Music & Poetry

Hey friends!  My 4th of July weekend was action-packed and awesome and let me tell you all about it!  Maybe get yourself a snack first.  And a soda.  Or a pop.  Your choice.

One of my most favorite friends and frequent commenters, Mare, flew in from the east with her husband for a couple of days so that we could catch up and hit a winged sprint car race on dirt.  Rob took me to a road course race last October that was a new and very cool experience for me, so it was a lot of fun to show him "my" kind of racing.

But first, we had lunch.  I picked them up at the train station and we met up with my brother, Wags, and headed for a pub that offered a lunchtime special on "Rum Barrels".  Barrels o' rum.  A great start to the day.  Over lunch we chatted about various types of racing, ideas for revolutionizing the sport of sprint car racing, and Wags' current unemployment and/or potential future grad school.  He graduated in May, but employment prospects for a school teacher are grim at the moment, so he is weighing a lot of options.  And ending almost every sentence with ". . . but first I have to get a job."  Sometimes it is funny, sometimes not so much, and I worry about his lagging spirits, so if you have some good mojo to put out into the job application world for him, please do so.

After lunch, we (Mare, Rob, Wags, Dano and I) drove to Wilmot, Wisconsin for Mare's first trip to Wisconsin and less importantly, the IRA sprint car race.  We were met there by another invisible pal, Catwmn, and her husband.  We watched Billy Balog win the A, feasted on brats and beers, and enjoyed some good ol' Americana, baby.  It was fun to see sprint cars through the eyes of somebody completely unfamiliar with them, and I thoroughly enjoyed Rob's comparison of a stalled sprint car with no starter to a turtle on its back. 

We started Sunday off right with omelettes and cakes at my favorite pancake place, with Mare being the only person on the planet who appreciates a quirky little Mom and Pop diner type place as much as I do.  From there, it was off to the city for some hardcore tourist business.

The Chicago History Museum was featuring an exhibit on the history of weddings, and this was the inspiration for the weekend tweet about looking at wedding dresses.  You guys are so easy to rile up!  The exhibit was really interesting, and I look forward to exploring some things I missed in the rest of the museum soon. 

No visit to Chicago is complete without some deep dish, so our next stop was Lou Malnati's (not Iluminati's, Rob, we wanted cheesey goodness, not shadow governments).  Lou did not disappoint, and the air conditioning was very very very VERY welcome. 

A photo I took of Rob and Mare on our walk, right before we got rained on:

The rest of the story:  train back to suburbs, some ice cream, early bedtime to prepare for the 5 am trip to O'Hare the next morning, and teary sad goodbyes until September.

Monday, post-ORD, was spent mostly sleeping and watching Friends on DVD, until I took off for the city yet again to attend the Rush Time Machine tour stop at Charter One Pavilion at Northerly Island with Dano.

Hmmm.  That was supposed to be the name of the tour + the venue + the name of the person I attended it with but it all kind of runs together and sounds like Dano was the opening act.  Given that he sang out loud at least three and as many as four times last night, it's kind of true.

We are out of practice with this whole self-portrait thing.  This was the 3rd take.  In the first two, his eyerolling was visible through the glasses.  Also, it's not as easy as it used to be - I gave away my old baby Canon that was dying, and chose to go sans-purse for this concert, so all photos and video were shot with Lloyd the Droid, who does not make self-portraits very easy on me.

I love this venue.  Chicago skyline off to the right, the lake behind us, and Soldier Field behind the stage.  Very very fun.  I can only assume that Rush plays outdoor shows like this so that their pasty white nerd boy fans can get some occasional sun.  What?  Oh my god, tell me I'm wrong.  Just try.

I cracked a lot of jokes before/during the show about being the only woman there, and I wasn't quite alone, but there weren't many of us.  After the show, a video played where the members of Rush themselves joked about how there were seven females in the audience and that might have been a new record.

