You write about music? You should write about my band.
Yeah, I probably should write about your Hip-Hop-Rock-Dub-R&B fusion-jam project or your Rufus Wainright “inspired” (cover) band. When are you available for an interview?
Todd Miller: Blog
Slowly.
Things moved slowly and easily there. There was no great importance held on anything really, at least that’s the way it seemed. It was quiet because nothing much ever seemed to happen. But while it was quiet and still, it was filled with little sounds and motions and activities that became familiar and part of what everything was.
In the morning, at first light, there was wind, the wind that pushed the ripples across the surface of the lake, and woke the sleeping adults and children to the gentle sound of the water meeting the wooden docks and aluminum boats that floated near the shore. At the bait shop, there were men quietly exchanging tips and secrets and hunches on where the Bass and Bluegills were biting and bragging with real accounts and tall tales of how many had been taken the day before. Later in the morning, there were sausage links sizzling on the griddle, popping and crisping until they were brown on their outsides. Even later in the morning, there were the sounds of The Price is Right gently spilling out of screen windows and subtly competing with the last sounds of the water before the wind would move off of the lake and into the corn and bean fields, where it stayed until the evening. Pages of books and magazines flipped and turned. In the afternoon there were the sounds of naps and flies. In town, bells on cash registers chimed and drawers shuffled in and out at the grocery store. Back at the lake, hummingbirds fluttered as they sipped nectar from plastic feeders. Far away, a lawn mower growled and trimmed. As the sun was on its way down, the evening news and Jeopardy then drifted out of those screened windows. In the evening, bonfires cracked. Bugs fried on electric zappers. An occasional bullfrog spoke up. On some nights, there were some fireworks in the sky, somewhere across the lake. Then, when the sun was all the way gone, the news was over and the TVs turned off, the fires had died out, and the mosquitoes had even gone to bed, there was almost silence. It was so close.
At any time in the day, though, morning, afternoon or night, layered far below everything else, there were reels casting out, and pulling in. There were bobbers and bait plunking into the water, softly, but with a slight clap, like the sound of skin slapping skin. There were distant voices of stories being told, and men growing old and boys growing up. The fishing never stopped, and it was what brought everything together, in a place set apart from reality and the rest of the world, on a relatively small lake in Indiana.
Exclusive: Interview with the Balloon Boy
Don’t ask me how, but I managed to score an exclusive interview with six-year-old Falcon Heene, otherwise known this afternoon as Balloon Boy, moments after he emerged from the attic in his family’s home unharmed. This all after he hid in a box for hours while authorities in Colorado scrambled to save him from the makeshift hot air balloon he was allegedly piloting and while the Internet and daily routines screeched to a halt while people were waiting, saying things like, “Forget work, what about Balloon Boy?”
Q: How did you get such an sweet name?
A: Which one? Falcon or Balloon Boy?
Q: Why did you untie the balloon in the first place?
A: Because… Why wouldn’t I? I have the CNN app on my iPhone. I was just watching everything go down, laughing.
Q: Your brother said that he saw you get inside the balloon as it left the ground. This wasn’t exactly true?
A: If you knew him, you’d know that he’s always been a liar. He’s had it out for me since I can remember.
Q: Would you do it again?
A: Hell yeah.
Q: Any regrets?
A: Hell no. I don’t regret anything, ever.
Finally Zombies.
The geniuses at Men’s Journal apparently haven’t heard of the usefulness of the internet, thus not making this story available on their website until well after it was published in print. I happened upon it a while back and have been looking for it on the internet ever since. It’s a great piece written by Mischa Berlinski about “zombies” in Haiti and it’s finally up on www.mensjournal.com. Follow the link below to read it.
23 + 6 = Everything.
There were only three times when, during the course of my schooling through high school, the teaching was stopped, the television was turned on, and we watched, in silence. The last time was September 11, 2001. It was first period, government class, and after another teacher came to inform my teacher of the first strike, we stopped class, and watched on live TV as the second plane hit the second tower.
