8 years in blur

An eight-year time-lapse photo project from Detroit artist Jonathan Keller as he goes from his 20s to his 30s. As The New York Times writes, he plans to continue the project until the day he dies.


Living My Life Faster - 8 years of JK's Daily Photo Project from c71123 on Vimeo.

Year-ender benders: 10 4 07

First, a disclaimer: These year-end music lists are wildly overdone. That very fact is what's kept me from ever doing one of these before, and what might keep me from ever doing one again. That said, it's been a very good music year for me, all around. I've seen more shows and been introduced to more new music than ever before and I've even played a little music myself - poorly but happily - on several occasions.

Basically, if you know me, you know I'm a big music fan. I'm not a music snob; not that there's anything wrong with those folks - some of them are my very good friends, and they're among the people who've introduced me to some of the best music I've come across. (Thanks, Quentin.)

So, with that said, here's my top 10 songs of 2007. I'm posting them now because I'm on vacation this week and I fully expect December to be chaotic. My twist on the traditional list: The first five are from bands I was lucky enough to see in person this year. The second five are ones I discovered, rediscovered or was introduced to otherwise this year. Clearly, they weren't all released in 2007. And they're listed in no particular order.

Whether you're a music snob, fan or novice, I hope you find something here to enjoy. It's been fun listening to all of it this year.

1. "West"
Lucinda Williams, West
June 10, Crystal Ballroom

We went to see her on the night of my 30th birthday. I don't think she played this one, but it's one of my bittersweet favorites from her latest release nonetheless. It includes these two verses, which are a fitting description of one of the driving forces - to me, at least - behind our migration here almost a decade ago now:

Come out west and see
The best that it could be
I know you won’t stay permanently
But come out west and see

Who knows what the future holds
Or where the cards may fall
But if you don’t come out west and see
You’ll never know at all

I think often of the sentiment behind those lines. In particular, it hits me each time we drive as far west as these roads go - which we don't do nearly often enough - and watch the sun sink into the Pacific.


2. "Impossible Germany"
Wilco, Sky Blue Sky
Aug. 22, Edgefield
Previous post

This was one of the songs I most wanted to hear at what was my most anticipated concert of the year. And about an hour or so into the set - in a night full of great songs - the band delivered just as I'd hoped. My favorite lines remind me of our adventure out here, alone together, each rounding out the other:

This is what love is for
To be out of place
Gorgeous and alone
Face to face

With no larger problems
That need to be erased
Nothing more important than to know
Someone's listening
Now I know, you'll be listening

Great lyrics and my all-time favorite guitar duet, between Jeff Tweedy and Nels Cline. Or as Paste Magazine put it: "(T)he two-and-a-half minutes of vocals are merely the set-up for the three-and-a-half-minute instrumental coda that delivers the emotional impact at which Tweedy’s words have already hinted. ... Their twin melodic lines diverge and converge again and again like lovers seeking both individuality and intimacy, a combination as elusive as 'an impossible Germany, an unlikely Japan.' "

Sappy? Yeah, but it's my list. Don't like it? Make your own.


3. "Your Ex-Lover is Dead"
Stars, Set Yourself on Fire
Nov. 15, Crystal Ballroom

Clearly, sappiness is out the window here - as is any illusion I'm too terribly plugged into the music scene. Although it was released more than three years ago, I hadn't heard the song until this year, and I hadn't seen this band from Montreal until this November. (Can't find an image of the concert poster from that night, so the cover of that particular album appears instead.)

Bottom line, though, is this is a great song for those odd - and here, thankfully, impossible - occasions of running into an ex:

God, that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said, "Yes, I think we've met before"
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across Pont Champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...

Really, for much of the show, the band was too precious for my liking - with an almost "Breakfast Club"-like vibe full of '80s earnestness, complete with the members hurling flowers into the crowd. So that's what made it all the more delicious when the band delivers such jaded lyrics amid such sweeping, elegant, layered and almost orchestral music. And it was all topped off by what my friend Jann calls the "live-music experience moment" when Torquil Campbell and Amy Millan turned their mics to the crowd at the song's peak and hundreds of us all chanted along, joyfully:

Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...

For those of us lucky enough to have lived through those bad ex's and moved on to domestic bliss, those lines are all the sweeter.


4. "Road to Joy"
Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake It's Morning
May 2, Crystal Ballroom

I was tempted to pick "Cleanse Song" from this year's "Cassadaga," which I like very much, and which was all the trippier amid the all-white stage setup/band attire and psychedelic-like video backdrop that was running nonstop at this show.

But as I thought back through the shows I saw this year, the version of "Road to Joy" (2005) that Conor Oberst and his crew closed the May 2 show at the Crystal with was the single-best show-stopper I experienced. (Wilco's "Via Chicago" was my favorite live song of the year, but it was the second to last song they played that night.)

"Road" kicks off fast and only gets better, with Oberst coming ever-closer to losing it as he runs through versus like these:

So I'm drinkin', breathin', writin', singin'
Every day I'm on the clock
My mind races with all my longings
But can't keep up with what I got

And so I hope I don't sound too ungrateful
What history gave modern man
A telephone to talk to strangers
Machine guns and a camera lens

So when you're asked to fight a war that's over nothing
It's best to join the side thats gonna win
No one's sure how all of this got started
But we're gonna make 'em goddamn certain how it's gonna end
Oh yeah we will, oh yeah we will!

Then everyone pauses to catch their breath, some militant-like drums come in and then it leads to this:

Well I could have been a famous singer
If I had some one else's voice
But failures always sounded better
Let's fuck it up, boys; make some noise!

