Why I Love Terry Davis

There are reasons why Terry Davis is the chair of my Thesis Committee. There are reasons why TD is one of the major players that will review my Comprehensive Exam, just over a week away. Please be as gracious as you've ever been, TD--especially since I should be studying for the exam, but instead I'm blogging in your honor. There's a reason I've taken more courses from TD than any other professor ever (In second place is RT for his knack for poetry and a means to better my knack to blur the lines between non-fiction and fiction).

Terry has taught me more than I could ever capture in a simple, single blog. But what he's taught me about writing is, in fact, pretty simple. That "what" took a couple years to fully materialize into words I can easily express in this space. These words finally materialized for me last weekend up in Grand Marais, a place the perfect distance away from the stressful things in life that tend to cloud the observation it takes to come to epiphanies.

I can distill the most beneficial lesson Terry ever taught me into specific words. I can do this, not-so-coincidentally because Terry taught me how. First of all, these words come from my next-oldest brother, Justin, with whom I have the worst relationship with compared to my other two brothers. I know Terry would love Justin for the same reasons I do, mostly because neither of my other brothers taught me the need to be tough more than Justin did. The other reason I love Justin, and for which Terry would love Justin too, is for the words that I'll link to Terry's most beneficial lesson.

One day, Justin and I were watching Married With Children. After a particularly Al Bundy moment, Justin looked at me and said, "Al tells it like it is."

Tell it like it is.

Justin taught me that about life. Terry taught me that about writing. In Screenwriting and Contemporary Prose, Terry has his students read McKee's Story. Early on, McKee writes about Aristotle; how it's the artist/poet/writer's job to hold a mirror up to nature. Terry's best message to anyone, especially young writers, is to 1) be a thoughtful human being, and 2) be observant.

A few months ago, the combination of a good Jake's Pizza friend, Handsome Rob, and Quentin Tarentino helped me set aside certain childish revoltances towards the Country and/or Western icon that is Johnny Cash. Notice that the current "description" of my blog is a twist on the third act climax of the lyrics of "A Boy Named Sue." Last weekend, up in Grand Marais, I had a lighting strike-like revelation while listening to "I Walk the Line." I was struck to the marrow marrow.

"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time. I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you're mine, I walk the line."

I think I shan't need to draw obvious connexions.

But mayhaps I do. When I theoretically think about it, writing is so simple. Its fundamentals certainly are. I tell my Comp students all the time: "Writing is easy. All you have to do is remember a million simple rules."

As Terry would say in any given class: take inventory of your emotions/reactions at all times. That means exactly what Cash says: Watch your heart. Keep your eyes open for ties that bind life together. Put your ego away and tell it like it is--walk the fucking line.

Of course, Cash was probably talking about shit that has little or no actual relevance to this subject--but who asked Cash? I'm the damn'd audience here. But so are these people, at Terry's reading this evening at The Filling Station:

There were more, but the pictures didn't quite turn out--my fault, which is just like life, I've observed. The reasons for my love for Terry are the same reasons why The Filling Station had never seen so many people pack its modest accommodations, and why so many people came to listen to their professor, with whom they have class twice weekly. The reason why is because they get his message, and because he's so able and willing to spread his message outside of the stuffy rooms of Armstrong Hall.

Not only is it spring semester for me, but it's my last spring semester. This would justify, I hope, this out-pouring of sap. Oh well. I don't care. For Terry Davis, I walk the line.

Mace...out

It's New Soap Day!!1

INT. Shower
Old Soap, this is New Soap.

TOM
Sup, Springs?

OLD IRISH
Oh. Ahh hey, Tom.

TOM
Lookin' a little... overworked.

OLD IRISH
Yeah, I guess I've been around a long
time.
(beat)
You ahh... You smell pretty good, Tom.
Is that...?

TOM
Sage and Lemongrass.

OLD IRISH
Yeah, that's what I thought. It's a nice
combo. Fresh.

TOM
Well I guess your shift's up, Springs.

OLD IRISH
Looks like it. If you need me, you know
to like take some hours off you hands,
I'll be in the wastebasket with the Q-tips
and pubes, and some Kleenex.

TOM
I think I'm good.

OLD IRISH
Ok. See ya, I guess.

