Allow me to demonstrate my powers ... So at the Scottish Ramble the other week we stomped about in our kilts, bought knives, imbibed in the hall, imbibed at the Liffey, and all in all made what one might call merry. I ate haggis. I survived. Still, the week that followed, I was even more ramshackle in my memory than normal. I'd hurt my brain (but done nothing to repair it!).

Billy Watkins, whose memory is for all the world sharp enough he can fake it, drank so much he'd neglected to remember the whole Liffey episode that served as the Guinness-rich middleground between the Scottish fest and whatever it was the others got themselves into at the Garage that night. He seemed confused he'd been so groggy the next day. I didn't know what to tell him. I'd gone home.



So for a week I'd been haunted by forgetfulness. Thoughts came to me only long enough to let me know I'd had them but not of what. They were phantoms: creaking floorboards, the itch of an insect's step. Things you think you sense when you're holding still trying to sense them.



I watched a film about an exorcism. I started to think that 3:00 a.m. was a pretty shitty time to be awake.

Then I began to feel more deft in my motor skills and mind. Days had passed after all. I took out the kilt knife. I tossed it between my hands (Under Siege was on Fox, again) and wound up giving my left palm a bit of stigmata.

I went back to the pub. I declared myself the Mayor of Lake Street during our "Fat Saturday" celebration, the photographic evidence of which I await, for it will guarantee, I think, that the best official political seat I can hope for in life is becoming a Congressman in the United States House of Representatives: the B-teamers.

But it was a grand night, so grand I left my computer there. All my fiction. All my freelance writing. Everything I'd due on Monday. Financial information (Ha!). Photographs (not the incriminating ones). My 92% success rate in Freecell.



Yet all this led to good, as it made me take it easy Sunday morning (Do NOT sing that song!) instead of working. I couldn't pick up my computer for many hours, not 'til 6 pm. So I went to a breakfast at the Local and ate more meat than I normally do in a week. "Irish Breakfast" might as well come with an apple in its mouth. It's good, especially the Local's, but it's a huge amount of food, and it's got to be horrifying to true vegetarians. I just lack the dedication.



So I met John and Tony there, and Kieran, the golden dawg who owns the joint, joined us for a bite and some yabber. Outstanding, all three of 'em. I feel blessed to know these folks. We watched Ireland runover Wales (Sorry, Dingley) with a fairly cruel certainty in a 6 Nations match from Dublin. Good fun, though. (Ireland to take the Triple Crown this year? Unbelievable.) Kieran told a story of taking his wife to Galway, and as they entered a pub she saw a sign promoting the Irish hurling championship, and the language barrier at that point was steep. He explained the sport, but later fate had its fun. They wandered back onto the street, only to find a man just outside the pub leaning against a lightpost, holding the earth in orbit for all we knew, as he vomited copious amounts of what had been a very good day.

And Kieran's wife said, "Oh, he'd be a good one for the team."

Indeed.
-cK  ¶ 9:58 PM

  Staring at the Arctic Universe Wednesday night at the Turf Club, I saw a one-man band by the name of Arctic Universe. Awesome. He opened for Ear Candy (Dear god, they were also eye candy for the night), and he was pure spectacle. The stage was empty but the room filled with the sound of waves and bass that evened into a soothing but thunderous ambient sound. No one on stage. Then some singing emerged, soaring, slightly plaintive, sort of Latiny, sort of Cher-ish. Definitely house.

When was the last time I heard house outside of a drag show? I know, you're like, "Dude, where have you been for the last 15 years?"


So there we were, listening to these short lines about love or darkness. More bass. People started looking at the sound guy like, "Why are you playing the club tunes at the volume of a band?" The volume of everything had brought some people closer to the stage. But no one was there. No instruments were there.

It was like a John Cage performance.

And then we realized the singing was coming from the guy just wandering in front of the bar. He used a remote mic but so deftly that you might think he was simply raising a pint or cigarette to his lips. He seemed so out of sorts it was stylish. One shoe looked to be three inches larger in the sole than the other. He wore black-rimmed glasses and a curly, black wig (perhaps hoping to look that extra bit rumpled). It was grand.

He even took breaks in songs to smoke, order beer, compliment the staff ("You're doing a great job"), dance in controlled bursts (behind the bar, no less), play a jaunty air violin (to match the jaunty violin sounds that abruptly burst from the sound system), hold his wrist over a candle in some sort of determined "I'll do it!" dare, etc.