Then they did just that, all hell broke loose and the Crystal's floating floor was bouncing like I'd never felt it before as they ran through the song's final verse. My friend Quentin said as we were walking out that he was initially surprised to hear "Road" as a closing song, but I came away thinking it was just about the perfect rock 'n' roll finisher.


5. "Spitting Venom"
Modest Mouse, We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
March 15, Crystal Ballroom

Image from stop.down @ Flickr

Another great show-stopper, but this time it's from a show I - like many others - remember entirely too little of, unfortunately. Opens with these great lines:

We were spitting venom at most everyone we know
If the damned gave us a road map then we'd know just were to go

From that oh-so-happy opening, the song builds to a near frenzy before coming to an almost complete stop about halfway through. Then the band introduces some horns, then drums, then some Johnny Marr guitar, then Isaac Brock comes back in with these decidedly more optimistic vocals:

Cheer up, baby
It always wasn't quite so bad
For every venom then that came out
The antidote was had

And then - on that night - they pushed everyone the rest of the way into that full-on frenzy before walking off the stage and leaving us all to somehow make our ways home.


6. "Just Like a Woman"
Jeff Buckley, Live at Sin-é (Legacy Edition)
Previous post

My favorite musician covers Bob Dylan. I bought this late on a Friday night in January as my qualms about the impending arrival about 30 began to set in. Was up reading about Buckley and his short 30-year life. Now, here in December, I see it has been covered by Charlotte Gainsbourg and Calexico in "I'm Not There," the new Dylan bio-pic. Out of all the versions - from the original on down - I've since heard, this is far and away my favorite.


7. "Crayon"
Caribou, Up in Flames

Sugary-sweet electronica by mathematician-turned-musician Dan Snaith of Ontario. His group has a new one out this year - "Andorra" - but this 2006 song was my introduction do the band, and it still makes me smile whenever I hear it.




8. "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi"
Radiohead, In Rainbows

My favorite band from college returns with its groundbreaking, screw-The-Man, pay-what-you-want epic album that's sure to be on many best-of lists for the ballsiness of that move alone. I loved "OK Computer" back in the late '90s, and while that one is unsurpassed in overall concept, I have to say I've been wearing this one out from Day One. Especially this track, and the one after it, "All I Need." The layers of sound, led by wave after wave after wave of guitar are almost enough to put you in a trance.




9. "Heretics"
Andrew Bird, Armchair Apocrypha

This one's been stuck in my head since the day I got it as a free download for buying tickets to a now-canceled Decemberists concert. Maybe it's just me, but does anyone else hear a little Lou Reed in Mr. Bird's voice?



And this from a guy who was once associated with the Squirrel Nut Zippers, those swing-dancing, jazz hipsters of the late '90s fame.

10. "We Winter Wrens"
Dolorean, You Can't Win

This little Portland band - recommended by my friend Quentin a few months back - is my favorite find of the year. Their music is, as I wrote a recently, something I can listen to for hours. I'm no man of great faith in any traditional sense, and while their music is full of religious overtones it's still enthralling stuff, to me, at least. Classic lo-fi alt-country. The occasional Wilco-esque sounds don't hurt, of course.

I've been listening to song after song of theirs as I've put this listing together and their selection has been the toughest choice, hands down. They're just all good for the listening. It's a album to put on, hit play and walk away. If I had to pick favorites, I'd go with "We Winter Wrens," "Beachcomber Blues," "33-53.9°N / 118-38.8°W" and the title track - the only and prettiest song I know of to have simply one line and repeat it over and over. In doing so, though, it somehow shifts from a resigned acknowledgment of defeat to a beautiful acceptance of life's unending challenges. (Again, sappy. But it's my list.) All three of their albums, though, are well worthwhile and all too overlooked.

So, for good or bad, that's my list. All of these are available from your favored sources online. Check them out. And let me know what you liked this year.

Can my vacation have a mascot?

I'm on vacation this week, doing some house projects, hitting the gym (I've done almost 50 miles on the bike at midweek - that's good, for me, at least!) and spending what I'm sure Amy would say is entirely too much time online. But in some of that surfing, I learned that this morning the Vancouver 2010 folks unveiled a series of mascots for the Winter Games.

Now, I've thought a lot - too much, some folks might argue (and this post probably confirms) - about sports mascots in the States, in particular about how the controversial images of Washington's NFL team, Cleveland's Major League Baseball team and other such instances are handled. In each of those examples, the imagery focuses on Native American people and associates stereotypical imagery - whether you think they're respectful or not - to them. And my question, always, is why should one group of people be reduced to a stereotype?

Somehow, we don't have any teams named after African Americans, Latinos, Asians or gays. But we have a lot named after Indians and some folks are adamant that those depictions not be changed for a variety of reasons. A few years ago in a great ironic twist, an intramural basketball team at the University of Northern Colorado named itself the "Fighting Whites." (Get your shirts here. Sorry, they don't appear to be available in wife-beaters. That'd be just too much, I suppose.)
All that's a long way of saying I find the imagery on tap for the 2010 Games a refreshing change of pace. Yet again, those Canaduns - as our friend Mike would say - seem to do things right. The main trio along with the official logo all reflect indigenous imagery. Nice to see a little diversity in what will bring unprecedented attention to one of our favorite cities - or favourite, as they'd write - in a few years. And nicer still to see that diversity reflected in a respectful manner, focusing on traditions and cultural stories rather than outdated stereotypes.

Funny thing, though, about the mascots. Lots of folks commenting on the main CBC story this morning and on other Canadian blogs are seriously bent out of shape over these things. For example, one person wrote in to say, "If the kids enjoy them I guess they're all right. But … nobody will know what they are unless it is explained to them."

That's right, wouldn't want to use the international spotlight to in part educate and start conversations about different cultures at an athletic event famous for uniting countries from around the world. No, that'd be bad.

