The Awkward World

Big changes are coming, and I don’t mean to layout. In the meantime, I hope you are all having a lovely summer. I know I am. I’ve been to concerts galore: the ones I mentioned a few weeks ago (Hold Steady, Dirty Projectors, Rancid, Conor Oberst), plus Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So’s, and Reel Big Fish. Most of that was at Summerfest. I’ll be seeing Pearl Jam in about a month, and hopefully Modest Mouse and Regina Spektor. Whew!

What else? I passed my massage licensing exam, so all that’s left now is paperwork, fingerprinting, and the job search itself. The apartment’s coming along, though the shady dealers from whom I bought my bed keep stringing me along on delivery dates. I’ve been sleeping on the foldout for almost a month now. Oh! And I met Stevie Wonder at the airport. That happened too.

I’ll try to post more of these short personal things because they always seem to get a good response. What do we think of the new layout? I’m not entirely satisfied, but it’s certainly a lot less drab. The only other thing I can think of to say is

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LINDSAY ELLERBE

Sweater Weather – Sing the Song

Wow, I haven’t posted in a really long time, have I? In my defense, I have been rather busy, and also I don’t have the internet at my apartment right now (typing this from a Caribou Coffee on Michigan Ave.). But here are some of the changes in my life recently:

1. I moved. Yay! Goodbye Logan Square, hello Andersonville. It’s a gorgeous neighborhood on the north side with large populations of both Swedes and lesbians. Clark Street is a lot like Franklin Street, but more Swedish and gayer. I’m in a beautiful 1-bedroom (I’ll post pics eventually) about five minutes from the Berwyn red line stop. Close to everything. I love it. No cable or internet till Tuesday though, and I still haven’t bought a new bed (sleeping on the heaviest fold-out couch in the world), so there’s room for improvement.

Dirty Projectors – Stillness is the Move

2. I finished massage school. Today was my final day of class. I graduate at the beginning of July and take my national certification exam. More than likely, I’m through with school of any kind forever, which is exactly as liberating and bittersweet as it sounds.

The Replacements – Can’t Hardly Wait

3. Dad got sick. Some of you heard about this and some of you didn’t. My dad was hospitalized a few weeks ago for a pulmonary embolism, which is a blood clot in the lungs and is very serious. Fortunately I happened to be at home when it happened, so I could be there in person when the doctor said he was going to be fine. If they had told me on the phone I wouldn’t have believed them. But he is doing just fine. Taking blood thinners and some other epic cocktail of medicines that keeps him in a pretty much constant haze. More than likely, mom and dad are coming to Chicago to visit in a few weeks.

Steve Earle – Pancho and Lefty

4. I have an awesome girlfriend. Awesome. As. Fuck. And her favorite band is the Smashing Pumpkins and she writes and she knows more about art than anyone I know and and and…

Art Brut – Good Weekend

5. Concerts everywhere! It’s summer in Chicago, and if you aren’t here, you should be. Last night was the Hold Steady. Tonight is Dirty Projectors in Millennium Park. Thursday I’m going to Summerfest in Milwaukee to see Rancid and Conor Oberst (though not at the same time… which would be awesome). I’m still on a positivity high from that Hold Steady show. If you’ve never seen them live, do yourself a favor and check your worries at the door for a night of high energy, old-fashioned rock and roll. They sing so much about a “unified scene,” but it’s hard to know what their talking about until you’re part of a grumpy crowd at the Taste of Randolph Street Festival, composed mostly of surly drunks who wandered over to see what that noise is, and by the end of it everyone (including toddlers and old ladies!) is bouncing,jumping,  singing, smiling, hugging strangers. Their live show is magic, and it makes the whole world feel magic. Like Craig Finn says, you guys and us guys and those guys, we are all the Hold Steady.

Stay positive!

Tanner

PS – Where did all my links go? I should fix that.

PPS – Check this out:

The Awkward World got its first hate comment! This is a really exciting moment for me. Not only does it mean that people besides my friends are reading, it also means that my unprofessional opinions are provoking strong enough reactions in people to elicit mean-spirited/riddled-with-spelling-errors comments! Truly, my day has come.

This was posted today by someone called “you” in my four-month-old post My Girls.

man you suck. Your obscure perception of the purpse (sic) of music and it’s representation in our society disgusts me. Your sense of creativity is quite shallow. Depending on the conventional lyrics and hooks is a cop out.

