Kids with autism graduate, achieve dreams
* Air France plane crashed intact, report says
* Captured U.S. soldier reportedly sold to clan
* Attacks, arrests slowing online news from Iran
* Biden visits Iraq for Fourth of July weekend
* 'Major operation' under way in Afghanistan
* FAA whistle-blowers usually right, probe finds
* CNNMoney: Job market takes turn for worse
* Ticker: Governor blasted for 'indecent exposure'
* Miracle plane crash survivor 'doing well'
* Does photo found in cell show children's grave?
* Police: Mom tossed infant down portable toilet
* Lady Liberty's crown reopening for July 4
* Missing girl's mom to take polygraph
* KTRK: Daycare hides kids in shed, closet
* Disco tune saves man's life
* Sitter, boyfriend charged with killing tot
* $280,000 new home lacks electricity
* SI: Venus, Serena to face off at Wimbledon
* Reporter covers Wimbledon, from afar
* CNN Wire: Royal Air Force jet crashes in...

Out of 21, there are:

-- Six about children that are challenged, abused, or dead

-- Four about plane crashes

-- Four about war

-- One about the economy

-- One about a suspect government official

-- One about the Statue of Liberty

-- One about some disco song helping a guy

-- One about a house with no electricity

-- Two about Wimbledon

I think if you want to get the lead headline at CNN the thing to do is put an infant in the toilet of a fighter jet over Afghanistan, which is then discovered by a United States governor playing tennis in the plane aisle while wearing no pants and singing, "I Will Survive," thereby losing his job because it's on the taxpayers' dime, but he saves the baby, becomes a hero, gets re-elected in a landslide vote and holds a victory party holding the baby over the edge of the Statue of Liberty.

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DOLLARSTORE

Oh, Dollar Store, I assume that your unknown-brand crayons, makeup, small plastic toys, and pacifiers are all infused with dangerous levels of lead.

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HARMONIOUS

Like a duck to water or a child to candy or a politician to a ho, I am powerfully drawn to musical harmonies. I love them, and I love them even more than I love a good melody, and BOY HOWDY how I love a good melody. This goes so far back for me that I cannot tell if it is intrinsic or Beatles-instilled; I suspect both. Harmonies catch my ear and my attention in any song, and if there is no harmony I am compelled to attempt to add one in my head, following the rise and fall of the melodic line like a quirky mischievous shadow. Harmonies are that way; they don’t have to be as solid and sturdy as the main line, they can add depth or height or emotion to a song, and sometimes a literal note of unpredictability into a piece that makes the song more unique and unexpected to the ear.

But on the flip side of this, I do not love all musical harmonies. Some actually bother me so much that they make me feel sort of ill. There is something to harmonies that are too close together and too many and too dense that can make me feel like I need to pull wax out of my ears or throw up. Two examples of harmony singing I find intolerable are Barbershop Quartet and its spin-offs like The Four Freshmen:


Oh, dear. That is SO not for me. It sounds stilted and dated to my ears, impure and annoying. Now I can absolutely hear the musicality to this and understand that it is based on jazz instrumentation and is quite difficult to do, and maybe it is some kind of generational dividing line for me, I don’t know. I also don’t like the Beach Boys because of their Four Freshmen-type vocals. Sorry, Four Freshman, you don’t graduate my academy of awesome.

No, I like clean, clear harmonies, probably based more on folk, country, and blues-based traditions. There is something more natural and emotional to these for me, as if you are reaching back into both time and some kind of universal musical feeling. There is no doubt whatsoever that the Everly Brothers were THE first and most influential harmonizers in rock n’ roll. Their line is so completely clear into the Beatles. So many of the Beatles’ early songs were essentially Everly Brothers tributes, and I think Paul McCartney would be more than happy to confirm that. Don and Phil Everly made harmonizing sound so strong yet so effortless and soaring in execution that they seemed magical. Listen to them, then the Beatles:



It is something to note that it probably was primarily the massive success of the Beatles and the British Invasion in the mid-‘60s that caused the permanent decline in the Everly Brothers career.

Everly Brothers to Beatles to X. Don’t you give me that look – it’s there, oh yes it is!


I don’t have the best voice in the world, but I used to have no voice at all. I sang like I spoke. When I got to be in my teen years I decided this was just completely unacceptable, and I was going to do something about it. All I could think of to do was to try to sing along to my beloved records that I thought were challenging, tape that and listen back, and keep trying to train my ear to match pitch and tone until I could hear this little clangy resonance that told me I was on or very close. One of the toughest but most fun records to sing to was “This Boy” by the Beatles. I would randomly tap myself on the leg to switch between the three harmony parts. Instant switch and dead-on was the only acceptable outcome of the game. How I wish I had those tapes still, they’d be hilarious. Here are the Beatles performing that and a couple of other goodies on the Ed Sullivan show:

Ah, my Beatles, channeling the Everlys, Little Richard, and YES the friggin’ Four Freshmen, live with no monitors. I can hear in their performance such confidence and desire to sing well.

Harmony, for me, is something more than some musical notes. It represents some ancient internal desire to connect with something else, yet bring out individuality. To create something better from the collaborative efforts of two.

Or more, yes Four Freshmen, or more.

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