Month: October 2003 (Page 2 of 2)

Beyond Bizarre

Utterly incredible. That’s the only way to sum up what happened at Wrigley Field in the eighth inning last night. If you missed it, the Cubs were up 3-0, five outs from their first World Series since 1945, and ace Mark Prior was destroying the Marlins. A pop-up down the left field line is grabbed by a Cubs fan just before Moises Alou could catch it, Alex Gonzalez commits his first error in months, and next thing you know, the Fish have scored eight runs in the inning. How very Cubs!

Given our proximity to Chi-town, there is an especially high number of Cubs bandwagoners here. So it’s even more satisfying to watch them flame out than normal. It’s hard for me to imagine the Cubs coming back from this tonight, but Kerry Wood is on the mound.

In the ALCS, to fit the plan, John Burkett will find a way to beat Andy Pettite this afternoon so that Pedro Martinez can blow game seven. It’s just the way the Red Sox operate.

Paid In Full

Didn’t I promise to do one of these each week? And now this is my first entry in a month. It’s not for a lack of effort, I promise. I’ve started probably ten of these in the last month. Apparently I’m starting the wrong ones, though, because I can’t seem to finish any. As I said back in the beginning, music often elicits very specific memories for me. Play a song; I lock into a distinct time and place. Spending time in the Bay Area a week ago brought back one of those memories

When I moved to California in late 1986, hip-hop was making its first tentative steps into the mainstream. RUN-DMC’s “Walk This Way” had been THE song of the previous summer. The Beastie Boys were everywhere. As I discovered when I started classes at San Leandro High School, there was a whole new world of music that hadn’t made it to the Midwest yet. Through home-made mix tapes and swap-meet bootlegs traded like members of a resistance movement, I learned about new groups such as LL Cool J, the LA Dream Team, and CIA, Ice Cube’s first group. I also discovered a program on the Stanford student station that played nothing but hip-hop each Sunday afternoon. Although I could barely receive it, I managed to tape each week’s show on my single-track tape recorder and listen to it over-and-over during the week. Through this show, I discovered the phenomenal Eric. B & Rakim.

Eric B & Rakim’s Paid in Full was the first album I had discovered on my own and bought without consulting anyone else. From the moment I bought the tape, I listened to it constantly. Rakim’s distinctive voice and style were intoxicating. Eric B. was a master of the scratch and full of obscure beats. For a format that was in its most basic form, this was revolutionary stuff. The title track is one of the true masterpieces of the early days of hip-hop, and one of the few songs of which I’ll probably never forget all the lyrics.

Paid in Full also made me famous, well semi-famous. When someone bought a tape that was supposed to be good, word got out. You became the source for other people to discover new music. People would ask for a copy, or to borrow yours overnight so they could dub their own. Guys I barely knew would call across the hall to me between classes, “Hey, I hear you got the Eric B. and Rakim tape?!” Suddenly, I was becoming moderately popular, and all because of my addiction to a college radio station. Ironically, this new notoriety came as we were preparing to move back to Kansas City, so it was bittersweet (In other words, we left before I could parlay this musical knowledge into any dates).

Three weeks before I moved, I let my friend Charlie Terrell borrow the tape. Charlie lived in Oakland. Straight out of a bad sitcom, the poor black kid from the projects and the middle class white kid from Kansas became friends. We had two classes together, including science, where we would generally go to the back of the lab and talk about music or sports, then use Charlie’s charisma to get the results for the experiments we didn’t do from girls in the class. Charlie promised he would dub my tape quickly, and get it back to me. Two days went by, no tape. Four days. Seven days. “I’ll get it to you, man, don’t worry,” he would assure me. Finally, the Monday before I was to leave SLHS, when I asked, he said, “Man, I don’t know if I can get it back to you. My cousin took it and I don’t know what he did with it.”