We bought our tickets on Craigslist from a guy who drove up from Indianapolis with his son.  The son spent part of the night texting on the oldest working Blackberry I've ever seen.  I asked him about it, and he let me play with it a little.  He said that it was from 1998 though it looks more like the 2000ish model shown in upper right of this pic.  Whatever year it was, it was hilariously cool and would have been a fun prop to have in another cell phone related gag that I'm planning.

I am not a Rush hater, but I haven't ever really considered myself a Rush fan before last night either.  I'm a Neil Peart as Author fan.  I've read all of his books, recommended all of his books, forced his books on every person who will listen to me talk for more than 30 seconds.  I watched my favorite author play with his band last night, basically.  A band that I have read about but haven't devoted a lot of airtime to, and I think that will change.  Live music tends to do that to me.  Especially live music from a lead guitarist that looks like William Shatner.  Dano thinks that Neil is starting to develop a passing resemblance to Sammy Swindell.  And really, who WOULDN'T pay to see a band featuring William Shatner, Sammy Swindell, and Geddy Lee?  (Geddy Lee looks like nobody but Geddy Lee.  Nobody else looks like Geddy Lee.  Well, except a lot of Geddy Lee fans.  But I digress.)

Here is a brief video I shot, scanning the crowd last night.  The very very white male geek crowd.

And this is the first minute of Tom Sawyer.

Listen closely, somebody with a big mop of curly hair is singing!  Okay, a lot of guys with big mops of curly hair were singing.  As we were walking towards the venue from the car, the first intersection we waited at was also occupied by four other guys with Dano's exact hairstyle.  It was a little unnerving, having so many fluffy-haired BMW-riding Rush lovers in one place.  Like a Dano Convention. 

The amount of music performed last night was just overwhelming.  They played the entire Moving Pictures album, many other old works, and quite a few new songs.  And given that each of their songs is about 12 minutes long, I fully expect that I'll leave the Pavilion sometime just before their Wednesday show starts.  They might be done playing by then.  No really, it was 3 hours, and there was no chit-chatting, just solid music.  Neil's 47-minute drum solos gave me a deep rich understanding of why it takes me months to get through each of his books.  The level of detail is comparable.

My head did not hit the pillow until 2 o'clock this morning, and my alarm went off at 5.  So this Tuesday is a rough one, but totally worth it.  Big thanks to Mare, Rob, Dano, Wags, and Neil Peart for the extra special memories and for helping me to declare my independence from a normal sleep schedule.

~onstage at Schuba's~

Darren:  This next one is called "If She's a Pothole".

~offstage, whispering~

Jane:  Huh?  She's a pothole?

Dano:  She's going to mess up your car.

Jane:  You're going to leave work early one day and find a whole road crew trying to fill her up.

Dano:  Or just the one guy working on her while the rest watch.

Jane:  Because she is a pothole, dude.

Dear Jaron,

Wikipedia tells me that you're half of the former Evan & Jaron, which I sort of remember from like high school or something.  You're now recording under the name "Jaron and the Long Road to Love".  Wikipedia doesn't mention any other bandmates, so I can only assume you're going for a pretentious douchenozzle sort of thing with that.  Good for you.

So last night, I heard your debut on the country charts.  "Pray for You".  I heard it from about the middle of the first verse on, and I kept waiting for the thing that would make it okay, that would make me understand what you were going for with this song, the line that would take it from serious to parody, and it never quite hit.

For the first time ever, I'm going to post the entirety of the lyrics in one of my letters.

