Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

 

A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. With scattered snow flakes graying out the sun. No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try. Instead the rotating orb does not stop for even a mourning dove's elegiacal cry. An old woman on the slushy sidewalk, dodging ice chunks, wishes winter was done. A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. A muffled snore of a world never reborn nor showing its fragile eye It slumbers in fits and starts that block out the ruminating sun No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try Where are the frolicking foxes? Are the mousy bunnies too shy? The places they once cherished, they now practically shun. A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. The snow crunches beneath my feet even though I hoped to wish the season goodbye. The icy touch of spring, an irony that's lost much of its fun. No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try. Soon it will turn to slush and the seasonal ach...

Jets to Brazil always makes me think of fall, changing seasons, and remembrance. I started listening to them at a pivotal moment when I was figuring out my identity and becoming an adult. I had long been a fan of Jawbreaker, and when Black Schwarzenbach started JTB, I went to one of their first national tours in 1998 for Orange Rhyming Dictionary in Milwaukee. They played with Fugazi, Compound Red, and the band I saw play most Milwaukee shows at that time, Promise Ring. It was an amazing show for the most part, and I met Blake before the show. For many Jawbreaker fans, Jets to Brazil took some getting used to, mainly because they toned down the former band's punk tendencies for more indie rock and pop influences. While 1995's  Dear You , Jawbreaker's final record, was moving in this direction, JTB added keyboards and sometimes resembled 1980s bands like The Psychedelic Furs or 1990s indie bands like Wilco more than the punk stylings of many of the Jawbreaker releases, Howev...

Place matters in the grand scheme  as we plan the rest of our short lives in between careers, births, and death, tracing the lines of worry and doubt on faces that age like earthen masks,  cracking and morphing into new forms  that recall our parents and their familiar tragedies and strategies in months that begin with archaic, internalized letters, fomenting lethargy and resilience like the graying maples and elms, the wintry oaks, the desolate brown topped spruce,  as those seasons change and loss becomes static reality in this Upper Peninsula, this region of utmost cold, where the snow falls and blankets the silent masses, ergo, a laugh, a sound, an eruption of jubilant life in resistance to the colors that drain, clamorously calling out for meaning.  Ha! Relentless ones! You are stuck here! Lift up your choices and dig in!

I was walking through the needles today and thinking about fall, a season that used to be one of my favorites. Recently, I have found fall less appealing, probably because I am not used to the southern changes in season. I miss certain trees, and I miss the snow.  Watching the world turn gray but never seeing snow is distracting and strange. I never thought I would miss snow as much as I do, but fall affects me more positively if there is a snowfall that covers the brown leaves and points to change. Here in the south, I have to wait longer for this renewal as the world stays brown until spring arrives.  I should get used to these different seasonal shifts. The seasons change, but they are not as evident to someone who grew up with four distinct seasons with vast temperature changes. In Wisconsin, you get used to shifts in the weather that are shocking and quick. Winter is long and snowy and feels so different from the southern fall, which is not as cold or different from the s...

My wife, Carrie, and I hit the trails yesterday and took some cool pictures on the DeGray Lake Resort Island Trail. We were not expecting to find so much wildlife. We saw many deer and a fox family lurking near their den. Watching the deer reminded me of Jonathan Richman's version of Marty Robbins' "Man Walks Among Us." As the deer and fox either scurried away through the underbrush or stood silently and watched, I felt like we were trespassing in this beautiful area. We slowly made our way through and left the animals to their lives.