Bastards of Young

The Replacements were a big part of my college years. I first heard their catalog of music after moving to Minneapolis in 1987. Granted, by that time they had released their final album with their original lineup and they were no longer playing local clubs. But their music was still revolutionary to me in the ways that Paul Westerberg's lyrics and Bob Stinson's guitar work made me think that music could still be great and fresh even without popular radio help.

This summer I spent a couple days reading Jim Walsh's "All Over But the Shouting" about the Replacements 1979-1992. The book consisted of interviews that were printed prior in various publications and interviews that Walsh did himself. It was a book that I've been meaning to read since it came out almost two years ago, but as they say 'The best laid plans...'. Anyway, I wanted to read it for quite a while.

Before I give my thumbs-up/down on it, I should admit I'm biased regarding the author. Walsh worked as the music editor at City Pages and the St. Paul Pioneer-Press (when I was there in 1996). He was also a musician of a minor note during the same period that the Replacements were playing local clubs. I never found Walsh's writing coherent or particularly insightful. His writing style comes across as the aborted love fetus of Lester Bangs and Virginia Woolf -- that is self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness B.S. I was less interested in knowing about Jim's personal mindset than I was in knowing what Wilco's set list was on their last show at First Avenue.

Walsh nearly sprains his shoulder patting himself on the back early in the book by placing himself as Westerberg's muse for the song "Unsatisfied". Several sentences later he writes that he didn't add that anecdote to make readers think he had any part in Westerberg's song, but you can't have it both ways my friend.

Walsh's book was without a narrative string. It merely consisted of one interview linked to another. Overall, the book disappointed me and I was left hoping that Walsh could have hit a homerun on this one -- even though I didn't expect it. His best work dealt with Bob Stinson's death (presumably due to a drug overdose) in Uptown. Walsh printed the eulogy that he wrote for Stinson's funeral and it was admittedly touching.

Despite the Replacements local ties, I never met or spoke to any of the band's members over a beer at a local tavern. Bob was the closest. I would see him occasionally at local establishments and his drug issues and mental instability were apparent. His mother still works at the Uptown Bar on Hennepin. I remember one time I was there having a beer with a friend and we were discussing famous rock-and-roll flameouts. I mentioned how Stinson's death seemed inevitable. I probably was talking too loud because a woman (I later found out was his mother) brought us our beers and said to us "Well, we did the best we could."

The Death of the American Dream: A documentary

“Gonzo: The Life and Work of Hunter S. Thompson” is an interesting look at one of the most interesting, er, ‘non-fiction’ writers in American letters. The film, directed by Alex Gibney, has a limited release and made it to the Twin Towns a week ago. What I found interesting was that, in an obvious paean to the founder of Gonzo Journalism (a sub-set of the New Journalism movement of the mid-late sixties), the film wasn’t a complete over-the-top gushing about the man. The film not only examined his talents (“Hell’s Angels” ranks among my top non-fiction novels all time), and his excesses (drugs, guns, alcohol, and did I mention drugs and alcohol?), but his failures and his diminished abilities toward the end of his life.
Among the really great interviews in the movie were Tom Wolfe and Pat Buchanon. Buchanon, who was Nixon’s speechwriter when Thompson was on the capitol beat during the early 70s, showed a particularly dry wit and appreciation for Thompson’s writing talents. Wolfe credited Thompson with supplying audio tapes of Ken Kesey’s rolling party with the Merry Prankster’s for his seminal work “The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test.” Democratic candidate George McGovern and Jimmy Carter were also included among the interviews on the life of Thompson. Thompson’s best work culminated in “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail,” which was a compilation of his work for Rolling Stone during the 1972 presidential primaries, and the book that became required reading for every pot-smoking college freshman “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”. The crushing loss of McGovern, and subsequent writing failures -- the Ali fight in Zaire in which he got loaded and failed to show up and cover the event – were part of his spiral downward.
Thompson, according to RS Publisher Jann Wenner and Wolfe, was caught in a box that he created. He could no longer cover events because he was bigger than the events themselves. Coupled with that, his drinking and drug use was taking a toll on his writing acuity. His final years were Hunter covering Hunter. As much fun as the man’s persona seemed, he was in essence a sad man who couldn’t deal with diminishing skills and an inability to publish the great American novel.
One of the strangest points in the film was when Thompson’s son, Juan, was interviewed about his father’s death. Apparently it was a sunny winter day in Woody Creek, CO, when Hunter took a gun to his head and ended his life. Juan stoically recalled the day as being very peaceful and that his father undoubtedly chose the setting to end his life. Juan, in a very odd choice of words, called it “a warm family moment.”
Thompson ended his life in the same way that his hero, Earnest Hemingway, ended his. Still, as his first wife Sandi said, for fans who thought that Thompson’s act was one of strength, they were mistaken. Sandi said that Thompson’s act was cowardice and that he left while the battle was still at hand. His weaponry of words, according his ex-wife, could be useful today as the failures of the Bush Administration roll on.