The other two instances aren’t nearly as important as that one, but they did still happen. The time before that was in sixth grade, at St. Paul’s Lutheran School in Munster Indiana. Mr. Brandt, the music and social studies teacher paused his lesson and we watched the jury deliver O.J. Simpson’s verdict. He was innocent. Mr. Brandt couldn’t believe it. Because he couldn’t believe it, neither could we. It was a long, no nonsense class of treble clefs and bass clefs for the rest of the afternoon.
The first time class was stopped for a television viewing was two years before O.J.’s verdict. I was in fourth grade, my first year at St. Paul’s, in Mr. Eitzen’s class. It happened some time in the morning. Mr. Eitzen must have gotten word from another teacher. We sat in our seats, he turned off the overhead lights, he wheeled the television cart to the middle of the room, adjusted the antenna, and turned it on. Then we watched the press conference as Michael Jordan announced his first retirement from the game of basketball, after three straight championships, at the still young age of just thirty years old.
I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to do. My entire life until that day, in large majority, could have been defined by two letters, MJ. He won the rookie of the year in the 1984-85 season, the first season of my life. I didn’t know the Bulls without him and I didn’t want to imagine what it would be like. As I sat in that dark classroom, I was thankful that Mr. Eitzen had turned off the lights because I was crying.
The next two years were hard. Michael was figuring some things out after the death of his father and he was in the minor league system of my baseball team, the White Sox, but even I knew, at that young age, that he didn’t have the same magic on the baseball field as he did on the court. So, I spent those two years watching old Bulls games and videos of Michael’s that I had on tape, “Michael Jordan’s Playground” and others.
I think we all know what happened next. He was back. Three more years, and three more championships. I didn’t take them for granted either. Some of my favorite memories are of waking up before dawn, piling into the neighbor’s station wagon and making the thirty minute drive into the city, to Grant Park, where we, along with thousands of other people staked out our positions and waited for the midday championship celebrations. I had my championship shirts and hats and as I watched them on stage from across the huge field, I couldn’t have been prouder of Michael and Scottie and Phil and the rest of the Bulls.
Tomorrow Michael Jordan will be inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame and again, I feel like I did while watching those championship celebrations. Sure, the whole world was watching him win the six championships and a good deal of people will be watching tomorrow as well. And yes, he’s a worldwide superstar and the best person to ever play the game of basketball and everyone knows that. But they don’t get it like we do in Chicago. We were in on it. He’s simply the best there ever was or will be and he’s all ours.
Congratulations, Michael.
When I Was Young, This Weekend.
When I was thirteen, I met my two best friends for lunch at Miner Dunn Hamburgers. It was around Christmas time and we were going to exchange gifts. For the last few years, we’d given each other CDs for Christmas. I don’t remember what I gave that year, but I know what I got. One friend said, “I have two gifts and I don’t know which one to give to who, so I’ll put them behind my back and somebody can pick a hand.”
One was a Tooth and Nail Records four-year anniversary box set. The five-disc, 100-song collection was full of rare and unreleased songs as well as hits from bands on the label. The other gift was Dude Ranch by Blink-182, a one disc, fourteen-song release.
I chose first, and when I chose either his right or left hand, he revealed that I had chosen Dude Ranch, and that meant that I didn’t get five discs and 100 songs. Even though I got the obviously smaller gift of the two, I was happy with my pick. Over the years, Dude Ranch became a record that, no matter how my musical tastes changed over the years, I have always been able to go back to it.
When my first band played one of its first shows, I was fourteen. It at a friend’s birthday party in his garage. His parents had built him a skateboard ramp. We played while the skateboarders skated. We played mostly covers that day. One that we played was “Dammit,” off of Dude Ranch. The skateboarders wanted to hear that song over and over and over, as many times as we would play it. I don’t know how many times we did play it, but it was many more times that the one original song that we had at the time.