He wandered the room, found feedback, went into the photo booth, paused at the Golden Tee game as if he might golf a few holes during this.



Had his set been longer than 30 minutes, it probably would have gone stale fast, but for what it was it was really entertaining. It made people so happy. He had a charming sort of flamboyance and a strong degree of self-awareness. It seemed he'd reached a point of parody in which he was so comfortable he'd actually just fallen in love with the material. He was probably in love with it to begin with.



Afterwards, a girl chatted him up near me. He said something to the effect of being a little tired of Minneapolis, and then it seemed he added something complimentary about St Paul (home of the Turf Club). It didn't seem they knew one another, but those words sealed some sort of deal. (If I heard him correctly, yes, we're suckers for that pick up on this side of the River. Our esteem is so terribly low, but we love our city.) There was a pause. They wandered off together--god, that voyeur, knows where.

Passing, the girl gave me an even look but her eyes said, "You saw me do this, didn't you." The Arctic Universe looked at me too, only his eyes seemed to say, "Hey, you saw this, didn't you." I nodded. So did he.
-cK  ¶ 12:39 PM

  Pinched Pincher in the Pokey A little something for your morning coffee: A man in Colombia has been sentenced to FOUR YEARS in the pokey for grabbing a woman's butt. Ha!! He cycled off following the incident (He was a courier), but some passers-by stopped him. The woman was given the option to slap him. She pressed charges.



Just glorious.

I know. I know. Four years is harsh. Something will probably change with that. But, really. Hey, butt-dude: Knock it off! You were supposed to be delivering the packages you were paid to deliver.

By the way, what the hell is this?


That, friends, is my submission for the next million-selling relationship troubles book--the sort that too many people like us who don't need it will buy; while, people who really might learn some rudimentary communication skills (such as our cheeky Colombian) will not.
-cK  ¶ 9:40 AM

  Tales from the Crypt Partial remains of longtime BBC correspondant Alistaire Cooke were among those raided and sold into medical experiments. Four men have been charged with the thefts and illegal sales. More than 1,000 corpses are thought to have been robbed.



Cooke's Letter from America series ran for 58 years. He was a gem, as was his work. Back on 1 April 2004, the Two Week Crush even posted a note about his passing.  ¶ 5:33 PM

  Rivals Just gorged myself on a truly spectacular vegetarian wrap from Nina's and must crack back into work in a bit (while watching Days, thanks), so I've no time yet to post my write up from last night's Turf Club show, but I wanted to ask:

What is up in Japan?


Crush rivals? And they've brought jam.
-cK  ¶ 12:09 PM

  Ear Candy While I railed about Minnesota's flagging music scene earlier today (see previous blog entry), I'm not all piss and/or vinegar. I love lots of people! For example, Ear Candy. They put on a righteous show.

Those in the Twin Cities, please think of going to the Turf Club in St Paul tonight rather than sitting home to watch Conan and complain about having to get up for work in the morning. You know you're still awake! Come to the show!!



But if you don't, don't grouse to me about "not doing anything." I take your silence to mean we have a deal.  ¶ 12:10 PM

  Amina and Minnesota's Drought
Why are we ignoring bands like Amina in Minnesota?
Some half-assed investigative journalism gives over to a plea

The metro populations of Grand Rapids, Michigan and Minneapolis-St Paul, Minnesota are about 650,00 and 725,000 respectively. The latter becomes 3,000,000 when one includes the wooly suburban ring.

Grand Rapids boasts on its Web site that it was the first US city to add fluoride to the drinking water. Minneapolis-St Paul promotes is Scandinavian heritage, even including “Skol!” in the anthem of its (our) football team: the Vikings.

(No, I’m not positing that having a sports team with a name like the Vikings makes one truly Scandi.)

What really nags at me right now is the totally uninspired scheduling of music in the Twin Cities. While both Minneapolis and St. Paul do a respectable job of supporting classical music, and that’s rare and thrilling, the Cities are terrible about supporting new music. They’re terrible about supporting current music. They’re terrible about supporting local music. It’s a dead zone.

Why do so many touring artists play here only mid-week? Is it the clubs not putting up the money or the people not supporting the weekend venues? One will always say it is the other.