C'mon. My people are from the South in many ways, and I still don't have a clue what the '96 Atlanta mascot, Izzy, was, much less what it meant - though I have seen very similar costumes at gay-pride parades. Yet, somehow those Games went on.

I suppose we should just be thankful the Games aren't in Anchorage or Juneau. If they were, somehow the U.S. organizers might have come up with a logo of a club-wielding Eskimo standing over a dead baby seal and considered themselves culturally enlightened.

Anyhow, like 'em or not, here are the images you'll see a lot of come 2010 and what they mean:

This is the Games' official logo, an inukshuk, a traditional stone sculpture used by Canada's Inuit people. They're calling it Ilanaaq (el la nawk).

These are the Games' official mascots. You know they're going to sell millions of those things between now and the closing ceremonies. As the site says, they are as follows...

Sumi: An animal spirit who lives in the mountains of British Columbia. Like many Canadians, Sumi's background is drawn from many places. He wears the hat of the orca whale, flies with the wings of the mighty thunderbird and runs on the strong furry legs of the black bear. Sumi’s name comes from the Salish word “Sumesh” which means “guardian spirit.” ... Transformation is a common theme in the art and legend of West Coast First Nations. Transformation represents the connection and kinship between the human, animal and spirit world. Revered animals, such as the orca whale, the bear and the thunderbird, are depicted in transformation through masks, totems and other forms of art. The orca is the traveler and guardian of the sea. The bear often represents strength and friendship. And the thunderbird — which creates thunder by flapping its wings — is one of the most powerful of the supernatural creatures.

Quatchi: A young sasquatch who comes from the mysterious forests of Canada. ... The sasquatch is a popular figure in local native legends of the Pacific West Coast. There is both a legendary ‘woman-of-the-woods’ (a slightly fearsome figure whose stories are told to discipline young children) and a ‘man-of-the-woods’ (a shy giant who lurks in the forests). The sasquatch reminds us of the mystery and wonder that exist in the natural world, igniting our imagination about the possibility of fantastical creatures in the great Canadian wilderness.

Miga: A young sea bear who lives in the ocean with her family pod, out past Vancouver Island near Tofino, British Columbia. Sea bears are part killer whale and part bear. Miga is part Kermode bear, a rare white bear that only lives in British Columbia. ... The sea bear is inspired by the legends of the Pacific Northwest First Nations, tales of orca whales that transform into bears when they arrive on land. The Kermode bear is a rare white or cream-coloured sub-species of the black bear that is unique to the central West Coast of British Columbia. According to First Nations’ legend, Kermode bears — also known as Spirit Bears — were turned white by Raven to remind people of the Ice Age. Orcas are also honoured in the art and stories of West Coast First Nations, as travelers and guardians of the sea.

Part 2 of the Alexie video posted earlier

Go Indians (finally, for once, it's appropriate)

Last week one of my favorite authors, Sherman Alexie, won the National Book Award for young people's literature for his most recent effort, "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian." If you haven't read it, check it out. Regardless of age or race, there's something universal to his autobiographical story that's both powerful and beautiful.

I had the chance to attend one of his readings a few months back when he came through the Portland area and spoke a few miles from my office. Funny guy, in print. Funnier guy, in person (see video below). He's kind of the new Kurt Vonnegut for me - someone who addresses life's tragedies head on, often with a healthy dose of humor, which is often the only way to survive, as Kurt wrote. But more valuable than that in my eyes, with this book he seems to have fully stepped into an exciting and important role that's been foisted upon him - like it or not - for some time now: Indian role model.

Alexie is Spokane/Coeur d'Alene. He grew up not too many hours from where we live now. I used to work with a Yakama woman who knew him back before he became, oh, just one of the best writers and most famous Indians alive today. He's pretty much the closest thing there is to an Indian rock star, as evidenced by the number of us who turned out that night in Beaverton to see him speak. I'd never seen so many rez plates and Leonard Peltier bumper stickers in seven-plus years in lily-white Oregon as I did that night. And that was before I walked in and saw a crowd full of proud Indian folks. It was like going home, in a way.

So there I sat, in the back row, listening to his reading and the Q&A that followed in which he talked about the "irony of indigenous immigration" one minute and how "even the evergreens are paler in Oregon" the next, just smiling and feeling like it was, somehow, an important moment. I realized as he spoke that I was watching something I never would've seen as a kid. The only real Indian role models I knew of - beyond immediate family - were the dead ones in history books, and those all have a certain, um, bent to them.

Part of me wanted to tell him about that afterward, although it would have only completed the the fanboy-meets-rockstar-and-geeks-out moment.

In the end, my friend Casey and I did get to talk with him afterward - after she totally caught him off guard by complimenting him on his sportscoat, which he swore to us came from T.J. Maxx, which got us all to talking about places to score cheap clothes (how Indian is that?) - and he told us a funny story. Turns out about the time he met his future wife, he was trying to ask out my former colleague. Or something like that. I don't remember all the details. Like I said, I was a little star-struck.

I mean, this guy is a famous Indian role model. And he's actually alive. And there I was shaking his hand and carrying on a conversation thinking, "He's only 11 years older than I am (what am I doing with my life?!) ... I know someone who knows him ... This guy was on national television last night, albeit on 'The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.' (Wait, why aren't Letterman or Leno or Charlie Rose inviting the Indian guy on? Oh, yeah. He's done at least some of their shows before, too.")

So with all that going through my head, no, I didn't go all fanboy. I did get his autograph, though, and as I walked away I said a big, open-ended "Thank you." It was for the moment, for the memory and for the book I'm someday going to make sure our kids treasure for not only what it says but what it means. And if I'm lucky, when that day comes, they'll roll their eyes at me because living Indian role models - much less meeting them - won't be any big deal at all. Not anymore.

