Slim Pickings

I interviewed Slim Dunlap last night for an upcoming Magnet article. (It's not like it's a big secret, but I'll hold off on what it's about until it's published; suffice to say, the Replacements figure prominently.) Dunlap is the journeyman's journeyman musically, but he's put out a couple of decent records, and the title track on Times Like This is one of my very-favorite songs.

In addition to enjoying our chat because he's a sweetheart of a guy, it completed my bizarre, purely coincidental personal milestone: I've now interviewed all of the living Replacements (save for drummer-for-five-seconds Steve Foley). Getting into the rock-crit game in early '93, I never would've imagined having the opportunity to do something like that. I'll never win any awards for my music writing, but I've gotten to speak with/meet/hang out with/become friends with some of my heroes, and it's something that I don't take for granted. Free CDs, guest-list slots, bylines, etc., are nice, but connecting with a musician you admire, even for just a single phone call or a handshake, is a treat.

In that vein, here's a story I wrote about Tommy Keene back in '98. Though I'd been doing reviews and smaller profiles for a while, this article is really the first longer piece I tackled. Parts of it make me cringe--I'd definitely downplay the fanboy stuff if I could have another crack at it--but I'm fairly happy with it overall. But the larger point is that since our first conversation, we've kept in touch, and I've tried to help Tommy out whenever I've been in a position to do so. The way I see it, his music has been such an integral part of my life since about 1986, whatever I can do is the very least of payback. And as I stated above, you can't really put a price on being able to have a beer and a real discussion with someone whose art means so much to you.

I'm rambling. (Tommy's new record is excellent, by the way.)

The Bulls' playoff victory on Sunday was sweet, indeed. The crowd was jacked up, which can be expected when your team has been pathetic for seven years. Let's hope they can eliminate the Wizards in short order.

The highlight of last night's episode of The Amazing Race? Boston Douchebag asking, "What's a gnome?" Moron.

No More Nomar?

One of these days, I'm going to post something rather profound. Today, however, isn't the day.

My fantasy basketball team, the Festivus Miracles, finished dead freaking last. Humiliating. Injuries and flat-out mediocre play doomed the Miracles after being competive for 2/3 of the season. My friend JT has won the league all four years of its existence. Bastard. I've got nothing to add about this, other than to say the one brilliant move I made was drafting Dwyane Wade. I had him as a rookie, and this year he was even better. One of the best players in the NBA without question.

My baseball team, the Windy City Wrigleys, is off to a respectable start, though seventh-place isn't anything to brag about. (The league has 11 teams this year.) My offense has been keeping me afloat, with Brian Roberts (a 21st-round selection, thank you very much) turning into Babe Ruth. Mike Sweeney and Derek Lee have also been outstanding. Pitching-wise, my starters have been hit-and-miss (props to Mark Prior and Bartolo Colon; shame on you, Kerry Wood; passing grades, barely, for Jeremy Bonderman and Mike Mussina). My bullpen, on the other hand, has been about 98 percent unproductive.

Oh, and injuries to Magglio Ordonez (a 10th-round pick) and, much more depressingly, Nomar Garciaparra (what's more painful, his torn groin or that I got him in the second round?) have, well, hurt. Actually, I'm way more upset for Nomar and the Cubs than I am for the Wrigs. I have a sickening feeling that he may miss the entire season, and if that's the case, he very well may have made his last appearance in a Cubs uniform. That would be sad on many levels.

Let us pray for Cesar Izturis.

One final bit of sports talk: Scored tix to the Bulls' first playoff game since the Jordan era. The former Beat-a-Bulls are banged up going into this series, but it will still be exciting to witness this moment. The United Center does not rock like the old Chicago Stadium, but it gets plenty loud enough.

Music-wise, Tommy Keene sent me his latest record, which he's shopping around to labels. The fact that he's in such a position is about as sad as Nomar tearing his groin, but that's the music industry these days. Anyway, I haven't spent much time with the LP yet, but it sounds good so far. One of the songs, "Eyes of Youth," surfaced as a demo for what became The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down. I was disappointed it didn't make that record, but its last-minute addition to this new one makes me happy. I sort of nudged him to include it, so I'll take the credit if people like it. And none of the blame if they don't.

The Shit Hits the Fans

Saw Paul Westerberg last night at the Riviera. In a word: terrible. Let me state here that I was a Replacements fan from the beginning, and while I find Westerberg's solo stuff inconsistent at best, I still consider him one of the best songwriters of his generation and certainly one of my all-time favorites. I saw four Mats gigs, all great (none of them were of the legendary, drunken, shambling mess variety), and all of the 6-7 solo shows I've seen have been excellent as well.

All of which made the Riv show so disappointing. His voice sounded awful from the start, and he seemed disinterested most of the show in playing the right notes on the guitar. One of my favorite Mats songs, "Little Mascara," was a disaster. (Predictably, the adoring crowd still ate it up.) As the show progressed, it turned into a middle-aged version of one of those legendary, drunken, shambling mess shows. He brought a backstage TV onstage and smashed it with a guitar. He stomped on a telephone he also brought from backstage. He jumped into the crowd, guitar and all. He swigged from a bottle of whiskey (he was clearly off the wagon, at least for one night.) And he played a bunch of stop-start covers, including "Cat Scratch Fever" and "Substitute." (The latter actually wasn't half-bad.) Granted, there was a certain entertainment value to some of this, but in terms of being a solid-sounding show, it failed miserably.

