Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 45

Still in Rotation: Soul Mining (The The)

Still in Rotation is a feature that lets talented writers tell Midlife Mixtape readers about an album they discovered years ago that’s still in heavy rotation, and why it has such staying power.

Susanna Donato and I crossed paths when we had music themed essays published back-to-back in the literary mag Hippocampus a couple of years back (mine on children’s music, hers on adolescent heartbreak and redemption at Stardust Skate Lanes.) When she got in touch to write a Still in Rotation post, I knew we’d all be in for a treat. And this is the day for it.

Soul Mining (1983)

By Susanna Donato

When Soul Mining came out in 1983, I was roller skating and playing the flute in Pueblo, Colorado, listening to “Thriller” and Journey. I had no clue that darkly reflective English music was a thing, let alone that it might become my thing.

Fast forward to 1992. I’d dropped out of college in New York after my sophomore year. My parents had split up and moved away from me and each other. My friends were back at school. Alone in Denver, I spent long, broke weekends in my first apartment with my turntable. Used records cost $2.50 at Wax Trax Records, less at the thrift store, so I could afford a lot of them. On one of my forays, I bought Soul Mining.

I already had The The’s 1989 album Mind Bomb. That album’s liner notes say something like “play this album very loud, very alone, very late with the lights very low.” What can I say? I often needed to listen to loud music in the dark. I snapped up Soul Mining when I saw it in the rack at Wax Trax.

From the first crackle of the needle on Soul Mining , the record felt like home. I realized I already knew the opening track, “I’ve Been Waitin’ for Tomorrow (All of My Life).” I recognized it as the intro music from Teletunes, the locally produced music video show I’d watched obsessively through my teen years.

Now that I heard the lyrics, I found they encapsulated my secret dread that I might die from love—of my imploding family and the boy I thought was my soul mate.

“All my childhood dreams

Are bursting at the seams

And dangling around my knees

I’ve been deformed by emotional scars

And the cancer of love has eaten out my heart…”

Track 2, “This Is the Day,” sounds upbeat, but listen closer. The insomniac protagonist is watching his friends and family slip away. He’s hoping “this will be the day / when things fall into place.” But you know it probably won’t.

The The bridged my Gothy teens listening to The Cure and Sisters of Mercy, and my life as a once-and-future English major. I read the first line of James Joyce’s story “Eveline”—“She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue.” But I heard “The Twilight Hour,” which opens Soul Mining ’s B-side:

“You’re lying on your bed

And making shadows on the wall

It’s almost too hot to move

Outside your window

People are driving home from work

For the weekend…”

The narrator has admirable intentions of standing up to his neglectful girlfriend and reclaiming his independence. Waiting for her call, though, he crumbles, panics, and makes promises he’ll never keep. It’s the Offspring’s “Self Esteem” for garment-renders rather than headbangers. (I put this track on a mix tape for the college boyfriend, who had gone back to school. In retrospect, TMI.)

At age 20, I was just a couple years younger than Matt Johnson was when he wrote these songs. Yet they seemed so adult in their self-reflection—with a vaguely Latin-and-blues-infused, synth-pop backbeat that keeps the listener from sinking too far.

I saw The The live in 1993 at the Paramount Theater in Denver. My memory was that Matt Johnson had a cold because it was something like November. In fact, it was June. Maybe I remember it as winter because I felt chilly and alone. I told my then-long-distance boyfriend that he would appreciate the Cranberries, the opening act, but I don’t remember raving about The The’s show. I didn’t know then that the boyfriend and I were about to crawl deeper into each other’s hearts and then break them. Either way, I kept The The more or less for myself. I’m glad.

Wikipedia says Johnson intended the album to end with “Giant,” a nine-minute anthem of existential angst. Halfway through, Johnson laments, “I’m scared of God and scared of hell / And I’m caving in upon myself.” A long drum section finally grants absolution through philosophy—he must know himself before anyone else can know him. It’s like Socrates, man.

Now, the boyfriend is long gone, and a husband has long-since replaced him. Still, Soul Mining offers absolution when I listen loudly, alone, in my room in the dark . . . or more likely these days, running errands in my car or picking my kid up from school. Either way, Soul Mining is timeless. Who knows? Maybe this will be the day.

 ♪♪♪Susanna Donato is writing a memoir about boys, music, and her quest as a Gothy PK (preacher’s kid) to march to her own drum machine. She grew up in Denver, where she lives and writes. Find her on Twitter @susannadonato or on the web or let her tell you more about Teletunes and Wax Trax.

                    Comments1983 was a good year. I was a senior in high school. Great ... by Linda RoyOof. Yeah, that album was on my heavy rotation for pretty much ... by JoncRelated StoriesStill in Rotation: All the Great Hits (Commodores)Still in Rotation: Young Americans (David Bowie)Divine Vinyl 

Quiz: Drunken College Girl, or My Malfunctioning iPhone5?

On Friday, exactly the same day that the new iPhone6 was available in Apple stores, my heretofore perfectly-functioning iPhone 5 began acting nutty. Basically, Siri and Voice Control rose up and took control of the device, behaving so erratically and defying all attempts to calm it that if it had been a person, I would have called 9-1-1 for a mental health intervention. In fact, after a few hours, the behavioral pattern cohered into one I recognized from back in my Penn days: a drunken college girl. Specifically, a drunken college girl back in her off-campus apartment after long night looking for Mr. Right at a frat party.

Let’s see if you can sort out whether the following actions were performed by the Drunken College Girl (DCG) or my iPhone 5. “Both” is also a choice. Answers at the bottom.

