NCAA Men's Hockey Championship: Friday's First-Round Games

We’re three weeks into March, and that means a number of things, most notably that everywhere you look, folks are talking brackets. There’s the revamped tournament of Phish songs, Playboy usually does a thing, and of course there’s the college basketball tournament. The one I’d like to focus on, however, is NCAA men’s hockey, the 16-game tournament that leads to the Frozen Four.

It all gets underway tomorrow with four (two in Bridgeport, CT; two in St. Louis, MO) contests, and the second half on Saturday (two in Manchester, NH; two in Green Bay, WI). The two days comprise the first round, and the winners of each contest will play the second round the following day in the same venue in which they logged a round-one victory. The two semi-final tilts will take place in St. Paul, MN on Thursday, April 7, as will the championship, slated for Sunday the 9th. Let’s have a look at this year’s clubs.

The first Friday game gets underway at 2 pm Central at the Webster Bank Arena in Bridgeport, and features Union College out of Schenectady, NY and the University of Minnesota-Duluth.

The Union Dutchmen have a mixed plate of sorts on their hands, as this is their first tournament appearance since moving up to Division I hockey some 20 years ago. They posted a 26-9-4 regular-season record, and claimed their first Eastern College Athletic Association championship. While those stats might make up the meat and potatoes of their entrée, the seldom-favored vegetable portion, if you will, comes in the form of their winless seven-game history against the UMD Bulldogs, who went 22-10-6 in the regular season, and fell to Bemidji State in the quarterfinal round of the Western College Hockey Association tournament.

Union was led in scoring by junior forward Kelly Zajac (Winnipeg, Manitoba) ,who tallied 13 goals and 29 assists on the season. Dutchmen sophomore netminder Keith Kinkaid (Farmingville, NY) compiled a 1.98 goals-against average, a .920 save percentage through 37 games.

This is UMD’s second tournament berth in three years, their seventh in program history. On three of those seven appearances, they made the Frozen Four.

This year the Bulldogs were led by Duluth-native junior center Jack Connolly (Duluth, MN), who lit the lamp 16 times, and dished out 39 helpers en route to being named a Hobey Baker Memorial Award top 10 finalist. Between the pipes for UMD is junior Kenny Reiter (Pittsburgh, PA), whose season included a 2.36 GAA, a 9.11 save percentage.

Friday’s second puck drop (Scottrade Center, St. Louis) will occur at 4:30, and pits the University of Michigan against the University of Nebraska-Omaha.

The Michigan Wolverines make their 21st consecutive tournament appearance and boast a record 34 total berths. Additionally, they hold the record for Frozen Four (23) appearances, as well as national titles (nine). Michigan went 26-18-1 in the 2010-11 campaign, and placed third in the Central College Hockey Association tournament.

The Wolverines are led by senior forward Carl Hagelin (Sodertalje, Sweden), who scored 18 goals, 30 assists on the season, and goalie Shawn Hunwick (Sterling Heights, MI), whose numbers included a 2.31 GAA, and a .921 save percentage.

The UNO Mavericks put together a 21-15-2 regular season, and were eliminated from the Western College Hockey Association tournament courtesy of a loss to Bemidji State.

This is UNO’s second appearance in the tournament, and will be their third contest against Michigan (a 10/22 4-2 win, and a 10/23 6-1 loss) this season. Senior forwards Matt Ambroz (New Prague, MN) and Joey Martin (Thorold, Ontario) led the Mavericks this year with 34 points a piece, while goaltender John Faulkner (posted a 2.55 GAA, saved .967 percent of shots faced.

At 5:30 tomorrow evening, once the Union/UMD ice dust has settled, college hockey fans can see the number-one seed Yale University take on Air Force.

The YU Bulldogs come into Bridgeport with a head of steam having won 27 contests while only dropping six on the season. The final four of those wins came consecutively, culminating in an ECAC championship victory. This will be Yale’s third straight tournament appearance, although, in their previous meeting with the Falcons, the Bulldogs coughed up a three-goal lead and fell 4-3. Yale does, however, own the serious lead over Air Force, nine games to four.

Junior forward Brian O’Neill (Yardley, PA) and sophomore forward Andrew Miller (Bloomfield Hills, MI) led the offensive charges for Yale this season, compiling combined totals of 29 goals and 57 assists. The Bulldog defense was shored by senior goaltender Ryan Rondeau (Carvel, Alberta), who finished the season with an impressive 1.79 GAA, a .933 save percentage.

Air Force finds themselves in the tourney for the fourth time in program history, their berth coming on the heels of a 20-11-6 regular season, which wrapped up last weekend via a 1-0 win over Rochester Institute of Technology (Editor's Note: How a school of technology not only has an athletic program, but one with a hockey team good enough to reach its conference championship game is beyond me.) to give the Falcons their fourth Atlantic Hockey Association championship in five years.

Senior forward Jacques Lamoureux (Grand Forks, ND) led Air Force with 20 goals, 24 assists on the season, while freshman goalie Jason Torf (Hermosa Beach, CA) manned the pipes, posting a 2.90 GAA, a .908 save percentage.

Friday’s final game, the second of the day in St. Louis, will feature the number-three seed Boston College Eagles and the Colorado College Tigers.

Colorado College earned its 20th berth to the tournament by posting a 22-18-3 regular season record, but falling short in the WCHA tournament when they were downed by the University of North Dakota. This is their first tournament bid in three years, and four wins would get them their third national title, their first two coming in 1950 and 1957.

Leading the Tigers this season are senior winger Stephen Schultz (Westbury, NY), who scored 16 times and added 27 assists to his point total, and sophomore goaltender Joe Howe (Plymouth, MN) saved .901 percent of shots faced while compiling a 2.94 GAA.

Defending-champion Boston College enters the tournament as a three seed, recent winners of their second straight (10th overall) Hockey East title.

Junior forward Cam Atkinson (Greenwich, CT) and senior forward Brian Gibbons (Braintree, MA) provided the Eagles with a ton of offense in the regular season, combining for 48 goals and 53 assists. Senior netminder John Muse (East Falmouth, MA) manned the crease for BC, posting a 2.13 GAA, and a .926 save percentage.

The two winners of Friday’s games will meet Saturday at 5:30 in Bridgeport, 8:00 in St. Louis. Victors of games slated for Saturday (Note: Check back tomorrow!) meet on Sunday. Three of tomorrow’s contests will air on ESPNU HD, and on ESPN3.com, save the Michigan/UNO match, which will air in the Omaha market on Cox Communications.
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Review of The Mike Gordon Band, Ides of March, 2011 @ The Bottleneck, Lawrence, KS

When yesterday rolled around, it occurred to me that the Mike Gordon Band show at the Bottleneck in Lawrence, KS had snuck up on me. The wife had procured tickets several weeks ago, and we’d immediately dialed in a babysitter. I remember seeing the tour-date announcement, and thinking, This could be fun, or I could get mentally wrapped up in those show expectations -– Will it be good without Leo Kottke? Will I leave bitter that TAB (Trey Anastasio Band) didn’t come anywhere near Kansas City? Then Tuesday was upon us, and I felt like I was heading into the evening with a somewhat calmer shore of the mind, but still apprehensive about going to a show in which I’d, potentially, not know the majority of the tunes. This presented as exceptionally troubling considering all of the diligent work I’ve put in in recent years in terms of bringing the wife up to Phish (studio, live favorites, solo projects) speed. That is, it’s one thing if she doesn’t know the bulk of the tracks at a show, but it’s another animal – meaning the number of in-show questions unloaded on me increases exponentially, potentially diminishing enjoyment for both of us -– if neither of us do.

I don’t really have a stake in categorization of my show-going self, but since there’s an abundance of online discourse regarding such a concept, I’ll pencil myself in as somewhere in the middle of the jaded-vet/noob spectrum; I’ve seen 30 Phish shows and four (TAB, Red Rocks 2001, both nights; Gordon/Kottke, Red Rocks 2005, Big Summer Classic; and last night) sidecar projects. Never caught Vida Blue, Pork Tornado, Jazz Mandolin Project, etc. That spans 17 years, and my show-going modality has evolved on numerous occasions, leading up to its current form: I want a solid effort from the musicians, and minimal personal-space respect from my fellow ‘heads.

Anyway, we hit the road, bellied up to the bar at Free State Brewing Company, had a couple of pints, and some dinner. As we were settling our tab, we were told Mike had been dining solo three stools down from us, which was both hilarious, and so very Mike. Outside, we ran into a few acquaintances that informed us they were in no hurry to get to the venue, as they knew Mike was not yet there. When asked how such information had been procured, we were told: “Because he’s sitting right there in that coffee shop, fiddling around on his laptop.”

Which he was.

The wife thought coffee sounded like a good plan, so she grabbed us each a to-go cup, and Mike made his way to the can to dispose of his dinner (evidenced by hist extensive stay in there), which, naturally, resulted in a far-too-lengthy conversation regarding the alleged coolness of entering the men’s room post-Mike-dump and wafting the fragrances of this genius musician, as if consumption of the odors of his evacuations could somehow inspire. Mike left, and walked alone down to The Bottleneck, furthering the coolness of his being, simply due to the fact that the was rolling around Larryville alone and on foot.