Thank you, you, for your insight! Keep ‘em coming, folks!

Next week, why the Holocaust is a hoax and 10 ways to drown your puppy.

<3 Tanner

I want to share two things with all of you tonight. First, yet another commercial that baffles me. This one is from the Illinois Department of Transportation, and the message seems to be that cops are giant assholes who enjoy nothing more than fucking with you. For those of you not living in IL, this comes on TV all the time. I haven’t seen a malicious, expressionless grin like that since the Burger King.

Next, I present without comment the two signatures which have come into my possession through one means or another.

From the AWP

From Hoagland’s publicist

To say the least, they look a bit different. Draw your own conclusions.

Hope you are having a lovely May. I sure am. Less than three you all,

Tanner

The Felice Brothers – Run Chicken Run

Art Brut – Just Desserts

Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Dull Life

#1 – They improved one of my favorite songs of all time, Bruce Springsteen’s “Atlantic City.” The original is a deeply cynical, desperate song, but in Craig Finn’s hands, the lines “Everything dies, that’s a fact / Maybe everything that dies some day comes back” actually sound positive. I just found out about this cover, and I’m actually kind of angry at them for it. Everything this band does is just so goddamned amazing, why did they have to pour their magic rock and roll juice over a song that was already perfect? I did not need Springsteen’s original to no longer be my favorite version of this song…

#2 – They are aliens. No band is this good. No human band…

That’s all I have. I don’t trust any band that I like this much, especially when they record a song like “Atlantic City” as a throw-away compilation track. Any other band would build an album around that, but not Craig Finn. I hate to admit this, but “My Girls” actually has some competition.

That throwaway compilation, by the way, is called War Child: Heroes, and it’s one of the best records of what is shaping up to be a very good year for music. There’s a neat idea behind this: 16 iconic artists — like Springsteen, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Leonard Cohen, Sir Paul McCartney, etc. — each get to choose one of their songs and one younger band to cover that song. Is it any surprise that Springsteen picked the Hold Steady? Or Dylan picked Beck to take on “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat”? Or Bowie picked TV On the Goddamned Fucking Awesome Radio to cover “Heroes,” another one of my favorite songs? No more free downloads for you. Go pick up this record or buy it on iTunes. All proceeds benefit War Child, an international nonprofit that “aims to provide children with the assistance needed to cope with the immediate and long-term consequences of war,” particularly in Africa and the Middle East. Good cause, great album.

Also, enjoy this video of the Hold Steady, Steve Earle, and others joining the Boss onstage for a rendition of Rosalita.

Seacrest out.

I don’t often get starstruck. I’ve been to enough concerts and met enough pseudo-celebrities that I don’t really swoon anymore, I’m not a swooner. Friday night, I swooned. The whole Neko Case concert at the Chicago Theater was one big, uninterrupted swoon for me, with occasional breaks of heart-clutching and breath-catching. Case is one of my heroes and – I think I can say this with a measure of confidence – the most beautiful person I have ever personally seen. Jules and I had fourth row seats – someone commented “You guys must be really important,” but we were actually just insanely lucky that she found a great scalped ticket and the usher didn’t notice that my ticket was for much further back – and we were close enough to see every perfect imperfection in Case’s pin-up stage persona, like the little black too-tight dress she complained about throughout the show, the trademark fire red hair that looks like it must be hell to keep in presentable shape, the unbelievable legs… Jesus. Neko Case. You’re killing me.