Out of absolutely nowhere, begins to sing “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” by AC/DC. Resists all efforts to be stopped. Decides to call the brother of a friend, assorted nephews, and anyone with the last name starting with “B.” Says mournfully, “No match found. No match found.” Spontaneously breaks into a loud rendition of “Lose Control” by Missy Elliott during an important business call. Decides to call old boyfriends just to say “hi.” Spontaneously breaks into a loud rendition of “Push It Good” by Salt N’Pepa during a trip to the grocery store Upon being thrown onto a bed and told to calm down for a few hours, appears to crash. But only after shouting out a few more names first. Wakes up contrite. Craves energy in the form of Diet Coke and French fries. Wakes up contrite. Craves energy in the form of USB port. After a few hours of good behavior, takes the Express Train right back to Crazytown.

Answers:

Both iPhone 5 Both iPhone 5 DCG DCG Both DCG iPhone 5 Both

If you got 1-5 answers right: you probably had a really hard double major and didn’t party much. If you got more than 5 answers right: see you in line outside the Apple store for the iPhone 6.

                    CommentsHey. An occasional loud rendition of any Salt N' Pepa song ... by julie gardnerI will never forget the Tabachnikoff girls suddenly dropping to ... by Nancy Davis KhoIndeed, then we were pulled over by the cops! Luckily we ... by ShiraThat song makes anyone dance like they're drunk. Believe we ... by Nancy Davis KhoI was there for number 6 and the Push it Good lyrics were ... by ShiraMine locked up and had to be forcefully restarted – guess it ... by LisaRelated StoriesDivine VinylLong Time No Write.Accidental Ambassadors 

Divine Vinyl

I’ve reunited with vinyl, and it feels so good.

Like 90% of you reading this, I grew up in the vinyl era. I spent long hours gazing in reverence at my album covers, reading the 6 pt font liner notes to decipher the meaning of lyrics, trying to interpret the mysterious dedications, using my arms like I was playing trombone to study the photos and layouts. I never had a vast record collection, but it was deep: I bought every Split Enz album issued, including imports, from Fantasy Records one town over. Albums meant a lot.

Then cassettes came along.

Then CDs.

It was all so precise and small and modern! No more lugging around crates of albums: your music could fit in a much smaller space, and be funneled straight into your ears via a Sony cassette Walkman, rather than seeping north into your brother’s Rock Room, or south into your sister’s Country Music Cavern. It was all the way efficient, and I loved it. At some point during the college years (ugh, I hate this part of the story) I took every LP and EP I had and sold them back to Fantasy Records. Actually, that’s not true. I kept the Split Enz stuff. But I even sold the canary yellow record cabinet that I’d stored my record collection in at a garage sale.

Then MP3s came along and even the CDs were too much of a bother. It is all so precise and small and modern! You could fit your entire music collection onto one device! We didn’t get rid of the CDs that overflowed from drawers and shelves, but we didn’t listen to them much anymore. Everyone in this house played his/her own music choice into his/her own ears, one downloaded single at a time.

Then last April the Oakland Museum opened a new exhibit called, “Vinyl: The Sound and Culture of Records.” I decided to go check it out one Saturday afternoon when the family was otherwise occupied. The exhibit was pretty simple: while there was some “history of vinyl” type stuff, mostly it was turntables, and milk crate upon curated milk crate of albums. You browsed, you popped an album onto a turntable, you listened to one of the pairs of headphones. Repeat.

Oh my goodness. I got teary.

There was something so visceral, so satisfying, so nostalgic in using my index finger to flip each album in a crate forward as I looked through “California Surf Music” and “MTV” and “Motown” crates. A feeling of victory when I spied an album I wanted to hear. And then, those seconds of anticipation listening to the crackles as I watched the needle move to the first song. I stood and pored over the album covers and liner notes while I listened, but I didn’t stick with any one album too long. There were too many other albums to get to: Ike and Tina Turner, Fleetwood Mac, Diana Ross, St. Vincent …

At one point I was playing The Housemartins’ London 0 Hull 4 and a young woman came up, glanced at the album cover in my hand, and pulled on the second pair of earphones to listen with me. “They’re great,” she mouthed at me. “I KNOW!” I said, pressing the album into her hands. When I left, she was still listening and reading the liner notes.

There was one more technical exhibit to check out before I left the museum that day. A listening station let you switch back and forth between a digital version of “Hard Day’s Night” by the Beatles, and the same song on vinyl. It was apparent, right away, that the vinyl version was richer, fuller, had more rounded tones. (That may not be the technical terminology, but my vocabulary for describing wines pretty much stops at “red,” “white,” and “more,” too.) The digital version was tinnier, more hollow, higher pitched. By the third time I compared them, the digital version was starting to hurt my ears a little.

I stumbled out into the Oakland sunshine, ready to PREACH for vinyl.

A few weeks later my birthday and Mother’s Day arrived. My husband gave me a turntable. The only albums I had on hand were my Split Enz collection, but that was a perfect start.

Since then we’ve started slowly rebuilding the collection. We’ve added some Bruce, some Peter Gabriel, some Sharon Jones. Our oldest kid has gotten into classical and ballet albums, coming home from shopping trips with her friends to Amoeba Records in Berkeley with quirky $0.50 finds like the Grand Canyon Suite and Viennese waltzes. It gives us something to look for at flea markets and on the second story of Urban Outfitter stores. My friend Maria gave me some U2 and Beastie Boys, and a music writer I met on Instagram thanks to the #vinyl hashtag just sent us Sia’s newest album. Moving back to vinyl means reliving the music curation joy of my teenage years. I’m looking forward to Record Store Day 2015 more than I am my birthday.

