Leonard Cohen, like some kind of immortal cicada, came out of latency in 2008 with a world tour that lasted into 2010. He wasn't set adrift easily-he began touring in the wake of having his estate criminally mismanaged by his former longtime business manager, who drained about 5 million from his retirement account and left him only $100,000 (real subtle, that one). And, in the wake of this critically acclaimed tour and the live in London album that came from it, Cohen released "Old Ideas" last year, a raw and powerful album that haunts you the more you listen to it. Here's a youtube vid of "Show Me the Place":
You've got to love lines like:
The troubles came
And I saved
What I could save.
And you've got to love a great artist who's come out of retirement for one last great and fiery run, his voice like gravel and eyes still keen.
Cows and Chickens and Pigs!
Every day I walk across campus to my job at the U of MN Saint Paul campus (which is near the enormous MN State Fair fairgrounds) and walk past the Andrew Boss Laboratory of Meat Science, which is a pretty weird name for a university campus building if you think about it. I've been working here for six months now and I'd heard they sold both meat and dairy products in the Meat Lab building, meat and dairy produced right here on campus as part of the U's extensive agricultural programs. Lots of ag students on the St. Paul campus (which is one of the reason there's a lot less annoying bros and sorority types wandering around, blabbing into their cell phones, than you find on the U of Mn's East Bank) and you see a lot of sturdy young adults wearing Carhart pants and camouflage jackets, looking like they're ready to haul a sack of something heavy at a moment's notice.
Yesterday I finally got on my (metaphorical) horse and hit up the Meat Lab building during meat and cheese business hours, which I believe are between 3-5 every Wed. During the summer they also have a tiny farmer's market as well, which just started, and this consisted of two student sitting at a folding table covered with salad greens and such. Basically your leafy version of a child's lemonade stand, but in a marble foyer. I sailed past this table, avoiding eye contact with its chipper occupants, and headed straight for the dairy down the hall.
I found what appeared to be a small micro-bodega, consisting of one table, one refrigerated case with cheese wrapped in plastic and simply labeled by name and priced in magic marker, and two glass topped freezers backed with simply labeled sizes of ice cream. I got myself some aged white cheddar for $3, a bag of some ranch flavored corn puffs for $1.50, and a quart of peanut butter chocolate truffle ice cream for $3. A student wrung me up (cash or check only) and I was soon sailing on my way again toward my car, so delighted by my savy local purchases that I forgot to visit the meat department at all (which I hear is the real star of the u of MN ag show).
I haven't tried the cheese yet, but I am happy to report the corn puffs and the ice cream are both quite delicious!
That is all.
Yesterday I finally got on my (metaphorical) horse and hit up the Meat Lab building during meat and cheese business hours, which I believe are between 3-5 every Wed. During the summer they also have a tiny farmer's market as well, which just started, and this consisted of two student sitting at a folding table covered with salad greens and such. Basically your leafy version of a child's lemonade stand, but in a marble foyer. I sailed past this table, avoiding eye contact with its chipper occupants, and headed straight for the dairy down the hall.
I found what appeared to be a small micro-bodega, consisting of one table, one refrigerated case with cheese wrapped in plastic and simply labeled by name and priced in magic marker, and two glass topped freezers backed with simply labeled sizes of ice cream. I got myself some aged white cheddar for $3, a bag of some ranch flavored corn puffs for $1.50, and a quart of peanut butter chocolate truffle ice cream for $3. A student wrung me up (cash or check only) and I was soon sailing on my way again toward my car, so delighted by my savy local purchases that I forgot to visit the meat department at all (which I hear is the real star of the u of MN ag show).
I haven't tried the cheese yet, but I am happy to report the corn puffs and the ice cream are both quite delicious!
That is all.
Thoughts From Murakami
I've been thinking about writing and physical health lately. I've churned out twelve novels, a bunch of short stories, and other stuff, and I'm pretty sure it's taken a physical toll. Of course, I could have exercised daily the whole time but just haven't, so I'm probably looking toward writing as a scapegoat more than the prime cause of my sluggishness. I read somewhere that anyone who sits for 40 hours a week, even if they exercise daily for an hour, is going to (on average) die sooner and more likely to have all sorts of physical ailments. So what's a fella to do who works at an office, loves to read, loves movies, and writes in a sitting position? Mega Japanese novelist Huruki Murakami likes to long distance run (but let's not go crazy here):
"Basically I agree with the view that writing novels is an unhealthy type of work. When we set off to write a novel, when we use writing to create a story, like it or not a kind of toxin that lies deep down in all humanity rises to the surface. All writers have to come face-to-face with this toxin and, aware of the danger involved, discover a way to deal with it, because otherwise no creative activity in the real sense can take place...
But those of us hoping to have long careers as professional writers have to develop an autoimmune system of our own that can resist the dangerous (in some cases lethal) toxin that resides within. Do this, and we can more efficiently dispose of even stronger toxins. In other words, we can create even more powerful narratives to deal with these. But you need a great deal of energy to create an immune system and maintain it over a long period. You have to find that energy somewhere, and where else to find it but in our own basic being?"
-What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
"Basically I agree with the view that writing novels is an unhealthy type of work. When we set off to write a novel, when we use writing to create a story, like it or not a kind of toxin that lies deep down in all humanity rises to the surface. All writers have to come face-to-face with this toxin and, aware of the danger involved, discover a way to deal with it, because otherwise no creative activity in the real sense can take place...
But those of us hoping to have long careers as professional writers have to develop an autoimmune system of our own that can resist the dangerous (in some cases lethal) toxin that resides within. Do this, and we can more efficiently dispose of even stronger toxins. In other words, we can create even more powerful narratives to deal with these. But you need a great deal of energy to create an immune system and maintain it over a long period. You have to find that energy somewhere, and where else to find it but in our own basic being?"
