Xark!

iWait, Happily

I want to be clear at the outset of this post that a reader should not expect anything profound or political in what follows.  Rather, this should be read simply as something of an encomium to the line management skills at the Apple Store at the Green Hills Mall in Nashville.  While it may have taken them a few days to adjust to the rush on iPhones, they adjusted admirably once they had a day or two to catch their breath. 

Here’s the story:  I’ve spent the last year delaying my purchase of any of the array of phone/digital messaging systems available that would interface with my email at work.  The delay had as much to do with the fact that my Bonnie had visions of me writing emails at a family dinner as it did with the fact that everyone I knew complained about their interface (e.g., Blackberry, Treo) save owners of iPhones.  And despite the fact that I’m an AT&T subscriber, the iPhone didn’t interface with the email system used at work. My friends were telling me that the iPhone was the only way to go, and my work tech guy was telling me that was the one direction I couldn’t choose.

And then came the new iPhone 3G.  Not only is it beautiful and relatively inexpensive, but it synchs perfectly with everything at the office.  Finally, I’m ready to make my purchase.  I knew better than to go anywhere near an Apple store on the first day of sales when all the Day One Tech Geeks are out in force.  I leave that up to my friends like Spibby for whom the iPhone, and some other select gear, serves a function beyond functionality. 

The Last, Great Hope for Musical Sincerity

Several years ago, I read Johnny Cash’s memoir, Cash: The Autobiography.  Of the many passages that stood out to me, the strong one came from a very brief section in which Cash was discussing the songs and style of country artists.  With just a tinge of “old man-itis,” he noted that while country artists of the past wore clothing and sang songs that reflected the materiality of their lives (i.e., those jeans and cowboy boots were part of their labor; songs about poverty reflected their lives), it was more the case now that the style and the themes were a requirement of the genre and no longer reflected lived experience (i.e., those jeans and boots are not reflective of a working life). 

While I’m not interested in defending “authenticity” in music or elsewhere, and while I have no cause to romanticize the past, I do want to spend a moment reflecting on, for lack of a better word, sincerity.  I want to reflect on this in relation to music in specific because, for my money, there is no art form that can so richly tap a wide array of emotions.  And tapping into those emotions from time to time—aurally and otherwise—is valuable for a number of reasons. I also want to reflect on it because I witnessed a performance last night that has changed my thinking somewhat and has given me hope.

Over the years, I have found it more difficult for music to open my emotional cylinders in quite the same way it did when I was young, and, honestly, I miss its therapeutic function.  Some of the reasons it no longer works are obvious: age jades.  Regardless of the buoyancy of your personality, emotions don’t tap as easily—or at least in quite the same way—when you’re middle-aged as when you’re young.  But I think it’s more than that: pleading guilty to my own case of “old man-itis,” I want to suggest that Cash is right.  It’s difficult to perform sincerity when you’re so strongly self-aware that you’re performing.

Building a Better Nashville Star

While Nashville Star is now in its sixth season, this is the first year that it has appeared on broadcast network television, appearing on Monday nights on NBC (having been on USA through the first five seasons).  For those who haven’t watched it, Nashville Star is a country music step child of American Idol (hereafter, AI)--which is sort of odd in that Carrie Underwood, one of the current darlings of pop country music, emerged on American Idol. 

While I am a fan of American Idol and a sometimes fan of pop country music, I did not watch Nashville Star until this season.  The set up is similar to AI in that the early show shortens the list of procedures from the masses down to a smaller number (12 in the case of Nashville Star) and the following weeks—all with themes—allow “America” to vote to eliminate one singer each week.  While there are a few minor differences in the format, the show is very similar to AI. 

All in all, it’s an adequate show and fairly entertaining.  While there is no one with the charisma of Simon Cowell, John Rich does a wonderful job as the sarcastic centerpiece in the judges’ chamber.  Country music newcomer, Jewel (yes, for those who haven’t been paying attention, she’s hitting the country charts now) is far more thoughtful and useful than Paula Abdul and singer-songwriter Jeffrey Steele actually gives advice beyond “That was pitchy, dog.”  The singers are hit and miss, just as on Idol, but you can find yourself getting emotionally connected to the show. 

That said, the show does have some glaring problems that, if corrected, could make for a strong rival to American Idol.  Here, then, I propose, five ways to improve Nashville Star:

Eddie Izzard's Psychological Inner Peace

On Friday night, my Bonnie and I attended Eddie Izzard’s “Stripped” performance at the Ryman Auditorium.  Having been a dedicated fan since actually catching his “Dress to Kill” show on HBO several years back (even given my disappointment with some of the other performances available on DVD), it was with great anticipation that we took our seats. 

Izzard did not disappoint.  Pound for pound, the guy is the funniest man on the planet, and for almost two full hours, my stomach hurt.  When I wasn’t looking at Bonnie to see if she “got the joke,” I was banging my arm on the chair in front of me as a form of physical relief. 