But the thing I like best about our new old vinyl hobby is that to properly hear an album, you need to sit in the same room with it. So when someone pops Squeeze Sweets from a Stranger onto the turntable, everyone else gravitates into the room and sits on the couch. Even if we don’t say anything, the simple act of sitting in the same room together, at a time when busy-ness is epidemic, feels like an unexpected payoff.

So if you need me, I’m probably in the living room, sliding Split Enz Waiata out of the sleeve, carefully setting it on the turntable, and hoping for company.

                    CommentsSqueeze! That was one of my favorite records – and college ... by JillMy album collection never went much past the Bee Gees, Andy ... by Kathie MartinOMG – just…”Happy Hour”. The Housemartins. Maybe I'll ... by FloribundaThis makes me happy. I bought a new stereo as a college ... by EllenRelated StoriesMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Echo and the BunnymenBlogHer 2014: Stories Still MatterMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Dave Matthews Band 

Long Time No Write.

Hi.

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks around here. So much so that every time I sat down to write a blog post I’d make a noise like this – “uuuuuggghhhwhoooooooo”—and then just rub my temples for a while. The back- to-school brouhaha, combined with a few other events, accomplished what my older brother and sister wished for so, so many times in the ‘70s: the power to make me shut up. I’ll be back soon, if only to bug my siblings. But in the meantime wanted to share a few things with you:

1.) I finished another revision my midlife crisis memoir. It’s in the final editing stages, which are the worst. That’s when you sit and stare at a twelve word sentence for a half an hour, then move it three paragraphs up, then six paragraphs back, then fiddle with its verb, all the while asking yourself “Why did I include this sentence at all?” Then you delete it. Then you restore it. Then you check Facebook. Then you curse yourself for not staying on task.

Repeat, for 76,000 words.

As enticing as I’ve just made the book sound, it really is coming together. So over time and as there is publication news to report, I’d love to keep you in the loop – but I don’t want to turn this blog into all book, all the time news. So if you’re interested in hearing when there’s book news worth sharing, please consider adding your email to my Book Lover List here. http://eepurl.com/C1H1n. I promise I’ll use it judiciously!

2.) I’ll be reading next Friday, Sept. 19 at The Basement Series in San Francisco, held in the Sports Basement at 1590 Bryant Street at 7 pm. This reading event is a fundraiser for Scholar Match and the LitCamp scholarship fund – free entry and free beer, but donations gratefully accepted at the door. With the Basement Series, two established authors choose five emerging writers from submissions, and the audience gets to hear all seven stories. When the call for submissions went out in July and the topic was “Music is Cheaper Than Therapy,” I’d submitted almost before I finished reading the email.

I was thrilled when the two established authors – esteemed music journalist Ben Fong-Torres and Leonard Cohen biographer Sylvie Simmons – chose me from the slush pile. So much so that I bought two copies of Sylvie’s book. I’m Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen to have her sign; one for me and one for you, maybe? I’m going to give away a copy to a Midlife Mixtape reader and see if I can get Sylvie to sign it next Friday. If you’re interested in entering, just leave a comment below and tell me: what song is your therapy? I’ll use Random.org to pick a winner on Sept 19 so I know who to have it signed for!

3.) The next “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Early Bird ‘80s Dance party is approaching! Join us Thursday, November 6 starting at 7 pm for some dance-tastic ‘80s music at the Cat Club in SF. There’s a FB invite here if you’d like to RSVP and share with your friends – but everyone is welcome, no RSVP needed. Hoping to line up a surprise or two for Midlife Mixtape subscribers, so stay tuned…you can read here about the last one if you need some encouragement.

Ok. Off to rub my temples some more. This is the only song I’m listening to this week: my cousin’s kid Kate playing her bass like a boss.

                    Commentsso my therapy song for this summer (I know that sounds ... by floribundaThat performance is SO great. I watched it earlier today when ... by JillRelated StoriesAccidental AmbassadorsTurn Down the Music and Read: Exile in GuyvilleLiterary Death Match: Good Listening Always Wins 

Midlife Mixtape Concert Review: Dave Matthews Band

The Band: Dave Matthews Band, August 23 2014. A band originally out of Charlottesville, Virginia, DMB roared onto the scene in the early 1990s and is going strong two decades later (yes, that first album with “Ants Marching” is twenty years old this year.) While rock to its core, DMB has always blended in jazz and funk and even a little bluegrass to create its distinctive, expansive sound, with sax, trumpets, and violin layering over electric guitars.

The Venue: The Greek Theater in Berkeley. Simply put, there is no better place to be on a clear, warm Bay Area night than this WPA-era Greek at the edge of the UC Berkeley campus. Well, let me amend that: when a 6.0 earthquake hit nearby Napa a few hours after we all filed out, I was glad to not still be there. But for the DMB show – perfect.

The Company: My best friend Maria, her husband Ted, and their youngest son, my godson Ethan. Dave Matthews is to Maria what Neil Finn is to me, and it’s perverse that it’s taken this long for me to finally go with her to see a show. But he usually plays the Bay Area when I’m at Family Camp. So getting to see this show was a more-than-satisfactory consolation prize for missing camp this year.

By the way, once I saw Dave do his shimmy dance, I totally got it. You don’t have to be a great dancer. Just a confident one.

The Crowd: I told Ted in the car that anyone who comes to a show with me has to provide three adjectives about the crowd by the end of the night. His first word was “Gentricool,” which, as you may have noticed, is not a real word, so I relieved him of his duties. Elsewhere in the stadium my friend Jenn texted me “Friendly” and “Devoted.”

