EXILED ON MAIN STREET #1

eZine lover (@eZine)

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Exiled on main street

· 2 hours ago

I'm overeducated but recovering.

-- Lynn Emanuel

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

I'm hoping that the closing of the Musicland store on 7^th and Hennepin is just a beginning. Come the revolution, all record stores will be dimly lit, have hardwood or beat-up carpeted floors, and will smell faintly of stale beer. With those thoughts in mind, here's a news story I keep imagining:

City Center in downtown Minneapolis was rocked by an explosion early Tuesday morning. The explosion, which went off at 3:23 a.m., destroyed the Sam Goody store located on the skyway level of the mall. No fatalities or injuries were reported, although debris of Cranberries posters, John Tesh CDs, and Minnie and the Blowfish action figurines could be found as far away as the Victoria's Secret storefront. Police have one lead in the case. A man with a distinct North Dakotan accent called police immediately after the explosion. "Goody," he was reported as saying, "got it."

GIVE THE FINGER TO THE ROCK 'N' ROLL SINGER

I recently watched the TV special U2: A Year in Pop. Did anybody else see this? An hour of the band's history and some hype about their new tour. Interesting, but narrated by Dennis Hopper, who kept emphasizing the fact that U2 is the greatest band ever. Or of the last fifteen years. Or something like that. Supposedly their last tour pushed the envelope for big tours. Did they tour back in '91 - '93? I was too busy listening to Nevermind and Ten to notice. I have to hand it to Bono and the boys for their pseudo-rock star image, though. They get to act like big-time glamorous rock stars, but if you take them to task for it, you're not getting the joke - you see? U2's current tour started in Las Vegas - the symbolism being that it's a big gamble for them. Bono said something to the effect that this tour is like putting their whole lives on one color of the roulette wheel. Yeah, I'm sure the folks in Grand Forks can sympathize. Where's the big gamble in taking your fans for sixty bucks a pop so that they can sit in the remote areas of some big dome and watch you on a big TV? Anyway, I watched this special on tape, so I skipped the commercials. And I taped the Pop album. In your face, U2: you made no money off of me this time around.

But life isn't black-and-white: I found Pop to be a hypnotic, remarkable album and would advise any of you out there to home tape it also.

MASLOW SUCKS

Via email, I told my friend at work Ayn about killing time on my job (I had a excuse to be killing time, my PC was processing some big-ass report - or maybe it was locked up - in either case I assumed it was processing so that I would be considered to be working) by reading the Temp Slave zine. She mailed back "glad to see that you self-actualized." I cracked up. I have found someone who laughs at Maslow, you see. Any of you who have taken college business courses know what I'm talking about. You go into a business class thinking you're going to learn about how to crush the competition, treat your employees like shit as you increase your profits, buy off legislators, and avoid antitrust and tax laws. But in each and every class you learn about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, which amounts to a damn triangle with "self-actualization" at the top. The triangle has stuff like food and shelter at the bottom, and then you move up through Psych 101isms like belonging and self-esteem. Supposedly, once you get the building blocks on the triangle under your belt, you eventually self-actualize when you're doing something you're meant in life to be doing. What if all you ever want to do is eat? I know people like that. Have they self-actualized? How about those folks who only care about belonging to the group? (You know, those ones who when they buy an album by your favorite band you know that the band has hit the mainstream.) And can any hierarchy of needs ever be complete without mentioning beer, rock 'n' roll, or ESPN?

My moment of self-actualization, if it ever comes - and how can it if I don't believe in the concept - but if that moment of self-actualization comes it won't happen to me while sitting in an office crunching numbers and staring at a computer monitor. I'll join a cult before I let that happen.

PLEASE MR. POSTMAN

Here' some emails I don't wanna get anymore:

Top 10 Things Not to Say in Victoria's Secret
# of times received: 3

Yeah, all you married guys are whipped - so what. If us single guys wanna hear about how scared you are of your wives, we'll watch Norm on Cheers.

Madonna's Baby Video Clip
# of times received: 3

The worst thing about this one is that it takes my little PC about twenty minutes to download this piece of shit. Then what I get is some animation of a baby dancing. Talk about anticlimactic. People who enjoy this one must argue over whether Look Who's Talking was better than its sequel and have a collection of Michelin commercials on tape.