We entered the venue, pleased that no eyebrows were raised at our java vessels, perused the merchandise, and purchased a copy of The Green Sparrow (2008)and a little notebook that had the refrain to “Sugar Shack” printed on the front, and made our way to the floor. For one last moment, I stressed over my lack of solo-Gordon knowledge (only own Outside Out (2003) and the two Kottke albums), and the band took the stage.

The band –- Gordon on bass, Scott Murawski on guitar, Todd Isler on drums, Tom Cleary on keys, Craig Myers on percussion -– opened with “Can’t Stand Still,” and I was pleased that I knew that tune, and stoked for the sound they put out. The group took it up a notch with “Flashback,” and then lit the place on fire with the funky, rockin’ “Just a Rose” which featured some screamin’ lead vocals from Murawski. Suffice to say: Three songs in, I was really impressed: Murawski seemed to be having fun from start to finish; Isler plugged along impressively throughout the course of the evening; Craig Myers has an incredible rig and fills the tiny gaps of negative space quite nicely.

It was with the opening of song four, though, that, perhaps, answered a few questions: Yes, there will be an occasional Phish song. Before we get to that, however, it should be noted that Mike had some really great crowd-interaction conversation moments. Early in the set, he asked, “How you feeling?” then promptly mentioned that he made a vow to himself 20 years ago that he would never ask a crowd that, but that now, at that particular moment, it seemed genuine because, “We’re all in this together.”

And it wouldn’t be a show if there weren’t folks in the crowd hollering thoughts, offering questions, and demanding requests. One such stub-holder asked how Colorado was, to which Mike responded, “Colorado was great. There’s nothing like coming over an 11,000-foot pass at five in the morning. And we’re still kinda ridin’ that wave.”

Song four, it should be noted, was “Access Me,” a delightful tune from Phish’s 2004 release entitled Undermind. It should be mentioned that, in all of my efforts to delicately spoon-feed Phish’s studios to the wife, I left out Round Room and Undermind, but we definitely have listened to Undermind together in the car. We’ve got a few tunes from that album we enjoy, and we’ve definitely shared a laugh over the lines:

“You could tell me all about all the things you did at work, The guy who sits beside you and how he’s acting like a jerk.”

So hearing “Access Me” was a nice treat, and perhaps apropos of some more crowd-conversation humor, such as, “We’re now going to take requests from you guys, so please request whatever it is you want us to play, and we’ll play whatever we want.” It also planted the seed of a theme the night might adopt in terms of the few Phish covers selected.

“What Things Seem” was next, and “Nobody Home” followed, which was really solid, as it was perhaps the first opportunity of the evening for Cleary to showcase his rock and ragtime, but his vocals, too. Afterwards, Mike acknowledged a birthday for someone in the crowd, and admitted that they were not going to play the song the birthday celebrator was requesting, but rather the song that inspired the song requested, “the embryo, as it were.” The result was “Swamp Music-> Possum-> Swamp Music,” which just lit the place on fire.



I think maybe I’ve heard some “Swamp Music” on tape at some point in the past. Maybe not, but the point is that it’s got the same bass line and vocal feel as “Possum,” and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that the crowd really dug it. Great energy to lead into the first-set closer “Babylon Baby,” which was one of only two or three jams of a healthy length in the opening frame. Mike closed the set by mentioning that the tune was on his latest album Moss, which was for sale in the corner, and that the band would be hanging out in the merchandise corner at the evening’s conclusion. He encouraged show-goers to stop by for a chat and a drink.

The intermission chat was, to my ears, relatively unanimous: That set was surprisingly smokin’. What will second set bring?

As a whole, second set was fantastic, but here’s one of several instances in the evening where I showed my age: “Traveled Too Far” kicked things back off around midnight, and it almost floored me. It was evident in the first couple minutes of the tune that set two was building off of the first, and perhaps evolving the evening into two separate mini-shows. It was an uber-intense jam of noteworthy duration, and it almost crushed me in a way that really tested my mentality of the moment. I can’t say I recognized the track in what I could parcel to be its original form, based on what I was hearing live, but I know I’ve heard that style of jam before, and it’s a style that brings up the notion of “smooth, atonal sound.”

To me, there’s nothing smooth about an atonal sound. It’s uncomfortable. It could potentially send a sober person walking from the venue, or put a less-sober listener in a straight jacket. So, the suggestion of a “smooth, atonal sound” has always been a joke to me. A joke that’s funny for the band, a joke that affords them some opportunity of the experimental variety, but a joke that has a very unfunny punchline for the absorbing ear. I won’t spend any more time on this version of “Traveled Too Far,” except to say that there were several around me that seemed to be feeling blown away by the ferocious audacity of the jam, whereas I was feeling a little cracked about the skull, vulnerable in the chest once it drew to a close.

“Couch Lady” came next, and it thankfully served the purpose of getting me to a calmer place, which, based on the third song of set two, made me think it was all by design. I’ll go out on a limb here, and perhaps open myself up for insult opportunity, because I seriously did not go to this show hoping to hear nothing but Phish covers, but the “Meat” that followed “Couch Lady” might’ve been the highlight of the evening.

It. Was. Sick. When you listen to the studio version of “Meat,” it leaves you with a feeling of, Oh, that’s a pretty fun song. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard Phish perform it live, but I’m extremely thankful for having heard this band perform it last night. The only way to describe it is this: The funk-slappin’ grooves these guys laid down during this song made the room feel like everyone in it was in one of those water-park wave pools, only, in place of water was a nice, warm, meaty gravy. And we were all swimmin’ in it. Happily. Incredible jam that fostered the growth of the theme of selected Phish tunes.

The second set continued with “Walls of Time,” which “Meat” went straight into, “Cruel World,” “Skin It Back,” and “Middle of the Road,” and, save the occasional bluegrass-y feel of one number, the vibe of thick, heavy, groove-oriented jam-rock tabled by "Meat" directed the remainder of the set. That was until the band took a moment to chat amongst themselves, and allow for Mike to offer thanks to the crowd for rocking with the band all night.

“We’ve been going for 10 straight nights, now,” he said. “And we’re just getting warmed up.” He again reminded the crowd to come by the merch’ corner for a drink and some chat. “I don’t usually drink at these things, but I am tonight.” He had earlier indicated that he didn’t want fans to let him drink alone over there, that maybe he’d have a glass of milk, maybe he wouldn’t.

Oh, and I’d be doing the band a disservice if I didn’t showcase how Mike set up each member’s token introduction/solo. This happened during one song that took place late in the second set, and it started with Murawski’s solo, as Mike said, “Take us to school!” Up next was Myers’ chance, and Gordon hollered, “Take us to church!” Cleary’s moment followed with Mike exclaiming, “Take us to the bathroom!” Finally, it was “Take us to the insurance company meeting!” for Isler. Murawski returned the favor asking Mike to “Take us to outer space!” Mike, in true Mike fashion offered only the briefest of limelight moments.

It was after Mike’s drink reminder, however, that the highlight runner-up moment took place, and that came in the form of an Alanis Morrisette cover. And, no: That’s not a typo. It was “Hand in Pocket,” and my wife might’ve been the first person in the room to identify it. Here’s where I’m frank: I don’t hate Morrisette. Never have. She wrote a few decent songs. She was cute in “Dogma.” But this cover was freaking awesome. It really was. And it led right into “Sugar Shack,” allowing that Phish-cover theme to flourish.

The theme, if you haven’t figured it out, was this: There were four Phish tunes played, and they were all tracks that, no surprise, can be or have been identified with Mike. “Access Me” is a track he wrote. “Possum” was written by Jeff Holdsworth, but is often identified as a Mike tune because of the funky bass groove, signature Gordon vocals associated with it. “Meat” was written collectively by Gordon, the rest of Phish, and longtime band lyricist Tom Marshall. And “Sugar Shack,” a Gordon-penned track from Phish’s 2009 Joy album, closed the thing out.

Here’s what was beautiful about said theme: The performances of these tunes were clearly not intended to sound like the live versions fans get from Phish, and I can’t emphasize this enough: That is a really, really good thing. This is Mike’s band. Their tour is flying somewhat under the proverbial radar, while TAB’s, which just wrapped up, basically received all of the hype and attention that a typical Phish tour would. The difference is that Mike’s band –- and, again, for the record, I haven’t seen a TAB show in a decade –- is absolutely killing it on a feel-good, root-down level. For cheap, too, I might add.

They got together to rehearse three months ago, and have played quite a few gigs. They are occasionally sloppy when closing out a number, but they lit The Bottleneck on fire last night, and the “Sugar Shack” to finish set two somewhat resembled the Joy version, but it also had a very significant Mike-band feel to it. It was clear that there was absolutely zero pressure for Murawski to mimic Trey in tone or style, and the fact that he, and the rest of the band definitely did not attempt to produce the Phish sound made this show all the more amazing.