And that’s to say nothing of her voice, which, when I first heard her some years ago, seemed achingly perfect, literally painful to listen to. She has a booming purity unlike anything in modern music, more like an opera singer than a humble country siren. I tend to like crappy singers with great musical sensibilities – Billy Corgan, Conor Oberst, John Darnelle, Craig Finn – but Neko Case is one big exception: her voice is the stuff that makes American Idols’ heads explode.
Yes, I was fawning over her like that all night, singing along to every song, and just generally being a drooling superfan. I went to the concert fully intending to review it, but I just can’t. I was too infatuated. I can tell you about it, though.
Case played her new album Middle Cyclone (which is terrific) almost in its entirety, leaving out only “The Next Time You Say Forever,” “Polar Nettles,” and “Fever” (and “Marais La Nuit,” but that’s a 33 minute loop of crickets and frogs and probably wouldn’t translate live), as well as some of the best tracks from her starmaking record, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood; she opened her set with “Maybe Sparrow,” and later played “Hold On, Hold On,” “That Teenage Feeling” (which is apparently about her guitarist), “Margaret Vs. Pauline,” and “Star Witness.” She only played two tracks from Blacklisted – “Deep Red Bells” and “I Wish I Was the Moon” – and nothing from Furnace Room Lullaby or The Virginian. It was a decidedly non-country show. She also played the non-album fan-favorites “The Tigers Have Spoken” (from the live CD of the same name) and “Knock Loud” (from the compilation Fields and Streams). I had listened to many of her live concerts before actually seeing her, so I knew to expect lots of irreverent stage banter, top-notch musicianship (especially – dear god, especially – from pedal-steel-and-banjo deity Jon Rauhouse), and I knew she was fucking gorgeous, but what I didn’t expect was that most of that witty banter comes not from Case herself, but from backup singer Kelly Hogan, who described herself during the show as the “audience secretary,” but was really the band’s insult comic, shutting down loud audience members and maintaining a friendly vibe throughout the performance. Case herself was more intense than I expected; she seemed genuinely nervous and excited to be playing to the legendary Chicago theater, and she couldn’t stop gushing about how much she loved this city. She also adjusted that dress for most of the show. They played in front of a giant cut-out of an owl and a screen upon which were projected surreal images of nature.

You can hear a very similar concert from this same tour on NPR’s All Songs Considered website for free – the set list is almost identical, and it gives you an idea of her band’s live personality if you haven’t heard them before – and if you’re more into her older, more country sound, you should also pick up the official live releases The Tigers Have Spoken and Live from Austin, TX, both recorded pre-Fox Confessor. Below is a best-of playlist I made before the release of Middle Cyclone, which is represented here only by the pre-released single “People Got a Lotta Nerve”; so whether you’re a Neko neophyte or looking for deeper cuts, check out these songs. And for god’s sake, go buy Middle Cyclone, which is going to be very difficult to beat for best album of 2009.
Peace, love, and redheaded strangers,
Tanner “Future Mr. Case” McSwain

1.Margaret Vs. Pauline
2.Duchess
3.South Tacoma Way
4.People Got a Lotta Nerve
5.Guided By Wire
6.The Needle Has Landed
7.I Wish I Was the Moon
8.Set Out Running
9.Misfire
10.Things That Scare Me
11.Hold On, Hold On
12.The Virginian
13.That Teenage Feeling
14.Thrice All American
15.The Tigers Have Spoken
16.Deep Red Bells
17.We’ve Never Met
18.Knock Loud
19.John Saw That Number

Also, if you’re into that kind of thing (and really, who isn’t), here are some NSFW pin-up pictures Case did for a magazine years ago. You’re welcome.

I know I haven’t posted in a month, lots has happened, yadda yadda, I’ll tell you about it later. What I have to tell you all right now is that Tony Hoagland’s publicist found that story from the AWP and is mailing me an autographed copy of the book that was stolen. Seriously. An excerpt from the email:

“Graywolf Press feels for you. We have some signed copies of WHAT NARCISSISM MEANS TO ME at the press, and we’d be happy to send one free of charge, especially if you never got your book back.”

AAAHHHH!!! THIS STORY JUST KEEPS GETTING BETTER!

I’ll keep you all posted. Also, I’ll update you on the zany month of March and the pending zany month of April soon(ish).

Also: AAAHHHH!!!

I accidentally had a link posted here for about 2 days called “To the Dogs, or Whoever” that led to some of the outlines and shitty first drafts of my new novel, so I really hope none of you read that. I was just trying to make a page that contained those documents so I could easily access essential files from several computers, and I didn’t realize that creating a new page automatically posts to the homepage. So, if you were unlucky enough to have read that, please erase it from your memory, preferably Men In Black-style.

Also: Awkward World is getting noticed! My Best of 2008 list got linked from a fairly prominent music blog, Large-Hearted Boy (it’s not much, but it’s something). There might be something much bigger in the works. More on that if it pans out.

Anyway, I just wanted to give everyone a quick update and say hello to readers new and old. Hi Jules! Hi Jenna! Hi David! Hi Lindsay! And a much less enthusiastic hi to Mom, who apparently was given this address. Sorry, mom. I know you thought I was writing essays and literature, but nope, it’s pretty much just masturbating stoves.