Chain Email
# of times received: too many

I delete these before reading them and wish bad luck on whoever sent them. Go ta hell.

Chain Email from Some Dying Kid
# of times received: 1

News flash: these are made up by drunken frat boys as their idea of a joke. Let little Bobby or Jenny die.

COFFEE, POWER PLAYS, AND SLEATER-KINNEY

When I have brief encounters with people I don't know; I nod, I smile, or maybe I say hi. I don't think it's an obligation, but it's common courtesy, a way of letting the other person know that you recognize their existence. The other day at the coffee shop in the building where I'm currently working, I was going to get myself a big boy cup of coffee to get me through a morning of nothing much. I'm going in through the in door and out through that same door come some people. I, being a good guy, or at least leaning towards the good, hold the door open for them. One lady blows by me, doesn't even look at me, she's too busy talking shop with the lady behind her, who also blows by me talking about some meeting and productivity and blah blah blah and then, a half step behind them comes a Mafioso lookalike (kinda) in a grey suit and yellow tie. He makes it a point to look away before he has to make eye contact with the dude holding the door, the guy in jeans and black boots, the guy who probably works temp somewhere in the building. Not even a nod. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you. This the same coffee shop where I've had middle-aged ladies jump in front of me in line and push (well, more like nudge aggressively) me out of the way as soon as I've gotten my change and am reaching for my to-go cup. I feel sorry for the people who work here, because they're competent and friendly, and I'm sure they get treated like shit by these corporate stiffs who barely tolerate my existence. Or maybe it's just me that the stiffs don't like - entirely possible. (Note: I stopped into this shop on the day I edited this piece. I walked in at a time when there were no other customers. The help had Alanis Morissette's "Right Through You" - a better revenge fantasy than "You Oughta Know" and nerfier nerf-metal - cranked on their stereo, which I took as their way of showing their rage without resorting to violence against the clientele.)

What they should have in this place is a penalty box, ya know? Somebody acts rude, and they get whistled. "Whewww! (whistle noise) Alright - you middle-management type in the blue suit - two minutes for being condescending and arrogant! In the box!" Then the courteous customers could smirk at him as they're politely buying their fix.

So after I got out of the coffee shop intact, I thought of the Seventh Street Entry, which is where I had been the previous weekend on a Saturday afternoon. I ordered coffee there also. Talk about your contrasts. No contrast in the coffee server, though. He was also competent and friendly. And sporting a bunch of tattoos. Hey what can I get you? Yeah, I got some French Roast ready! There you go. That cup is hot - be careful.

So I drank that French Roast while sitting on the floor in the Entry watching Lifter Puller play. Their singer looked pissed off and sang passionately in a Costello/Parker kind of way. Plus he was sporting horn-rimmed glasses and a gas station attendant's jacket. The lead guitarist was Townshend-like jumping around and windmilling (okay not windmills, but I was hopin') and their drummer was great. I like those guys a lot.

Then there was a middle band who didn't do much for me.

Then ... I have seen the future of rock 'n' roll and its name is Sleater-Kinney. Just thought I'd add my quote to the hype. So what if the quote is kinda stolen. Sleater-Kinney is a young band who doesn't make me feel old. Their new album, Dig Me Out, is solid, but I think their best is yet to come.

You're used to looking at yer favorite rockers in pictures in magazines and on their CD's and then you see them in person and you think ah yes, the airbrush (unless it's Dan Wilson or Martin Zellar) and boy, didn't realize he's that short. I had the fortune to actually shake Slash's hand once. Ish, is that guy ugly. I was thinking this as I'm standing outside the Entry in line and out the door comes Carrie Brownstein, and then Janet Weiss, and then Corin Tucker. Omigod, Sleater-Kinney right in front of me. And, refreshingly enough, they looked like their pictures. The first thing I thought of, seriously, was "hey they're in color" because so many of the pictures I've seen of them are in black-and-white. I gaped at Carrie Brownstein, thinking man, she's just a little kid. They were getting advice from an Entry worker on where a good place to eat downtown is. He pointed them towards City Center, and also mentioned Bravo Burritos. I realized I missed my chance to be an idiot. I could have offered to escort Sleater-Kinney to a cool place to eat. I could see them already mentioning my stupidity in interviews at the end of the tour. Oh well.