So, the band leaves the stage, comes back for your textbook encore, and what do they drop? Some freaking Doobie Brothers? Yeah. Some freaking Doobie Brothers. “Takin’ it to the Streets,” to be exact, which has, thanks to the immortal life of radio-classic-rock overkill, become a terrible song. I’m not even certain that it was ever anything other than a terrible song, but these guys made it great, if only for a moment. An epic show, one of the best I’ve seen in some time, and as of a few moments ago, it’s been announced that tomorrow night’s show in St. Louis (with Galactic) will be streamed live for free. And it would be lame of me to not mention thanks to Mike for signing our little “Sugar Shack” book for our three-month-old daughter. Walked out of there electric, drove home on a wave that started 10 days ago, and made its way to the plains, courtesy of the Rocky Mountains.

Peep remaining tour dates here, a review of the previous evening's show in Denver here, and a comparison between The Mike Gordon Band and TAB here.
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Tuesday Tidbits: The Issue of the Closer. No, Not *That* Closer.

Polarizing issues are, by nature, very frustrating. Take Hockey Weekend Across America, that happened weekend before last. Super cool thing to nerd out over all weekend, and then the Sports TalkRadios fired up the engines the following Monday talking nothing but NBA All-Star Weekend and Daytona 500. I jumped down a couple of throats via texts and tweets, but it turns out that hockey is not actually a polarizing issue. Rather, there’re just tons of people in this country that don’t care about it. And then a funny thing happened: Royals closer Joakim Soria told the media that he wanted a new nickname. The Kansas City Star wrote a bit about it, Twitter perked and sizzled for a few minutes, and Sam Mellinger even created a list of semi-suitable replacements.

One of my colleagues texted me a few suggestions, none of which were worth mentioning, and I chose not to participate in the texts and the tweets for one reason: I felt polarized. (Non-interesting side note: I work in a hugely Hispanic community, and for over two years now, I’ve been driving past mechanic garages and services stations that have “Polarizados!” on some sign or billboard. Everywhere. And because I didn’t know any better, I’ve allowed myself to remain convinced that there is some concept in the auto-repair industry that has been divisive enough to create separate philosophical camps. Then I went to San Diego this summer and my cousin was like, “Check out these tight shades I just bought. Polarized.” Apparently, you can have your sunglasses or your tinted windshields produced in such a fashion that glare does not exist, which would’ve been helpful on any of the 4,000 times I crested a Colorado mountain pass looking directly into the sun thinking, Well, this could go fine or I might drive off a cliff.)

Anyway. Not only do I work in a heavily Hispanic community, I have been working with numbers of Hispanic people for the last decade, most of which are Mexican. I’ve worked with a Hondurenan, a couple of Salvadoranos, a Guatemalteco, and so forth and so on. Mostly Mexicans, though, and that’s fitting since it appears to be our southern neighbors with whom folks take issue when it comes to illegal entry into the United States.

Obviously this has been an issue for some time in this country, but it really blew up last year with all of the racial profiling and documentation requesting happening in Arizona. It was talked about on the radio, discussed on TV, dissected in Internet columns, and yes, even in my favorite local dive bar, it came up. I must pause here to say that my favorite local dive bar kicks some serious tail. It’s a dingy little family-owned Irish pub that just celebrated its 32nd year in business. If you’re in good with the ‘keeps, you can swill a beer and fire down a heater inside after the doors are locked. You can play darts, Golden Tee, and shuffleboard. You can admire the fantastic collection of sports memorabilia they’ve accumulated over the years, and you can eat a pizza, drink seven beers and have three shots and your tab’ll be like $8.50.

But, if you’re on the north end of the bar, you gotta deal with the smell of wafting sulfur. If you’re on the south end, it kinda smells like pee. If you’re washin’ up in the men’s room, you’re drying your hands with that blue cloth towel, and no matter where you are in the joint, chances are, you’re gonna wind up dealing with a dose of racism. Some of it comes from the customers, some of it comes from the staff, but either way, it’s there, and it freaking kills me. I won’t get into what is typically said, but suffice it to say that when this business was going on in Arizona, the mentality was that it was no big deal to profile and ask for papers because “they shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

If you take that quoted bit of text for surface value, there’s an aspect of it to agree with: It is, in fact, illegal to enter this country without the appropriate paperwork. Where the polarization begins, though, is when you refuse to entertain any notion beyond that. And I think this is where the roots of American political ideology begin and end. It may come as little shock that a good number of the bigots at my dive are staunch Republicans. I am far from being the least bit politically informed, but these are the conclusions I’ve drawn: 1) Democrats can tend to care for the well-being of people other than themselves. 2) Republicans cannot.
I’m no better, wiser, or more compassionate than the next guy, but I look at “they shouldn’t be here in the first place” and I nod yes in agreement while saying, But they are.

I then take it a step further and ask why, which has been typically greeted with gems like, “Duddn’t matter,” “I have the right to be here,” and “They’re breaking the law,” among others.

Truth of the matter is that I don’t have to ask why. I know why. And the following examples are why the Soria story bothered me the way it did.

Frank

Frank is about to turn 32. When he was 11, he saw for the first time factory in which his father worked. It was a bottling plant outside of Monterrey. His father has worked there for 19 years. He has never once called in sick. He has never once complained while on site, and he has never once been late. He has also never once had a raise. He has worked what we know as overtime hours in every single, save three exceptions, week of those 19 years. And he has never once been paid time and-a-half. He has had two knee surgeries, four herniated discs, and two broken fingers, all of which were work-related, all of which his family still cannot afford to pay for each month. Frank’s father’s wages for a week are enough to buy meat for the family for a week and two fountain sodas.

Frank remembered his father telling him for most of his life that Frank should aspire to one day move to America where financial security for Frank’s immediate and future lives could be more easily obtained. When he was 20, Frank did just that. He procured two dishwashing jobs in Denver, and worked most of 70 hours a week for 10 years. He was able to save enough money to purchase a plot of land near his home town and open a bar. Frank’s tavern began turning a profit two years in. Things were looking as if Frank’s hard work were going to pay lasting dividends until one Thursday evening in September.

Patrolmen armed with semi-automatic weapons stormed the saloon a few minutes before nine, destroying various pieces of the property and assaulting a few patrons as they approached Frank at the bar. The commotion coming from each officer’s mouth was hardly discernible, but it quickly became clear that they were accusing the bar owner of trafficking cocaine in and out of the establishment. When Frank’s lead cocktail server slammed a drink tray on the bar and proclaimed the scenario preposterous, one of the police wasted all of two seconds before piercing her brain with a slug.

Several cops began herding the remaining patrons out the front door while the captain of the operation illustrated the simplicity of how the server’s death would be deemed self-defense by producing an antiquated revolver from his waist band and placing it in the dead woman’s hand. The message was made clear that any additional confrontation would bear similar results. Next, the captain was handed a satchel, from which were drawn three dozen plastic-wrapped packages that contained white powder. A separate, smaller clutch appeared. Bundles of currency were removed from it and placed in the drawer below Frank’s till.

Frank and his remaining staff were arrested, charged with possession of cocaine with intent to distribute, ownership of the establishment seized by the government. The new proprietors re-opened the following afternoon, and continue to draw a profit today. The décor, goods for sale, hours of operation, and all details associated with Frank's remain the same, save for the sign out front that once bore his name. Frank has been incarcerated for 27 months, his assets seized, his family financially unable to bond him out. He has yet to be given a court date.

Charlie

Rosa and Charlie, Sr. had the same idea as Frank’s father, only they weren’t interested in waiting for their children to make the move. They did it themselves. Los Angeles was where they made their home. Charlie got a job in a garage. Rosa gave birth to Daphne that fall, and around the time she found out she was pregnant with Charlie, Jr., Charlie, Sr. had gotten heavy into the L.A. gang scene. Rosa pleaded with him to stray from it. She knew it was only a matter of time before something dangerous would happen to, or near, their family. She began skimping on groceries, returning home from the Laundromat having only washed bare essentials, stashing every leftover quarter she could. When she finally had enough saved, she waited, one Sunday evening until Charlie had come home and passed out. She and her two children boarded a bus with only a duffel bag full of diapers and snacks among them.

After many tears and two sleepless nights back in her hometown of Durango, Mexico, Rosa boarded her third bus in four days. Her destination this time was St. Paul, by way of El Paso. And she was going alone.

It took Rosa five years to save enough money to travel back to her parents’ -– who Daphne and Charlie, Jr. called mom and dad -- ranch for her kids. She had suspected they would be sad to leave, but she had failed to calculate exactly how sad. By the time the children were in middle school, the monthly arguments of when the children would be able to visit their mom and dad in Mexcio had become intolerable. “The summer before Charlie starts high school,” she told them.

But that summer came and went without a visit, Rosa’s mother and father insistent that the children not come due to unprecedented levels of crime and danger penetrating numerous rural areas of the country, theirs included. The children, continued to plead, however, and the spring of Charlie’s sophomore year, Rosa was ready to make the arrangements for their travel, even though her parents swore that, after sundown, their community was still not a safe place, even for a visit. It was on a Sunday morning that she received a phone call from her mother informing her that Rosa’s youngest brother, the only one of five that had remained in Mexico, had been murdered.