Everyone knows what happened with Blink-182 from there. They blew up. They released a bunch of records, blew up even more and then they broke up. Five years passed, and then this past February, I was watching the Grammy Awards on TV and Mark Hoppus, Tom DeLonge and Travis Barker appeared on stage together to present an award. They announced that Blink-182 was reforming. Barker said, “We used to play music together, and we decided we’re going to play music together again,” and then Hoppus added, “Blink-182 is back!”
Since then, I’ve been following Hoppus’ Twitter updates about new custom Jazz basses, dropping “M&M’s” and replacing it with “Josie,” and packing for tour. I’ve been listening to old records that I hadn’t listened to in a while and I also bought a ticket for the Chicago stop on their reunion tour. The show was this past weekend.
I’d never seen them before, but somehow I feel like I knew what to expect, probably thanks in part to their live record, The Mark, Tom and Travis Show and accounts of friends who had seen them multiple times long ago.
They played hit after hit, quickly, without much pause between songs and when there was a pause, it was filled with some of the foul mouthed stage banter that Blink-182 fans have come to expect and love. When it came to the songs, with the exception of Barker, who is an unbelievable drummer, the other two thirds of the group were kind of sloppy. The vocals were a little off, a lot of the time, the guitar playing was a little sloppy because of all of the jumping and running across the stage, but I really didn’t mind and neither did the other 29,999 people in attendance. It was more about nostalgia and a good time than it was about technical musicianship. That isn’t to say, though, that there was no great musicianship on display because when Barker’s drum riser elevated and started to spin while he drummed to a remix of Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Your Shoulders,” every one of those 30,000 jaws dropped at his awesome ability to kill on the drums.
At the end of the night, I was definitely glad that I’d gone. I felt good. I felt young again (I know that I am still young by many standards, but in this case, I mean that I felt like I was thirteen years old again). There were a bunch of people who, in the weeks leading up to the show, when I told I was going, asked questions like, “Why are you going to go see Blink-182?” Really, my answer, pertaining to Blink-182 and probably most other things in life, is that if you’re too old or too cool, then you’re probably too dumb.
Listen: Blink-182 - Dammit
The Best Break Up Song Ever Written.
In celebration of the third season of Mad Men starting up this coming Sunday, I was re-watching some old episodes. It was when I got the the season finale of the first season, “The Wheel,” that I realized that this is one of the best shows on television.
The episode ends with Don Draper sitting on the stairs in his empty house. He wife and kids are gone for the time being and my favorite break up song of all time begins to play. The song is Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” from his 1963 release, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan.
Ever since I first heard this song at some point when I was a kid, I planned on using it to break up with a girl. Maybe I would fill both sides of a tape with it, so whichever point the tape was at, when she put it in, she’d hear it. Or maybe I would play it while I was in a car with her. Or maybe I would just tell her to listen to it.
Well, I never did actually do it, and knock on wood, I won’t have to, but I’ve always thought about it and I wish I would have. It would be perfect. “But goodbye’s too good a word, gal / So I’ll just say fare thee well / I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind / You could have done better but I don’t mind / You just kinda wasted my precious time / But don’t think twice, it’s all right.”
Then comes Mad Men and I find out that I’m not the only one who loves this song as a break up song (Watch the show to see if it sticks). So, I don’t know if I’d be able to do it now that it’s been done, but I’m not mad about that. I’m actually glad. Chances are that I would have done it and it wouldn’t have been as epic. Maybe I’d give it to the girl and she’d throw the tape away without listening to it. Or she’d listen to it once and not really listen to the words. There are so many possibilities for messing it up. So, for that reason, I’m glad Mad Men got it first and that they did it right. While the camera backs off of Don and the music plays and the screen fades to black, it’s perfect and perfectly depressing.
Kind of Like Zombies.
The other day, in Charlotte, North Carolina, a friend and I were in a Jiffy Lube getting our oil changed. While we waited, we flipped through magazines. I had the latest issue of Men’s Journal in my hands, and I came across an article called “The Real Zombie Underworld: Voodoo, Sorcery and Lost Souls.” I was about to start reading it when we were notified that the oil change was complete. So, I tore out the pages, and stuck them into my pocket. I felt bad about it, but whatever, I really wanted to read about these real-life zombies in Haiti, if they actually existed.