TOM
Yah.

Mace...out

Fuck You, Raquetball...

...for what you did to my finger. Part of me fell off today during an inspired set of games--inspired, but futile on my part: Naughtilie whooped my ass. Whooped my ass good. I won one game, though... out of six. The good thing about winning only once is that I have exactly no illusions about my raquetball skillz. In fact, I have no skillz. My raquetball experience came down to a lot of flailing, floundering, and other fl- words, spiked with moments of brilliance.

What have I gained from raquetball: Bruis'd knees (I'll post pic of them should they color up nicely).

What have I lost from raquetball: A part of my finger. I could feel it start to blister as the games piled up. Then, the blister/callous plate slipped much like a volatile layer of the Earth's crust. It just kinda hung there, connected by a slight flap of skin/callous. That's when we stopped.

So fuck you, raquetball. I'll see you next week.

Oh, and yes I know my "bird" looks messed up. I've never been able to flip the bird without my damn'd pinky sticking out like that. It's even worse if I attempt the Molly Ringwold bird flipping from The Breakfast Club.

Mace...out

BZ's documentation of our Grand Marais trip is much better than mine could ever be. Even though I love my baby, BZ takes some mean ass pics on his camera. So, head over to his site for some real photography. But here are a few of my cell pics too:

Duluth!

Finally in Grand Marais, on the long driveway from the highway to the lakeside cabin. Evil Dead comes to mind, eh?


Frost on a cabin window

Grand Marais Marina

The beach in front of the cabin, looking north-by-northeast

The beach in front of the cabin, looking south-by-southwest



Frozen beach rocks

Looking down on Grand Marais from Pincushion Mountain

Looking over the other side of Pincushion

Bundled Sal while Snowshoeing

That poor, poor septic tank

The longer we stayed, the more brutal the waves got.

These weren't even the biggest waves.

Any Day...

...is a good day if I get to play a drumset. My boss, Jules, has kept me on a pretty tight djembé & conga only leash for the last couple years. I have gone through stretches of multiple months without playing on a drumset since then. It's been hell for my set playing, but heaven for my hand drumming.

The pictured set is aderivativee of the one I played for a couple years for the dancers. It's not the same because the need for a set today was short notice, so I didn't have all the same pieces. Normally, I would have had a tiny tom on a stand were the conga is. The tom is real small and not that great. The best thing about it is that it has two tones, one for the initial strike and another resolving tone a half step or so down.

Also, I would have a single cymbal stand with two splash cymbals (their bells facing each other for space), which would be between and behind the tom and hi-hats. Everything else is like it used to be. Yes, that bassdrum is actually a de-tuned floor tom. You can't read it well, but the text on the hi-hat reads "Sound Vader... Made in West Germany." That's how old they are.

Mace...out

Toilet: The Fixening

One of us was about to break--I could just feel it. Finally, after just over two months or so, Reed placed a work order to fix our runny runny runny toilet. It was a silent contest between us, who could last longer. It appears I have won. But winning implies I have lost: I am clearly lazier--I mean, more patient.

We only broke the toilet silence now and then when one of us would say, "God damn toilet." And the other would say, "Yahp. We should probably get that fixed soon, eh?" And then, "Yahp." Reed would then cook his seventh meal of the day--"supper" as as hobbits would say, which comes after "dinner"--and I'd keep watching hockey.

Today, Reed is the better man. He is the man. It's his birthday too. The King's to you. Happy Birthday, you Prince of Jiggling, you Savior of Toilet.

PS: Yes, that's my Nintendo DS on top of the toilet lid on top of the toilet bowl. The lid is my DS's home. The toilet is my DS throne. In Super Mario 64 DS, there are mini games. Luigi has a casino of sorts with card games. I play Luigi's card clearing game. Every time you successfully clear 80 adjacent or diagonal cards, you get 10 points and one star. Anytime you fail to do so, the number of cards you have left is subtracted from your score and one star is taken away. My score is 6,466 with 601 stars. What does that tell you? Yes: That's a lot of poop.