Devoted is only the tip of the iceberg – more than any other show I’ve seen except maybe the Grateful Dead, DMB attracts lifers. Maria and Ted have seen him perform a gajillion times and were there for the second time during this three-night run at the Greek; Jenn and her family were going to be there all three nights in a row. The couple behind us had seen them in the tens of times, the guy two rows in front was wearing a shirt from a 1997 show. Once you see a Dave concert, I think you are locked in for life. Which I am totally ok with.

Jenn’s third adjective? “Altered.” Yes. I watched a guy take a huge hit from a joint and then simply do a face plant. People were relaaaaaaxed and shouty and happy.

Age Humiliation Factor: Not even.

Ted made the observation that there were a lot of baseball hats in use, hats that looked like they were probably hiding bald spots. Age range in our immediate section ran from 12 to at least 70.

Opening Band: Dave Matthews Band

Yes, DMB was its own opening band – thrifty! The first half of the show was acoustic, with the musicians clustered at the front of the stage and performing a set that would have been at home in a tiny theater. But thanks to the acoustics at the Greek, everyone including the folks on the lawn seats behind the stadium got pulled in to the performance. Then they took a break and came back as the electrified headliner act.

Cool Factor: Two fingers pointing left, then raised up, ASL style.

Because of the sign language interpreters. On our side of the stadium, two women took turns signing the concert, and. Honest to god, a couple times when I couldn’t tell whether the DMB lyric was “digging” or “drinking,” both of which play heavily into the DMB song catalog, I’d look over to the interpreters for a clue. That they kept the beat and a rocking tempo with their hips and shoulders the whole time they were signing was super cool. New bucket list item: become an ASL concert signer.

Worth Hiring the Sitter? Bring them along for the best of what’s around.

The show was fabulous – the band was tight, Dave sounded great, and at almost four hours between the acoustic and electric sets, the crowd got its money’s worth. (I am pretty sure I would have slept through the earthquake because I was so tired after the show, were it not for my husband saying, “Nancy wake up, it’s an earthquake!” So thanks for checking on us and yes, we were fine.) The highlights for me were “Grey Street” and DMB’s cover of “Burning Down the House” which got the whole amphitheater amped. I really like the richness of their sound, the way the sax and horns add a jazz note to the proceedings.

But what I loved most at this show was the family vibe. Yes, there were a lot of families there, in including the one I arrived with and the row of three 20-something siblings who posed for a photo to text their mom (please let my children do that in 10 years.)

The family ambiance, though, extended to the way the band members interacted among themselves, and the way the crowd engaged with them like they were old friends. It’s not as much of a Cult of Dave as I’d expected. The drummer would play a solo and I’d hear people around me saying, “Carter sounds great!” or, when violinist Boyd Tinsley stood up to play a duet with Dave, they cheered his name.

The fans just seem really connected to the individual players in the band, and the musicians don’t take the adoration for granted – at the end of the show Carter Beauford, the drummer, carefully handed out drumsticks to the kids in the crowd, including my godson, like a beneficent uncle. (Ted had acted all gentricool by putting Ethan on his shoulders and getting to the front of the crowd, which helped.) It made me understand how awful it must have been for the band and its longtime fans when founding member and sax player LeRoi Moore passed away in an accident in 2008.

Now that I’ve been inculcated into the DMB fold last weekend, I can see why people keep going back for me. See you on the next tour?

This is my favorite DMB song. They didn’t play it, so I’ll have to go next time and keep my fingers crossed.

                   
CommentsSorry I missed it…so glad you didn't! by JillWelcome to the family…we've been waiting patiently for your ... by MariaRelated StoriesMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Echo and the BunnymenMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Robyn and RöyksoppMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Neil Finn 

DIY Family Camp

Regular readers of this blog know that every year at the end of August, I repair to the shores of a tiny lake in the Adirondacks to attend a Family Camp, and have done so since 1968. It’s a no-tech, physically exhausting, hokey but gratifying week in the bosom of my family in a rustic YMCA camp. I like to describe it as Dirty Dancing minus Patrick Swayze, table linens, and the backroom abortion story line. Family Camp Week is my magic reset button, the time and space that enables me to charge into another year, refreshed.

I’m not going this year.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina: life gets in the way sometimes. The kids’ school starts at about the same time on Monday that the Family Campers will be signing out paddle boards at the boathouse, and we just couldn’t justify having them miss a week of school. I’ve missed years here and there for equally pressing reasons. We’ll be back at Dart’s Lake next year.

That doesn’t mean I won’t be missing it like crazy all week, though. Most years when I come back I write a post to summarize the week, and many times the comments run along the lines of “wish I could come to your Family Camp!” Well, friends, you’re in luck. I’ve created my own DIY Family Camp regimen that I plan to follow this week, in solidarity with my family and friends. Let’s make it epic!

There is a rigorous daily schedule, as well as some specific activities you’ll need to scatter throughout the week.

DAILY SCHEDULE

7 am: You know the ALS Ice Bucket challenge? Do that every morning, at 7, on your front lawn while your neighbors watch. This will simulate the communal pre-breakfast Polar Bear Swim in Dart’s Lake.

8:30 am: Make a vat of oatmeal. Elbow your children as you race to fill your bowl. Make it mostly a bowl of brown sugar, with oatmeal sprinkled on top. Pour some grounds and a half cup of cold water into your regular coffee.

9 am – 11 am: Run sprints up and down the nearest hill; climb a tree; paddle in the nearest body of water for an hour. The goal is to cram eight days of activity from your normal life into two hours of camp time.