Good reads

More from the NYT on two things that are big in Portland, bicyclists and foodies: "In Portland, Cultivating a Culture of Two Wheels" and "Outrageous? He's Heard That Before."

And one of my favorite writers re-emerges to write about what he's been doing since leaving the aforementioned publication: "Charlie LeDuff on life as a stay-at-home dad."

Life, lately

From last weekend's annual McPrince carving party

My friend Quentin recently tipped me off to a good, little-known Portland band called Dolorean that I've been listening to a lot lately. Good stuff for this time in life, at this time of year, as the last of the leaves pile up and the mornings turn from crisp to see-your-breath cold. Just this week I started having to scrape my windshield in the mornings before leaving the house.

For tonight, though, forget the chill. Amy's upstairs in bed and here I sit, curled up with Wiley, sipping a stout called "Old Viscosity," listening to what one reviewer calls the "ambient folk-rock" sound of Dolorean's three albums - "Not Exotic," "Violence in the Snowy Fields" and "You Can't Win." It has me thinking about something Q sent me in an e-mail about the next album the band's lead singer will be working on. The note, taken from their site, reads as follows: " 'The Unfazed' will be an austere affair focusing on turning 30 years old, growing up, giving up, finding unbelievable happiness in being honest with the people around you and living very simply.' "

Amen, brother.

Last weekend we had, as pictured above, the annual McPrince Halloween carving party. It was a reminder in the inevitability of growing up. It was fairly austere, too - Amy limited her cooking to chili and a tasty bread pudding. Amy and I dressed up as the ghosts of this 100-year-old house's past, playing off the way-too-new slab of concrete oddly placed in our 1907 garage. (She was the dead wife; I, the shovel-wielding dirtbag husband. Maybe Susan can shoot us a copy of the "American Gothic"-esque picture she snapped, or maybe we'll get another shot tomorrow night if we re-create the spectacle for Hugo's legendary neighborhood party.) When we started our little party three or so years ago, it was all big people. Now, I swear, the little ones are soon to outnumber us. Wiley was surrounded and overwhelmed. And, I think, quite happily exhausted by the end of the night.

Back to that quote, though. I'm not one for giving up; Amy would be the first to vouch for how that stubborn-as-a-mule Prince streak will likely preclude that from ever happening, in damn near any capacity. But I am, in a sense, finding ever more enjoyment in living more simply and directly. Being healthier, more balanced, settling down to a greater extent. As my friend Casey noted yesterday, domesticated life ain't half bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good.

Along those lines, we hit a barn dance on Sauvie Island last weekend with fellow Vancooters the Robinwoods and honorary ex-pats the Nieloways. Their wee Anna was a delight all the while, whether the gang was gathered around a big bonfire or two-stepping to the always-entertaining tunes of Lisa and Her Kin.

But enough about the week past. The one to come has potential to bring big - exciting and crazy - change, too.

Or, to again quote the boys from Dolorean: "They all told me at different times to go ahead and go all the way into that feeling and try to come out on the other side. As the project wore on I eventually did, and the sentiment of "You Can't Win" changed drastically. Instead of the frustration that I was feeling early on there was a renewed appreciation of hard work, a belief in the complexity of love, and a newfound joy in creating..."

Greetings from sticky St. Pete

I'm in Florida, land of humidity, for a week of edumicatin'. On my walk back to the hotel this evening I passed this sign. Note the bottom line.


Think they ever get a call from a guy who says, "Yeah, I need a root canal and I'm the biggest weenie you can imagine..."?

All the news that's fit to dish

The NYT's fallen, and fallen hard, for Portland, aka foodie heaven. Go figure.

This is a golden age of dining and drinking in a city that 15 years ago was about as cutting edge as a tomato in January. Every little neighborhood in this city of funky neighborhoods now seems to be exploding with restaurants, food shops and markets, all benefiting from a critical mass of passion, skill and experience, and all constructed according to the gospel of locally grown ingredients.

And later...

“This is one of the very few places on the West Coast that has been an affordable place to live,” said Andy Ricker, who in 2005 opened Pok Pok, which started under his obsessive eye as a ramshackle Thai takeout shack and now has a hip little dining room as well. “There are a ton of people here who are going at it in sort of an indie rock way, mostly because they can.”

Ah, the indie rock thing in Portland. We're ground zero for that, too, apparently, but that's a whole different story. But both the food and the music scenes (and many other things shaking out in this city) today are clearly being driven by the much hyped "young creative class," which has been flocking here for years, as it starts to influence in very tangible ways what traditionally has seemed to be a very old-guard city.

It's all part of why we love it so much here. But at the same time, you have to wonder what unintended consequences this kind of swooning coverage will end up having on our adopted town.

Down, set, crazy

Like I've always said, I don't think anyone takes their football as seriously as Oklahomans. And this guy's not even the coach of the good school back home.

Mo, Mo, Morocco

It was a year ago this evening that I sat atop a sand dune in the Sahara and watched the sunset, as shown in the photograph at the top of this blog and below in a painting by our friend Jim Torson.

To commemorate the anniversary of the trip, Amy made us a great dinner using spices we picked up in Chefchaouen.

Then we watched Hitchcock's "The Man Who Knew Too Much," which was filmed in Morocco, and includes the original version of the famous song "Que Sera, Sera."

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Words to live by, no?

Closing out summer

The leaves are starting to turn, the morning air is crisp and we've been on vacation only once this year. With that in mind, we took some much-needed time and carved out a long weekend in the other Vancouver with friends the Slighterallis.

I'll leave the foodie discussions to Amy over at the Dinner Hour. But suffice it to say that Dan and I think Juliana and Amy could talk about food 24/7 if given the chance. So it was only fitting we took our foodies to Granville Island, where they met a couple of hunky guys over a pile of raspberries.