On my last day of school at SLHS, we had a substitute teacher in science class. Charlie walked up to the sub, who was a rather small man, and said, “It’s D’s last day here, so were just going to go in the back of the lab and talk.” And back we went. Midway through class, when the teaching assistant came around to collect the attendance slips, our TA (who being short and dark had always attracted my attention, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her, no matter how much Mr. Smooth Terrell badgered me about it) gave a small envelope to the substitute.
“Um, is there a Charles Terrell?” the sub asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Here, this is for you.”
Charlie walked up and grabbed the envelope. He ripped it open, and pulled out a note. Then he handed the envelope to me. I looked inside and there was my Paid in Full tape. “I called my mom this morning and she brought it down. I couldn’t let you move back to Kansas without taking your tape with you.” We slapped hands and gave each other what was probably my first bro hug.

For both sentimental reasons and the fact it’s a phenomenal album, I still have that tape. I bought the 10th anniversary, remastered CD three years ago, but couldn’t bring myself to throw the tape out. It was a reminder of my exploration to discover new music, my efforts to meet people in a strange environment, and of a friend I lost touch with when I moved away.

Post KC Trip

Finally back home for a stretch, sitting in front of the TV preparing for my firs extensive use of picture-in-picture this year (Red Sox-Yankees in the main frame, Monday Night Football in the PIP frame).

I didn’t do my Purdue friends justice with a full accounting of my trip to West Lafayette two weeks ago as I had done for my trip to South Bend. It was a beautiful day, the Boilermakers pounded Illinois, we spent the entire second half in the parking lot tailgating, and I ended the evening puking on the side of I-65 on the way back to Indy. That’s a solid day right there. For the crowd who knew me in my lightweight days, when each weekend seemed to bring a new vomiting experience, this was my first alcohol induced purge since the first Sinatra Party in December 1998.

Being back in Kansas City for a week was great, confusing, happy, sad, frustrating, and fulfilling all at the same time. It had been almost four months since I had spent any real time there. Arriving last Monday was kind of like coming out of a coma; things had changed a little, but not in real significant ways. The grass and trees weren’t as green as they were in June, the billboards had changed, people were fired up about the Chiefs instead of the Royals, and not surprisingly I heard most of the same songs on the radio. It was like stepping out of a room for awhile, and when you come back, all the furniture has been moved just a little; enough that you notice, but not enough that the basic set-up of the room has changed. It was great seeing everyone, not to mention my epic tour of KC eateries. I managed to squeeze in Jack’s Stack, California Taqueria, Manny’s, Oklahoma Joe’s, Jim G’s in Raytown, Bryant’s, and the Falloon. Not bad work, although my waistline and cholesterol count aren’t all that appreciative.

Game three of the ALCS was one of those epic events that I’ll never forget. Pedro Martinez – Roger Clemons at Fenway. You knew something big was going to happen, and given each pitcher’s mental make-up, there would probably be some kind of ruckus. I can’t say I expected events to reach the point where Don Zimmer charged Pedro and Jeff Nelson and Karim Garcia are beating down a Boston groundskeeper. In retrospect, though, that’s the only way things could happen. Sox fans had to arrive with their hopes high, only to have them crushed. That’s the way of the Red Sox.

Is there anything better than playoff baseball in Fenway Park? Yankees fans are exuberant, but expect to win. Cubs fans are just happy to be there. Red Sox fans, on the other hand, live and die with every pitch. They know their history, so each high point could be the moment that changes everything while every low point is another sign of the inevitability of their cause. Despite being the smallest park in the majors, Fenway has a roar unlike any other park. However, it also has an eerie silence you hear nowhere else. It’s as if Red Sox fans have been punched in the stomach so often that they can’t bring themselves to make noise when things go bad. (Derek Jeter hits a ball down the line that hits third base and flies into short left field, scoring a run. That’s Red Sox baseball, right there.)

I’ve seen one movie in the past five months, and that was Old School on DVD, rather than in the theater. My expectation is to see Kill Bill one night this week when S. is working, then hope to get her out to School of Rock and Mystic River after she completes boards next week. What’s this mean, for you, the loyal reader? Well, some movie reviews perhaps. I must admit, I’m horrible at remembering things from a movie the first time I see it, and I don’t know if I’m ready to splurge on a pen with a light on it just for you jokers. But I’ll see what I can do.

Now, back to the posting. I’ll not keep you wanting this week. A brand new Listening Post will be published this afternoon…

More Notes From The Bay

A few more notes to wrap up my Bay Area trip.