This could be a very lengthy screed, and already is given our easy reading exhaust now that scrolling is the information equivalent of a mile marker. It could be a thesis. I don’t want that. I want to talk about Amina, because they’re quite good, and, if I might be allowed to be shallow (but honest) too, they’re quite hot. This is the Two Week Crush, after all. In this venue, we’re all allowed our loins. Let Amina be CRUSHED! (You’re crushed!)



Amina is one of the featured bands in the music documentary Screaming Masterpiece (about the Icelandic music scene), itself an overlooked item in the United States though finally being given some legs. Amina has toured here, though. Recently. And with Sigur Ros (no small act, you know). And while they’ve been ignored by many of the country’s venues, or their label's ignored most venues, they have played, among many places, Grand Rapids, Michigan. ON A SATURDAY.

In Minneapolis-St Paul, we’re lucky to get Motley Crue for a weekend date. And they’ll date anybody. We can’t get a Billy Joel cover band for a weekend date. We can’t get the children of the Pointer Sisters for a weekend date. It doesn’t matter. You name the genre, you name the artist, we can’t get ‘em. Not the unknowns, not the mid-knowns. Screw it. We can’t even get those who can command enough capital to sell out arenas here on the weekend. Jesus. Even Prince (Hello, Chanhassan!!) made me catch him on a fucking Tuesday—one of three mid-week performances he’d sold out here in St. Paul.

Scandinavian music is really good right now. I’m not kidding. Denmark and Sweden have some lovely bands coming along. And it all goes well with our white-sky winters, and gorgeous summers, and our “Are we liberal? Are we not as liberal? We care about one another but let’s not make it too much” culture. We’ve got a much larger population than Grand Rapids and a hell of an advantage with the college culture and the overall Scandinavian culture. Yet we’re getting our asses handed to us. And we’re holding the knife.

We’re like the barbecue pig on the restaurant sign, the one who’s overjoyed to carve himself up for your dinner.



Get off your asses, and I’m talking to the music venues. And I’m talking to the people who support such flaccid efforts. We have too many business owners and not enough business sense in Minnesota. (Oo! Isn’t that clever!) Too much cultural pride but not enough culture. If you want to be just a bar, then just be a bar.

At some point, we need to refresh things, kids. We need to tend our cultural energy. We need something more than freshly poured pints and conversation about what’s on tv. I can't support the statement, but I feel very much that it is true: such complacency contributes to a city's decline. Culture and effort are meaningful.

Everyone must give in at some point. We need to do more here. Please. I swear to you that it will be worth it.

ABBA agrees with me.
-cK  ¶ 10:48 PM

  The Human Eye I can't believe Fancy got runover by a car (that had crashed through the diner window) and all that's wrong with her is glass in her friggin' eye. Everyone keeps saying, "Oh my god. Fancy. She might lose her eye." A car!!! I'm talking about Passions.

-cK  ¶ 1:31 PM

  Forget-Me-Nots While four or five article sources are currently taking my messages but failing to return the calls, Jens Lekman hasn't abandoned me!! Please visit his site and download the gorgeous tune "I don't know if she's worth 900 kr."



1. The 900 kroner applies to the price of a train ticket to Barcelona in the song. I'm not directing you to a red light district! (900 Swedish kroner is worth maybe $120 US.)

2. You've got to like presents, and Jens deals them out freely.

Thanks for picking up the pieces, Jens. I'm not even going to make a man-crush quip.
-cK  ¶ 10:32 AM

  Shut Up and Make Out!!! The Hazzards are definitely crushworthy. Lord.

Hey: spring is coming. It's nigh, even, in some parts of the country. (We've got a second helping of winter ordered here first, but we've heard about spring.) It's never too early to think spring planting, including, but not limited to, in whose mouth you'll be planting your tongue.

Roll the clip!



-cK  ¶ 10:30 AM

  Gangsta gots to a take a rest I've been working double-time these days, both in my freelance life and with blogging. I'm writing here and at my page at MySpace.com, the latter community about which I must vent. Briefly. Of note, the myriad pages of kids from Crystal Lake, Illinois. I'm sure you know, right off by the town's name, that it is a pleasant suburb. It is NOT the gangsta hub its MySpacers want you to think it is. I too rolled CL back in the day, but, let's be honest: Access to a Gadzooks store (now known as Forever 21, though it sells to teens) does not make one gangsta! Nor does a photograph of your fucking underwear line or you making a gesture like



Looks much more like the aftermath of a combine accident.
-cK  ¶ 12:05 AM

  The Haggis Experiment Yesterday, a knot of us from the pub kilted up, despite the below zero temperature (such heroism!), and attended a Scottish ramble at St Paul's lovely Landmark Center: a handful of booths, plenty of dancing, copious amounts of McEwan's, and men's knees so winter pale that they were apt to erase the viewer's memory. You could read at night to some of these legs. Acquired a new sgian dubh, new wool socks for the late-winter get-up, a Celtic pin, and canned haggis.