Ricardo had been hanging with some friends at a nearby park the previous afternoon. Per the usual Saturday tradition of him and his friends, they spent the sunny day there eating carne asada, chomping bites of raw jalapeno, drinking beer, and kicking around a soccer ball.

It was also at this park on this same Saturday that a band of drug dealers –- narcotraficantes -– engaged in a transaction, and Ricardo, along with his friend Alberto, accidentally witnessed it. One of the gang members approached the two, who’d walked away from the group to use a port-a-john, discreetly flashed a gun, and told them to get in his truck. The men were driven some 10 minutes from the park, where they were decapitated, castrated, and drug by chains from the truck for a quarter of a mile before their bodies were abandoned. The murders were reported to the police, who did nothing. In fact, one higher-ranking officer alleged that the deceased had been the ones in the act of committing the crime, that their demise made for “a safer Mexico.” Charlie and Daphne are still waiting for their chance to visit.

There are those two stories, and there are hundreds more. There’s the family Rodriguez, who saw three of their six children murdered in the last 18 months, each a separate incident in different rural Mexican settings. Each an innocent bystander. Or the story of Juan, who agreed to work undercover for the Mexican police, only to find out that the same Mexican police that hired him later indirectly alerted the Mexican mafia, who gathered Juan and his sisters in a barn, and made him watch as they raped them, stabbed them to death, then severed Juan’s tongue.

So, this is why, when Kansas City Royals closer Joakim Soria says he wants to shed his nickname for one that does not suggest any form of violence, it should be taken seriously, not made light of. There are two things to take from this story, and those are: 1) There is an immeasurable amount of corruption and gruesome violence happening in Mexico right now, and the forces behind them appear to be growing in numbers. 2) If Mexico, proud country that it is, barely pays its people enough to buy one staple per week, and that problem is only multiplying into others, and the “land of opportunity” is right there above you, wouldn’t you bail, too?

I personally don’t like being hungry. It’s no fun being scared, and I’m certainly not interested in getting murdered, so frankly I don’t have too big of a beef when it comes down to the immigration issue. I’d like for both countries to be able to monitor the situation with minimal expense to our federal government, and I’d like for the people coming into the country to follow the laws and procedures and pay the taxes. But the truth remains that the United States sort of has a lockdown on allowing people from Central America and Mexico – especially Mexico – to obtain citizenship right now because there’s just too many people wanting to come here. But really, can you blame them?

In the meantime, let’s find “Jack” a nice, new, wholesome nickname. After all, he plays for one of our sports teams, and you don’t ever hear the gripes, or even the questions regarding athlete citizenship status. Forget the papers. He’s our closer.
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Tuesday Tidbits: Some Thoughts on Human Behavior, Trains, and a Bluegrass Song

This post is not about tattoos. It's really not, but you might've gathered that from the title. I don't really have an opinion about tattoos. I don't have any, but that's not because I'm against them. It's just never happened. Tattooing, though, is an art form, and art is what I want to discuss today. Sort of. What is it about art that we embrace? Is it because, in a genuine, beautiful piece of art we can find a solid dose of passion that can’t really be found anywhere else in the annals of human existence? I think it is. Think about it. What -- besides love -- really plucks your heartstrings? An incredible piece of writing? A breathtaking painting? An inspirational composition? Maybe all of the above. I have a very small collection of original paintings crafted by folks I know. I’m proud of them and I like when others admire them. I love a good read, and I really, really love a good read when it’s written by someone I know. But music might just take the cake above all. Not because it’s better, but because of access. We’ve all been raised, in some form or another, with a soundtrack to our lives. It’s in there, with your varying phases of development, and if music has had a large presence in your life, it’s likely helped shape who you are. This is probably why arguing music is such an intense, emotion-filled, unwinnable debate.

Because of access, variety, and, in many cases, repetition, music is the one artistic vehicle in which all of us can engage. I do realize that making this statement is not sensitive to such dynamics as culture and socio-economic status, but I’m not trying to publish in some psychological journal or in your daily rag. It’s a blog post, and dadgummit -– If I want to appear closed-minded to the twos and threes of readers that visit this site every day, then pardon me while I hang this wall-sized poster of my constitutional rights.

Anyway. I’m pretty open-minded about music. That is, I like a variety of genres. I like to mix it up, keep the proverbial iPod on shuffle, if you will. The other end of that note, however, is that I’m also pretty closed-minded about music. That is, I don’t like several genres, and I don’t like a number of artists. Some I even hate. I have, in several instances, irritated friends and loved ones to nearly immeasurable levels of annoyance and frustration. And the reason for this is simple: The experience one has when enjoying a piece of music is impossible to replicate for another human being. The trouble is that some of us are too stubborn to admit that, and we will go to our grave trying.

Simply put, I feel passionate about music. Music has brought me some of my greatest joys, and I have, on occasion, even shed some joyous tears.

Now, there are different aspects about music that I love. Some occur simultaneously. Some do not. I can rock out to the loud, simple-chord progressions and smutty lyrics of AC/DC. I’m occasionally in the mood to lower my drawers, move my arms in specific patterns and get my Snoop Dogg on. I will geek out to particular house/trance/techno beats, and I’ve been known to roll up the cuffs of my overalls and have a ho-down to some bluegrass. Sometimes I like the beat. On other occasions it’s the rhythm, and I can be a fiend for some good lyrics, too. There is no recipe for a great song. It can have any assortment of ingredients. I might air guitar every note of Rush’s La Villa Strangiato and pound my steering wheel with every hit of the high hat, and five minutes later holler “B-A-N-A-N-A-S” along with Gwen Stefani.

I will say, though, that there’s something to be said for the tune that has both phenomenal musical craftsmanship and thought-provoking lyrics. That doesn’t mean that a song that has both is automatically better than one that does not, but it’s an impressive specimen when accomplished, and we will shortly focus on a particular example.

Fascinating statement of the obvious: The human mind is cranking out thoughts with greater frequency than we can track.

Now, if your mind is like mine, these thoughts are somehow categorized, and those categories seem to rotate in and out the skull’s vault.

Statement of the non-obvious that may be fascinating to me and only me: I’ve been moderately obsessed in recent months with the notion of the history of human behavior. Were I independently wealthy and a massive nerd (Editor’s Note: Hey! I’m battin' .500.), I would strongly consider doing some extensive research about the topic. But this business seriously blows my mind.

Take hunger (Note: A lot of my human-behavior ponderings probably reach back to caveman times.), for example. In the beginning, how did people determine what the solution was to satisfying your appetite, your need to subside. Were people standing around being like, Man we are so dang hungry (Note: Actually, they probably said, We are so dang something. Should we figure out the word for it first, or the solution to it first?), what should we do? Let’s make a list: Defecate? Nah. Make tally marks on the wall to notate the passing of days? Don’t think so. Have intercourse? Hmm-mmm. Shape a stone into a point, attach it to a stick, drive it through the heart of that woolly mammoth, then skin and gut it, and chew its flesh? You know you might be on to something there.

Or eggs. What was it like when people realized they could get eggs from chickens? And eat them. Or how about the guy that discovered that eggs could be fried and topped with bacon and cheese? Or the woman (Note: See, I can at least be gender sensitive.) that discovered that eggs could be made into a batter to bread and fry the chicken that laid them? Even nuttier: The person that first played around with separating whites from yolks and whipping them into stiff peaks, then folding them back into each other to be baked into a delicate soufflé? Ingenious.

There’s one thing I imagine we all think about to some degree: technology. The world has become a crazy place. I mean, I had a hard time making the transition from cassette tapes to compact discs. And when I say “hard time,” that’s just me being nice and not labeling myself stubborn again. But I was. Ridiculously. And then there’s the whole cell phone thing. Shockingly, I was against them for a spell and now, today, I’m one of those people that would get 85 percent of the way to work and actually need to turn around and go home for my phone if I forgot it because my day would be that much of a catastrophe without it. And the e-mails, the Twitters, the Facebooks, the Google searches. All of it. These things that technology has given us are equally amazing and frustrating.

Occasionally, when technology is in the current-thought cycle, I find myself channeling my ancestral self, stripping away the elements of modernism, and, believe it or not, I can totally see my future self, old and retired, living on a farm way out in the sticks, being self-sufficient, and spending most of my waking hours on a tractor. I have no idea what that’s about, but it’s probably tied into the never-satisfied continuum of needing a vacation from yourself. But it’s there. It’s vivid, and my brain has me convinced that, even though the possibility of going stir-crazy while actually being the polar opposite of self-sufficient seems monumentally high, I think I could tolerate it. That I’d enjoy it. The peace and quiet, the distance from (Note: Fire up the cliché machine.) hustle and bustle, the amazingly low frequency of running into dysfunctional people. It sounds terrific.