Mace...out

This is Not a V-Day Bashing Post

...but that doesn't mean my February is Fabruary. Here's one example that requires us to play a picture game. Guess what room is in this picture:

If you said, "The TA office, AH210" you are totally wrong. You fail. This is the TA office, AH210 at midnight. Notice through the door that the motion-sensitive hall lights are off. That means no one else is in the building but me and a janitor who swept by twice. We shared two awkward glances. It was apparent that I was infringing on his me time. I agreed with his scowl: I shouldn't have been there. But that's how I roll.

Yes, I made a little fort out of Comp books--big whoop, wanna fight about it?

That was Monday night. Tuesday was not Valentine's Day; it was Jeanentine's Day. To begin with, I was pumped for the workshop of Jean's non-fiction piece, mostly because it was about music. O', also because the piece is my heart and soul in her words. That too. So I was ready to testify from the mountains when I got an email from her that included a disclaimer that she's not stalking me or anything, but she thought I should see this pic:

She was right. Everyone in the world should see this pic. See that smile? That's the fourth time he's ever done that. Smiled, that is. That's his smile before he roundhouse kicks 70s blue birds at cameramen who capture his seldom smiles. His look off into the distance is gauging just how far the cameraman will fly.

Happy V-Day, Chuck.

So that was a nice surprise. To continue Jeanentine's Day, we had her workshop. I tried my hardest not to gush too much. I think I failed, but at least I convinced a few people that her piece was not good or great--it was... RT's favorite compliment is, "You got it right." That's what she did; she got young musicianship right. I better stop now before I gush more.

I get to celebrated a day-late V-Day date with ma babay tomorrow night. Then, it's off to cozy, rustic Grand Marais for us for a long weekend with our SLPeeps. I will have pics of pines and contemplative Superior when I get back. I will probably have frost bite too.

Mace...out

Successfuled; Satisfied; Rocked.

I'll do my best to describe exactly how successfully and satisfactorily Sire and I were rocked on Friday night. It'll be difficult, considering afterwards, we could barely describe the feeling in other words than, "What a concert," or, "S'a good night, Rüd."

Even after songs, our responses were limited to Ahnold-uttered "WHOA!" and "YES!" and "WOW!" I shall do my best to describe with articulation: Casanatra, at times, is like an evil 3-piece Allman Brothers. Nah, that's too out there. It would be best to start at the beginning.

I know what you might be thinking: What an odd way to start the night/post. It's actually perfect. This pic illustrates how many wonderful peeps actually made it out--in fact, there were even more before I took this picture. By this time, we'd lost Dr. Hoo and Brawnce, but their effort is appreciated. There's no way McGoff's could ignore just how many people showed interest in not only live music but good music, good music from outside of Kato, and Casanatra/Helmüt specifically. That's them off in the distance, like a murder of crows boding news of rock.

This is the band at level Helmüt. As they promised the rock-wary McGoff's management, they started of nice and calm. Look, Lance--yes, we're on a first-name basis--Lance is playing a bodhran. For those of you who see any drum and immediately say "bongo" for some God-awful-ignorant reason, a bodhran is a celtic frame drum. What bodhrans say to most people is, "O' sure'n there'll be no rockin' here, lad. We're here for folk and pints." So clever, Helmüt.

These two brave women never saw the rock comin'... Mostly because they had to leave before the storm. What's on Naughtilie's mind, I wonder. Perhaps, "Cocktail Bar."

Dennis' Gibson during the first intermission. This is the perfect distraction for easing more rock into the set: Dennis would return with the Gibson, but Fink would make a sly switcheroo, trading his acoustic in for his electric. Sire said Fink had been battling feedback troubles throughout the first set. I say they were battling their instincts to rock.

Lance's set: deep-sea blue, matte-finished shells as light as cold Harp. Through the first act, Lance played only djembé and bodhran. While they played I kept thinking, "They didn't bring that set to not rock on it. There will be rock. Oh yes, there will be rock."

At the end of the first set, Dennis announced they'll be taking a short break and would return to let Lance rip on the drums. The way he said it was 3 parts sarcasm to 2 parts for-serious-though.

Trading one acoustic for an electric and djembé and bodhran for the set, Helmüt gains Casamüt level and may now attack three times every two rounds.