Holy crow: Canned haggis. Of course, the folks I was with sung its praises, though none purchased it. I rolled the dice.



After the fest, we wandered a few frigid blocks to the Liffey and caroused for a few hours before most of them shuttled off to the pub quiz in Minneapolis and I retreated to my apartment for a more spectacular end to the day: haggis.

At some point real substance needed to be consumed. Why not try the haggis? It looks something like condensed dog food out of the can. There are these globules in it that I suppose are fat pellets, or maybe bits of inner bits. I eat very little meat anymore, but this haggis seemed to be a salt-rich, meaty assault. (Can we call guts meat?) It was an assault, in some degrees.

Admittedly, I'd had plenty to drink and over many hours, so the body was bound to suffer some discomfort if fed anything other than pizza. (A fundamental law of gastronomical physics, I think.) But this haggis, whoa. While I ate it, yes, and with some buttered asparagus (What a fop!), it haunted me throughout the eve, announcing itself internally as it passed to each successive layer of digestion. It announced itself at each step the way television shows use the slamming of a cell block door to hit home the loneliness and finalty of prison.

I sat up. I waited. I'm going to be okay. I think.

The night progresses. I lie in bed wondering if I'm going to be woken up by the sudden flight of my internal organs. But morning, or heaven, or hell, has come.

So far as I can tell, I've suffered no loss of vision or memory. There's no soil on my shoes to indicate haggis-induced somnabulism, and the reports on the radio seem to indicate that this city had a pretty tame night. The coffee tastes perfect, as does the chocolate croissant. I've survived. It's to be hoped that I'm now wiser.  ¶ 11:01 AM

  One for the Home Team So, in a college apartment many years ago, a few friends were gathered, two of whom were roommates, all of whom lacked girlfriends (proof, most likely, of providential justice): Matt, Brent, cK. Matt says to Brent, “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” and Brent says, “I’m not going to a movie with you,” undoubtedly peppering his speech with the f-word, not for any genuine conveyance of anger but simply for the cadence, sound, and comical emphasis. Place the word where you will.
Matt tries again. Brent refuses, returns to his bong.

A moment passes in the sound of the bong water’s rustle.

“C’mon,” Matt says, which causes Brent to spit smoke and sputter a laugh, or cough, seems to be equal parts both. “Get a girlfriend!” Brent says.

“I had one,” Matt says, shrugging. “I lost her.”

Now, cK: That kid (i.e., me) has been listening from the kitchen. I enter the living room holding something innocuous: a beer, a plate of rice, a microwave burrito. Whatever. Matt says to me, “You’ll go to a Valentine’s Day movie with me.”

I look at Brent. His face is contorted with disbelief.

“Yeah all right,” I say. “What are we seeing?”

“Sense and Sensibility,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at 7.” He leaves.



Brent: Horrified.

Seven arrives, Matt arrives. One toot of the horn.

“Enjoy your date,” Brent says.

“I’d invite you,” I say, “but it might be kind of awkward, you know.” Something, perhaps a shoe, strikes the door behind me.

So we buy our tickets, and we give the ticket-taker a grin to fight back. This is southern Illinos. Two men seeing a movie on Valentine’s Day is an unusual, if not wholly unprecedented, vision.

“You want to share a popcorn?” Matt asks. I’m not much of a popcorn guy, I tell him. He adds, “But we can share.”

We take our seats, not even putting one between us. It’s one of the smaller theaters, but still too big for this film in this part of the country on this day. There are six of us in the theater: three couples, two mixed, one for the talk.

The lights go down. The lights come up. A pleasant film.

We didn’t talk much on the way home, just sort of sat there, bemused. The car may have driven itself. It's just that the whole town had settled into some sort of reflective timidity. Even the street lights seemed muted. The city was darker and much quieter, as if the day was to have been something to hide from.
-cK  ¶ 3:31 PM