Technology has, however, garnered me massively addicted to itself, so I would, of course, need: a high-speed Internet connection, impeccable cell-phone service, and a television package that allowed me to view my shows, my stand-up comedy, my sports broadcasts, and I would still want my NetFlix to be delivered in a timely fashion. So, what can you do?

Since I mentioned my tractor, though, I’ll just throw it out there that transportation is another thing that makes the inner rounds. I think about the pioneers. I try to wrap my brain around the idea of moving west over terrain, through the Midwest winters and summers, and just straight-up trying to get where you’re going without dying. You know: horses and covered wagons. Wearing the same clothes for weeks and months. Praying that your shoes hold out. Shivering yourself to sleep at night. Conducting your day from dawn to dusk. And then the progressions since then, the planes, trains, and automobiles, if you will. I don’t fly a lot, but I’m aware that there are plenty of people in the world that spend a significant amount of time each week on an airplane.

I know that there are many examples of professionals that fly a ton, but look at baseball players for one: One hundred sixty-two games a year for 30 different teams that all have 24-man rosters, trainers, front-office people, and equipment guys. That’s a lot of sky mileage. Or, how about over-the-road truck drivers? These guys cover some serious ground to bring the canned goods to our grocery-store shelves, our sneakers to the mall, our Amazon-ordered gifts and novelty purchases. Is it weird that our society has become so technologically advanced, yet we are still massively dependent on ground transportation? I think so.

But it’s not the 18-wheelers or the 747s that I want to focus on. It’s the trains. The steam engines. The locomotives. The mighty, mighty railroad. Think for a minute about the time, the money, the man hours, the raw materials, and the lives it costs to put together a railway. And then you gotta put a train on it, put people and supplies on that train, and then maintain all of ‘em. And think about what an incredible asset it was for a nation to get the thing fully up and functioning. And now what? I mean, what’re we using the railroad for now? I know that people still use them to travel, but I see railroad yards in the community I work in. I even know a guy that works at one. And I see these trains most every day, creeping along, back and forth, in what seems like a space confined to their own rail yard. That is, it sometimes seem like these things don’t ever leave, like they just cruise these trains from one end of their real estate to the other and back again.

I don’t get it. I’m certain there’s some productivity being generated at these places, but it’s clearly lost on me. This idea, though, brings me back to music. One song in particular. It’s called “The Jupiter & the 119,” and it’s by Railroad Earth. I really dig these guys, and the funny thing is that I have no idea exactly when and where I discovered them, but I’ll make the safe bet and assume it was Wakarusa. Whenever it was though, I purchased their debut album “The Black Bear Sessions” and almost immediately became a better person having heard it. And like bands can tend to do on you when you get old: They kinda got lost in my shuffle for a spell. But it was on our last trip to Durango that they fell back into my lap.

You see, I was revisiting an old college tendency of mine -– spending far more money than I have on CDs at Southwest Sound -– when I discovered that they’d just, one month prior, released their sixth album, a self-titled LP nonetheless. I always find that peculiar: when bands release a self-titled album that is not their first. It is, however, a decent album. It’s got its highs and lows, but most importantly, it’s got the track I mentioned: “The Jupiter & the 119.” Had Railroad Earth consulted me, I would’ve told them that the song title should appear The Jupiter & the 1-1-9 since that’s how it’s sung, but they did not, so here we are. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m way into the notion of being in a relationship with a song. I don’t know that I ever come to any conclusions, or draw up any hard evidence, but I find myself pondering what it was about the initial listen of a particular song that got me to like it.

Without trying to get too meta, it’s probably a lot like human relationships. You identify that you’re attracted to a person, and at some point, you’re likely going to think about what it was that stirred that chemistry. Was it that he made you laugh? Was it something intelligent she said? Maybe an outfit, or some strange coincidence that put you two in the same spot at the same time. Anyway, I don’t know what it was about “The Jupiter & the 119” that hit me first, but here’s a funny thing about me: When I purchase a new album, I have two rules: 1) I am not allowed to skip or repeat any tracks until two complete listens are in the books, and 2) I am not allowed to overplay (usually three to four listens) a new album – so as to ideally avoid immediate burnout on it, and allow it to resume its own, natural spot in the rotation.

With track two on this particular album, I broke my own rule, and I should take this opportunity to remind you that my stubbornness occasionally flirts with an obsessive-compulsive type status. I hate being stubborn, too. Mostly because it suggests that you are inflexible and opposed to change, or maybe even insecure, but I also hate it because my mom, on dozens and dozens of occasions over the years, threw this gem at me: “You’re so stubborn. You’re just like your father.” And if you deduced from that statement that I come from divorced parents, you win a House of Georges t-shirt.

But seriously, when one of my tendencies or practices gets a flat tire or a stick in the spokes (Note: What is this, the bicycle-analogy paragraph?) I feel like I have to make some sort of effort to balance things out, even if I have no idea what the “things” are. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember, and dealing with yourself on that level is, um, not a comfortable seat to ride home in. Anyway, I broke my own rule, and it must’ve bothered me because I announced both a) the existence of said rule, and b) the fact that I was breaking it, along with c) some sort of subconsciously annunciated note to self: a don’t-break-your-own-rules-again kind of thing to my wife. And I never, ever announce my rules and habits to my wife, because, for most of eight years now, I’ve managed to hide from her the bulk of my insanity, and let’s face it: Disclosure of this sort is just a hair less than necessary.

On this occasion, though, she responded with, “I like that you have that kind of rule.” And believe you me: That is a rarity.

My point, though, is that I have no idea why I broke the rule. I mean, I know I broke the rule because I really dug the tune, but I can’t say what, exactly, it was about the song that I liked. And having given it some thought, I’ve decided that it must’ve been the fact that Todd Sheaffer is never going to win any sort of best-vocalist award, but somehow his voice and my ears were really connecting on this particular occasion. I think that maybe it’s because he really gets after it on this one. You know, from down deep in the diaphragm. I also think that there’s an impossible-to-miss thing happening in this song, and that’s that the song is valued, marketed, and sold on the one thing that embodies that passion we crave in our art. And that thing is a story. Think about it. The most majestic of paintings tell a story, be it a different story to every viewer, or the same story to thousands. The songs we dig tell tales of love, of loss, of accomplishment. And even the greatest writers manage to tell you several intriguing stories within their story.

This is why Sheaffer belts, no fewer than 10 times in the track, “Tell me: Have you heard the story…”

Here’s a funny thing specific to lyrics, general to songs: The first time we hear a song we absolutely love, do we know what the song’s about? I posit that we do not. I mean, when taking in new music for the first time, there’s too much going on. And chances are, you’re not a music critic, so you don’t sit down at your work desk, strap on some headphones, and focus. No. Key, even if they’re random, moments of songs resonate with you when you’re cutting carrots for the salad you’ll have for dinner, or when you’re gulping down water after your run at the gym, or maybe in that fleeting moment before you turn off your engine at the gas pump. But after one listen, maybe you’ve taken away an idea, or a line or two from the track. Or maybe it’s even more general, like, Hey, I think I kinda liked that song, and I’m already looking forward to hearing it a second time.

So you give it a whirl again, and maybe after your third or fourth listen, your opinion has evolved into, Man, I am really into this track. And if you’re anything like me, what follows next looks a little something like, I am totally in love with this song, and I’m going to listen to it repeatedly (Note: Remember, two complete listens are in the books by this point.) until I a) know all the words by heart, b) can hit all the vocal pitches with moderate precision, and c) have become obsessed with playing it for whoever will listen even though those listens aren’t the A+ listens that listening alone while top-of-the-lung wailing are.

My point, though, is that after one listen, I had absolutely no idea what “The Jupiter & the 119” was about. I mean, I knew that there was a story that was all the buzz, and there was probably some train imagery that attached itself to one of those dust mites of the mind, but it was, generally speaking, a surface evaluation, an, I-can-see-myself-liking-that-song sort of observation. And now, having listened to it about 25 times, I find myself getting on my case for not seeing the story more clearly earlier on. But whatever. Let’s talk about the story.

Actually, let’s clarify some things first: I’m not an historian. If we’re not talking about The Kansas City Chiefs Football Club, the band Phish, a small sample size of the literary (Note: It’s Finger-Quote Thirty up in this joint.) classics, or the basics of classic-culinary technique, then chances are I had to look it up, which is precisely what happened in this case. So, yeah: I Googled both the Jupiter and then the 1-1-9. And, sure: You’re all big boys and big girls, so you can do the same thing I did, or you can let me give you the buts and the nolts. If you do choose to look it up, though, you should time how long you are actually engaged in reading either page, and note your seconds in the comments. It can be our own little attention-span experiment that we’ll collectively feel shameful of for, oh, about 12 seconds.