Will and Amy are coming to Chicago for their spring break next week, and it’s going to be brilliant. Gabriella was up here a few weeks ago. We have pirates at the Field Museum. What’s your excuse?

Kim Deal is My Friend EP is all about the ladies. You’re welcome.

1. My Brightest Diamond – Feeling Good

2. Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings – Inspiration Information

3. Nicole Atkins – Party’s Over

4. Joanna Newsom – Sawdust & Diamonds

5. My Brightest Diamond – Inside a Boy

6. Pixies – Gigantic

In retrospect, maybe I should have called this “Songs With the Word ‘Diamond’ in Them.”

Peace,

Tanner, your new rock and roll superstar

Good news, America! Now you can fight tough stains and masturbate your stove to orgasm with one easy-to-use product.

Soft Scrub commercial that I can’t embed

Are there a lot of large appliance fetishists watching the Price is Right at ten a.m. on a Tuesday? Did I miss something?

I hope you laughed at that title, because it only gets worse from here.

I went to the American Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) conference in downtown Chicago with Gabriella (!) this past weekend, and learned many, many things. A few are as follows:

• Randall Kenan got a shout-out in the first panel I attended. Apparently, my intermediate fiction teacher is the world’s foremost authority on magical realism. Gaby and I were excited.

• There are so many university and small presses out there. I had no idea.  This might be the direction I need for publication, rather than getting an agent and a big press. Of course, I need a book first…

• From the historical fiction conference: Did you know that J.P. Morgan spent most of his fortune trying to communicate with Martians who could tell his future? Or that Nicola Tesla, of all freakin people, tried to bleed him out of the rest of it?

• Art Spiegelman (Maus, In the Shadow of No Towers, Breakdowns, and much, much more) was the keynote speaker, and he gave a mind-blowing lecture on comic books (he hates the term “graphic novels”) and the subversive theory behind everything from Mad magazine to Alan Moore. It was amazing. If you haven’t read Maus, go read it now, and bring some tissues.

• Gregory Maguire is an interesting guy, and he wrote Wicked with the intention of creating a sort of fantasy Gone With the Wind, a purposely dense, difficult ensemble epic. Also, when he signs autographs, he writes “Best Witches!” Ha!

• I also randomly met Audrey Niffenegger (The Time Traveler’s Wife), who was confused by how excited I was to meet her. She teaches at Columbia here in Chicago.

• I met Steve Almond (Candyfreak, The Evil B.B. Chow) too, and talked to him about music for about 20 minutes. I attended his panel the next day too and brought him a mix tape and two stories. And he emailed me back! He liked “Adventurous Dogs”! Go buy his new book of essays, (Not That You Asked).

• I learned a lot about writing young adult fiction, and perhaps most importantly that it’s one of the last genres where you’re still encouraged to take risks. “Edgy” fiction has been beaten into the ground almost everywhere else. But R.A. Nelson was talking about his award-winning, bestselling YA book (Teach Me) about a young girl having an affair with her much older teacher, so I guess it’s not all abstinence vampires out there.

• In fact, it’s disingenuous to exclude sex from YA. You’re writing from the perspective of a young adult. Young adults are thinking about sex. They just are. I’m thinking about it right now.

• A nice working definition of good nonfiction: “a radically subjective version of true events.” (courtesy of Steve Almond, natch)

• Gonna write some flash fiction. One of them will be called “Romero and Juliet,” and it will be a zombie love story. Another will be “Waiting on Godot,” and it will be about Samuel Beckett’s little-known dine-and-dash habit.

But my best story, the one I might turn into an actual short story, is about trying to meet the poet Tony Hoagland (What Narcissism Means to Me). Before I begin, I would like to point out that this is 100% true. And I’m sure that under better circumstances Tony Hoagland would be a really nice guy. I, on the other hand, will probably always be a little bit of an asshole for this.

I Try to Meet Tony Hoagland

I nearly pooped my pants when I found out that Hoagland was going to be reading at the conference. He’s been one of my favorite poets for years (you may remember that I posted his poem “Reasons to Survive November” a few months back), a wry, cynical humorist, and consummate silly-looking man (see above photo). It was going to be awesome. I went to Barnes and Noble and bought What Narcissism Means to Me — which I had previously read but not owned — and arrived at the reading 15 minutes early to catch him before he was busy. The reading, I should point out, was called “A Tribute to Jason Shinder,” whoever he is. While I waited, I bent and folded the book to make it look old and loved.

