Eco-Challenge

I hereby challenge all manufacturers of electric mowers to offer one under $250 that actually WORKS! My arms are still numb and/or tingling from having to eventually use a weed-whacker for my entire damn lawn last night after my mower crapped out. Complain here. Granted, it's a small lawn, but that was the whole reason behind getting an electric mower in the first place. And no lawn seems small when it is 80 degrees and 80% humidity.

Now my lawn looks like it was mowed by the Barber of Seville, and I feel like I spent several hours last night wrestling him. I am not happy.

And anyone who e-mails "I told you so" gets an electric mower up the ass. Lucky for you it doesn't work.

I'm getting a goat.
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Comedy Central Videos

Jon Stewart makes me laugh. Stephen Colbert makes me blow chocolate milk through my nose.

Colbert just honored Madison by mentioning our diapered renegade monkey--you know, the one biting drunk college students on State Street--on one of his shows. As many of you know, I retired my television at the end of May. Even if I did turn it on, I have no cable so I wouldn't see squat, much less diapered monkeys biting drunk college students. I simply can't afford that level of entertainment.

Luckily for me, someone alerted me to Comedy Central's website, which contains a plethora of video clips you are allowed to watch for free--unlike the free ones on YouTube, which will get you in big trouble, Mister! (See Viacom International, Inc. lawsuit)

Now, I am not going to waste valuable time here explaining to those of you in the slow lane why watching video clips on my computer is not the same thing as watching TV. You are obviously not going to get it, anyway.

Could someone please pass me the chips?

Comedy Central Videos

[Disclaimer: Monkey pictured above is not the alleged criminally-minded monkey alluded to in this story.] Read more!

Be careful what you wish for

Ginger and her cat, Sam

Yesterday I jokingly wrote that someone should take away my credit card to keep me from flying to Seattle to see Chris Cornell in concert there in October. Tonight I reached for my card to pay for my groceries and found it... missing. Having spent much of the day with Sarah, who knew of my ill-conceived plan to fly the coop for Cornell, I called her first thing to ask if she had "seen" the aforementioned card. She allegedly had not.

I really have been trying to cut back on spending lately, so I was on the phone interrogating Sarah when I realized where the card was. It had been days since I last used it; at the drive-through pharmacy. And where do they put your card when they send the product to you through the pneumatic tube? (Well, in this case they don't even have a pneumatic tube, but that's a story for another time. Picture a small monkey running from your car to the pharmacy window and back.) That's right, they drop your card in the bag with your prescription.

If you are anything like me--and here's hoping you are not, for a number of reasons--you no longer bother to read through the extensive print-outs that accompany your prescription. I have better things to read than how all my hair is likely to fall out from taking this drug, or that I may grow several extra toes if I continue to get refills for that one. As usual, I just grab the drug from the bag and toss it--warnings and all--into the trash.

I'd like to insert a bit of advice here. Some of you may have cats. I do not, but as many of you know, my Staffordshire Terrier owns one. The advice is this: If your dog simply must have her own cat, make sure that your dog knows to place all dirty litter in a separate plastic bag before disposing of this litter in your standard trash bin. This way, should you accidentally throw away your credit or debit card with the rest of the trash, you will not be forced to paw your way through composting cat shit in order to recover it.

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I knew there was a reason I chose not to live in Poland. Chris Cornell, having toured extensively since spring with the best voice performances I have heard from him in twelve years, has strained his vocal chords and is on doc-ordered medical leave for ten days. Accordingly, dates in Poland, Hungary and Austria have been cancelled. Now what the hell am I going to do with this ticket to Prague?

There is, however, a rumor of a concert date at the Paramount in Seattle October 3. Someone take away my credit card, NOW.

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Switching Gears

Dear God, my old hard drive sounds like a Model T as it tries to upload more music onto my iPod. Yet another drag about iTunes--once you've installed the program onto a computer, that's the computer you have to keep using. Someone please correct me if I'm wrong, but when I tried to switch over and do this on my other computer, which is much faster, it threatened to erase everything on my iPod and start from scratch. We can't be having that.

Today--and forgive me for not starting with this vital piece of news--Foo Fighters released the first single, The Pretender, off of their new album, Oats, Whey, Barley and Meal. I couldn't get to it until I was logged out from work but once I did I couldn't stop listening to it. I already had the lyrics from the Foo Fighters website so as soon as I leashed up the dogs I hit the streets, singing one of the worst karaoke versions of this song Columbus will probably ever hear. I was halfway up to one house, singing away, when I noticed some kind of town meeting on the elaborate front porch. I took out my ear buds to appear friendly and returned their greetings. One of the elderly ladies oohed and aahed over the girls. I kept thinking I'm missing the chorus! as my headphones dangled in my hand. I made it past the house and plugged back in. I wonder if I made it into the town minutes.