And by the way, I’m in favor of the rule of using the article “an” before words that start with ‘h’, but shouldn’t we, like, asterisk that rule when we’re tweeting or texting or speaking in acronyms? I mean look at this phrase: Shannon Sharpe is not an H.o.F. tight end. Sure. I’m abbreviating because of a) that whole attention-span thing, and b) because of the fact that it’s fun to read. My question, though, is: Where does the fix come in? It doesn’t work any better if you spell it out: Shannon Sharpe is not an Hall of Fame tight end. Does the rule, then, become that, if you’re going to fix it, you have to fix it all the way? Do you have to say: Shannon Sharpe is currently not a candidate for enshrinement in professional football’s Hall of Fame?

Anyway, if you hadn’t guessed by now, both the Jupiter, and the 1-1-9 are, in fact, locomotives. Train engines, as it were. And allow me to assume that, at this point, 99 percent of you tuned out a long, long time ago, so I can do things like get off track (Note: Damn skippy, that pun was intended.) every other sentence, dropping in fun-filled facts. Like this one: The definition of locomotive is: a self-propelled vehicular engine for pulling a railroad train. Now I don’t know about you, but I’d never considered a locomotive as a self-propelled concept prior to looking that up. In fact, I probably never thought of anything other than a lawn mower as self-propelled, but here we are.

Because I can feel your curiosity from here, I’ll give you a few more details, and then we’ll be done with it. The Jupiter was property of Central Pacific Railroad, while the 1-1-9 was owned by Union Pacific. They were a) both steam locomotives, b) classified as the 4-4-0 variety (Note: You’re on your own, there, buddy, ‘cause that’s some eye-glaze material.), and c) freaking gorgeous pieces of machinery. The Jupiter was crafted courtesy of Schenectady Locomotive Works; Rogers Locomotive and Machine Works was responsible for constructing the 1-1-9. They, like Railroad Earth, are from New Jersey, which you may or may not now is a crummy damn city. What basis, you may be asking, do I have for making such a slanderous statement?

Well, none, really. But I do know this: The existence of the New Jersey Devils pisses me off because they started in Kansas City, had a layover in Denver, and finally found a home in En Jay where they, ironically, divorced their losing ways, and started winning Stanley Cups. Also, that “Jersey Shore” show is eight heaping tablespoons of God-awful, and two words for a summarizing capper: Bon. Jovi. But, we’re (Update: We’re looking at the bright side, now.) looking at the bright side of things because art is great and warm and inspirational and so forth, and when it comes down to splittin’ beans, Rogers Locomotive and Machine Works made the 1-1-9 in Jersey, and the frickin’ band that’s singing about their product is, too, so Jersey’s awesome. Jackpot, count it, etc.

The moment you’ve all been waiting for: The two steam engines traversed their respective railways and were stopped, one railroad tie from touching cowcatchers, for nothing more than a celebratory moment known as The Golden Spike ceremony. A party, if you will. I say “nothing more” there, but saying that is awful darn ridiculous, because what they were celebrating was freakin’ epic: the completion of the First Transcontinental Railroad.

Have another look at that phrase: First Transcontinental Railroad. Doesn’t that seem like a chapter heading in your Social Studies textbook, one of those reading assignments that makes you wanna pass out, face-down in the print, drooling onto the pages? (Note: How to recognize when you’re packin’ on the years/shedding pounds of coolness: Stuff that was lame to you as a kid is now suddenly cool.) It does. It totally does. This week: First Transcontinental Railroad; next week: exploring the intricacies of the Magna Carta. Great, man. When’s recess, and are they serving pizza today?

That’s quite a concept, though: a railway that goes across the freaking continent. And you know what? They, quite literally, hammered that shit out in six years. Six years!

Can you imagine what kind of time a project of that magnitude would take today? In 2011? Jiminy Christmas. You’ve seen the public works people in your city. It takes them half a week to fill a pothole. We’ve all driven by that scene. We’ve all heard comics rip on them. That pack of seven government-employed workers standing on the shoulder of the street, six of them smoking Winston’s while watching one dude dig a hole. Sure. It’s a tired joke, but it’s still true. And funny. And maybe a little sad, too. But, man. Six. Years. That’s impressive. Now, we’re talking about a song here, and the song is celebrating an impeccable event, one that’s worth all of the staged photogapharia, champagne toasts, and spike-driving imagery you can imagine, but there are some tidbits about this little shindig that are…Well, let’s just call them downright American:

1) The Jupiter was not originally intended to be part of this historic day. A locomotive called the Antelope was, only it got destroyed. By some workers. Who rolled a log down a mountain and smashed it.

2) Neither was the 1-1-9. The Durant Special was supposed to be featured in the festivities, but its conductor was afraid to locomote across Devil’s Gate bridge because he thought it would collapse due to some missing supports. He did, however, agree to use the Special to shove the passenger cars across the bridge, which was awfully noble of him. The cars, of course, made it across, but then had no steam engine to pull them to their destiny: Promontory Summit in the Utah territory. In stepped the trusty ol’ 1-1-9 to save the day.

3) The big day at Promontory Summit happened on May 10, 1869, and believe you me: It was, it seems, a big day. And so Promontory gets all the notoriety. Trouble is is that it kind of went out of commission in 1904. See, they were going around the Great Salt Lake instead of traversing it, which was a little more time consuming: utilization of The Lucin Cutoff shaved some 43 miles off of the trek.

4) Water was a problem to the east as well, only this time it was the Missouri River, and there was no circumnavigating it. In fact, for a time, folks had to de-train, and take a boat across it, which kind of makes the First Transcontinental Railroad a little less transcontinental, in my estimation. There was a solution to that, too, though: In 1873, the Union Pacific Missouri River Bridge opened up, making the railway officially transcontinental, except for this confusing tidbit:

5) The First Transcontinental Railroad consisted of a railway constructed by Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads. The western terminus (either end of a transportation line) is, um, the Pacific Ocean. It sounds to me like, if you’re wrestling with how to navigate lakes and rivers, that you probably don’t want to tackle an ocean, so…probably a good terminus. The eastern terminus, however, is Council Bluffs, Iowa/Omaha, Nebraska. Now, much like I’m not your typical ace in the hole when it comes to history, I’m not going to recommend that you hire me to teach your kids geography either. I do, however, recall enough about the landscape of the United States to say with a certain confidence that I think there’s land out there east of Omaha. And, yeah, I just dropped a little Seger on you. Uncalled for. I know. My bad. The point, though, is that we’re, once again, several states shy of saying, “I’m bad, I’m nationwide.” (Note: I think all the avenues in life would be more pleasant to stroll if we could weave a little ZZ Top into them.)

I do think, though, that I discovered the reason for this flaw, and that’s this: Abraham Lincoln is supposedly the responsible party for choosing Council Bluffs as the eastern terminus. That’s not a diss on Lincoln, either. I love me some Abe. Problem is: He made that decision from the Lincoln Memorial, which is probably a shade out of binoculars’ reach from Iowa. But in the end it wasn’t a big deal at all because all the Union and Central Pacifics had to do was connect with the eastern railways that already existed. Duh. Everyone knows the east coast gets everything first.

Anyway, The Golden Spike ceremony is the gig from which we get “The Jupiter & the 119,” and it’s a day that continues to receive notoriety. In 1957, the Promontory Summit area was proclaimed the Golden Spike National Historic Site. There were all kinds of celebrations for the 100-year anniversary, and heck – the state of Utah, in 2007, decided they’d go ahead and make the driving of the spike the image that appears on their quarter, which is pretty cool. Not as cool as it would be if they conjured up an image of someone explaining to someone else all of the details and rules associated with Utah’s bars and liquor stores, but you’d probably need a bigger quarter for that, and I’d bet that the other 49 states would probably be like, C’mon, Utah. You’re annoying enough as it is.

Also, Council Bluffs built itself the Golden Spike Monument, since, you know, the, uh, spike driving happened in Utah and Iowa is the eastern edge of civilization, but hey -- who’s keepin’ track.

Enough about a bunch of stuff constructed by dead people, though. We’re talking about a song here. And it’s a good one. Remember? I broke rules for this thing. Like, chaos ensued, and whatnot.

Let’s talk bluegrass for a minute.

This genre of music is daunting to me. To give it to you in a really watered-down version, I imagine it to be something like Harry Potter. What I mean by that is that I saw the first Harry Potter movie. Like, in the theater, with popcorn and a Coke the size of my right leg. And though it was a while ago, I seem to recall enjoying it. It didn’t make me want to read the book, but then again, movies seldom do. I’m typically of the belief system that the book is always better than the movie, but I’m almost never qualified to say that because I don’t read nearly enough. I own a ton of books, and one day hope to read every one of them, but that’s a daunting blog post for another day.

But perhaps the golden-spike driving point here is that I didn’t go see the second Harry Potter movie, or any of the ones that followed that, either. And that’s probably because I didn’t choose to go see the first Harry Potter movie. I went to it because that’s what my family selected to go see while we were in Florida for Christmas. I wasn’t opposed to seeing it, and I certainly wasn’t going to be weird relative that stays home from the movies while everyone else goes. So I went. And it was good. But that was 10 years ago. I’ve probably thought about Harry Potter for a total of 19 seconds since then, so it kinda just wasn’t meant to be. And I think maybe the same thing started to happen, or could’ve happened, with bluegrass. I can’t recall any specific moments or people or opportunities, but I imagine there were several crossroads in my life where, had I gone a different direction, I could’ve begun the arduous process of obtaining my PhD in bluegrass. (Note: We’re talkin’ figurative terms here, kids. Figurative.) I could’ve explored the roots, the beginnings, carved out a niche of some favorites, and let the exposure blossom.