I haven't been to church since I don't remember when
Things were goin' great 'til they fell apart again
So I listened to the preacher as he told me what to do
He said you can't go hatin' others who have done wrong to you
Sometimes we get angry, but we must not condemn
Let the good Lord do His job and you just pray for them

I pray your brakes go out runnin' down a hill
I pray a flowerpot falls from a window sill and knocks you in the head like I'd like to
I pray your birthday comes and nobody calls
I pray you're flyin' high when your engine stalls
I pray all your dreams never come true
Just know wherever you are honey, I pray for you

I'm really glad I found my way to church
'Cause I'm already feelin' better and I thank God for the words
Yeah I'm goin' take the high road
And do what the preacher told me to do
You keep messin' up and I'll keep prayin' for you

I pray your tire blows out at 110
I pray you pass out drunk with your best friend and wake up with his and her tattoos
I pray your brakes go out runnin' down a hill
I pray a flowerpot falls from a window sill and knocks you in the head like I'd like to
I pray your birthday comes and nobody calls
I pray you're flyin' high when your engine stalls
I pray all your dreams never come true

Just know wherever you are, near or far, in your house or in your car, wherever you are honey, I pray for you.

I pray for you

So I shouldn't say that I didn't know what you were going for, I guess I expected something more.  Some verse or bridge that redeemed this and it never happened.  You were going for the same thing the person who came up with this "joke" was going for:

DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN.

Do some of you recognize that?  From when you posted it as your Facebook status?  If so, do you recognize that you and I are no longer Facebook friends?  Okay then.

I'm with Shakesville on this one.

It's yet another example of what is so very wrong with our society: that "jokes" about wishing for (praying for, wev) the death of someone--anyone--is seen as funny and normal and people who take issue with the inherent violence of it are seen as the ones with a problem. That people who are concerned about violence being entertainment and funny (which jokes are supposed to be, are they not?) are the ones who should be shamed into silence for being "not fun" or "killjoys".

That's something I would like the Christians and Conservatives in my life to stew on for a little bit.  I'm not even going to clarify it to mean "some" Christians and "some" Conservatives, because fuck it.  Let's face it.  Those of you that this doesn't apply to already know it, because you are as appalled as I am.  And to those of you who giggled at the death wish for our President, or nodded your head along to the snappy tune about praying for violence against women, you have no idea who you are or that this applies to you.  You're clueless.  I've been taking the heat from you for every move that Nancy Pelosi makes.  I've been listening to your party and your religion's batshit crazy ranting about my lack of morals for so long.  I would just like you to look at this shit.  Is this really what you want to represent you?  Your deity?  Your beliefs?  Because as much as my loose morals and godless socialism seem to encapsulate the entire Democratic party to you - this is what you look like to me most days.

I'm sorry, pals.  I'm sorry, Jaron.  It's not my desire to kiss women that is ruining this country.  It's not my friends who are having children outside the bounds of marriage, monogamy, or ownership of a uterus.  It's not my desire to see the poor and marginalized have access to healthcare.  It's not even my belief that a woman's body is hers to do with what she pleases - even if it means she's having an abortion or not getting raped by Ben Roethlisberger.  These aren't the things that are destroying our society.

It's you.  It's your deluded idea of what your god is.  It's your self-righteous belief that your bigotry, your racism, your homophobia, and your BIG UGLY HATE are okay because of your Jesus, your folded hands, and your condescending offers to pray for the rest of us sinners, because you know so much better than the rest of us.  Because you have that direct line to the spirit in the sky that has an itchy finger, just waiting to zap the people you ask him to destroy.

You want to know why I left the church?  The hate.  Pure and simple.  You want to know why the road to love is so long, Jaron?  YOU'RE ON THE WRONG ROAD.

I refuse to believe in any god that you think would listen to your hate-filled prayers.

Love,

Jane

Do you guys remember when I used to be a planner?  When I used to know how I would get from Point A to Point B before I actually departed Point A?  When the calendar inside of Louise the Blackberry was useful because I actually followed through with the plans, unlike the calendar contained within Lloyd the Droid, which appears to be merely decorative?  When I used to have maps and I followed them, instead of having multiple phone conversations a week that start with "Janey, are you in Chemung again?"  Those days when I invested weeks of planning into meeting you Invisible People instead of just posting my current location as my Facebook/Twitter status?

If this weekend had happened a year ago, it wouldn't have happened at all. 