Frank McCourt's "Teacher Man"

I finally got a chance to read a couple books that I’ve been meaning to get to. The first one was Frank McCourt’s “Teacher Man” and the other one was Jim Walsh’s story on The Replacements, “All Over but the Shouting.”

McCourt, who came to America as a teen-ager from Ireland, taught in New York public high schools for three decades. During the time he was dismissed from a couple positions and ran into pretty much the same issues that every other high school teacher has run into. There wasn’t as much sex, drugs and alcohol as I remember my students talking about, but maybe he just left those things out as a matter of taste.

Although the book was published several years back, my reading list is quite dated. Both my sister and wife had both read the book and while my wife didn’t like it, my sister said that I should read it. My sister taught in public schools in Milwaukee for several years as a speech pathologist. She’s since left schools to a stay-at-home mom. My wife felt the book was too negative and that he didn’t even seem to enjoy being a teacher.

There was a larger point that McCourt was making, however, and I didn’t take it as being an overly negative image of education in general. Any person who has spent time in a classroom has felt his frustration with the students’ unwillingness to learn for learning sake – cripes they’re teen-agers after all, a bunch of rock-head phy-ed teachers for administrators, negligent parents, or helicopter parents who NEED to have smoke blown up their asses regarding their children’s academic abilities. It’s enough to drive you to drinking. And, of course, it has. Still, there is a sweet undercurrent to McCourt’s path as a teacher. Eventually he developed his teaching voice and recounted a few of the students who affected his life in very meaningful ways. Overall, I thought the book was a powerfully strong voice in favor of teaching. I don’t know if McCourt realized how strongly he felt about teaching until he left. Oh yeah, he wrote a book or two after he left teaching and didn’t have all of those ungraded essays staring at him.

A Day of Firsts

There is something about doing something for the first time. I'm not talking about the first time that you get busted by the cops, or the first time that you got sick from a half-liter of vodka; or the first time that you, well, you get where I'm coming from. Saturday was a day of firsts. The first, and certainly the lessor, was when I finally nailed a lob wedge. I was the 18th hole at Les Bolstad (the University of Minnesota's course) and I sat about 75 yards away from the pin but directly in front of a large (say 45 feet) pine. I've questioned before why I even have this club in my bag. After a couple rounds you can tell which clubs get the most use from the mud and scuff on the iron. The pitching wedge and the 9-iron, unfortunately, get over-extensive use by me over the course of 18 holes. So, to be able to nail that sombitch and finish it out with a one-putt made a truly marginal round rather memorable.

A couple hours later I had a more momentous occasion to witness. My 6-y-o Ella has been working on riding her bike without training wheels. Yesterday she nailed it. I had been running behind her and holding the seat since last year and except for a couple moments, she hadn't been able to commandeer the vehicle on her own. After two or three running "practices" I let go of her bike. She didn't know that she was unaided until she saw me running beside her. That sight froze her momentarily, but she gained her balance and went flying along.

As a side note, for those of us who were born in the sixties or the early seventies, protective gear for activities was quite different than it is today. There were no helmets, knee or elbow pads. If you were smart you wore long pants and maybe a baseball cap to keep the gravel out of your bleeding skull. My parents had a rock the size of Gibralter next to their front yard and when I started learning to ride my first bike, that rock seemed like a magnet to my bike. There's nothing like a good shot to the groin that will give a young boy the encouragement to learn the art of balance and steering on a bike. I thought of that as I strapped on my daughter's elbow and knee pads and her titanium helmet. I didn't put the mouth guard on her as my wife was gone for the day and couldn't monitor.