As soon as we got home, I headed straight for the basement. I had tried to work out the drum part during the walk but I knew I wasn't there yet. Sorry, neighbors. I tried to work it out quietly. Anyone ever tried practicing drums on the down low? Yeah, not so much. I played it maybe ten times, growing increasingly louder each time the chorus came around, which was the easiest part for me to unravel. There's still a recurring 4-beat bass part that is all half--or quarter?--notes, of which my poor right foot can only handle two or three, at the maximum. I have the same problem on Times Like These, which has a triplet I still haven't mastered. I keep telling myself I will NEVER be able to sit in as a guest drummer if I don't get these basic songs down, so STEP IT UP!

No pressure.

Foo Fighters' tour starts in September. I just got done telling sister Sarah that I'm having trouble following through with the decision to sell Jack, for the very practical reason that keeping him will bankrupt me, causing me to lose both horses. After listening, singing and playing this new single for the last few hours, I'm ready to sell the horse, the car and the house to buy tickets to every single show on the tour. Stop me if I'm being hasty.

I'm sorry, but this music is like good crack! And bad crack, as we all know, sucks rotten asparagus.

Foo drummer Taylor Hawkins, Godsmack drummer Shannon Larkin, uberdrummer Dave, and Sully Erna, Godsmack lead singer and drummer. [Can someone please tell me where the goddamn umlauts are in this blog template?!] Read more!

Hangin' with the Guys

Another quiet afternoon at work and I was itching for a reason to get out of the house for a bit. I hadn't seen the guys in a few days, so I thought this might be a good night to hang with the boys.

I didn't bother to call first--I knew right where they'd be. Just outside of Madison there's a little place we all know: The Round Pen. I knew they'd be there if I made the drive, and I was right.

Jack saw my car as I drove in to park and tossed his head in a greeting while Julian, as usual, stayed back with the other studs of the neighborhood, shooting the shit. Typical of him to wait that extra minute before acknowledging my arrival.

Julian's a big guy--always has been--and people find it hard to believe he's as sensitive as he is. Still, I have learned the hard way from my old friend that to open a dialogue with Jack before going over to slap Julian on the ass--regardless of whether Jack had already started heading in my direction--was a sure way to bruise this guy's fragile ego. This was not a guy you wanted to piss off, sensitive or no. No need to give Jules a reason to take out his social frustrations on Jack after I'd gone home for the night. Jack and Jules are tight, but Jules has nearly a foot on his companion and that indisputable power differential has always managed to worm its way into the dynamics of their relationship.

Salutations successfully completed, the three of us found our own space to occupy and soon busied ourselves regaling each other with tales of the week so far. Just outside The Round Pen, nearly oblivious to our presence, a cottontail munched contentedly on the natural clover growing in abundance there. Occasionally he'd stop chewing and watch us in typical rabbit silence. I couldn't tell if he was thinking of moving on or joining us. As the evening played itself out, he did neither.

I really only planned to stop in for a while, but the evening was cooler than I had anticipated, and the rains had yet to move in, all of which made it hard to leave. And though Jack was up to his usual antics, Julian was in an unusually passive mood, and the urge to take advantage of that overcame me. I had already curried and combed both fellas head to tail and still they clung to me instead of joining the rabbit as I expected. Working the lunge line through Julian's halter, I tied it in a large and unwieldy knot above his neck. Before he had time to object, I led him quietly to the side of the round pen, climbed three or four rails, and slid onto his back.

Like I said earlier, I didn't come out to ride. I was wearing shorts, tennies and a baseball cap, and lately riding has been more stressful than not, so I had left it off the plate entirely for the evening. Yet there I was, sitting bareback on my Percheron with my pony looking up at me wondering if he was next (he wasn't).

It made for a perfect evening. For probably thirty minutes Jules and I wandered around the round pen, always shadowed by Jack who took to grabbing at my shoelaces or nipping at Julian's large backside. We even got some "work" in, practicing some halts and turns. Julian was thrown by not being fully tacked, and behaved almost as if he were. I don't know that that would have held true in the larger pasture, but I wasn't about to risk that. Instead, we just ambled together, the three of us, in the cool of the evening with Peter Cottontail. Julian would stop occasionally to graze, but since riding lately always meant work for him, he mostly kept things moving, but always at a respectable pace. It was the most damn relaxing thing I have done in weeks, if not months. I tried to freeze the moment and, hopefully, I have succeeded. And even if we never have another evening like the one we just had, I will treasure it always. As far as I'm concerned, I finally experienced the perfect date.