On Friday morning, I hopped in a truck headed south, carrying my parents and their pals to the Supercross event in St. Louis.  In Springfield, we stopped at D'arcy's Pint for horseshoes and brews.  This is a horseshoe:

Bread.  Meat.  Chili.  Fries.  Cheese.  I didn't eat it.  But I sure took pictures of it.  That shot is from Lloyd the Droid, and I'm pretty pleased with the quality.

By 5ish, we were unloading luggage in front of a hotel next to the arch.  Within 10 minutes, I was climbing into the passenger seat of a car driven by CowboyFetish, who handed me a Stella Artois and a bottle opener and THEN introduced herself.  Yes, this was the first time we'd ever met.  The internet is magic, my friends.  And I only got one text that night asking me to confirm that I hadn't been murdered yet!

Ms. Fetish and I chilled out at her place for a bit, then went to Mr. B.'s for the famous toasted ravioli I was not allowed to skip town without experiencing.  I also had a cheese infusion by way of the most decadent pasta dish I've ever consumed.  From there, we headed to Mamacita's to take in a show by the Bible Belt Sinners, a band containing my pal/racer/musician/verb Johnny Murdock.  This gig was booked when I was only about an hour outside of STL and I was invited by text message, so even though most of the trip was thrown together at the very last possible minute, the Bible Belt Sinners were the icing on the lack-of-planning cake.  And boy did they Johnny Murdock that show!

I spent Friday night with CowboyFetish, who was a fantastic hostess.  Her cats didn't even eat my face off while I slept!  This one was my favorite:

On Saturday morning-ish (I slept in!  face intact!), she asked what I had in mind for brunch and I said that I am a big fan of greasy spoon diners, and Courtesy Diner fit the bill perfectly.  We sat at the counter next to two men who smelled like mulch, I had an omelet and coffee served by a sweetheart with a Sookie Stackhouse accent, and "Free Bird" played over the radio.  Americana, baby!

From there, we took a stroll through the Soulard Farmer's Market, which was amazing.  I'm super jealous of those who get to shop there regularly.  Joanie's was the next stop, to meet Fef, another invisible person, for an impromptu beer/wine before she departed for the Cardinals Game That Just Wouldn't End.

I-55 Raceway in Pevely, MO was my next stop, and I was delivered to its doorstep by the (can I say this enough?) awesome-as-hell CowboyFetish, who wins some kind of Best F2F Ever prize from me.  Meeting me in real life should not be as difficult as I made it for her, and I'll always be grateful. 

Pevely and the World of Outlaws and I have a love-love-love relationship.  It is easily in my top 3 favorite race tracks ever, and throughout my WE WERE ON A BREAK from sprint car racing, Pevely passed through my thoughts often.  I missed it much.  I haven't been there since 1999 or 2000 and I barely recognized the joint when I walked in.  I've always said that one of my favorite races of my entire life was a dash there, at the U.S. Dirt Nationals, although the circumstances of the race have been disputed by both my dad and my buddy behind the mic, who both think that the dash took place at a regular WoO show and not the U.S. Dirt Nationals.  And they could be right. 

But in my memory, I am wearing my tie-dyed Levi button-fly jeans (oh shush you), my buddy Bill was there with a non-wing car, and Mindy took me to my first White Castle in the middle of the night.  Which would make it impossible to be any year but 1998 or any race but this one.  Which was won by Andy Hillenburg, further proving my theory.  So if I'm wrong, I'm wrong.  But I'm going to remember it my way, because Andy won, I looked damn fine in those jeans, I miss Bill, and that was the night I learned to never let Mindy pick where we are going to eat at 2 am.

I spent the first quarter of the night getting to know a new friend-of-friend, Suzy, and watching the modified heats, which were piled up at the beginning of the night before any sprint car action started.  I know there is bitching on some message boards about how this race was run and what a late night it ended up being, but holy crap, I loved it. 