-What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
Blogagaard As Gimp
Softball season started last Monday night and I was all a-twitter to start playing, like an eager puppy with a severed arm in his mouth. This optimistic feeling lasted until approximately the third inning, when I misplayed a wicked line drive and took it off my knee. The softball, which is totally not soft at all, connected with my knee with an audible THUMP that drew gasps of horror from players on both teams and dropped me like a sack of flour tipped off a kitchen counter. As the pain engulfed me, filling me with adrenaline, I saw a flash of medical bills flying before my eyes and prayed nothing was shattered-I got up from the ground in due course and played out the rest of the game, sitting in a chair between innings and drinking my face off while rubbing my rapidly swelling knee with cooler ice.
But I could feel the Wound growing. The Wound swelling, swelling and swelling like a 2nd kneecap grown up beside my first. After the game I was awarded the Game Beer for my valor (or at least getting in the way of the ball) and I even went to the bar afterward, already limping badly. At the bar, the waitress was nice enough to get me a sack of ice in a plastic bag and that felt like heaven, fucking heaven, until the bag started leaking water all over my pants and suddenly I was a drunken, gimpy dude in a softball T-shirt jersey with a wet crotch.
Not my sexiest moment.
Part Two!
I took me swollen knee home with me that night and iced it again and again and drank water, praying I would live out the night, and I slept with my leg elevated on a pillow. Your body is always giving off some heat, but Lordy I could feel double or triple the heat coming off my swollen knee and it was as if a new visitor had come to live in my apartment. Me, Frenchie, and and my hot gimpy knee! The day after our game would be the hardest-a gimpy Blogagaard trying to shower, trying to put his pants on, trying to get in and out of his car, trying to gimp across campus to get to work. It was as if I'd aged forty years all in one night and all for the sake, let us recall, of a 50 min beer league softball game.
Over the next few days, I made friends with my swollen knee (we've started watching Madmen together, which I've delayed seeing until a crisis such as this) and now, as the Wound recedes slowly into a crater-like bruise, I feel I might even miss it a little when it's gone. It is a badge well understood by third basemen everywhere and has been a constant reminder that my life is not all safe, not all dull.
Lilac Season
The lilacs are blooming here in old St. Paul. We have a big lilac bush in the narrow backyard of my apartment building-pretty much the only nice looking vegetation in the entire yard, a spot where the locals like to store their old tires and the occasional concrete block. The only nice looking planty, and itself is only nice for about one month a year.
We had an even larger lilac bush in my backyard growing up (it helped obstruct the view of the four-lane Highway 60 and the steel mill across the highway). Every spring my mom would send me out into the yard when the lilacs were in bloom, snip off a few branches, and bring them inside for her to put in a vase. I can't remember how we fell into this pattern-why not my step-dad, or my sister? Maybe it was because I was the Yard Boy regularly, with a penchant for mowing and weed pulling (for the right price, of course. I had a baseball card habit to feed). Anyhow, I used to head outside with a knife or a machete or a pair of scissors and return with some sweet smelling lilacs and it made my mom happy. The past few springs in Midway I've been keeping up the tradition, even after my landlord caught me one year with a fistful of purple and a goofy smile on my face. I just bring in the lilacs and think of Mom.
We had an even larger lilac bush in my backyard growing up (it helped obstruct the view of the four-lane Highway 60 and the steel mill across the highway). Every spring my mom would send me out into the yard when the lilacs were in bloom, snip off a few branches, and bring them inside for her to put in a vase. I can't remember how we fell into this pattern-why not my step-dad, or my sister? Maybe it was because I was the Yard Boy regularly, with a penchant for mowing and weed pulling (for the right price, of course. I had a baseball card habit to feed). Anyhow, I used to head outside with a knife or a machete or a pair of scissors and return with some sweet smelling lilacs and it made my mom happy. The past few springs in Midway I've been keeping up the tradition, even after my landlord caught me one year with a fistful of purple and a goofy smile on my face. I just bring in the lilacs and think of Mom.
Dunn Poem for April Poetry Month
Testimony
The Lord woke me in the middle of the night,
and there stood Jesus with a huge tray,
and the tray was heaped with cookies,
and He said, Stephen, have a cookie,
and that's when I knew for sure the Lord
is the real deal, the Man of all men,
because at that very moment
I was thinking of cookies, Vanilla Wafers
to be exact, and there were two
Vanilla Wafers in among the chocolate
chips and the lemon ices, and one
had a big S on it, and I knew it was for me,
and Jesus took it off the tray and put it
in my mouth, as if He were giving me
communication, or whatever they call it.
Then He said, Have another,
and I tell you I thought a long time before I
refused, because I knew it was a test
to see if I was a Christian, which means
a man like Christ, not a big ole hog.
Rabbits Unite!
Hoppy Easter. This dewy morn, I am thinking about rabbits. Namely, how they're mysterious and twitchy and most likely going to rise up and destroy humanity one of these days. You want proof? Recall Bunnicula, a devastating novel about a vampire rabbit told from the point of view of Harold, the Dog. A startling discourse regarding the rabbit vampire gestalt.
Also, keep in mind Kelly Link's story "Stone Animals". Innocent, unsuspecting family moves out to the glorious countryside only to be set upon by a ravaging, silent horde of rabbits that increases daily, as if Rabbit Woodstock were occurring on their lawn.
Yes, rabbits are mustering their strength even now, even as we devour their chocolaty eggs and lay waste to their peeps. Mark my words-they will rise up, sooner or later, and hop all over your face.