I've been taking some ribbing from guys for listening to so many female rockers. My explanation is simple: I find women more interesting than men.

I get told that women can't play guitar. Sure they can, and the fact that none of 'em take extended guitar solos is great. I'm sick of guitarists and guitar heroes. Pick up a copy of Musician and you'll know what I mean. Well, see mr. jackoff guitar hero on this solo is playing a mixolydian tremolo half-step for the first half, then he cleverly throws in a nod to Hendrix with a bent note figorian ... I say huh?

Anyway, Sleater-Kinney were having fun on stage. Their songs, playing, and singing are passionate but it's punk rock with a wink. The band uses two vocalists - Tucker and Brownstein - smartly. Weiss spent the first few songs reminiscent of Charlie Watts, putting down the great beat, with her eyes closed, just laying out the groove. Then she turned into Kenny Aronoff, with a similar jaw-dropping cross of Watts and Keith Moon. A brilliant drummer, one of the best I've heard lately, and her playing allows guitarists Tucker and Brownstein to do what they need to do.

It was so quiet between songs. The crowd was little babies holding their breath, patiently waiting for the next song. It was an all-ages show in the afternoon, so no one was tuned up on alcohol. Sure could have used a beer waiting out on the sidewalk, though. Before the show, I was talking with a gal in line for the rest room. All-ages show in the Entry at 3 p.m.? What do we do when we walk out of there cold-stone sober and there's daylight to face? We're accustomed to gliding out the door at 1:00 a.m., maybe sauntering down the sidewalk, ears buzzing from the noise, yelling to friends, singing songs, catching the #4 bus to take us home to nightcaps and pizza and roundtable discussions in the dark. Looking out onto 36th Street, watching the rest of us return home.

DOES JESUS HAVE AN EZINE?

I saw some man on TV (he can't be a man because he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me...) saying that it makes sense that when the Messiah returns, he will do so via the Internet. The logic is that the Messiah can reach the most amount of people that way - as supposedly everybody is online. That's in contrast to my personal apocalyptic visions of the heavens bursting open and a bright-beyond-belief light radiating out and a big booming voice announcing the end. Why would Jesus want to spend time at a keyboard when he can be everywhere at once just by willing it to be so?

But hey - I'll cut the geek on TV some slack. After all, he's on TV and I'm not. Let's say that the Second Coming arrives via the Net. That means salvation is available to those who can slap down $1,500 for a PC and $10-$20/month for Internet access. The rest will have to go to the library to be saved via a modem. And what is the experience like? Do you send God a password and then you see whether you're saved or condemned? Is the imageless salvation program quicker to view? What if I don't have a Pentium? Is salvation via the Net immediate or can I download it off of a ftp file and experience it at my leisure? And if the Trinity is online, are they out there looking for Teri Hatcher photos just like the rest of us?

GRAND FORKS

Imagine your front lawn. Imagine a pile on your front curb made up of wet demolished drywall and paneling, wet insulation, wet broken appliances, and assorted wet furniture. Mixed in this pile are many of your memories - wet and destroyed. Imagine that this pile is six feet high, six feet deep, and fifteen feet wide. Now imagine driving for blocks and blocks and blocks in any direction and every single house has the same pile you do. You have just imagined being in the middle of Grand Forks.

During the day, the town was noisy. People were cleaning out their houses, hauling debris. Red Cross trucks made their rounds, dropping off supplies and food. The utility companies, electricians, and plumbers were out working; trying to get power, phones and water back. At dusk, the town went quiet. With little electricity and no running drinking water, many people would leave town, only to return to work on their homes the next day.