Second set: Notice that Fink has made the switcheroo. Notice also Fink's stance. Yes, it's difficult to see, but the chair under him is pure formality. An eighth of a cheek is on the edge of that stool. Had someone kicked it from under him, he wouldn't fall. Know why? His rock keeps him afloat.

They kept the first few songs calm, letting the ears of the unaware get used to the sound of Casamüt-trademarked muffle distrotion. Bit by bit. Casamüt is partial to creepy jazz chords--some might say "dissonant," but anything is dissonant compared to the regurgitated powerchord progressions on the radio.

Casamüt tunes to the key of Q. Casamüt chords are a dark forest inside a metropolis: Fangorn in Mineapolis. These chords rang all night, but became grittier, more desperately autistic, as the night progressed and the distortion and volume dials were turned up.

Head-on Casamüt. Lance graduated from sassy brushes to wicker Hotrods to 7A sticks--I'm pretty sure they were 7A: thin enough to not overpower the room but, in the hands of a master, thick enough to rock anyone. I've always been a 7A player--Vic Firth if I had to namedrop. Lance and I are both fans of ghost-note triplets, and I've always found that 7As are prefect for tumbling E-ands.

Casamüt needn't face each other. They play as one. Eye-contact, hand signals--a Jedi craves not these things. Around this time, they played their cover of the Soundgarden tune, "Rusty Cage." Dennis throws a little Cornell into his voice to tie their version to Soundgarden's, but I don't think it was the point for them to recreate the tune as close to the orginial. They surely Casanatraphied the tune. They were asked to cover "Rusty Cage" for a Midwest compilation of bands covering Soundgarden classics. It comes out February 21st. The chaps have a sample of it to tease you.

Intermission Two: The Evolution into Greater Casanatra

I had noticed the massivity of Lance's hi-hats the second he set them up. I didn't get a chance to take a closer look 'til their second break. Before then, I had guessed and expressed to Sire that they must not be real hi-hats but two crash cymbals on a hi-hat stand. Upon closer inspection, I realized those'd be pretty big ol' crash cymbals, for me at least. There were no markings on the plates, only evidence of years of rock. I asked Lance about them later and he told me they were, in fact, two ride cymbals--22-inchers.

If the 22" detail means nothing to you, consult this picture for an example of a 26"-ish ride cymbal. Here's a point of reference: my hi-hats are 12" and my ride is 20". So not only would his hi-hats be big for my taste as a ride cymbal, they'd be fucking huge for hi-hats--and his 26" ride would be huge for my type of ride. What does all this illustrate to you, I hope? A devotion to heavy. Casanatra's guitars and drumheads are detuned for that extra heavy effect; everything about them is exaggerated to achieve heavy. Is that a segue? You're damn right.

Full-blown Casanatra. As audience members dropped like phat beats, the fellows were only warming up. At some point around this time, Sire and I watched a random dude walk up to the entrance, get two feet into the breezeway, hear what was going on, turn right around, and walk right back out. It was a beautiful moment. Casanatra seemed to enjoy that anectdote when we told them later. It's something to be proud of, I think, to be able to attract and turn away the curious all in one night.

Casanatra as viewed from the entrance of McGoff's. The rock, along the few Smithwick's, had begun to take an effect on the stability of my picture-taking. It's skakey mostly because I was excited that they started playing "Pity Party" which is the fourth sample.

There's a limit to how much some people can be rocked. What they do at that limit varies. What is unfortunate is when someone reaches their limit and what they do is law. The owner of McGoff's had been around and gone and back again all night. By 1:15, he'd had enough. He more or less asked the boys to play nice or call it a night. I guess he could have been more of a dick, but it turned out just fine. They finished up with a Fangorn-chord Casanatra Ballad and we got to hang out with them that much longer.

That was one of the nicest things about the night: hanging out after the show. Sire insists on buying merch of them every time he sees them, even though they haven't had a new release for almost a year. Before tonight, Sire had paid for at least four of their first album "Wood and Glass."

His purpose is to give the music to people who might be interested, an endeavor for which Casanatra was appreciative and gracious. Sire gave them a twenty-spot, worth probably four "Wood and Glass" albums. They gave him at least six of them plus a bunch of compilations featuring Casanatra tunes and other Midwest acts.