I hope to write more about the trip later this week. But whether or not I get back to that, it was a lot of fun. I especially enjoyed the time when Dan and I crawled down to the waterfront along Burrard Inlet on Stanley Park's west side and played with the stacked stones, a tradition that I believe was started by the First Nations people. Here, Amy investigates whether they are truly stacked or actually cemented together in some fashion.


Not long before that I'd done the same thing, on another stack, and managed to knock over the pile. So after feeling like a cultural trespasser of some sort I'd embarked on a re-creation projection. I'll be the first to say that mine was nothing like the originals, but it did go four stones high. I'm pretty proud of that. Attempt to put one together and you'll quickly learn it's a Zen-like exercise in balance and patience.

Here, on the right in the foreground, is how mine looked. You'll see many more of these in a couple of years, when Vancouver hosts the 2010 Winter Olympics at Whistler.

Thanks, Dan and Juliana, for a great trip. And happy anniversary.

Big and little drummer boys

I got to help Luke, Dina and Ryan's oldest son, learn to drum last night at the final Mint Tea circle of the summer. Fun night. Luke seemed pretty mesmerized by it all - and really, who wouldn't be at that age?

I think that drumstick is bigger than he is. But that's the way it should be. Let your reach exceed your grasp, right? Today, at work, the whole night reminded me of this line, which - fittingly enough - I read in a story I was editing this morning.

"I tell my kids: ‘I don’t want you to be note punchers. I want you to be able to feel the music and put some emotion in it.’"

Whenever Amy and I have kids, I think that's the way to go. Somethings are not about doing by the notes. Instead, they're about going where the feeling leads you. That's been a lesson I was probably slow to learn.

Anyhow, the hippie-trippy dancing, always part of the show, fascinates the little ones.

Luke played until it appeared exhaustion was setting in. After that, the usual crowd played and played and played. Went for two-plus hours. I left well after dark, bouncing home, drumming all the way with wonderfully sore hands and a huge smile on my face.

Looking forward to next year's circles - and maybe some here and there over the fall and winter.

You know football season is near...

When, as a Sooners fan, you see a story with a headline like this - "How rivalry became violent" - and somehow you aren't surprised. (A Texas paper puts a little different slant on the story.)

Either way, it brings all new meaning to the the old "Tuck Fexas" T-shirts and bumper stickers that pop up each October in Norman.

This, of course, comes just as people here have stopped asking me whether I knew any of the Oklahomans who were making death threats against the Pac-10 official who blew the call in last year's OU-UO game.

The whole deal, though, makes me scratch my head over how crazed some people get about their teams. Out here in Oregon and Washington, there are some loons, for sure, but I don't think anyone takes their football that seriously. One, their teams just aren't that good. Two, there's so many other things than football to be caught up in.

Oh, well. The season starts a week from today. Let the madness really begin.

Red-Eyed and Blue*

Now that was what I needed.

Here, the guys from Wilco - plus a couple of their friends from the Minus 5, or this other band you might have heard of ... R.E.M. - open the second encore of last night's show with the long-awaited and much loved "California Stars." This was the biggest sing-a-long portion of last night's concert, by far. Maybe it's just the Oklahoman in me, but Woody Guthrie's lyrics just seem to call out for that, don't they?

From left: Nels Cline, Scott McCaughey of the Minus 5/R.E.M. on keyboards, Jeff Tweedy, Glenn Kotche on drums, John Stirratt on bass, Peter Buck of the Minus 5/R.E.M. and Pat Sansone on keyboards.

First, the setlist from Edgefield...

Either Way; You Are My Face; I Am Trying to Break Your Heart; Remember the Mountain Bed; Handshake Drugs; Pot Kettle Black; A Shot in the Arm; Side with the Seeds; Shake it Off; War on War; Impossible Germany; Too Far Apart; Jesus, Etc.; Walken; I'm the Man who Loves You; Hummingbird; On and On and On. 1st encore: Bob Dylan's 49th Beard, The Late Greats, Hate it Here, I'm Always in Love, Outta Mind (Outta Site). 2nd encore: California Stars (with McCaughey on keyboards and Buck on electric guitar), Heavy Metal Drummer, Via Chicago and Spiders (Kidsmoke)

That's 26 songs over more than two hours.

And no matter how much pints of beer or bottles of wine people drank or how much pot they smoked - and there was so much of the latter that Tweedy inquired about the "bongfire" raging in the first few rows - they came away in awe of Nels Cline's guitar masterwork.

Holy shit. The things that man can do with a guitar might very well be illegal in some parts of the Bible Belt. I could have spent the better part of the evening just happily watching him get lost in the music whenever that downright possessed, ecstasy-striken expression would overcome him. Every once in a while - such as in the photo above, with Tweedy during a shared jam - Cline would peel one eye open and look up to see whether a) everyone else was still with him and b) his I've-gone-utterly-ape-shit licks had ripped a hole in the fabric of the universe and caused the world to start to collapse in on itself.

Obviously, I never got to see some of the great guitarists of the past, but listening to Cline so intensely rip through a show makes me wonder what Hendrix would've been like in person. Especially considering Tweedy has a reputation for not wanting to be upstaged, what happened at the end of the show during "Via Chicago" was amazing to watch.

In the second half or so of last night's live version there was a section where Cline would create so much feedback from his guitar that it would almost entirely mute the lines Tweedy was singing. They'd go back and forth like that - a run of audible lyrics interrupted by a drenching torrent of notes from which lyrics would suddenly re-emerge - until they brought it all together in a sudden, crisp, perfectly timed stop. As my friend Jann would say, it was a moment to be filed under "live music experiences."

