Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

It's hard to believe that I will be moving back to the Midwest soon. I snagged a teaching job in Ironwood, Michigan, a town that I visited often in the late 90s because it was an hour from my hometown. I generally went there to buy records at a corporate record store (Was it a Sam Goody?). I was living in my small hometown after a poor trial run at college, and did not get back to central Wisconsin until Fall 1999.  I had heard there was a punk venue, and I found it on one of these forays into Upper Michigan. It was called The Rat Cellar. They sold a few records and had shows in the basement. For a few years, I hung out with the local punk kids and watched many local and national touring bands in that dank basement.   There were a few highlights from those shows besides the friends I made. Sadly, I did not keep in touch with any of them. However, I did see one of the little kids who attended those shows more than a decade later in a Wisconsin Rapids basement. Connections ...

Since I moved to Arkansas a few years ago, I have realized how much the pollen affects me and how ubiquitous it can be. I have always gotten sick every year when the trees start blooming, but in Arkansas, it is so much worse. The pine trees and many other plants start blooming, and I find myself a sick mess. My ears are plugged, my head is stuffy, and my body aches. When I first encountered these symptoms a couple of years ago, I thought I had the flu, but friends informed me that it was just the pollen. The trees are beautiful, with their needles appearing ever greener through the haze, but yellow pollen covers the roads, vehicles, and pretty much anywhere else it can land. A blanket of yellow clogs the air, and it is even visible in the water that pools in drains and puddles along the muddy ground. When I return to Wisconsin, other blooming polliniferous plants will hit me again, so my head will remain a mess.  Of course, this haze cuts down my productivity, and I struggle to cat...

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...

"One’s destination is never a place, but rather a new way of looking at things." --Henry Miller. Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (1957). "I'll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore." -- Cheryl Strayed. Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Life and Love from Dear Sugar (2012). We just moved to Arkansas so I could start my new teaching job, loading our belongings into a car and a 26-foot truck, trying against all odds to get rid of junk to make the move easier. While I did get rid of books and other nonessential items, the truck was packed (to the gills as the expression goes). I know, first world problems, right? There was barely room for anything else, and when we arrived in Arkansas there were a few damaged items. I...

It is time for another trip to the cabin to still my quaking nerves and temper the shift of my lofty or scattered ambitions. I am stressed by the upcoming move and the shifting of time that makes me older but not wiser as I battle my apprehension and dismiss the fact that I actually graduated with a Ph.D. no less, but I can never appreciate my good luck or all the hard work that went into finishing the dissertation, many of it at the cabin. I pack a small number of records; we changed the rules this year, only ten, but both Donny and I are bringing more surreptitiously, unbeknownst to all except each other. We knew we each would and discussed it more than usual, sifting our collections for the unknown, we grabbed albums to introduce to each other like new friends.   After last year's AC/DC debacle, where he tried to play the discography and was shut down, the decision was made (by who?), in passive voice resistance, to bring albums that were near and dear to us and ...

When I was a kid, we would often go for dinner at Paul Bunyan's Cook Shanty in Minocqua, Wisconsin. I marveled over the large slices of white bread with butter, the tin cups filled to the brim with milk and water, and the manufactured ambience of the old lumber industry that covered the walls. I loved that place and still do; there was something about it that dredged up old memories, remembrances of a past that never existed merging with a real past. The lumber industry was a major part of American history as the demand for timber rose in parts of the country that had little access to giant timber. At its peak, in 1900, annual production of lumber reached around 35 million board feet and the Midwest was depleted of much of its virgin timber. Major industries, such as railroad and coal mining, depleted resources as the nation entered a period of expansion and technological development after the Civil War. Lumberjacks maintained a sense of identity and traditional pride even...

Time once again emerges the winner in its perennial battle to change our hearts and minds, ravaging (perhaps, that's too harsh a word) along parameters that stretch from our youth to our deaths. What are these you ask? Only the old man himself knows and he's not telling. Winter fades to spring on the Elk River and the flood waters recede, streaming rivulets of mud and murk. I pack again for the cabin trip, like every summer since my summers began, excited, except for those few years in high school, when I fled from my parents, a high-minded but foolish youth, escaping into books and records, with friends. We surreptitiously visited the cabin on weekday nights, beers in hand, talk in mind. I pack and pack some more -- the right records, the right books, the right attitude -- looking forward to seeing the Elk overrun its bed or settle back into its groove, and anticipating the smell of the forest, the plants, the early summer.  I make my annual lists and call around...