But see, what happens when you’re stubborn looks a little something like this:

Person X: “Dude, let me make you a copy of this tape. I think you’ll really dig these guys.”

Stubborn me: “That’s cool, bro. I’ve already been given the keys to every musical city on the planet, so I highly doubt you’re going to show me anything I haven’t already stamped as awesome.”

And so here we are. I do know a little bluegrass, so I’m not hopeless. But in my helping friendly book of rules, where the balance cannot go unrestored, and petty details may not remain unanswered, and hyperbole is the worst thing ever, “a little” may as well be a dull pair of scissors while I stare at a locomotive-sized jar of mustard. Ain’t no cuttin’ happenin’. There are reasons behind why this is important enough to explain in detail, and those reasons look like this: Bluegrass music is up my frickin’ alley, yo. It’s the kind of thing that jives with my rustic soul, my old-school approach.

Check this out: The first thing I ever saved up (Note: Also figurative. I could never really “save” for anything since I was always blowing my wad on cassettes, but whatever.) for and purchased was an electric guitar. I was so excited for it that I couldn’t even wait until I’d saved enough for an amp. I just played without one for a while. I took lessons. I practiced. A little. But I wanted to shred like Eddie Van Halen, be a rock star like Jimmy Page, and have that Tom Scholz Rockman sound blast out of some speakers while chicks in the crowd went berserk over me and my band. And don’t get me wrong. I love and respect the guitar. I just never had the patience and determination to master it. At one point, I had an arsenal of like eight or 10 songs I could play but couldn’t touch a solo to save my life.

But I hung onto that thing, drug it with me with every move. And then, after college, I bought a nice keyboard. And I took lessons. And the mantra was this: The piano is the root of music, right? So, if I learn piano, then I’ll be more musically knowledgeable, and also, if my rig gets big enough to include a Moog and some clav’ action, then naturally, chicks will dig me. And my band. As we rage on the stage. I was really into it for a bit, too. But then I moved to pursue this relationship, which was bad timing for, among other things, my blossoming career as a pianist. A short while later, I bought my buddy’s bass.

That was kinda it. He was selling it. I knew I’d probably never seriously take it up, but the idea of potential jam sessions (Note: Relationship already over, lots of space in my house, and now all I’m missing is a drum kit! The band is nearly complete! Now all’s we gotta do is figure out how to play these things!) and all-night parties was too much to pass up. Plus it was cheap. And then, a few years later, at a time when I could absolutely not afford to make another impulse purchase, I bought dual turntables and a mixer, which went a little something like this –- and, yes, you must say this in your best stoner voice -- in my head: Dude, if you can’t produce original material, you can make ultra-sweet compilations of other people’s music. This will be both gnarly and instant platinum.

I hung onto everything for a little while, and even added my sister-in-law’s acoustic to the collection when she needed some cash. Sold the electric and thebass a little over a year ago. Still have the Yamaha and the Technics, but I would trade them both in an instant for a banjo. Yeah. A banjo.

I’d steer the John Deere back to the farmhouse a little early each day, and I’d sit on the porch, drink a cold beer, and play the dickens outta my banjo. And not ‘cause I think it’d make the ladies dig me, but because I love the sound of that instrument. And here’s how realistic this dream is: I’m not lookin’ to become the next Bela Fleck. I’d be content just learning how to play “The Rainbow Connection.” Banjos are that righteous.

Anyway, there’s a ton of bluegrass I haven’t discovered, but thankfully I’ve discovered a tiny little morsel, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that “The Jupiter & the 119” starts off with some beautiful mandolin/fiddle (Note: Technically, Tim Carbone is listed as a violinist, but when I think of violins, I think of those terrible strings performances they always have elementary-school kids do, where it sounds like these kids have dedicated a solid four minutes of practice in preparation for the big day. For my money, when it’s this big and bold of a sound, it’s a flippin’ fiddle.) action. It’s kind of eerie, too, almost like the sound of it casts an image of that near-dusk part of the day where the world is sorta settlin’ in and leaves are kinda scootin’ around in bunches of wind here and there. It’s almost like the fiddle is the wind, and the rustling leaves come to life with each pluck of the mandolin’s strings. Or maybe I just watch too much television. I dunno.

The genre of bluegrass might be the only showcase for the acoustic guitar when the acoustic guitar is not appearing in singer/songwriter fashion. It provides the perfect amount of backbone to the collective sound. It never overpowers, and would certainly be noticed if omitted. So, Sheaffer kicks in with some six-string strumming and then the banjo comes rollin’ in. And by “rollin’ in,” I do not mean that super-speedy, fast-pickin’ pace of play, but a smooth, yet bouncy kind of cycle to it. The only way I can think of to describe it is to mention that terribly cheesy rollin’ thing that Daunte Culpepper used to do in Minnesota, and that would do a serious disservice to both the song and the band. They do, nevertheless, really get things going, and the rest of the band joins in.

Sheaffer and company begin to tell the story of these two locomotives, their musical fire starts to get hot enough where you could cook over it, and they back it off a notch. Solid, solid move. I’ll say this about songwriting, and know going in that I’m about as versed in the art of writing song as I am qualified to tune a piano: If you can tackle both the concept of strategical placement, along with tactful execution, throwing an “Ooo” or an “Ohh” into your song is very soothing. I think it’s one of those things that all of us say or think or sing with some regularity but simply aren’t aware of it, so when we become aware of it, and then do it, it feels really natural. Railroad Earth hits the Ooos in this track outta the park.

And speaking of placement, that nice little vocal moment is followed by a segment that has some quiet, sporadic picking and bow playing that provides filler to a rather boisterous drum portion that supports a vocal segment that’s crucial to the story -– the two engines making their way toward each other -- and then everyone nicely rejoins for the refrain. The song and the story begin to build a little steam, and everyone’s plugging along up until the three-minute mark, and it is at that point that Carbone makes a change in delivery; his fiddle switches from subtle background to forefront accents, and it’s one of those moves that sorta says, Hey, listen up: We’re gettin’ somewhere important in a second.

And gettin’ somewhere they are. I mean, hello! Golden Spike ceremony dead ahead! Another nice transition follows though. It’s near the five-minute mark, and it seems, in flashes, that all you hear is vocals. And I gotta say that at this very minute, I cannot think of another song where music and story meet in such a wonderful marriage. We’re talkin’ eggs-and-bacon good here, people. Now, it may seem like I’m now an expert on the First Transcontinental Railroad, but I assure you that I am not. I know only what you’ve read and nothing more, but in my various clicks of the InterWebs I’ve come across a few images of the big day, or maybe it was one image and one likeness. Whatever. The point is that all of the reading and image viewing in the world don’t paint the picture that this Sheaffer delivery does:

“They met in Promontory, from east and west they’re here,
And all across the country, they raised a mighty cheer.
The mighty tracks are polished, on the tracks they proudly rest,
The crowd’s all gathered ‘round ‘em, dressed up in their Sunday best.
The big brass band is playin’, it’s a bright uncloudy day,
The speaker’s oratory, and the bosses have their say.
The reverend says a prayer, it’s mercifully short,
The drunken railmen laugh, and the iron horses snort.
The engines movin’ closer, they easin’ down the line,
The champagne bottles pop. Come fill your glass, it’s toastin’ time.
These engines, these were maiden, they’re nose-to-nose alike,
They raised a silver hammer, and they NAILED THE GOLDEN SPIKE!”

From the song’s peak there isn’t any further development necessary, but suffice to say that all instruments are in full bloom, and when audible, they conjure up images of hayseed-chewin’, dirty, bare feet, and swinging dresses. And it’s here that the banjo playing is really remarkable. While all parts are equal throughout most of the song, it’s important for this instrument to take a larger role as the song begins to wind down because it offers the feel of the kind of machine that’s so powerful that you don’t want to shut directly down after a good running, but rather you want ease into an idler speed, and eventually shut it off. And as the tune tapers off, you get a little fiddle mixed in with the banjo, which is akin to the lightest, most perfect dessert after an incredible meal. The kind that leaves you just a notch over satisfied, yet not quite flirting with uncomfortably full. Better still, is the image that the two instruments conjure: the nice, thick-and-healthy lingering smoke cloud left behind by a train.

So, as you might’ve guessed: I’m a pretty big fan of this song. And while we’re bathing in honesty, I’ll let you peak below a few bubbles: I don’t typically allow one track to speak to an album’s value, but this song is an exception. “The Jupiter & the 119” is Drew Brees in 2009. Sure, the rest of the ammo is good, but let’s look at the gun that’s doin’ the firing. This is a really well-crafted tune, and it’s time you should hear it for yourself. The studio version can be streamed here, but they’ve taken out that nice intro I’ve so quaintly described. You can get a feel for it my checking out the first minute or so of this live version. Like the blogger that provides the link to that stream writes, “Give the track a listen. It’s addictive!” Or better yet, buy the album.