Noon: Have the children bang pots and pans and talk at the top of their lungs while you try to eat, a close approximation of the volume level in the cavernous dining hall. Someone should make important announcements about changes to the afternoon schedule into a microphone that cuts in and out, so you don’t hear any of them.

1 pm – 2 pm: Naptime! To simulate the soothing quiet in your giant multi-family cabin during the after-lunch siesta, have the kids slam doors at random times throughout the hour. They can also yell, “Has anyone seen my riding helmet?” or “James! James! Are you in here? James!” repeatedly. If you actually fall asleep, you’ve done it wrong.

2 pm – 4 pm: Repeat the activities from your 9:00-11:00 slot, in reverse order. Don’t forget tennis, soccer, Ultimate Frisbee, and Carpet ball. Tie dye a shirt with your spare time.

4:30 -5:30 pm: Adult beverages on the porch, but keep it on the down low. You’ll never get the other campers to leave.

7 pm- 9 pm: Dance around your kitchen, make s’mores, have a campfire, look at the stars. Whatever you choose for Evening Activities, make sure to lock all your devices away.

9 pm until 2 am: Go to a bar that is chronically understaffed and serves warm beer from cans. Play pool and call your friends and family members nicknames that no one outside of Family Camp has used since 1983. See you at Polar Bear in 5 hours, Jimmy Germophobe!

As for date-specific activities:

Sunday

Wear clean clothes, make sure your hair looks good, and apply makeup. You’ll do none of those things for the rest of the week.

Monday

Lay a towel down on the lawn and open the thick literary novel you packed. By page three, either fall asleep with your nose in it, or call someone you haven’t seen in a year and attempt to catch up on all the activities of the past 365 days.

Tuesday

Square Dance Night! Dance to this.

Wednesday

Switch over to a 100% starch diet, and be ok with that. Sigh, “I hope there are chicken patties for dinner.”

Also: wear something from the bottom of your hamper. If it’s damp, so much the better.

Thursday

Square Dance Night! Dance to this.

Friday

Realize that you are running out of time to do everything. String a zipline between your house and the neighbor’s and coast down it wearing a bathing suit, so that when you land you can immediately go to the pool and swim laps. If you know anyone with a horse, tell them to saddle it and have it ready to ride. You’ll be by to mount up as soon as you dry off from the pool.

Saturday

Finally: It’s the day of the Men’s Kayak Race! Take a paddle and crack someone across the shins with it, then hold their faces underwater using the Polar Bear Swim bucket. Remember, the goal is not to win, but to prevent the other guy from winning. (Note: of all the DIY Family Camp activities, this hews closest to the real event. Not even sure they’re using the lake this year.)

Sunday

Be secretly relieved it’s over. Put next year’s Family Camp dates on the calendar right away.

(I’ll see you Family Campers in 2015 – don’t have too much fun without me this week!)

                   
CommentsNancy, I LOVE this post! You have me craving a week of family ... by Susan Roman CulhaneWhen you are exhausted find a hammock on someone's porch. Soak ... by Christy Simonsen RenjilianWith a Cheeto in its mouth. by Nancy Davis KhoBoo hoo, I am already missing you and we aren't even there yet! ... by SallyRelated StoriesAccidental AmbassadorsUrfiss GoodAnd the Next “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Dance Party is… 

Accidental Ambassadors

After last weekend’s Book Passage Travel Writer and Photographer’s Conference, I came away thinking of travel writing less as a fun way to expand my portfolio of published clips and more as a path to world peace.

It shouldn’t have surprised me, I know. I have two degrees in international business, driven by my belief in a quote attributed to one of the founders of my grad school: “Borders frequented by trade seldom need soldiers.” Yes, commerce was a part of it, but my real interest in international business was seeing the world and getting to know other languages, cultures, belief systems. (Or, as my dad used to sigh when faced with an undergraduate tuition bill: “Are you sure you don’t want to be a flight attendant instead?”)  Each time in my business career that I had the chance to work with colleagues or clients in another country, my own sense of the world grew a little larger. And whether I liked it or not, I was an American ambassador in that role, with all the responsibility the title entails. Conversation by conversation, meeting by meeting, I had the chance to build bridges of understanding with people from other countries. (My all-time favorite business book? Kiss, Bow, or Shake Hands, about the nuances of business etiquette around the world.)

Then I remembered how much I hate accounting a few years back, and became a writer. Something like that, anyway.

I’ve always thought that travel writing would be a nice way to combine the education my parents bought me with the one I’ve gotten one keystroke at a time. And the Book Passage’s annual conference in nearby Marin County was the only place to start. I won’t drop all the names here, but if you check the covers of any guidebooks or travel magazines or newspaper travel sections you have lying around the house, there’s an 80% chance their authors were my teachers last weekend.

Elizabeth Harryman, Davina Baum, and Jenna Scatena with the inimitable Georgia Hesse

Also, yes, because I know you, Midlife Mixtape readers: one faculty member was a Brat Packer. Andrew McCarthy was gracious, self-effacing, and funny, and clearly held in highest esteem by the travel writing greats. If you want to feel close to Blane again, go buy his book.

Andrew McCarthy

Andrew McCarthy, Tim Cahill, Don George

The days were long, conducted in the nooks and crannies of Book Passages’ fabulous Corte Madera location. We learned what travel editors look for in a story pitch (hint: don’t pitch “The Pubs of Edinburgh” to a magazine for a driving association.) We learned the travel writing clichés to avoid like the plague, from “city of contrasts” to “quaint” to “off the beaten path.” We learned that if everything goes right, there’s nothing to write about.