And then, sadly, after one more song the lights came up and it was all over.

* Note: Tweaked the last couple of grafs because I originally wrote - incorrectly - that they were playing "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" when Cline started drowning out Tweedy. In fact, it was the second-to-last song, "Via Chicago." My mistake.

My annual concert fix

Each year, it seems like there's one big show somewhere in or around Portland that I just can't miss. (Funny, this didn't happen so often in Oklahoma...)
Last year, it was Pearl Jam playing a smallish theater show up the street from my office. This year, it's Wilco (pictured above) playing on the lawn at a brewpub minutes outside of town in the Gorge.

My 15-year wait for Pearl Jam was well worth it. And although I've waited only about 10 years to see Wilco, they have gone through damn near that many members in their history. Still, I can hardly wait.

"Being There" was my introduction to the band in the late '90s. It'll finally be nice to do just that - be there - tomorrow night.

And when we are, I hope to hear "Impossible Germany" from the new "Sky Blue Sky" album that's pictured below. It includes this lovely lyric, which always makes me think of our McPrince adventure in the Northwest and beyond, relying on only each other in whatever foreign lands we may encounter:

But this is what love is for
To be out of place
Gorgeous and alone
Face to face

Or you can just watch them perform it live at Bonnaroo earlier this year:

Rhythm of the neighborhood

When we went to Morocco last September the one thing I was determined to come home with was a drum.

Well, I struggle to understand how almost an entire year has gone by since then, but I have got my money's worth and then some out of the little fish-skin topped instrument I brought back from Marrakesh.

Abdul hosts drum circles during the summer months at Mint Tea. I have no training, and no skills beyond a natural interest in and love for music. And really, that's all you need. We gather at 6:30 on, roughly speaking, the nights of the full moon. A bunch of folks from the neighborhood and beyond show up -- all ages, ethnicities, backgrounds -- and we just play. And play. And play. We sit on the sidewalk outside the store and, I swear, if you let it, if you let yourself get lost in it all, you can feel the stress come out of your fingertip each time your hand comes down to deliver another beat in the song.

We usually go for around two hours. My hands are numb when I get home and usually sore for two days afterward. And only part of that is because of hitting my drum's hard ceramic edges. The rest is just from getting so into it that you just zone out and play hard.

So, the third weekend of August is always our neighborhood festival - the Uptown Village Festival. We spent a good amount of time today walking up and down Main Street, checking out the classic cars and various vendors. Tonight, HBO was taping a comedy special in one of the stores, but I was counting the minutes until I'd get to go play that drum.

An African band played until 8 and then afterward a bunch of the regulars from Mint Tea's drum circle took over the festival's main stage and got to it. We played from 8 to 10, when we had to stop for the sake of people nearby being able to sleep. But man, what fun.

We started all out of rhythm, with no lead emerging to set the course. But, slowly, sort of like as discussed on a great podcast, "Radio Lab," I listened to last week, one emerged. And when it did, when we all came together -- 10 or so strangers on a stage in the middle of the street in the dark, with people walking by and looking at us funny -- it was a beautiful thing. Strangers climbed on stage and joined in. Others stopped to dance in the street. Some just paused and smiled. But it was one of those magical little moments that reminds me why I love this neighborhood. Abdul and I, I was thinking, could just as easily have been playing on Jemaa el Fna in Marrakesh, amid the snake charmers and all-night food vendors and barbers.

Sorry, no pictures. I was too busy playing. But there's one more drum circle scheduled at Mint Tea this year -- on Aug. 28. Maybe then I'll take some pictures. Either way, I'm looking forward to it already.

Scenes of summer

Here we are in mid August, wondering where the time has gone. It's been an eventful few months, which is our excuse for why summer has seemed like such a blur to us.

Some highlights in no particular order:

The One of a Kind Drumline plays before the year's first Uptown Movie Nights screening in July.

Here, Movie Nights gets started with the original "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." That's Willy on the left in the red shirt. I'd forgotten how trippy parts of that movie are.

Here's one more, from the final movie we screened, "Flash Gordon." The 1980 version, complete with one sweet Queen soundtrack.

Earlier in the summer, Amy changed jobs. Here she is the last time at Around the Table, after we picked up the last of her stuff.

Good experience, bittersweet how it went. Sad it didn't go as expected, but glad it gave Amy a good entry to the foodie biz, which she was able to use to get her new job.

Speaking of new jobs, they don't call the bureau I now work in the Duck Pond for nothing.

Meanwhile, Wiley's still ruling the roost, as always.

iLaugh

David Pogue's spoof of my fellow iPhone line-sitters. You'll laugh. I know I did.

More on iPhone

A few observations now that I've had a day to play with the phone...

THREE THINGS I LOVE
1. Realtime traffic mapping. I can use it to map my commute home to Vancouver from the Tigard/Tualatin area or vice versa. It will show me, as in this picture, the set mileage (19.3), but also the expected drive time (at the time this was shot, about 30 minutes) based on color-coded lines that indicate current speeds and slow spots on the highways I need to travel. If I see a red section, signaling a backup, I can pick another route. Even without Wi-Fi in our office, I'll be able to get this reading - slowly, granted - via the phone's built-in network connection before I get in the car. And once I'm on the road, I'll be able to continue charting the clearest route wherever I'm going.


2. Multitasking (Amy will hate this). Earlier, during a phone call I took on speaker phone, I responded to a running text message conversation and checked my e-mail.

3. This spot could go to some of the iPod features later (stunningly crisp video presentation, for example, with widescreen display for movies), but for now, I'll say linking straight from addresses I look up online (hmmm, where to go for dinner and how to get there?) or in my list of contacts (where does Joe live, again?) straight to Google Maps to chart their locations. If I were a reporter, man, this would be a great tool. One drawback, if the address (or phone number) on a Web page isn't hypertext, the lack of a cut-and-paste function sucks. If it is, though, just click and you're connected.