The day after the levees broke, downtown Grand Forks was flooded with water and on fire at the same time. Now we stood on the dike, looking at the Red River. It had done its damage and was slowly returning to size. Downtown was caked in dried mud, debris was strewn about. Walking back to the car, I came upon a vinyl LP of the Rockets' No Ballads album. Next to it was a boy's pair of jeans. Next to that, an empty forty of Colt .45. The National Guard had blocks cut off from traffic. Some blocks looked like bombs had leveled them. You'd see a corner of bricks still standing upright, then next to it a pile of bricks of what used to be the structure. The buildings that didn't burn had their interiors out in piles on the sidewalks.

It was eleven in the morning on a Sunday. Bean answered the door, a surprised smile on his face. We walked into the kitchen to say hi to Erin. You remember these guys, he said, we used to drink a lot of beer together. He offered us something to drink. I took coffee, Chris took nothing. Bean grabbed himself a High Life. His mood was up, but his eyes gave him away. He was tired. Not Sunday-morning-lazy tired or hungover tired. Exhausted tired. Bean opened his beer. The booze has been flowing freely the last few days, he said. After some small talk, he suggested we go downstairs to see the gutted remains of what used to be his finished basement. I'll show ya the downstairs, Bean said, that way I can have a smoke.

SIOUX RULE

That the University of North Dakota hockey team rules is fact. Winners of six national titles in fifty years of Division I college hockey championships, reigning champions after cruising through the 1997 NCAA's, etc. In the midst of the ongoing celebration, we need to look to the future. What we would like to see UND coach Dean Blais do is recruit a certain player out of Warroad, Minnesota. We have no idea what year the player is in, what position he plays, or even if he is any good or not. But Blais has got to keep a spot open on the roster for this kid. Because of his name: Lee Marvin.

We can see it already - Marvin gets two minutes for roughing ... ten-minute misconduct on Marvin ... but not only that - we see Marvin becoming an on-ice emotional leader. Like Scott Dub back in '87. The fans go nuts when Lee Marvin touches the puck. UND students begin quoting Reservoir Dogs: "I bet you're a big Lee Marvin fan, aren't you?" Lee Marvin Leads Dirty Dozen to Weekend Sweep says the headline in the Grand Forks Herald. And we hope that Lee has a brother named Larry that would play for the Sioux. Then his whole name would be on his jersey. "Lee Marvin" would look damn cool plastered across the shoulders of one of those pretty white-and-green jerseys. And the TV announcers would have to say his whole name. "Lee Marvin is taking it to the opposition tonight!" we imagine an announcer screaming over the radio on a winter Saturday night.

DAVEY R OWES ME FORTY BUCKS

I met Davey R when I was eighteen. He was a couple of years older than me. He told me about how he met the Rolling Stones! He told me that he beat up a mean guy in the Valley Dairy parking lot! He told me that he wiped out on his friend's motorcycle while going sixty-five down Old Shakopee Road but he was wearing a leather jacket and avoided injury! It wasn't until I was twenty-one that I figured out that Davey R was full of shit. Davey R owes me forty bucks! He has since May of 1987! The forty bucks was for groceries. All of us in the house we rented chipped in equally for groceries and Davey R stiffed three of us on his tab at the end of the school year. Looking back, I got jobbed sharing the grocery tab with those guys anyway. I weighed anywhere from 20 to 160 lbs. less than any given roommate! Communism sucks when you're scrawny! I only eat two meals a day! Why subsidize the Big Boys? Every man for himself! I left a note on the fridge when I moved out of town that said Davey R you owe me forty bucks please mail a check to my new address! He didn't. I ran into his girlfriend in 1991. She said Davey R talks about you all the time. Davey R, while you're telling those Billy stories, write a check! Plus interest!

It's been ten years now, should I write if off? Sure! Will I? No! Why? Because I haven't seen Davey R since May of 1987 and it's my way of remembering him! I wanna remember him as the guy who owes me money instead of as the guy who drank all night as he watched CNN Headline News, heaved into the toilet at five in the morning, and then slept off his all-nighters instead of going to classes!

As of May 15, 1997 he owes me $60.04! (At the low low interest rate of 5% per year!) What would I do if I saw him on the street today? Say hey Davey R you owe me forty bucks plus! I wrote if off but you can buy me a beer!

Everything written by me, except where noted.
"Sioux Rule" was co-written by Chris O'Connor.

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