“Write the Big 5″ instructors Jim Benning and David Farley

When the sessions ended, well after dark, we cocktailed, karaoked, and ate delicious dessert waffles.

BP’s Kathy Petrocelli and the supersize waffle batter bowl

Mostly, we were reminded that travel makes our worlds both bigger and smaller. In the course of the weekend I heard stories about how a broken down bus in a dusty Indian village was the start of a beautiful friendship, conducted mainly in pantomime; that a nightmare before a solo trip to Turkey was an inverse reflection of the kindness shown on the actual trip; that charm lurks even in the most packaged hotel experience, once you throw s’mores into the mix. (True story: the small group that workshopped the s’mores story was led by Tony Wheeler, founder of Lonely Planet, who had never heard of s’mores before. It’s not often you have the chance to teach the world’s most famous traveler about a new cuisine.)

But the session that got me right in the tear glands was on Sunday afternoon, called Travel That Makes a Difference. Four panelists, all esteemed travel writers, talked about the moments in which they realized how powerful travel writing is in protecting vulnerable places and people. If you want to make grown travel writers cry, ask them about the transformative kindness they’ve experienced on the road.

Tim Cahill, founder of Outside magazine, called it “the conspiracy of caring” – the power travel writers have to make people care about and conserve places that they may never even see. Jeff Greenwald, whose website Ethical Traveler educates travelers about the social and environmental impact of their decisions, shows how travel can be a potent form of diplomacy, and gives travelers a forum through which their united voices can serve the world community, handed out bookmarks with 13 Tips for the Accidental Ambassador. They include “curb your anger and cultivate your sense of humor,” “learn and respect the traditions and taboos of your host country,” and “learn to listen.”

Every night when I got home from the conference, exhausted, I stayed up another hour to catch up with the news in Ferguson via Twitter. And it struck me how the lessons we learned about being good travel writers – to listen, to be respectful, to maintain a sense of possibility, to understand that “different” is not the same as “bad,” and above all to not panic when things went wrong – is exactly what’s needed in Missouri, and everywhere else in our country, right now. We don’t need a passport to exercise these practices. We are Human Race Ambassadors, with all the responsibility the title entails.

Wonders await out there, in this cruel, crazy, beautiful world. Get moving.

A few other travel books to check out by our BPTravel2014 instructors:

An Irreverent Curiosity by David Farley
The Best Women’s Travel Writing edited by Lavinia Spalding
Pass the Butterworms: Remote Journeys Oddly Rendered by Tim Cahill
Shopping for Buddhas by Jeff Greenwald
And of course, the Bible of travel writing by supermensch and founder of the Book Passage Travel Writing Conference, Don George: Lonely Planet Travel Writing.

***

I’ve been doing a little travel, at least on the Interwebs, in the past week…

What’s that creak in your hip? Check for the Top 9 Signs You’re Hurtling Toward Middle Age, over at NickMom.

And Huffington Post picked up my piece on advice to an incoming high school freshman, called “Find Yourself a Lisa.” PS Brian saw it on Facebook and accepted my apology for insinuating that he drank strawberry wine coolers back in the day.

                   
CommentsWell said, Nancy! by Kristin HarringtonSee? I know what you guys are after. ... by Nancy Davis KhoAndrew has aged well. but this was a great post in other ways, ... by Carol CassaraRelated StoriesLiterary Death Match: Good Listening Always WinsUrfiss GoodAnd the Next “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Dance Party is… 

Still in Rotation: All the Great Hits (Commodores)

Still in Rotation is a feature that lets talented writers tell Midlife Mixtape readers about an album they discovered years ago that’s still in heavy rotation, and why it has such staying power.

I first heard of What Now and Why blogger Arnebya Herndon during the BlogHer Voices of the Year keynote back in 2012, when she read this powerful, moving piece about Trayvon Martin. I didn’t know, when she and I were dancing together to Reverend Run at BlogHer14 just last month and I thought to ask her over to do a Still in Rotation in August, that the Trayvon post would be boomeranging through my head again this week, with terrible relevance. I love Arnebya because she’s funny and I can always count her to sing along to obscure old school hip hop with me. But it’s her gift for conjuring her memories and experiences into moments we can all understand that makes her extra special. P.S. For fun, tell the Starbucks barista today that your name is “Arnebya” and don’t spell it for them. Never fails to entertain.

All the Great Hits (1978)

by Arnebya Herndon

I am six. My father wears an afro and bellbottoms. He sings on beat, on pitch, with The Commodores in the basement. He knows all the lyrics. My father is gone most nights, only to return talking about his gig.

My father is Lionel Richie.

Listen, in my child’s brain, this made perfect sense. I’d seen Lionel in photos. He looked like my father; my father looked like him. They were the same. The thing is, I know he’s not my dad (now). And yet, the music can put me in the frame of mind of absolute happiness from being a child who knew nothing about marriage and anger and passion and disagreements and love and money and did you seriously use all the damn butter and not say anything. As an adult, though, the music of The Commodores is all mine. While some songs can invoke memories, it’s the music itself, the construction, the lyrics, the instruments, Lionel’s voice, that I adore. Besides, I’ve had my own share of love and upset to refer to when I hear certain songs.

In 1983, when I was 10 and my parents divorced and my mother got the house, my father left a crate of records. OK, wait, let me clarify. Left isn’t really the right word. He put them in a corner behind a chair with a cover over them. He was coming back for them. So naturally I took The Commodores’ All the Great Hits. Here it is 32 years later and I still have that record, but I’ve never told him the circumstances surrounding how I got it. What? Because he’s never asked! I mean, if he were to ask, I’d tell him, but come on, they’ve divorced; he already thinks poorly of her. What worse is it for him to think she stole his record? It’s not! I was a child. And you are so judgmental.