In turn, Lance took Sire's twenty bucks and bought a round of diamond cutters for everyone who'd lasted the whole night: the three band members, Sire, Corbet, and I. We talked music, music-schooling, Ahnold, Mike Tyson. Lance said the diamond cutter reminded him of the Robitussin he'd OD'd on when he was a year old. That explains his knack for complicated time signatures. And Sire was worried about even requesting a song. Pfft. These guys are real dudes.

It's tough to see, but that's a pick next to the Smithwick's. I found it on the floor under our table. It's possible that it's a Casanatra pick, but it's likely that it came from Open Mic Night on Thursday. Doesn't matter. I could say the pick means all sorts of loaded things, like reminding me how fun it was to gig, how excited I am to gig again some day, how much I hope we made it worth it for Casanatra to play in deserted Kato again. But that'd be cheesy. Mostly, I like the pick because it makes Sire jealous.

Any gigging band would rather have a packed room, but I think they appreciated what we were able to offer them. I told them why I love seeing them play in Kato. It's a completely selfish reason: Every time we've seen them, we were more or less the only ones in the audience. I told them, "It's like a headphones concert."

Be warned: new album out in May. I have grace copies of the old album if anyone is interested.

Mace...out

CASANATRA!!!1

*Please do not skim this post.*

WHO: Casanatra (as Helmut)
WHAT: Rock Show
WHEN: Friday, Feb. 10th, 8pm
WHERE: McGoff's Irish Pub
WHY: Because I love you.

This post is urgent and earnest--especially considering that the rock band in question could very well rock you into your urn. You know me: I'm careful with my music recommendations. I don't throw that sort of thing around like most people throw around balloids, The Family Guy quotes, and I Love Yous.

As your lawyer, I recommend that YOU ALL (read as: y'all) come to McGoff's this Friday night, February 10th.

Mentioning McGoff's is probably enough to rope most of you in, but Casanatra, a Minneapolis band, should be the clincher.

Casanatra is one of the most unique rock bands I've ever heard. They're technical in their musicianship, poetic, powahful, potent in manliness--and they'll be the first to admit it. Head yonder to check out their electric stuff.

This show, however, will be played acoustic under their acoustic name Helmut. I have a feeling I'm going to like them even more as an acoustic powertrio.

I think it will be more accessible to more people, and--should and when they choose to get heavy--acoustic heaviness is often more moving than electric heaviness. Just look at these magnificent fellows. How could you say no?

Here are those Ws again.

WHO: Casanatra (as Helmut)
WHAT: Rock Show
WHEN: Friday, Feb. 10th, 8pm
WHERE: McGoff's Irish Pub
WHY: Because I love you.

Happy Belated Picture Day!!1

These pics are from both Chinese New Year (read as: Excuse For Second Thanksgiving) and the Dutler's/Brue Blicks evenings. Now yall Sucka Emcees can stop buggin'. Props to Sal for the pics.

I got Michele to drink red wine for one night... one.

Sal and Dr. Hoo

Apples to Apples, Dust to Dust

Best pic of J2B2 ever. There, I said it.

Little Known Fact: Naughtilie drinks blood only on karaoke nights.

I'm Full of Hugs!

J2B2, Brawnce, Melian

Girls Hugging

I prefer to not comment on this picture. OK: We're all lucky it isn't a video... of Reed dancing.

I'm Full of Jealousy!

My Chin is Huge.

Glare Eye, Refuser of Serious Pictures

Reedo, Where the Chippies?!

I bet you're wondering where our invisible hands are. Whatever you're thinking, it's probably right.

Minnesota Girls Are 10,000 Times Cooler When They Touch Other Girls' Legs

No, MY Smile is Gummier!

I Can Reedo Books with A&Dubs

I'm Full of Tired!

My Anaconda Don't Want None Unless it's Got Tha--OK, I'm done with that.

Things to note in this pic: 1) Dubs' pitcher blocking out JW's wife; 2) I catch glare even from way back there; 3) Naughtilie's "Poise;" 4) Nostradamustache smiling and flashing shocker while standing directly behind Naughtilie; 5) 'Stache Guevera smiling and flashing shocker while standing directly behind Nostradamustache. Nostradamustache foresees Double Shocker.