To summarize, though: It's worth noting that, given all of the direction that music has gone in the last 142 years, it's nothing shy of impeccable that a band, a group of musicians, could compose a track that's this amazing that's not about a relationship, or about the sense of loss experienced via one of today's plights, but rather, about an incredible feat that changed our society, progressed it. The railroad, man. If you can sit down, pen the lyrics to a tune about a piece of history that's ancient, given the newness of America, and then compose a fantastic cut that jives this well with your story, then kudos, boss. You're doin' somethin' right.
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Wednesday Whatnot: bing, The Idaho Potato Museum, and Car Insurance

I've often wrestled with the role that television plays in my life. For a spell, when I was a wayward young man, I lived in several households without TV sets, and inhabited a few domains not worthy of the title of household, so I found it auspicious to let those who'd listen know that I did not, in fact, watch television. It was, I felt, a good way to put a label on my still-developing persona, and although technically true on many occasions, it was mostly a load of crap. It's not like I grew up in a home without a television, or that I've never had favorite shows, or that I've never watched a gazillion sporting events on the tube. No, I do watch TV, and probably a little too much of it, right now, but I still pass plenty of judgment on certain shows people watch.

For example, it was just yesterday that a co-worker said to me verbatim, "I mean, I don't watch TV," which she then followed up with, "however, my new favorite show is 'Mike and Molly.'"

I related to this on two levels, the first of which should be obvious. The second of which is that I had just privately lambasted an ad for this program, having seen a commercial for it, then hearing the end of the commercial with one of those the-best-new-fill-in-the-blank-program sort of lines that's supposed to get people to check out a show. I thought to myself: There wasn't an ounce of funny in that ad, and what the hell is this show anyway? A program for fat people to feel good about themselves?

Of course, when my colleague stated that, I felt like a jerk, so I'm going to try and refrain from passing judgment on what other people watch, even if my sister mainlines Real Housewives, a couple of buddies of mine flog the dolphin to Jersey Shore, and frankly, watching television has adverse effects on, well, everything else I'd like to get done, but that's the goal. Meantime, I thought I'd wax philosophical on commercials for a minute.

I'm somewhere in between really interested and thoroughly fascinated by TV advertising. That is, I don't think I've watched one single commercial in the last five or six years and not had a really strong opinion about it. That opinion either goes one way -- That was the worst piece of advertising I have ever seen in my entire life, and having endured its atrociousness, I will now make a conscious effort to never, ever give that company one penny of my money. I cannot believe that people got paid to make that pile of televised garbage -- or it becomes and instant favorite, I never get tired of seeing it, and want everyone I know to love it just as much as I do.

This is the case with the bing traffic jam commercial, which I adore:



For my wife, she loves the Geico commercials, most notably the woodchucks:



and especially the little piggie:



I have no idea how many times I've heard people say that they hate this commercial with every fiber of their soul, but I always pipe up and mention the wife's affinity for it. Personally, I like the jackwagon one, but whatever.

The point is, that I think a lot, if not most, of us have opinions on commercials. They're fascinating to analyze from a conceptual standpoint, and to try and determine how they thought their angle(s) would generate new patrons, or reaffirm the confidence in customers that already existed.

Take car insurance, for example. You have, in my estimation, three companies that have been fully engaged in this advertising competition for some time now: Geico, Progressive, and State Farm. Geico has been hitting the bricks hard with the 15-minutes-could-save-you campaign for a number of years. It started out as simple, but then they stepped it up a notch with the caveman campaign, went high-brow by adding the gecko, and have kicked it in to high gear lately with all of the Mike McGlone spots. On the other hand, you have Progressive. Everyone knows Flo from Progressive. Her spots are great, and even though she's one of those folks cursed with the two-first-name situation (Stephanie Courtney), I think most people find her benign, if not slightly tolerable bordering on enjoyable. Personally, I'm waiting for her sex tape to come out, but that's another post.

Allstate has stayed the conservative route for a long, long time, now with Dennis Haysbert as the all-too-familiar spokesperson. They've recently attempted a new direction, though, by stepping out of that secure, feel-good mode, and suggesting that going with a newer competitor with a lesser tenure could impose chaos upon your world. State Farm felt like they had to get in the mix by adding their blink-like-you're-I-Dream-of-Jeanie-and-like-a-good-neighbor-your-agent-is-there agenda. And of course, Farmer's Insurance is coming at us with the think-quick, on-your-feet propaganda. There are, of course, others, but we've given enough examples already.

My stance has been cemented for most of 10 years, though. I grew up using State Farm because that's what my mom used because a family friend was an agent. I dumped them, however, when they started acting like jackwagons, and went with Allstate because I had an uncle that was an agent. When he retired, however, things changed. I got a new car, added it to my plan, and my premiums skyrocketed. So, I did some shopping, and compared premium quotes among Progressive, Geico, State Farm, and a couple of others. Suffice to say that the rates Progressive offered were not only the best, but their customer service was far superior. And for the record, Geico was more than double all of the rates offered, but the point is not to steer you in any direction on car insurance, but to mention that I went with the company that presented the best offer, and have stuck with them ever since, and no amount of dollars and sense invested in clever ad campaigns will even get me to consider for a moment switching companies. I'm sure there are those that will ponder it, but it's an interesting concept, at least to me.

As far as bing and search engines are concerned, I'm not even interested in what they're trying to advertise. I do, however, find their commercials clever and entertaining, so I will never not consider using their product. Finally, there is the third leg to this stool and that is the advertising of the outright obnoxious company and its product/service. The only example -- and I'm certain there are plenty of others -- that immediately springs to mind is something like the current Domino's ad campaign. You know the one. It's the neverending stream of commercials where they profess that they've been making a crappy product and insist that they've improved upon said crappy product. It's not that I have a beef with the philosophy behind this campaign, and I don't have a particular problem with past experiences eating Domino's pie.

The situation is this: I typically order local pizza, and almost always prefer it over any chain pizza. But now, having endured dozens of these ads, I will, in the event that my local delivery service is on the fritz, definitely refrain from ordering Domino's pizza because their commercials are so God-damned annoying, and frankly, way overplayed.

Enough about all that, though. The point was that commericals are psychologically fascinating, and I'm going to make a point of screaming "Visit the Idaho potato museum!" anytime someone uses the word visit, Idaho, potato, or museum. Just 'cause it'll be a hoot.

And that's all I have to say about that. Read more

Monday Miscellany: Thousand-Story Picture

Love it. Good, good times.

(photo courtesy of David Eulitt of The Kansas City Star) Read more

This Week in Blogstralia: Rickshaw Season

It's been a while since we gave a new feature a go here on the House of Georges, and I'll go ahead and tell you something you already know: It's never a good idea when we give a new feature a go. So, there. Now that that healthy dose of confidence has been splashed into your late-morning coffee, let's examine just what our angle is:

You've met the Internets. You've flirted with them, perhaps even developed a relationship. I'd gander that some of you have even let the Internets see you naked a time or two. Okay, fine. All of you have done that. We don't aim to get personal with this new feature. We simply want to peer into a few living room windows and see who's out there blogging, and just what, assuming the content is decipherable, goes on within the confines of their URLs.

For the inaugural installment of this feature, we bring you...
...Rickshaw Season.

If you look up "rickshaw" in the dictionary, it will refer you to "jinrikisha," which will then inform you that the word signifies a two-wheeled passenger vehicle pulled by one person, formerly used in China and Japan. And if you're like most, you probably tuned out about 25 syllables ago, wondering what this ancient form of transportation could possibly have to do with the YouTubed 4G (Four Gs! It's got four Gs!) Networks of the modern era. Well, I'll tell you.

There was a time, some 16 years ago, when I was a glassy-eyed freshman matriculating at Pittsburg State University. No, there's not supposed to be an 'h' on the end of that. We're talking about a four-year school in the rural, southern stretches of The Sunflower State, and it was in that year, and in that institution, that I met the proprietor of Rickshaw Season. He was an interesting fellow, one who turned me on to, among other things, rooting for the Vancouver Canucks to continue the New York Rangers' drought of Stanley Cup championships, jokes about bestiality, and drinking beer cheaper than the really cheap beer I drank at the time. He is also the only human being I have ever known to actually wear one of these.

But all of that's beside the point. The point, need I remind you, is rickshaws, or rickshawalas, if you will. You may wonder why one would shawal a rick, and this blogger will confidently answer that question for you here, and if you're really interested, you can read his "about" page here.

Anyway, Rickshaw Season. It's archived, albeit backdated, through the past five years, and you, are of course, at liberty to peruse the site, the archives, the photos, and even the StubTube clips that have been posted.

Why, you might ask, would Rickshaw Season be the first selection for this new feature? The answer is simple: You and I aren't gonna get out there and pedal other people around by bicycle. This guy, however, will. And he'll, from time to time, blog about it.
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