It would be years before I’d realize that my favorite Commodores’ lyrics were usually about love loss. Oh, how my dad must have felt sitting in that basement listening alone.

“Sail On.” This was my angry breakup song. Beautiful, but absolutely about leaving, sailing on, and probably partying a whole lot afterward:

I’ve thrown away the blues


I’m tired of being used


I want everyone to know


I’m looking for a good time

The song “Still.” This was my satisfying, no big deal, it was meant to be, breakup song.

We lost what we both had found


You know we let each other down


But then most of all


I do love you


Still

Come to think of it, perhaps I cried over every slow, melodic song with sweet lyrics. I don’t appreciate your reminding me of that.

When my husband and I moved in together to show our families we cared not about the sin of fornication (that back seat was getting way too cramped), naturally we blended our CDs and cassettes (still have the cassettes too). We were arguing over whose turn it was to cook one night and my eyes happened to catch the CD tower. It was full. There were stacks of CDs on the floor around it. So, I cooked. Because there was no way in hell I was prepared to go through and see what belonged to whom. Also, if we broke up over refusing to compromise about dinner, all that fornication was for naught and I couldn’t have that.

Easy. The I wanna be high, so high lyric tells about a decidedly different time in my life. Stop being nosy. We’re focusing on this being a love song. Sure, it’s still an end of love song because of

Know it sounds funny
But I just can’t stand the pain
Girl, I’m leaving you tomorrow

But it’s about love, about having the balls to leave when that love turns to sand in the bottom of your purse that gets under your freshly done nails while you’re searching for an errant Starburst – just wrong.

“Three Times a Lady.” Once, twice, three times a lady. This is a song to the testament of a woman’s love, which Lionel wrote about so beautifully. It’s also about breaking up.

And then there is “Brick House.” You know how you dance to “Blurred Lines” and try to hide it because it makes you a bad feminist? This is how I am with “Brick House.” True friends will point to you in the club, no matter how old you are (not too old, because face it, at some age you probably need to take your ass out of the club), no matter how decidedly unbrickhoused you are. I drop it like it’s hot every time this song comes on because misogyny or not, listen to that beat. I’m mighty mighty, just lettin’ it all hang out.

To this day, I play this album straight through. I can’t afford to skip anything. I just might miss a memory.

 ♪♪♪

Arnebya is a DC-based writer, wife, mother of three, and dance party after dinner extraordinaire. She blogs about family life, food, and whatever she thinks of because it’s her blog, at What Now and Why. Find her being amusing on Facebook, cute on Instagram, and not complaining enough on Twitter. 

 

                   
CommentsI loved every bit of this…pure Arnebya! by Liz @ ewmcguireCan you imagine Nicole Richie and me on our own show? I can. ... by ArnebyaI imagine sand under my nails would be awful. Gritty. Hard to ... by ArnebyaGood Lord, this is the brillianceness. by KeelyThe sand in the nail! Your words, Arnebya….you're something ... by GretaPlus 5 more...Related StoriesStill in Rotation: Young Americans (David Bowie)Still in Rotation: Skylarking (XTC)Still in Rotation: Barry Manilow Live (Barry Manilow) 

Urfiss Good

When our girls were little there was a picture book their grandma sent them called Earth Is Good. It was a simple celebration of nature, with drawings of an ebullient child playing outdoors and text that ran along the lines of, “Butterflies are good. The sky is good. Trees are good.” And every page ended with the line, “Earth is good.”

I once army-crawled through our upstairs hallway holding a videocamera, back in the pre-smartphone days, so I could surreptitiously film the scene of my oldest daughter, then about two and a half, sitting on the floor in her bedroom reading the book to an audience of her stuffed animals. In the clip, she is wearing a big hat from her dress-up bin that obscures both face and shoulders, and she recites the words, dramatically though phonetically, she’d heard so many times: “Urfiss Good.”

Urfiss Good. When everything else seems to be spiraling out of control, that’s a simple truth to remind yourself: Earth is good.

This little affirmation is something I say to myself once in a while, when things in the news chronicle a world backsliding into chaos, the idle speed set to “rage.” When the Gaza fighting seems as senseless as it does unsolvable; when a civilian airline is blown out of the sky by Russian separatists who have been overserved, weapons-wise; when yet another brown-skinned boy is killed by police. At a time when humor seems like the only possible antidote, one of the world’s comedic greats succumbs to depression and we lose even that comfort.

The last time I remember feeling so bleak was in the months after Hurricane Katrina and the Southeast Asian Tsunami, at the end of 2005. Some friends and I got together back then and started a Giving Circle, a group of friends that now, almost ten years later, still gets together every other month to socialize and then give some money away to a worthy cause. The experience taught me that in the midst of darkness there is always, ALWAYS something positive to fasten upon. The generosity of my friends and the existence of chocolate/wine pairings, for instance.

Urfiss Good.

I just read a quote from a clergyman who is trying to help the Yazidi people who have been stranded and are dying of thirst in a corner of Iraq, targeted for death by ISIS militiamen. A reporter asked how dire the situation is. The clergyman responded, “My job is hope.” In other words, Urfiss Good.

All of us have that job. To refuse to give in to sadness, to work hard to see the positive and amplify it until it drowns out the negative. But that doesn’t mean going all ostrich and pretending none of the bad stuff is happening. The world doesn’t need more observers. We need more doers. Are you happy that Oakland’s graduation rate for young men of color is rising? Great! Have you signed up to be tutor or to donate supplies for one of its public schools? That’ll keep things trending in the right direction.