I hope your own day of firsts don't include blood or compound fractures and Happy Father's Day to everyone who qualifies.

Another Local Celebrity-Criminal

Here in Minnesota, we don't get as many celebrity sightings as our friends in Los Angeles. That said, the few that we have are usually related to some indecent crime -- read Larry Craig. Well, it appears that we had another one this week. In our fine little hamlet of Mankato, home of the University of Minnesota-Mankato, a man approached a couple of young co-eds with an interesting proposition. Apparently posing as a professional CMT, he offered his services to the young women, both of whom were sunbathing near their off-campus housing. While neither took the man up on his offer, he was able to unknowingly follow one of the girls back into her apartment (where she was retrieving a drink for him). Once inside he was able to cop a feel on the girl before her yelling and protests drove him off. Normally a creepy story story like this would elicit a mere -- hmmph -- from me. It was the culprit's physical description that struck me:

“Police say they are looking for a white man, 30 to 35 years old, 5 feet 10 to 6 feet 2 inches tall, weighing 250 to 300 pounds. He has short sandy-brown brown hair.

The suspect also has several distinguishing characteristics: a large stomach, hairy upper body, a large head, a larger than normal nose and a high forehead. His voice was described as high-pitched. He also had a pimple or sore that was red and possibly irritated above the right side of his mouth. During one incident, he had no shirt on, was wearing shorts and was barefooted.” (Star-Tribune, A-1, June 7, 2008)

"Yes," you're saying to yourself. "He's handsome alright, but he's no celebrity Tom, is he?"

Well, I can't confirm this, but at the same time that this was taking place, suspected 911 terrorist Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was being taken out of his military prison cell (and a break from incessant water-boarding) for a trial. You may have heard of the case. He, perhaps inaccurately, assumed that by becoming a martyr in your cause -- in this case, killing as many Americans as possible -- that you'd get 70 virgins when you reached heaven.

My theory is that Mohammed took a break from his "destroy the infidels" efforts to visit Minnesota during our two-week summer and made his way to Mankato in an effort to score with some local beauties. But in his effort to fool the Mankato gals into thinking he was legitimately a masseuse and end up scoring with a virgin, he was sadly mistaken. As anyone whose been to the University of Minnesota-Mankato knows: There hasn't been one of those on campus in several decades.

In case you've forgotten what Khalid looks like, I've posted a picture at the top. Good luck with your own professional endeavors.

He may want to mix in a sweater vest

This story ran in the Green Bay Press-Gazette this week. If I were Mr. Witthoft, I wouldn't wait by the phone for the Hall of Fame to call...

Twelve-year-old David Witthoft wore a red Nike shirt to school on April 24.

It’s significant because on each of the previous 1,581 days, Witthoft wore the Brett Favre jersey he received as a gift for Christmas 2003 when he was just 7.

“His last day wearing the jersey was April 23, which was his 12th birthday,” Chuck Witthoft, David’s father, said from their Ridgefield, Conn., home on Monday. “It was tough for him for awhile but now that he’s 12, he is a little more concerned about his appearance. And the jersey barely came down to his beltline.”

David plans to frame and hang the jersey in his bedroom, but the family might also contact the Packers Hall of Fame to see if there is any interest in displaying it. The final decision will be David’s, his father said.

“He’s really attached to this shirt,” Chuck Witthoft said.

School burnout and a spider bite

For those among you who, like me, have to go through the grind of grading papers and poorly constructed essays, you know the feeling of being burnt out at this time of the year. Even if you don't have a stack high of essays proposing a hidden 'gay' relationship between Huck Finn and Jim (or George and Lennie), you know the feeling of wanting to say 'fuck it all'. That said, I'm sure that most -- nay, all of you -- are having a better spring than one of my students. I received a letter from his mom, accompanied by a doctor's note, that said that this student will have to withdraw for the remainder of the semester due to a serious medical condition. The condition: it appears that when he visited a family member in the southwest, he was bitten no less than five times by a Brown Recluse Spider.

I must admit I didn't know much about this arachnid so I did a little 'googling' and found this lovely image. I could see why this person doesn't have much interest in style guides or writing ledes, especially if his hand looks like the one in the photo. So, as I tell my students and friends: Always look under the toilet seats you sit upon.