Sundays used to be a time to relax with a good cup of hot cocoa. My grandfather would swing by our house for a cup of coffee. He would stay for a long time before going into work at the garage. Or I would climb into my dad's old red F-150 and we'd go partridge hunting down the back roads outside  town, prowling for startled birds. We would drive down those lonely old dirt roads for hours, searching for dinner, scouring in the musky air. Sundays have always held a peculiar fascination for me. Days of rest, maybe, but they can also be days of great excitement. Lately though, they're just more days to work. In front of a computer screen, I dole out the daily word count, wishing I could be up north or down south, any damn where but here. I'd rather be running through the woods, disc golfing, just walking down the street, and instead I'm here. I guess it's time to go. Johnny Cash - Sunday Morning Coming Down https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ED5s1-Fe9FA Kris Kr...

One summer when I was a kid, perhaps 1990 or 1991, my great aunt enrolled me in nature classes in Cable, Wisconsin. They were held once a month and taught youngsters about wildflowers, animals, and respect for the earth. We would ride in her old tan Mercury Lynx into wilderness that seemed larger and more wooded than near my house; the area was hillier and covered with heavier, older trees. The woods seemed to hang over the narrow roads, some on hills that stretched into the distance. On either side of these roads, it seemed like one slight slip of the wheel would send the car plummeting into the ravine. The telephone poles were tall and felt straighter, pointing down into the crumbling earth. It was very green -- the trees were full of leaves and visible soil was clay red. Cable was about an hour northwest of my hometown in Bayfield County, and the start of the Birkebeiner cross country skiing race. We must have taken highway 13 north to 77 and gone west. I have never returned, bu...

The clouds started forming at five o'clock pm The funnel clouds touched down five miles north of Russellville Sirens were blowing, clouds spat rain As the thing came through, I swear it sounded like a train -- Drive-By Truckers, "Tornadoes" A massive F3 tornado came through my hometown of Park Falls, Wisconsin in the summer of 1985. My family and I were spending the night at my grandparent's cabin 20 miles away riding out what we thought was a typical summer storm. Mostly all I remember was reading comics at the cabin and the usual fights I had with my uncle (he is only three years older than me). I kept my comics at the cabin, but after this tornado I got into reading them more. I put them in boxes and I would have to hide them in the basement with each passing summer storm. In the morning my dad went to survey the damage of the storm. We used to have big, sheltering trees in the front yard and these were gone now. They had been toppled over by the winds. On...

Folk has increasingly been the rule here at Snobbin' headquarters. When it gets really cold out, there are two consistent directions for the music hereabouts -- acoustic or metal. As it gets colder, (Temperatures are dropping into the negatives lately) the folk albums drop increasingly onto the turntable. While other Canadian folk bands have been covered on the blog, Whitehorse, whose tuneful melodic folk tunes have helped them make the Polaris Short List, has never been mentioned. Their album The Fate of the World Depends on this Kiss is a stunner; beautiful melodies, harmony vocals, and terse production help them stand above the rest in the increasingly crowded Americana field. Whitehorse consists of Luke Doucet and Melissa McClelland, who both had successful solo careers before teaming up. They have released two records, including The Fate of the World, and an earlier equally relevant Self-Titled Effort. Comparisons to the Handsome Family can be easily made, yet this husban...

When I was a kid, long before I began delving into folklore, collecting stories, and thinking about how differently stories are told in an oral form than a written one, my friends and I used to visit Holy Cross Road in an effort to experience supposed supernatural phenomena. This concept is commonly referred to by folklorists as Legend Tripping. Adolescents tend to venture out at night to explore places that are considered supernatural or haunted. Often certain rituals are carried out in order to either prove that kids were there, or just to prove that they aren't scared. Holy Cross was definitely the premier place for teenagers to go when I was in High School. I'm not certain it still maintains this status, but we certainly had fun going there. Our first trip there was an adventure in itself. I had heard many stories about the place -- it maintained quite a reputation. These stories ranged from the tame (unexplained noises) to the truly bizarre (gnomes, floating men, shot ...