The point is to be grateful, and then to do something to keep the momentum going. If we all do that, well, maybe Urfiss Good won’t be a meditation so much as a fact.

I’m going to share a short list of my current Urfiss Good reminders, and what action I can take to help. I’d love it if you’d share your own in the comments.

Acceptance of gay marriage has reached a tipping point. (And I’ll only vote for politicians who support it.)
As of today, there are still elephants, rhinos, and polar bears sharing this planet. (Just found out about this San Francisco company that is trying to help keep it that way. Helloooo, Christmas shopping.)
The Internet makes it easier for people who feel isolated to connect with others who can help them through difficult times. (Tell the FCC why Net Neutrality needs to be preserved.)
More automakers are investing in more low and no-carbon emission models. (Save up for one. Meanwhile, try to walk to do my errands more.)
This song. (Dance.)

This book. (Damascena, by Holly Payne. Read lots of books, and buy them from independent bookstores.)
This comedian. (Karinda Dobbins of Oakland. Support the arts. Go see creative people do their thing.)
This corner of Urf, in the Oakland Hills. (Breathe deeply and pick up trash.)

Our friends and families. (I’m trying to look harder for the people in my life who may be falling through the cracks, right in front of me, and check in with them.)
All of you. (Give thanks.)

See?

Urfiss good.

                   
CommentsThanks Nancy, Love the donors choose website. by sussiYOU are good! I so look forward to your blogs…..you always ... by CathyMy old neighbour was nearly on that plane. Urfiss good, but ... by Tinne from Tantrums and TomatoesThank you Nancy! by MargotBeen trying to find that patch of blue sky amidst the storms, ... by kathykateRelated StoriesAnd the Next “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Dance Party is…Turn Down the Music and Read: Exile in GuyvilleMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Echo and the Bunnymen 

And the Next “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Dance Party is…

Before I tell you, let’s recap the first ever “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Early Bird ‘80s Dance Party, at the Cat Club in San Francisco on August 7. The idea to host this party came to me as I was stumbling out of the Cat Club’s regular “Class of ’84″ dance night back in April. It’s held every Thursday, from 9 pm -1 am. I had a blast, but man was I tired. “Wouldn’t it be great to do the exact same ’80s dance party, but start it and end it earlier?” I said to my friends. Because if, like me, you find yourself in the years between being hip and breaking one, you treasure your eight hours of sleep each night.

I made a couple email inquiries. The good people of the Cat Club and DJ Damon got on board with the idea. I spread the word far and wide, and people responded, spreading the word farther and wider. Even when 2, count them, TWO, friends called at the last minute to say they couldn’t come because they had emergency root canals that day – this is what happens when you create an event for people over 30 – I had a feeling people would show up. They needed this.

There was a line outside at 6:51. It was a line of one, but still.

We threw open the doors promptly at 7.

The first forty people who walked through them got this badge.

The music started at 7:00:03 – DJ Damon threw some Echo up in that joint, since we’d both been at the show the weekend earlier – and the first people were dancing by 7:02. It never stopped. People kept streaming in and once they had a drink in hand, they headed to the dance floor and stayed there. People I knew, people I didn’t know, husbands, co-workers, Cat Club regulars…they just kept showing up. Three moms from the local elementary school moved into the cage and made it their own, for the rest of the night.

Photo and cage dancers courtesy of my friend Esther

Erasure, Prince, Depeche Mode, When In Rome, Talking Heads…it was a veritable cornucopia of dancealicious magic.

I was torn between catching up with my friends and meeting new people and really, really needing to dance. The latter urge won out, which is why my feet were dyed bright red the day after – the red suede shabooties I wore may have looked good, but they were not sweat resistant. Whatever. Badge of honor. PLAY ON, DJ DAMON!!

Best news of all? SEVENTY PEOPLE SHOWED UP. And you guys made it so fun for everyone that we’re doing it again. Mark your calendars, hire your sitters, round up your spouses and friends and co-workers NOW for the next “I Have to Work Tomorrow” Dance Party:

Thursday, November 6, 7-9 pm, Cat Club, 1190 Folsom Street

Want to do me a solid? If you had came out and enjoyed yourself, consider subscribing to the blog via email, in the box on the upper right hand corner of the blog. A bunch of wanna-be dancers said they never saw the Facebook posts about the dance party, because apparently Mark Zuckerberg hates ’80s music. Yes, you read it here first. But truly, I have no control over what gets displayed on Facebook, so if you want a failsafe way to keep informed, subscribing by email is the best way to go. Besides, Midlife Mixtape posts are like that dance party, but in written form!

And if you have any suggestions of how to improve the party, please leave me a comment below. Games? Giveaways? Awards for best costumes or best dance moves? I’m open to ideas.

Thanks again to everyone who came out! It was nigh on impossible to pick the best song of the night so this is my somewhat arbitrary choice:

Oh and for the record? I was in bed by 10:45.

***

My latest is up at NickMom.com: “Top 9 College Situations I Wish My Kids Could Avoid.” #4: An unpaid internship that involves caged animals. Click here for the full list.

          
CommentsThat was sooooo much fun! And I was in my pjs by 10:40. ... by Janine KovacConsider hosting one of these in the South Bay! (altho yes, it ... by TracyI might have to stay over…;) So glad the first one was so ... by KirWoo hoo! It's on my calendar! by AmyRelated StoriesAny Old Excuse for a PartyBlogHer 2014: Stories Still MatterMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Robyn and Röyksopp