THREE THINGS I DON'T
1. The built-in network is, as advertised, REALLY slow. Sometimes it times out before pages load. And, at times, getting that alternative Wi-Fi connection can be a little tricky. Mike and I struggled to get on his home network today, and then got bounced off Portland's MetroFi a few times for some reason. That said, at our house, once I entered the home network password, the phone always goes straight for the better, faster connection. And, when I walked into the neighborhood coffee shop around the corner this morning, the phone automatically picked up that Wi-Fi and asked me if I wanted to use it.

2. No drag-and-drop loading of iTunes, at least for now. Everything must be synced to get in the system. That's fine and expected for contacts, calendars, mail and bookmarks. But it's an extra step I'd rather not have to deal with for music, podcasts and videos. Instead, in the case of music, you have to create a playlist and then sync it to the system. Once it's on, the music appears as it normally would on an iPod, but the runaround factor is annoying. And I don't recall it being advertised, which feels a little deceptive. Frustrated the hell out of me last night - and when I called this afternoon they said, "Yep, sorry, no drag-and-drop." Maybe an eventual software update can remedy that.

3. Safari, with no Flash and other limitations. Wish I could use trusty old Firefox with all the bells and whistles. But, really, as Amy will tell me, I don't need to get ALL the Web ALL the time.

iPhone frenzy

Got one.

I'm pretty excited, even if I feel a little - just a little - dorky for going to stand in line for the last two hours before they went on sale at Bridgeport Village. But it was a slow day at work (for me, at least, but not for our friend Mike, who was busy) and I was able to wrap things up early. So, really, what else did I have to do?

Soon, I'm sure, Amy will be asking, "Don't you have have anything else to do this weekend but play with that damn phone?"

Still, I contend, it's a legitimate purchase. I lost my Razr a couple of weeks ago and my iPod Nano is a couple of years old and jammed full. The new iPhone takes the place of both with even more space and features. Plus, I get Mac's Address Book carried right over and all of iCal, which I love. I get weather and travel maps at my fingertips. And I can check my e-mail - both personal and work accounts - anywhere, even if the connection's a bit slow when I'm not on a WiFi network.

The whole shtick at the stores today was a little over the top. I just wanted the phone, not membership in the cult and high-fives with the "geniuses" who work at the Apple stores.

-30-

In the world of journalism that age-old symbol, - 30 -, is universally known to mean you've reached the end of the story. It's what reporters out in the field would put at the bottom of their copy so that when editors received it they knew where the story was intended to close rather than where it might have been accidentally cut off during the transmission. (Oh, those dark ages before the advent of the Interweb and sat phones.)

In the months leading up to my 30th birthday, which will be tomorrow, 30 and -30- have at times felt almost synonymous. Chalk it up to my tendency to overanalyze everything just a bit. (Perhaps that - and a few beers; as Dan says, "it helps motivate" - explains last week's Buckley post that I'm pretty sure no one got.) But now that the big three-oh is a few hours away, I don't feel any anxiety at all. Even with the increasing numbers of gray hairs I keep finding in my beard and on my head.

That said, no other birthday has ever brought me that touch of concern. Sixteen was all about the excitement of getting to drive. Twenty one, from what little I recall, started with 23 shots and damn near could've been -30-. Now here's 30, staring me dead in the face and, after some initial fretting, I'm all the more ready for what's to come in the next decade. Rather than an ending, this is shaping up both at home and at work as a time of new beginnings.

I just hope I'm having as much fun when I hit 40.

"I'm only here for this moment"

Last week -- Tuesday, to be precise -- marked the 10th anniversary of Jeff Buckley's death.

If you know who he is then maybe you'll get some of this. If you don't, I'm sorry, and I hope you'll still read on and maybe, sometime, give him a listen.

If you're in the later category, here's a little something to get you started, from his website:

Jeff Buckley was born in California's Orange County in 1966 and died in a tragic drowning accident in Memphis on May 29, 1997. He had emerged in New York City's avant-garde club scene in the 1990's as one of the most remarkable musical artists of his generation, acclaimed by audiences, critics, and fellow musicians alike.

Before we begin, yes, I realize just about everything that could be said about the man has already been committed to print or pixel. You can read plenty of those - from more eloquent, more insightful, more informed folks - here. Some of the bloggers who have been writing this week were even fortunate enough to have seen him perform live. (Lucky bastards.) And NPR had some good stuff timed to the anniversary that's worth a listen here.

All that said, bear with me.

I'd planned to write about this earlier. Then life got away from me - it's doing that a lot lately - and I figured the moment had passed. I figured I had nothing to add to the discussion, and, I'm still not sure I do. But this afternoon over beers and babies in the Hovdes' backyard, they mentioned their short stint in Memphis back in the mid '90s. And just like that, Buckley was back in my mind.

Now, with that introduction out of the way, I have to say the brief bio doesn't really begin to do him justice. But it'll serve as our point of departure nonetheless. And, yes, I'll be the first to say I'm sure I'm romanticizing the guy. (But really, isn't that what happens to all dead rock stars?)

For a variety of reasons, I've thought a lot about the anniversary's approach the past few months and its recent arrival. Part of it's what his music means to me - how I found it, who was in my life at the time, where my life was headed, where I am now and how his songs have been a constant through it all. Part of it is the mystique of the man himself - that voice, the ethereal range of "Hallelujah", and that guitar, from those entrancing first notes of "Last Goodbye", undoubtedly. But part of it is also his passion and what would seem to be his pain. And, no doubt, part of it is his death, both for when (at age 30, which I'll begrudgingly turn one week from today) and how (a drowning, like my uncle) it came. But, most of all, I think, it is the spirit that seems to bleed out of what he created - one epic studio album released in his life, and a ton of live and unfinished studio material, released after his death.