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Last Stop, Columbus

At the age of twenty-four, all I could think of was getting out of this city. At forty-one, I don’t believe I’ll ever want to leave it again—not for long, anyway.

In June of 1990, my father drove me from Middleton to Columbus, WI, a town I lived forty miles away from for much of my life but had not heard of before, to drop me off at the historic railway station. I remember my father trying to tell me something about its history, but I was distracted. I had met a man the summer before and fallen in love, only to learn he had plans to move to Seattle a few months later. He followed those plans and, a year after that, I was following him.

I have the pictures still—me standing impatiently in front of the station waiting for the train that would get me out of Columbus, out of Madison, out of Wisconsin. I could not wait to get out. I could not breathe here, not with my heart already more than two thousand miles away. I was certain I would not breathe again until I reached the Pacific Ocean.

The train did come, and I left my family on the platform, waving their goodbyes. There was no dramatic steam to obscure them as we pulled away from the station. At twenty-four, I was still disappointed when scenes such as this seemed in no way to resemble any movie starring Humphrey Bogart or Lauren Bacall. But this was Amtrak, baby, and it was all about the speed. We were out of Wisconsin much faster than I anticipated.

Seattle is beautiful in the summer. Contrary to popular belief (and I am actually breaking an oath to reveal this to those who have never lived there) it does not rain every day in the Emerald City. In fact, one summer we went 73 days without rain, and the temperature never strayed more than a few degrees from 75. It was honestly the most perfect climate I had ever experienced of all the places I have lived. At night, you could leave your windows open regardless of the fact that they had no screens, because Seattle had no mosquitoes. I am not making this up. Fir trees, deciduous trees, flowering shrubs were everywhere, like a city built in a never-ending garden, yet the humidity was never even the slightest bit oppressive. Being fresh out of school, I had no money and no car, yet the city buses covered every square inch of the sprawling metropolis and, if it wasn’t enough like Christmas already, bus rides were always free in the downtown area. And I was in love.

I was told it rarely snowed down in Seattle (situated right at sea level) though Mt. Rainier and the Cascades were typically capped with white year-round. I am certain it was no coincidence that the year I moved to the mild Pacific Northwest from the frigid Midwest, Seattle experienced one of the worst snowstorms ever recorded. And while they had no mosquitoes, turns out they had no snow plows, either. (I’ll bet you never knew there was a connection there, did you?)

Luckily, the snow melted within a week or so from the San Francisco-like hills of the city, and life returned to normal. Summer also returned, idyllic and full of hope. Not sure of what he was waiting for, I asked the man with whom I planned to spend the rest of my life to marry me.

He said no, thank you. He always was very polite.

Seattle is a beautiful place to have your heart broken. Unfortunately, such picturesque surroundings tend to mock you when you’re miserable, and within a year or two, I left the city and the man behind. I have been moving ever since. I went as far as Egypt to forget Seattle, and Cairo did a pretty good job, what with her searing heat, pressing crowds, and mosquitoes the size of the European sedans which always threatened to run you over as you crossed the city streets. Cairo apartments have no screens, either. That is because the mosquitoes ate them for breakfast.

After Egypt, I tried graduate school in Utah, home of mountains and Mormons. And more mosquitoes. Quite accidentally, I met another man—one who did not say no when I asked him “the question.” We married and hit the road again. States, and years, went by in a blur; Hawaii, Idaho, Washington, Nevada, California, Wyoming, Arizona... And the more states we saw, the more I missed the one I could not wait to leave back in 1990: Wisconsin. They say time heals all wounds, and if that doesn’t work, try travel. Some even suggest marriage. I tried them all. My ex-husband tried them all, too, including some I didn’t try. And so we learned together that two broken hearts do not make a whole one.

What time does teach you is how to live with the pain while re-discovering the joys that life has yet to offer. In 2005 I returned to Wisconsin, to Madison, to family. After a decade and a half of living, loving, losing, and learning, I needed peace. Peace mostly comes from within, of course, but a nice neighborhood never hurts, either. I tried Madison, then Sun Prairie, but still did not feel settled, though life was admittedly far more peaceful than the previous years. I decided I needed a home of my own. After a great deal of searching, I found it in an unexpected place, a few blocks from Columbus’ historic railway station. I am listening to the train whistle now as I write this, and I think of the circular journey that has led me to this place. This place I finally call home.