Equally predictably, deluded acolytes are actually praising this show on his message board, with one person saying, "It's the best I've ever seen him." I feel sorry for that guy. I also feel sorry for my wife, who'd never seen Westerberg and was looking forward to this first time. Needless to say -- but I'll say it anyway -- color her unimpressed.

I'll take this opportunity to tell my one pseudo-amusing Mats concert story. In 1986, I saw them for the very first time at the Newport in Columbus. This was back in the day when bathroom access wasn't all that important and I didn't mind crowds, so my buddy G.W. and I went right up to the front of the stage, directly in line with Tommy Stinson. For about half the show, a girl to my right kept pleading, "Tommy! Tommy!" even after he came over a couple of times to shake her hand. Finally, even he had enough, as mid-song (I forget which one), he comes over, takes the grape bubble gum out of his mouth and hands it to her, with a clear look of "Will you leave me alone now?" on his face. She, of course, is overjoyed, but her hand was shaking a little, and she dropped the gum on the stage.

Now, I consider myself to be a nice guy, but the urge to flick the gum away from her was just too strong. It flew about six feet right into Tommy's left leg. Though I felt kind of bad about it, I was much happier that Tommy found it hysterical and couldn't stop laughing the rest of the song. Ah, youth.

Hell, maybe that's part of the reason I found last night's show so desultory. Maybe I'm too old and needed to be drunk. I'm not sure it would've helped.

The Cure for What Ails Me

Meant to talk about this earlier, but I went to the Cubs' home opener on Friday. I don't want to get all Bob Costasy here -- though I wouldn't mind being as eloquent just once -- but there's something about going to a baseball game (I'm speaking mostly about Cubs games at Wrigley Field, but it does hold true elsewhere) that just brings me a great deal of peace. It doesn't matter if the Cubs are lousy (as is their history) or if they're doing well and the games are tense (as has been the case the last two seasons). I immediately get a sense of calm, right about the time the game starts. I've settled into my seat, I can relax, concentrate on the game and take in everything around me. Granted, the drunks and the foul-mouthed fans do get annoying, but I have an easier time blocking them out than I do, say, the inconsiderate patrons who talk during a film.

I went by myself, thanks to a last-minute, face-value ticket. While I certainly enjoy going to games with other people, attending solo can be kind of soothing. When I go with my very-understanding wife, I feel compelled to make sure she's having fun, often to the point of annoying her; if I go with a group, it's often more about the conversations you have rather than the game. I wouldn't change anything about either situation -- other than maybe my wife knowing what guys play what positions when I quiz her -- but the random solo outing allows for a bit more focus on what's happening between the lines. Not sure this is making sense, but...

Anyway, all of this brought to mind a quote I read years ago from Steve Earle. I'm not a fan -- I don't dislike him, I've just never really connected with his music -- but I couldn't have said this any better (though I did try, I guess):

"It sounds weird, but ballparks are the most tranquil structures human beings have ever built. For me, more than any church, more than anything else...As soon as I get to the top of the steps and see the green, I start feeling better. The shape of the fields, the colors, everything about 'em, I love 'em."

On a semi-related note, my friend Jeff talks about a "dream job": serving as a music producer/coordinator for movies. Contemplating his post on that subject brought back a recent unpleasant memory: I applied for what I felt was the perfect job for me -- not necessarily a dream job, but damn close -- and I was unable to even get an interview, despite having the qualifications and, or so I thought, the ability to do the job well. I don't want to get into specifics, but I also had a couple of decent connections to the place, connections that I thought would at least get me in the door. Uh, no. There are worse feelings in the world, but there was a period soon after this played out where I was really low about the entire situation. I've mostly gotten over it, but whenever I think about the opportunity missed, my heart still sinks.

So it's a good thing baseball season is here. I can worry about Mark Prior's health instead of my own occasionally fragile mental state.

This is Only a Test

I'm increasingly convinced that I have a very small core readership, if you can even call it that. And of that readership, not too many leave comments. So, I'm conducting an experiment. I'll send a promo CD -- I get maybe a dozen or so in the mail every month -- to the first person* who leaves a comment to this post.

*The following people are ineligible: Holly, Paul, Marlee, Mark S., Hannan, Jeff C., Jerry, JT. (Like I said, small core readership.)

Anyone else, have at it. The CD will be of your choosing, but I'll provide a list of three or four from which to pick.

Stosh is Too Sexy for His Thong

Out of complete boredom, I googled Stosh just to see what kind of results I'd get. Fortunately, this site was the first hit.

Here's a sampling of Stoshes across the 'net. When complete boredom hits again (hmm, maybe later today?), I'll post a few others.

Sexy Stosh
This is just mortifying. I may have to change both this site's name and my cat's name just to cleanse.

Hipster Poet Stosh
I know/care squat about poetry. Just saying.

Stosh the Cat II
Gotta love the mustache.

Tattooed Stosh
Welcome to the cool tattoo dungeon (as if the "cool" was necessary).

Broke-the-Mold Stosh
The One. The Only. Stosh Kozimor!

Lyndon Beavis Johnson

I guess when you're president, you can call anyone at any time and have them do/make anything for you. Poor LBJ, all he wanted was some pants that fit. That and someone to listen to him say "nuts" and "bunghole". Oh, and belch, too.