For my money or downloading time, there's an unmatched energy in all Buckley's music to create, and in that act of creation to stretch until hitting that spot where all self-consciousness is lost and an innate gut instinct kicks in. It's in that flicker of time that Buckley (and each of us, in those rare moments in whatever may be the pursuits of our own lives) comes utterly unhinged and sweeps himself and everyone around him away in the ecstasy of the moment that is now.

It's just gorgeous and beautiful and, for me, the epitome of the transporting powers of music. Some of the notes that man pushed himself past all natural limits to hit still give me goosebumps even as I listen to it all again tonight for the millionth time. I burned up I-35 between Wichita and Norman in late summer 1999, damn near wearing out my copy of "Grace," windows down in an old Cougar sans A/C. The wind-whipped roar of the Plains was never any match for Buckley's howl and cry as "Last Goodbye" gave way to "Hallelujah," which in turn gave way "Eternal Life" as I fled the remains of one relationship, pulled back into town and quickly found myself falling into the one - the love with Amy - that would lead to our marriage.

To hear people who saw him live tell it, he'd often stop shows and restart songs because they didn't feel right. Because, in essence, although everyone else in the building might have thought he was spot on, he knew within himself that he wasn't quite in that place that he needed to reach to create the moment he wanted to share.

For those who've been lucky enough to have even one of those moments in our life, I think the simple hope for another one is one of the things that keeps us going. I remember as a kid I'd sometimes get so deeply into whatever I was doing that I would get this tingling feeling, this rippling buzz of energy that would just wash over me at those rare instances, those most graceful and fleeting of gifts life occasionally gives us.

It's rarer still, I think, to see one captured on film. That's why I keep this - from the liner notes of the appropriately named "Grace", Buckley's one studio album released while he was still alive - on my desk wherever I work.

I love that picture. His head is thrown back, his eyes are shut, he's bathed in the light, the rhythm guitar player on the far left is following his lead and the drummer on the right is poised for the next cue Buckley would deliver by the simple nod of his head. He's creating, he's guiding, he's magnetic. He's a force in and of himself. And, beneath it all, rests the image of a clock, ticking ever forward, toward whatever end may await us all, someday, somewhere, sometime, as a reminder to do it - whatever it may be for each of us - now.

Those moments seem harder to come by as I get older. But they're every bit as electric and heavenly, if you will, when they do present themselves. (Whoever created this, which I love, apparently sees a little otherworldliness in Buckley, too.)

All this from the man who wrote, as that NPR piece mentions, what might as well have been his own epitaph, from "So Real."

I couldn't awake from the nightmare that sucked me in and pulled me under

But it's also the man who sang - as fittingly closes disc two of the posthumously released "Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk" - "Satisfied Mind."

When my life is over and my time has run out,
my friends and my loved ones, I will leave there's no doubt.
But one thing's for certain, when it comes my time,
I'll leave this old world with a satisfied mind.

May we all be so lucky.

Blur of a weekend

Nothing like a quick 38-hour trip home and too many beers with old friends from college to mess with a guy.

Touched down at Will Rogers World Airport -- still the only major airport I know of named after a man who died in a plane crash -- @ 4 p.m. Friday. Lifted off for Portland @ 6 a.m. Sunday. (Got to spend two lovely layovers in Houston, where they're putting a Bass Pro Shop in one of the terminals because, really, you never know when you'll need to buy new huntin' or fishin' gear between flights.)

Two reasons to go:

One, to see my little sister, Chelsea, graduate with the first of her degrees. Glad I could be back for that. And congrats to her. When she finishes the rest of her counseling psychology work, someday, she'll have a helluva lot of expertise to draw on from our family. Maybe she'll be able to straighten us out.

Two, to see my old college adviser retire. Jack Willis, simply put, is the man who taught me how to be a journalist. A legend of Oklahoma journalism, he worked at the Muskogee Phoenix for years, eventually becoming its editor. Then, in 1993, he came to Norman, where he oversaw the campus paper, The Oklahoma Daily, until this month. He's in the state journalism hall of fame, but more importantly, he's in the hearts of the generation of journalists he molded in his career.

His students - including Amy and me, who met in his newsroom - couldn't feel more privileged to have come up under his leadership. He taught us lessons of journalism, and he taught us lessons of life.

Jack gives a farewell speech. His voice cracked a few times as the emotion of the moment hit him, which just about sent us all over the edge. This was right after three former students -- Nick Jungman, I and Sarah Ganus, representing the early, middle and late eras of Jack's tenure, respectively -- had the pleasure of speaking to the group about what Jack means to us and to The Daily.

Here we say goodbye, for now, in his old office, where we sat and had so many career talks. It's where he talked me into applying for my first internship, which took me to Wichita. It's where we talked through whether I should try to go to Portland or St. Petersburg. It's where I learned so many of the intangibles that I rely on daily now.

A few final Jack thoughts/memories.

Jack's old-school response to the "How long should my story be?" question always cracked me up while saying it all. "It should be like a woman's skirt," he'd invariably explain, in his typical deadpan style. "Long enough to cover the essentials, but short enough to be interesting."

Although I always wanted him to give me answers to my career questions, he always would say, "Well, Seth, what do you think?" And then he'd lead me through a conversation in which I'd figure things out for myself. It helped me not only then, but also years later in ways I'm still figuring out.

As I said Saturday to the group of alums who came back for Jack's sendoff, it's not that you just don't want to disappoint Jack in whatever you do and wherever you go in this business. Instead, it's that you want to make him proud.

Here's hoping we do.