I watched the sprint car heats from a different section each race, moving around the place until I felt like I'd sat in every single seat, getting dirrrrrtttty.  Walking from one section to another, I heard my real name shouted from within a crowd and turned around to see . . . a guy I didn't recognize at all.  And boy, did he know it.  He quickly identified himself as Mindy's little brother and I girl-squealed and gave him a hug.  It's been easily 10 years since I've seen Nick the Nemesis, and he was every bit as cool as I remember him then.  We chatted through the B-main Last Chance Showdown (I feel like that phrase should be in some kind of raunchy bold wild west font), when he admitted that he'd seen me walking around earlier in the night but had to text his sister to find out my real name because he didn't want to shout "HEY DUCHESS JANE" at me.  Note:  I will answer to "HEY DUCHESS JANE" in public.  You won't be the first or last stranger to shout it.

While the track was getting overhauled in preparation of the mains, Nick and his coworker and I wandered the pits, stopping first to visit a modified customer in the infield.  Of course, the first thing I spotted was the Claim Area sign, because I am a dork, and I grew up attending International Motor Claiming Association modified races, and I still make motor claiming jokes to my stock car friend(s) whenever possible.

Later, I'd realize that I took so few pictures at the track that my claim sign is 33% of my total photos from this race despite carrying my DSLR around all night.  Ooops.

We walked back into the grandstands area during the modified main, just in time to see Tim Hancock take out track owner Ken Schrader under yellow right in front of us.  It's a mad, mad house, boys and girls.

The World of Outlaws A main was really great.  Joey Saldana won with a broken hand, and you'll get better results at better websites than this one.  Keeping with tradition whenever we aren't at a race together, my dad and I each claimed to be watching the greatest race we'd ever seen, but Saturday night's neener neener took place over Twitter. 

After watching the track empty and go dark, a real day-after-Christmas-type feeling, I caught a ride back to St. Louis with the man who makes his living with his mouth (who should have known better than to ever say that to a person who has a filter as inoperable as mine).  With maybe 3 hours of sleep logged, I was back in the truck, Starbucks in hand, riding towards destinations devoid of the phrase "fixin' to".

Thanks much to everyone who was part of my transportation Rube Goldberg, and to all of the invisible and partially visible people that I met or got reacquainted with this weekend.  I had an absolute blast and can't wait for the next one, which might be Saturday, POWRi midgets, Macon.  I'll update my plans for the weekend in Thursday's Take No Prisoners post.  That is, if I actually make a plan . . .

Friends, I'm fixin' to see a lot of races this year.

Dear Bucky,

I used to think it was safe to say things like "You don't know me, but . . ." or "You've probably never read my website . . ." when beginning letters, but after hearing your song today, I'm not so sure it's the truth.

You see, I have a blog.  Sometimes, I write letters to country music artists.  Despite an intense distaste for Top 40 radio country, I still consider myself a country music fan, and I still listen to country radio from time to time just to see what is new out there, hoping to catch a glimpse of the country music I have always loved, which somehow became "Americana" or "roots" or "grungegrass" or "red dirt" or "alt.country" or "new traditionalist".

So anyway.  I write letters.  I don't usually assume that real country music stars ever read them, but then I heard your song "A Different World", which begins like so:

We were born to mothers who smoked and drank
Our cribs were covered in lead based paint

And that's when I knew.  You guys really are paying attention.  Because there's no way in hell that somebody starts a song like that unless they are BAITING ME for a letter.  The only time I've ever been more convinced a song was begging for my letter-writing attention was the "Rockin' the Beer Gut" incident.  Which ended badly.  For all of us with ears, I'd say.

So.  Bucky.  It's cool.  Just say hi next time.  Maybe raise your eyebrows and buy me a beer, or send an email asking if I'm available for dinner and a movie.  You don't have to sink to this level.  Don't be shy.  Just tell me you're interested.  I'll pay attention to you.

Love,

Janey