Izzard’s performance worked for any number of reasons.  First, there was something especially delicious and slightly ironic about watching him in this former church and former home of the Grand Ole Opry.  Given his general left of center views, his engaged dismissal of religious based explanations of almost anything, and his occasion forays into transvestism, there is simply something rather non-Rymanesque about Izzard (well, on second glance, the transvestim fits elements of both country music and religion).  I felt it, and the entire audience understood it as well.  This was one of those magical moments when the setting itself made us all feel like we were part of a conspiracy.  With that as a starting point, Izzard had us as soon as the lights went down.  And with his quick pacing, he never let go.

When a Bike is not Just a Bike

Although there were years during which I stubbornly refused to admit that I would reach this point, I recently decided that I needed to consider purchasing a bicycle to offset some of the distance running that has been my passion over the last twenty or so years.  It’s not that I’m having any problems yet—although I have to admit that it’s not as thrilling as it used to be—it’s more that I’m persuaded by the collective wisdom of all the guys I’ve met over the years who have told me, with a powerful sense of resignation, “I used to love running, but my knees gave out, so now I do a lot of biking.”  Before the knees go, I’ve been thinking, I might want to get familiar with the next stage of activity.   

Over the past few weeks, I’ve started looking into the type of bike I would like.  When I approach a purchase like this, I generally follow the following routine—although not necessarily in this order: 1. I talk to a lot of folks who are enthusiasts, 2. I do a bit of web research, 3. I go to shops and showrooms, usually with someone who knows what they’re doing; 4. I spend a week getting over sticker shock; 5. I make a decision and quit listening to anyone who might dissuade me.  It’s an imperfect system to be sure, but it’s a system that gets the job done.

Images of the road

So we're back from our tour of the Deep South: 7 days, 6 states and plenty of gas ($3.17 a gallon in Alabama).  I've taken some of my photographs and put them in a gallery. There was snow and cool architecture and plenty of new ideas and new friends. Check it out if you have time.

No Write-in Candidates Allowed

This morning, my Bonnie and I went to vote at Belmont's Curb Center.  We're both feeling that wonderful civic feeling we always seem to get when we're watching a crowd of people standing in line to vote.  While I'm signing in and having my ID checked, the man in line behind me says to the woman at the same desk, "I'm a write-in candidate for [local office].  How do I write my name in?"

The woman looks blankly back at him and says, "Well, you can't do that.  You can't write on the voting machines.  There's just buttons to push" (That's not an exact quotation, but it's close, I assure you). 

Of course he could write himself in as a candidate, and of course, the system allows for that, and, of course, after some consultation with a higher up, the slightly outraged candidate was given the proper directions. 

As for me, I'm simply stunned that, after all the concerns about voter fraud and voting difficulties, a worker could be so clueless.  We seriously need to rethink the training sessions we are providing as a community.

Perfect, for the Moment

Yes, yes, I know it's true of more teams than Vanderbilt--including UNC--but no one expected it to be true of us.  And since I may not be able to say this a week from today, I want to say it now:  We're perfect.  16-0.  That's 16 wins.  Zero losses.  Life is so good.

The Downside of Pleasure

I have recently been relearning a lesson about the complicity of pleasures, as well as the difficulties of resisting it.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am a strong supporter of public education.  In brief, my stance is that the more all of us are dedicated to our public school systems, the better we will collectively make them.  Rather than thinking about what is “good for us” as individuals, we owe it to each other to make the collective as good and strong as possible.  In this post, I want to bracket the question of whether my position is right or wrong (if you want to debate that question, you can go to the original post where I’ll be more than happy to engage you).  Instead, I want to focus here on the ways in which my reaction to my son’s recent decision to attend an “elite” private school for his university education points to the seductiveness of prevailing common sense, even when we are dedicated to resisting it.

Manchester Orchestra Takes the Night

I’ve always imagined that one of the most disheartening roles one can be asked to fulfill is that of the unadvertised opening band.  You know the situation:  you’ve purchased tickets to see a headlining band, and you’re pleased that you’re also a fan of the support act that will come on just before them.  These are the bands for whom you’ve purchased the tickets, and these are the bands that most everyone in the crowd is prepared to see; the show is built around their success.  A week before the show, you notice that the promoters have added a third band to the line-up (or, at least, they’ve added them to the advertising).  While you may have known of the band were you still a hyper in-tune undergrad, now the name just confuses you. 

The band in that position?  Man, that’s got to be rough. 

Here’s their job:  if the ticket says the show starts at 7:30, this band starts at 7:30.  While they want to play with enthusiasm and win some converts, it’s a tough task.  Not only will most of the seats not be filled until sometime after they’ve quit playing, but most of those arriving are busy chatting with friends, getting settled, purchasing drinks and, mostly, they’re just so damned excited about the headliner that their inclination is to wish this first band would spontaneously combust if it would help get you off the stage more quickly.

Look at Me!