Later that day, after I had driven a few hours, in Virginia, I had a chance to read the article, written by Mischa Berlinski. As we twisted around and up and down the tree covered Appalachian mountains, in the rain, I read about these zombies. Well, they aren’t really zombies, but they are close to it. Actually, in vague summary, people are poisoned with a mixture that comes from rare plants and fish and to a doctor, the poisoned person seems dead. There is a funeral, the body is buried. Later that day, the people who have poisoned them dig them up, bring them back to some altered state of consciousness and keep them as slaves for years and years.
In short, this whole thing blew my mind and even crazier yet, the example that Berlinski used was of a young woman who is currently still out there in a “zombie” state probably being held as a slave. Nuts. It’s a brilliantly told story of the current culture in rural Haiti, sorcery, perception and the power or lack of power of the government as pertaining to these issues.
The only problem: Men’s Journal doesn’t have the article on their website. In fact, I can’t find it anywhere on the Internet. Real smart move. So, for the mean time, if you find your self at a bookstore or a newsstand, check it out in the September 2009 issue of Men’s Journal. If they do wise up and put it on their site, I will link it thereafter. Or I can let you borrow my torn out, folded up copy. Just read it.
No, Thank You, Mary.
Mary-Louise Parker has written a “Thank You Note to Men” in this month’s issue of Esquire Magazine. Seriously, thank you, Mary, for making me feel, for a couple of minutes today, like I’m ultimately awesome, even though I’m, most likely, not. But, I do wear flannels a lot, I probably constantly look lost a good deal of most every day, I can make a good sandwich sometimes and I lose everything all of the time, so maybe.
The following was originally published in the August 2009 issue of Esquire Magazine.
A Thank-You Note to Men
By Mary-Louise Parker
To you, whom it may concern:
Manly creature, who smells good even when you don’t, you wake up too slowly, with fuzzy, vertical hair and a slightly lost look on your face as though you are seven or seventy-five; you can fix my front door, my sink, and open most jars; you, who lose a cuff link and have to settle for a safety pin, you have promised to slay unfortunate interlopers and dragons with your Phillips head or Montblanc; to you, because you will notice a woman with a healthy chunk of years or pounds on her and let out a wolf whistle under your breath and mean it; because you think either rug will be fine, really it will; you seem to walk down the street a little taller than me, a little more aware but with a purpose still; to you who codifies, conjugates, slams a puck, baits a hook, builds a decent cabinet or the perfect sandwich; you who gives a twenty to the kids selling Hershey’s bars and waits at baggage claim for three hours in your flannel shirt; you, sir, you take my order, my pulse, my bullshit; you who soaps me in the shower, soaks with me in the tub; to you, boy grown-up, the gentleman, soldier, professor, or caveman, the fancy man with initials on your towels and salt on your chocolates, to you and to that guy at the concession stand; thank you for the tour of the vineyard, the fire station, the sound booth, thank you for the kaleidoscope, the Horsehead Nebula, the painting, the truth; to you who carries me across the parking lot, up the stairs, to the ER, to roll-away or rice mat; to you who shows up every so often only to confuse and torment, and you who stays in orbit, always, to my left and steady, you stood up for me, I won’t forget that; to you, the one who can’t figure it out and never will, and you who lost the remote, the dog, or your way altogether; to you, wizard, you sang in my ear and brought me back from the dead, you tell me things, make me shiver; to the ones who destroyed me, even if for a minute, and to the ones who grew me, consumed me, gave me my heart back times ten; to most everything that deserves to call itself a man: How I do love thee, with your skill to light fires that keep me warm, light me up.
Welcome.
Thanks for taking the time to check this out. Hopefully the content here will be interesting or engaging or humorous or really anything more than nothing. Hopefully the content will be current, a result of hopefully frequent updates. Hopefully readers won’t become bored or angry. Hopefully you’ll come back and read again.
Thank you, again, for stopping by.
-Todd Miller