I spotted Tony Hoagland, and politely waited for him to set his papers down at the podium and finish shaking hands with and talking to the other panelists. I want to emphasize that I was being polite. I approached him, as one does, and asked him to sign my book. He gave me a look which is difficult to describe. It was a combination of disgust and befuddlement. “I’ll sign it after,” he said.

Which is a perfectly reasonable request. That’s cool. I sat down. He just sat up there, not really doing anything. But fine. If he wants to wait, I’ll wait. I folded my book some more.

The reading started, and I realized with horror who Jason Shinder is — was. He was Tony Hoagland’s best freaking friend, a founding member of the AWP and creator of the YMCA Young Writers Thing, and he just died, at 52, of fucking lymphoma.

Tony (we’re on a first name basis by now) and the others read some of Jason’s poems. Tony has to stop several times to keep from crying. It’s a memorial service. I’m crashing a goddamn memorial service. To make matters worse, the conference next door is the Slam Poetry Finals. They’re shouting, applauding, jumping, and, from the sound of it, fornicating. The Shinder panelists grow more and more irritated. They send someone over to tell them to quiet down. All we hear is the messenger getting booed out of the room.

I wish I were a good enough writer to describe what it felt like to be in that room. There’s a certain breed of awkwardness, so rare and exquisite, which, if only for a moment, makes the rest of the world disappear. There was no writer’s conference. There was no Chicago, no such thing as poetry, or art, or human life; there is just Tony Hoagland hating me to death, over muffled rapping next door.

I left. I just couldn’t take it. I thought I should give the slam poetry thing a chance, and it was awful. And I like slam poetry. This wasn’t a panel like most of the other conferences, but an open mic, and it at least made me feel a lot better about my own writing. I couldn’t concentrate though, because I couldn’t stop thinking about the fat guy sitting in front of me wearing a fork in his hatband. He was probably about my age, with one of those skeezy mustaches and goatees, and I could not have despised him more.

Just look at that guy. There’s no story behind that fork. It’s not like it was his grandmother’s heirloom and on her deathbed she told him to stick it in his hat in her memory. It’s just a fork, and it’s there because he thinks it makes him look quirky and eccentric. He wants me to think, What a weird, interesting guy, flouting social conventions like that. This guy doesn’t conform to the oppressive social norms forced upon us artist types, like the convention of not wearing silverware like a fucking asshole. And then he gets up to read — nay, recite! It’s memorized! And it’s called “Metaphorgasm”!

I leave that room too. I go back to the Shinder room and grab a spot by the exit. The readings end, and everyone in the audience — which was packed, by the way — gets up to hug the panelists. They all knew this guy. Everyone in that room except me knew him. Maybe I’ll just apologize to Tony Hoagland as he’s on his way out. It was an honest misunderstanding after all.

Here comes Forkhat, and he has the same book. Three other people, all with the same book of poetry that I’m holding, march in after the reading is over, shove their way to the front of the room, and get Tony Hoagland’s autograph. And you know what? I’m going to do that too. I’m no better than Forkhat, not really. And I’ve endured too much to turn back now.

I walk to the front and stand in Tony Hoagland’s line of vision. I politely — politely! — wait until he isn’t talking to anyone, and I approach him and ask him to sign my book.

“You know,” he says, “this was a Jason Shinder reading.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It was a great reading. But I’m a really big fan, and I doubt I’ll ever get a chance to meet you again. Can you please just sign it?”

He glares at me, but he takes the book and my pen. Somebody hugs him from behind.

Tony!

Somebody! (I forget the lady’s name)

It’s been so long!

I know!

I was so broken up when I heard about Jason.

He was a great man.

And they talk, and I wait on them to finish talking. More people join the conversation. A regular salon. And then they just leave, with my book, and my nice pen, and I’m standing in front of a blown-up, black-and-white portrait of Jason Shinder, and I am very confused.

“You are full of poetry,” an old woman says to me. She hands me a card that says “POETIC LICENSE!!!!”

I tell her thanks, and I run, and if I have to break his hand off and sign it myself, I will get that book back.

Epilogue

I told this story to Erin the other day, and she says she knew Jason Shinder, and he was kind of a douche. I feel a little better now.

Bon Iver – Blood Bank