Faith Hill still doesn't get it.  Neither does the Tennessean.

As anyone with any interest in country music will remember, at the 2006 Country Music Association Awards, Faith Hill fumbled.  If you didn't see it, youtube did.  Here's the situation:  as the audience waited for the announcement of the winner of the Female Vocalist of the Year Award, cameras focused on all five of the finalists.  When the name "Carrie Underwood" was read, Faith Hill looked at the camera, mouthed the word "What!" and looked as if she were storming away from the camera. 

Over the next several days, while she was being condemned on-line and elsewhere, a number of people rushed to her defense, noting that Faith was clearly joking, that she had a wacky sense of humor in general.  While I initially thought she may have been serious,  I took her at her word that it was joke.  As far as I have seen from my seat in fandom, Faith Hill is a nice enough person with a good number of friends who speak highly of her ethics and behavior.  So, I do indeed trust that she was joking.

Preseason Confusion

Last Saturday evening, Titans Coach Jeff Fisher did not allow starting quarterback Vince Young to play in their preseason game at home against the Washington Redskins.  Young was reportedly being punished for having violated team policy by returning to his home for sleep rather than staying at the team’s hotel rooms.  It was a bit of a disappointment, of course, for fans who attended the game, as well as those who watched it on television (in Nashville, of course, but I would assume also in Washington and wherever it was watched by Young/Titan/NFL fans).

Somehow, Tennessean columnist Joe Biddle has managed to make a column out of this—a muddled, confused and contradictory column, mind you, but yes, a column.  Let’s ignore for the moment the fact that Biddle simultaneously argues that Fisher “did the right thing” and that the Titans “stuck it to their fans” by not playing Young (I mean, Biddle often meanders like this in his columns) and just pay attention to the two main contentions: 1. NFL preseason games are overpriced and a way to “stick it to the fans” and 2. Vince Young should not have been benched because it “disappointed the fans.”

Talk to Me, Quietly

Last weekend, I went to see Talk to Me, the new Don Cheadle film about Washington D.C. radio personality Ralph "Petey" Greene, an ex-con who became a radio personality, political activist, and alcoholic. This combination of attributes constitutes a wonderful character sketch; the film traces out Greene’s ups and downs, as well as his relationship with Dewey Hughes, who becomes his best friend after a troubling beginning (Dewey has his own family issues and problems with his understanding of what it means to be a “successful black man” in the early 1960s). I can’t imagine anyone not liking the film.  Cheadle’s been a miracle of the screen ever since Picket Fences; the story is engaging but not heavy handed, and the pacing keeps you engaged throughout the film.  More, if you have any sense of the history of the 60s through the 80s, you’ll certainly find the soundtrack, styles and events seductive.  In short, I endorse this film; I can’t imagine you leaving dissatisfied with your decision to see it.

But I’m not writing this post solely to endorse the movie.  It’s more of my entryway to rant about a number of aspects of going to see films.  At the risk of disappointing Brittney Gilbert, who hates lists, I’m going to provide a rant list of five aspects of going to see films that irk me, all of them occurring in a perfect storm at this one film, almost ruining the experience:

The Virtues of Slickness

Last week, my Bonnie and I attended a campaign function for Nashville Mayoral candidate David Briley.  The week before, we had gone to a similar gathering for Karl Dean in our ongoing quest to distinguish between the two as we attempt to choose with whom to place our vote.  As I’ve noted before, the candidates have more commonalities than differences in terms of the policies about which we care most.  As a result, we’ve been taking every opportunity to seek out the candidates.

What I want to discuss here, however, can be generalized outward from the two candidates to the larger political concern.  After seeing David Briley, we were both taken with his interpersonal style.  He was clear, outspoken, and engaging.  When asked about his leadership style, he answered not only with confident enthusiasm but also with a style that seemed to reach out to the person who asked the question.  Indeed, regardless of what he was asked, Briley was charming, speaking in a style that exuded a vague sense of “leadership” and likeability.

Our attendance at the Karl Dean talk was decidedly different.  While his prepared remarks were well structured and thoughtful, and while his responses to questions were as thorough as one gets from candidates, he seemed a bit ill at ease, as if he would rather be elsewhere.  We found him, frankly, interpersonally awkward. When this was mentioned to the woman hosting the Dean talk, she responded something to the nature of “Yes, he’s a bit shy.  That’s what I like about him.  He doesn’t seem like a politician.”

The Mayor's Children, My Vote

As the date for the local mayoral and Metro Council elections approaches here in Nashville, I've been trying, with some difficulty, to differentiate between my two favorite mayoral candidates--David Briley and Karl Dean.  Regardless of how much, and how often, I read about their positions, regardless of how many of my "in the know" friends I ask, I still can't come to a strong position on which one I should support. 

I have, however, found an issue that I am beginning to think might act as a personal wedge or divining rod.  Oddly enough, this is not properly a political issue, not in the traditional sense.