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Word of the Day

Can you say "gephyrophobia?" Can you say it while driving across a bridge? Read more!

If you play it, they will come...

Just heard the first single off of the Foo Fighters' next album, Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace. The song is The Pretender and (let's see, how do we avoid a rock and roll descriptive cliche'...) IT KICKS ASS!

(So much for that.)

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Rockin' the Basement

Tonight's Setlist:

Cold day in the Sun -- Foo Fighters
D.O.A. -- Foo Fighters
Times Like These -- Foo Fighters
Generator -- Foo Fighters
Everlong -- Foo Fighters
Good Grief -- Foo Fighters
Resolve -- Foo Fighters
Re-Align -- Godsmack (partial)
Bad Religion -- Godsmack
Fell on Black Days -- Soundgarden

Encore:
Black -- Pearl Jam

Not a bad show for this charming venue, though a tad shorter than last night's performance. Nancy's basement is always nice and cool, and just enough room for her audience of none. There were no fancy stick tricks tonight, but she didn't drop any sticks tonight, either, which was impressive. Re-Align didn't go so well, but she always shines on Cold Day in the Sun and Generator; and of course, Black is her signature closer.

After the set she hung around to sign autographs, which went very quickly as there was no there, then went up to the kitchen--I mean backstage--to have a nice cold glass of chocolate milk. The dogs came out from wherever they go to hide when she performs, taking off their Bose sound-blocking headphones and begging for her to throw her sticks into the audience. She declined, being on a tight touring budget.

This is the third straight gig Nancy has played at this venue, and she definitely seems to be getting more comfortable with her set. The neighbors have yet to call the police, which is also a good sign. (Her shows always close at a respectable 9 or 9:30.)

I'm sure some of you might wonder what rock stars like Nancy do for fun. I mean, playing music is every percussionist's first love, but even professionals need the occasional diversion. In a rare tag-along interview with this forty-something drummer, I learned a little about what goes on behind the stage lights when no one is looking (as opposed to under the stage lights, when no one is looking, either.)

As it turns out, Nancy's success in this business allows her to own two horses (as long as she buys little or no groceries for herself) which she boards in a neighboring town. When her tour schedule allows, as it did earlier today, she goes out to the barn and spends several hours in the company of horses. There is grooming to be done, and exercising the beasts, and then, if time remains, some recreational riding. Most times it is recreation purely from the standpoint of the idle observer, but there are times during which it is actually enjoyable for Nancy herself. Today was such a day. Along with the ranch owners, she took her 16.2 hh black Percheron out into the neighborhood to scare small dogs and children. It was refreshing to get out of the confines of the dusty arena, where Nancy usually spends much time schooling her reluctant rides.

Refreshing also was the light rain than began to fall as the threesome made their way back to the ranch. It has not rained in these parts in a dreadfully long time. Nancy turned Julian back out to pasture and brought up her second mount, a 13.2 hh pony named Jack.

Nancy and Jack sought the cover of the arena, where Nancy downed a quick mixed berry yogurt as Jack trotted aimlessly around the arena. Once he had calmed a bit (his Arab blood makes him a slightly hotter mount than the much more physically imposing Julian) she attached a line to his halter and lunged him for several minutes. The dust of the footing soon muted his dapple grey to an even tan, and coated the inside of both his and Nancy's lungs. This would be of greater concern to her if she were also responsible for the evening's vocals, but she is not. (Not that it stops her from singing, anyway.)

After tacking him up, Nancy spent another half hour slowly working on Jack's trust. Jack is a nervous Nelly, and the trick with him is to keep the engines from revving on a continual basis. It is something like meditation on horseback, and is simply fascinating to witness, I must admit. They trotted and cantered around the arena until the dust cloud made seeing them difficult, at which time she dismounted and untacked her small horse. Jack, being more dog than pony, stayed by her side until she led him out the door to join his pasture mates.

I think it is important to note that, being a simple person, Nancy eschews the need for assistants and carries all her own equipment, even going so far as to pick up manure left behind by her pony. It is tasks like these, she reveals, which keep her grounded.

With only a few hours left before the opening number, Nancy headed back to town in her VW Beetle--another emblem of her humility--to prepare for the show. The dogs still had to be walked, after all.

Stay tuned for more notes from this summer's sold-out basement tour! Jack Read more!