Not to sound cliched, but there is something different about the North Woods during a frigid winter. Heavy snow nestles in clumps on the median, pine trees are heavy with white, and dark, large crows crowd telephone lines. Small towns and hamlets find protection from encircling balsams. Greyish snow is caked on signposts from the morning plows, pushing, salting, and sanding the world into a shape more suitable to people's whims. The drifting snow covers doorsteps, as the wind whips and whirls outside. The temperature is only -1, but it might drop into the -20's. Even in Illinois, this stops traffic, closes schools, changes the day to day. Here it isn't as common as it once was, but it still creates less of an event. Cars don't start, and there are always more accidents on the first days after a snowfall. Yet as winter settles in, even the deer and birds seem to disappear, except at feeders. Of course, those crows remain, ever watching, ever circling. The worl...

I drove up to northern Wisconsin yesterday through alternating rain and sun. Once I drove past Tomahawk the rain turned to slushy snow and sleet. Turning onto highway 8, traffic trailers, trucks loaded down with planks, and general messiness slowed me down. The trees up here are still struggling to leaf out and the brown, dirty grass attempts to push past random snow piles. In Illinois, the trees are in full bloom, yet the nights are cold and wet. I'm glad to be back in the North Woods, if just for a couple of days. The place is lovely even in its worse vernal dress. The birds are attempting to sing, hastening the full arrival of spring, then summer -- all before the darkening doom and gloom of the change back to fall in the northern woods. The seasons here change in a heartbeat. The earth and the people are always hopeful that the seasons might just last a bit longer. Luckily, they don't have to put up with stretches of 100 percent humidity for weeks at a time that ...

When I was younger, I used to love snow. I would go skiing regularly, barely feeling the cold. I would push myself over hills competing in an imaginary race. If my dad was with me, I would try to beat him even though he could ski much faster. I spent hours training on the kiddie hills trying to master the wishbone technique for climbing difficult hills. I soon realized that the faster I could go, the easier it would be to climb the next hill.  The snowy pine trees and flitting chickadees were a welcoming sight five miles down the ski trail after a difficult run. Although I get envious when I see an older skate skier zoom by and leave me in the lurch. My younger body cannot compete with these octogenarians who ski daily, their arms and legs purely muscled. I still feel like a skinny kid, although I am much bigger, older, and out of shape. I would ski more if there was more snow. Each year we get less and less, the trails are practically bare here. Muddy ruts -- they resemble d...

Dark, murky dusk on a river finds the boys around a raging campfire. Logs are twisted in sharp directions, poking precariously towards the graying sky. The music that comes out of the immense Cerwin Vega speakers is a crackly, tinny selection of mostly old school country and rock 'n' roll, interspersed with metal, punk, indie, and Deep Purple. The portable record player does its best to keep up with the steady stream of dust and dirt from long forgotten grooves. Drinks and beers are lofted skyward in respect for new friendship and ancient camaraderies. The whiskey mixes with the beer in an interminable amount of Krunt pulls, swigs straight from the flask, and attempts at shoddy mixers. Yet the music blares on, not impeded by the sound of a car door cracking or a drunken stumble through the mud to the far away outhouse. The night eventually winds down. A crack of light is seen in the sky. Political discussions, story-telling, wrestling on the rocky ground, will all drift seaml...

Does anyone have the fond memory from childhood of listening to the radio late at night under the covers? This habit seems to be common among the record collecting breed. The Ramones song "Do You Remember Rock 'n' Roll Radio?"celebrates it. For me, it was as ubiquitous as hiding under the covers reading an old superhero comic book, or staying up late watching old horror movies with the subtitles on. Although I can't say that I listened to the same stuff the Ramones did. There was no Murray the K coming out of the speakers in my quiet northern Wisconsin town. In fact, the frequency from the local Top 40 station often drowned out the other stations with a constant buzz of mainstream static. But the nights that I could get other stations in, I found some interesting music. One of the local public radio stations would play a mix of Native American music, indie folk, and rock 'n' roll. The station regularly blew my mind -- you just didn't hear such variet...