I want to go on record as being extremely thankful the good folks at the Starbucks at DFW gave me a fully leaded coffee last night, rather than the decaf I asked for. Thanks to them, I was still awake at 3:00 this morning. That’s the way you want to end a trip in which you’ve been sleep deprived to begin with. So I’ve been a little slow today, and unable to get much work done, or wrap up the pieces I started on the plane and hoped to publish today.

39 degrees when I pulled into the garage last night.

Does anyone age better than an attractive Asian woman?

I visited a client that’s right in the middle of Chinatown Wednesday. I’ve been to Chinatown several times, but it’s been around ten years since my last visit. Forget the regular culture shock going from a city the size of Kansas City or Indianapolis to San Francisco. Chinatown can completely throw the unassuming Midwesterner off his bearings. The air is thick with the smells of open-air markets and open windowed restaurants. The sidewalks are crammed with people, almost all Asian, who live, shop, and work in the same area, walking as suburbanites drive to the places they visit on a daily basis. There are special traffic signals that basically declare a pedestrian free-for-all for 30 seconds. All traffic stops and people flood every from every direction, clogging the intersection with foot traffic. For that half-minute, you feel like you’re in Hong Kong or Shanghai, not the US.

Streetlight banners seen in Berkeley: Protest Speeding: Drive 25. Talk about tailoring a public service announcement to your community!

On a sunny day, there’s no more beautiful city than San Francisco. I took a long drive Tuesday evening that was classic Bay Area. I left my hotel, where it was sunny and 70 and drove west, into the hills on the Peninsula. I climbed, the terrain changing from brown tidal lands to green, mountainous forest. The fog peeked ominously from the top of the hills. By the time I descended into Half Moon Bay, the sun was completely obscured, and the temperature had fallen into the 50s. I had gone from a metropolitan area of seven million to a rural area where pumpkin farms and signs for homegrown vegetables dominated the landscape. All in less than 30 minutes. Forget the ethnic and cultural diversity in the area; there may be no big city in this country where you can jump from urban to rural as quickly as in San Francisco-San Jose.
I drove to the ocean and braved the winds to walk out to the shore. I looked north, towards the city, and while I wouldn’t have seen anything on a clear day, I saw nothing but dark drapes of fog. Here I was, on the edge of one of the biggest metropolitan areas of the country, and I felt like the closest person was on the other side of the Pacific in Japan or Eastern Russia. 45 minutes later, I was back in the sun and urban traffic. It was eerie and amazing at the same time.

Total round-trip mileage to eat In ‘n Out Burger for lunch Tuesday: 41 miles.

Forget Iraq, the economy, and his administration possibly sharing highly confidential information with the press. The fact the Chicago Cubs are a in the playoffs and playing well is as sure a sign as any that America is headed down the wrong path with George W. Bush in the White House. Consider this: the last time the Cubs were in the playoffs, in 1998, President Clinton was impeached a year later. If I was George, I would do everything in my power to “remove” the Cubs from the playoffs, lest he be punished at the polls next year. Sammy Sosa might want to keep his bats under lock-and-key for a few days.

Am I surprised Rush Limbaugh got himself into hot water on ESPN? No. Am I surprised he’s blaming the rest of the media for blowing things out of proportion? Not at all. We all knew something like this would happen. I honestly thought it would come when Michael Irvin said something crazy and Rush couldn’t help but respond in his typical sanctimonious tone. Jim Rome summed it up well: Rush may not be a racist, and that may not have been his intention, but when you phrase something the way he did, you can’t help but think, “What else does he think/have to say?” To me the real point is he had a ridiculous argument to begin with. Donovan McNabb has been in three pro bowls, and finished second in the MVP balloting once. He may have been having a crappy season, but to say he’s an overrated player who’s never performed shows that Rush either had an agenda he’s been waiting to air (Shocking! I thought it was only liberals in the media who had agendas!) or he clearly doesn’t know much about football. Rush’s resignation has allowed him to retreat to his radio show, where he can continue to blame others without opposition and more importantly, avoid further tarnishing his image by spending more Sundays proving he knows little about the game.

 

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